SYLVESTER CELEBRATES
"Hey, you girl there! Hi! Hey!"
These exclamations called in a resonant, deep-chested voice succeeded at
last in attracting Sheila's attention. She had lingered at the alley's
mouth, shirking her entrance into the saloon, and now she saw, halfway
down the short, wide street, a gesticulating figure.
At first, as she obeyed the summons, she thought the summoner a man, but
on near view it proved itself a woman, of broad, massive hips and
shoulders, dressed in a man's flannel shirt and a pair of large corduroy
trousers, their legs tucked into high cowboy boots. She wore no hat, and
her hair was cut square across her neck and forehead; hair of a dark
rusty red, it was, and matched eyes like dark panes of glass before a
fire, red-brown and very bright, ruddy eyes in a square, ruddy face,
which, with its short, straight, wide-bridged nose, well-shaped lips,
square chin, and brilliant teeth, made up a striking and not unattractive
countenance.
"I've got a horse here; won't stand," said the woman. "Will you hold
his head? Can leaking back here in my wagon, leaking all over my
other stuff."
The horse came round the corner. He moved resolutely to meet them. He
was the boniest, small horse Sheila had ever seen--a shadow of a horse,
one-eyed, morose, embittered. The harness hung loose upon his meagerness;
the shafts stuck up like the points of a large collar on a small old man.
"He's not running away," explained the owner superfluously. "It's just
that he can't stop. You'd think, to look at him, that stopping would
be his favorite sport. But you'd be mistaken. Go he must. He's kind of
always crazy to get there--Lord knows where--probably to the end of
his life."
Sheila held the horse, and rubbed his nose with her small and gentle
hand. The creature drooped under the caress and let its lower lip, with a
few stiff white hairs, hang and quiver bitterly. It half-closed its one
useful eye, a pale eye of intense, colorless disillusionment.
When the wagon stopped, a dog who was trotting under it stopped too
and lay down in the dust, panting. Sheila bent her head a little to
see the dog. She had a child's intense interest in animals. Through
the dimness she made out a big, wolfish creature with a splendid,
clean, gray coat, his pointed nose, short, pointed ears, deep, wild
eyes, and scarlet tongue, set in a circular ruff of black. His bushy
tail curled up over his back.
"What kind of dog is that?" asked Sheila, thinking the great animal under
the wagon better fitted to pull the load than the shadowy little horse in
front of it.
"Quarter wolf," answered the woman in her casual manner of speech, her
resonant voice falling pleasantly on the light coolness of the evening
air; "Malamute. This fellow was littered on the body of a dead man."
Sheila had also the child's interest in tales. "Tell me about it," she
begged fervently.
The woman stopped in her business of tying down a canvas cover over her
load and gave Sheila an amused and searching look. She held an iron spike
between her teeth, but spoke around it skillfully.
"Arctic exploration it was. My brother was one of the party. 'T was he
brought me home Berg. Berg's mother was one of the sledge dogs. Party was
shipwrecked, starved, most of the dogs eaten, one man dead. Berg's mother
littered on the body one night. Next morning they were rescued and the
new family was saved. Otherwise I guess they'd have had a puppy stew and
Berg and his wife and family wouldn't be earning their living with me."
"How do they earn their living?" asked Sheila, still peering at the hero
of the tale.
"They pull my sled about winters, Hidden Creek."
"Oh, you live in the Hidden Creek country?"
"Yes. Got a ranch up not far from the source. Ever been over The Hill?"
She came toward Sheila, gathered the reins into her strong, broad hands,
held them in her teeth, and began to pull on her canvas gloves. She
talked with the reins between her teeth as she had with the spike, her
enunciation triumphantly forceful and distinct.
"Some day, I'm coming over The Hill," said Sheila, less successful with a
contraction in her throat.
The woman made a few strides. Now she was looking shrewdly, close into
Sheila's face.
"You're a biscuit-shooter at the hotel?"
"No. I work in the saloon."
"In the saloon? Oh, sure. Barmaid. I've heard of you."
Here she put a square finger-tip under Sheila's chin and looked even
closer than before. "Not happy, are you?" she said. She moved away
abruptly. "Tired of town life. Been crying. Well, when you want to pull
out, come over to my ranch. I need a girl. I'm kind of lonesome winters.
It's a pretty place if you aren't looking for street-lamps and
talking-machines. You don't hear much more than coyotes and the river and
the pines and, if you're looking for high lights, you can sure see the
stars ..."
She climbed up to her seat, using the hub of her wheel for a foothold,
and springing with surprising agility and strength.
Sheila stepped aside and the horse started instantly. She made a few
hurried steps to keep up.
"Thank you," she said, looking up into the ruddy eyes that looked down.
"I'll remember that. What is your name?"
"Christina Blake, Miss Blake. I'll make The Hill before morning if
I'm lucky. Less dust and heat by night and the horse has loafed
since morning.... I mean that about coming to my place. Any time.
Good-bye to you."
She smiled a smile as casual in its own way as Sheila's own. Berg, under
the wagon, trotted silently. He looked neither to right nor left. His
wild, deep-set eyes were fastened on the heels of the small horse. He
looked as though he were trotting relentlessly toward some wolfish goal
of satisfied hunger. A little cloud of dust rose up from the wheels and
stood between Sheila and the wagon. She conquered an impulse to run after
it, shut her hand tight, and walked in at the back door of the saloon.
A teamster, with a lean, fatherly face, his mouth veiled by a
shaggy blond mustache, his eyes as blue as larkspur, smiled at her
across the bar.
"Hullo," said he. "How's your pony?"
Sheila had struck up one of her sudden friendships with this man, who
visited the saloon at regular intervals. This question warmed her heart.
The little pony of Jim's giving was dear. She thought of his soft eyes
and snuggling nose almost as often and as fondly as a lover thinks of the
face of his lady.
"Tuck's splendid, Mr. Thatcher," she said, leaning her elbows on the bar
and cupping her chin in her hands. Her face was bright with its tender,
Puckish look. "He's too cute. He can take sugar out of my apron pocket.
And he'll shake hands. I'd just love you to see him. Will you be here
to-morrow afternoon?"
"No, ma'am. I'm pullin' out about sunup. Round the time you tumble into
bed. Got to make The Hill."
"How's your baby?"
A shining smile rewarded her interest in the recent invalid. "Fine and
dandy. You ought to see her walk!"
"Isn't that splendid! And how's the little boy? Is he with you?"
"No, ma'am. I kind o' left him to mind the ranch. He's gettin' to be a
real rancher, that boy. He was sure sorry not to make Hidden Creek this
trip, though. Say, he was set on seein' you. I told him about you."
Sheila's face flamed and her eyes smarted. Gratitude and shame possessed
her. This man, then, did not speak of her as "Hudson's Queen"--not if he
told his boy about her. She turned away to hide the flame and smart. When
she looked back, Sylvester himself stood at Thatcher's elbow. He very
rarely came into the saloon. At sight of him Sheila's heart leaped as
though it had been struck.
"Say, Sheila," he murmured, "I'm celebratin' to-night."
She tried to dismiss from her mind its new and ugly consciousness. She
tried to smile. The result was an expression strange enough.
Sylvester, however, missed it. He was dressed in one of the brown
checked suits, a new one, freshly creased; there was a red wild-rose bud
in his buttonhole. The emerald gleamed on his well-kept, sallow hand. He
was sipping from his glass and had put a confidential hand on Thatcher's
shoulder. He grinned at Carthy.
"Well, sir," he said, "nobody has in-quired as to my celebration. But I'm
not proud. I'll tell you. I'm celebratin' to-night the winnin' of a bet."
"That's sure a deservin' cause," said Thatcher.
"Yes, sir. Had a bet with Carthy here. Look at him blush! Carthy sure-ly
hates to be wrong. And he's mostly right in his prog-nos-ti-cations. He
sure is. You bet yer. That's why I'm so festive."
"What'd he prognosticate?" asked Thatcher obligingly. He had moved his
shoulder away from Hudson's hand.
Sylvester wrinkled his upper lip into its smile and looked down into his
glass. He turned his emerald.
"Carthy prophesied that about this time a little--er--dream--of mine
would go bust," said Hudson. He lifted up his eyes pensively to Sheila,
first his eyes and then his glass. "Here's to my dream--you, girl," he
said softly.
He drank with his eyes upon her face, drew a deep breath, and looked
about the room.
Thatcher glanced from him to Sheila. "Goodnight to you, ma'am," he said
with gentleness. "Next time I'll bring the boy."
"Please, please do."
Sheila put her hand in his. He looked down at it as though something had
startled him. In fact, her touch was like a flake of snow.
When Thatcher had gone, Sylvester leaned closer to her across the bar. He
moved his glass around in his hand and looked up at her humbly.
"The tables kind of turned, eh?" he said.
"What do you mean, Mr. Hudson?" Sheila, by lifting her voice, tried to
dissipate the atmosphere of confidence, of secrecy. Carthy had moved away
from them, the other occupants of the saloon were very apparently not
listening.
"Well, ma'am," Sylvester explained, "six months ago I was kind of layin'
claim to gratitude from you, and now it's the other way round."
"Yes," she said. "But I am still grateful." The words came, however, with
a certain unwillingness, a certain lack of spontaneity.
"Are you, though?" He put his head on one side so that Sheila was
reminded of Dickie. For the first time a sort of shadowy resemblance
between father and son was apparent to her. "Well, you've wiped the
reckonin' off the slate by what you've done for me. You've given me my
Aura. Say, you have been my fairy godmother, all right. Talk about wishes
comin' true!"
Again he looked about the room, and that wistfulness of the visionary
stole into his face. His eyes came back to her with an expression that
was almost beautiful. "If only that Englishman was here," he sighed. "Yes
ma'am. I'm sure celebratin' to-night!"
It was soon very apparent that he was celebrating. For an hour he stood
every newcomer to a drink, and then he withdrew to a table in a shadowy
corner, and sitting there, tilted against the wall, he sipped from his
glass, smoked and dreamed. Hour after hour of the slow, noisy night went
by and still he sat there, watching Sheila through the smoke, seeing in
her, more and more glowingly, the body of his dream.
It was after dawn when Sheila touched Carthy's elbow. The big Irishman
looked down at her small, drawn face.
"Mr. Carthy," she whispered, "would it be all right if I went home now?
It's earlier than usual, but I'm so--awfully tired?"
There was so urgent an air of secrecy in her manner that Carthy
muttered his permission out of the corner of his mouth. Sheila melted
from his side.
The alley that had been silvery cool with dusk was now even more silvery
cool with morning twilight. Small sunrise clouds were winging over it
like golden doves. Sheila did not look at them. She ran breathless to her
door, opened it, and found herself face to face with Dickie.