Twisted Trails (13 page)

"It came up very suddenly, Helen. I'm sorry," Finch said.

"Alonzo, I don't know what to do," Helen replied, distressed.

"I'll send word tonight or in the morning. You do just as I tell you," Finch said.

Norah, forcing her legs into motion, fled quietly from the porch and disappeared around the corner of the house. After Finch had gone, she hurried into the house to find her mother nervously pacing the floor.

For a moment Norah stood with her back against the door, trying to think of the right thing to say. To blurt out what she had overheard would probably infuriate her mother. She had to take a more roundabout, diplomatic way.

"What's the matter, Mother?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Nothing," Helen retorted. "What makes you think anything's the matter?"

"I saw Alonzo riding away. You're upset."

Helen whirled. "Are you spying on me?"

Norah tried to stop the angry shaking of her body. The woman standing before her was a strange woman. The house, its virtue threatened and its dignity gone, was a strange house.

"Others have been spying on you, Mother. Eglund saw you up in Gull Canyon and thought it was I. I let him think so. I let Paul think so, too. I was prepared to come into the house if Uriah showed up, to spare him hurt and shame. I can't go on doing such things. When are you going to come to your senses?"

"But you don't understand," Helen pleaded. "It's not the way you think it is."

"How do I think it is?" Norah interposed. "All I know is that I'm being forced to acknowledge lies to spare you gossip and disgrace. I can't go on that way."

"You're a fool, Norah. I was doing all this for you—to give you a chance to get away from here into a world of people and affairs, where life is more than a niggardly scrabble for the bare necessities."

"And to do this thing for me—this thing I loathe and detest—you are willing to compromise yourself with Alonzo? There's no logic or wisdom to your statement," Norah said mercilessly.

"You don't know what a compromise is," Helen said.

"When people see you embrace, what do you call that?"

"You don't take me for a naïve, inhibited schoolgirl, do you? A man like Alonzo needs stimulation to make him do what you want. I think he'll do the right thing when everything is settled. I wouldn't want to stand in your way…"

"Stop it!" Norah cried, stamping her foot. "You're twisting things around to make me take the blame. I've told you Alonzo is no good, and I believe what Paul said about him. I wouldn't go away with him if he were the last man on earth. Now stop trying to excuse your indiscretions by saying they were for my own good!"

Her mother broke down and, sobbing violently, stumbled up the stairs. Norah felt the tension and anger drain out of her, to be replaced with love and forgiveness. How could she judge her mother's needs when she had not had her mother's environment and conditioning? Once Alonzo was gone, and this flurry of excitement past, her mother would realize the value of the security and affection Uriah gave her.

It was growing late, and Uriah would soon be home, so Norah prepared the supper, with Cherry's help. When Uriah arrived, Norah explained that Helen had a bad headache, a difficult lie because Helen was seldom sick. Uriah, concerned, suggested going up to her, but Norah stopped him with the excuse that Helen might be asleep.

Supper was a lonesome meal without the stimulus of her mother's conversation. Norah made several attempts to discuss things, but because the things she wanted most to discuss were impossible, she had little success. Uriah, always an early riser, went to bed soon after supper, and Norah and Cherry washed the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen. Even after Cherry retired to her room off the screened porch, Norah remained in the kitchen, waiting for she knew not what. She kept the lamp turned low.

Much later, there was a quiet knock on the kitchen door. Norah opened it cautiously, keeping the lamp behind her so that her face was in total shadow. Eglund spoke through the crack of the door.

"I've got a note here from Finch. He said you expected it, ma'am," Eglund said softly.

"I'll take it," Norah said in a throaty whisper.

Inside the Lone Chance, Paul looked around. There were several men drinking at the bar, and one card game was in progress. Finch was not there. Eglund was there, sitting to one side and watching the door as he nursed a beer. When he saw Paul, he motioned him over. Paul took a seat on the bench and waited.

"I found them gold pieces of mine on top of my bunk, Paul," Eglund said slowly. "I heard how you was shot at. I reckon that there gold needs some explaining. I didn't shoot at you. I came to tell you who killed Big-head. I've been sellin' booze to the army post and some to the Indians. In fact, it was me who stuck the booze in your hay. Drunk Indians ain't as bad as some sober white men."

Paul listened in silence.

"Crooked-eye, that Indian brave with a cast in his eye," Eglund continued, "is always after me for hooch. He told me today if I'd get him some firewater, he would tell me who killed Big-head. I promised, and he talked. He said he saw Big-head riding out into the valley after dark. He even called to him, but Big-head rode away like he was scared. Then Finch came down the same trail and offered Crooked-eye a bottle of hooch if he'd help find Big-head. An Indian can see in the dark and hear like an elephant. They overtook Big-head. There was an argument about whether Big-head had told you who had hired him to kill you. Finch drove a knife in Big-head's back. Then he had Crooked-eye give him an arrow, and he forced the arrow into the wound. After that he propped Big-head on his horse, so that he wouldn't fall off right away, and turned the horse loose. Crooked-eye said he didn't like the business, so he found two other braves, and they proceeded to get drunk."

There was a little confusion as to timing, but otherwise the story was logical enough. Captain Cranny, the post doctor, couldn't be trusted as to the hour Big-head had been killed.

"Would you and Crooked-eye tell this in court?"

"I reckon so. I just wanted to clear myself with you, Scott."

"Thanks, Eglund. Don't talk to anybody else about it for now, will you?" Then he added. "Come on; I'll buy you a drink."

Before Eglund left, Paul told him, "Bring Crooked-eye here in the morning. I'm going to brace Finch tomorrow if I must. If the warrant doesn't come, I might persuade him to come home with me instead of facing a murder charge here. After all, Oklahoma deserves first chance at him."

Later, when Finch came into the Lone Chance, Paul slipped quietly to his room. He wanted no argument with Finch this night. He doubted he could talk to the man without losing his temper. Tomorrow, in the daylight, would be soon enough. Sitting on the side of his bed, having a last cigarette, he heard light footsteps on the stairs and a knock on his door. He was irritated when his caller turned out to be Gladys.

"Go away," he said wearily.

"I'm not here for myself," she said tartly. "Norah Young is out front. She said to come to the ranch. Sodek is worse."

"I'm sorry I was short with you, Gladys. I apologize," Paul said.

"Let it ride," Gladys said. "I deserved it."

Downstairs, Norah was standing. Asking her to wait, Paul hurried to the corral behind the Lone Chance and got his horse. When they were on the road, he asked:

"Is Aaron much worse?"

"I think he's dying, Paul," she said with a catch in her throat.

"He's a tough one; don't worry."

"But he had that bad lung. The kick in the ribs has made it worse."

"Curse Stebbins!"

"Cursing won't help."

"If he's dying, what does he want with me? Has he no kin—"

She looked away without answering, and he let the matter die. On reaching the ranch, they went directly to the bunkhouse. A lantern burned inside, and Uriah's huge shadow filled the room as he sat near the bed. When Paul entered, Uriah went out without speaking. Paul leaned over the wheezing form on the bunk.

"Aaron, it's me, Scott. Buck up old man; you'll pull through," Paul said.

Aaron mumbled unintelligibly. His shaggy head twisted, and for a moment his eyes shone brightly.

"Good—good boy. You done me a favor an' got yourself beat up for it. I ain't got long to live, Scott. Norah's been like a daughter to me, and I want you to take care of her. She needs a good man before she gets in trouble with the riffraff at the post or the mines. Reach under my pillow, son. There's a paper there. That's it. It's a map showing where my diggings are. They're yours—yours an' Norah's. It will help you take care of her. Now—I guess the Angel Moroni is blowin' his horn for me."

Paul went to the door and called to Norah and her father, but before they returned to the bunk Aaron was dead. Paul stood for a moment, angered and sorry. He had learned to like the old man in the short time he had known him, and it seemed unfair that he should have been the victim of such a tragic bit of horseplay. Stebbins was morally guilty to a certain extent, but what little law was there would never touch him.

"He gave me this paper," Paul said. "It's a map of his diggings, so he said. Wanted me and Norah to have his mine." Paul held the paper under the light of the lantern.

"I know." Uriah nodded. "He never had a mine. That land belongs to the gold mining company on the hill. Farrow knew Sodek was digging on company property, but I made a deal with him. I turned back most of the gold Uriah scrabbled for. The rest, with what money I could spare, I sent at intervals to his family."

"Then he does have kin?" Paul said quickly. "The mine should belong to them."

"The mine already belongs to the company," Uriah repeated. "Aaron was too proud for charity, and his troubles drove him into the hills. He had two wives and families, and when polygamy was banned he had to split them up. Both women was jealous of him, so he couldn't pick one to live with. They danged near nagged him to death. He took it to heart, and it broke him. Neither of his wives knew where he was; that's why I sent the money for him. His kids is grown now. They'll get along all right."

"He needs burying," Paul said, while he mulled over Uriah's strange story in his mind.

"Me an' Eglund will tend to it," Uriah said.

When Paul left, Norah whispered goodbye. He had to drive himself hard to leave her standing there while hunger for her lips besieged him. He had no right yet to break the barrier between them completely.

Eating his breakfast the next morning, Paul felt the tension of his sinews and of his mind. Today held forth a promise, deadly or beautiful. His eyes searched for Finch, but Finch was not downstairs yet. Paul finished his coffee and strolled into the bar. The room was empty except for the barkeep, who dozed in an old Wells Fargo chair. Paul slapped his hand on the bar to rouse the man.

"Have you seen Finch this morning?" he asked.

Blinking owlishly, the stout man scowled. "Yeah. He was here early—very early for him."

"Where did he go?"

"I don't know. I ain't no detecatif. Kinda heard a horse cloppin' by toward the north trail."

Puzzled and impatient, Paul went outside. The still low sun poured its golden light across the land, stirring the shadows in the gullies and slowly chasing them away. There was the smell of dust and sage on the breeze. Paul started for the railroad camp, but Carmody, on his way to the Lone Chance, met him before he got there.

"What's this I hear about Finch leaving early this morning, Scott?" Carmody boomed.

"That's what I wanted to ask you about," Paul countered.

"The flunky over at the cook tent said he saw Finch heading out the north trail just after sunrise. I don't like it," Carmody said.

"Why?"

"Doggone it, Scott, my payroll money is on the road today. That rickety outfit with the old man driving is coming in on the north trail."

"Finch doesn't know that," Paul said. "I figure Finch knows I might get that warrant today, and he's giving me the dodge. I aim to go after him, no matter what."

"You hired out to ride guard on the stage today," Carmody reminded him.

"Okay; I will. I'll ride out the north trail, catch Finch and then cut south until I hit the stage road. I'll pick up the stage and ride in with it," Paul explained.

"How will you manage Finch?"

"I'll have a rope and I'll have a gun," Paul said. "I haven't crossed horns with Finch yet, but I aim to have a try. He'll either have to kill me or come back."

"You want help?"

"There's only one of him," Paul said.

"I like your style, Scott," Carmody said, extending his hand. "Good luck." .

Paul went to his room and buckled on his gun. As he went out, the cook looked up and said, "What's eatin' you, pardner?"

"Nothing. If Addie asks for me, tell her I've gone out to do a job."

Paul went to the barn, saddled his horse, mounted and set out at a brisk pace toward the rising sun. He had his rope, his gun, and his hate with him. That was all he needed for his showdown with Finch. The trail angled off along the foothills, diving into gullies, vaulting over the eroded ridges that spread out from the mountains like the fingers of a giant hand. He entered the cedar breaks where the juniper and pinion trees grew so thick they hemmed a man in. On and on he rode, here and there, where the earth was soft or the dust thick, picking out the tracks of the horse with the long, narrow shoe. He had followed that track once before. He hoped to be following it for the last time.

Over and over he debated in his mind what he would do when he found Finch. If Finch ran, he could rope him. If Finch fired, he could wound him. He had to get Finch back to Camp Boyd. Once he met up with the stage—Paul pulled up with a jerk and stared with surprise at what he saw on the narrow, rough road ahead of him. Stopped in the bottom of a wide swale was a rickety buckboard, the bony horses standing slack and idle in the road. On the seat of the buckboard the grizzled driver was slumped over, fast asleep. There was humor here, but the humor had a grim undertone of danger. Suppose somebody should get wind of the subterfuge? Certainly no holdup could be more easily accomplished. With growing alarm, Paul noticed that the sleeping driver had a gun hanging limp in one hand. Could he be drunk? Precious good a gun would do him in his present condition. Paul felt a thrust of anger, because he hated to see any man take advantage of his employer or be derelict in his duty. He shrugged and rode forward. Carmody must have known the man he was trusting. As he drew up alongside the buckboard, Paul knew something was wrong. He dismounted, leaned over the slumped driver and saw a huge splotch of blood on the man's shirt. Here was murder—here was death! Carmody's little scheme had backfired. Paul tried to move the driver from his slumped position and heard the sucking in of air. Quickly he felt for a heartbeat. It was so feeble that it was scarcely noticeable, but it was there.