Essential Western Novels - Volume 5. Edgar Rice Burroughs

      IV

      FROM his hide-out in the trees a few hours later, Clint Charterhouse looked down into a small meadow sparkling with dew the early morning's sun had not yet dissipated. A cabin, a barn and a corral stood here. Wisps of smoke rose from the cabin and a cow browsed at the end of a picket, bell clinking melodiously in the still, fresh air. Out of the barn stalked a cattle dog whose baying had been in Charterhouse's ears all during the night; and the dog crossed to the cabin to sit on its haunches and stare directly upward at the trees. The door opened. A wizened and shabby old man stepped out with a tin pail. For a moment he lifted his head to the sky and nodded at the fine, crisp air as if he found it good; then he went over to the cow and knelt down to milk. It seemed to Charterhouse that the fellow walked awkwardly, with a great deal of hesitation, and his impression was confirmed a little later when, milking done, the man rose and came back, stumbling over some small tuft of earth.

      "Kind of feeble," guessed Charterhouse. "And none too safe, if he's alone. Must be the one they called Bowlus."

      The man stopped at the doorway and swung about to face the hillside. His high-pitched voice took Charterhouse by complete surprise. "If you're hungry, come on down to breakfast."

      "Hell, what's given me away?" muttered Charterhouse. He thought a moment, sharply studying the clearing. The old fellow spoke again.

      "Don't worry none. It ain't the first time I've had visitors on the dodge. Come on down."

      Charterhouse chuckled and stood up. He brought his horse to the edge of the trees and went down alone. A closer inspection of the man erased his humor. The poor devil was blind, or nearly so; that explained the stumbling, and also the guide ropes that lay on the ground and extended out from the cabin to the barn and to the corral.

      "Can't see as good as I used to," explained the man, feeling Charterhouse's inspection. "My dog does that for me. He's been a- fretting most of the night, and so I knowed you was making a dry camp yonder. I'm Bowlus and there ain't a drop of unfriendliness in me for man or beast. What I know, I keeps to m'self. I can't see you and I don't know what you look like. So I wouldn't be no help to a posse at all, would I? And I'm too old to be shot for harboring folks like you. So we're both safe. Come in."

      The room was as tidy as any proud housewife's kitchen. Bacon and coffee smell wafted up from the stove, a bunk was neatly made and a row of utensils hung in orderly row against the wall. Charterhouse chuckled when he glanced at the table; it was set for two.

      "Pretty shrewd. I can see you know your country pretty well."

      "Sit down. Pitch into the larrup and bread. You most likely are in a haste. Gen'ly speaking you boys are. Well, I've had all kinds of 'em, and they've treated me fair. Law enforcing ain't my business and I don't purpose to stand at my door with a gun. Can't help it if this cabin's right on the trail between coming and going. Yessir, I've seen lots of 'em. Some undeniably bad, mister; some as good as the best. Never can tell about a man. I've had 'em pressed so hard they wouldn't no more'n get beyond the barn afore the sheriff or a posse was swamping down from the trail. Here's the bacon and coffee. Pitch right in."

      "I'm not in such a hurry," explained Charterhouse and waited until the man had settled across from him. "But I ain't anxious to be seen in the wrong places."

      "So it's come to that already?" muttered old Bowlus. "I knowed it would, ever since Nickum's boy was killed up by the Draw. Another bloody hell. Casabella politics. I dunno who you are or where you come from, but unless somebody's hired your gun you'd be better off by departing in peace. Say, you ain't that Charterhouse stranger which had his horse stole?"

      "How do you know?" grunted Charterhouse, surprised again.

      "I keep abreast o' things pretty well," said Bowlus shrewdly. "Fought in one of these wars twenty years ago, with Nickum. You bet I'm a Nickum man, skin and hair. Ev'rybody knows it, but I'm too old to draw any trouble from the other side."

      "You might be talking to a man from the other side right now," suggested Charterhouse.

      Bowlus rose and carried his cup to the stove for another jot of coffee which he drank standing up. "No-o," he decided, "you ain't got that kind of a voice."

      "I'm obliged for the meal," said Charterhouse and quietly slipped a silver dollar on the table. Bowlus wasn't even looking in that direction but he spoke quickly.

      "I didn't ask you for that, mister."

      "You haven't got anything wrong with your sight," grinned Charterhouse. "Never mind, you can't furnish a free lunch to promiscuous travelers. I appreciate the—"

      A silvery-sounding hail floated across the meadow. Charterhouse squared for the door but Bowlus was already there.

      "Never mind. It's Sherry Nickum. She comes to buy milk off me. I got the only producing cow in Casabella."

      Charterhouse heard her draw in and slip to the ground, speaking with a kind of gay gustiness to the old man. "A little early this morning, Henry. Had to duck away. There's trouble coming and they don't want me to ride alone any more. I've got a couple of dressed hens here for you. I—"

      She was framed in the doorway, startled to silence by the sight of Charterhouse; a tall, lazy-eyed girl with a mass of copper red hair rebelliously trying to escape a scarlet turban. She was in riding breeches and boots and her sturdy shoulders unconsciously straightened before him; a flare of interest came to her slim face. The rounding lips seemed about to quirk into a smile and then pursed together as if forbidding it. Charterhouse took off his hat and nothing on earth could have forbidden his frank, glimmering humor.

      "Henry," he drawled, "you're a lucky man, even without the gift of those hens."

      She considered this with perfect gravity. He felt himself being weighed and tallied by the long, level glance that ended with a sedate murmur to Bowlus. "I see you're running your restaurant for strayed pilgrims again."

      Charterhouse chuckled. "Shot plumb through the heart by an off-hand bullet."

      She walked to the table and placed a basket on it, by chance touching the dollar Charterhouse had laid there. That brought her eyes quickly back to him with an expression slightly puzzled and more friendly. Bowlus, still at the door, tranquilly made explanation.

      "This is the fellow that had his horse stole in Angels, Sherry."

      "The name," said Clint, "is Charterhouse."

      She sat on the edge of the bunk and tapped the floor with one boot heel. "So you're that man? Do you know you are being talked about? My dad doubts you, Seastrom thinks you are about it, good or bad, and Buck Manners respects you for doing what nobody else ever did to him before."

      "Accident," mused Charterhouse, marking the melody of her voice.

      "Hardly that. Nobody wins from Buck by accident. They earn their victories."

      "Reckon you know him better than I do," agreed Charterhouse. "Right now I'm most interested in finding out what your own opinion is."

      He found she had a grave manner of considering his words in lengthening silence. A flicker of impish delight appeared in the gray eyes, followed by a deliberate answer.

      "I ought to know about Buck, being engaged to him."

      He failed to put on his poker face quickly enough. She saw his features settle and cloud. For some reason she dropped her eyes, flushing.

      "My apologies," said he gently, "for asking fool questions."

      "I