And at about the same time a cowboy had brought a message to Big
Medicine Hawkworth. He was one of Hawkworth’s men, a thin, wry-necked
cowboy, with badly bowed legs and bat ears.
The living-room of Hawkworth’s home was almost a hovel. The ceilings
sagged badly and every board in the bare floor creaked in a different
key. One or two faded pictures hung askew on the walls, and in the
center of the ceiling hung an old oil-burning chandelier with a cracked
chimney and a badly bent reflector.
Near the center of the room, huddled in a striped blanket, sat Big
Medicine Hawkworth, a veritable giant in stature, but as lean as a wolf.
His big, bony head was covered with a huge mop of yellowish-white hair,
which flared out from his ears, reaching to his cheekbones, and giving
him the appearance of wearing crumpled horns.
His forehead was broad and high, his eyes set far apart and hidden
beneath heavy brows. The nostrils of his finely chiseled nose flared out
above a wide, heavy mouth, which sagged just enough to show a glimpse of
heavy teeth. The lower jaw was firm, and perhaps a trifle belligerent.
Just now he humped in his chair, as if asleep, his huge hands gripping
slightly at the blanket at his knees. The cowboy who had brought the
message squatted on his heels beside the door, slowly rolling a
cigarette.
A big black cat, its eyes glistening in the rays from the lamp, came in
past the squatting cowboy, shrank quickly away from his reaching hand,
darted across the room, and sprang onto the table near Big Medicine.
The stairs creaked noisily as another cowboy came down into the hall,
carrying his boots. He was a stolid-faced, pudgy-looking person. His
socks were not mates, and one of them was minus the whole toe. He peered
into the sitting-room, nodded at the squatting cowboy.
Against the wall, beyond Big Medicine, was a cheap phonograph. The
bootless cowboy deposited his boots in the hall, crossed the room over
the protesting boards, and squatted down to put on a record.
Big Medicine did not look up. He knew that “Musical” Matthews had come
down the stairs, and was going to play something on the phonograph
before breakfast. He had been doing the same thing before breakfast for
five years.
From the kitchen came breakfast odors, the rattle of dishes, the
unmistakable rattle of stove lids. From somewhere outside the house came
the sound of a man’s voice raised in song:
I’ll saddle my pony and feed him some ha-a-a-ay;
And I’ll buy me a bottle to drink on the wa-a-ay.
Big Medicine lifted his head slightly, as the phonograph scratched and
spluttered the opening of “The Holy City.” He had heard it every morning
for five years--or one just like it. It was Musical Matthews’ favorite.
In fact it was the only one Musical Matthews played. He sat entranced
until the last notes of the singer faded out in a splutter, like someone
frying eggs in a hot pan. Then he got up, crossed the creaking floor to
his boots, which he drew on slowly, and went out to the wash bench,
where the other singer was washing his face and hands.
Big Medicine lifted his head and looked at the cowboy squatting at the
door.
“The stage was held up, was it? And a man shot?”
“That’s what I heard,” replied the cowboy. “The sheriff came back to the
poker game and told us. He didn’t know how much they got, nor he didn’t
know how bad hurt this man was.”
Big Medicine nodded slowly and shifted his hands.
“And these two strange men, Ike. What did they look like?”
“I didn’t see ’em close, boss. One was tall and kinda limped; the other
wasn’t so tall.”
“All right, Ike.”
The cowboy uncoiled and clumped outside. Big Medicine took a crumpled
letter from inside his blanket and looked at it. The cowboy had brought
it from Pinnacle. He seemed interested in a few lines, which read:
I am sending you the $20,000 by express, in a plain package.
The valuation is just enough to have it carried in their safe,
but not enough to tempt anyone to steal it.
Big Medicine put the paper back into his shirt and closed his eyes
again. The black cat seemed to ooze off the table onto his lap, and one
of his big hands caressed its head. A door creaked open and an Indian
woman came softly down the hall to the living-room door.
She was a big woman, past middle age, with the stolid features of her
race. Her calico dress was ill-fitting, but clean. Big Medicine lifted
his head and looked at her for a long time before he said:
“Somebody held up stage last night, Lucy.” The squaw merely stared at
him unmoved.
“My money was on that stage,” he told her. “It was much money--all we
had. I was goin’ to buy half of the Yellow King Mine with that money.”
“From Jim Reed?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“No good. Jim Reed bad. You lose just same. Come and eat.”
Big Medicine squinted at her for several moments before getting to his
feet. He was so tall that he had to stoop under the hanging lamp.
“Lucy,” he said, “there are times when I thank the good God that I have
you instead of a white woman. You never complain, never nag; trust me
implicitly, believe in your dumb way that what I do is best. By the
gods, there are times when I thoroughly appreciate you, Lucy.”
“Sometime--not so much,” she said slowly.
Big Medicine reached up and turned down the big lamp, before following
her out into the hall and down to the dining-room, which was a kitchen
and dining-room combined.
A girl was standing at the stove, baking hot cakes, while Ike Marsh,
Musical Matthews, and Cleve Davis, the singing cowpuncher, sat at the
table, eating.
Big Medicine sat down at the head of the table, still wearing his
blanket, and the girl came to him, carrying a platter heaped with
steaming cakes. She was unmistakably a half-breed girl, but almost as
white as Big Medicine; a tall, lithe, big-eyed girl, of about eighteen,
with a long braid of raven hair thrown carelessly across one shoulder.
She was the daughter of Big Medicine and Lucy; half-English, half Nez
Percé. Big Medicine had brought his squaw from the Northwest, and they
had named the girl Kwann, which, in the trade language of the Northwest,
means Glad. But she was known to everyone of Hawk Hole as Wanna.
Big Medicine did not realize that Wanna had suddenly grown from a
gangling little girl to a handsome young lady; but Lucy knew it. She
could tell it in the admiring glances of the cowboys when she and Wanna
went to Pinnacle to trade; she could read it in the sidewise glances of
Big Medicine’s own cowboys, and from the fact that they were always
ready to bring wood or water for the kitchen.
“I seen Torres in Pinnacle last night,” offered Ike Marsh, his mouth
filled with food. “Him and Luis Garcia comes into the Greenback Saloon.”
Big Medicine’s brows lifted slightly, but he did not comment on the
appearance of two men he had ordered out of the country. Pedro Torres,
or “Pete,” as he was better known, was an unprincipled rascal, flashy
dresser, handsome in a way, and too clever ever to make an honest
living.
Luis Garcia was Pete’s shadow; a low-caste, half-Mexican, half-Apache.
“I seen Jim Reed, too.” Ike was willing to pass out all the information
he had, regardless of its interest. “Jim had a drink with Torres.”
“And how much did you lose?” asked Musical.
“Not a dern cent. I was in seventeen dollars and I cashed in
seventy-three dollars and four bits.”
“‘Faro’ Lannin’ must be gittin’ easy,” grinned Cleve. “He never let me
win that much.”
“Faro wasn’t playin’. ‘Arkansas’ Jones was runnin’ the game.”
Big Medicine looked up from eating, his deep-set eyes speculative.
“One of you boys go to Pinnacle and see how bad that feller was hurt,”
he ordered. “The other two of yuh take a swing back toward the Devil’s
Corral and look around.”
The Devil’s Corral was Big Medicine’s appellation for the wire fence
which indicated the boundary line between Mexico and the United States.
Big Medicine had no use for a Mexican, and the brown men on the opposite
side of the line reciprocated, as far as Big Medicine was concerned.
“I’ll go to town,” said Ike, shoving back from the table.
“Sure yuh would,” grinned Musical. “That seventy-three dollars is
burnin’ a hole in yore pocket.”
“Nawsir!” Ike shook his head violently. “Lot of that is goin’ into a new
saddle--mebbe all of it. If I play a-tall, it’ll be jist to see if I
can’t win enough to add a new pair of chaps, thassall.”
“Kiss yore money good-bye,” laughed Cleve. “It’s fellers like you that
buy diamonds for fellers like Faro Lannin’. C’mon, Musical.”
They went outside, rattling their spurred heels on the rough boards.
Lucy sat down at the table.
“Me and Wanna go to town bimeby,” she said. “Grocery most all gone. You
want somethin’?”
Big Medicine shook his head and got up from the table. Wanna came from
the stove and gave her mother a cup of coffee. Then she left the room.
Big Medicine looked after her, a quizzical expression in his eyes. He
turned to see Lucy looking after Wanna.
“Wanna is gettin’ to be a big girl,” he said slowly.
Lucy looked up at him.
“Yeah--woman now.”
“Eighteen,” said Big Medicine softly. “Eighteen years old. She’s
pretty.”
“She’s half-breed, Big Medicine.”
The big man turned his head slowly and looked toward the door where
Wanna had made her exit.
“Half-breed,” he muttered.
The squaw made a sucking noise as she drank coffee from her saucer.
“She marry greaser, Mexican, bad _hombre_ some kind,” said the squaw
slowly.
There was no bitterness in her voice, but Big Medicine knew what was in
her heart.
“Mebbe not, Lucy,” he said. “Wanna is good girl.”
“Mebbe not?” Lucy lowered her saucer and stared up at him. “You say
that? Will a crow try to mate with an eagle, Big Medicine?”
He shifted his eyes from her face and looked away. She was but quoting
his own words, words which had been spoken years before. But the squaw
had not forgotten them.
“If the crow thinks he is an eagle,” he said softly.
“Wanna knows.”
Lucy got up from the table and began clearing away the dishes. Big
Medicine watched her, leaning one big hand on the table. His blanket had
fallen from his massive shoulders, exposing a torso that would have been
a credit to any professional athlete. Perhaps age had slowed those
rope-like muscles, but it had sapped little of their strength.
After a few moments he replaced his blanket and turned to the doorway.
“Wanna knows,” repeated Lucy, as if to herself. “But she is only a
squaw. Squaw don’t count.”
She did not look at Big Medicine, but busied herself at the stove. For
several moments he looked at her, and seemed about to speak, but changed
his mind. His blanketed shoulders shrugged slightly, as he turned,
ducked his head and went back into the living-room, where the loose
boards creaked under his heavy tread, and the rocking chair squeaked a
protest when he sat down.