Acres of Unrest (5 page)

“Can you swing an axe, too?” asked Ross Hale.

“Watch me!”

It was a novel sight to see Peter support himself, driving the iron end of his brace into the ground to anchor him, and then wielding the axe in both hands. From that tough wood the tool had been rebounding impotently while Ross Hale swung it. But now that Peter stood to the work, all was changed. The very first blow fleshed the axe by half the depth of its blade; the second brought out a chip as big as the joined hands of a man. And the ringing of every stroke echoed far off, like the rhythmic explosions of a long rifle.

Ross Hale, watching with wonder, looked up and down, following the flash of the axe, thinking:
If this giant had not been maimed…

“Is that enough?” asked Peter.

The butt of the big log had been chopped into stove-wood sizes, and here was Peter, resting lightly on the haft of the axe and smiling. He looked at his father, but there was too much pride and pain combined in the features of Ross Hale. His son was compelled to stare past him.

Through the soft light of the dusk, a twelve-mule team plodded up the road, their heads nodding in a beautifully regular rhythm. Behind them a great wagon lumbered and creaked.

“The quarry wagon!” Peter cried. Suddenly he began to laugh with pleasure. “Don’t tell me that that’s the quarry wagon, Dad?”

“It’s the same,” said Ross Hale. “What about it?”

“Why, it’s eleven years since I saw the last one. I’d almost forgotten that there was such a thing in the world as the quarries.”

“Don’t you forget it no more,” said his father. “They’re busier than they’ve ever been before. Only the difference now is that they’re getting something better than rock out of them. A lot better. They’ve struck silver down there. And it’s paying them pretty good.”

“Silver!” cried Peter. “Up at the old quarries?”

“Aye, silver there. And that scoundrel Jarvin…”

“Old Mike Jarvin?”

“Yes.”

“But Mike and his whiskey bottle…”

“Listen a minute!” called Ross Hale.

Through the evening, above the rumble of big wheels and the creaking of axle-trees, he heard the floating voice of a husky-throated singer who bellowed forth an ancient ditty to the effect that a blue-eyed girl was waiting for him in Mayo, and the oceans and the mountains could not keep him from her.

“It’s Jarvin,” murmured Peter, still smiling and shaking his head with delight. “I thought that the old villain had drunk himself to death long ago, for sure. But there he is, and he sounds as strong as ever.”

“Stronger, because now he digs the money that he spends out of the ground. And he has the full charge of the quarry and the mine.”

“He has it all?”

“Every bit.”

“But what became of old Sam Debney?”

“That’s what a lot of folk would be curious to know. But all that was ever seen of Debney was his body, smashed up among the rocks where he’d fallen. And a handy place up above from which he could of fallen…or been pushed.”

“Murder,” Peter Hale said sternly. “Murder, I say.”

“The whole county says the same thing, but there was no proof. We know that old Debney was murdered by Mike Jarvin. But what difference does that make so long as we can’t prove anything? Jarvin has all the mine. Makes more money every month. Has a bank pretty near filled with it, I suppose, and, he’s got forty men and boys working for him.”

“Forty!”

“Yes, sir, that’s what I said. And he pays them off once a month. He’s carting the payroll up with him now.”

“A wonder that he isn’t robbed.”

“Who would do that?”

“Why, the Buttrick brothers or some of the other handy murderers and thieves in this county. We used to have plenty of them.”

“We did”—his father nodded—“and none better than the ones that you named first. The Buttrick brothers are as mean and as shifty as any thugs that ever breathed, and the reason that old Mike Jarvin ain’t been robbed, and won’t be robbed, is that he’s got Lefty Buttrick’s Colts on the one side of him and Dan Buttrick’s rifle on the other side of him. And he keeps on paying them so well that they can’t afford to cut his throat. He hates them because he has to pay them so much, and they hate him because he
don’t pay them more. But he can’t get rid of them…he’s afraid to. And, they won’t kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. Y’understand?”

“It’s a very pretty picture,” Peter Hale agreed.

“Ain’t it, though? Once a month we hear the singing of that swine rolling up the road, carrying four or five thousand dollars in gold along with him, and the Buttricks, you can be sure, are right along with him, watching the pig sleep and keeping care of him.”

Peter watched the tail light of the wagon wind out of view, although the rumbling of the wheels still echoed distinctly. Then he gathered up the wood that he had cut and swung himself with uncanny adroitness toward the kitchen steps. His father marveled, seeing him pass. It was plain to him that Peter, after the dreadful accident that had disabled him, must have bent his mind seriously and scientifically to repairing the damage that he had sustained by using the only substitutes that remained to him, namely, a good set of wits and his giant strength above the hips. He had used his athletic training to prepare himself, and he had used his trained brain to study the problems and the way to master them. Now he went with faultless accuracy up the kitchen steps, supporting a mountainous load of wood such as Ross Hale himself could never have managed.

Peter led the way into the darkening house and stood like a lame Colossus before the stove and cooked the dinner, while his father lurked in corners, trying to make cheerful conversation, only to discover, as other and more ingenious men have learned before him, that even to be able to lie well really requires a certain amount of genius.

Another thought came to Ross Hale, and the longer he observed his son, the more certain he was that Peter knew all the humiliation and disappointment that his homecoming had produced, and yet he refused to allow this knowledge to influence his actions. He remained as calmly aloof as ever—and as cheerful.

The tension increased every moment, until it seemed to Ross Hale that he could not endure it. Finally he decided to make his escape. The instant supper was ended—such as it was—he accepted Peter’s offer to do the dishes and went out to walk up and down in the darkness of the night.

Behind him, in the kitchen of the house, he could hear Peter’s voice raised in a song that boomed and echoed through the old house. But the father knew there was only a pretended cheer behind that singing. The soul of Peter, in reality, was burdened under a greater weight of sorrow than Ross Hale himself could feel.

The dishwashing and drying proceeded rapidly. When all was accomplished Peter took himself to his own consolation. He could hear the slight creaking as his father’s heels ground the pebbles in the front of the house. He himself loved walking, and many an hour, striding back and forth, had once brought peace and good will back to his troubled brain. That pleasure, simple as it was, was now gone from him. He sat back in the big corner armchair in the kitchen, remembering when his grandfather had spent his hours in that same chair, and he took out an ancient black pipe, caked and crusted with tobacco. This he packed with care.

It seemed to Peter that smoking helped him to realize more dearly what his father had done for
his sake. It had been a sort of crucifixion. Not only the body of Ross Hale had paid the penalty, but his soul had shrunk and wasted under the weight of his great effort. That task being accomplished, what a reward was this for the crucified man. He awakened and found himself in no heaven—only the father of a man who might never be self-supporting.

Peter, in his agony of mind, took his pipe from his teeth and closed his eyes and his hands. There was a sharp, cracking sound, a sting on the palm of his hand and the ball of his thumb. He had broken his favorite and only pipe into a thousand pieces. He did not curse, but, looking at the fuming little ruin that had fallen on the floor, he wondered what other man’s hand could have crushed the stout brier root in that pipe as he had done with thumb and forefinger. Feeling a sudden need for the open air, he went toward the kitchen door. As he did so, he saw the glint of his father’s revolvers, where Ross Hale had left them on the kitchen table. Peter stopped and picked them up. They were good guns. In the Hale family, the men had always been proud of their weapons. And these fitted neatly against the heel of Peter’s palm. He slipped them into his coat and went on.

Not even a cat, no doubt, could have covered the distance to the side gate without making some noise among the cinders that lined the path, to keep down dust in summer and mud in winter. But Peter moved on crutches shod with broad, air cushioned feet of rubber. These made not so much as a whisper as he reached the gate. He passed through it with care. Then he swung himself off into the darkness of the corral. His mind was fairly clear as to the purpose before him. If only he could do the thing and be back again before his father got into the house and missed the guns.

In the barn, he took the better of the two horses—at least it was the one that appeared toughest and most able to bear Peter’s crushing weight. He saddled and bridled this cartoon of a horse. Since his accident he had spent many an hour in the saddle, and therefore he knew just how to manage everything. He knew the whole trick of mounting and he knew just how to manage himself, once he climbed into the saddle.

First, when he was settled, he strapped his legs into the stirrups. He arranged the braces on either side, and then he was ready, being able to ride in this fashion as well as another man, and with this danger only—that if the horse fell and rolled with him—well, that would be the end of Peter. He had grown accustomed to taking chances.

With unsteady canter he was carried up the road. As he pushed the tired mustang toward the goal, there was no sign of a campfire on either hand. Perhaps drunken Mike Jarvin had decided to push on all the night toward the quarries, for the impulses that moved Jarvin were ever sudden and wild.

For the greater part of an hour he drove the mustang steadily up the road, and then he checked the horse. Straight before him, he could hear the roaring of the heavy wheels of a wagon, moving slowly through the night. He jogged his horse forward again, and now he heard the harsh, impatient yelling of the driver who was pushing the long team of mules forward.

A thick cloud of alkali dust rolled up into Peter’s nostrils. The wagon itself was a looming form against the stars, for it was loaded high with boxes and barrels that swayed and creaked as the wheels dropped into chuck holes on either side of the worn road.

Then Peter Hale took out a big silken handkerchief and tied it so that the loose flap hung over his nose and mouth and chin. Under the broad brim of his hat, his eyes and forehead were well-nigh lost. He sent the mustang slowly up alongside the wagon until he found a broad, made-to-order seat, heavily cushioned. In the center of it lolled the fat form of Mike Jarvin. And on either side of him were the gaunt outlines of two men who sat with the glimmer of weapons in their hands.

“Hello! Who’s that?” snapped the man who sat above the head of Peter on the great front seat of the wagon.

“Message for Jarvin,” said Peter.

The guard snarled. “Look back, Dan, and see if there’s anybody else in sight.”

“There ain’t nothing behind, Lefty,” Dan replied.

“What you got for Jarvin?” Lefty asked as ungraciously as before.

“News from the quarries.”

“What?”

“Written out in this letter.”

“Where?”

Peter reached up his hand, and Lefty Buttrick dipped his fingers into it. At once the capacious palm closed over Lefty’s hand; at the same time he was wrenched from his seat, without even time to utter a cry. The higher the seat, the heavier the fall. Lefty disappeared into the dust with a heavy
thump
and lay still, as though asleep.

But as Peter put Lefty out of the way, he saw the flash of the long barrel of Dan’s rifle swinging toward him, and Peter fired beneath that faint gleam of steel. He heard a shriek of pain, and he saw Dan Buttrick pitch downward from the seat.

There remained the frightened shouting of the mule driver, near the end of the steadily nodding line of the mules, and the cursing of big Mike Jarvin, in the seat of the wagon.

“What’s up? What’s happened? Who’s there?” cried the driver.

“Tell him it’s nothing, Mike,” Peter ordered. “Tell him quickly, too.”

“It’s a joke, you fool!” cried back Jarvin. “Skin those mules, will you?” He added to Peter: “Now, kid, this is a good play. What do you want? A job?”

Peter chuckled. He had heard of the savage cunning and the coolness of Jarvin in a pinch, but this was a little more than he had reckoned on.

“I don’t want a job, just now,” Peter said. “At least, not the sort of a job that you can give me, I suppose.”

“How do you know that?” asked Jarvin. “If you can take care of the two Buttricks, you can do a better job than they did. And I tell you, old son, that you can have the same pay that they had and…”

“Keep both your hands in sight, please,” Peter said.

“Certainly,” answered Jarvin. “I ain’t trying to put nothing over on you, my son.” “Good,” said Peter. “You might start in shelling out, however.”

“You ain’t interested in that job, then?”

“Why should it interest me?” said Peter. “What did the Buttricks get from you?”

“They got two hundred a month…apiece!”

“And you’d pay me the salary of both of them?”

“I’d pay you three hundred a month, kid, of the easiest money that you ever laid your eyes on.”

“Thanks,” Peter said. “In the meantime, just unbuckle that belt and hand it to me.”

There was a groan from Jarvin. “You’ll hang for this,” he said.

“Unless I go to work for you,” corrected Peter.

“Rob me and then work for me? No, by heaven!” cried Jarvin.

“I’ve done my day’s work,” Peter stated as he gestured over his shoulder in the starlight to indicate that that work lay behind them in the road. “And now I collect the profits, if you please. Hello! There goes your driver, I think.”

A scooting shadow against the pale stubble field, the driver darted to the side, leaving his precarious task behind him.

“Cowards and sneaks, all of them,” fat Jarvin sneered. “And here I am left alone.”

“You didn’t try to get out your gun,” said Peter.

“Because I don’t wear one.”

“You don’t wear one!”

“The surest way in the world to get yourself killed, if you live the sort of a life that I follow, is to wear a gun and know how to use it well,” said Jarvin. “No, son, I never carry a gun. My worst enemies…and I got plenty of those…know that I don’t go heeled. Here’s the belt. Count that money over and then ask your conscience if you can afford to keep it. Honest money like that.”

“What’s Debney’s share of this honest money?” asked Peter. “And will you go to Hades to pay it to him?”

“Debney? Debney?” repeated the fat man. “Well, it looks like you’re not just a plain hold-up artist. You’re a historian, too, and you know all about the way poor Sam fell down from the rocks.”

“Yes, there was no luck for poor Sam, as you say,” Peter replied.

“None in the world, lad. None in the world. Tell me, then, if you’re through with me? Or do you want to go through my pockets?”

“You’re too fat to keep much in your trouser pockets,” said Peter, reasoning aloud. “I’ll simply look through your coat, if you’ll hand that to me.”

Jarvin stripped off the coat with another groan. “Let me tell you something, young man…I would pay you the full double salary that the two Buttricks have been getting. That’s four hundred dollars a month, and all of your keep, besides a chance to make a neat little slice of coin in other ways. The Buttricks squeezed about five thousand apiece out of me.”

Peter blinked, in spite of himself. “Ten thousand dollars,” he said. “That’s a very great deal, Jarvin. As a matter of fact, I may come back to talk to you about this, at the quarry. What’s in this coat that you hate to give it up so badly?”

“Nothing but bad luck,” said Jarvin. And he handed the coat across, but at the same time it seemed to Peter that something flashed dimly down from the seat and dropped into the road so lightly that it made no sound. Only a faint flash of dust in the star shine. Peter caught the coat and reined his horse back.

“I’ll call on you later, Jarvin,” he said. “Good night and better luck to you next time.”

“You young hound!” wailed Jarvin.

The wagon rolled him on, and the great, clumsy bulk of its load rocked onward, outlined by the horizon stars.