Rafe Read online

  Rafe nearly missed his mouth with the spoon. Way he looked at Pike he would sooner have sawed the arm off. "Reckon I can live with it."

  "If he's pig-headed enough, I guess," Bunny said, "a man can live with anything."

  When Rafe didn't back off enough to open his mouth, her chin came up. "Dad was the best man on bones in Grant's army!"

  Rafe crumbled the crackers into his broth. With his eyes on the bowl he began spooning it into him.

  Bunny glared resentfully. Her father cleared his throat. "How long did they keep you out of circulation?"

  "Till the end of the war—two years," Rafe said, his tone making it plain he'd had enough on that subject.

  When the bowl was empty Rafe held it out. "That wasn't half bad," he gruffed, "for a sample. If you got any more, how about throwin' in a couple dozen dog bones?"

  It began to appear that Bunny might have a bit of temperature herself. Never in all her born days, she was thinking indignantly, had she come up against a more uncivilized specimen. If this hadn't been one of her most cherished bowls—the only one left of Great Aunt Delia's orange blossom set—she'd have been mightily tempted to wham it right down on his shaggy-haired head.

  She shot a glance at her father.

  "Why not?" Pike shrugged. "Wasn't that mutt of Pearly Smith's digging a while ago in that bed where you set out those rose cuttings? If two years in a Yankee prison wasn't able to put this joker out of business, a dirty old bone isn't likely to bother him. Go ahead and get it."

  It was a pity to find all this irony wasted. But what could you expect of an unreconstructed Rebel? You could go on and talk till you were blue in the face but there wasn't any law that impelled them to listen. That exasperating man had his mouth open, snoring!

  II

  No sooner had they gone than Rafe, turned quiet, cautiously opened one eye. By the bend and color of the sun coming in it was apparent the evening was pretty well along. He looked around for his clothes. "A pretty kettle of fish!" he growled when, unable to discover them, he shoved his legs out from under the bedding. Whatever this pair had in their minds for him it boded no good, he was convinced of that.

  In the light of past experience he could hardly be blamed for his dark suspicions. Over in West Texas a law-abiding Rebel didn't have no more rights than chicken has drawers. Carpetbaggers was all over that country, grabbing and yanking like a clutch of snapping turtles, confiscating ranches and every sort of business that might be bludgeoned into yielding faintest sign of a profit. What couldn't be snatched by sheer push and beller they picked up through the courts at twenty cents on the dollar. Any God-fearing native that cared to keep up his health had to learn to eat crow and bow and scrape like a lackey while they took away his substance and made tramps of his women. Rafe was almighty sure this redhaired Delilah and her overgrown moose of a father hadn't done what they was doing out of plain Christian charity or the milk of human kindness. There was a long sharp hook tucked away in this deal some place.

  He had felt a sight better in that bed than he did on his feet. With the sweat cracking through the pores of his skin he shook like a shaft of wheat in a windstorm, swaying and jiggling bad as Pike's three chins. The room dived and rocked like a cork in a millrace while the broth sloshed inside him till he expected any moment to find it spewed on the floor.

  He took hold of the bed with both hands, locking his teeth until the room settled down. He hadn't come nearer groaning in the war with that horse on him. He couldn't figure how he come to be so danged poorly, so paperbacked and gut-shrunk, without that pair had poisoned him.

  Holding fast to whatever was handiest he finally got as far from the bed as the chest with the tin-framed Mexican mirror hung over it. Maybe they'd stashed his clothes in here. At least he might come across a weapon, something to give him hope of getting clear.

  The first drawer he looked in was empty except for a sachet of scent and a flutter of bright colored frilly squares hardly bigger than gunpatches that it finally got through to him must be some kind of dandified nose blowers. The next drawer stuck. When it finally came loose he jumped back white as chalk.

  It was no snake made his eyes bug out like knots or the breath so rattly sounding in his throat. With cheeks red as fire he slammed the drawer shut, remembering the curtains, wildly staring at the bed, seeing now the God Bless sampler, the embroidery on the pillows; knowing at last, aghast, the girl had given up her room, indeed her very own bed to him!

  Catching a glimpse of his face in the hand-rolled wavery glass of the mirror he staggered, clammy, on legs that seemed no firmer than rubber till, finding the bed against the backs of his knees, he collapsed with a quaver.

  Never had he felt more mortification or been prey to such a host of conflicting emotions till it abruptly came over him that these people were Yankees. He got the sheet up, covering his nakedness and, thus reminded of it, felt a little better; even then he couldn't get halfways comfortable. Putting him here was just a part of the trap—they sure as hell figured to get something out of him.

  With this salubrious thought his punished flesh overcame him and he slipped down a dark spiral into the black of exhausted sleep.

  *****

  He felt more nearly himself the next time he roused and found her hand on his forehead. It looked to be mid-morning, the room filled with sunshine and delectable odors which he shortly discovered to be emanating from the tray reposing on a nearby stool.

  Bunny, cheerfully smiling, voiced a friendly good morning, helped him sit up, bunched the pillows behind him. Then she fetched up the tray which she laid across his lap, whisked off the cloth and advised him to pitch in.

  Rafe didn't wait for additional urging. He was hungry enough to bite a bear with the hide on. Bacon and eggs, a great heaping plate of them. Coffee in a pot. Toast with real butter, and strawberry preserves. "If there's anything else you want, just holler."

  He contained himself till the door shut behind her, then he grabbed up the fork. The bacon and most of the eggs went down like a jugful of syrup being poured through a sieve. And the first cup of java. The third piece of toast took a little longer; when he got it inside him he was filled to the gills. He did eventually swallow a little more of the coffee. He was glad to lean back and let her pick up the tray.

  This time she was gone for maybe half an hour. Rafe fetching her back with howls for his clothes. What she brought was a washcloth and razor and a mug with a brush in it.

  Rafe said suspiciously, "What's them for?"

  "Don't you want to freshen up?"

  "What I want is my clothes!"

  "Patience," she smiled. "Mending a body isn't done in one day."

  "If you think," Rafe glared, "I'm about to be a guinea pig for your ol' man—"

  "Don't you want to get your strength back?"

  "I'll git it back, don't you worry about that!"

  She considered him doubtfully. "Well, I'll speak to Daddy."

  "What is this—some kind of nut house?" Rafe shouted. "I tell you, by godfreys, I'm gittin' out of here!" With a week's growth of whiskers and his hair every whichway it was no wonder Bunny, blanching, hastily backed out of reach.

  "I'll fetch Daddy," she said, hand on the door.

  "You fetch my horse an' git my clothes or I'm bustin' outa here just like I am!" he yelled, shoving up, and Bunny left on the run.

  Looked like that ought to do it, he thought, settling back. You have to take a firm hand with these conniving Yankees, let them know where you stood, or they would steal the fillings right out of your teeth. There was just one thing they couldn't face up to—being made to look a fool. No matter how big they got if you could get the laugh on them—or make 'em think you were going to—you could jump them through hoops and make them turn handflips. They were as leery of ridicule as a bunch of cow critters on the move was to lightning.

  This was Rafe's cherished conviction, but as the half hours dragged by and the sun began climbing ever nearer to high noon it became ap
parent that, in Bunny, he'd met a different breed of cat. Scowling, furious, he grabbed up the stool and commenced hammering the wall with it, punctuating this clamor with some pretty inflamable language.

  When ten minutes of this brought nothing but a flock of frogs into his throat he decided if he was ever to get out of here it was time he was putting his crazy threat into action. He jumped out of bed, flung down the stool and, wrapped in a sheet, strode seething to the door. Yanking it furiously open he stopped with dropped jaw.

  Bunny sat in a rocker less than three yards away with a double barreled shotgun pointed square at him. She wasn't smiling, either. She looked as though for half a cent she would just as lief pull both triggers.

  Rafe clutched his sheet, swallowing uncomfortably. With that look in her eye it didn't seem the most propitious moment to assume any further hostilities. By way of temporizing he said, "Maybe I better habla with your father." He waited and when she still didn't speak, he said with a feeble attempt at a smile, "Might be a good idee if you called him."

  "You've got plenty of wind. Try calling him yourself."

  There was something about the way she said it that told him plain he'd be wasting his breath. He took a careful squint, had to grudgingly admit she was a heap better looking than a Yank had any right to be. Slim as a willow—busty, too. Pansy eyes that could turn dark and deep as mountain pools. You'd never think a girl young and lovely as her could be so durn feisty!

  He shifted weight with considerable care. "I wisht you'd put that scattergun down, ma'am—"

  "If it makes you nervous, close the door."

  "How'm I goin' to talk with the door closed?"

  She kept the gun where it was. It was plain he wasn't getting anywhere at all. Perhaps it was time to try a little sugar coating. "Seems a shame, daggone it, a nice young filly purty as you be—"

  "I've been flattered by experts," Bunny said, with her lip curled. "Why don't you get back in bed and behave yourself? Daddy knows what's best. If you really want to be up and about, the quickest way would be to do as you're told. We'd be remiss in our duty—"

  "Duty!" Rafe bleated.

  "After all, a county coroner, you know, has certain obliga—"

  "Coroner!" Rafe shouted. "Do I look dead!"

  She studied him a while, red lips trembling, almost breaking into a smile. "If you could only see yourself. I'll tell you the truth. You look mad as a hatter. There! You see? Daddy's right. You look positively rabid; if he was to turn you loose we'd never hear the end of it."

  Rafe did look pretty wild for a fact.

  Trouble was that stage-robbing bunch he'd fell in with back yonder had passed away the time with some pretty weird tales of what could happen to caught Confederates who got off the straight and narrow or come broadside to the notions of one of these blue-nosed little Caesars.

  Bunny pushed a dangle of hair off her cheek. "I'm afraid there's no help for it. You'll have to be kept under observation for at least a couple of weeks—that's the law. I suppose," she said brightly, "we could get a few of the preliminaries disposed of."

  "Pre-preliminaries?"

  "All those terrible forms. You've no idea the number of questions—town, county, the Territory and federal government—it takes most of Daddy's time just getting the papers filed. If you'll get back in bed, I can fix you some lunch. My arms are getting awfully cramped."

  Rafe, so tangled in imaginings by now he hardly knew whether to cuss or shriek, someway managed to get himself turned around and, still clutched to the sheet, like a drowning man stumbled back to the bed and let himself down.

  One thing got through the whirl of his thoughts, that lunch she had mentioned. If he could hang on for that, and give the impression he was so wore out she'd put that damned artillery up, he might—just might—get loose from this yet. He wriggled out of the sheet and, hearing her step, lay back with a groan, dragging it up over him clear to the chin.

  She did not immediately appear, however. When she did come in she had a pad and a pencil; the sawed-off Greener had been left behind. She sat down near the door and said, pencil poised, "Your full name, please."

  "Rafe—Rafe Bender." He'd been minded to give her some made-up monicker and was a little surprised to find he'd stuck to the truth. She looked a little strange, too. Her mouth was partway open. But she wrote it down, then said crisply, "Date and place of birth, father's name, maiden name of mother, names and ages of brothers and sisters."

  When she'd put that all down she was silent for a spell, apparently considering, the cut of her stare seeming queerer than ever. At last with a sigh she passed on to army experience, rank and outfit, a couple of dozen other things, finally asking the date of his discharge. If she missed anything Rafe wasn't aware of it.

  He felt about as public as a zebra in a fish pond. Despite his pretentions to complete cooperation and the need he'd seen to butter her up, resentment made him testily say, "If your old man during the war was such a comfort to Grant how come the people round here ain't beat no path to his door?"

  "Please?"

  He said, "How come all the quiet? Don't he see no one here?"

  "Oh, he does most of his work at the office. As County Health Officer and Coroner he has a place at the courthouse next door to the sheriff. Actually he doesn't really practice much now, only accepting professionally those cases which interest him personally."

  "The well-heeled ones, I reckon," Rafe said.

  Bunny looked at him reproachfully. "You don't understand. Daddy isn't at all well. He can't hardly stand the sight—he saw so many horrible—"

  "Kinda tender in his mind, huh?"

  "You were in the war." She said defensively, "You know the kind of things he had to do without anesthetics, half the time without proper medicines. He came out here to forget—"

  "And when that didn't work he took to hittin' the bottle," Rafe said, warming up to it. "Sure, I know, he had it rough. He looks like he did!"

  She looked shocked, and then indignant. She came out of the chair with her eyes like daggers and, with her cheeks white and stiff, marched out of the room, pausing only to slam the door shut behind her.

  III

  Rafe, somewhat abashed though not honestly ashamed, rather nervously wondered if she'd gone after that twin-barreled field piece. When after several moments she hadn't reappeared he cautiously let the rest of his breath out. If he was going to build a dust now was certainly the time to get started. With the sheet gathered round him he slipped over to the door.

  After standing for a bit with his ear squeezed against it he caught a series of thumps, the bang of a stovelid, followed by the clatter of tinware and china. Fixing lunch he decided, and eased the door open.

  He saw an oilcloth-covered table, another God Bless sampler, four chairs primly lined up in front of the wall beneath it. He guessed this was where they generally put on the feed bags, and moved out a step to scan the rest of the room. Straightaway he saw all washed and ironed, carefully folded on the seat of a horsehair sofa, his missing clothes; his disreputable hat was on the floor nearby, along with his runover boots and scuffed shell belt. Vastly relieved he scooped them up and lost no time getting back to the girl's room where he clapped on his hat, stomped into the boots, and hurriedly flung on the rest of his outfit.

  Beaded with sweat from so much exertion he stood there a moment, hanging onto the wall, waiting for things to settle back into focus. Being down on his back had sure taken it out of him. He got his gun belt around him and buckled it. He still felt a little woozy, but he daren't let that stand in his way now. Out of habit he slipped the Walker Colt from its holster, checked the mechanism, replaced the loads from the loops of his belt and moved to the window.

  Pouching the big pistol he sleeved the sweat off his cheeks. The upper half of the window was open but, shaking like he was, the acrobatics involved in such a mode of departure required more faith than Rafe could summon. He got the upper sash back where it belonged and, gasping for breath, was a
bout to tackle the lower when he heard Bunny's step making straight for the door.

  He'd have given something then to have been safe back in bed; but this, of course, was out of the question. With a muttered curse he flung up the screeching sash, threw a leg across the sill, squeezed hatted head and chest through and, frantically hauling the other leg up, levered himself out.

  It wasn't much of a drop but he lit all spraddled like a shotgunned duck. Bunny's startled cry jerked him back to the realities. He got himself up and stumbled toward a corner of the house, half falling round it. Directly before him was a shed built of shakes from which an inquiring whinny lent him the additional strength to find the door and drag it open. Bathsheba, his black-and-white spotted mare, sidled around with an impatient nicker.

  Rafe found his brass-horned brush-scarred saddle, carbine still in the boot, and got it on her. Gagging for breath, scared to waste further time in a hunt for his bridle, he scrambled aboard, banged her ribs with his heels, and lit out like hell emigrating on cart wheels.