Tharon of Lost Valley. Vingie E. Roe
went on with his conversation.
Over by the wall a man on a raised dais began to tune an ancient fiddle.
Two more women came in from somewhere at the back, a big blooming girl by the name of Sadie, and a small red-head, tragically faded, with soft brown eyes that should never have looked upon Bullard’s. Two men rose and took them as the tune, an old-fashioned waltz, began to ripple under the fingers of the fiddler, who was a born musician, and the four swung down between the tables and the bar. The Golden Cloud was in full swing, running free for the night, though the soft twilight was scarcely faded from the beautiful country without.
Slip––step, slip––step––went the dancing feet to the accompaniment of rattling spurs. These men were lithe and active, able to dance with amazing grace in chaps and the full accoutrement of the rider. They even wore their broad brimmed hats.
Why should they not, since none objected?
Bullard, solid, stocky, red-faced, leaned on his bar and watched the busy room with pleased eyes.
He did not hear a voice which called his name, once or twice, among the jumble of sounds. Presently an odd figure came round the end of the bar 25 from a door that opened there into the mysterious back regions of the place and elbowed in to face him.
This was a little old man, weazened and bent, his unkempt head thrust forward from hunched shoulders. He dragged two grain sacks behind him, and he was so grotesquely bow-legged that the first sight of him always provoked laughter. This was old Pete the snow-packer, bound on his nightly trip to the hills. Outside his burros waited, their pack-saddles empty.
By dawn they would come down from the world’s rim, the grain sacks bulging with hard-packed snow for the cooling of Bullard’s liquor.
“Dick,” he said when he faced his employer, “here ’tis time t’ start an’ there ain’t a damned bit o’ grub put up fer me! Ef ye don’t make that pig-tailed Chink pay ’tention t’ my wants, I quit! I quit, I tell ye!”
And he emphasized his vehement protest by whirling the bags over his head and flailing them upon the floor.
A roar of laughter greeted him, which brought dim tears of indignation to his old eyes.
“Ye don’t care a damn!” he whimpered in impotent rage. “Jes’ ’cause it’s me. Ef ’twas yer ol’ Chink, now––if ’twas him, th’ ol’ he-pigtail, ye’d–––” 26
“Hold on, Pete,” said Bullard, slapping an indulgent hand on the grotesque shoulder, “You go tell Wan Lee that if he don’t put up th’ best lunch in camp for you, an’ muy pronto at that, I’ll come in an’ skin him alive. Tell him–––”
But Bullard was never to finish that sentence.
There was a sound of running horses stopping square at the rack without, the rattle of chains, the creak of saddles.
Booted feet struck the boards of the porch, and almost upon the instant the great iron door of The Golden Cloud swung inward.
The dancers stopped in their stride, the players laid down their cards, the noise of the room ceased with the suddenness that characterized the time and place, for Lost Valley was quick upon the trigger, tragedy often swept in upon hilarity.
In the opening stood Tharon Last, her blue eyes black and sparkling, her tawny skin cream white, her lips tight-set and pale. She wore a plain dark dress that buttoned up the front, and at her hips there hung her father’s famous guns. Her two hands rested on their butts.
Behind her head against the starlight there was the dim suggestion of massed sombreros.
For a moment she stood so in breathless silence, scanning the room. 27
Then her glance came to rest on the face of Buck Courtrey.
“Men,” she said clearly, “we buried Jim Last today. El Rey brought him home last night––finished. You all know he was a gun man––th’ best in these parts. It was no gun man that killed him, in fair-an’-open, for he was shot in th’ back. It was a skunk, a coyote, a son-of-th’-devil, an’ I’m goin’ to kill him.”
At the last word there was a lightning movement at the bar as Courtrey’s hand flashed at his hip, a flash of fire, a shot that went high and lodged in the deep beam above the door, for the weazened form of the snow-packer had leaped up against him in the same instant.
The girl had not moved. Her hands still rested on the guns in their holsters. Now a grim smile curled her mouth, but her eyes did not laugh.
“I’m a-goin’ t’ kill him,” she said quietly, still in that clear voice, “but I’ll do it accordin’ to th’ law Jim Last laid down to me all my life––in certainty. I know––but I’ll prove. We hain’t no assassins, Jim Last an’ me. Some day I’ll draw––an’ my father’s killer must beat me to it.”
Without another word Tharon backed out on the porch, the door swung to at the pull of an unseen hand on the iron strap by the hinge.
There was again the rattle and creak, the whirl 28 of hoofs, and in the breathless stillness that lasted for a few seconds, there came to the strained ears in the Golden Cloud the clip-clap of a singlefooter as the great El Rey led out of town.
Then Buck Courtrey, flushed and unsmiling, sent his coldly narrowed eyes over the crowded room, man by man. Laughter came, a trifle cracked and forced, cards slapped on the tables, chairs creaked as the players drew up again, the dancers swung into step as the fiddle took up its interrupted strain.
Only Lola, over by the door, looked for a pregnant moment at Courtrey’s face, and shut her lips in a hard, straight line.
Then, lastly, the cold eyes of the king came down to rest upon the weazened figure of the snow-packer busily engaged in rolling up his sacks for departure. If the strange old creature knew and felt their promise, he gave no sign as he trundled himself outdoors on his bandy legs.
“Skunks,” said Old Pete, as he fumbled with his straps about the patient burros, “are plumb pizen t’ pure flesh.”
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