The Track of the Cat

by Walter van Tilburg Clark

  "I guess," he said slowly, "that’s what I meant talking to you about Arthur, because when the valley turned into that blue jungle, like the one on the bedspread, Arthur changed too. He was still standing up there on the cliff with us, but his eyes were closed, and he had his hands crossed on his chest, and he couldn’t talk to us any more. It was just because mother had that spread on the bed in there all the time, I guess."

  Gwen nodded again, without looking at him.

  "Well, that’s all there Was to it,” Harold said. "I got scared because Arthur looked so different, and then he just wasn’t there at all. You know how things change in dreams? That must have been when I said your name, and you woke me up."

  Gwen looked at him, and made the quick smile, and blinked quickly, and put her hand over his on the table for a moment. Then she stood up and said, "Well, I’m glad I did."

  She came around beside him, holding her coffee cup, and put her arm around his neck and kissed him on the forehead.

  "I’m glad I was there too, anyway," she said softly. "I’m glad it didn’t all happen to you alone. It’s worse in dreams than if it was real, sometimes.

  "You want some more coffee now?" she asked.

  "I guess I’d better go see what Mother wants first."

  Gwen went back to the stove, and he finished his coffee and stood up and came behind her. He thought of the open door, but defiantly, and took both her shoulders in his hands.

  "I’m glad you were there too," he said.

  Gwen pressed her head back against him and rolled it slowly, but didn’t say anything. They stood that way, close together, for a moment, and then Harold kissed the top of her head, just a soft touch, but leaving his lips there a long time, and released her and turned away.

  Without turning her head, and speaking very low, Gwen asked, "It was Curt that made it all change?"

  "Wel1," Harold said, after a moment, "I guess it was. I can’t remember that part. I never saw him in it anywhere, I don’t think, just you and Arthur. But it seems as if it was just after Arthur said something about him, and I thought he must be down in the valley there somewhere."

  "And that was when it all changed?"

  "I guess it was," Harold said. "Well, it was just a fool dream," he said uneasily.

  Gwen still didn’t look around at him, but she reached a hand back and found his belt, and slipped two fingers over it, and gave it the little tug that meant they were together.

  "I’m glad I was in it, anyway," she said, and let go of him.

  Harold stood undecided. At the little tug on his belt, he wanted very much to turn around and take her in his arms, but then she’d let go of him too soon. Now his arms felt empty, and the front of him felt useless and exposed, as if he’d lost part of his own strength because he hadn’t done it. But the north door was open, and that made a difference again, now, and he felt a little ashamed and apart from her because he’d talked about the dream. Finally he just took hold of her shoulder with one hand, and pressed it hard for a moment, and let go of her and went on into the dark north room.

  He could see the light of the fire still flickering in the window, making moving tongues of light across the ceiling and across the snow outside. He thought of when he had last tended the fire, and felt guilty because somebody else must have tended it since, and Gwen was the only one who could have done it.

  He came to the side of the bed and stood there. He could just see, by the light from the kitchen door and the firelight on the ceiling, the mother’s face rising out of the pillow like a mask with no head behind it. Her eyes were closed, and there was a white blanket pulled up to her chin.

  "You want to see me, Mother?" he asked finally.

  The mother lay quiet, and with her eyes closed, for so long he thought she had fallen asleep again. He had started to turn away when she asked, "What was it got the horses stirred up so?" Her voice was toneless, and the words hardly shaped, as if both her mind and her tongue found them difficult.

  That’s not what she wanted, Harold thought. She’s putting it off.

  "Oh, Joe Sam was pestering them," he said.

  "That old fool Indian," the mother said more strongly.

  She turned her head slowly in the pillow and opened her eyes and looked up at him. He could see the faint glittering in the hollow sockets. "You said Kentuck was hurt?"

  "Joe Sam was after him, I guess."

  "How do you mean after him? What’s he want to bother the horses for, let alone that time of the night?"

  "He had a knife. He said he thought it was the black painter. Kentuck will be all right. It isn’t too bad."

  "The black painter," the mother said. "A likely story."

  She lay there thinking about it for a moment. "What did you think it was? Some notion about getting even with Curt?"

  "I don’t know, Mother. It might be. But he could have been seeing things, I guess. He was out there without a stitch on."

  "I’ve told your father a hundred times..." the mother began, but then closed her eyes and let her head roll back again, and didn’t finish.

  "He still ain’t straightened out then?" she asked at last.

  "He’ll probably be all right in the morning," Harold said. "It’s done snowing, and when I got him into his bunk, he went right off to sleep."

  "If he ain’t shammin’ again."

  "No, I don’t think so. He’s really asleep."

  Once more he blamed himself silently because he had gone to sleep himself. He should have tended to the fire, and then gone up to the bunk-house and made sure Joe Sam was there and that he was all right.

  They heard the outside door slam, and heavy steps in the kitchen, and the father’s voice, thick and cheerful, asking

  "Getting breakfast already, young woman?"

  Gwen said something they couldn’t understand, and the father answered, "That’s fine, fine. I could do with a good breakfast. A man needs extra food to keep him going when he loses sleep." And then, "Where’s Harold disappeared to? Go out to look for Curt?"

  Once more they could hear Gwen’s voice, but not her words.

  "Well, he’d better be getting out there," the father said. "That young fool’s been gone all night now. He must have got into some trouble. Somebody ought to take a horse out to him anyway. That was his horse came in last night; the black one."

  The mother said, "You’d better go, I guess, Harold. Your father isn’t going to give us any peace till you do."

  That’s what she really wanted, Harold thought. The old man just gave her a good lead. Thinking again about the hopelessness of looking, after all that wind and snow, seeing in his mind how the mountains and the upper valleys would be covered and blown smooth now, he didn’t answer.

  "He’s your born brother, Harold, if he does take a lot on himself sometimes."

  "It isn’t that," Harold said.

  "You think it’s no good looking for him now?"

  "There wouldn’t be much to go on," he said.

  After a time, the mother Said, "No, I don’t guess there would. Only it does seem like we oughta do something. Not just leave him in his trouble."

  She’s got herself around to thinking there’s still a chance, Harold thought.

  "All right," he said. "I’ll go."

  "I been thinkin’," the mother said quickly. "Curt’s not one to let himself get caught bad by no storm. He’s too old a hand, Curt is. He’d find a way to wait it out. Only if he’s got hurt. That’s what I fret about, and then he’d think up a signal of some kind."

  She’s got it all figured out now, Harold thought. She’s rubbing out three days almost as easy as the old man does. He uses whisky and she uses hope. He didn’t say anything.

  "It does seem like we oughta do something," the mother said again.

  "Sure," Harold said. "I wouldn’t feel right not to."

  "For the peace of our souls," the mother said.

  Never mind our souls, Harold thought sharply. For Curt’s body. But that’s what she means
, he rebuked himself, that we couldn’t stand not to know.

  "Only how’re you ever going to get a start after all that snow?" the mother asked.

  "There’s only one chance, as far as I can see," Harold said slowly. "Go up to the creek canyon and try and find something to go on."

  "And if there ain’t?"

  "Well, I could take a look from up top. The cat would head up with somebody after him, anyway."

  "You got to believe it, though, Harold," the mother said, nearly begging him. "You got to believe he’s out there somewhere. If you don’t, you won’t half look. He’s alive, I tell you. A mother’s got a feelin’ for those things. A bit ago I didn’t think so, but now I do, strong. I been thinkin’ pretty near the whole night, and I got a strong feelin’ he’s alive, only hurt. He’ll think of some way to make a sign for you."

  She pushed herself up to a sitting position as she spoke, and threw back the blanket and swung herself around until she was sitting on the edge of the bed, and he could see how her hair had been loosened again by the restless night. She clung to the edge of the bed with a hand on each side of her, and bowed her head and sat still for a moment. Then she raised her head very slowly.

  "I don’t know what ails me," she said. "I get so dizzy when I set up. Seems like I can’t even think straight."

  A reluctant pity moved in him then, not so much for his mother as for so strong a woman forced into complaining. He said what he didn’t believe to reassure her.

  "I’ll find him. Don’t you worry, Mother," and then, having spoken, came near to sharing her faith for a moment.

  "You just lie back there now," he said, "and get yourself a rest. Gwen’ll bring you some breakfast. No wonder you don’t feel good. You’ve hardly slept or eaten anything for three days."

  "I keep wonderin’," the mother said, scarcely more than whispering. "Seems to me sometimes like I ain’t seen a single thing clear for what it really was. Your Dad didn’t want to come out here, clear into the middle of no place. It was all my doing. I seen him gettin’ like all the others there, with his big talk and his godlessness and his fine clothes, and money the only thing that mattered to him, and every cheap little whore and thievin’ flatterer in town emptyin’ his pockets when he had it. But I guess it was my good I was lookin’ after more’n his. Now all he does is remember them times for a lot bigger’n they was, and get to drinkin’ for any little thing comes up. And it ain’t been much better for the rest of you. Curt’s a line man, a man to do big things, but out here he’s got nothin’ to put himself against. It all turns mean and hard inside him. He ain’t a man can be by himself and think straight. He’s gotta be doing somethin’ all the time to be happy."

  She propped her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her hands.

  "Sometimes I think it’s worst of all for Grace, maybe. A woman’s made to have a man and children. Without she’s got ’em, she ain’t able to come to herself rightly. But it was me made her quit her teachin’ and come home here because she was talkin’ too much about that assayer fellow, talkin’ just like him, and him a foreigner and full of queer notions. But she’s just got so she talks like Arthur all the time instead, only she’s so wild about it. Arthur was never wild about it. And with Arthur gone. . ." She didn’t finish but sat there silently, still with her face buried in her hands.

  Harold waited uneasily, shifting his weight from foot to foot. This was worse than the time before, and worse trying to think of something to say to her.

  Finally the mother went on. "Seems to me like I been talkin’ to Arthur all the blessed night long, rememberin’ things he said I didn’t give no mind to then, no more than if they was the wind in the chimney. It was like he was settin’ right here in the dark, sayin’ ’em all over again. I could hear just the way he used to say ’em, like it was his own voice speakin’, and I could of reached out and touched him settin’ there, and most likely whittlin’ away while he talked. Only now it seems like everything he said kind of come together in the middle somewhere, like he was talkin’ about God all the time, in his own way, and I’d never knowed it. Like I’d been so set in my own judgment I’d never rightly even heard what he was sayin’ before. Most attention I’d ever give it was to tell him to stop his foolishness."

  She lifted her head and peered up at Harold, searching his face in the shadows for something she needed to know.

  "But he wasn’t hardly ever meanin’ to mock, was he?"

  "No,” Harold said uueasily. “N0, I don’t think he ever was."

  "No," the mother said, and then, "Seems like I might of seen that before . . ."

  The father raised his voice angrily out of the conversation that had been going on in the kitchen, and she stopped.

  "Why don’t he get out there, then?" the father demanded. "His own brother lost, and he sleeps all night on the table, like some drunk in a back room. I’m the only one cares enough even to stay awake for him. My God, what did I ever do to deserve such children? Curt’s the only child of mine in the lot of ’em, I tell you. If anything happens to Curt, this place will go to pieces like a house of cards; like a house of cards, I tell you." They heard his fist thump on the table, making the dishes leap and rattle, and then the heavy voice died away into a thick and ominous mumbling.

  The mother buried her face in her hands again, and cried softly, "Oh, my God, my God, why have you deserted me in this hour?" and even in those words, the lament pierced Harold. His grudging pity for the strong woman knowing her first doubt swelled into a great and personal pity. He put out one hand, awkwardly, to take her shoulder, but then couldn’t. The old habit of being apart from her, even with his mind, was still too strong.

  "Don’t you take it on yourself so, Mother," he said.

  "You’ve done all anybody could. We’re a pig-headed lot, all of us."

  The mother didn’t move or make any reply for a long time. He could feel how she was struggling against the tears of weakness that wanted to come, and against the long, falling despair he was getting to know so well himself.

  When at last she spoke, her voice was not steady, but the words her mind had decided on were dry and selfmocking. "Well, it ain’t helpin’ anything much for you to stand here listenin’ to an old fool cry in her bib, that’s one sure thing. You get your girl there to feed you your breakfast, and then you get on up to the creek. I’ll see your father don’t keep at her.”

  She stood up slowly, helping herself with her hands, but then bent her head, and after a moment let herself down again, saying with a little, shaking laugh, a very strange sound, coming from her, "Only I guess I’ll have to rest me a while first. I’m a fine one, I am. First time there’s real trouble on us, I’m no more use than if I was at the bottle too, and not even able to tell the day of the week."

  She lay back on the bed on her side, and let her head down into the pillow slowly, and closed her eyes. "Don’t you dally here frettin’ about me," she murmured. "You get on out there."

  Harold drew the blanket up over her with unsteady hands. For years there had been nothing in her strength that was any use to him, but he was frightened, just the same, to see it so far gone.

  "You let me get you something to eat first," he said.

  She rolled her head a little in the pillow to mean no, and murmured, "I ain’t hungry yet. You just ask your girl to bring me a cup of coffee after you’ve had your breakfast."

  "You’ll have to try to eat something, Mother, or . . ."

  "I will, I will. Now you go along and let me be."

  He stood there, trying to think of a way to get at her that would help, but couldn’t, and finally turned toward the kitchen door.

  "You better get Dad up to bed, out of her way," the mother said.

  Harold turned back, and saw that her eyes were open again and looking at him. He nodded.

  "And then you get on out there," she said again.

  He nodded. "As quick as the chores are done."

  "The chores can wait," she said. "Don’t
you waste good daylight on chores."

  "A1l right," he said.

  When he was in the doorway, she spoke again, and he waited.

  "You better take that old fool Indian with you," she said.

  Harold turned. "He’ll be more’n half dead, Mother. You know how he is after one of these spel1s."

  "You take him along, just the same," she said, "if he knows what he’s doin’. He can read signs where nobody else would see a thing. I’l1 say that for him. You take him, Harold."

  She doesn’t want him around while I’m gone, he thought, and answered, "All right. I’ll take him."

  "I’ll rest quieter in my mind if you will," the mother apologized. "A man shouldn’t be out on such work alone. And you take some extra rations with you."

  Harold nodded, and started to turn again, but she stopped him once more.

  "And Harold.”

  "Yes."

  "You start yourself back with daylight to get here. Don’t you get led on past sense. lf you ain’t done no good by noon, you head on back here. There’s no good to risk yourself for. . ." She hesitated. "For what can’t be helped," she concluded.

  "I’ll watch it"

  "No, you promise me. If you ain’t come on a good sure

  sign by noon, you head back. Will you?"

  "All right,” he said.

  He waited because he heard himself how faint a promise that answer made, and believed she would press for more. She didn’t speak again though, and when the silence had lasted long enough, he felt the promise bind on him after all, and turned and went on into the kitchen.

  The father had fallen asleep slumped down in his chair, with part of his breakfast still on the plate, and the cards pushed aside into a heap beside the bottle and glass and saucer full of butts and ash. His chin was down on his breast, and he was snoring softly, with a little bubbling at the lips on every outbreath. Grace was sitting there at the table too now, in Arthur’s chair, with a mug of coffee in front of her. She was staring at the coffee, but not touching it. Her hands were out of sight in her lap.