Ernest Haycox - The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox

The room was as tidy as any proud housewife's kitchen. Bacon and coffee smell wafted up from the stove, a bunk was neatly made and a row of utensils hung in orderly row against the wall. Charterhouse chuckled when he glanced at the table; it was set for two.

"Pretty shrewd. I can see you know your country pretty well."

"Sit down. Pitch into the larrup and bread. You most likely are in a haste. Gen'ly speaking you boys are. Well, I've had all kinds of 'em, and they've treated me fair. Law enforcing ain't my business and I don't purpose to stand at my door with a gun. Can't help it if this cabin's right on the trail between coming and going. Yessir, I've seen lots of 'em. Some undeniably bad, mister; some as good as the best. Never can tell about a man. I've had 'em pressed so hard they wouldn't no more'n get beyond the barn afore the sheriff or a posse was swamping down from the trail. Here's the bacon and coffee. Pitch right in."

"I'm not in such a hurry," explained Charterhouse and waited until the man had settled across from him. "But I ain't anxious to be seen in the wrong places."

"So it's come to that already?" muttered old Bowlus. "I knowed it would, ever since Nickum's boy was killed up by the Draw. Another bloody hell. Casabella politics. I dunno who you are or where you come from, but unless somebody's hired your gun you'd be better off by departing in peace. Say, you ain't that Charterhouse stranger which had his horse stole?"

"How do you know?" grunted Charterhouse, surprised again.

"I keep abreast o' things pretty well," said Bowlus shrewdly. "Fought in one of these wars twenty years ago, with Nickum. You bet I'm a Nickum man, skin and hair. Ev'rybody knows it, but I'm too old to draw any trouble from the other side."

"You might be talking to a man from the other side right now," suggested Charterhouse.

Bowlus rose and carried his cup to the stove for another jot of coffee which he drank standing up. "No-o," he decided, "you ain't got that kind of a voice."

"I'm obliged for the meal," said Charterhouse and quietly slipped a silver dollar on the table. Bowlus wasn't even looking in that direction but he spoke quickly.

"I didn't ask you for that, mister."

"You haven't got anything wrong with your sight," grinned Charterhouse. "Never mind, you can't furnish a free lunch to promiscuous travelers. I appreciate the—"

A silvery-sounding hail floated across the meadow. Charterhouse squared for the door but Bowlus was already there.

"Never mind. It's Sherry Nickum. She comes to buy milk off me. I got the only producing cow in Casabella."

Charterhouse heard her draw in and slip to the ground, speaking with a kind of gay gustiness to the old man. "A little early this morning, Henry. Had to duck away. There's trouble coming and they don't want me to ride alone any more. I've got a couple of dressed hens here for you. I—"

She was framed in the doorway, startled to silence by the sight of Charterhouse; a tall, lazy-eyed girl with a mass of copper red hair rebelliously trying to escape a scarlet turban. She was in riding breeches and boots and her sturdy shoulders unconsciously straightened before him; a flare of interest came to her slim face. The rounding lips seemed about to quirk into a smile and then pursed together as if forbidding it. Charterhouse took off his hat and nothing on earth could have forbidden his frank, glimmering humor.

"Henry," he drawled, "you're a lucky man, even without the gift of those hens."

She considered this with perfect gravity. He felt himself being weighed and tallied by the long, level glance that ended with a sedate murmur to Bowlus. "I see you're running your restaurant for strayed pilgrims again."

Charterhouse chuckled. "Shot plumb through the heart by an off-hand bullet."

She walked to the table and placed a basket on it, by chance touching the dollar Charterhouse had laid there. That brought her eyes quickly back to him with an expression slightly puzzled and more friendly. Bowlus, still at the door, tranquilly made explanation.

"This is the fellow that had his horse stole in Angels, Sherry."

"The name," said Clint, "is Charterhouse."

She sat on the edge of the bunk and tapped the floor with one boot heel. "So you're that man? Do you know you are being talked about? My dad doubts you, Seastrom thinks you are about it , good or bad, and Buck Manners respects you for doing what nobody else ever did to him before."

"Accident," mused Charterhouse, marking the melody of her voice.

"Hardly that. Nobody wins from Buck by accident. They earn their victories."

"Reckon you know him better than I do," agreed Charterhouse. "Right now I'm most interested in finding out what your own opinion is."

He found she had a grave manner of considering his words in lengthening silence. A flicker of impish delight appeared in the gray eyes, followed by a deliberate answer.

"I ought to know about Buck, being engaged to him."

He failed to put on his poker face quickly enough. She saw his features settle and cloud. For some reason she dropped her eyes, flushing.

"My apologies," said he gently, "for asking fool questions."

"I didn't consider it foolish," said she, and drew all the sting out of his new knowledge with a warming smile. "I hear you are looking for work. Buck Manners could use good hands any time."

"I've sort of been discouraged."

"Don't let anything my father says bother you. He...he has had many worries."

"Where's he now, home?" broke in Bowlus.

"Started to Angels on business after I pulled out," said the girl.

Charterhouse looked at his watch. "Time for me to be on my way. I'm inside the Box M deadline, which Mister Haggerty doesn't like."

"Haggerty's a fool sometimes," retorted the girl energetically. "He doesn't use his head and his tongue's too bitter."

"I observe," said Charterhouse. He turned to Bowlus. "No objections to my bringing down the pony for a drink?"

"Help yourself."

The girl had risen, still looking at Charterhouse. "If you are bound out of this country, good luck." There was a small wistfulness about the words that drew him around and roused some latent recklessness.

"Supposing I'm staying around here for a while—what then?"

Her answer was long in coming. "Still—good luck," said she and met his eyes squarely.

He bowed and went out, climbing the slope for his horse and returning to the well by the cabin. She was in the doorway and as he lifted a full bucket and turned the pony to it, he heard her speak with a sudden change of tone. He looked up to find cold suspicion on her face. "You've got a horse with Shander's brand on it!"

"Yeah," he drawled. "I had to borrow it under pressing circumstances. I—"

"Then I can wish you no luck at all," cried Sherry Nickum angrily. "I hate Shander. I hate any man who works for Shander, accepts Shander's help, or even speaks to Shander! I wish you no luck—and get off Nickum range!"

The pony drank to the bottom of the bucket. Charter-house, never moving a muscle of his countenance, swung to the saddle and pulled about to face the girl's straight and rigid figure in the doorway. He caught something of old John Nickum's unbending, fighting spirit in her at that moment; a flash of the same imperious temper. And though the picture she made brought back his own vision of all that was fine and desirable in a woman, he was stung badly by the scornful fire of her eyes and the sudden bitter distrust. Nor did it help him to know that she belonged rightfully to another man, a man of power and influence far above his own. So he bowed with stiff courtesy and gathered the pony.

"When wishes change so soon, Sherry Nickum, it is better not to have them at all. Since you do not mean to be friendly, I will forget your first friendly words." He rode into the timber, never looking back.