Hawke's Pride, page 4
The hours passed, the miles stretched out behind the tireless stride of the big black stallion. The animal occasionally snorted his desire for water, and his master's stomach rumbled from hunger. Hawke frowned into the westward sun. It would set soon, and he hadn't come across any signs of water. The water in his canteen was warm and brackish and needed to be replenished for tomorrow's travel.
There was about an hour of daylight left when Captain lunged up a rocky hill and Hawke spotted what he thought was abandoned buildings. "Maybe there's a well there, Captain." He patted the mount's sleek neck as he sent him down the hill.
A moment later he was reining in beside a dangerously slanting shack. He slid stiffly to the ground, eyeing the building, wondering if it was safe to spend the night in. He started then, as from inside came the fussy wailing of a child. Impossible as it seemed, people evidently lived here.
"Lazy nesters." His lips curled contemptuously as he looped the stallion's reins over a bush. "Clutterin' up cow country with their piddly farms and their barb wire fences that cut and rip the cattle to pieces."
The crying inside stopped when Hawke's knock on the flimsy door pushed it open. He stood in the opening, blinking, adjusting his eyes to the inside where the only light came from a very small window. A movement to his right caught his eye. The thin figure of a young woman stood beside a rusty stove, a longhandled spoon in her hand. As his gaze rested on her sore-infested face, he thought to himself he had never seen a female less comely. He looked into her stormy blue eyes and realized he had never been so fiercely glared at either.
He shifted his eyes to the tangled mass of hair, and wondered what color it was beneath the dirt and grime, when the girl spoke over the resumed crying of the small youngster hanging onto her skirt.
"Becky is dead," she said coldly, impatiently freeing her dress from the small clutching fingers. "So you can just turn around and ride back down the hill."
Hawke glared back at the unattractive girl, anger at her sharpness tightening his lips. "Look, miss," he growled. "I don't know any Becky. I'm just ridin' through. All I want is to water my horse."
"There's a river about half a mile down the hill," the ungracious young female said shortly, then turned back to stirring whatever was simmering in the pot. An unreasonable desire to bait the unpleasant girl, to crack her aloofness, to remove the unwarranted contempt from her eyes, rose inside Hawke. "When another, younger tot toddled its way into the room, also crying, he leaned back against the doorframe and sneered, "You've been a busy little miss, haven't you. How many more do you have runnin' around?"
He received a baleful look and a short, "That's none of your business, Mister."
Hawke studied the thin faces of the children and thought, They look like her with the same disgusting sores on their faces. "Where's your man?" He shot at her.
The girl gave him a look of intense dislike, then said begrudgingly, "I don't have a man."
That doesn't surprise me, Hawke snorted. Besides her ugly face, what man would tolerate her sharp tongue? "Are you tellin' me that you live alone here with these younguns'?"
"No, I'm not telling you that!" A lid was slammed on the steaming pot and the two crying children were firmly removed from the girl's hem. "My brother and stepfather live here too."
Oh-ho, Hawke thought. It's that kind of household is it? His lips curled in disgust. He'd heard of cases like that. The mother dead, or gone away, then the stepfather taking over the daughter.
He studied the marred face, the lank, oily hair hanging alongside her cheeks, the railthin body. The man couldn't have much pride in himself to take something like that to bed. Nor was he much of a provider either, Hawke thought, his lips tight. He ran his eyes down the slim body clad in homespun, patched many times, but surprisingly clean. She looks half-starved, he told himself, shifting his eyes to the shelves attached to the wall a few feet from the stove. He frowned at the small bag and five potatoes lying there.
His eyes swung back to the girl, noting how proudly she held her small head, the straight line of her back. His eyes narrowed indignantly. "What made the ugly bitch think she was special? He reluctantly admitted that she had a nice way with the tots, who were again whining and hanging on to her. The resigned look on her face said that the little ones were hungry, and that they had a right to cry.
The little ones suddenly stopped their whimpering and scurried from the room. While Hawke's startled look followed them, he heard a heavy tread on the porch. He straightened his slouched position as an obese man and a young teenager stopped just outside the door.
Yes, he thought, this one would take the girl to bed; he'd lie with a dog. He glanced at the boy, his eyes widening at the hate in the dark eyes. For me, or the fat man, he wondered, then looked back at the man when he spoke.
"Howdy, stranger." Fleshy lips parted over large yellow teeth. "I expect you're lookin' for Becky, huh?" A sham sadness flickered in the ferret-like eyes. "It grieves me to tell you that she's been dead a couple weeks now." He held out a dirt-grimed hand to Hawke. "The name is Sly. Sly Burford."
Hawke reluctantly took the outstretched hand, noting there were no calluses on the palm as he introduced himself.
"Take a seat," Burford invited, stepping past Hawke and lowering his big bulk in the only chair the room boasted of "Smells like Rue's stew is about ready to be et. It would pleasure me if you'd eat supper with us."
Hawke remained in the door. He didn't like the man, didn't like the sharp-tongued girl. And although the stew smelled mighty appetizing, the cook didn't and he'd just as soon pass on the invitation.
"I'd like to water my horse first," he said, knowing that he would ride on once the stallion had quenched his thirst. "The girl tells me there's a river nearby."
"No need to make that trip." Sly rose and picked up a pail of water from the table. "He can have this."
Hawke glanced at the girl and knew from the stiffening of her body that she had been the one who had lugged the water from that long distance.
"No, that's all right," Hawke waved a dissenting hand. "A half mile is a long way to fetch your drinkin' water."
"Don't worry about it," his fat host insisted. "Rue won't mind bringin' up more, will you, girl?" The question was asked with a sly maliciousness.
He's a mean bastard, Hawke thought angrily, and wondered if the girl would suffer if he refused the water. With a mental sigh, he stepped into the room. "Maybe just a couple of dipperfuls to hold him for a while."
A fast glance at the girl showed her relaxing a bit, but the shaking of her hands told Hawke that she was raging inside. "When she made no move to produce a basin, Sly, sending her a look of promised revenge, jerked one off the wall, and picking up the pail again, emptied half its contents into the chipped pan.
Hawke started to object then closed his mouth. There was bad blood between these two and he wanted no part of it. As he took the vessel and walked outside, he expected to hear a violent argument erupt behind him. But no sound came from inside the small quarters, except for the ceaseless whining of the hungry toddlers.
He hunkered down beside the stallion and as its nose whiffled the water, the mouthwatering aroma of the simmering stew drifted from the door. "Would he be able to say he wasn't very hungry and only take a small portion of the venison? The girl and the little ones, not to mention the boy, were god-awful hungry, he knew. It would be criminal of him, a grown man, to take food away from those who needed it so badly.
Hawke stared down at the ground, with half a mind to climb on Captain's back and ride away, not even bothering to say good-bye to the obnoxious man and sharp-tongue d girl. He gave a startled jerk when a voice spoke behind him, a voice that was still changing, shifting from the high treble of a youth, to the deep resonance of a man.
It was a man's tone that rasped, "Me and my sister don't want you here. So get on your mount and ride out."
As Hawke looked up at the boy with openmouthed surprise, the young man flourished a wicked-looking butcher knife. "If you stay and take Sly up on his offer to sleep with my sister, I'll put this between your shoulder blades."
Still too stunned to speak, to declare that he couldn't be paid enough to bed the unattractive girl, Hawke gaped as the brother walked away and disappeared into the house.
So that's how the bastard makes his livin', Hawke thought, scowling as he remembered Burford's smooth palms. He rose and gathered up Captain's hanging reins. "We're gettin' out of here, boy," he muttered, lifting a foot to the stirrup.
Ready to swing a leg across the saddle, he swore softly under his breath as Burford called to him from the door.
"Supper's on the table, Masters. Come and get it before it's et up."
Hawke opened his mouth to say that he had decided to ride on, then the boy appeared beside his stepfather, his dark eyes threatening, ordering him to be on his way. Why you little pissant! he swore to himself, half in anger, half in amusement. I'll just stay and let you sweat a bit, then really rile you when you discover I only hold contempt for that slovenly sister of yours.
Everyone but Sly was at the table when Hawke entered the shack and hung his hat on a peg driven into wall beside the door. The girl ignored him as she filled plates for the two little ones, who watched her avidly. He looked at the single unoccupied place at the table and frowned. The ugly one didn't welcome him, and damned if he'd eat what wasn't gladly given.
When Hawke was about to turn away, Sly pushed him forward, saying heartily, "Sit down, Masters. Looks like Rue can't count. I'll get myself a plate."
Although his stomach was growling with hunger, it was with reluctance Hawke slid onto the end of the bench. He ignored the black look she sent him, as his attention was on Rue's slender hands. If they looked anything like her face, he wouldn't be able to choke down a bite.
Relief rolled through him. The tapering fingers were free of any soil or grime, including her nails. Strange, he thought, considering the rest of her. He shifted his gaze to Sly when the fat man came lumbering over to the table, a tin plate in one hand, a stool in the other.
"The girl ain't much good at most things, but she sure can cook." He slid a sly intimate look at Rue as he slapped the tin on the table and carefully lowered his large bulk onto the three-legged seat.
Hawke glanced at the girl, expecting to see fire shooting out of her eyes at Sly's thinly veiled insinuation. But they showed no emotion, as she spooned food into the youngest child's mouth.
Then, when Sly reached for the wooden ladle, smacking his fat lips in anticipation, the girl erupted like a wildcat. Her hand swept down beside the bench and came up with a club, two inches around and two feet long. The blow she delivered to Burford's wrist brought a scream of pain from the fat man.
"You lazy bastard!" she panted, ready to let go again. "My grandfather tramped the mountains half a day to shoot this venison. I'll crack your head open if you touch it."
For a long tense minute the pair glared at each other, Burford nursing his wrist, his hate for the girl a living thing. Hawke had no doubt who would look away first as he wondered at the strange behavior between the pair, thinking how fierce their coupling must be.
As Hawke had expected, Burford broke eye contact first. Staring down at his wrist, he whined, "You didn't have to break my arm, you bitch. I won't be able to do a lick of work for weeks now."
Brother and sister snorted disgustedly, implying, "As if you ever do."
His face purple with rage, Sly stood up and kicked the stool across the floor. Then, his pig eyes glaring murderously at Rue, he gritted between his teeth, "You'll pay dearly for this, missy. See if you don't."
Hawke saw a flicker of fear in the blue eyes as Sly stomped outside. The rag-tail girl is courageous, he thought, digging into the plate of stew she silently handed him, but she knows she's licked, that sooner or later she'll pay dearly for her stand against that brute.
As Hawke slowly chewed and swallowed, giving his stomach time to fill, he let his gaze slip over the room and its furniture. He was reminded of his own few pieces back at the ranch—a chair that needed mending, the long table and two benches on which they sat, a sagging bed in one corner, and the rusty old stove. Surprisingly, however, the room was spotlessly clean.
He shifted his eyes to Rue, and as he wondered at the complexity of the girl, he found her blue eyes studying him. When he lifted an inquiring eyebrow at her, she looked away, and after jumping to her feet, gathered the dirty dishes. When he saw no evidence of coffee to finish off the tasty stew, Hawke started to swing his feet from under the table. He would thank the girl and be on his way.
"Sit a spell longer, Masters." Burford had come in from outside, a bottle of whiskey in his good hand. He plopped the bottle on the table and ordered his stepson to fetch cups. Then turning to Rue he added, "Put them younguns' to bed. I'm sick and tired of their infernal whinin'."
As the children were hustled out of the room by Rue, Sly splashed the clear liquid into the tin cups the boy had sullenly put before them. "It ain't the best in the world," he said, pushing a cup toward Hawke, "but it'll warm your innards."
Hunching over the table, the flickering lamp touched the fat man's face with grotesque shadows as he downed his drink in one swallow. Lowering the empty vessel, he looked across the table to Hawke. "Masters," he began, "as you can see, me and the girl don't get along at all, and I'm through takin' her sass. It's been on my mind for a long time to get rid of her, bind her over to some family." He paused a moment, fixing his eyes on Hawke's. "What if I bound her over to you, say for about three years? Could you use a bound girl?"
Hawke heard the swift intake of an angry breath, mingling with his surprised one. It could have come from the girl, who had returned to the room, or from her brother, who came swiftly to his feet. Hawke shook his head as if to clear it, telling himself that Burford wasn't serious, that it was a cruel joke meant to torment the girl for the whack on his wrist. The man only wanted to torment her.
Well, you fat bastard, he thought, I'll put an end to that real quick. He emptied his cup of whiskey, then drawled, "No thanks, Burford. I don't want no diseased female in my household."
He was aware of the blue flame of outrage in the glare the girl gave him as Sly asked testily, "What do you mean, diseased? She ain't got no disease?"
"What about them sores on her face?"
Sly hunched around to look at Rue. "I hadn't noticed before," he said after a moment, "but she's probably broke out from somethin' she's et. Them crazy old grandparents of hers are always diggin' up somethin' from the woods and feedin' it to her. It'll clear up in a few days.
"I'll let her go cheap," Sly pressed when Hawke made no response. "She's always givin' me trouble, and I want her out of this house."
"I'm not interested, Burford." Hawke shook his head, still thinking that the man only wanted to torment his stepdaughter. "Anyway, what would I do with her?" He pretended to go along with what he thought was a sham.
"Well." Sly smirked, "Besides beddin' her, she could cook and clean for you. Like I said, she can sure cook up a good meal."
Hawke knew suddenly from the urgency in the man's voice, that he was serious. He did want to get rid of the girl. Well, he wanted no part of what Burford offered.
"Sorry, Burford, I repeat I'm not interested in . . "He let the rest of his denial die on his lips. "Cook and clean" had clung to his brain. Here, right under his nose, was the solution to his problem. Someone to take care of his niece and nephew. In three years Susie would be old enough to more or less take care of herself and then the girl could go.
But what about the girl's younguns'? he remembered with a frown Would she be taking them along? He wouldn't care to have them around, whining like they did. Still, he couldn't bring himself to separate a mother from her children.
He looked up from studying his clasped hands. "What about the youngsters? Are they part of the deal?"
"Not unless you want them," Sly answered.
"I don't want them, but I'd hate to take the girl away from them."
"Hell, Rue won't care. She ain't all that crazy about her half brothers."
Hawke gave a surprised start. He'd have sworn the children were hers. Then strangely, he was relieved that this strange girl wasn't a mother. He folded his arms on the table and prepared himself for a long haggle. The fat man would try for a good piece of cash for his stepdaughter.
"She's a weedy-lookin' thing," he began coolly, flicking a running glance over the girl who stood as still as a statue with a look of incredulity on her face. "And I'm still not convinced she's not diseased."
"I told you she ain't diseased!" Burford slammed a fist on the table.
Hawke kept a look of doubt in his eyes. Let the no-good sweat for a while, rethink the price he'd planned to ask for the girl.
When Burford almost shouted, "Well, damnit, what's your answer?" Hawke still took his time to reply.
Finally, when sweat broke out on Burford's bulging forehead, Hawke said, as though in doubt, "I guess she'll do… if the price is right."
"Like I said before, I aim to be reasonable." Sly sat forward, an avaricious gleam in his eyes. "But you got to keep in mind she's only nineteen and has a lot of good years ahead of her to work for you." He sat back and stated coolly, "I want five hundred cold cash."
"You're loco, man!" Hawke stiffened. "I could get five hundred head of cattle for that much money. I'll give you three hundred."
Sly helped himself to more whiskey, then wiping a hand across his lips, said with finality, "I'll come down another hundred, but not another cent. Four hundred greenbacks and she's yours."
Hawke was about to agree when a slim bundle of fury dashed to the table. Blue eyes looking stormier than ever, and blinking back tears of rage, Rue cried, "You will not sell me, Sly Burford! I'm not some animal to be bargained over!"
