The Max Brand Megapack (112 page)

It was Mrs. Sweeney’s little boy, Jack, who raced into the street whooping, and Vic caught him under the armpits and swung him dizzily into the air.

“By God,” muttered Vic, as he strode on, “that’s a good kid, that Jack.” And he straightway forgot all about that knife which Jackie had purloined from him the summer before. “Me and Betty,” he thought, “we’ll have kids, like Jack; tougher’n leather.”

Old Garrigan saw him next and cackled from his truck garden in the backyard, but Vic went on with a wave of his arm, and on past Gertie Vincent’s inviting shout (Gertie had been his particular girl before Betty Neal came to town), and on with the determination of a soldier even past the veranda of Captain Lorrimier’s saloon, though Lorrimer himself bellowed a greeting and “Chick” Stewart crooked a significant thumb over his shoulder towards the open door. He only paused at the blacksmith shop and looked in at Dug, who was struggling to make the print of a hot shoe on a hind foot of Simpson’s sorrel Glencoe.

“Hey, Dug!”

Pym raised a grimy, sweating forehead.

“You, boy; easy, damn you! Hello, Vic!” and he propped that restless hind foot on his inner thigh and extended a hand.

“Go an workin’, Dug, because I can’t stop; I just want a rope to catch Grey Molly.”

“You red devil—take that rope over there, Vic. You won’t have no work catchin’ Molly. Which she’s plumb tame. Stand still, damn you. I never seen a Glencoe with any sense!—Where you goin’, Vic? Up to the school?”

And his sweaty grin followed Vic as the latter went out with the coil of rope over his shoulder. When Gregg reached the house, Nelly Pym hugged him, which is the privilege of fat and forty, and then she sat at the foot of the stairs and shouted up gossip while he shaved with frantic haste and jumped into his best clothes. He answered her with monosyllables and only half his mind.

“Finish up your work, Vic?”

“Nope.”

“You sure worked yourself all thin. I hope somebody appreciates it.” She chuckled. “Ain’t been sick, have you?”

“Say, who d’you think’s in town? Sheriff Glass!”

This information sank in on him while he tugged at a boot at least a size and half too small.

“Pete Glass!” he echoed. Then: “Who’s he after?”

“I dunno. Vic, he don’t look like such a bad one.”

“He’s plenty bad enough,” Gregg assured her. “Ah-h-h!”

His foot ground into place, torturing his toes.

“Well,” considered Mrs. Pym, in a philosophic rumble, “I s’pose them quiet gents is the dangerous ones, mostly; but looking at Glass you wouldn’t think he’d ever killed all those men. Know about the dance?”

“Nope.”

“Down to Singer’s place. Betty goin’ with you?”

He jerked open the door and barked down at her: “Who else would she be goin’ with?”

“Don’t start pullin’ leather before the horse bucks,” said Mrs. Pym. “I don’t know who else she’d be goin’ with. You sure look fine in that red shirt, Vic!”

He grinned, half mollified, half shame-faced, and ducked back into the room, but a moment later he clumped stiffly down the stairs, frowning. He wondered if he could dance in those boots.

“Feel kind of strange in these clothes. How do I look, Nelly?” And he turned in review at the foot of the stairs.

“Slick as a whistle, I’ll tell a man.” She raised her voice to a shout as he disappeared through the outer door. “Kiss her once for me, Vic.”

In the center of the little pasture he stood shaking out the noose, and the three horses raced in a sweeping gallop around the fence, looking for a place of escape, with Grey Molly in the lead. Nothing up the Doane River, or even down the Asper, for that matter, could head Molly when she was full of running, and the eyes of Gregg gleamed as he watched her. She was not a picture horse, for her color was rather a dirty white than a dapple, and besides, there were some who accused her of “tucked up belly.” But she had the legs for speed in spite of the sloping croup, and plenty of chest at the girth, and a small, bony head that rejoiced the heart of a horseman. He swung the noose, and while the others darted ahead, stupidly straight into the range of danger, Grey Molly whirled like a doubling coyote and leaped away.

“Good girl!” cried Vic, in involuntary approbation. He ran a few steps. The noose slid up and out, opened in a shaky loop, and swooped down. Too late the gray saw the flying danger, for even as she swerved the riata fell over her head, and she came to a snorting halt with all fours planted, skidding through the grass. The first thing a range horse learns is never to pull against a rope.

A few minutes later she was getting the “pitch” out of her system, as any self-respecting cattle horse must do after a session of pasture and no work. She bucked with enthusiasm and intelligence, as she did all things. Sun-fishing, sun-fishing is the most deadly form of bucking, for it consists of a series of leaps apparently aimed at the sun, and the horse comes down with a sickening jar on stiff front legs. Educated “pitchers” land on only one foot, so that the shock is accompanied by a terrible sidewise, downward wrench that breaks the hearts of the best riders in the world. Grey Molly was educated, and Mrs. Pym stood in the doorway with a broad grin of appreciation on her red face, she knew riding when she saw it. Then, out of the full frenzy, the mare lapsed into high-headed, quivering attention, and Gregg cursed her softly, with deep affection. He understood her from her fetlocks to her teeth. She bucked like a fiend of revolt one instant and cantered like an angel of grace the next; in fact she was more or less of an equine counterpart of her rider.

But now he heard shrill voices passing down the street and he knew that school was out and that he must hurry if he wanted to ride home with Betty, so he waved to Mrs. Pym and cantered away. For over two days he had been rushing towards this meeting; all winter he had hungered for it, but now that the moment loomed before him he weakened; he usually did when he came close to the girl. Not that her beauty overwhelmed him, for though she had a portion of energetic good-health and freckled prettiness, he had chosen her as an Indian chooses flint for his steel; one could strike fire from Betty Neal. When he was far away he loved her without doubt or question and his trust ran towards her like a river setting towards the ocean because he knew that her heart was as big and as true as the heart of Grey Molly herself. Only her ways were fickle, and when she came near, she filled him with uneasiness, suspicion.

CHAPTER III

Battle

On the road he passed Miss Brewster—for the Alder school boasted two teachers!—and under her kindly, rather faded smile he felt a great desire to stop and take her into his confidence; ask her what Betty Neal had been doing all these months. Instead, he touched Grey Molly with the spurs, and she answered like a watch-spring uncurling beneath him. The rush of wind against his face raised his spirits to a singing pitch, and when he flung from the saddle before the school he shouted: “Oh, Betty!”

Up the sharply angling steps in a bound, and at the door: “Oh, Betty!”

His voice filled the room with a thick, dull echo, and there was Betty behind her desk looking up at him agape; and beside her stood Blondy Hansen, big, good looking, and equally startled. Fear made the glance of Vic Gregg swerve—to where little Tommy Aiken scribbled an arithmetic problem on the blackboard—afterschool work for whispering in class, or some equally heinous crime. The tingling voices of the other children on their way home, floated in to Tommy, and the corners of his mouth drooped.

To regain his poise, Vic tugged at his belt and felt the weight of the holster slipping into a more convenient place, then he sauntered up the aisle, sweeping off his sombrero. Every feeling in his body, every nerve, disappeared in a crystalline hardness, for it seemed to him that the air was surcharged by a secret something between Betty and young Hansen. Betty was out from behind her desk and she ran to meet him and took his hand in both of hers. The rush of her coming took his breath, and at her touch something melted in her.

“Oh, Vic, are you all through?”

Gregg stiffened for the benefit of Hansen and Tommy Aiken.

“Pretty near through,” he said carelessly. “Thought I’d drop down to Alder for a day or two and get the kinks out. Hello, Blondy. Hey, Tommy!”

Tommy Aiken flashed a grin at him, but Tommy was not quite sure that the rules permitted speaking, even under such provocation as the return of Vic Gregg, so he maintained a desperate silence. Blondy had picked up his hat as he returned the greeting.

“I guess I’ll be going,” he said, and coughed to show that he was perfectly at ease, but it seemed to Vic that it was hard for Blondy to meet his eye when they shook hands. “See you later, Betty.”

“All right.” She smiled at Vic—a flash—and then gathered dignity of both voice and manner. “You may go now, Tommy.”

She lapsed into complete unconsciousness of manner as Tommy swooped on his desk, included hat and book in one grab, and darted towards the door through which Hansen had just disappeared. Here he paused, tilting, and his smile twinkled at them with understanding. “Good-night, Miss Neal. Hope you have a good time, Vic.” His heel clicked twice on the steps outside, and then the patter of his racing feet across the field.

“The little mischief!” said Betty, delightfully flushed. “It beats everything, Vic, how Alder takes things for granted.”

He should have taken her in his arms and kissed her, now that she had cleared the room, he very well knew, but the obvious thing was always last to come in Gregg’s repertoire.

“Why not take it for granted? It ain’t going to be many days, now.”

He watched her eyes sparkle, but the pleasure of seeing him drowned the gleam almost at once.

“Are you really almost through? Oh, Vic, you’ve been away so long, and I—” She checked herself. There was no overflow of sentiment in Betty.

“Maybe I was a fool for laying off work this way,” he admitted, “but I sure got terrible lonesome up there.”

Her glance went over him contentedly, from the hard brown hands to the wrinkle which labor had sunk in the exact center of his forehead. He was all man, to Betty.

“Come on along,” he said. He would kiss her by surprise as they reached the door. “Come on along. It’s sure enough spring outside. I been eating it up, and—we can do our talking over things at the dance. Let’s ride now.”

“Dance?”

“Sure, down to Singer’s place.”

“It’s going to be kind of hard to get out of going with Blondy. He asked me.”

“And you said you’d go?”

“What are you flarin’ up about?”

“Look here, how long have you been traipsin’ around with Blondy Hansen?”

She clenched one hand beside her in a way he knew, but it pleased him more than it warned him, just as it pleased him to see the ears of Grey Molly go back.

“What’s wrong about Blondy Hansen?”

“What’s right about him?” he countered senselessly.

Her voice went a bit shrill. “Blondy is a gentleman, I’ll have you know.”

“Is he?”

“Don’t you sneer at me, Victor Gregg. I won’t have it!”

“You won’t, eh?”

He felt that he was pushing her to the danger point, but she was perfectly, satisfyingly beautiful in her anger; he taunted her with the pleasure of an artist painting a picture.

“I won’t!” she repeated. Something else came to her lips, but she repressed it, and he could see the pressure from within telling.

“Don’t get in a huff over nothing,” he urged, in real alarm. “Only, it made me kind of mad to see Blondy standing there with that calf-look.”

“What calf-look? He’s a lot better to look at than you’ll ever be.”

A smear of red danced before the vision of Gregg.

“I don’t set up for no beauty prize. Tie a pink ribbon in Blondy’s hair and take him to a baby show if you want. He’s about young enough to enter.”

If she could have found a ready retort her anger might have passed away in words, but no words came, and she turned pale. It was here that Gregg made his crucial mistake, for he thought the pallor came from fear, fear which his sham jealousy had roused in her, perhaps. He should have maintained a discreet silence, but instead, he poured in the gall of complacency upon a raw wound.

“Blondy’s all right,” he stated beneficently, “but you just forget about him tonight. You’re going to that dance, and you’re going with me. If there’s any explanations to be made, you leave ’em to me. I’ll handle Blondy.”

“You handle Blondy!” she whispered. Her voice came back; it rang: “You couldn’t if he had one hand tied behind him.” She measured him for another blow. “I’m going to that dance and I’m going with Mr. Hansen.”

She knew that he would have died for her, and he knew that she would have died for him; accordingly they abandoned themselves to sullen fury.

“You’re out of date, Vic,” she ran on. “Men can’t drag women around nowadays, and you can’t drag me. Not—one—inch.” She put a vicious little interval between each of the last three words.

“I’ll be calling for you at seven o’clock.”

“I won’t be there.”

“Then I’ll call on Blondy.”

“You don’t dare to. Don’t you try to bluff me. I’m not that kind.”

“Betty, d’you mean that? D’you think that I’m yaller?”

“I don’t care what you are.”

“I ask you calm and impersonal, just think that over before you say it.”

“I’ve already thought it over.”

“Then, by God,” said Gregg, trembling, “I’ll never take one step out of my way to see you again.”

He turned, so blind with fury that he shouldered the door on his way out and so, into the saddle, with Grey Molly standing like a figure of rock, as if she sensed his mood. He swung her about on her hind legs with a wrench on the curb and a lift of his spurs, but when she leaped into a gallop he brought her back to the walk with a cruel jerk; she began to sidle across the field with her chin drawn almost back to her breast, prancing. That movement of the horse brought him half way around towards the door and he was tempted mightily to look, for he knew that Betty Neal was standing there, begging him with her eyes. But the great, sullen pain conquered; he straightened out the mare for the gate.