Mad River

by Donald Hamilton

  "You misjudge Claire Paradine," Cohoon said, deliberately provoking. "She can probably ride better and shoot straighter than you."

  "That shouldn't be hard," Nan said, "since I've never had a horse off a bridlepath, nor fired a gun, in my life. That pistol I lent you is one Montoya liked to wear in his boot.

  In an emergency could probably make a noise with it, but that's all. But if I'd lived out here all my life, like she has, I'd certainly expect to be able to ..." She glanced up, suddenly suspicious, and swift color flooded her face. "You're teasing me, Cohoon."

  He nodded, smiling. "The bandage was made by Mrs. Van Houck. Nan, you're jealous."

  "Yes," she said.

  He looked down at her. Blushing, she was quite beautiful, and he said, "Then this seems a good time to repeat the question I asked you yesterday."

  "The question . . . Oh!" She hesitated, and he found the suspense more difficult to bear than he had expected; then she shook her head. "The answer's still the same," she said, and looked up at him. "Even if . . . even if there weren't other reasons against it, you'd never be able to forget where you found me."

  "I found you on a stagecoach going north," he said. "Anyway, that's the past. Forty years from now, we'll be remembering it fondly. We'll be telling the young ones of the good old days when grandpa spent five years in Yuma and grandma sang in a honky-tonk—" He saw the little smile that she could not restrain, and added quickly, "I would do my best to make you happy."

  The smile died. "I don't doubt it," she said. "But your best isn't good enough. You would always be hers and not mine. I . . . I have one worthless wedding ring, Cohoon. I can do without another."

  He glanced at her quickly. "Montoya? Is that the way it was?"

  She said, "I did not intend to tell you. After all, it's not much better to have been deceived than to have been deliberately wicked. But, yes, I ran away and married him, against my family's advice. Advice?" she laughed. "I was forbidden to see or speak to him, even to say good-by. I was told that I was to marry Lawrence—a good match. So, I ran away. We were married on the ship. He was a very charming person, Raoul Montoya, even when he was drunk, which was often. Of course, he loved to shock me—educate me, he called it. I was very easily shocked in those days. I think, if I were given it to do over, I would act the same. He was a better man than Lawrence, at any rate. He made his living at cards —and his death as well; he was killed one night in San Francisco, about a year later, over the question of where he had found a third king to complete a full house. I think that's correct. I never got those poker terms quite straight in my mind ... Please keep your arms up so I can finish this job."

  Cohoon said, "This is none of my business, Nan. I did not mean to pry."

  She said, "You might as well know; and I'll always remember that you asked me to marry you before you knew. ... Of course, cards were considered an invention of the devil at home, and anyone who as much as touched them lost all hope of salvation. . . Well," she said with sudden briskness, straightening up, "that ought to hold you together until somebody shoots another hole in you. I'll save the rest of the sheet. You'll undoubtedly be needing it before long. . . . Oh, about the wedding ring. Well, after Raoul was dead it turned out that he already had one wife when he married me. She came around to claim his belongings, not that there was a great deal to claim. The guitar and gun were in a pawnshop; I got them back later. I suppose they're legally hers, too, just as he was." She looked at Cohoon directly. "So from now on I'm making sure I have clear title to the property before I buy, Cohoon, and you don't qualify."

  He heard her through, and rose, pulling the fresh shirt over his head and tucking it in. He reached for his hat. "Your pistol's on the table," he said. "l thank you for the help."

  "Don't act offended; you'll remind me of Lawrence," she said, smiling. "Where are you going now, to the ranch? perhaps you'd better not tell me; then, if someone attacks you on the way, it won't be my doing."

  He said deliberately, "I'll probably make dry camp tonight between here and Black's Ferry—I suppose people still call it that in spite of the new bridge. Tomorrow I'll head for Willow Spring and see how things look at the east end of the Grant; then I'll have to pick up the pack I cached the other day when Westerman's riders came after me, and track down the mule I turned loose. After that I'll see about building some kind of shelter and finding out how much stock I've got hiding out back in the foothills. I want to get some notion of what's to be done before I start paying out wages to a bunch of riders." He looked at her for a moment. "If you should need me, send a messenger to Willow Spring."

  "You'd come, after tonight?" She laughed softly. "You're a fool, Cohoon. And I will not need you. There'll be no messenger from me. That's definite, so you can govern yourself accordingly." She walked to the door with him. "But it was nice of you to make the offer. And I'll remember that when you thought I had sent for you, you came, even if suspiciously."

  "Good night, Nan," he said. "And don't ask any more questions, and be careful what you hear, or you're apt to find yourself in trouble."

  She looked at him for a moment; then she put her hands on his shoulders and leaned forward to kiss him lightly on the lips.

  "Be careful yourself," she said. "Even if I won't marry you, I don't want you killed."

  He grinned. "I'll keep it in mind," he said, and went out.

  18

  COMING DOWN the stairs, Colonel Paradine gave a quick glance toward the dining room, from which came the sounds of dishes and silverware being arranged in preparation for breakfast. The Colonel walked swiftly down the hall and took his hat from the stand by the door, but he could not help pausing for a moment before the nearby mirror, as was his habit. He smoothed his light mustache with a forefinger, and set the hat upon his head, adjusting the angle of it carefully; then he turned to the door. His daughter's voice, behind him, made him start guiltily and release the knob.

  "Dad!" She came running down the hall toward him, making a pretty picture in her light, blue-flowered dress. "You were leaving without your breakfast!" she said in a surprised voice, after reaching him. "It's all ready. I was just about to have Teresa call you."

  "I'm sorry, my dear," he said. "I have to get to the bank. I'll get something to eat later, at the café down the street."

  "Oh," she said, and looked at him closely, and went on in a changed and hardened voice, "You're avoiding me, aren't you, Dad? Well, it isn't necessary. Francis was happy to tell me all about it. So come have your breakfast."

  The Colonel said weakly, "My dear, I don't know what you're—"

  "The marshal. was here yesterday afternoon, wasn't he? About Boyd. And you told him you had no idea where Boyd had managed to get his hands on ten thousand dollars. Why, Dad? Because you've decided to take a dislike to Boyd? It's very easy to hate somebody to whom you're indebted, isn't it?"

  "I've told you r don't consider myself—"

  "Then why did you lie to the marshal, Dad?" Her voice was sharp. "If you don't hate Boyd or feel indebted to him, why make trouble for him with the law?"

  "For a young lady engaged to be married, you're showing a great deal of concern about a man other than your husband, my dear."

  "Oh, fiddlesticks!" she said. "I'm a member of this family, aren't I? I try to tell myself I'm proud of it; I try to tell myself that it's all right to forget what happened when I was just a baby and just remember the pleasant things that have happened since, few though they are. But it's getting pretty hard for me to fool myself, Dad. Boyd Cohoon's behavior since he got back may have been inexcusable, but what about ours? Oh, I'm not pretending to be guiltless; I had a part in it, too. Boyd did a fine thing for us, and how have we repaid him? I'll tell you how! First I cheated him of what he had every right to expect, and .then Francis tried to have him killed, and now you lie about him.... Why, Dad, why?"

  The Colonel looked down at the erect, diminutive figure of his daughter with a feeling that was frighteningly close to hatred: they never l
et him forget it, he thought bitterly, never for a moment; whenever anything went wrong, anything whatsoever, it was always his fault because of what he had done—for their sakes—twenty years ago. Elinor with her illnesses, Francis with his women and drinking, and now this righteous slip of a girl in an expensive New York dress for which he had recently paid the bill, chattering of family pride—how much pride would she have been able to afford if he had not acted as he had? Other girls of her generation had starved and gone barefoot—yes, and sold themselves to Yankee carpetbaggers for the price of a meal.

  He tried to express his anger and resentment, but as usual the words would not come. What he said, was, weakly, "I can't explain, my dear. It's not that I really have anything personal' against the fellow, although, as you say, his conduct has been inexcusable. But there are reasons ..."

  "Reasons!" Claire said hotly. "I can think of only one, that you're afraid of what people will think, Paul in particular, if they learn we gave Boyd that much money. . . . Or is there another?" She looked up, startled at some thought, to regard her parent closely. "Are you afraid to have it known that you away ten thousand dollars because somebody might ask where you got it?"

  "Claire!"

  "Well, where did you get it, Dad?" the girl demanded quickly. "Just a week or two ago you were complaining because all our money was tied up in mining stocks." Her voice was a whisper now; and her eyes never left his face. "I see. You paid our debt to Boyd Cohoon in one big, generous gesture—with other people's money! Oh, Dad," she cried softly, "what kind of people are we? What's going to become of us?"

  The Colonel cleared his throat to speak, and had to clear it again. "I . . . don't know where you got this fantastic notion, young lady, and I suggest you dismiss it instantly. The money was obtained quite legitimately, and it will be repaid as soon as I can liquidate a few of my investments. Considering the fact that it was used to free you from an unpleasant obligation, my dear, I consider your attitude unfair and unreasonable, as well as ungrateful."

  He turned and marched out of the house, feeling pleased with himself for having had the last word. Outside, wind. blown dust greeted him, and bright sunlight. He walked quickly away, lest his daughter call him back and spoil his exit. As he turned the corner, he had to step aside to avoid collision with a rough-looking individual in worn range clothing.

  "You'd be Mr. Paradine?"

  The Colonel stopped. "I'm Colonel Paradine."

  "Mr. Westerman wants you in his office."

  The summons had a peremptory sound that was offensive to the Colonel in his present mood. "Indeed?" he said. "You can tell Mr. Westerman—"

  "Tell him yourself," the man said. "It's running back and forth between the two of you all day I'd be if I started bearing messages in that tone of voice. Good day, Colonel."

  Colonel Paradine looked after the broad, retreating back of the man with indignation: the attitude of these people— their lack of respect for position and family—was as insufferable as their climate. Twenty years had not developed in the Colonel any liking for this land of his exile. Although he tired of his wife's complaints on the subject, he could not but admit that they were basically justified. Now he struck his cane into the ground, and continued his walk, reaching Main Street at the familiar corner and making a smart, military right turn, as was his daily custom. Gradually, however, his pace slowed. Finally he looked around, although it had not been his intention to do so. His glance picked out the hotel, taller than the other edifices along the street, and the shabby building opposite with the shaded second-floor windows. He found-that he had come to a halt. He sighed, about-faced, and strode back down the street.

  Westerman greeted him at the office door. "I'm sorry to take up your time, sir," the younger man said with soothing deference. "However, in view of the unfortunate situation at the Lucky Seven, I thought we'd better—"

  The Colonel felt a spasm of fear contract the muscles of his throat. "The Lucky Seven? Is something wrong at the mine, Paul?"

  Westerman closed the door, and turned the key in the lock. "Please be seated, Colonel," he said, walking to his desk. "No, I wouldn't say the trouble was at the mine, exactly. The loss of the payroll three nights ago was quite a blow. I'm trying to raise the money, but meanwhile the men still haven't been paid. And now young Cohoon has laid down an ultimatum"—Westerman picked up a legal-appearing document and tapped it against the palm of his left hand —"refusing us passage across the Grant unless we pay him an exorbitant toll for every ton of ore hauled. Here, would you like to read it, sir?"

  The Colonel waved the paper aside. "But ... but isn't there something—"

  "Oh, we could take it to court, of course—those old Spanish land titles are always somewhat shaky—but it would cost money. I suppose we could use force, but I hesitate to do so under the circumstances. If Cohoon were to be killed in a fight with our men, people would remember how his father and brother died, and suspect us of having engineered all three deaths just to make an easy haul for our ore. It doesn't pay to disregard public opinion entirely; you never know what's going to turn a bunch of peaceful citizens into an angry mob." The small man behind the big desk shrugged his shoulders regretfully. "So I see no alternative to closing down the mine, at least for a while."

  "Closing it down!" Colonel Paradine gasped. "But you can't—" He checked himself, "Isn't there some other way of getting the ore out?"

  Westerman said dryly, "Certainly. We can carry it over the Candelarias by pack mule. Or we can haul north over Yellow Ford and Sombrero, a two-day detour for the wagons under the best conditions. We tried that before, when the vein was considerably richer than it is now, and barely broke even. No,- Sir, I'm afraid there's no choice. The mine will have to shut down. I thought, as a matter of friendship, I'd let you know a little in advance."

  The Colonel's mind was working clearly now, after the initial shock, and he asked, "A little? How much time do I have? I was planning to sell—"

  Westerman was shaking his head regretfully. "I'd like to do it, sir, but you can see how it would look, if I gave my future father-in-law time to dispose of his stock. There's really no need to be alarmed, Colonel. The silver's still there. Given a little time, we'll find a way of getting it out at a profit; you won't lose your money." He hesitated, and went on, "Of course, if you're in immediate need of funds, I'll be happy to personally advance you whatever you need, with the stock as security, just to prove how much faith I have in the Lucky Seven."

  "Well, I hate to take advantage of your generosity, Paul. I already owe you—"

  "Ah, think nothing of it. I'm glad to be of service; and it's all in the family, isn't it?" There was something faintly unpleasant about Westerman's smile, but the Colonel chose to disregard it. The younger man went on: "Just name the figure, sir..."

  It was always a distasteful business, borrowing money; and Colonel Paradine got through it as fast as possible, scrawling his signature at the bottom of the paper Westerman put before him, after glancing through it hastily—not that he did not trust the other man, but there was never any harm in being careful what you signed. Westerman went out of the room and, after a time, came back with a small satchel, which, opened by the Colonel, proved to contain the required sum in gold and bank notes.

  "Well," he said, rising, "thank you very much, Paul. I certainly appreciate this. I'll see you at the house tonight, I hope?"

  Westerman did not answer immediately. The expression on his face was odd and far from reassuring; the Colonel looked away, found his hat and cane, moved to the door, and glanced back to find the other still watching him in that peculiar and offensive way.

  "Well," Colonel Paradine said, "well, I must be leaving—"

  "Go straight to the bank," Westerman said. "That money goes into the bank, Colonel. Nowhere else."

  Colonel Paradine stared at him in amazement. "Really, "You old fool," Westerman said softly. "Do you think Paul, I—"

  I've nursed you along this far, just to have you sm
ash everything by your stupidity? Get that money into the bank and straighten up your affairs before somebody gets wind of the situation. Do you think I've worked this long and climbed this high only to wind up with a wife whose father went to prison for pilfering from the funds entrusted to his care? I need Claire, Colonel, and I need you, and I need the bank; they're all part of my plans, and I'm not going to have them broken and dirtied by your clumsiness. Now get out of here.

  ... Wait a minute! Let's get things straight between us, once and for all. Do you really think I don't know why you gave ten thousand dollars to Boyd Cohoon? Do you think that in five years I haven't managed to learn who really rode with my son Harry the day he was killed? I was deceived for a while, I admit; and it was convenient to keep on acting deceived. It gave me a public motive for hating young Cohoon, in case I should need one; and it made possible my courtship of your daughter, which would have been awkward otherwise. But I've known the true story for years, Colonel. It gave me an added reason for wanting Claire to be my wife. It seems only fair, doesn't it, that since the Paradines cost me a son, they should supply one?"

  The Colonel listened to the soft, mocking voice in a kind of paralysis of shock; then it stopped. He heard himself make a kind of choked, roaring sound; and he was plunging forward blindly with his cane raised. Arms closed on him from behind, holding him powerless. If anything could have added to the humiliation of the moment, it would have been this: to be held kicking and struggling, helpless as an angry child. He stopped fighting the bearded man who had seized him.