The End of the Trail (5 page)

Pat shook his head. “I'm not advertising my arrival,” he said simply. “Looks to me like that's the mistake Nate Morris made.”

“Will you take Sam and Ezra along?”

Again Pat shook his head. “The less anybody knows what I figure on the better. If I told you-all an' then somethin' happened soon's I got there like it did to Morris, I'd figure one of you had a hand in it. An' I'd shore hate to think that,” he ended gravely. “So I won't be doin' any talking till it's all over.”

5

From the Syndicate office, Pat Stevens went down the street to the headquarters of the Pony Express in Denver. It was the first time he'd been in the office, and he stopped at the first desk inside the door to ask for his old friend, Sam Sloan.

“Mr. Sloan's office is right down that corridor,” a girl told him with a friendly smile. “You'll see his name on the door.”

Pat thanked her and went down the corridor with a big grin on his face. So, it was
Mister
Sloan now! The ugly little runt sure had come up in the world. It was the first time Pat had ever heard Sam called ‘Mister Sloan' and it gave him a sort of funny feeling.

He looked at the doors as he went by, stopped in front of one that said MR. SLOAN—PRIVATE in big letters. The door was closed. Pat hesitated a moment with his hand on the knob. He hadn't seen Sam since he got this important job running the mail route north from Denver, and he couldn't help wondering what he was going to find behind the closed door.

He was conscious of a faint feeling of relief when he pushed it open and discovered that Sam wasn't inside. There was a big vacant desk in the center of the office, and a man was working at a smaller desk over in one corner. He was a wizened little man, wearing a black bow tie and black sleeve protectors. He looked up with a frown of annoyance and said, “I didn't hear you knock.”

Pat said, “I didn't. Is this here Sam Sloan's office?”

“It is.”

“Where is the ol' side-winder?” Pat asked jovially.

The little man compressed his lips and said, “Mr. Sloan is out on an inspection trip. He isn't expected back until late this afternoon.”

Pat said, “Oh.” He tried to think of something else to say, but he couldn't. He finally said, “Thanks,” and turned and went out. He had the city address where Sam was living with his wife and baby, and he decided he'd go out there later in the afternoon for a visit with Kitty and to wait for Sam to come home from work. In the meantime, he had some shopping to do for Sally before he went back to Powder Valley on the night train.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when he finally reached the little white house on Bannock Street where Sam lived. It was in the middle of a whole row of little white houses all squeezed up together. Building them that way didn't make sense to Pat. There were whole vacant blocks on either side of the row of houses, and it looked to him like it would have been smart to spread them out a little. But he reckoned city folks liked to have neighbors close enough so the women could talk out through the side windows to each other. Anyone who lived in a city was sort of queer anyway, to Pat's way of thinking.

He had his arms full of paper-wrapped bundles from the stores, and he shifted them cautiously under his left arm to knock on the door.

It opened almost immediately, and there was Kitty Sloan looking out at him doubtfully. She let out a squeal of delight and flung her arms around his neck when she recognized him. She had on a pretty house dress and her hair was fixed up nicer than Pat had ever seen it in Powder Valley, but she didn't look happy.

When she got through hugging him and asking about Sally, and why didn't he bring her along, and how long was Pat going to stay, and why didn't he write them he was coming so Sam could have arranged to be there, she drew him inside the little house and showed him around proudly.

Pat had to admit it was fixed up nice. There were pretty rugs on the floor and the furniture was all new and shiny, and there was running water in the neat little kitchen, but it gave him a sort of closed-in and oppressed feeling when compared to the rambling spaciousness of the ranch houses at home. It was all cut up into little rooms hardly big enough for a man to stretch in; with two bedrooms on one side, in one of which the baby was sleeping.

Pat peered down at Sam's rosy-cheeked infant and dutifully said how good he looked, and he sure had grown a lot, and he grinned and nodded enthusiastically when Kitty proudly told how he already had learned to say, “Pa-pa go by,” when Sam left in the mornings for work, and then they went back into the cramped little sitting room and tried to find something to talk about.

There was a big, decorative wooden clock on the mantel that ticked loudly. Kitty sat curled up on the sofa across from it, and she kept watching the clock. It was four-thirty when Pat first noticed the way she looked at it. He glanced from her face to the clock and asked casually, “When will Sam be home?”

A look of fear or of despair swept across her face. She dismissed it instantly and laughed and said, “I never know, Pat. They don't close up the office until 'five, but when he's out on the route like today he's likely to drop in any time. You haven't told me yet,” she went on quickly, “why you made this hurried trip to Denver.”

“Business … sort of,” Pat muttered. “Fellow wanted to see me on a kind of deal.”

“What kind of deal?” Kitty persisted.

Pat Stevens squirmed uneasily. Kitty was just like his wife. He supposed they were all the same. They didn't understand how a man felt obliged to get out and do certain things sometimes. They thought because a man was settled down making a good living that he should be content to stay settled down forever. He didn't intend to tell his wife the real truth about his contemplated trip to Sanctuary Flat, and he didn't want to tell Kitty because then if it should turn out that Sam could get a leave of absence to accompany him like he hoped, she'd be angry at him for leading her husband away into danger.

“It's a sort of secret,” he told her. “Chance to pick up a good hunk of money. If Sam wasn't tied down with the Pony Express job I'd sure let him in on it.”

She said, “Yes. He's tied down to that job. And we're tied down here in the city forever I guess.” Her voice was so dreary and hopeless that Pat shot a quick look of alarm at her. She was looking at the clock again as though she hated it—as though each minute inexorably ticked off was like a sharp blow to her.

Pat looked away quickly and cleared his throat. “He's doin' good on the job, huh?”

“Yes. He's doing very well, I guess. He got a raise in salary last week.” Her voice was apathetic, as though getting a raise wasn't anything to be happy about.

“That's mighty fine,” Pat told her heartily. “I always knew ol' Sam had good stuff in him. All he needed was th' chance to show it. He's gettin' to be mighty important with the Pony Express, I reckon. Private office with his name on the door an' ever'thing.”

Kitty Sloan said, “Yes,” again. “He's mighty proud of making good. He's talking about building a house for the baby and me. He wants us to have everything … to be a big success for our sakes.”

Pat nodded sagely. “Every man wants that for his wife an' baby … if he's worth his salt.”

“I know. And that's why I can't tell him how I hate it here. How miserable I am.” Tears welled out of Kitty's eyes and ran down her pretty face. “What am I going to do, Pat?”

“You hate it livin' here in th' city?” he asked, dumfounded.

“Of course I do,” she told him fiercely. “Look at this tiny little house. I feel stifled in it. Cramped up with neighbors on both sides of me. I'd a thousand times rather be back in the little Express way-station in Powder Valley. We were so happy there, Pat. Why did this have to happen to us? We don't have any fun any more. We're getting so we hate each other, cramped up in these rooms together. I dread to see him come home at night. We haven't anything to do. We sit and look at each other. And then he goes out to the saloon and I sit here alone.” She was sobbing openly now.

“So Sam's started drinkin', huh?” muttered Pat darkly. “I'll give him a good talkin' to. I'll tell him …”

“No,” Kitty cried out strongly. “I don't blame him for going to the saloon. Why shouldn't he? There's nothing else to do at night. We don't have any real friends like we had in Powder Valley.”

“Why don't you tell him how you feel about it?” Pat demanded.

“I can't. Don't you see? He's so proud of earning a good salary so we can have a nice house to live in. It would break his heart if he thought it was all for nothing … if he thought I didn't like it and hated to live in the city. I can't do that to him. He's so proud of getting ahead, of becoming an important man.”

Pat Stevens got up and began to pace the floor back and forth like a caged mountain lion. “It ain't fair for you to go on foolin' him,” he argued. “More'n anything else, Sam wants you tuh be happy. If you told him right out …”

“No,” Kitty cried swiftly. “He'd really hate me then. We're just caught in an awful rut, Pat. It's no one's fault. It's just something that happened.” She was wringing her hands together in her lap and the tears continued to flow silently. “You don't know how I've prayed he'd fail on the job. That he'd get fired. Anything to get us away from here back to Powder Valley. I wouldn't care if he had to go to work as a ranch-hand.”

“This here,” said Pat angrily, “is the damndest thing I
ever
did run up against. You don't know how happy Sally an' me have been about you an' Sam. With you comin' from the city an' all, we all thought you sort of pined to get back. When you were in the Valley, Sam always worried about you livin' 'way out there by yoreself. He figured you were lonesome for yore city friends.”

“I
know
what he thought. He wouldn't believe me when I told him the truth. He thought I was just being brave. That's why I can't tell him now. Don't you see, Pat? But if only something would happen so he would
have
to give up his job …”

Pat sat down heavily. It was past five o'clock now. Kitty glanced at the clock when he did, and she caught her underlip tightly between her teeth when she saw the time.

Pat said, “Maybe I can fix it, Kitty.”

“How?” She leaned toward him imploringly. “Can you?”

“Knowin' Sam the way I do, I reckon maybe I might. You see, Kitty, this here deal I come to Denver to see about is sort of dangerous. You know, like some of them trips Sam an' Ezra an' I used to go on before Sam got hisself married to you. I reckon he'd be like an ol' fire-hawse snortin' to go if I was to tell him about it.”

“Oh, Pat! If you only would! I could go back to Powder Valley then, couldn't I? I could stay with Sally at the ranch while you and Sam were away. And if he makes some extra money on it, maybe he'd have enough with what we've saved to buy a little ranch there near you and Ezra.”

“You'd like that, huh?”

“It would be heaven, Pat. I want my baby to grow up out there where people are friendly and honest and real. But I don't know whether you can persuade Sam. He's dead set on staying here and making good with the Express company. I'm afraid he wouldn't want to go back and settle down on a little ranch …”

“What're you lookin' at the clock like that for?” demanded Pat.

“I may as well tell you. He … Sam won't be home for at least another hour. And when he does come home, he … well, he won't be himself, Pat. He's down at the corner saloon right now,” she confessed simply. “He stops there on his way home every afternoon.”

Pat's face became grim. “Which corner?” He got up and reached for his hat.

Kitty Sloan told him. She got up and went to the door with him. “If you can just persuade him to give up his job and go with you, Pat,” she said wistfully.

He hesitated on the doorstep. “It's liable to be plenty dangerous,” he warned her.

“I don't care.” Her voice was shrill, close to hysteria. “Anything is better than going on like this.”

“If I do, promise me you won't tell Sally the truth if you go down to stay with her.”

“What will I tell her?”

“Anything but th' truth,” Pat growled. “Tell her it's Pony Express business. You got to promise, Kitty.”

“I'll do anything … if you'll just get Sam away from Denver.”

“You leave that tuh me.” Pat settled his hat firmly on his head and started toward the saloon where Kitty thought he would find Sam.

There were only three men in the saloon at that hour of the afternoon. One of them was a short, dark, ugly-featured little man. He was leaning with both elbows on the bar, supporting his chin in cupped hands while he morosely watched the bartender pour another double shot of whisky into the glass in front of him.

Pat Stevens went up beside him and reached for the glass before Sam got hold of it. He emptied the contents onto the sawdust covered floor and said angrily, “You've had enough, feller.”

Sam whirled to face him, scowling darkly. “Why thuh hell d'yuh think … oh.” His jaw dropped slackly. “Pat! You ol' polecat. Yo're a sight fer sore eyes. What're yuh doin' in Denver?”

Pat grinned and wrung his hand. “Time I was gettin' here to straighten you out, looks like.”

“Two more,” Sam said happily to the bartender. “An' that'n my fren' jest spilled is on thuh house.”

“No more.” Pat shook his head. “And I didn't spill that one, Sam. I poured it out intentional. I'm payin' for it and you're comin' with me.” He threw a silver dollar on the bar and took Sam's arm in a firm grip, pulled him toward the door.