Hidden blood

CHAPTER II BIG MEDICINE HAWKWORTH

CHAPTER II

BIG MEDICINE HAWKWORTHAnd 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.