Mad River

by Donald Hamilton

  4

  IT WAS QUITE dark when Cohoon, having shaved and washed in his room, came out of the hotel. As he walked along Main Street, the food odors emanating from the Pioneer Café reminded him that he had not eaten for the better part of a day, but he did not stop until he reached the new bank building. There he paused to check on something that had caught his eye as he rode by on the stage. The gold-leaf lettering on the door was clean and bright: THE MINERS AND STOCKMENS BANK—Roger St. Cloud Paradine, Pres.

  Cohoon nodded thoughtfully, turned, and walked back a block the way he had come, swinging into the side street to the south. He was aware of the night noises about him: the sound of adult voices raised for one reason or another here and there throughout the town, the shrill cries of children, the barking of dogs, the beat of hoofs and the rattle of wheels— after five years, all these sounds were new and rich in meaning. Out on the desert, a coyote threw his yapping howl at the night sky;on Creek Lane somebody fired a gun three times. Cohoon was reminded of the assured, embittered young woman he had delivered to Miss Bessie's place, but she was still none of his business.

  When he reached it, the Paradine house looked smaller than he remembered it. Once it had stood alone here, and people had laughed at Colonel Paradine's notion of building his town house in a back alley—and one that was under running water a couple of times a year, at that. Now it seemed that, protected by rude rock levees, Arroyo Street had become the choice residential thoroughfare of the town; and the Paradine house was only one of a dozen or more fairly pretentious frame dwellings, very different from the predominantly adobe architecture of the rest of the community.

  There were lights in the house. Cohoon walked up to the door, hearing his boots strike hollowly on the porch. It seemed ridiculous that he should be more afraid tonight than the first night he had come here as a boy of seventeen. He knocked, and waited, hearing footsteps approach through the house.

  Francis Paradine opened the door. Cohoon was surprised to see him; somehow young Paradine had practically slipped his memory, which was odd under the circumstances. Francis had been a thin, girlish, blond boy with a dissatisfied mouth; five years had turned him into a sleek, plump blond young man. The change was startling, but could hardly be called an improvement.

  As he stepped inside, Cohoon heard Mrs. Paradine's voice call from upstairs: "Francis, Francis, who is it, darling?" "It's all right, Mother," Francis called back. "It's just somebody for Claire."

  He closed the door, and looked at Cohoon. Their eyes were about on a level. There was no expression at all in Francis Paradine's face. His look was as blandly polite and meaningless as if the man facing him had been a complete stranger.

  "She's in there," he said, jerking his head toward the room which, Cohoon recalled, was known as the study or library. "She's waiting for you. Excuse me, I'd better go to Mother. She's not feeling well tonight."

  Cohoon watched him mount the stairs, noting that Francis moved with a slight limp. He grimaced at a memory. Mrs. Paradine, upstairs, raised her voice fretfully; and it seemed that nothing had changed much after all. Cohoon could recall a time when Mrs. Paradine's health had been a matter of great importance to him. He had never entered the house without inquiring about it, or left without expressing hope that it would be improved tomorrow. Now, somehow, he knew that it would never improve; it was a weapon that Mrs. Paradine used against her husband and family, for some reason that was not clear. You could figure out a number of things like that in five years.

  A movement caused him to look quickly toward the library door, which had opened. Claire Paradine stood there.

  "If you won't come to me, Boyd," she said quietly, "I suppose I'll have to come to you."

  He had lived this moment a thousand times in imagination. he would have said that he had anticipated every form it could possibly take. He had imagined her greeting him with open arms outside the prison gate; there had also been times when he had visualized her having him turned away from the door. The one possibility which he had not conceived was that, at this moment, they would simply stand and look at each other across the hall.

  Presently he moved forward, not knowing clearly what was in his own mind, and having no idea what was in hers. Perhaps he was hoping that she would come to meet him or give him some sign, at least, of feeling for him; some excuse for taking her into his arms. But she had never been a demonstrative girl; she had always been afraid of emotion, he remembered, in herself as well as in others, She stepped back now, letting him pass without touching her; when he was inside the library, she closed the door behind him and leaned against it.

  He spoke casually, "I see your dad's a banker now, Claire." "Why, yes," she said quickly, grateful to him for introducing the subject. "He gave up the ranch about a year after ... about four years ago. Didn't I write you?"

  "No," he said, "you didn't write me, Claire."

  She went on, a little breathlessly, "Well, it was mostly for Mother's sake; she couldn't stand the heat and dust out at the ranch. Besides, Dad never was much of a cattleman, anyway."

  Her voice was tinged with a kind of affectionate contempt. Reared in .a very different family atmosphere, Cohoon had never quite become accustomed to the attitude the younger Paradines displayed toward their male parent. Apparently this, too, remained the way it had been. But everything was not the same, as he saw when at last he turned to look at her directly. Why, he thought, why, we were children!

  They were children no longer. Reading his thoughts, Claire Paradine flushed slightly. Her voice went on, however, hurriedly.

  "Well, everybody started finding silver in the San Pedros and Catalans, and the town began to grow like a mushroom, and there wasn't a bank for all the money between here and Tucson... Well, you know how Dad likes to think himself a financial wizard. He sold the ranch to a man named DeValla, and we moved to town for good..." Her voice died away. At last she whispered, "Well, Boyd?"

  They were both silent then. After a moment Claire pushed herself away from the door, standing straight and slim, facing him deliberately, as if ashamed of the weakness that had caused her to seek support. She was wearing a pale blue dress; she had always been partial to blue, he recalled. Her fair hair was put up in a neat and ladylike manner; he remembered when she had worn it otherwise. She was a small girl but not diminutive by any means; she looked thoroughly feminine without giving any impression of helplessness or fragility, He remembered that she had once scrambled down to the river with him, below Black's Ferry where the canyon was reputed to be impregnable. Looking at her now as she stood there, adult and lovely, the memory seemed a little incredible.

  He remembered that; and he remembered another day when he had come to town in the wagon and they had driven to the river again by a way they had discovered through the hills—a reckless act, since a ranch to the south had been burned by hostiles only a week earlier. But the river had a special meaning for them in those days, and seventeen and nineteen, in love, you're practically immortal. They had wandered too far along the canyon, following the north rim; then, trying to discover a Short way back to town with the team and wagon, they had lost themselves and found it necessary to follow their own tracks out. Darkness had found them still in the hills. He had been worrying, he remembered, mainly about the reception he would meet upon bringing Claire home so late. The Paradines did not really approve of him.

  He had been driving the team hard along the rudimentary trail, making enough noise for a stage and four. If it had not been for the moonlight, they would have passed the horse and rider in the dark without ever knowing it. As it was, Cohoon caught a glimpse of motion in the hills to the right, snatched up the rifle lying behind him in the wagon, and tossed the reins to Claire, shouting to her over the clattering noise of the wheels not to stop for anything; he'd get in back and try to hold them off.

  Vague thoughts of heroic death had passed through his mind, he remembered; the kind of thoughts you had at nineteen. As he recalled, the plan uppermost
in his mind had involved dropping off the wagon at a suitable spot and making a gallant, last-ditch stand, holding the savages at bay long enough for Claire to reach safety. It was something of an anticlimax, therefore, when he saw, as they topped the next rise, the horse still standing where he had last seen it with the rider no longer in the saddle. Claire, too, had been looking back; he remembered the way she had sawed the team to stop.

  "Why," she had gasped in the sudden silence, "why, that's Frankie's horse!"

  The boy had been unconscious when they reached him, half dead from loss of blood. A bullet had smashed his thigh. The black silk still about his neck, with the eyeholes in it, told most of the story—although it was only later that they learned of Harry Westerman's part in the business. After checking the bleeding as best they could, Claire and Cohoon had looked at each other in the bright moonlight. There was already a sound of many horsemen to the east. Cohoon had untied the mask from about Francis's neck and stuffed it into his own pocket.

  "Take him to our place," he had said. "You'll have to cut west and cross at Yellow Ford; they'll have sent a man or two to watch the Ferry, coming that way. Father knows all about bullet wounds; he'll take care of it until you can get a doctor out. Dr. Bell will keep his mouth shut, I reckon, if your dad talks to him."

  She had not asked what he was planning to do; his intentions had been clear enough. He could remember that she had hesitated, and looked down at her unconscious brother. Then she had drawn a long breath, turned to Cohoon, and kissed him; after all, they were in love, and it was inconceivable that anything could happen to either of them. He had lifted Francis into the wagon with her help; then he had climbed onto the boy's lathered horse and ridden away. After all, it was only a little thing he was about to do now; a moment before he had been prepared to die for her.

  The posse caught him after the horse gave out; the Paradines had a fondness for fast and pretty horses, and this had been a place for neither speed nor looks, only endurance, which the beast had not possessed. He had destroyed it at the edge of the river, letting its final struggles carry it over the canyon edge at a, spot where, even if it were discovered, no one would be likely to climb down to look for clues as to its owner's identity.

  Even then, knowing the country well, he could probably have evaded them had he shot the Papago tracker leading them.

  Twice he had the man in his sights; but it was, of course, out of the question for him to kill anybody, even an Indian. In jail, he had refused to speak for the first day; then she had come, but not alone. Colonel Paradine had been with her.

  The Colonel had sent the guard out of earshot, and made his speech. His son's condition was critical; it would kill the boy to be moved, or even disturbed. It would kill Mrs. Paradine to learn that her son had been involved.. .. Cohoon had not listened to the words. He had watched Claire's face; and he had known what she would say by the fact that she would not meet his eyes.

  "I'll wait," she had whispered. "I'll wait for you."

  There had been, of course, no choice. At nineteen. Once you started being a hero you could not back out even if you wanted to.

  5

  THAT HAD BEEN five years ago, Now he started to speak, and checked himself, not clear in his mind as to what he wanted to say. She made a small gesture, without meaning; he took a step forward, and she turned up her face for the kiss. Her lips were cool and remote; her hands pressed lightly against his chest, maintaining a safe distance between them. Cohoon released her and stepped back.

  Claire was the first to speak. "I waited," she whispered. "I kept my promise, Boyd. I ... I can't help it if ... if ..." There were tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she breathed. "I'm sorry."

  "Yes," he said, and the drawl that he often used to mask his feelings was in his voice. "Well, I reckon I'll be going. Give my regards to your folks."

  He turned to the door. Claire made a protesting sound, but whatever she had been about to say was lost in a noise from the hall. They heard Francis's voice: "Mother, please!"

  Then the door swung open, and Mrs. Paradine was standing there. "Well, really!" she said. "I declare, I wouldn't have believed it if Francis hadn't told me! Young man, I'm amazed that you dare set foot in the home of decent and law-abiding people; but then, I suppose one can't expect consideration from a—"

  "Mother!" said Claire sharply; and Colonel Paradine was there, taking his wife by the arm. "Don't excite yourself, Elinor," the Colonel said smoothly. "I'll take care of this. Francis, help your mother back to her room."

  Mrs. Paradine did not move immediately. Cohoon studied the thin figure in the doorway, seeing a distorted and uncomfortable reflection of the daughter in the petulant mouth and sharply pretty features of the older woman. He bowed slightly. "I'm sorry to have upset you, ma'am," he said. "I was just taking my leave."

  Mrs. Paradine's anger seemed to fade abruptly before his courtesy. "Well," she said, "well, I'm real sorry if I seem harsh, Boyd, but one has to maintain a few standards, even in this forsaken country."

  "I understand," Cohoon said. "I should not have intruded. It's only natural that you would not want a jailbird in your home."

  He made his way past her, and walked quickly down the hall toward the front door. Pausing to retrieve the hat he had laid aside there, he heard the whisper of skirts behind him and turned to face Claire. Her face was quite pale.

  "Boyd!" she whispered, keeping her voice low. "Oh, Boyd, what can I say? She doesn't know; she doesn't understand. You mustn't think—"

  The thing had gone beyond anger or bitterness; there was nothing left to do but laugh, which he did. "Take it easy, Claire," he said. "The mistake was mine. Five years is a long time. Too long, I reckon."

  "Please, Boyd! I don't want you to hate us, although you have every right."

  The Colonel came quickly down the hall to join them, putting a hand on Cohoon's arm. "I'm sorry for the misunderstanding, Boyd. Please accept my apology." The older man cleared his throat, and looked around to make certain his wife was out of hearing. "If you'd come back into the library, I'd like to talk to you, my boy."

  They all shared certain features, these Paradines, Cohoon found himself thinking; they were all blond, with the pale skin and eyes of overbreeding. The Colonel was a straight, smallish man with thinning hair, a long face, and a neat yellow mustache which he liked to caress with a forefinger, doing it now as he waited for Cohoon's response.

  "Please, Boyd," Claire said, reaching for his hat. He allowed her to take it and lay it aside again. He walked between the two of them back the way he had come. In the library, Colonel Paradine closed the door and turned the key in the lock.

  "Mrs. Paradine does not, of course, know the true situation, or she would not have spoken as she did," he said, coming forward. "She must never know, Her health is very poor these days, Boyd. The shock might well be too much for her.... Sit down, my boy. Over here by the desk. Claire, perhaps it would be better if you let us talk in private."

  The girl shook her head and seated herself on the sofa, composing herself in a graceful and ladylike manner. She was an attractive stranger, no one he had ever known, and Cohoon could hardly believe that he had kissed her, even if it had not been much of a kiss.

  '"Very well." Colonel Paradine apparently knew better than to argue with his daughter. He walked around the desk and sat down. "Now, then, let's discuss the situation sensibly. The fact of the matter, Boyd, is very simply this: at considerable cost to yourself you have saved this family untold shame and anguish. We owe you a tremendous debt. Please don't think for a moment that we're not aware of it." He cleared his throat impressively. "We can, of course, never make up to you a fraction of what you must have suffered in that place. It would be presumptuous of us to try. I—er—gather that there was at one time some kind of a romantic understanding between you and my daughter. That, of course, is for the two of you to settle between you."

  "It's settled," Cohoon said dryly.

  The Colonel glanced quickly to
ward his daughter; what he saw on her face seemed to give him satisfaction. "I see," he said crisply. "Well, in that case, there is nothing left but for me to do what little I can to make things up to you. As I say, I wouldn't even try to compensate you for the mental and physical anguish you must have endured. Fortunately, however, I am in a position to offer you some slight recompense for the five years of your life you have sacrificed for us. I am fully aware that this will not begin to wipe out the debt we owe you; so if there's anything further I can ever do for you, Boyd, I expect you to get in touch with me." He opened a drawer of his desk and brought out a paper-wrapped package. "Five years," he said, "at a nominal salary of two thousand dollars a year would come to ten thousand dollars, which you'll find here. It's a poor repayment for what you've been through, but it will at least help you make a new start somewhere. As I say, if there's ever anything else I can do, don't hesitate to let me know."

  Cohoon looked at the package on the desk, and at the long mustached face of the man behind the desk. Well, he thought, you had to hand it to the Paradines; they never did things by halves. When they let you down, they let you down all the way. And when they slapped your face with money, they didn't spare the greenbacks. Ten thousand dollars, clear profit, wasn't bad for five years' work. Men had spent their lives out here, and died, without ever seeing a fraction of that sum.