Fiddlefoot

by Luke Short

“You and your stepfather had had a quarrel, and that news is all over town, Frank.”

  “We had a lot of quarrels,” Frank said grimly. “A thousand, maybe.”

  “Yes, but you own Saber, now he’s dead. That might mean something to Hannan.”

  Frank was utterly still a moment. “That means Hannan thinks Rob was murdered.”

  “And that you might have done it.”

  Frank let his hand drop from Tess’s arm, and they began walking again. It was odd that Rhino hadn’t told him this. As for Rob being murdered, the fact was of complete indifference to him, and of little curiosity. It had been years since he had felt anything about Rob Custis save a quiet and controlled hatred. So many people felt the same way that he had always accepted it as inevitable that Rob would die a violent death.

  They were on the outskirts of town now and a couple of Slash H riders overtook them and spoke quietly to Frank. Where the first tie-rail of the business section and its boardwalk began, Frank halted. A few of the stores were still open, their lamps casting a faint glow over the quiet main street. By their light, Frank regarded the girl beside him, and he surprised her watching him with an expression of gravity that was mingled with curiosity.

  “Where do you live, Tess?”

  “I have a room at the hotel.”

  He spoke slowly now. “Thanks for telling me this. But why did you?”

  The faintest of smiles curled a corner of her wide, full mouth. “Maybe because you’ve never asked me to take a buggy ride in the moonlight.” She shrugged. “Maybe I like a man who laughs once in a while. Maybe I don’t think it’s a crime to be fiddlefooted. I don’t know, Frank. Good night.”

  He touched his hat and watched her move off down the boardwalk, still carrying her hat in her hand, a straight girl with a proud walk. A faint curiosity stirred within him as he watched her, and for a moment his face lost its unaccustomed soberness, and then he turned and stepped into the saddle.

  Chapter 2

  TAVISTER’S HOUSE was a high, two-story affair set on a corner behind a deep lawn, and from the porch chair where Carrie sat in the darkness now, the sounds of the main street two blocks away were distant and muffled. She heard her father prowling about his study upstairs; a buggy passed on the street, the hoofbeats of the horse muffled in the thick summer dust, and after that it was quiet.

  Too quiet, Carrie thought dismally. After five years of waiting, she should have learned to curb her impatience, but she never had. The mere knowledge that word had been sent to Frank had brought her out here for the last three nights. If her pride allowed it, she knew she would have been waiting at the stepping block—as close to him, she thought wryly, as she could get.

  The pots of geraniums strung along the front steps had ceased gurgling and bubbling from the water she had already given them, and now she leaned down for the watering can beside her to give them more. This was a ritual in the summer, so old its origin was lost in childhood. Three times a week, all the pots of flowers in the house were brought out, lined along the steps, and thoroughly drenched.

  She was bent over, fumbling for the can in the darkness of the porch, when she heard the hoofbeats. Rising quickly, she saw the dim shape of a rider come even with the walk, pass the stepping block, and dismount.

  A feeling of excitement almost choked her, but she remained where she was. At last, by the dim lamplight of the hall shining through the front door, she saw him, tramping up the walk, and she thought, You’ve waited. Don’t spoil it now. She came slowly to the steps and said in a voice almost shaking, “Be careful of those steps, Frank. I’ve got all the geraniums on them.”

  She saw Frank halt and peer down, and then she heard him swear mildly as he tumbled one over in his haste to reach her.

  She was in his arms then, and she kissed him lingeringly. For three seconds, she forgot herself, forgot her resolves and her promises to herself, and gave herself to him.

  She felt her arm being pulled gently then as he moved her over to the doorway and into the light. She stood there while he leaned against the jamb and looked at her hungrily. Because she was excited and pleased, her small, grave face, her wide green eyes were stirred with pleasure and with love. Her hair, black as a cricket and as shiny, was pinned in careless curls atop her head, and the dress she wore, of some stiff pale yellow stuff, demurely hid the rounded softness of her small body.

  Frank only watched her, his face blurred in the half-light, and finally Carrie laughed. “Say something, you fool,” she murmured. “All I’ve heard you say are swear-words.”

  Frank drew her to him again and kissed her, and then he said, “All right. I’m hungry.”

  Carrie laughed again, hugged him impulsively, and then went through the doorway into the hall. She hummed a small tune now as she went ahead of him into the big kitchen where the lamp was turned low. She was a fool for being so happy, she knew, but right now it didn’t matter. She was grateful enough to live only in the present, right now.

  Standing on tiptoe, she turned up the lamp, and then she turned to look at him over her shoulder. He needed a shave, and his short curly hair was tousled, but that could no more blur the edge of him than a stain could blunt the steel of a knife, she thought with a sudden envy. He walked past the counter and in passing reached out and lifted the lid of the cooky crock in the prowling, artless way of a hungry animal, his movements quick and restless. When he caught her watching him his grin came swiftly, touching her heart with fullness, as when she saw a child smile. His friendly, impudent handsomeness would melt stone, she thought, and now he came prowling around the table, and, out of cheerful deviltry, put his arms around her and lifted her off the floor, kissing her neck at the hairline.

  “Now put me down,” she scolded him. She was aware only then that perhaps there was a sharpness in her voice, and a faint depression touched her and saddened her. It was always this way, when their greeting was over, and the world was as it was instead of made charmed and wonderful by this man she would marry.

  She began laying food on the table and Frank dragged one of the chairs out and sat down. He ran his fingers through his short, tousled hair and yawned, and Carrie said, “Bad trip?”

  “It was all right going out.” He broke off a piece of bread, took a bite of it, and said around it, “How’s the Judge?”

  “Fine,” Carrie said. Her back was to him and now she turned and said over her shoulder, “Before I forget it, he’ll want to see you, Frank.” He looked up and she said soberly, “About Saber. You own it now.”

  Frank grimaced and looked at his bread. “I’ll have to grow me some mustaches and a belly.”

  Carrie said lightly, “I’d trade both of them for a couple of roots.” As soon as it was out, she regretted saying it. She got out a plate of cold steaks and a dish of cold fried potatoes and set them, along with a pitcher of milk, on the table, and then looked at Frank.

  He was watching her, his eyes serious, and said, “All right. I’ll grow roots, too.”

  Carrie poured herself a glass of milk and sat down opposite Frank. He ate silently, swiftly for a moment, and then said, “I’ll tell you a story.” He raised his fork, and pointed it at her, a frown on his forehead.

  Carrie laughed. “Empty your mouth first.”

  Fork still in the air, Frank chewed a moment on a bite of steak and swallowed it, then waved the fork at her. “I was crossing Roan Creek this morning when I remembered that string of trout pools in Wells Canyon. I cut over to take a look at them—at one pool especially. I’ve fished it ever since I was a kid, and for one fish.” He paused, and lowered his fork. “He’s still there.”

  “The same fish?”

  Frank nodded. “The same fish.” He looked at his plate, scowling. “That got me to thinking.”

  “How fat, dumb and happy he was for staying in the same pool?” Carrie asked dryly.

  Frank glanced up, a faint shock in his eyes, and Carrie thought swiftly, miserably, Why do I do that?

  “Yeah,�
�� Frank said slowly. “I kind of like him for that, Carrie. I don’t think I’ll try to catch him any more.”

  A faint exasperation stirred in Carrie. Fat, dumb and happy had been her own words, but Frank had accepted them, and they described, she thought bitterly, his opinion of men who stayed in the same place for a lifetime. She felt the old skepticism, the old disbelief in him coming back like a wave of nausea, and it frightened her. It laid its dead hand on every hour of her life, and she hated it.

  She rose now and went to the counter and cut out a wedge of berry pie, put it on a plate, and returned to the table. Sitting down, she said, “Then you weren’t in such a hurry to get back.”

  “No, I wanted Rob buried,” Frank said.

  Carrie looked at him pleadingly. “Don’t, Frank. He’s dead.”

  “Good,” Frank said. He glanced up to see the distaste in Carrie’s eyes, and now he shoved the plate of pie away from him. He looked at her levelly and murmured, “I guess we fight tonight.”

  “Is that new?” Carrie asked bitterly, softly.

  Frank reached across the table and took her hand, and his eyes were serious, without humor and without mockery, and Carrie felt a tenseness gather within her. She knew that look in him, and she knew she could not resist it. He said now, “I want to say a lot of things tonight, Carrie. I’m going to, if you won’t jump down my throat.”

  Carrie nodded mutely.

  A kind of shadow crawled up into Frank’s eyes as he said, “Don’t ever expect me to be sorry about Rob dying, or even say I am. There hasn’t a dog died in this town in ten years that wasn’t mourned more than Rob will be. I know it, and you know it, so let’s say it.”

  Carrie nodded again.

  Frank’s swift smile came and went, and he was again serious.

  “But I got Saber from him. I’m going to keep it and I’m going to work it.”

  He looked at Carrie levelly, waiting, and she didn’t move.

  “So I think we ought to get married,” Frank said.

  Carrie regarded him a few bleak seconds, and then withdrew her hand and rose. She said, in as light a voice as she could manage, “Eat your pie, son. You’re lightheaded.”

  She walked over to the counter, and with her back to Frank stood there, her fists clenched, fighting the turmoil inside her. She had waited for this, dreading it, knowing it was coming, and now it was here. She could answer it and end it by simply turning around and saying, “All right,” and that was what she had ached to do for five years. But something in her now, as before, told her that it was too easy, and that it would be fatal.

  She heard Frank rise, gather up his dishes, take them to the sink and pump water on them. When she turned, her face stiff and expressionless, he was standing by the sink, rolling a cigarette. Without looking at her he said, “You used to laugh when you said no, Carrie. Now you’re mad.”

  “It isn’t funny any more, Frank.”

  Frank dropped his cigarette, pushed away from the sink and came up to her. He put his hand under her chin and tilted it back and waited until she looked at him. “It never was,” he said quietly. “I’ve always meant it.”

  Carrie reached up and removed his hand and held it between hers. “It’s too easy, Frank. I like fairy stories, but I don’t believe in them.”

  “This is one?”

  Carrie dipped her head in affirmation.

  “The Young Prince who quarrels with the King and leaves? When the King dies, the Young Prince returns to marry the Princess and live happily ever after? Yes, that’s one.”

  “But what if it’s so?”

  “I want to prove it with you,” Frank said desperately. “You love me. You can’t hide that from me.”

  “And you love me—when you think of it,” Carrie said quietly.

  “I’ll think of it.” He put both hands on her arms and shook her gently. “Carrie, don’t look back. We’ve got Saber. I’ll settle down and work it, and we’ll have a life nobody’s had before. We’ll—”

  He paused, because Carrie had gently disengaged his hands. She backed off a step now, and said, “You almost make me believe you, Frank—almost.” She watched the pain mount in his dark eyes, and knew it was matched in her own, but she went on implacably, “I’ve waited five years. I’ll wait a little longer— until my heart and my head make sense to each other.”

  There was bitterness in Frank’s voice as he said, “And your head says what, Carrie?”

  She shook her head. “You wouldn’t like to know.”

  “I want to.”

  Carrie took a deep breath, because she knew this would hurt, because it was all the truth about him she had learned in these five years. “That you’re not only a born drifter, Frank, but that you’re a featherweight. That you’ve never dared try yourself the way a real man must try himself, to find out what he can bear and how he can fight and what he can break. That you run, that you hide or dodge from any trouble that doesn’t lie down on its back and roll over when you smile so handsomely.” She hesitated. “I—I guess I’ve said enough.”

  Frank only nodded, and Carrie was appalled by what she had said. All the life had gone out of his face, all the careless, easy vitality was vanished.

  Carrie came to him swiftly then, wrapping her arms around his chest and burying her face in his shirt. “Oh, Frank, don’t you see? I’ve got to know! I’d rather eat my heart out here than have you break it at Saber. I’m not much, but you’ve got to earn me. You’ve got to be that fair!”

  She felt his hand in her hair and heard him say softly, musingly, “Sure.”

  There were footsteps on the stairs now, and Carrie knew her father was coming down for his evening walk. She came away from Frank now, and glanced briefly at him, and he gave her his old quick careless smile before he moved around the table and out into the hall. Remembering the smile, Carrie thought bleakly, It didn’t stick. It never will.

  Moving over to the lamp, she blew it out and heard Frank and her father exchange greetings. She went out into the hall in time to hear her father say, “Had something to eat, Frank?” “I fed him, Dad,” Carrie said. “Do you want to talk to him?” Her father was a spare, gray tall man with a taciturnity in his face that was belied by the mildness of his eyes. He wore a rumpled black suit which was seldom pressed, yet there was an unbending dignity about him that clothes couldn’t alter. He had never by word or gesture been anything but courteous to Frank, but now Carrie saw the brief measuring glance he gave Frank and read the distrust there.

  “No, my business can wait. It’s pretty dull.” To Frank he said, “I suppose Carrie told you you’re Saber’s sole owner now. I’m Rob’s executor, and we’ll have papers to sign.”

  Frank nodded, and asked idly, “Who saw Rob afterwards, Judge?”

  Judge Tavister looked at him sharply. “I didn’t hear. The usual people, I suppose—coroner, sheriff, and jury.” When Frank said nothing, her father looked at her. “Well, I’m going for my walk. Good night, Frank.”

  “Be careful of those flowerpots,” Carrie said.

  “I know. I’ve been hurdling the damned things for years.” Carrie smiled and looked at Frank, but he was watching the Judge’s disappearing back with a sober thoughtfulness. When her father was out of sight, Carrie said, “Why did you ask him about Rob?”

  Frank shrugged, and when he looked at her the old impudence and mockery and fun was back in his face. “Practicing,” he murmured. “I’ll have to talk to my father-in-law about something.” He came over and kissed her and said, “I’ll be back from Saber as soon as I can.”

  She went to the door with him and watched him pick his way through the geraniums, and then she leaned against the doorjamb until he had mounted and ridden out. Afterwards she sorted out the promises he had made her tonight, weighing them against other promises he had made in the past. Presently, she said aloud to the night and to herself, in a discouraged voice, “Maybe,” and went inside.

  Chapter 3

  AT THE CORNER, Frank turn
ed in the saddle and saw Carrie’s small figure outlined against the light in the hall. When he faced ahead again, he shook his head once in dislike of the gray and troubling thoughts within him. There was no way to explain to her that the words he had used once did not have the same meaning now, that a promise given and broken ten times could be kept the eleventh. No, he had used that coin with her until it had no value, and he must start over, now, and he accepted this tranquilly in the quiet night.

  In the middle of the next block, he saw the dim figure of Judge Tavister halted on the sidewalk in the deep shade of the roadside trees. The Judge came out to the road and called quietly, “Frank,” and Frank kneed his sorrel over to the edge of the street.

  Judge Tavister was carrying his hat; in the almost unbroken darkness, Frank could not see the expression on his face.

  “Why did you ask that question about Rob?” Judge Tavister asked him.

  “Somebody said Hannan isn’t sure Rob’s death was an accident.”

  “What else did somebody say?”

  Frank hesitated, reluctant to say this. “That Hannan might suspect me of his murder.”

  There was a long silence, and then Judge Tavister said, “Frank, what did you and Rob have that last quarrel about?”

  “My general uselessness,” Frank said tonelessly. “He wanted me to work under Jess until I knew Saber’s business. I already knew it, and I wouldn’t stay around him.” He paused, groping for words, and then said wanly, “One thing led to another.”

  “Fists?”

  “No,” Frank said quickly. “He hit me, and I let him.” He was remembering now. “He said he was sorry he’d ever gone near the wagon train and found me. Said he was sorry the Utes didn’t get me along with my folks. He said they must have known I’d do more damage to the whites than fifty Indians, and that’s why they let me live. He said—” He hesitated. “Yes?” Judge Tavister prompted mildly.

  Frank shifted in the saddle and said in a dull matter-of-fact voice: “He said before he buried my mother he looked for a wedding ring and couldn’t find it. She wore other rings, but no wedding ring. He said she looked as if she came out of a House—a cheap House.”