The Big Corral, page 4
“We’re startin’ for Texas,” he informed Doll. “Did the fire hit Prescott’s?”
“I hear it missed him.”
“We’ll reach there by noon. Fresh horses. Supplies. And sleep the clock round. I’ll get money when we need it. We’ll reach Texas and get a new crew—a big one. And some new herds. What’s sauce for Kansas I’ll stir to gravy in Texas. The grass’ll be green here, time we get back with new herds.”
Doll eyed his employer with something close to hero worship in his eyes. It was this cold-blooded way of planning far ahead, of executing emotionlessly, that had tied his destiny to North’s. Here was ruin, but it was not feazing North for a moment. Exactly what his plan might be Doll did not know, but he knew that North had one already. He could almost envision their return with a force so overwhelming that nothing could check them. Settlement would be delayed, but no longer than the time required to make it a grim and final accounting.
“But what about—her?” Doll asked. “Shell be comin’ along in a day or two. I—thought you aimed to get married—”
“She’s able to look after herself,” North retorted. “I can’t waste three days—and there’s nothing to wait for—now.”
Doll looked at him as he turned his horse’s head. He wanted to ask another question, but he knew better than to voice it. What of Devero? He’s the big man now. What of Devero—and her, if you leave her alone? For Doll had heard the talk that this woman was interested in a man not for what he was but for what he possessed. And that her favor had hinged narrowly between the two big men of the Arkansas.
North seemed to sense the unspoken question. He voiced grim answer to it.
“Whatever happens,” he said, “I get what I want—sooner or later. And I’ll kill Tripp Devero—sooner or later.”
-7-
TIGHTNESS had been building up in Marian Breen for the past couple of days. Her pride had been that she knew what she wanted, and that nothing would be allowed to stand in the way of getting it. A pride of self-sufficiency in any situation.
But this vast reaching land, limitless as time, lonely as space, was disconcerting. She was accustomed to St. Louis, to crowds. Here there was only the wagon, the horses, her maid and herself. Even the occasional cowboys, the grazing herds, the wild animal life which had been common up to a few days ago, had disappeared. Now there were only the two horizons, which came no nearer, though you traveled forever toward the one ahead.
North had not returned. She had not expected it of him. But when the wagon came at last to the edge of the burned land she knew dismay. Here was something elemental, gigantic. And catastrophic. The immensity of it became more apparent as she drove forward, following the road, still visible through the burned.
Somewhere out here wound the Arkansas River. She had dreamed of a green and fruitful land, of a welcome as a bride. Here was emptiness and worse. The wench had whimpered in terror, imploring her to go no farther. But she had set her course, and there could be no turning back. Only now a new fear was in her heart. That Tripp Devero had done this. . . .
The immensity of desolation closed around them. Some miles deep in it were grim reminders of what the holocaust had been, flames racing madly in sun-cured grass, driven by the wind. They came upon occasional scattered bodies—of rabbits, as she guessed, of other creatures somewhat larger. It was hard to tell, blackened and discolored, swollen as they were, their decay a drifting stench on the wind.
Those victims had possessed an instinct to flee, had been for the most part fleet of foot, tireless in endurance. They should have been able to outrun even prairie fire. Unless— and the thought bulked monstrous in her mind—unless this blaze had been started at many points at once, over a wide area. The very position of these charred remains, along a narrow strip or so, as if driven and caught between two fires, seemed to indicate that such had been the case.
Nowhere was there grass on which a cow might graze. Nor sign of any of the herds of which Rawe North had boasted.
Some of the fear which beset her companion was like a numbness in her own heart, so that she was almost ready to turn the team, when finally she glimpsed the river in the distance. In this blackness it was like a river of life flowing out of Eden, into the wilderness.
The simile was all but gone when finally she reached it, still following the old wagon trail. The river ran clear and sweet, but the blackness was on both sides of it. Here was a little valley with low hills. Blackened stumps of trees remained, pointing like stark accusing fingers. Then, topping a rise, she pulled the team up and drew in her breath with a shudder.
Even without the mute reminders she would have known that this was the place. Whether by chance or by skill, North had chosen well in picking his homesite. A quarter of a mile back from the river, cupped by these little hills, she could see, even now, that it must have been a place of natural beauty. A small stream wound down from the north and hurried to meet the river. The giant, charred trunk of a Cottonwood still stood, and its higher branches held green leaves, twisted and curled but not consumed.
There were deeper piles of ashes where big buildings had stood—she could tell where a barn had been, a corral, on both sides of the creek, the mansion which North had built for her. The still raw grounds about it made its location certain.
What brought the gasp to her throat was the certainty that no grass fire had been responsible for the carnage here. North had prudently been on guard against such a happening. A big fire-guard had been plowed all around, and the prairie blaze had advanced that far and no farther. Because of the building, the new landscaping and the trampled ground around barn and corrals, there had been still more protection, where no fire could find fuel to run. The signs indicated clearly that the buildings had been deliberately fired.
Final proof was that one still stood. A stout log structure, squat and unlovely. As she looked toward it, one hand went suddenly to her mouth to choke back a scream.
The door of this house stood open, looking dark and lonely. But a figure had suddenly appeared in it, coming slowly out into the sun. A creature so dreadful of aspect that for a moment even the tired horses raised their heads and snorted.
Then quick sympathy replaced the first emotion, and Marian climbed swiftly down over the wagon wheel. It was a man who stood there, pitiful and uncertain. His clothes were torn and with evidences of the flames about them, he was hatless and a part of his hair had been singed away, as well as eyebrows and lashes. He stood, hands outstretched gropingly, and then he took a step and stumbled and fell headlong.
His face was worst. The flame which had scorched his hair had blistered it, so that it was swollen and discolored. As she neared him, Marian saw that his eyes were closed, but mattered and repulsive. Whiskers straggled unevenly in this blotched mask.
“What happened?” Marian cried, and saw how he shrank and cringed, as if from a blow. Her voice grew gentle.
“Don’t be afraid. We’re friends. We’re going to help you.”
“A—a woman?” he said uncertainly, and managed, clumsily, to sit up on the ground. “I—I thought I heard somebody comin’. If—if I could have a drink—”
“Of course,” Marian agreed, and called the maid, just getting timidly down from the wagon. “Judy, take a bucket and get some water. Hurry, now!”
The man drank thirstily and seemed relieved. His voice was apologetic.
“I—I couldn’t seem to find the creek,” he explained. “There was a bucket of water in the house, but when that was gone—I just ain’t much good, seems like.”
“What happened to you?” Marian asked. “Your face—”
“I kind of took a charge of shot in my face,” he said. “And then I couldn’t see—”
Gradually she got the story from him. How raiders had swept down just at dawn, without warning. There had been a battle, short and sharp, that much he knew. But he had been struck in the face with a charge of bird-shot from a shotgun almost at the first, and had been blinded and helpless. He didn’t think that the shot had been fired at him. He had just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Beyond that he knew little. Aware that carnage was going on all around him, blinded and in agony, he had stumbled about and crouched in the edge of the creek. If anyone had seen him, no one had paid much attention to him. Silence had descended as abruptly as the disturbance had begun, and he had walked uncertainly, hearing the crackle of flames. Once he had almost been caught between two fires, and had suffered the burns. But finally it had all been over with, and he had come upon the old cook house, still standing. It had been somewhat apart from the others.
“Who—do you know who did this?” Marian askea.
“I couldn’t see ’em,” he said apologetically. “But I did hear some of ’em talking. They said their boss, Tripp Devero, ‘d be plumb pleased with the job they were doing.”
Tripp Devero! The ice that had been in her veins seemed to be congealing in her heart. But that was merely confirmation of what she had been fearing, believing, ever since coming to the edge of the black lands. Tripp Devero!
But why should she be surprised? She had known his reputation. She had seen him kill a man as quickly and as coolly as he would a chicken. She had known that there would be war, here on the Arkansas—
But such a war as this! It drew a shuddering breath from her, and then she was herself again, knowing the needs of this derelict of a man.
“Get a fire going in that stove inside,” she ordered Judy. Heat some water. And find something to cook. He’s starving.”
For the next hour she forced herself, with a stern calmness, to a task which sent revulsion all through her. Always she had been dainty to a point which her companions considered ridiculous in a frontier town. She shrank from even casual physical contact with most people, and sickness or disease appalled her. She was no one to nurse the ill, she had always believed.
But this was a job which had to be done, and she did not neglect it. Assisted by Judy, they washed and cleaned the ravaged face and chest, shoulders and arms, as well as they could. Flinching from the task more than the patient, she picked out many of the shots which were festering in such ugly fashion, and applied grease to the burns.
It was not too bad—aside from his eyes. There was not much to be done for them, but she feared that his sight was gone. He needed a doctor, and there was no doctor. He was grateful for help, and endured the painful ordeal stoically. To divert him as much as possible she talked while she worked, learning that he had been one of the cowboys here. His name was Farris, Bud Farris. And he had been alone here since disaster had struck.
He had seen no sign of Rawe North, not for many long weeks. No one, he was sure, had been here since the fire.
“Law me, Miss Marian, we best be gittin’ back out o’ here,” Judy protested. “No tellin’ where Mistah Nawth gone to now. Mebby he been kilt, too. This is a plumb heathenish country. Sooner we get back to wheah folks is people, sooner I gwine breathe again. An’ besides, this man need a doctah.”
“He’s been nearly a week without one, and it would take another week at least to reach help,” Marian pointed out. “Right now what he needs is rest and plenty of food—and there’s enough of that for a few days,” she added, having made a survey inside the house. “Mr. North will be back as soon as he can manage, of course. We’ll wait.”
It was the only thing to do, she assured herself. A new emotion touched her at thought of North, akin to pity. He had worked hard, had built up his spread and his hopes, only to return to this. The treachery and ruthlessness of the attack filled her with horror. But Rawe North was not the man to submit tamely. He was out to retaliate—to recover his stolen herds if he could. Perhaps, even now, he would be facing Tripp Devero in a show-down battle.
There was no comfort in that thought, and she shied from it. But he would remember her—he was to marry her. There was nothing to do but wait.
Under the influence of food and good care, Bud Farris made a good recovery. Save for his eyes, which still festered and were now kept bandaged, his face was doing well. Had it not been for his patient cheerfulness in the face of adversity, Marian doubted if she could stand it. The black emptiness of this land, the loneliness as the days passed, filled her with increasing dismay. Where was North?
It rained, beginning in the night. The drip of it was soothing, while the dark lasted. By day it grew monotonous, and it was worse to be penned in this small building. All that next night it rained, but by morning the sun shone again, and the land had a washed look. She stared, incredulous, then with understanding. The land was taking on a faint tinge of greenery as the grass started again.
That day she explored, gaining zest in the rain-fresh air, until she came upon four new, raw mounds at some distance from the buildings. So the invaders had taken time, at least, to bury their victims! But she was more depressed than ever as she returned to the house.
They had been here nearly a week now. The problem of what to eat for man and beast alike was growing pressing. The grass was making the black earth green again, hiding the vast ugly scar of it. but she and Judy had been compelled to seek out small unburned patches which had been too green to be swept by the fire, close to the river, for the horses. Those were nearly gone now.
The horses would soon find grass, but their own larder was getting dangerously low. Why didn’t North return? Was it because he was dead—
She shook such thoughts from her, fighting against panic. He must come soon. She pinned her faith to that. If he was pursuing his stolen herds, it would take time. He had said that it required three days to ride across his own land, and she no longer doubted it, knowing the vastness of these prairies.
Each day Judy guided Farris on a lengthening walk. They were out somewhere now, off by the river, trying to find more grass for the horses. Judy, at least, was walking. Bud Farris, being a cowboy, preferred to ride. The cayuses had not objected too strongly. Judy had stoutly declined the suggestion that she could ride as well. To Farris’ protest that he had them gentled like kittens, she had shaken her head.
“I seen kittens hump they backs and spit an’ claw—and I seen them horses do the same with you on ’em,” she retorted. “No, suh, I got good legs. I walk.”
That was what she should be doing, too—just for exercise, to fight the apathy, the curtain of fear which seemed to be closing about her. Fresh air and sun would be good for her. Marian knew it, but she sat in the house and could not bring herself to stir. If only North would come—
She heard it, then—the jingle of bridle bits, the quick, purposeful tinkle of spurred boots striding up to the door, and came to her feet, breathless and flushed. She’d known he would come—
The door opened, and she started forward, checked in dismay. It was Tripp Devero who stood there, grinning at her.
- 8 -
HE STARED for a moment, then swept off his hat. The same old Tripp, unabashed, just as he had been when she had seen him last, that morning in St. Louis—when he had ridden away after kissing her—
She felt the blood pounding in her cheeks at the remembrance, and at the tantalizing quality in his grin she knew that he remembered it too. Her fury mounted.
“You!” she breathed. “What are you doing here?”
“Why, I just dropped in to pay a neighborly call, honey-cake,” he protested. “Ain’t you glad to see me?”
She was, now that the surprise of his arrival was past. Sight of any familiar face was welcome, after the long loneliness. But she would not admit as much to him.
“I’d sooner see the devil himself!” she flashed. “Or isn’t there any difference?”
“Well, now—” Devero seemed to consider the question. “Maybe it’s a lot in the way you look at it. Some folks don’t like me, and that’s a fact. Though I was hopin’ you wasn’t one of them.”
“Why shouldn’t I hate you?” Marian demanded. “After what you’ve done—murdering, stealing everything loose, burning and looting like a thief in the night, while Rawe was away.”
For just a flickering instant it seemed to her that there was surprise, even bewilderment, in that devil-may-care face. But it was as quickly gone, so that in the next moment she doubted that she had seen it at all. His aggravating grin was back again.
“Well, now, ain’t that the way to do things?” he drawled. “Take what you can get when you can get it? Special when it’s a case of do it first or have it done to you?”
“I knew you were a killer, Tripp Devero! But I didn’t think you were a sneaking coward to boot! Though I suppose I should have known. They go together, don’t they?”
“My, but you’re plumb cantankerous, ain’t you, honey-cake?” Devero drawled. “The Golden-Throated Thrush! I bet you ain’t opened that pretty mouth of yours to warble in a long spell, now have you?”
His words startled her. Thinking back, she realized that she had not sung once, even to herself, since that last night in the Taddle Wheel.
“My singing is my business,” she retorted coldly.
“And you get paid good money for it, or you don’t peep,” Devero mocked. “And out here there’s no one to pay, of course. Now me, I ain’t got much of a voice, as such go— though the cows don’t object too much to my tries at a tune. Sometimes they even beller along with me. But mostly, I like to sing even if there ain’t nobody or nothin’ to hear, just for my own enjoyment. I’d rather hear you sing, any day, of course. Always seems to me that when a person does some Carolin’, it kind of keeps you from gettin’ to hate yourself too much.”
She knew what he meant. Out alone this way, it would help—and she had not even thought about it. Certainly she hadn’t felt in the mood for singing these last several days. She lifted a disdainful shoulder at him, and he grinned again, his quick eyes moving appraisingly around the room.
