by Gwen Bristow
“I have a scar too.”
“Yes, you told me Texas had to burn a wound of yours once.”
“I didn’t mean that one,” said John. “I’ve still got the marks of your teeth in my leg.”
Garnet bit her lip, embarrassed. Texas spoke sternly.
“She’s a lady, John.”
“But an intelligent lady,” John answered. He turned and went on toward the horses. Texas patted her wrist.
“Don’t you mind John, Miss Garnet. He knows better than to talk about his lower limbs to a lady. But John just don’t like people, somehow.”
Garnet looked after John’s tall lean figure. “He’s all right, Texas. But I don’t understand him.”
“Don’t try to understand any of us, Miss Garnet. We’re just a lot of lost souls.”
Texas walked off too. Garnet felt a twinge of sadness as she watched him go.
She wondered who he was and why he had taken the trail. It was hard to guess his age. When she had first seen him in Santa Fe she had thought he was about thirty-five, but sometimes when he had been drinking he looked ten years older than that. Texas was of medium height and rather slightly built, but life on the trail had given him a muscular toughness. He looked better riding than he did walking, for he walked with a shambling gait, and he did not stand erect like a man proud to face the world. He did not think much about his appearance. Most of the men, once they reached a place where there were girls to admire them, took pains to look well. Texas had had his hair and beard trimmed when he arrived, but he dressed carelessly, and Garnet suspected that he would soon let himself get shaggy again. He might have been good-looking if he had cared about it. His hair and beard were a rich copper-brown, and his eyes were brown too, under coppery eyebrows. They were sweet, gentle eyes, lovable eyes, but his whole expression had a sad shyness. She thought it was like the look of a child who wanted people to like him but was not sure they would.
His hands were different. They were hard, rough hands with big joints, used to the labor of the trail, and they had no uncertainty. When he tended a wound Texas did it deftly, giving only the necessary minimum of pain. Garnet wondered where he had learned so much, and why he had brought his skill away out here.
Lost souls, she thought as she looked around. Lost souls banished to the desert and these somber hills. Not a part of this life, as Don Antonio was a part of it. Not a part of anything but the great loneliness. Garnet wondered how it would feel to stand in this baked land of exile, and remember your home, and know you could not go back.
She started toward the house. Everybody on the rancho went to sleep in the afternoon. Already the men were stretching out here and there in whatever shade they could find. The Handsome Brute was asleep by an orange tree. Garnet glanced at him thoughtfully. He could go back to Russia if he pleased, for the ships came out every few years to get furs. But he had left Russia so young that probably he would be as foreign there as he was in California. She wondered if he felt like an exile.
She went into her bedroom and took off her clothes. Oliver had not come in. Probably he was taking his nap outdoors, as he often did. She stretched out luxuriously on the bed and went to sleep.
When she awoke there was still a thread of sunlight between the shutters, but the air was chilly. She had found already that the midday warmth of California did not mean a thing. As soon as the sun got low there was a chill in the air, and by dark it felt almost like winter. Oliver said the climate was like this all the year round. The native Californios took it for granted, since they had never lived anywhere else. But the Yankees described the climate by saying California had four seasons every day.
Garnet put on a dress of dark plaid wool with a white linen collar. She wondered what Oliver was doing. He had not been indoors at all. When she had dressed, she went out to look for him.
The rancho had come to life. The men were working with their horses or idling on the grass. The girls were cooking at the outdoor ovens. There was a tempting smell of food in the air. “Good heavens,” Garnet said, “I’m hungry again.” She laughed at herself, reflecting that she had no business commenting on the Brute’s appetite.
She did not see the Brute or John. Penrose was swapping jokes with Silky and a couple of other men, but Florinda was not with them. Garnet hoped Florinda was still resting. She looked around for Oliver, but it was several minutes before she saw him.
Oliver sat on the ground under a sycamore tree. With him was a man Garnet did not know. The stranger was dressed like a California ranchero, in a red coat and buff-colored trousers and high embossed boots. On his knee he held a wide-brimmed black felt hat with a black silk cord around the crown. Garnet started toward them.
She took a dozen steps, and stopped. The two men were absorbed in their conversation. In the pre-supper bustle around them, they had not noticed her approach. Garnet stood still. For now she was close enough to get a good look at the stranger, and she had a feeling that she had seen him before. Almost as soon as she had it, she knew why he seemed familiar. He looked like Oliver.
He looked like Oliver, and yet he was very different. He was smaller than Oliver and a good deal older. His hair was light brown and curly, like Oliver’s. But he seemed to have too much of it, and it made his head look too big for his hard little body. His features were something like Oliver’s, but Oliver’s expression was jolly and boyish, while this man’s face was pinched up like a walnut shell. There were lines across his forehead, and lines between his eyes, and lines from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth as though he had pressed them there by keeping his lips shut very tight. He gave her an impression of tightness all over. And though he was muscular and deeply sunburned, he somehow struck her as unhealthy, like slimy creeping things. Garnet knew it was wrong to blame a man for his size or his appearance. But all the same, she thought this man looked like a nasty little shrimp.
She knew who he was, and he made her feel scared. But she gave a quick grab for her common sense. It was foolish of her to be scared. He could not possibly do her any harm. She had better go up right now and meet him, and try to make him like her if she could.
She took another step forward.
Maybe her tread was harder than it had been before, or maybe her skirts swished on the dry grass just as there came a break in their conversation. At any rate, the two men glanced around. Oliver gave her a startled look. He had not expected to see her quite yet. Garnet saw, rather than heard, him say, “Here she is now.”
The stranger looked at her. His gaze was not friendly. It was intent and hard. It made her feel as if she had blundered into a place where she had no right to be.
They got to their feet. Garnet saw that the newcomer was not as tall as Oliver. As he stood up, his fluffy head looked bigger than ever. He looked like a forked carrot with a sponge on top. She had an impulse to giggle, but she smothered it, and as she went up to them she made herself smile courteously. Oliver said, in a voice that sounded breathless, as though he were bringing a piece of bad news and hated to say it,
“Garnet, may I present my brother Charles?”
TWENTY-THREE
CHARLES BOWED TO HER formally. Garnet felt a chill go down her backbone. She had been trying to think Charles was ridiculous, but he was not. He was threatening and sinister. Barely moving his lips, Charles said, “Good afternoon, madam.”
Then she saw his eyes. Charles’ whole character was in his eyes, but you did not notice them at first, because they were deep-set, under thick light eyebrows that looked like two caterpillars on his forehead. Charles’ eyes were darker than his hair, and they were always shadowed by the deep sockets and thick eyebrows. But they had a hard, piercing quality, calculating and utterly merciless. When Charles fixed his attention upon an object he fixed his eyes upon it too. He held them there, unwavering, till if you were the object he was looking at you felt as if he were drilling into your head, and you could not pull away from him. He drilled into your head and put his own ideas there. His eye
s said, Do this, do it, do it; and if you did not fight for yourself every minute, one day you would find that you had obeyed him. If you were much with Charles your life was either a constant yielding or a constant battle, and unless your own will was very strong you would yield to him at last from sheer weariness.
As he bowed to Garnet and said “Good afternoon,” his lips turned slightly inward, as though he had to hold back the words he wanted to say. Garnet knew he hated her for being here. She felt his dislike as though it made a wall against her. Charles was holding his hat in both hands, his fingers clenching it over the brim. She had a feeling that it was costing him a hard effort to keep up even the form of politeness. Her own muscles got stiff to match his. But she remembered how often her mother had told her there was no defense like a quiet good breeding. So, smiling as though she thought Oliver’s brother had greeted her cordially, she answered,
“How do you do, Charles. I am glad to see you at last. Oliver has told me so much about you.”
It was not necessary to tell Charles what Oliver had told her. She was glad he had prepared her not to expect a welcome. She thought Oliver would say something now, but he did not. He stood looking guilty, like a little boy caught stealing the jam. Garnet felt a flash of anger at him, but she was not going to let Charles know it. Charles said nothing either, but stood looking at her with a cold contempt, as though she were a piece of shoddy merchandise somebody had tried to sell him. Garnet tried again.
“I’m sure you’re surprised to find Oliver married,” she said. “But I hope we’re going to be friends.”
“I confess I was surprised,” said Charles. His eyes were still fixed on her. His tight little mouth gave a twitch at the corner. “We will leave here tomorrow,” he said, “for my rancho.”
Garnet felt a stab of wrath. The land had been granted to Charles and Oliver jointly, so Charles had no right to say “my rancho.” As Oliver’s wife, she had a perfect right to live there. But she still tried to speak pleasantly.
“Tomorrow? I didn’t know that.”
“We will leave tomorrow,” Charles repeated crisply. “We will start at sunrise.”
Garnet felt her fists doubling up. She buried them in the folds of her skirt. But she remembered that she had a good way to defy him. Charles hated her, no doubt, because Oliver had just been telling him of his plan to go back to the States for good, instead of staying here to help Charles realize his ambitions. It would serve Charles right to be reminded of it again.
“I’ll be ready,” she said graciously. “But since Oliver and I are only staying here till next April, please don’t disturb your household for our sake.”
Charles’ lips got even tighter than they already were. He said,
“We shall see.”
“I am looking forward to a very interesting visit,” said Garnet. She smiled at him, and at Oliver.
But Oliver was not looking at her. He had not met her eyes since she and Charles had begun talking. He was watching Charles, and he was strained, even scared. Garnet had been holding herself so rigidly that her knees hurt. She could not stay here any longer, keeping up this battle with sharp little pieces of ice. So she said in a bright voice,
“But now, I’m sure that after being apart for so long, you and Oliver must have a lot to say to each other. So I’ll leave you to exchange news.”
At last Oliver glanced at her and said something. He was evidently glad she was going. “We’ll see you later, then. At supper.”
Charles bowed to her. Garnet turned and walked away. Her heart was pounding. She was furiously angry with Charles, but she was even more angry with Oliver. Why hadn’t he taken her part? Was he really scared to speak in his brother’s presence?
Reaching the tables, she chose a place where there was a tree between herself and Charles, and sat down on the bench. She felt all mixed up.
She tried to think back. Charles knew the caravan was due, so he had ridden here to meet Oliver. He had arrived this afternoon. Oliver had told him the news of his marriage and Charles was boiling with fury because of it. Charles had said they were leaving tomorrow morning. That must have been his own decision, for Oliver had said nothing to her about it. He had not even told her he was expecting Charles to meet him here. Oliver had not, in fact, said anything about Charles at all.
Why, now that she thought of it, this was very odd. On the trail she had been so occupied with the effort to keep going that she had hardly thought of Charles. But now she remembered that Oliver had not mentioned Charles’ name to her since they left Santa Fe. It was as though he had wanted to forget there was any such person waiting for him at the end of the trail.
She tried to remember when Oliver had stopped speaking of Charles. It was—this was very strange—it was the day John had met him in Santa Fe. John had come by to see Oliver, saying something in Spanish which she had thought meant he had a letter, and then he said he had not brought a letter. Oliver had said so too.
Garnet frowned and thought hard. That same evening, when Oliver said she had misunderstood John about the letter, he had said something else. While they were having supper Oliver had said, “You know I’m not nearly good enough for you, don’t you, Garnet? Because I’m not.”
She had laughed at him then. But now she wondered why he had said that. She had not had time to think of it that evening. As soon as they left the table they had gone to the Fonda, where Florinda had let Silky recognize her, and so much had begun to happen that she had forgotten Oliver’s words; and she had not noticed his sudden silence on the subject of Charles.
And now Oliver was looking scared and guilty and ashamed of himself. Garnet felt baffled. But she made a grim resolve. All right, she would start for the rancho tomorrow. She would be pleasant to Charles and try to make him like her. But if he wouldn’t like her she wasn’t going to worry about it because she and Oliver would be starting home in April anyway. And meanwhile, right now, she felt like having some cheerful conversation. She looked around, hoping to see Florinda among the groups lounging on the grass.
Florinda was not in sight. Garnet saw Penrose, sharing drinks with a trader who rejoiced in the nickname of Devilbug, but Florinda was not with them. Garnet remembered Oliver’s telling her that Charles would not approve of her friendship with Florinda. Well, Charles could mind his own business. She certainly liked Florinda better than she liked him.
John and the Handsome Brute were walking together not far off. They saw her, and the Handsome Brute grinned with pleasure at the sight of her. They came toward the bench.
Evidently they had noticed her looking around, for the Handsome Brute said,
“You were looking for somebody? Am I too hopeful if I hope it was me?”
Garnet laughed up at him. After Charles, he was such a joy. “I was looking for Florinda,” she answered. “Have you seen her?”
“Ah!” the Brute said gravely. “You did not know?”
“Know what?” Garnet exclaimed with concern.
The Brute glanced at John.
“Florinda is ill,” said John.
“She’s ill?” Garnet repeated. “But I thought she was feeling better!”
“She said she was feeling better,” John returned. He went on. “She finally collapsed just after dinner.” After an instant’s pause he added, “I’m sorry. Florinda has plenty of nerve. But she’s been living on it for a long time now.”
“But what happened?” Garnet demanded anxiously.
John and the Brute sat down on the bench. “Florinda went to her room right after dinner,” said John. “Later Penrose went in, and she was unconscious on the floor. Penrose was frightened when he couldn’t rouse her, and came out looking for somebody who might help. He had been drinking a lot, and so had most of the others. Nikolai and I went in to see what we could do. We managed to bring her around, but she seemed to be in pretty bad shape. So we found Texas, threw a bucket of water over him, and brought him to her. He said he’d take care of her, and told the rest of us to
let her alone.”
“Where is she now?” Garnet asked.
“In her room. Texas is with her. He can help her if anybody can.
“But is he—John, is he drunk?” Garnet asked. She felt frightened and indignant as she looked over toward where Penrose was drinking in company with Devilbug.
John saw her glance, and met it with a faint cynical smile. But instead of commenting, he gave a direct answer to her question. “Texas is not too drunk to know what he’s doing, if that’s what you mean.”
“Can I see Florinda?”
“I suppose so.”
The Brute smiled gently. “You go to see her, Miss Garnet. She likes you. And she is so tired.”
Garnet felt a pain in her throat. Florinda was so tired, but she had refused to say so until she gave out completely. And Penrose was a callous lout, and Texas was a drunkard, and there was nobody who really cared whether Florinda died of exhaustion or not. Well, Garnet thought fiercely, she cared. “I’m going to see her,” she said. “Right now.”
Before they could answer she started off, walking as fast as she could over the bumpy tufts of grass. As she hurried, she caught sight of Charles and Oliver, sitting on the ground where she had left them. Again they were too deep in conversation to notice her as she passed. Charles certainly did look silly. He was shriveled up like an old onion.
Florinda was living in a little adobe house that had four rooms built in a row, each room with an outside door of its own. Garnet had never been into Florinda’s room, but she knew which one it was. She knocked at the door.
Texas opened it. Texas smelt like brandy and his eyes were red, but he smiled upon her as kindly as ever. “Why come in, Miss Garnet,” he said.