Track of the Cat - Walter Van Tilburg Clark (24 page)

"No," Harold said. "No, it’s tough
on her, all right. Well," he said, "I’ll stay down here
tonight. Joe Sam’ll have to look out for himself."

Gwen glanced at the plate on the sink shelf. "He
didn’t eat much this time either, did he?"

"No," Harold said, "just the meat."

Gwen asked, "Should we wake your father up to
eat?"

Harold looked at the old man. "Better let him
sleep, I guess. I’ll see if Mother wants something."

He went to the bedroom door and looked in. The mother
was sitting in the rocking chair by the bed, with the Bible in her
lap. She had on her good black dress now, a heavy, stiff one with a
big skirt and a tight bodice, that made her look like the old
pictures she kept in the trunk upstairs. It had white lace at the
throat and the wrists. She was sitting up straight, away from the
back of the chair, with one hand laid out flat upon each half of the
Bible. The lace of the cuffs looked very white on her brown hands on
the stained, yellow pages. She had a black shawl over her shoulders,
and her hair was drawn up tight, with no loose strands or wisps.

Arthur’s body was dressed in the black clothes
she’d laid out for it too. It was lying straight on its back now,
the shiny boots together, the wrists crossed upon the breast, the
face pointed at the ceiling and bound around with the black scarf
again, to hold the mouth shut. It was like the body of a stranger
lying where Arthur had been. 'That, and the mother dressed up the way
she was, made the whole room strange.

He went in. The mother heard his boots, hard on the
bare floor and then heavy on the piece of old carpet that did for a
rug, and looked up at him. The little erasures her first pain and
doubts had made in her face, the way death had made them in Arthur’s,
were gone now, and so was the inturned, half blind look in her eyes.
They were her own eyes again, sharp and challenging, only more sunken
than ever.

She and the Lord have made up their mind, Harold
thought. Or did she see me hugging Gwen?

"You look tired, Mother," he said. "You’ve
got everything done now. Why don’t you try to eat a little
something, and then get some sleep?"

"I’m all right," she said. She looked
away from him, across the bed and out the west window, so that he
looked too.

There was only the snow piled on the sill and along
the bottoms of the panes, and the big flakes still slowly falling.

"Is the snow going to stop, do you think?"
she asked.

"Hard to tell. It’s let up, but it doesn’t
feel like it’s done yet, some way."

"Wel1, you better get at making the coffin, just
the same. When you’ve had some breakfast."

"All right. Will you have breakfast with us?"

“
I’m not hungry yet. You just bring me some
coffee.”

He knew better than to argue, when her face was like
that. He nodded and returned to the kitchen.

"Just coffee again," he told Gwen.

"I’m fixing her some scrambled eggs,"
Gwen said. "They might go better than the fried."

"They might," Harold said.

He felt quiet and indifferent after standing there
beside the strange Arthur, and feeling the mother keeping things to
herself. He waited by the stove, not thinking about anything, but
just watching Gwen stir the eggs and then scrape them onto a plate
and fill a mug with coffee. At the sound of the fork scraping the
pan, the father stirred and muttered, but then sighed and was quiet
again.

Harold picked up the plate and mug and went back into
the bedroom.

"Gwen thought maybe scrambled eggs would go
pretty good," he said.

The mother stared at the plate of eggs for a moment,
and then, without a word, took it and set it on the table. She kept
the mug of coffee in her hands.

"Is there enough boards for the coffin?"
she asked.

"I think so. There’s a lot of wood in the
shed, left over from the bunk-house. And there’s the lumber Curt
got for a tack room."

"Them’s new boards, ain’t they?"

"He just got ’em last month."

"You better use some of them, then, if they’re
good enough wood."

"They’re as good as anything we’ve got."

"We1l, they’ll have to do, then. You better
get at it as quick as you can. I got a feelin’ the snow’s about
done, and there’s the grave to dig yet."

Harold hesitated for a moment, but then said, "All
right," and went back into the kitchen.

The father was awake and sitting up now, holding
himself up with his hands against the edge of the table. He was
looking around slowly out of bloodshot eyes and the world of sleep
that was still more real to him than what he saw. When Harold sat
down at the table, he turned his big face at him slowly, screwing it
up to see him better.

“
Oh," he said. He looked away into the shadow
on the table. "I thought maybe Curt was back," he said. "I
told him what I thought of him, the young fool, chasing out after
black painters in a blizzard." He uncorked the bottle with
whisky in it and very slowly and carefully poured his glass half
full.

"Would you like your breakfast now, Mr.
Bridges?" Gwen asked.

"Breakfast?" the old man said. "In the
middle of the . . ." but then cautiously pried himself around in
his chair far enough to see part of the front window, and said, after
a moment, "Well, it is, at that."

He turned back and drank the whisky at one hoist, and
set the glass down again.

"Very well, then, young woman, I will have some
breakfast."

He leaned farther over the table and peered at Gwen
through the shadow. "And just how did you get here, young
woman?" he asked. "Curt," he said, turning his head
ponderously to look at Harold, "who is this young woman, and how
did she come here?"

"It’s just Gwen, Dad. She’s been here a
couple of days."

"Gwen? Gwen? and who on earth, may I ask, is
Gwen?"

He spoke as if Harold were an audience of many
people.

"Gwendolyn Williams, Dad. You remember her."

"I do not remember her," the old man said.
He swung his head back and stared at her again. "Gwendolyn
Williams," he muttered.

Gwen had a filled plate in each hand, but she waited
there by the stove while he stared at her.

"‘Oh," the father said finally. "Of
course. Harold’s intended. Old Lew Williams’ girl. Charming girl
too, charming," he added. "Curt," he said, turning his
head slowly to look at Harold again, and grinning a little, "Curt,
I’m surprised at you, letting a young whippersnapper like. . ."
He stopped speaking and stared at Harold, and his grin faded. "No,"
he said. He closed his eyes and sat there for some time with them
closed, breathing loudly and frowning. Gwen came to the table then,
and set the plates down, one  in front of each of the men. The
father opened his eyes again. "Where’s Curt?!”

"He’l1 be back today, Dad."

"Back today? I should hope so."

He thought about the matter, and then rolled his eyes
to look at Harold without moving his head. He made a sly, knowing
grin, and slowly, triumphantly, raised one hand and pointed at him.

"Out hunting," he announced. "That’s
where he is. And he’ll get it too. He don’t ever give up till he
gets what he’s after, Curt don’t. He’s a great shot, too, Curt
is," he went on happily, "a great shot. Why, I remember
once," he began, addressing his greater audience again, "and
when he was only a youngster too, thirteen or fourteen, or somewhere
around there, he won a turkey shoot down at old Jake Ha1ey’s ranch
on the Carson River. Jake called the place a ranch, anyway. Half a
dozen dry washes full of sagebrush, three scrawny cottonwood trees,
and a litter of rags and old shoes and broken-down wagons is about
what it amounted to. Jake used to say himself, when he had enough
rot-gut in him to be half-way human, that rags was his chief crop.
Grew old shirts about three to the bush, he did, though pants was
rarer. But he did have turkeys. An old scoundrel, Jake Haley was,"
he said, chuckling. "He cleaned up on those birds, though there
wasn’t a thing to ’em but legs and feathers. They were more like
buzzards than turkeys. In his more sociable moods he used to admit
they were a cross, and that with the natural advantages of his place,
the buzzard strain was getting a little the best of it. He couldn’t
have sold one of the critturs for a thin dime. So he used ’em all
for turkey shoots. Four bits for three shots; plain highway robbery.
And there couldn’t anybody hit ’em, even at that price, the way
he had it rigged. Buried ’em in a barrel in the ground, with only
the head sticking out. Hundred yards, if it was an inch, and uphill,
and enough neck room so the turkey could dodge all around. Made a
mint out of that system, old Jake did. But he got one good scare,
anyway, and Curt gave it to him. Knocked one off on the second shot."

He laughed a thin, gleeful whinny, startling after
his deep voice speaking.

"Should have seen old Jake’s face. Only the
third man to shoot, and he got one. Nothing in the rules to say he
couldn’t keep on shooting all day, either. Old Jake thought he was
ruined." He cackled happily. Gwen pushed aside the bottles and
the glass to make room for his coffee. She did it very slowly, to
avoid catching his attention, but he saw the bottles moving and
looked up at her. The pleasure died out of his face.

"Young woman," he said heavily, "I beg
your pardon. Inexcusable of me. Inexcusable."

"It’s all right, Mr. Bridges," Gwen said,
flushing.

"It’s all right," the father repeated.
"You hear that, Curt?" he asked Harold. "Your
intended, and I forget her name. Inexcusable. But she says it’s all
right. You’re a lucky boy, Curt, very lucky."

Gwen sat down quickly in the mother’s place, and
she and Harold began to eat. They couldn’t look at the father or at
each other.

After a time the old man turned his head slowly and
stared at Harold. "No, Harold’s girl," he said. "Curt’s
out hunting, the young fool. But he’ll get what he’s gone after,
just the same. He don’t ever give up till he gets what he’s
after, Curt don’t. Why I remember once," he began, changing to
his public voice, but then thought about it, and stopped there. He
began to eat, taking huge mouthfuls, but chewing them slowly. Once he
put his fork down and sat staring at the shadow of the lamp while he
chewed.

"It killed Arthur, just the same," he
argued.

Harold looked at him quickly. "What did?"

"That damned black painter. Only I thought it
was Curt. He was wearing Curt’s coat. Wasn’t, though; was Arthur.
Saw his beard. Arthur took Curt’s coat."

He considered that, sitting perfectly still. "Why’d
he take Curt’s coat?" he demanded. He stared at Harold
angrily.

“
Keeping things from me," he accused.
"Everybody keeps things from me. In my own house."

Harold sighed. "Nobody’s keeping anything from
you, Dad."

"Yes, they are. Can’t even have an opinion
around here any more. Can’t fool me, though," he said
craftily. "I know. what’s going on. Saw him on the bed in
there. I know. Black painter killed him."

"Maybe a painter, Dad, but not likely black.”

The old man stared at him angrily, but then gradually
the anger weakened into confusion, and after a minute he turned back
to his plate. When he had finished his food, Gwen brought him a
second cup of coffee. He sat there trying to drink it, but kept
nodding and sagging forward.

"There’s nothing you can do now, Dad,"
Harold said. "Why don’t you go up and lie down for a while?"

"Nothing anybody can do in this infernal snow,"
the old man muttered. "Might as well all go to bed." He
hoisted himself to his feet and stood there, swaying and holding onto
the back of his chair. "Waited up all night," he said.
"Very tired. You will excuse me, my dear," he said
to
Gwen. "Have to step outside for a moment," he said to
Harold.

He swung around slowly, keeping his hands on the
chair, and looked out the window again. Then he swung back, and
leaned over. Carefully extending one hand, he poured his glass half
full of whisky again, and lifted it.

"Drop to warm myself first," he explained.
"Cold out. Too early for winter. Always feel the cold more when
winter’s too early." He drank the whisky off without stopping,
set the glass down, and straightened up. When he had his balance
behind the chair, he turned and lurched toward the outside door.

Harold got up quickly and went to help him, but the
old man waved him away angrily. "All right," he muttered.
"Quite all right."

He steadied himself against the doorframe, and then
got the door open and lurched out, nearly falling as he stepped down
into the snow. He saved himself by his hold on the handle of the
door, and the door closed suddenly and loudly.

Harold picked up the two whisky bottles, threw the
empty one into the trash box under the sink, and put the other into
the cabinet. Gwen began to clear the table, and he helped her, but
they still didn’t talk.