Six Feet Four Read online

  CHAPTER XII

  RATTLESNAKE POLLARD

  IT was barely noon, the air clear, the sky cloudless, when WinifredWaverly rode into Hill's Corners. She had shaken her head at thesuggestion of further escort. Here, in the open country and in the fullsunlight, she was grateful for the opportunity of being alone.

  At the foot of a gentle eminence she entered the narrow, winding streetof the town, a crooked little town physically both in the matter of thismeandering alley-like thoroughfare and in the matter of the hastilybuilded, unprepossessing houses; a crooked town in its innermostcharacter, it was easy to believe. On either hand as she rode forwardwere low, squat, ugly shacks jammed tight together or with narrowpassageways between their unlovely walls, these spaces more often thannot cluttered and further disfigured by piles of rusty tins, oldclothing and shoes and other discarded refuse. As she rode farther shesaw now and then the more pretentious buildings, some with the falsefronts which deceived nobody, the houses appearing shoddy and aged andsinister, one here and there deserted and given over to ruin,disintegration and spiders spinning unmolested in dark corners.

  The next peculiar impression created upon her was that some evil charmwas over the place, that in the sweet sunlight it lay drugged, that inthose rows of slatternly shacks where the sunlight did not enter meneither hid in dark secrecy or lay in some unnatural stupour. The wholesettlement seemed preternaturally quiet; the fancy came to her that thetown had died long ago and that she merely looked on its ghost.

  She had shrunk before now at the thought of men coming to the doors tostare after her, and perhaps even to call coarsely after her; now itseemed the dreariest thing in all the world to ride down this dirty,muddy street and see no man or woman or child, not so much as a saddledhorse at a hitching pole. She came abreast of the most pretentiousbuilding of Hill's Corners; its swing doors were closed, but from withinshe heard a low, monotonous hum of languid voices. Upon the crazy falsefront, a thing to draw the wondering eye of a stranger, was a giganticand remarkably poorly painted picture of a bear holding a glass in onedeformed paw, a bottle in the other, while the drunken letters of thesuperfluous sign spelled: "The Brown Bear Saloon." Almost directlyacross the street from the Brown Bear was a rival edifice which thoughslightly smaller was no less squat and ugly and which bore its ownhighly ambitious sign: a monster hand clutching a monster whiskey glass,with the illuminating words beneath, "The Here's How Saloon." That thetwo works of art were from the same brain and hand there was nodoubting. In the inscriptions the n's and s's were all made backwards,presenting an interesting and entirely suitable air of maudlindrunkenness.

  The girl hurried by. There were other saloons, so many, so closetogether that, used as she was to frontier towns, she wondered at it;she saw other buildings whose signs informed her they were store andpost-office, drug store, blacksmith shop and restaurant. And now thefirst visible token of life, a thin spiral of smoke from "Dick's OysterHouse." She passed it, pushing her horse to a gallop. She had seen thetwo or three men upon the high stools at the counter taking their coffeeand bacon. They had swung about quickly, like one man, at the cook'sgrin and quiet word. One of them even called out something as shepassed; another laughed.

  As she rode down the tortuous street, fairly racing now, the bloodwhipped into her face, she caught a glimpse of a man standing by hishorse, preparing to swing up into the saddle. His eyes followed her witha look in them easy to read and unpleasant; something too ardentlyadmiring to be trusted. She had seen the man's face. He was a big man,broad and straight and powerful, builded like a Vulcan. He was brandedunmistakably as a rowdy; his very carriage, a sort of conscious swagger,the bold impudence of his face told that. The laughing face stood outbefore her eyes as she rode on, evil and reckless and handsome, withvery bright blue eyes and hair curling in little yellow rings about theforehead from which the hat was pushed back. It was her first glimpse ofthe youngest of the Bedloe boys, the worst of them the "Kid."

  She knew that she would find her uncle's house at the end of the street.Mr. Templeton had told her that, and had described it so that she couldhave no trouble in knowing it. And as she rode on, making the curve ofthe long, crooked lane which had come to be known as Dead Man's Alley,she found time to wonder that such a town could be so silent anddeserted with the sun so high in the sky. For she had not learned thathere men did in their way what men do in larger cities, that they turnedthe day topsy turvy, that the street seethed with surging life throughlate afternoon and night and the dark hours of the morning, that thesaloons stood brightly lighted then, that their doors were filled withmen coming and going, that games ran high, voices rose high, while life,as these men knew it, ran higher still.

  At last she came to Henry Pollard's house. It stood back from the streetin a little yard notable for the extreme air of untidiness the rankweeds gave it and for its atmosphere of semi-desertion among its fewstunted, twisted, unpruned pear trees. The fence about it had once beengreen, but that was long, long ago. The doors were closed, the shadesclose drawn over the windows, the house still and gloom-infested even inthe sunlight.

  Stronger and higher within her welled her misgivings; for the firsttime she admitted to herself that she was sorry that she had tried to dothis thing which Mr. Templeton had told her was madness. She hesitated,sitting her horse at the gate, with half a mind to whirl and ride backwhence she had come. And then, with an inward rebuke to her owntimidity, she dismounted and hurried along the weed bordered walk, andknocked at the door.

  There came quick answer, a man's voice, heavy and curt, crying:

  "Who is it?"

  "Are you Mr. Pollard?" she called back, her voice a little eager, morethan a little anxious.

  "Yes." There was a note as of excitement in the voice. "Is that you,Winifred?"

  "Yes, uncle. I ... I ..."

  She faltered, hesitated, and broke off pitifully. She had heard theeagerness in Pollard's voice, guessed at what it was that he wasthinking, knew that now she would have to tell him that she had failedin the errand which he had entrusted to her, that she had let a man robher of the five thousand dollars of which he stood so urgently in need.Oh, why had she attempted to do it, why had she not listened to Mr.Templeton? And, now, what would her uncle say?

  "Just a minute, Winifred. I'm a little under the weather and am in bed.Now." She heard no footsteps; yet there was the noise of a wooden barbeing drawn away from the door. "Come in. You'll pardon me, being inbed, my dear. And fasten the door after you, will you, please?"

  She stepped across the threshold and into the darkened house, her heartbeating quickly. As she slipped the bar back into its place she saw thatthere was fastened to the end of it a cord which passed through a pulleyover the door and then ran down the hallway, disappearing throughanother door at the left. So, following the cord, she went on slowly.

  The outside of the house had given her a certain impression. Now, in aflash, that impression was superseded by a new one. Here was the home ofa man of means, the heavy, rich furniture spoke of that, the paintingthere in the living room into which she glanced, the tastefully paperedwalls, the thick carpet muffling her footfalls. If only the curtainswere thrown back, if only the sun were looking in upon it all!

  And now the man. Henry Pollard, whom she had not seen since she was avery little girl and then only during his short visit at her father'shouse, struck her as being in some way not entirely unlike thishabitation of his. A gentleman gone to seed, was that it?

  His manner was courteous, courtly even, his speech soft, his eyes gentleas they rested upon her, gentle and yet eager. There was something fineabout his face, about the eyes and high forehead, and yet alongside itthere was something else which drove a little pain into the girl's eyes.The mouth was hard, there were deep, set lines about it and about theeyes there was a hint of cruelty which not even his smile hid entirely.And though she strove to smile back bravely as she came forward to kisshim, she knew that she was disappointed, and a little uneasy.

  She
knew that Henry Pollard must be about fifty; she saw that he lookedto be sixty. He had pulled himself up against his pillows and had drawnon a dressing gown to cover his shoulders. He was well groomed; he hadhad a shave yesterday; he did not look sick. But he did look old, like aman who had aged prematurely and suddenly; and he did look worried andtired, as though he had not slept well last night.

  "I am alone just now," he smiled. "Mrs. Riddell is keeping house for me,but I heard her go out a little while ago. For something for breakfast,I suppose. You are looking well, Winifred. I knew you would be pretty.Now, sit down."

  No word yet of her errand, no query as to its success. She was gratefulto him for that. She wanted a moment, time in which to feel that sheknew him a little bit, before she could tell him. But she saw in hiseyes that he was curbing his eagerness, and that she would have to tellhim in a moment.

  "I am sorry that you are sick, Uncle Henry," she said hastily, takingthe chair near his bed. "It isn't anything serious, is it?"

  "No, no." His answer was as hasty as her question had been. "Justrheumatism, Winifred. I'm subject to it here of late."

  Then she saw that he had sat stiffly, that his shoulder, the leftshoulder, was carried awkwardly and was evidently bandaged.

  "I'm sorry," she said again. And then, determined to tell him before heshould ask, "Uncle, I...." Oh, it was so hard to say with him looking ather with those keen, bright eyes of his! "You should have got some oneelse to help you. I have failed.... I have lost your money for you!"

  She dropped her face into her hands, trembling, striving to keep hertears back, feeling now, as she had not felt before, as if she had beenaltogether to blame for all that had happened, as though it had been hercarelessness that had cost her uncle his five thousand dollars. And whenat last he did not speak and she looked up again, she saw that his eyeshad not changed, that there was no surprise in them, that if he feltanything whatever he hid it.

  "Don't cry about it, my dear," he said gently. He even smiled a little."Tell me about it. You were robbed of it? Before you had more than gotout of light of Dry Town?"

  "How do you know?" she cried.

  "I don't know, my dear. But I do know that the stage came on through,with no attempt at a hold-up, and I guessed that our little ruse didn'tfool anybody. When I got the empty strong box from the bank I knewpretty well what to look for."

  "But," she told him, flushed with her hope, "we'll get it back! For Iknow who robbed me, I can swear to him!"

  Pollard's hand, lying upon the bed spread, had shut tight. She noticedthat and no other sign of emotion.

  "And _I_ know!" he said harshly. "Yes, I'll get it back! Now, tell mehow it happened."

  "It was a man named Buck Thornton...."

  She saw the quick change of light in his eyes and in the instant knewthat if Buck Thornton hated Henry Pollard he was hated no less inreturn. Further, she saw that back of the hatred there was a sort ofsilent laughter as though the thing she had said had pleased this man asno other thing could have pleased him, that in some way which she couldnot understand, this information had moved him as he had not been movedby news of his heavy loss. And she wondered.

  "You are ready to swear to that?" he asked sharply, his eyes searchingand steady and eager upon hers. "You will swear that it was Thornton whorobbed you?"

  "Yes," she cried hotly as she remembered the insult of a kiss and in thememory forgot the robbery itself.

  "I'll get him now," he muttered. "Both ways; going and coming! Tell meall about it, Winifred."

  She began, speaking swiftly, telling him of her meeting with Thorntonat the bank, of her suspicion that he had overheard her talk with thebanker. Then of her second meeting with the man after she had seen himon the trail behind her, the encounter at the Harte cabin.... A suddenbanging of the kitchen door, and he had stopped her abruptly, puttinghis hand warningly upon her arm.

  "Later. It can wait. That is Mrs. Riddell. She will show you to yourroom. And it will be better, my dear, if you say nothing to her. Or toany one else just yet."

  She got to her feet and went to the door. Turning there, to smile backat her uncle, she saw that his pillows had slipped a little and thatunder them lay a heavy revolver. And she surprised upon the man's face alook which was gone so quickly that she wondered if she had seen rightin the darkened room, a look so filled with malicious triumph. Insteadof being profoundly disturbed by the tidings of her adventure, the manappeared positively to gloat.... Now, more than ever, did she regretthat she had come to the town of Dead Man's Alley.