by T. T. Flynn
Now Clay knew she was dangerous, and his own danger from this minute was acute. He kept the smile on tight lips. “Forgot something, haven’t you, ma’am?”
“What, Mister Mara?”
“You know everything that happens and print it,” Clay reminded. “I’ll read your paper, ma’am, and find out where I’ve been.” He let the black spin out into the street, and he heard her confident promise.
“You will, Mister Mara! You will!”
XIII
Dr. Paul Halvord was out. A plump Mexican housekeeper looked at Clay’s dark, serious face and silently led him to the door of the patients’ room. As Clay walked in, Howie Quist’s indignant protest met him.
“How’m I gonna get outta here? They took my britches an’ left me in a danged nightshirt!”
Howie was sitting in outrage on a cot, swathed in a blanket. On an adjoining cot, propped up on pillows, old Ira Bell looked ancient and dried-out behind his long bristle of gray beard stubble. But the old man’s sunken eyes had regained alertness, and Howie’s broad face had a trace of healthy color this morning.
Clay laughed at Howie’s indignation. “Some Navajo squaw in the plaza might swap you a purple petticoat.”
Ira Bell cackled from his pillows. “I’ll teach ’im Navvyjo. He can shake them shanks an’ bargain fer a squaw, an’ a hogan an’ sheep t’herd.”
“You two,” said Howie sourly, “ain’t funny.”
Still smiling, Clay spoke to Ira Bell. “How does Missus Strance find out so many things?”
“Wimmen.”
“What women? Patricia Kilgore?”
Interest and humor glinted in Bell’s sunken eyes. “The widder git holt of somethin’ she oughtn’t about you?”
“Stop gabbling,” Clay said. “I need to know.”
“Told you, wimmen,” said Ira Bell again, grinning in his long scraggle of beard. “Wimmen fer two days’ ride out, takin’ note of ary thing that happens. They write in an’ fetch in to the widder’s paper all they git holt of. The widder prints it fer the other wimmen to keep up with an’ gabble over. A passel of men peekin’ through knotholes an’ keyholes couldn’t come up with half so much.”
“I see,” Clay said, and was no better off than he had been. “What happened to the widow’s husband?”
“Apaches,” said Bell briefly. “A burro freighter found him off the Socorro road. Couple months later the widder had her baby.”
Clay nodded, and his sympathy was instant for the young widow who had carried on with spirit. “Gid Markham rode to the Red Rocks with men. He wants it kept quiet. And remember what I asked you yesterday?”
“I ain’t fergot I owe you fer bringin’ me in,” said Ira Bell calmly. “You two come ridin’ by fer Santa Fe, an’ I hired you. Don’t know no more.”
“Hold to it,” Clay said. “Howie, can you make it outside the door?”
Howie said: “I’m good as I ever was!” He stood up and staggered. “Bed gets a man,” he muttered, and draped the blanket around the long white nightshirt.
“Can’t tell ’im from a Navvyjo.” Ira Bell cackled again.
Howie glared at the old man and walked with visible effort out into the hall. Clay closed the door behind them and spoke thoughtfully: “Howie, that redheaded young widow just asked me when I was in San Francisco last. And yesterday, while I was asleep, Travis tried to see me. The doctor said Travis was wearing a gun for the first time.”
“Oh-oh,” Howie muttered. His broad, unshaved face showed concern as he leaned for support against the whitened adobe wall. “It don’t sound good,” he said. “If that feller’s got any idea who you are, Clay, he’ll sure try to kill you on sight.”
“No doubt of it.”
Howie wiped a fold of the blanket across a glistening dew of weakness on his forehead as he said: “After we took off from that hollerin’ bank cashier in San Francisco, I figured your story about this Travis was the pappy of tall ones. But I was messed into it, so I come along. Now you got the skunk cornered . . . an’ he may be layin’ for you this mornin’.”
“I’ll have to count on it,” Clay agreed. “Another thing, our sorrel horse never reached town. The Kilgore girl left a black gelding instead at the livery barn. And a free bill of sale giving me the black.”
Howie looked blank.
Clay shrugged. “With Travis cornered now and maybe knowing who I am, I can’t wait.”
“Wait a few days till I can side you,” Howie pleaded.
“Can’t give him a chance, Howie, with him knowing that killing me will make him safe the rest of his life. I’m riding out to the Kilgore Ranch now to look him over. I wanted you to know in case I don’t get back.”
Howie’s dismayed concern held him silent for a moment. “I guess you’ll go,” Howie said finally. “Well . . . good luck.”
* * * * *
From her front yard Dorothy Strance, disturbed and apprehensive, had watched the tall stranger named Mara enter the doctor’s house. And a little later she watched from the Beacon office as he rode by. The black gelding was fighting the bit. Straight and thoughtful in the saddle, Clay Mara was ignoring the horse. This morning, rested and alert, he looked younger. When he had knelt in the sand pile with his head close to her small daughter’s bright braids, he had seemed a warm, friendly stranger—until she had recognized him. Until she had remembered him yesterday—red-eyed, unshaven, his thick, harsh tones backed by a falsely humorous, steely quality.
Now, as Dorothy Strance stood behind the whittled counter in her office, Hank the printer spoke drily behind her. “Likely lookin’ young stranger, ain’t he?”
Under her breath, Dorothy said: “He’s the man named Clay Mara. Look at him, Hank. He means trouble. He’s hard. He can be pitiless.”
Through the Beacon window, the holstered gun under Mara’s new canvas jacket was visible. The carbine he had carried tiredly in a grimy hand yesterday was in the leather scabbard under his leg. When he had stood up in the sand pile, he had adjusted a second revolver in the front of his shirt. Under the old hat, his mahogany-hued face was somber now. A remote look, a solitary look, hung about him as he rode the fretting black gelding unhurriedly toward the plaza.
“So that’s him?” said Hank with dry humor, moving to the counter. “No wonder you got riled at a likely hunk of man like him sleepin’ on your shoulder.”
Soberly Dorothy said: “Hank, he smokes a straight-stemmed pipe. Remember yesterday, when Roger Travis asked for that clipping? And walked out without saying why he’d come in the office here?”
“You still thinkin’ of that man in the San Francisco bank with a pipe?”
“Yes.”
Hank was bony and his shoulders stooped. Black printer’s ink under his fingernails made Hank’s hands look perpetually dirty. His glance now under the inky eyeshade was quizzical. “Ain’t you makin’ a lot out of a little?”
Thoughtfully Dorothy said: “You heard Travis deny ever having been in San Francisco. But he wanted the clipping. And half an hour ago, this Clay Mara wouldn’t admit anything at all about San Francisco.” On her fingers, Dorothy ticked off points. “Mara walked in from a gunfight and wouldn’t talk about it. But he sent for Gid Markham. And Gid rode off somewhere with armed men. Then Patricia Kilgore substituted that black horse for the sorrel horse that Mara had. They’re all hiding something.”
“Who ain’t?” said Hank.
“I think something we haven’t suspected is happening under our noses,” said Dorothy with disturbed conviction. “And I think Clay Mara is going to the Kilgore Ranch now. A dollar he is, Hank.”
“Not a beat-up dime ag’in’ your hunches,” Hank declined. “Cost me too many times a’ready.” Hank’s sardonic look estimated her under the eyeshade. “Who you so stirred up about . . . Travis, this stranger, or Gid Markham?”
Color, Dorothy knew, bloomed in her cheeks. “Gid can take care of himself. I’m concerned about Patricia Kilgore.”
“That girl’s home, safe enough.”
“Hank! Hank! Are you blind? Have you forgotten what that girl’s been through? Lost most of her family. Seen their ranch almost lost. And now Travis has brought happiness and hope to her. And to Matt Kilgore. If something happens now . . .”
“Where you going?” Hank inquired dubiously.
Flushed and pinning on her hat, Dorothy said: “I’m going to the padre who knows more than most people suspect. Then I’m going to the Kilgore Ranch and cutting through from there on the Piedras trail and talking with Gid Markham’s mother.”
“Here we go again,” said Hank, and he sounded resigned. “‘The Beacon,’” Hank quoted in sarcasm, “‘Lights the Way.’”
But when he was alone, Hank stood at the counter some moments. Finally he stripped off his eyeshade and went out, also. Bony, stooped, Hank walked to Dr. Paul Halvord’s house to visit sympathetically, shrewdly, with old Ira Bell and the stranger named Howie Quist.
* * * * *
Yesterday Patricia Kilgore had been defiant about the stranger named Mara. This morning her waking thoughts were uneasy. In the clear mirror of her bedroom dresser, the long black hair she was twisting and pinning on top of her head made her look taller. And, still taller behind her reflection, she could visualize the stranger bronzed and threatening behind his carbine sights in the dry wash. He had been surly, harsh; his hard hand had callously struck the wounded man in the face. And he had sent for Gid Markham to come to him.
The metallic clangor of the cook house triangle found Patricia at her own kitchen range, wearing her best apron with box-pleated bib and pocket. Cedar and pitch pine chunks were hissing and crackling; one stove plate was cherry red. Last night her father and Roger Travis and the young Socorro lawyer had talked late in the room Matt used for an office. At times they had sounded serious. But when Matt’s booming laughter had lifted, Patricia’s grateful smile had come because of all Roger was doing for Matt.
This morning Patricia served them breakfast in the long, low-ceilinged kitchen of the house. Sunlight slanted cheerfully in on the tablecloth. The ham, eggs, and biscuits were fragrant.
Matt had a pleased, faintly excited look. Once or twice young Jim Rapburn smiled at Patricia as if he shared some pleasant secret with her. When Rapburn glanced at Roger, the lawyer’s thin, sensitive face flushed slightly with a queer, reckless expression. Like a man gambling when he wasn’t really a gambler, Patricia thought.
When the men pushed back their chairs, Patricia’s glance signaled Roger to stay. Stacking plates alone with Roger, she asked: “Did you tell Matt about the sorrel?”
Roger was amused as he stacked saucers.
“I’m not supposed to know about the sorrel or what you did yesterday,” Roger reminded.
Patricia carried the plates to the sink, and looked out the window at the ranch road dwindling toward Soledad. “Suppose that man Mara comes here?”
“Tell him anything you planned,” said Roger, joining her. “If he makes trouble, I’ll take a hand.”
“You always do these days,” said Patricia under her breath. She looked out the window again. “When some of the first Spanish explorers came up the Río Grande Valley, Roger, they ran out of food and water crossing the Jornado . . . that dry stretch east of the Río Grande they came to call the Journey of Death because so many have died there.”
“History lesson?” Roger chuckled.
“They reached an Indian pueblo and were given corn and meat and named the place Socorro,” Patricia said.
“Succor . . . help,” Roger translated.
Patricia nodded. “Later on the pueblo moved to the west bank of the river, and the town that finally was there was still called Socorro. This county is Socorro. And to us you’ve been socorro, Roger. Help when it was needed.”
Roger stood in silence, and Patricia had never felt closer to him. He was like one of her brothers, strong and reassuring as he slipped his arm naturally about her.
“Patricia.” She looked up and Roger kissed her. It was not a brotherly kiss.
Her first impulse was to push away. But her hands pressed the rough wool cloth of his blue coat and held there as Roger kissed her again. Hungry, demanding . . . A glow ran through her, and her pulses began to pound. Roger said unsteadily: “Pat! Pat!”
“You were married, Roger. The way you’ve talked about her . . .”
Roger’s voice was strained. “All that is over. You and I count now, Pat.” He kissed her again, roughly, and then, against her cheek, fiercely: “Pat, I need you.”
Need you—Patricia caught at the steadying thought. Matt had needed someone like Roger. And she, too, had needed.
After a moment, Patricia put her arms around Roger. Cheek against his rough coat, she said: “We’ve all needed each other, haven’t we?” And then all she could think of was an unsteady try at humor. “I suppose Matt will say . . . ‘I’ve lost a daughter and gained a son.’”
Roger was jubilant. “I’ll tell Matt now.”
Patricia said: “I want to tell him.” She added: “Alone.”
Roger’s arm held her close as they looked out the window. “No woman in the territory will have more,” Roger said with a kind of fierceness. “More money than you imagine. The future bigger than you suspect.” He kissed her again. “Shall we ride in to the preacher today?”
This man . . . Patricia’s laughter was firm. “Not today.”
“Sometime this week then? We know what we want. Now!”
“I’ll talk to Matt.”
“Then I’ll finish with Jim Rapburn, so he can start back to Socorro,” Roger said. His final kiss was possessive.
When he was gone, Patricia looked about the kitchen. Had her mother felt this way in Santa Fe, long ago, when she had met Matt? Here in the kitchen, under the log vigas chocolate-brown from smoke and age, her mother had always seemed closer—because that young and happy bride had made her first home under these vigas. In the deep stone fireplace, her young mother had cooked in smoke-sooted iron pots. And, as her mother had done, Patricia herself kept bright red chile peppers hanging in a corner. And strings of peeled squash and melon meats, dried Indian-style. And shriveled, dried green chile and sun-dried jerky that Matt liked to carry in his pocket and munch. Looking about the long room, Patricia desperately wanted her mother now. To advise with calm wisdom, to understand her slow steps to the door, and outside, to find Matt and tell him.
Men in the wide, busy ranch yard. Strange faces, strange names. Hammering, sawing. The musical, metallic ringing of the anvil in the small blacksmith shed. Some of the strange faces grinned at her as she passed. Rough, hard faces, many of whom she did not even know. Her smile was mechanical. “Where’s Dad?”
Matt walked around the end of the bunkhouse. Don’t run. She was smiling as she told Matt.
Matt said, “You don’t say?” as if he heard this every morning. Then his creased face lighted with a great smile. He reached for her. His hug was a bear hug. “I’ve kinda hoped,” Matt said. His rope-burned hand patted her shoulder. “Roger,” Matt said, “gets you, an’ I . . .”
“. . . get a son,” Patricia said with him, and her laughter came unrestrained from too much emotion too quickly. They walked slowly across the yard.
“Ain’t too important now, I guess,” Matt said. “But while that young lawyer’s here, I’m deedin’ half of the ranch to Roger. Rapburn’s a notary. He’ll record it in the courthouse at Socorro. You can sign for that share come to you from your mother.” Matt’s broad grin came again. “All of it in the family now for the next thirty years.” His grin was anticipating. “Be kids around now. Half a dozen, maybe a dozen. Whoopin’, playin’ . . . a real family again.”
In Patricia’s trunk was a faded daguerreotype of Matt the year he was married, his face unlined, handsome. Young. Eager-looking, reckless-looking. Easy to believe any girl would have loved that young Matt Kilgore. And she had seen Matt sad a
nd dispirited, gray and old-looking and beaten before Roger had come. Now a youthful eagerness was in Matt again. He was happy.
“Whoa, Grandfather,” Patricia said, laughing. “I’ll sign whatever has to be signed. Then I’m going to ride out and calm this whirling head.”
She rode north, quirting the horse into a muscle-bunching, lunging climb up the steep ridge slope through brush and trees, not minding slapping branches and the dangerous, dodging twists her horse made. Contrite, Patricia finally rested the sweating, blowing horse, and then rode on more slowly.
Familiar country. Sinuous, grassy draws flooded with sunlight, spotted with gay wildflowers. Ridges dark with trees and brush. In blue distance, the mountains serene and massive. All this her mother had loved. It was Matt’s life. Roger had a feeling for it. Now Roger owned half. Thirty years from now, she and Roger . . .
Near midday Patricia was musing on the years ahead when a thought intruded and held her. Roger had not said that he loved her. Nor had she told Roger so. They had taken it for granted—and probably that was the way it usually was, Patricia guessed, smiling a little.
Nevertheless, the thought left a curious flatness that was still with her when she sighted the ranch buildings across the far, undulating sweep of the grass flats. She had ridden a great circle and was returning from the southeast. Still thinking of Roger, Patricia listened idly to the soft, swishing scuff of the walking horse through the long grass, the rhythmic creak of saddle leather. The rider in the distance across the flats was worth only a glance. Some man following the ranch road to the house, too far away to be recognized—then, suddenly, all her scattered thoughts rushed together in a knot of foreboding. That rider in distance ahead of her rode a black horse! He had a solitary, ominous look, sure of himself, as he deliberately, unhurriedly advanced toward the ranch yard.
XIV
Once Clay had tracked down a wounded and vicious grizzly that had killed a friend. That day his every move had been cautious because the brute might have been waiting for him. Today the same feeling went with him to the Kilgore Ranch. Clay did not look over his shoulder at the sun-flooded grass flats running off into the southeast. If he had, he would have sighted the distant figure riding sidesaddle, and would have turned toward her, and the day might have been different.
