by B. M. Bower
After that she questioned him adroitly. Perversely Bud declined to become confidential, and Honey Krause changed the subject abruptly.
“There’s going to be a dance here next Friday night. It’ll be a good chance to get acquainted with everybody—if you go. There’ll be good music, I guess. Uncle Dave wrote to Crater for the Saunders boys to come down and play. Do you know anybody in Crater?”
The question was innocent enough, but perverseness still held Bud. He smiled and said he did not know anybody anywhere, any more. He said that if Bobbie Burns had asked him “Should auld acquaintance be forgot,” he’d have told him yes, and he’d have made it good and strong. But he added that he was just as willing to make new acquaintance, and thought the dance would be a good place to begin.
Honey gave him a provocative glance from under her lashes, and Bud straightened and stepped back.
“You let folks stop here, I take it. I’ve a pack outfit and a couple of saddle horses with me. Will it be all right to turn them in the corral? I hate to have them eat post hay all day. Or I could perhaps go back to the creek and camp.”
“Oh, just turn your horses in the corral and make yourself at home till uncle comes,” she told him with that tantalizing half-smile. “We keep people here—just for accommodation. There has to be some place in the valley where folks can stop. I can’t promise that uncle will give you a job, but There’s going to be chicken and dumplings for dinner. And the mail will be in, about noon—you’ll want to wait for that.”
She was standing just within the screen door, frankly watching him as he came past the house with the horses, and she came out and halted him when she spied the top of the pack.
“You’d better leave those things here,” she advised him eagerly. “I’ll put them in the sitting-room by the piano. My goodness, you must be a whole orchestra! If you can play, maybe you and I can furnish the music for the dance, and save Uncle Dave hiring the Saunders boys. Anyway, we can play together, and have real good times.”
Bud had an odd feeling that Honey was talking one thing with her lips, and thinking an entirely different set of thoughts. He eyed her covertly while he untied the cases, and he could have sworn that he saw her signal someone behind the lace curtains of the nearest window. He glanced carelessly that way, but the curtains were motionless. Honey was holding out her hands for the guitar and the mandolin when he turned, so Bud surrendered them and went on to the corrals.
He did not return to the house. An old man was pottering around a machine shed that stood backed against a thick fringe of brush, and when Bud rode by he left his work and came after him, taking short steps and walking with his back bent stiffly forward and his hands swinging limply at his sides.
He had a long black beard streaked with gray, and sharp blue eyes set deep under tufted white eyebrows. He seemed a friendly old man whose interest in life remained keen as in his youth, despite the feebleness of his body. He showed Bud where to turn the horses, and went to work on the pack rope, his crooked old fingers moving with the sureness of lifelong habit. He was eager to know all the news that Bud could tell him, and when he discovered that Bud had just left the Muleshoe, and that he had been fired because of a fight with Dirk Tracy, the old fellow cackled gleefully,
“Well, now, I guess you just about had yore hands full, young man,” he commented shrewdly. “Dirk ain’t so easy to lick.”
Bud immediately wanted to know why it was taken for granted that he had whipped Dirk, and grandpa chortled again. “Now if you hadn’t of licked Dirk, you wouldn’t of got fired,” he retorted, and proceeded to relate a good deal of harmless gossip which seemed to bear out the statement. Dirk Tracy, according to grandpa, was the real boss of the Muleshoe, and Bart was merely a figure-head.
All of this did not matter to Bud, but grandpa was garrulous. A good deal of information Bud received while the two attended to the horses and loitered at the corral gate.
Grandpa admired Smoky, and looked him over carefully, with those caressing smoothings of mane and forelock which betray the lover of good horseflesh.
“I reckon he’s purty fast,” he said, peering shrewdly into Bud’s face. “The boys has been talking about pulling off some horse races here next Sunday—we got a good, straight, hard-packed creek-bed up here a piece that has been cleaned of rocks fer a mile track, and they’re goin’ to run a horse er two. Most generally they do, on Sunday, if work’s slack. You might git in on it, if you’re around in these parts.” He pushed his back straight with his palms, turned his head sidewise and squinted at Smoky through half-closed lids while he fumbled for cigarette material.
“I dunno but what I might be willin’ to put up a few dollars on that horse myself,” he observed, “if you say he kin run. You wouldn’t go an’ lie to an old feller like me, would yuh, son?”
Bud offered him the cigarette he had just rolled. “No, I won’t lie to you, dad,” he grinned. “You know horses too well.”
“Well, but kin he run? I want yore word on it.”
“Well-yes, he’s always been able to turn a cow,” Bud admitted cautiously.
“Ever run him fer money?” The old man began teetering from his toes to his heels, and to hitch his shoulders forward and back.
“Well, no, not for money. I’ve run him once or twice for fun, just trying to beat some of the boys to camp, maybe.”
“Sho! That’s no way to do! No way at all!” The old man spat angrily into the dust of the corral. Then he thought of something. “Did yuh beat ’em?” he demanded sharply.
“Why, sure, I beat them!” Bud looked at him surprised, seemed about to say more, and let the statement stand unqualified.
Grandpa stared at him for a minute, his blue eyes blinking with some secret excitement. “Young feller,” he began abruptly, “lemme tell yuh something. Yuh never want to do a thing like that agin. If you got a horse that can outrun the other feller’s horse, figure to make him bring yuh in something—if it ain’t no more’n a quarter! Make him bring yuh a little something. That’s the way to do with everything yuh turn a hand to; make it bring yuh in something! It ain’t what goes out that’ll do yuh any good—it’s what comes in. You mind that. If you let a horse run agin’ another feller’s horse, bet on him to come in ahead—and then,” he cried fiercely, pounding one fist into the other palm, “by Christmas, make ’im come in ahead!” His voice cracked and went flat with emotion.
He stopped suddenly and let his arms fall slack, his shoulders sag forward. He waggled his head and muttered into his beard, and glanced at Bud with a crafty look.
“If I’da took that to m’self, I wouldn’t be chorin’ around here now for my own son,” he lamented. “I’d of saved the quarters, an’ I’d of had a few dollars now of my own. Uh course,” he made haste to add, “I git holt of a little, now and agin. Too old to ride—too old to work—jest manage to pick up a dollar er two now and agin—on a horse that kin run.”
He went over to Smoky again and ran his hand down over the leg muscles to the hocks, felt for imperfections and straightened painfully, slapped the horse approvingly between the forelegs and laid a hand on his shoulder while he turned slowly to Bud.
“Young feller, there ain’t a man on the place right now but you an’ me. What say you throw yore saddle on this horse and take ’im up to the track? I’d like to see him run. Seems to me he’d ought to be a purty good quarter-horse.”
Bud hesitated. “I wouldn’t mind running him, grandpa, if I thought I could make something on him. I’ve got my stake to make, and I want to make it before all my teeth fall out so I can’t chew anything but the cud of reflection on my lost opportunities. If Smoky can run a few dollars into my pocket, I’m with you.”
Grandpa teetered forward and put out his hand. “Shake on that, boy!” he cackled. “Pop Truman ain’t too old to have his little joke—and make it bring him in something, by Christmas! You saddle up and we’ll go try him out on a quarter-mile—mebby a half, if he holds up good.”
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p; He poked a cigarette-stained forefinger against Bud’s chest and whispered slyly: “My son Dave, he’s got a horse in the stable that’s been cleanin’ everything in the valley. I’ll slip him out and up the creektrail to the track, and you run that horse of yourn agin him. Dave, he can’t git a race outa nobody around here, no more, so he won’t run next Sunday. We’ll jest see how yore horse runs alongside Boise. I kin tell purty well how you kin run agin the rest—Pop, he ain’t s’ thick-headed they kin fool him much. What say we try it?”
Bud stood back and looked him over. “You shook hands with me on it,” he said gravely. “Where I came from, that holds a man like taking oath on a Bible in court. I’m a stranger here, but I’m going to expect the same standard of honor, grandpa. You can back out now, and I’ll run Smoky without any tryout, and you can take your chance. I couldn’t expect you to stand by a stranger against your own folks—”
“Sho! Shucks a’mighty!” Grandpa spat and wagged his head furiously. “My own forks’d beat me in a horse race if they could, and I wouldn’t hold it agin ’em! Runnin’ horses is like playin’ poker. Every feller fer himself an’ mercy to-ward none! I knowed what it meant when I shook with yuh, young feller, and I hold ye to it. I hold ye to it! You lay low if I tell ye to lay low, and we’ll make us a few dollars, mebby. C’m on and git that horse outa here b’fore somebuddy comes. It’s mail day.”
He waved Bud toward his saddle and took himself off in a shuffling kind of trot. By the time Bud had saddled Smoky grandpa hailed him cautiously from the brush-fringe beyond the corral. He motioned toward a small gate and Bud led Smoky that way, closing the gate after him.
The old man was mounted on a clean-built bay whose coat shone with little glints of gold in the dark red. With one sweeping look Bud observed the points that told of speed, and his eyes went inquiringly to meet the sharp blue ones, that sparkled under the tufted white eyebrows of grandpa.
“Do you expect Smoky to show up the same day that horse arrives?” he inquired mildly. “Pop, you’ll have to prove to me that he won’t run Sunday—”
Pop snorted. “Seems to me like you do know a speedy horse when you see one, young feller. Beats me’t you been overlookin’ what you got under yore saddle right now. Boise, he’s the best runnin’ horse in the valley—and that’s why he won’t run next Sunday, ner no other Sunday till somebuddy brings in a strange horse to put agin him. Dave, he won’t crowd ye fur a race, boy. You kin refuse to run yore horse agin him, like the rest has done. I’ll jest lope along t’day and see what yours kin do.”
“Well, all right, then.” Bud waited for the old man to ride ahead down the obscure trail that wound through the brush for half a mile or so before they emerged into the rough border of the creek bed. Pop reined in close and explained garrulously to Bud how this particular stream disappeared into the ground two miles above Little Lost, leaving the wide, level river bottom bone dry.
Pop was cautious. He rode up to a rise of ground and scanned the country suspiciously before he led the way into the creek bed. Even then he kept close under the bank until they had passed two of the quarter-mile posts that had been planted in the hard sand.
Evidently he had been doing a good deal of thinking during the ride; certainly he had watched Smoky. When he stopped under the bank opposite the half-mile post he dismounted more spryly than one would have expected. His eyes were bright, his voice sharp. Pop was forgetting his age.
“I guess I’ll ride yore horse m’self,” he announced, and they exchanged horses under the shelter of the bank. “You kin take an’ ride Boise-an’ I want you should beat me if you kin.” He looked at Bud appraisingly. “I’ll bet a dollar,” he cried suddenly, “that I kin outrun ye, young feller! An’ you got the fastest horse in Burroback Valley and I don’t know what I got under me. I’m seventy years old come September—when I’m afoot. Are ye afraid to bet?”
“I’m scared a dollar’s worth that I’ll never see you again today unless I ride back to find you,” Bud grinned.
“Any time you lose ole Pop Truman—shucks almighty! Come on, then—I’ll show ye the way to the quarter-post!”
“I’m right with you, Pop. You say so, and I’m gone!”
They reined in with the shadow of the post falling square across the necks of both horses. Pop gathered up the reins, set his feet in the stirrups and shrilled, “Go, gol darn ye!”
They went, like two scared rabbits down the smooth, yellow stretch of packed sand. Pop’s elbows stuck straight out, he held the reins high and leaned far over Smoky’s neck, his eyes glaring. Bud—oh, never worry about Bud! In the years that lay between thirteen and twenty-one Bud had learned a good many things, and one of them was how to get out of a horse all the speed there was in him.
They went past the quarter-post and a furlong beyond before either could pull up. Pop was pale and triumphant, and breathing harder than his mount.
“Here’s your dollar, Pop—and don’t you talk in your sleep!” Bud admonished, smiling as he held out the dollar, but with an anxious tone in his voice. “If this is the best running horse you’ve got in the valley, I may get some action, next Sunday!”
Pop dismounted, took the dollar with a grin and mounted Boise—and that in spite of the fact that Boise was keyed up and stepping around and snorting for another race. Bud watched Pop queerly, remembering how feeble had been the old man whom he had met at the corral.
“Say, Pop, you ought to race a little every day,” he bantered. “You’re fifteen years younger than you were an hour ago.”
For answer Pop felt of his back and groaned. “Oh, I’ll pay fer it, young feller! I don’t look fer much peace with my back fer a week, after this. But you kin make sure of one thing, and that is, I ain’t goin’ to talk in my sleep none. By Christmas, We’ll make this horse of yours bring us in something! I guess you better turn yore horses all out in the pasture. Dave, he’ll give yuh work all right. I’ll fix it with Dave. And you listen to Pop, young feller. I’ll show ye a thing or two about runnin’ horses. You’n me’ll clean up a nice little bunch of money—he-he!—beat Boise in a quarter dash! Tell that to Dave, an’ he wouldn’t b’lieve ye!”
When Pop got off at the back of the stable he could scarcely move, he was so stiff. But his mind was working well enough to see that Bud rubbed the saddle print off Boise and turned his own horses loose in the pasture, before he let him go on to the house. The last Bud heard from Pop that forenoon was a senile chuckle and a cackling, “Outrun Boise in a quarter dash! Shucks a’mighty! But I knew it—I knew he had the speed—sho! Ye can’t fool ole Pop—shucks!”
CHAPTER TEN
BUD MEETS THE WOMAN
A woman was stooping at the woodpile, filling her arms with crooked sticks of rough-barked sage. From the color of her hair Bud knew that she was not Honey, and that she was therefore a stranger to him. But he swung off the path and went over to her as naturally as he would go to pick up a baby that had fallen.
“I’ll carry that in for you,” he said, and put out his hand to help her to her feet.
Before he touched her she was on her feet and looking at him. Bud could not remember afterwards that she had done anything else; he seemed to have seen only her eyes, and into them and beyond them to a soul that somehow made his heart tremble.
What she said, what he answered, was of no moment. He could not have told afterwards what it was. He stooped and filled his arms with wood, and walked ahead of her up the pathway to the kitchen door, and stopped when she flitted past him to show him where the wood-box stood. He was conscious then of her slenderness and of the lightness of her steps. He dropped the wood into the box behind the stove on which kettles were steaming. There was the smell of chicken stewing, and the odor of fresh-baked pies.
She smiled up at him and offered him a crisp, warn cookie with sugared top, and he saw her eyes again and felt the same tremor at his heart. He pulled himself together and smiled back at her, thanked her and went out, stumbling a little on the doorstep, the
cookie untasted in his fingers.
He walked down to the corral and began fumbling at his pack, his thoughts hushed before the revelation that had come to him.
“Her hands—her poor, little, red hands!” he said in a whisper as the memory of them came suddenly. But it was her eyes that he was seeing with his mind; her eyes, and what lay deep within. They troubled him, shook him, made him want to use his man-strength against something that was hurting her. He did not know what it could be; he did not know that there was anything—but oddly the memory of his mother’s white face back in the long ago, and of her tone when she said, “Oh, God, please!” came back and fitted themselves to the look in this woman’s eyes.
Bud sat down on his canvas-wrapped bed and lifted his hat to rumple his hair and then smooth it again, as was his habit when worried. He looked at the cookie, and because he was hungry he ate it with a foolish feeling that he was being sentimental as the very devil, thinking how her hands had touched it. He rolled and smoked a cigarette afterwards, and wondered who she was and whether she was married, and what her first name was.
A quiet smoke will bring a fellow to his senses sometimes when nothing else will, and Bud managed, by smoking two cigarettes in rapid succession, to restore himself to some degree of sanity.
“Funny how she made me think of mother, back when I was a kid coming up from Texas,” he mused. “Mother’d like her.” It was the first time he had ever thought just that about a girl. “She’s no relation to Honey,” he added. “I’d bet a horse on that.” He recalled how white and soft were Honey’s hands, and he swore a little. “Wouldn’t hurt her to get out there in the kitchen and help with the cooking,” he criticised. Then suddenly he laughed. “Shucks a’mighty, as Pop says! with those two girls on the ranch I’ll gamble Dave Truman has a full crew of men that are plumb willing to work for their board!”
The stage came, and Bud turned to it relievedly. After that, here came Dave Truman on a deep-cheated roan. Bud knew him by his resemblance to the old man, who came shuffling bent-backed from the machine-shed as Dave passed.
