Then the people began coming, on horses, in buggies and carts, even in spring wagons. Lieutenant Bolton and Captain Gatskill from the fort arrived in a surrey behind a team of matched bays. Shortly before eight Matt Ardell and Dave Nolan drove up with their wives. The Reverend Sylvester Jones had been on hand for an hour, working hard at shaking hands, his Adam’s apple reacting with more than usual enthusiasm.
Just before eight o’clock Mrs. Bolton came downstairs to see that everyone and everything was in order. At this late season of the year there were no flowers, so Mrs. Bolton had prepared a vase of artificial roses, which she had set on the table in the center of the room, the silver candlesticks on both sides of the vase.
Now she lit the candles, saw to it that the preacher and Mark were exactly where they should be, and that Jackson was at the foot of the stairs. She had to plow through the crowd, shoving people here and there, but she achieved everything she set out to do in a remarkably short time. Then she disappeared, and a moment later Ruth started down the stairs, moving slowly and gracefully.
Mark, his eyes fixed on Ruth, knew, in this moment, that he had never seen any woman as beautiful as Ruth and never would in the future. Her wedding dress was a cream brocade turned a little yellow by age and trimmed with Spanish lace.
Her blue-black hair had been carefully and skillfully curled; her brown eyes seemed black at this distance. They searched for Mark and found him, and she smiled, her front teeth small and white and perfect. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, and failed, and he wondered if he could say the simple words … “I do.”
Ruth came on down the stairs and through the narrow aisle that the crowd gave her, a hand resting on her father’s arm, and it seemed to Mark that he was standing off somewhere at the side, watching this scene, that the tall, slender youth with the unruly hair waiting by the table was someone else, someone he had known before. Briefly he thought of his parents, then that scene was blotted out, for it did not belong to this time or place. It had happened a long time ago, and life had changed for him since then.
It was over, and Mark must have said—“I do.”—although afterward he could not remember having said it. He kissed Ruth, the moment one of infinite tenderness, and then the crowd moved in against them, and people were shaking his hand and slapping him on the back and saying: “The biggest wedding Sherman Valley ever seen, and the prettiest bride. By golly, she is.” And Dave Nolan, small and precise and as strong as the fine metal that went into the main spring of a watch, shook hands, saying: “Congratulations, Mark.” Outside, people were squeezed into the open door and against the windows, trying not to miss anything.
After that the furniture was moved out of the room or against the wall, and Pigeon-Toed Mike, from near the head of Doolin Creek, tuned up his fiddle and began to play. Mark danced once with Ruth, awkward and with feet ten yards long, it seemed, and, when she looked up at him, giving him her smile, he felt big and proud and stout enough to lick any five men in the world.
At midnight they stopped to eat, and Matt Ardell and Dave Nolan got Mark and Herb Jackson in the corner. “We’ve been talking,” Ardell said. “About Curtis and Smith. If it comes to a showdown, you won’t be alone. We figure the summit of Paradise Hills is the west boundary of Cross Seven, and we’re aiming to see that it keeps on being the boundary.”
“I’ll hold my present boundaries,” Nolan said. “I’m not worried about what Cross Seven can do to me, but it’ll raise hell if Curtis starts shoving you little ranchers out of the way. We can’t afford to stand for it, and we won’t.”
Jackson shook hands with both men and thanked them, acting surprised that the two big men of the valley would be interested in the welfare of the Circle J. More dancing after that, with Matt Ardell and his wife, who was as fat as he was, cavorting around like kids and having a wonderful time.
Mrs. Nolan, a frail, pretty woman, spent most of her time in a chair next to the wall, her husband standing beside her. Now that Mrs. Bolton had done her job, she surprised Mark by dancing with the lieutenant as if this were the last good time she would have on earth.
Mark, feeling as if he were a spectator while all the world whirled by, marveled at the way everyone had a good time, dancing with the gusto of people who had few such opportunities and were bent on making the most of this one.
Suddenly the party broke up in a fashion that surprised and shocked Mark, who had not expected it. Some of the women descended on Ruth and hustled her up the stairs. Then the men, Matt Ardell leading them, seized Mark and carried him up the stairs in spite of his resistance. They dumped him on the bed and left, laughing and calling back—“Good night!”—along with some remarks that embarrassed him.
Ruth was sitting on the side of the bed, her hair rumpled, looking as if she suddenly felt very much alone. He reached over and pulled her to him and kissed her, but she was stiff and restrained and could not fully surrender to him.
He got up and looked around. This was Ruth’s room. He had never been in it before. It was very feminine with cheesecloth covering the walls and pictures pinned to the cloth. Her clothes hung from pegs driven into the logs. Her comb and brush and perfume bottles and a music box were on the dresser, and the scent of sachet powder permeated the air.
Outside, there was a great deal of racket, people calling to each other and hooking up their rigs and then driving away. Then there was silence, and Ruth still sat on the other side of the bed staring at Mark as if in these moments he had become a stranger.
He sat down beside her, not knowing what to say or do, but knowing he must say something. He took her hands, asking: “Tired?”
“A little.”
“You were beautiful tonight when you came down the stairs,” he said. “The most beautiful woman I ever saw.”
“Oh, Mark,” she whispered, and threw her arms around him. “I love you more than anything in the world.”
They sat there for a time on the edge of the bed, his arm around her, her head on his shoulder. Dawn was beginning to explore the room when she turned her face to his and kissed him, and said, her mouth close to his ear: “Mark, let’s go to bed.”
Chapter Nineteen
December was a dry month, the sun shining every day from a cloudless sky, but giving little warmth to a cold, dusty earth. At night the stars were sparkling lamps hung in a clear sky, so big and brilliant, Herb Jackson said, that it seemed a man could reach out and touch them. Then he shook his head and said he wished it would snow. They’d all feel better if it did. Besides, this was a fool’s paradise. Too much good weather now meant extra bad weather later on.
But Mark refused to worry about extra bad weather that was coming. To him these weeks were perfect, so why question them? Or mar perfection by dreaming up troubles that might happen later? The old life was behind him, and he was content to let it stay behind him.
Now that time had given him perspective, he understood Bronco Curtis. Or thought he did. As long as Bronco had needed him, they had been partners, and Bronco had probably meant all the things he had said, but once Bronco had hooked up with Jacob Smith, he had no more need for Mark. So the partnership was dissolved, perhaps without Bronco’s actually realizing how it had happened, or why.
In any case, Mark had no regrets over what had happened. Bronco had taught him what he had to know, and for that Mark would always be grateful. The worry about coming to Ruth empty-handed no longer burdened him. She was happy. All he had to do was to look at her and know that. Besides, Herb Jackson needed him. That was easy to see, too.
Being broke was not important, Mark knew. In this country the rich could be counted on the fingers of one hand; with everyone else, being broke was the common condition. What a man was and what he could do were the important things. Once Mark understood that, the bitterness he had felt toward Bronco was gone.
On the Sunday before Christmas Ruth told Mark it was time to get a tree, so he saddled their horses and they rode into the timber, searching until they fou
nd a small pine shaped exactly the way Ruth wanted it. As they rode back to the house, the sun dropping toward the western rim, the thought occurred to Mark that life was not meant to be perfect, that it was like the weather. If it was too good now, it was bound to be extra bad later on.
He made a stand by lantern light, and they spent the evening decorating the tree. The tinsel was tarnished by age, and Ruth could find only three shiny balls. “Most of them got broken when we moved here,” she said, “and we haven’t been able to buy any since then. Maybe Cameron has some in the store.”
“I’m going to town tomorrow,” Mark said. “I’ll see.”
“Get some candles, too, if he has any.” Ruth held one up that was about an inch long, and grimaced. “We haven’t been able to buy any that would fit the holders. Every Christmas we light these for just a little while and then blow them out, but we can’t nurse them along much more.”
“I’ll look for some,” Mark promised.
Herb had made a shiny star out of a tin can. Mark tied it to the top of the tree, then he and Ruth popped corn and strung it, Herb sitting in his rocking chair and watching. He refused to help decorate.
“That’s for the young,” he said. “One of the great tragedies of life is the fact that, as you get older, it’s hard to catch the Christmas spirit.” He laughed softly. “But it’s contagious. By Christmas Eve I’ll have it.”
“You’d better,” Ruth said threateningly. “We’re not going to have any old Scrooge around here who can’t say Merry Christmas.”
“That’s right,” Mark agreed. “When I was home, I thought we had some pretty trees, but this is the prettiest one I ever saw. Maybe it’s like the moon, reflected beauty, if you have a pretty girl in the house.”
Ruth giggled. “You’re a liar,” she said, “but your lies are nice to hear.”
The next day he rode into town, the first time he had been in Scott City since he’d bought Ruth’s ring and his wedding suit. A new building had gone up beside the store, the tall letters across the false front reading SHARON’S CAFé.
Mark tied in front of Cameron’s store, wondering about Sharon’s identity. It was not a common name, but he didn’t think it would be Sharon Sanders. As far as he knew, she was still living with Bronco on the Cross Seven. Besides, he didn’t think she was the kind who would try to make a living by running a restaurant.
He went into the store. He greeted Cameron, then said: “I’ve got to buy some Christmas presents, but I sure don’t know what they’ll be.”
“Look around,” Cameron said. “You might get some ideas. I’ve got a few books yonder on that shelf. Your father-in-law is a reading man. He might like one.”
Mark knew that Jackson liked Dickens, so he bought A Tale of Two Cities. He had trouble finding anything for Ruth, but he finally decided on some white-and-pink checked cloth he thought would make a dress she would like, and added some small items he knew she needed—a spool of white thread, a thimble, and a package of needles.
As Cameron wrapped his purchases, Mark asked: “Who’s the Sharon that runs the restaurant?”
Cameron glanced at him quickly and lowered his gaze to the cord he was tying around Mark’s package. “Sharon Sanders. She told me to ask you to see her the first time you were in town, but I sure would have forgotten if you hadn’t reminded me.”
Mark hesitated, not wanting to see the woman, yet feeling that he should. Finally he said: “I’ll stop in for a minute.”
“You’d better,” Cameron said, “or she’ll have a piece of my hide. She wants to give you a meal for old times’ sake, she told me.”
Mark paid the storekeeper, went outside, and tied his package behind the saddle. For a time he stood staring at the front of the restaurant, wondering where Sharon had got the money to start a business. She had claimed she was broke when Bronco brought her to Cross Seven, and Mark doubted that Bronco would have given her the money if he had it.
He walked past the hitch pole and went in, the smell of baking bread coming to him. Sharon heard the door close and came out of the kitchen. “Mark!” she cried. “Mark, I’m glad to see you. I thought you never were coming to town.”
She ran to him and kissed him, then drew back, embarrassed. “I forgot you were a married man now. If anybody saw that, your wife would hear and you’d be in a peck of trouble. I’d be in it, too, if Mister Cameron saw me kissing you. I’m going to marry him, you know.”
She laughed, seeing the expression of shocked surprise on his face. “Sure, it isn’t like me to get married. You know it, and that god-damned Bronco Curtis knows it. So does Jacob Smith. But Mister Cameron don’t, so I’d take it kindly if you didn’t tell him.”
“I won’t,” Mark said.
“Oh, hell, I knew you wouldn’t, but I ain’t so sure Bronco won’t when he hears. He allowed he was going to run me out of the country, and I allowed he wasn’t. I talked Mister Cameron into putting up this building for me and loaning me the money to get started. He takes his meals here, and a few people drop in for supper. Trouble is there ain’t many folks who come to town during the winter, but I’ll do better, come summer.” She took his arm. “Let’s go on back to the kitchen. This ain’t a fitting place for friends to talk.”
“I can’t stay,” Mark said. “Cameron told me you wanted to see me when I came to town, so I just dropped in to say howdy. I’ve …”
“You’re not in that big a hurry. Been a long time since breakfast. I’ll fix you something.”
“Too early for dinner,” he said. “Just a cup of coffee.”
“All right, if that’s what you want.” She led him past the counter and row of stools into the kitchen and pulled up a rocking chair for him. “You sit down there now and let me look at you.” She put her hands on her hips, smiling at him. “Mark, you look happy. You never did when you were on the Cross Seven, but that’s something I can understand. Nobody’s happy there. I’m glad you pulled out and got married. You’ve got a good life, ain’t you?”
“Yes, a good life,” he said.
She poured a cup of coffee and gave it to him, then sat down in front of him. “Mark, I’ve been wanting to talk to you. I was gonna get a buggy and drive out to see you, but I kept thinking you’d come to town. I guess I was kind of afraid, too. They say a good woman can always tell a bad woman, so I thought I’d wait until I married Mister Cameron. I’d be a good woman then, you see. That’s all it takes.”
He stirred his coffee, looking at her and sensing a bitterness that he had not felt in her when she was on Cross Seven. She’d never had any illusions about herself, but she’d been able to accept the kind of life she led. Now she was reaching for respectability, and he had a notion she was regretting what she had been to Jacob Smith and Bronco Curtis.
“How’d you happen to leave Cross Seven?” he asked.
“Leave it?” She shouted the words, glaring at him. “By God, don’t you know?” She shook her head. “No, of course you wouldn’t. Well, I’ll tell you. Bronco fired me. That’s why I left. When he got back from Winnemucca, he kicked my tail off the ranch the minute he found out you’d gone. Blamed me for you leaving, he did. I tried to tell him it was his own fault, working you to death and not giving you anything. I reminded him that you told him you were leaving, but it just made him mad.”
She was red in the face, so angry she was trembling. “I never hated nobody in my life before I met Bronco, not even Jacob Smith, who is a greedy old booger, but I hate Bronco. I guess I thought I was in love with him.” She pointed a finger at herself. “Can you imagine that, me thinking I was in love with any man? I don’t love Mister Cameron, but I’ll show him a good time, and I’ll see to it he won’t ever be sorry he married me.”
She took Mark’s cup and filled it again and gave it back to him. “Hell, I ought to have known about Bronco. If anybody ought to know a man, I should. Trouble is, Bronco’s the kind you can’t help liking, even when you know he’s a bastard.”
She leaned forward and
tapped Mark on the knee. “You know something, Mark? Bronco won’t last another year. All his big plans and dreams won’t amount to a damn. He was gonna have a big housewarming, you know, and make the nabobs come to Cross Seven. He didn’t. Oh, he tried, but they didn’t come. He got the idea that when you got up in the world, you could make folks do things. He found out he was wrong. Now he’ll find out why Jacob Smith threw in with him. Jacob will clean him out right down to his last dime, and I’ll laugh in his face if I get the chance. If a man ever deserved what he gets, it’ll be Bronco Curtis.”
Mark finished his coffee, remembering the summer he had ridden with Bronco and how Bronco had, as he put it, “nursed a wet-nose kid.” Well, he had more than paid Bronco back, working for him as long as he had and getting nothing for it.
He rose. “I’ve got to mosey, Sharon. Thanks for the coffee.”
She took his cup and set it on the table. Then she said as if she couldn’t understand it: “You were his one friend and he treated you like dirt, but you don’t hate him, do you?”
“No,” Mark said. “I don’t hate him. Not any more.”
“You will,” she said. “Before you’re done, you’ll hate him enough to kill him. You’ll see.”
Mark thought of Herb Jackson, who was obsessed with the conviction that Bronco had killed Orry Andrews and therefore must be punished. If Bronco killed Jackson, Mark would hate him enough to kill him. Or if, as Flagler had threatened, they came over the ridge next summer and drove Jackson and Ruth and Mark off the Circle J, he would hate him for that enough to kill him. Maybe he would.
But not now. “I don’t hate anybody, Sharon,” he said. “I’m happy. If you’re going to marry Cameron, you ought to be, too.”
She scowled, not liking the advice, then she laughed. “You sound just like the preacher. Well, thanks for the sermon.”
Ten Mile Valley Page 15
