Blue Kingdom (10 page)

Although he said it in ever so casual and sympathetic a manner, the eyes of Legges gleamed with fear, and then were blank again. But he merely nodded, and
did not speak. He could not help noticing that, in spite of his very careless manner, this young man had the big fork always in his left hand, the right remaining free for emergencies.

“I don't know what could have happened to him. Choked on too big a bite, maybe? But choking takes a little time, eh? What would you say could've killed him?”

“Heart disease, no doubt,” said Legges calmly.

“Heart disease?” said the other. “Why, sure! That must've been it. Got himself all weakened from running around in this here thin mountain air. Maybe he run up the stairs too fast, just now, and then he had the excitement of pitchin' into that meat. . . .” He paused. Having made the picture as ridiculous as possible, he kept a mildly pleased eye upon Legges and added: “You must be a doctor, to've thought of that. And they's only one doctor around here, I understand, and that's Doctor Legges.” He crossed the room and held out his hand—his right hand. “I'm mighty glad to meet you, Doctor,” he said.

Legges, glancing over the shoulder of Dunmore, looked straight into the eyes of Harper, for the man's back was once more turned upon his host, and this surely was the time to strike. But, as he looked, he saw Harper's jaw sag down and he drew the back of his hand across the loose lips. Suddenly Legges knew that Harper, against this curious guest of his, would be of no more help than a figure of wood. The woman, too, was frightened. Therefore, the doctor held out his hand and took that of the younger man.

“Glad to know you. You're Carrick Dunmore, that Harper has been telling me about.”

“Harper's been mighty good to me,” said Dunmore. “So's Missus Harper.” He went toward the stove again—once more turning his back upon Legges, and again the latter gripped his gun, but somehow could not use it. It was as though an icy breath struck him, and the fear that possessed the Harpers also seemed to be stealing into his veins.

“Nothing that they won't do for me,” said Dunmore, turning the steaks in the frying pan again. “They ain't happy unless they're doing some little thing. Missus Harper, here, she sews on my buttons, and brushes up my clothes, and keeps my boots a-shinin'. And Chuck Harper, he's always searchin' for something to do for me. The boss hotelkeepers of the world, I'd call 'em. Look at Missus Harper, here, insistin' on me taking these steaks that she was cookin' for all of you. That's kindness, ain't it? She's got a big heart for a hungry man, has Missus Harper.”

He smiled on her, and she, attempting to smile back, made a horrible grimace.

“A great cook, too,” went on Dunmore smoothly. “And fine at seasoning. Look at the way she'd fixed that steak . . . so's it broke Danny's heart with joy when he tasted it. That's what I call a cook, Doctor Legges.”

The doctor drew a long breath. He began to wish that he were far away from that kitchen. And yet he was held here by a great curiosity, also.

“If you're Doctor Legges,” went on Dunmore, “you're the best friend of Tankerton. Is that right?”

The doctor was silent, for it was a forbidden name.

“And that bein' the case,” said Dunmore, “I'd be mighty happy to have you take a message to him for me.”

“What message?” asked Legges.

“Why, you tell Tankerton that I'm mighty surprised that he ain't come to see me. You tell him that it was a real pleasure to see his friend, Lynn Tucker, down here. And it was a sure great pleasure to meet Doctor Legges, too. But I'd like to talk to Tankerton himself. Will you go and tell him that, partner?”

Malice suddenly mastered the doctor. “Young man,” he said, “are you sure that you want to see James Tankerton?”

“Nothin' that I want to see so bad,” said Dunmore.

“Very well,” said Legges. “I think that can be arranged. Tankerton himself will call on you, Carrick Dunmore.”

“Thanks,” said Dunmore. He raised the frying pan from the stove and carried it, contents and all, toward the door. There he turned. “You won't forget that the dead dog is still in my room, Doctor Legges, eh?”

Then he passed out and left three silent people staring at one another. But all had been differently affected. Mrs. Harper was convulsed with the most savage anger, so that she trembled with it. Her husband was loose and white, like a man about to faint. The eminent doctor was mopping his forehead with an automatic motion.

Then Mrs. Harper spoke. “And here's what we get,” she said, “after the years that we've slaved and fought and starved, and gone through suffering for Jim Tankerton! Here's what we get in the way of help when we need to get out of a. . . .”

Her husband grasped her by the shoulder and shook her most violently. “Shut up, you!” he gasped at her. “Ain't he apt to be behind that door now listenin'?”

“Listenin' and laughin',” said the wife, undaunted, because now fury completely mastered her. “Listenin' and laughin' is what he's doin'. Laughin' at a great, fat-faced noodle that ain't man enough to be the master in his own home, but that lets a low, sneakin' deadbeat come in and trim him to the bone, and take the food off of his table. . . .”

“Will you quit it?” asked the gentle Chuck, lifting up his massive fist.

“Be quiet, both of you,” said Legges, with an air of authority and impatience. “I can console you both by giving you my personal assurance that young Carrick Dunmore will be dead before the week's out.”

James Hamble Tankerton came over the mountains to Harpersville. He had his saddle on Gunfire, on this day, and, therefore, he came fast, for that was the only way that Gunfire knew how to travel. He had his name from the sound of his flying hoofs upon the road—like rolling gunfire, a certain sheriff had said, as he and his posse spurred hopelessly up the dark of a road in pursuit of the brigand.

Now, on Gunfire, he flashed down the slope, and trotted up the rises, and swung away in a long gallop down the easier going that brought him to Harpersville. On the hill that stood above it, he halted his stallion and surveyed the surrounding country, with hand on hip, like a king looking over his kingdom. And this, in fact, was what that countryside was to James Tankerton. In this wilderness of heaped mountain ranges, split across with great cañons and darkened with trees of the most enormous size, he was the undisputed prince.

It was not a rich domain. Those who lived here were
as a rule the poorest trappers and hunters, or else they worked patches of farmland in the bottoms. But this was all the better for Tankerton. For the poorer his people the more easily he could exercise his power over them. In fact, he drew no revenue from his kingdom, but rather it was a source of expense to him continually. What it returned to him was constant support and protection. All who did not love him, feared him, and both the one class and the other needed him. What little money many of these families received from their farms, their few cattle, the sale of pelts, was in many cases almost doubled by the handsome gifts that Tankerton made right and left. He gave with apparent recklessness but with real care, and, although he adopted a magnificent and paternal manner, yet his hand could fall heavily when he chose. More than one mountaineer received a sudden message advising him to flee to the plains beyond, and always that warning was heeded. If not, the body of the obdurate would be found before many days lying in the woods with a bullet through brain or heart.

“Accident while hunting,” the coroner would give as verdict. But everyone understood and took the lesson darkly home. Those who were true to Tankerton had his support and money at their command in a strong measure. For a friend in need, he was known to have organized a band of raiders and ridden two hundred miles to break open a jail in the secure heart of a town. With that rescued man he returned, and the mountains rang with the deed.

Such acts gave him the right to rule as a king; the people accepted him, and if he was a robber by profession,
none of his plunderings occurred in the mountains where he lived. Now and again, a band gathered somewhere in the valleys, and a dozen or a score of beautifully mounted men rode out into the foothills or the level, rich lands beyond. There they struck at a bank, a jeweler's stock, a train, a stagecoach richly laden, and whirled back into the mountains to squander their loot. That squandering poured out more money into the laps of the mountaineers. So it worked for them in an eternal circle.

The rule was by this time established. No sheriff or marshal, riding on the trail of Tankerton, could penetrate into the mountains with any success. The lips of all men were sealed, the ears of all men were deaf, there was no hospitality, no help, for the men of the law, but a screen of scouts and spies rose up before the posse and continually spread around them like waves from a dropped pebble in a pond. In a few days, the whole region of the mountains understood the nature of the posse, knew descriptions of the individuals, and well comprehended that, if any of these men should suddenly be missed from the ranks and found dead among the rocks or the trees, Tankerton would not be offended. In fact, the people of the mountains were his militia, and they had served him so extraordinarily well that the arm of the law no longer reached after him. It meant long and hard riding, bitter weather, hard trails, and in the end nothing but broken-down men and horses and an emptied pocketbook.

These thoughts drifted through the mind of Tankerton as he rested his horse upon the summit of the hill and looked over his domain. He felt assured and fixed
upon his throne, and he would not have traded his place for any scepter in the world. This was his own realm, the place he knew, the air with which he was familiar, where every road was traced in his memory and where hardly a sapling could fall without his knowledge. He had all that a sovereign could wish for in the fear, the obedience, and the love of his subjects. He had the additional joy of the gambler who plays a winning game against great odds.

It was wearing toward the latter half of the afternoon, and, therefore, the light already was growing stained with blue in the bottoms of the valley—the cañon seemed deeper—the snow upon the mountains in the distance looked through the mist with a gleam like the glitter of swords. All was slowly being overcast with blue. The vapors ascended from the gorges, from the forests, and blew down with the melting of the snows, and, wherever the mountain mist appeared, it was blue of the sky, faintly breathed among the trees, or deeply pooled in the hollows, and the kingdom of Tankerton was the kingdom of the blue horizon.

He filled his eye with the noble picture, and then he gave Gunfire his head again, and the black stallion swept down from the slope.

Tankerton came to the rear of the hotel and saw a small boy coming up the trail beneath him. There he paused, with Gunfire turned into a black statue among the bushes and the poplars, until the youngster had come close enough to him to see the child's face. It was a brown little mountaineer of twelve or fourteen years, wearing his father's trousers, worn to shreds that hung halfway down the scratched calf of his leg, and
with a single strap passing over his shoulder by way of suspenders. He lugged a heavy shotgun of ancient make, and his face was dark with disappointment.

However, as he came closer, it seemed to Tankerton that he could recognize the features. He could not be expected to know every man, woman, and child in his dominions, but he followed the example of Caesar as nearly as he could. He did not think he had seen this boy before, but he ventured that he knew his father. So he waited until the lad, coming within five or six steps, suddenly halted and looked with bright, suspicious eyes about him. He had not seen anything, but, like a wild young animal, he seemed to suspect that eyes were fixed upon him from the covert. Tankerton rejoiced in the sight of him. He was as ragged, as rough, as unkempt as a bear cub, but he had a bear's keen senses, a bear's courage, and one day he would have almost equal strength. Such boys as this would grow into the men who would assure him a long reign, for Tankerton knew very well that the permanence of his power did not depend upon the crew of lock breakers, yeggs, thieves, confidence men, and plain gunfighters and murderers who brought him in his immediate revenue. It was the mountain militia that enabled him to keep his standing army from being broken up by the arm of the law.

“I'm here,” he said suddenly.

The boy whirled and jumped the butt of his shotgun into the hollow of his shoulder, before he saw who it was that sat the horse half shrouded among the brush. “Hey!” he said then, and the gun almost dropped from his hands. “Jiminy! Look what I nearly done.”

Tankerton rode out into the trail. “Do you know me?” he asked.

“Sure I do,” said the boy.

“Who am I, then?”

“You're Jack Timberline,” said the boy.

“I'm Jack Timberline?”

“Yep.”

“And what else do you know beside my name?”

“You got a bad pair of lungs,” said the boy. “That's one of the things I know about you.”

“What makes you think that I have a bad pair of lungs?”

“If you wasn't a lunger,” argued the boy, “why would you be hangin' around here in the mountains, except it was for your health. Maybe you're one of these here scientists that studies bugs, though, or flowers. I dunno. But I'd say that Jack Timberline was something special.”

Tankerton could not help smiling. “I know your father,” he said.

“No, you don't,” said the boy.

“Are you sure?”

“He's been dead for ten years. You might know Cousin Bill, though.”

“Do you look like him?”

“Do I look like a dog that's run wild?” said the boy. He sneered with disgust. “I'd tell a man that I hope I don't look like him,” he said.