He turned his head slowly to look at the girl on the sofa; for some reason it was important for him to know if she had been aware this was coming. The answer was plain on her face; she looked pleased by the magnanimity of her father's gesture, perhaps feeling that it atoned for the poverty of her own greeting. Cohoon drew a long breath and rose. It was the time for a courteous refusal and a quick withdrawal; but suddenly he found himself hating these people. It was unbearable to think that they should get five years of his life for nothing. He had to exact some payment; even if only in bank notes that he could never bring himself to use.
He reached for the package. "Thank you, sir," he said deliberately, dropping it into his pocket. "That's more than generous."
"Our gratitude goes with it, Boyd," the Colonel said smoothly. "Good luck. And when you decide on a place to settle down, write us. We don't like to lose track of our friends."
Outside, the air was cool as Cohoon walked swiftly away, holding himself under control with an effort. There was no sense in a man's going around kicking stray dogs or bruising his fist against adobe walls just because people had acted in a manner anyone but a romantic boy should have been able to predict.... Only gradually, as he relived the scene in his mind, did the strangeness of the Colonel's final words reach his consciousness. Colonel Paradine seemed to take for granted that he, Boyd Cohoon, was leaving this part of the country; this assumption had colored other parts of his speech as well. Yet Paul Westerman had delivered his ultimatum privately less than an hour ago, hardly time for the news to have reached Arroyo Street by the path of rumor. It seemed almost as if the Paradines must have known of Westerman's intention in advance....
Cohoon glanced back at the big, lighted house, frowning; then a movement in the shadows brought him around quickly, his hand sliding back to the knife that was his only weapon, since his disagreement with Van Houck had caused him to forget the necessity for buying a revolver. Besides, his father had always considered the knife adequate as long as the odds were reasonable, carrying two old revolving pistols in saddle holsters for use against Indians, but seldom bothering to wear one on his person.
"Oh, it's you, Willie," Cohoon said, straightening up, as Marshal Black stepped into the light. "What are you doing in this part of town? I'd think Creek Lane would need your attention more.
Black said curtly, "You've had your visit, Don't come back." He waited; when Cohoon said nothing, he went on harshly: "Arroyo Street is out of bounds to your kind. Don't come this side of Main Street. It is a rule enforce: decent citizens are entitled to some protection from the scum and riff-raff of the town. If I find you here again, I'll arrest you; and if you resist, shoot you down."
Cohoon said softly, "You take your duties seriously, Willie."
"In your case, it's a pleasure," the young marshal said in the same harsh voice; then he glanced toward the lighted house up the street. "You've done her enough harm, Cohoon You, and her own mistaken loyalty to a man who isn't good enough to enter the same room with her, the same house even! You and your family of bullies and braggarts; do you think I've forgotten that I almost drowned to give you a moment's laughter? And what are you now with the rest of them gone, Cahoon? A jailbird, a would-be thief who couldn't even carry out his part of a cheap holdup!" Black's voice broke with anger, so that for a moment he sounded very young. He caught himself, and went on: "From your expression as you left the house, I gather that she has come to her senses and sent you away. Don't try to go back, Leave Miss Paradine alone."
Cohoon studied the younger man for a long, tight moment; abruptly he laughed. Bill Black and the whole evening had become ridiculous.
"A badge is a handy tool for a jealous man," he murmured. "Good night, Willie." He turned away. The marshal's voice checked him.
"Cohoon, you're mistaken in what you're thinking, She barely knows I exist. I wouldn't dare to presume—"
"Why not?" Cohoon asked. "The field is clear."
"Is it?" Bill Black asked bitterly. He made a gesture, and they both stood watching the short stocky figure of Paul Westerman ascend the steps of the Paradine house. The door opened, and he went inside. Cohoon laughed softly. Even to bis own ears the laughter had a wicked sound. You could ask only so much of a sense of humor. He turned and strode away without speaking, leaving the marshal still standing there.
Creek Lane was in full swing when Cohoon reached it. Entering the Double Eagle, he paused briefly inside the door to look at Francis Paradine who was sitting at a table by the wall, accompanied by some other young men and a couple of Miss Bessie's girls. Young Paradine's attitude made it clear that he was no stranger here, and that he was already well on the way to being drunk, although he could not have been here long. Cohoon grimaced; no one seemed to have gained very much by his romantic sacrifice of five years ago, not even the boy for whom, in the last analysis, the sacrifice had been made.
Miss Bessie herself was easy enough to locate at the end of the bar: a tall, spinsterish female, thin of face and body, with the clothes and demeanor of uncompromising respectability— until she laughed, which she did often. Her hearty, ribald laughter then reached into all corners of the room, despite the noise. She turned here scrutiny on Cohoon as he approached, but did not speak, leaving the initiative to him.
"I'm looking for a girl," he said.
"You'd be Boyd Cohoon," she said. "The resemblance to your brother Jonathan would be quite striking if you had another two inches and forty pounds. Did you have a particular girl in mind, Mr. Cohoon, or will anything in skirts do?"
He said, "She told me her name was Nan. Nan Montoya. There was something said about a drink on the house."
6
WHEN HE AWOKE, he was lying on a cot of sorts in a room with adobe walls. The ceiling was supported, as was customary, by evenly spaced vigas—peeled pine poles some five inches in diameter, serving as rafters. There was a blanket over him. His boots had been removed by whoever had brought him here. The identity of the person escaped him, in this first moment of awakening. He had got quite drunk, as had been his intention. It had been a remedy prescribed by Ward Cohoon for the times in a man's life when he discovers that he has been an outsize damn fool.
Cohoon sat up. A stout, elderly Mexican woman was crouching by the fireplace in the corner. She looked at him without favor, rose, and walked out of the room, but not before he had seen the gleam of a knife as she returned it to some hiding place among the folds of her clothing. The doorway between rooms was an arch in a thick adobe wall, closed by a blanket of Navajo design. He heard the sound of voices beyond. The woman returned and took up her position by the fire. Presently Nan Montoya came in.
"Does despierto mean that you're in desperate straits?" she asked, smiling. "It seems likely, considering the amount of whisky you put away last night."
Memory returned to him as he looked at her. She had exchanged last evening's finery for a plain gingham dress, but he could still in his mind see her singing to the rough crowd in the Double Eagle in a clear and accurate voice, interspersing the old-time sentimental favorites with several ballads the words of which had been, to say the least, suggestive. The contrast between her detached, almost ladylike manner, and the substance of these songs, had struck the fancy of her audience. Afterwards, noticing him with Miss Bessie at the bar, she had come to him, seeming glad to see him. Later in the evening, he recalled, there had been some kind of disturbance outside and the place had emptied. She had guided him out by a side door and brought him here—for what purpose he had been in no state to determine. Certainly there had been no romantic passages between them. Cohoon glanced at the old woman by the fire, and grinned.
"I reckon it's a good thing I don't walk in my sleep, ma'am," he said to Nan Montoya. "Your duenna packs a knife a foot long; she'd have slit my throat from ear to ear."
"Yes, isn't she a dear?" Nan said. "Miss Bessie offered me one of her upstairs rooms—I suppose there's no reason why I should set myself above the rest of the girls by refusin
g, but I did, so she sent me here, saying that Jesusa would protect me." The girl laughed. "I had a terrible time getting her to even let you in. Borracho, she kept saying, muy borracho! I couldn't seem to get across to her that your life was in danger." Cohoon frowned. "In danger?"
Why, yes," Nan said. "Miss Bessie pointed out a man she said worked for somebody named Westerman—a big, bearded, dirty-looking bully of a fellow. She said I'd better get you out of there at the first opportunity, since you were hardly in a condition to defend yourself properly. You didn't even have a gun. So when all the shooting started over on Main Street, "1 still don't know what was going on. It sounded like a major battle. I didn't know anywhere else to take you, so I brought you here."
"I'm grateful," he said.
"Don't be," she said. "I was just returning a kindness." "I'm only afraid you've put yourself in a bad light, ma'am, he said. "People are apt to think—"
She laughed quickly. "Cohoon, a girl who entertains in a place like the Double Eagle, whatever her duties, hasn't got a reputation to worry about. They'll think the same of me what. ever I do—all those fine respectable people on the other side of your Main Street—so why shouldn't I do what I like? Tell me, what does despierto really mean?"
"It means 'awake,' " he said. "With a name like Montoya, you should know that much Spanish."
"The name's not mine," she said, adding in a dry voice: "I was requested not to disgrace my real one further; and Montoya was handy. As I told you yesterday, I have no legal right to it." She smiled coolly. "His first name was Raoul. Does that help me to understand French?" Then the smile vanished, and her voice sharpened: "There's something about having a man around at this hour of the morning that makes me talk too much, I guess. Your boots are by the door. There's a basin and pitcher of water at the side of the house; you can go out through the other room. Jesusa will have some coffee ready by the time you're cleaned' up. Looking at you, I'd say you wouldn't be good for much more in the way of breakfast. I'm going to run over to Miss Bessie's for a moment and find out what happened last night; I'll be right back."
The other room was small and bare, furnished only with a bed, a chair, and a small brown trunk that Cohoon recognized, having seen it on the stagecoach. Some feminine garments, among them the brief and gaudy dress the girl had worn the night before, were laid out across the bed; others hung from pegs in the adobe walls. The floor was dirt, recently swept. An ornate guitar leaned in the corner. Cohoon frowned at this briefly, shrugged, and went out through the door, stripped to the waist, and washed himself thoroughly; the cold water made him feel better. When he came back into the main room of the house, the old woman put a mug of coffee into his hands.
He squatted down beside the fire to drink it, keeping his mind clear of thought. It was not yet time for thinking. He had cherished a certain picture of the future for five years, adding to it constantly, elaborating and refining it, never allowing himself to doubt it. In Yuma a man could not afford to doubt that someone was waiting to help him build his life anew when he got out. Well, he thought wryly, the belief had served its purpose; even though false, it had seen him through.
There was no hurry about making new plans; it was better just to get used to being free again, and see how things shaped up.
Nan came in, and paused to beat the dust from her skirts as Cohoon stood up.
"I must say," she said, laughing, "this is just about the dirtiest country I've lived in; I've even got it in my teeth. Does it ever stop blowing out here?"
"When it does," Cohoon said dryly, "you'll probably find the heat unbearable."
"My dear man," she said, "I've discovered that very few things are unbearable—certainly never the climate." She gave him a critical look. "Well, you look better. I will say this for you, Cohoon, when you decide to get drunk, you don't let anything stand in your way, not even an attractive woman, if I may flatter myself a bit. I found you a very dull companion last night ... Thanks, Jesusa." She took the cup of coffee offered her by the Mexican woman, and sat down on the cot upon which Cohoon had slept. "I seem to make a habit of being wrong about you," she murmured, regarding him across the room. "In the coach coming here, I would certainly not have taken you for a heavy drinker, any more than I could have guessed that you were a convicted stage robber. Well, I've been wrong about a man before, and I probably will be again."
He said, "I don't make a practice of drinking that much, ma'am. Last night was by way of being a celebration. I was burying a damn fool."
"Yes," she said. "I know. Miss Bessie was very informative this morning. It appears there's some doubt that the right man went to prison."
Cohoon said, "Not in the jury's mind, ma'am."
"You confessed, and the jury took you at your word, from what Miss Bessie said. She also told me certain other things. I can see how you might have felt like drinking a little too much last night. There's nothing that hurts quite as much as learning that .... that a person who means a great deal to you has played you for a sucker, is there, Cohoon?" There was bitterness in her voice; then she smiled, getting up. "Another cup? And please stop calling me ma'am. It reminds me of when I used to teach Sunday School back home. I really did, you know. I also sang in the choir. You never know what's going to in handy, do you?" She took the empty cup from him, hesitated, and turned back to look at him again. He was startled to see that her eyes were wet.. "Cohoon; get out of here," she said. "Please? You make me feel sorry for myself. I don't know why?"
He nodded, and crossed the room to get his hat. At the door, he stopped. "I'm heading out for the ranch as soon as I can get an outfit together," he said. "But I'll be back in a couple of days, after I've seen what kind of shape the place is in. If you run into anything Jesusa can't handle, leave word for me at Van Houck's."
She was standing quite still by the fireplace, looking tall and slender in the low, dingy room. "Haven't you learned your lesson yet?" she asked softly. "If what I've heard about you is true, I should think you'd be cured of making roman. tic gestures. Just go. You don't owe me anything.... Oh, wait. You're forgetting something."
He frowned, uncomprehending. She went quickly into the other room; and he heard the trunk open and close. She came back with a rectangular, paper-wrapped package.
"It fell out of your pocket last night," she said. "Naturally I looked inside. It's a good thing you were under my eyes the whole time the robbery was going on, or I'd be doing some wondering this morning, after seeing that!"
"The robbery?"
"Why, yes, the office of some mining company on Main Street was robbed last night, Miss Bessie says." She smiled briefly. "The payroll they got was the one that came into town with us—remember those two rude men with that big valise?" She held out the package, glanced at it, and smiled again in a reluctant way. "You're too trusting, Cohoon. It's not fair to put so much temptation in a girl's way. Why, with half of what's in there—a quarter, even—I could go away and renounce this life of shame forever."
He looked at the package for a moment, and at the girl who held it. "Take it all," he said.
Her eyes widened. "That's a cruel joke. It would serve you right if I took you up on it."
"Go ahead," he said. "In case you should have doubts, the money was honestly come by. You might even say I earned it."
She looked at him steadily. "I see," she breathed at last. "What Miss Bessie told me was right then. The girl's name was Paradine, she said. And when you came back, after doing that for her, she had her father pay you off in money! I can see why you needed a drink or two last night."
Cohoon said, "Miss Bessie talks too much."
"But why give it to me?" Nan asked. "What are you buying, Cohoon?"
"Miss Bessie talks too much," Cohoon said, "and for a girl with ten thousand dollars in her hand, you're asking a lot of questions, ma'am."
She studied his face a moment longer, and laughed curtly. "All right," she said. "I think I understand. You're buying revenge, aren't you? Very well, I'll do my
best to give it to you. At the price, I can't afford to refuse."
7
WHEN SHE came out of the kitchen after supervising the final details of breakfast, Claire Paradine was surprised to find her brother already seated at the dining table—although "seated" was too kind a word for his posture, she reflected, since he was slumped forward on his elbows and sipping noisily from a coffee cup held in both hands.
"Put the platter down there, Teresa," she said in Spanish to the maid who had followed her. "And you can call Colonel Paradine now ... Francis, do you have to drink like that?" she asked in English.
The boy looked up at her. His eyes were bloodshot, and there was a hint of blond stubble on his chin—she could never get over a faint sense of shock upon having it called to her attention, that her baby brother was old enough to shave. It reminded her harshly of her own age. Why, I'm a spinster, she thought, soon they'll be calling me an old maid.
Francis said, "Yes, dear sister, I do have. to drink in this manner, since unfortunately my condition precludes my holding the cup steady in any other way. Precludes is a nice word, isn't it? We Paradines know a great many nice words. I'm not the only person whose hand is shaking this morning, Claire. What nice words did you use on Boyd Cohoon last night?" She said quickly, "That's none of your—"
"Oh, but it is my business," Francis said. "Since, afterwards, your victim made himself and his frame of mind very conspicuous. He came into my favorite place of relaxation and proceeded to drink himself unconscious in a most systematic manner, in the company of one of the entertainers—quite a pretty wench, too. For reasons you'll appreciate, 'I didn't stay to watch the whole unpleasant performance."
Claire said stiffly, "I'm not the least bit interested in hearing how Mr. Cohoon spends his time; but your attitude toward him is unseemly, Francis, considering what he did for you."
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