Ernest Haycox - The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox

Next morning he was cheerful for a little while. Bonnet arrived to say he had sent out four of the outfit to settle down in convenient locations; he was taking all the rest on the ranch but five, to go out on the fake roundup.

"Why leave five here?"

Bonnet's reply was a little too casual. "Oh, just to hang around."

Denver seized upon the suspicious manner instantly. "Spit it out. You've got something in your coco."

"Shucks," grunted Bonnet and studied his cigarette. "Oh, well. If yuh got to know, I'm leavin' 'em for protection. Redmain done rode his bunch into Leverage's, scared the women, and made his brag generally. Eve—by golly, I hand it to her—took a pot shot at Dann, and Redmain burned a lot of stuff and killed off the saddle stock. That's why."

Denver's body stiffened; the violet of his eyes began to suffuse. Bonnet hurried on. "Doggone it, I knowed it would just make things worse! Cut it out and calm down. No good bustin' an artery. I give orders to the fellas stayin' behind. They camp on the porch until I'm back."

Denver thought it out, mastered his hot rage. "I can see what's smokin up now, Lyle. He'll never be satisfied at just plain revenge. Lord have mercy on the people he chooses to hurt. We've got to get busy. And we've got to have more men. Today you angle over to Steele's. Talk to Hominy. Tell him you're short- handed. Tell him the D Slash estate will stand back of the wages. Argue five men out of him. These five—" and he named them—"I know are absolutely to be trusted. When we get 'em down here we can break the news."

"Good enough. Well, I'll have news by tonight."

"You better have," said Denver. Bonnet went out. Denver waited until he heard the horses being saddled. Then he got into action.

He swept away the bed covers and slowly drew his knees up, working them cautiously. He put his good arm under him, turned half over. He kicked half a dozen pillows to the floor, rolled on his face, and settled his feet to the carpet. And again by the aid of his useful arm he pushed himself straight.

His head throbbed, his knees quivered a little. But he was up, and that was something to write home about. Supporting himself at the bedside, he stared with a thin-lipped triumph at the familiar walls. "Oscar," he grunted, "just take a look at this and tell your children. Maybe I wouldn't pass as a civilized specimen with my shirt tails a-flappin', but I guess a fellow's got a right to wear underclothes in his own bedroom."

He sneezed, rousing a headache. Specks floated around the room and disappeared. He steadied himself, waited for his vision to clear, and decided it was time to do something else. So he put a foot forward and aimed for the dresser. It was not bad at all, excepting for a particular joint in his hip that seemed to bite him at each step. Arriving at the dresser, he peered into the mirror.

"Good God, is that a face?"

Within the cowling of bandages was half a forehead with a sort of cross-hatched pattern of scars, a skinned nose, a pair of puffy Ups, and two red-rimmed, groggy eyes. The eyes rolled owlishly, turned puzzled, turned cold. Denver swung away. "I look like I've been drunk since Lincoln was shot. Now, there's one more important test. If I can sit in that chair without breakin' my back—"

He swerved, making for the bed. The door opened, and Bonnet stepped in with his mouth half open to speak. Denver stopped dead and essayed a smile—a crooked, furtive smile as of a man caught stealing chickens. Bonnet slammed the door behind him and lifted the quirt dangling on his wrist.

"Damn you, Dave Denver," he cried, hard and angry, "get back in that bed! Ain't there a lick of sense in your stubborn head? What the devil do you think Williamson's makin' a long trip out here for every day? Can't nobody tell you nothin'? Get back there! Go on. I've got a ninety per cent notion to tie yuh in."

"All right—all right, I'm goin'," muttered Denver. Getting down was harder work than rising. He made three futile attempts to lift one foot and collapse gradually. Bonnet stood by in stony silence. Denver swore and closed his mind to the inevitable hurt; he swung his good shoulder to the bed and pitched forward, rolling the rest of his body after. Very slowly he clawed the quilts around him. "All right, Simon Legree," said he, panting like an engine, "crack your whip and see if I care."

"Listen, Dave, I want yore promise not to essay that stunt again today. Either that or I don't budge. I'm gettin' all-fired tired of playin' wet nurse, and I ain't goin' to see yuh do anything that'll stretch it out. Do I get the promise?"

"You got it. What'd you come back for, anyhow?"

"Had a blamed good idea what you was up to. Saw the glitter in yore eyes."

"Well, I'll stay quiet today. But I'm a sound man, Lyle. And tomorrow I aim to get on my hoofs again. Williamson's all wrong about this week business. I can't wait a week."

"Why not?"

"I know Redmain too well. Hell's brewin' somewhere. I don't know where, and I don't know how. But I know. There never was a time of trouble in this country that I didn't get the whisper of it. The old feelin'. Somethin' passin' through the air. Medicine drums beatin'. And I'm just enough savage to feel it—hear it. Go on, Lyle. I'll stay in bed today. But when I get well I'm going to burn the cursed thing."

"Lay there, doggone yuh," said Bonnet, and went out.

"Either I fire that buzzard," decided Denver, "or I give him a quarter interest in the ranch."

A steady ache throbbed through his body. He shut his eyes, but that only seemed to bring him nearer the pain; so he opened them again and stared at the ceiling. There was a drifting crack in the plaster that reminded him a little bit of the Copperhead's meandering course. The reverse turn would be about at the lower falls. The first little offshoot was Butte Creek. Weeping Woman fell in just above. But from that point the crack curved the wrong way, and Denver had an impatient desire to get up to the ceiling and correct the error. He closed his eyes again, groaning. "If I ever get off my back I'll sleep on my stomach the rest of my life."

Once he had thought this bedroom to be a pretty nice place. After the dreary hours in it he decided he had never seen a more barren room in all his days; and suddenly it occurred to him his own life was equally barren. What sort of a game had he been playing all these years—and where did it lead? What was he fighting for, why was he building up the ranch? Who cared, other than himself, whether he had a dime or a fortune? Always until now the day and its work had been sufficient. His own energy had carried him along, from the first flush of dawn until dark. Up and away in the saddle, riding the trails, standing over the hot brand fire, full in the brawl of the dusty, bellowing herds. Into town to watch his accounts, to meet with the Association, to drink and joke a while among men of his kind. And home to eat and sleep. That was all the ranch house meant—a place to go to and to depart from. Nothing more.

In such a day there was no time for reflection, no need of long brown thoughts. Nor was he a man given to introspection. His own vitality, his own love of rough life sufficed; the primitive pleasure of feeling the rain slash his cheeks or the sight of the sun exploding riotously into a crimson setting—these things were enough for a pagan. They had filled his day.

Until now. The house was too quiet, too empty. The cook's footfalls echoed too blankly. With a growing uneasiness he reflected that his own career was much the same—full of sounds echoing into blank corners. It surprised him to find he had blank corners. He thought he had done very well by himself. It surprised him to find this strange disquietude running through his body. Actually it was like hunger, a hunger for something he had never had—something he couldn't even place.