Nevada (1995) (16 page)

Then followed days that held increasing interest for Hettie. Onc
e
off the main road, swift progress would have been impossible, eve
n
had Ben desired it. The road was not merely rough, but narrow an
d
dangerous. Yet it showed signs of considerable travel. But the
y
met not a wagon or horseman going or coming.

The third day, while climbing the foothills Hettie grew tired o
f
dust and heat and the brush that continually obstructed her view
,
and she sought the comfort and security of the inside of thei
r
little canvas home. Camp was made so late that darkness ha
d
intervened. The next day was hard, a long jolting ride downhill
,
with nothing to see but rough slopes, gullies, and dust.

They expected to reach Lineville in time to pitch camp early, bu
t
sunset had come and gone before they rode into a wide street line
d
by strange old houses, which constituted the border town. Hetti
e
would have been more curious had she been less fatigued. As i
t
was, the place gave her a queer sensation and she would far rathe
r
have gone on to camp in the open.

The wagons halted. Rough-looking men, some with picks and pack
s
over their shoulders, passed by with bold eyes seeking out Hetti
e
and Ina. Also she saw Chinamen peep from dark portals, and tal
l
white-faced men in black garb and high hats stare fixedly at her.

So she sought her tent.

Presently Ben poked his head between the curtains at the back o
f
the wagon and said: "There's a hotel here, but I reckon we'l
l
dodge it. It's called the Gold Mine. Raidy said it was a terribl
e
dive once, an' it's pretty raw yet. But there's a woman has a nic
e
place near the edge of town. We can drive in her yard and get ou
r
supper there. It'll be a little change and save waiting. The me
n
will go on to a farm outside town and make camp."

Hettie peeped out to take a look at the Gold Mine. It was a dra
b
low building, with vacant eye-like windows, the blinds of whic
h
seemed to hide secrets. Dark faces peered from a wide doorway.

"Ben, I'd rather not stay in this town," said Hettie.

"Reckon I'm not keen on that myself," replied Ben, with a laugh.

"After supper we'll drive on to where the boys make camp."

Hettie did not look out again. The driver called, "Getdap" to hi
s
tired horses, and again the wagon rolled on. It relieved Hetti
e
that some distance was traveled before they made another halt.

Darkness had fallen when again Ben called: "Come, mother an
d
Hettie. Supper is ready. And I'll bet it'll be good, for I was i
n
the kitchen. The woman's name is Mrs. Wood. She's a Westerner
,
all right, and likes to talk."

Ina was beside Ben, and he held the sleepy Blaine in his arms. Th
e
house apparently stood back in a large lot, surrounded by tree
s
through which the wind roared. Ben led the way round to the side
,
where a bright light shone. They were ushered into a clean, war
m
kitchen, where in the light Hettie saw a stout, ruddy-faced woma
n
who appeared most agreeable and kind. She had keen eyes that di
d
not miss anything. Hettie liked her, particularly her solicitud
e
for the weary little Blaine, who did not thoroughly awake until h
e
was being fed. Hettie sat at the table, aware of the ample an
d
appetizing supper, and hungry enough to do justice to it. But fo
r
some reason she could not eat much. She attributed her inhibitio
n
to a nervousness roused on the entrance into this border town. Ye
t
she was seldom nervous.

Ben and Ida enjoyed the meal, and were not in the least affected b
y
any unaccountable something in Lineville. Ben particularly foun
d
the woman interesting. He kept asking questions. Hettie note
d
that, though Mrs. Wood appeared talkative in the extreme, she neve
r
made one query or showed any curiosity whatever.

"How long have you lived here?" asked Ben.

"Nigh on to six years now," she replied.

"Then you must have seen Lineville in its heyday?"

"I seen it when it was bad, if that's what you mean. Cours
e
Lineville ain't no Sunday school to-day, but, shucks! it's nothin'
t
o what I've seen it. Lineville is a growin' town. We've got
a
school, post office, church, new stores, an' people comin', mostl
y
people connected with minin' interests."

"Any cattle?" asked Ben.

"No. The cattle went with the rustlers," she replied, smiling.

"That's lucky for your town and for the ranchers over the range,"
l
aughed Ben.

"Yes, I guess so. But some rustlers weren't so bad, when you com
e
to know them. All cattlemen on the open range are rustlers, if yo
u
know what I mean. I've met a pile of Westerners in my day, an'

I've knowed worse men than rustlers. The gamblers, now, I've n
o
use for them, though my husband was a gambler once, an' a gunman
,
too--years back in Texas an' New Mexico, where life was uncertain
,
I'll tell you."

"Raidy, one of my men, tells me life used to be pretty uncertai
n
right here in Lineville, not so long ago," said Ben.

"Well, that depends upon experience," replied the woman. "Your ma
n
never seen any real frontier towns, such as old Dodge, an'

Cimmaron, or Lincoln, or a hundred others. Not that there wasn'
t
some real killers droppin' in Lineville now and then, years back.

McPherson, a gambler an' a gunman, which was unusual for gamblers.

An' Sandy Hall. He killed four men here once in a shootin' row.

An' a miner named Hendricks. He was no slouch with a gun, either.

Reckon, though, Jim Lacy was the most dangerous man who ever struc
k
Lineville."

"Jim Lacy?" said Ben, with interest. "I've heard of him, at least.

What was he like? Did you ever see him?"

"See Jim Lacy! Why, he lived with me two winters," replied Mrs.

Wood. "He used to set right there behind my stove an' talk fo
r
hours. Jim was only a boy. Somethin' like Billy the Kid, who I
k
new well. But Jim wasn't mean. He was just the quietest, nice
,
soft-speakin' fellar. Circumstances must have made Jim a gunman.

He hailed from Idaho an' he was hell when he got riled. Jim kille
d
several men here years back. The last one was a loud-yappin'
c
oyote named Cawthorne. Link Cawthorne. He was the chea
p
notoriety-seekin', braggin' gunfighter. An' he was always tryin'
t
o force Jim Lacy into a fight. Everybody knew Link'd get killed.

But the fool himself couldn't see it. He beat a girl to death.

Then Jim called him out an' shot him. After that Jim left fo
r
Arizona. I've never heard of him since."

"Arizona? That's where we are bound for," replied Ben, smiling.

"We hoped to find the climate there beneficial. But if Arizona i
s
full of Jim Lacys it might not be so healthy."

"Arizona or any other Territory would only be the better for me
n
like Jim Lacy," returned the woman, rather brusquely.

"Reckon so. I was only joking," said Ben, as he arose. "We mus
t
be going. Thanks for a capital supper."

She received the money Ben proffered and led the way to the door
,
holding the lamp.

"Good luck to you, sir," she said. "It's a glorious country you'r
e
goin' to. But you'll lose this big-eyed sister of yours ove
r
there. . . . Good-by, little boy; you'll grow up on a horse i
n
Arizona. Good-by, lady, an' you, miss."

Chapter
eight.

The days multiplied until Hettie no longer could keep account o
f
them. Endless leagues of Nevada, wastes of barren ground, plain
s
of green, valleys between bleak ranges, ridge and upland eve
r
heaving higher, lay back along the winding, rolling road.

"Boss, we're gettin' into the wild-hoss country," said old Raidy
,
one morning, when the caravan was about ready to start. "Yestidd
y
we seen herds of broomtails. An' the boys had their troubles.

California Red had to be roped. An' I reckon, to-day, if you don'
t
put him under a saddle we'll have to hawg-tie him."

"Fetch Red in," replied Ben, with a gleam of light flashing acros
s
his darkly tanned face. "I'll ride him and help drive the horses."

The road led over high country, where from every elevation th
e
defiance of far-flung distances seemed to greet the travelers. A
v
ast monotony like an invisible blanket covered the land. Gon
e
were the towns, the mining camps, the lonely ranches of western an
d
central Nevada. Away to the east and south stretched the deser
t
solitude, day by day changing by almost imperceptible degree
,
gathering color and force, calling and beckoning toward some unsee
n
yet promised infinitude.

Hettie Ide had come to touch happiness again, strangely, fearfully
,
as if these June days were dreams. The action and incident an
d
life of such travel, day after day, with every mile bringing ne
w
scenes, with the future there beyond the purple ranges, satisfied
a
longing she had scarcely known she possessed. The dust and wind
,
the chill storms that blew down from the rocky heights, the roug
h
descents and the slow uphill climbs, the rolling, rolling of th
e
wagon wheels, the late camps and black nights, the work that it wa
s
imperative she share--all these did not pall upon Hettie. Rathe
r
they discovered some bond between her and the vague past and gre
w
toward fulfillment of a need of her soul.

And in watching for and sighting the bands of wild horses she cam
e
at last to understand her brother Ben. His passion for wild horse
s
that had almost been his ruin! But such conviction, so long he
r
father's, and therefore accepted by family and friends, had begu
n
to lose its hold on Hettie. Might not such love of horses and th
e
open range, solitude, freedom, the hard fare and toil, the kinshi
p
with nature--might not these develop character to noble ends?

She saw the clouds of dust way out on the desert, under which dar
k
moving bands of horses, with long manes and tails streaming in th
e
wind, swept onward, to be swallowed by the gray obscurity. Blac
k
and sharp stood a stallion on a ridge top, silhouetted against th
e
sky, to leap away and down, wildly instinct with freedom. On th
e
cedar slopes, where the gnarled and stunted trees grew wide apar
t
and the bleached dead grass waved over the outcropping green, wil
d
horses grazed to start erect, lean heads high, ears and tails up
,
to stand like statues an instant, bays and buckskins, blacks an
d
whites, with a pinto flashing like a zebra here and there, suddenl
y
to bound into action and speed away.