The Killer
Page 2
CHAPTER II
Hooper's ranch proved to be entirely enclosed by a wall of adobe tenfeet high and whitewashed. To the outside it presented a blank face.Only corrals and an alfalfa patch were not included. A wide, highgateway, that could be closed by massive doors, let into a stable yard,and seemed to be the only entrance. The buildings within were allimmaculate also: evidently Old Man Hooper loved whitewash. Cottonwoodtrees showed their green heads; and to the right I saw the slopedshingled roof of a larger building. Not a living creature was in sight.I shook myself, saying that the undoubted sinister feeling of uttersilence and lifelessness was compounded of my expectations and the timeof day. But that did not satisfy me. My aroused mind, casting about,soon struck it: I was missing the swarms of blackbirds, linnets, purplefinches, and doves that made our own ranch trees vocal. Here were nobirds. Laughing at this simple explanation of my eerie feeling, I passedunder the gate and entered the courtyard.
It, too, seemed empty. A stable occupied all one side; the other threewere formed by bunk houses and necessary out-buildings. Here, too, dweltabsolute solitude and absolute silence. It was uncanny, as though onewalked in a vacuum. Everything was neat and shut up and whitewashed andapparently dead. There were no sounds or signs of occupancy. I was asmuch alone as though I had been in the middle of an ocean. My mind, bynow abnormally sensitive and alert, leaped on this idea. For the samereason, it insisted--lack of life: there were no birds here, not even_flies_! Of course, said I, gone to bed in the cool of evening: whyshould there be? I laughed aloud and hushed suddenly; and then nearlyjumped out of my skin. The thin blue curl of smoke had caught my eye;and I became aware of the figure of a man seated on the ground, in theshadow, leaning against the building. The curl of smoke was from hiscigarette. He was wrapped in a _serape_ which blended well with the coolcolour of shadow. My eyes were dazzled with the whitewash--naturalenough--yet the impression of solitude had been so complete. It wasuncanny, as though he had materialized out of the shadow itself. Sillyidea! I ranged my eye along the row of houses, and I saw three otherfigures I had missed before, all broodingly immobile, all merged inshadow, all watching me, all with the insubstantial air of having as Ilooked taken body from thin air.
This was too foolish! I dismounted, dropped my horse's reins over hishead, and sauntered to the nearest figure. He was lost in the dusk ofthe building and of his Mexican hat. I saw only the gleam of eyes.
"Where will I find Mr. Hooper?" I asked.
The figure waved a long, slim hand toward a wicket gate in one side ofthe enclosure. He said no word, nor made another motion; and the otherfigures sat as though graved from stone.
After a moment's hesitation I pushed open the wicket gate, and so foundmyself in a smaller intimate courtyard of most surprising character. Itscentre was green grass, and about its border grew tall, bright flowers.A wide verandah ran about three sides. I could see that in the numerouswindows hung white lace curtains. Mind you, this was in Arizona of the'nineties!
I knocked at the nearest door, and after an interval it opened and Istood face to face with Old Man Hooper himself.
He proved to be as small as I had thought, not taller than my ownshoulder, with a bent little figure dressed in wrinkled and baggy storeclothes of a snuff brown. His bullet head had been cropped so that hishair stood up like a short-bristled white brush. His rather round facewas brown and lined. His hands, which grasped the doorpostsuncompromisingly to bar the way, were lean and veined and old. But allthat I found in my recollections afterward to be utterly unimportant.His eyes were his predominant, his formidable, his compellingcharacteristic. They were round, the pupils very small, the irises largeand of a light flecked blue. From the pupils radiated fine lines. Theblank, cold, inscrutable stare of them bored me through to the back ofthe neck. I suppose the man winked occasionally, but I never got thatimpression. I've noticed that owls have this same intent, unwinkingstare--and wildcats.
"Mr. Hooper," said I, "can you keep me over night?"
It was a usual request in the old cattle country. He continued to stareat me for some moments.
"Where are you from?" he asked at length. His voice was soft and low;rather purring.
I mentioned our headquarters on the Gila: it did not seem worth whileto say anything about Box Springs only a dozen miles away. He stared atme for some time more.
"Come in," he said, abruptly; and stood aside.
This was a disconcerting surprise. All I had expected was permission tostop, and a direction as to how to find the bunk house. Then a more orless dull evening, and a return the following day to collect on my"dare." I stepped into the dimness of the hallway; and immediately afterinto a room beyond.
Again I must remind you that this was the Arizona of the 'nineties. Allthe ranch houses with which I was acquainted, and I knew about all ofthem, were very crudely done. They comprised generally a half dozenrooms with adobe walls and rough board floors, with only suchfurnishings as deal tables, benches, homemade chairs, perhaps a batteredold washstand or so, and bunks filled with straw. We had no such thingsas tablecloths and sheets, of course. Everything was on a like scale ofsimple utility.
All right, get that in your mind. The interior into which I now stepped,with my clanking spurs, my rattling _chaps_, the dust of mysweat-stained garments, was a low-ceilinged, dim abode with faint, mustyaromas. Carpets covered the floors; an old-fashioned hat rack flankedthe door on one side, a tall clock on the other. I saw in passing framedsteel engravings. The room beyond contained easy chairs, a sofaupholstered with hair cloth, an upright piano, a marble fireplace with amantel, in a corner a triangular what-not filled with objects. It, too,was dim and curtained and faintly aromatic as had been the house of anold maiden aunt of my childhood, who used to give me cookies on theSabbath. I felt now too large, and too noisy, and altogether mis-dressedand blundering and dirty. The little old man moved without a sound, andthe grandfather's clock outside ticked deliberately in a hollow silence.
I sat down, rather gingerly, in the chair he indicated for me.
"I shall be very glad to offer you hospitality for the night," he said,as though there had been no interim. "I feel honoured at theopportunity."
I murmured my thanks, and a suggestion that I should look after myhorse.
"Your horse, sir, has been attended to, and your _cantinas_[B] areundoubtedly by now in your room, where, I am sure, you are anxious torepair."
He gave no signal, nor uttered any command, but at his last words agrave, elderly Mexican appeared noiselessly at my elbow. As a matter offact, he came through an unnoticed door at the back, but he might aswell have materialized from the thin air for the start that he gave me.Hooper instantly arose.
"I trust, sir, you will find all to your liking. If anything is lacking,I trust you will at once indicate the fact. We shall dine in a halfhour----"
He seized a small implement consisting of a bit of wire screen attachedto the end of a short stick, darted across the room with the mostextraordinary agility, thwacked a lone house fly, and returned.
"--and you will undoubtedly be ready for it," he finished his speech,calmly, as though he had not moved from his tracks.
I murmured my acknowledgments. My last impression as I left the room wasof the baleful, dead, challenging stare of the man's wildcat eyes.
The Mexican glided before me. We emerged into the court, walked alongthe verandah, and entered a bedroom. My guide slipped by me anddisappeared before I had the chance of a word with him. He may have beendumb for all I know. I sat down and tried to take stock.