Rest and Be Thankful (38 page)

Grubbock said, “The horse stopped dead in its tracks, and it refused to move. That was what I noticed most—the horse. I could feel something dangerous; I could feel it right from that horse. Bert said, ‘Hey, there!’ quite quietly, almost to himself. We both reined up automatically. Karl urged his horse on. It wouldn’t move. He kicked it. It started turning round. He turned it back and pulled its head to face the canyon.”

“Quite right,” Atherton Jones said. “Horses have got to be mastered.”

“But it wouldn’t go into that canyon. It turned off the trail, down the slope of the hillside. Karl yanked it back on to the trail. It turned, it twisted. He pulled it round to face the canyon. And this time it went rigid. He really gave it the heel then, and he lashed it. That was when the Wild West show started. After the third buck Karl was thrown, rolling down the hillside until he ended up against one of those doll-sized fir-trees. The horse turned and bolted.

“Now this all happened so quickly—a matter of seconds— that I was still puzzling out the rigid horse when Bert passed me. He went right into a canter and then into a lope, cutting down the hillside at a sharp angle to turn off Karl’s horse. I didn’t see how he caught it—that must have been spectacular on the sloping hillside, with its scattered boulders and pint-sized trees. I was too busy trying to reach Karl. I dismounted, but I kept a pretty tight grip on my horse’s reins, for he was beginning to act up a bit too. And in these wide open spaces a horse is the best friend your feet ever had. But just as I was scrambling down the hill, leading my horse—I wouldn’t have ridden down there if you had paid me—I saw Karl rise. That’s when I began to think it was funny. He had rolled down there like a snowball. He was lucky, though. When he was thrown he landed clear; one foot might easily have been caught in the stirrup, and then he would have been dragged. And when he landed he didn’t fall on rock; and he could put out an arm to break his fall. Then even the way he didn’t roll far was lucky: he was stopped by one of those trees instead of landing up against a boulder.”

“And what then?” Robert O’Farlan asked. “Did you go through the canyon with Bert leading?”

Grubbock shook his head. “We joined Bert far down the hillside, reached the creek in the valley, and followed its trail to the camp where we were meeting the others.”

Prender Atherton Jones said, “You mean to say that Bert, a professional cowboy, let a horse get away with that?” He looked round in amazement, shaking his head disapprovingly. Such slackness was not tolerated in Central Park, he seemed to say.

“Bert said he could take a telling. We could beat our horses all we wanted, but they still wouldn’t go down that canyon. There was just one thing that made a horse behave the way Karl’s did: the smell of bear.”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t beat the horses and force them into the canyon,” Mrs. Peel said. “What pleasure is there in mastering anyone, anyway, if you have to lash him and beat him?”

“That wasn’t the end of the story, though,” Earl Grubbock said, watching Atherton Jones with a smile. “There we were, Karl and I, both cursing his horse for having added a good five miles to our journey to the camp. We even thought Bert was a bit of a dope. Then we found the others at the camp. Ned and Robb had been looking for strays round the other end of the canyon. They had ridden up a high trail, where they could get a good view of it. There wasn’t a stray in the canyon. But they did see a bear, a quarter of a mile away, right down near the beginning of the spruce forest.”

“Good God!” said Atherton Jones. “How far is the canyon from here?”

“Far enough. Still, a lone bear can cover a lot of territory. Every now and again, it seems, a bear comes straying through these mountains. ‘Travelled a fur piece,’ as Bert said.”

“Appropriate remark,” Prender Atherton Jones said. “I suppose this specimen got disgruntled with Yellowstone Park? The tourists can’t be so entertaining this summer.” He looked round with an encouraging smile.

“And what did Karl say then?” Sally asked.

“Nothing very much.” Grubbock looked at the scuffed toe of his boot. Shut up, he told himself: you’ve done a lot of criticising in these last few days, and no doubt Karl found just as much in you to criticise. A trip into the mountains was certainly one way of getting to know a man.

“Anyway,” Earl Grubbock said suddenly, “Karl has plenty of courage.” That was one thing Karl had plenty of. Damn’ fool courage sometimes, but courage.

“But you were all afraid of an old bear,” Esther Park said.

He studied her face. “Ned, Robb, and Bert wanted to go after it and rope it. Jim said what the hell, it was doing no harm. When it started causing trouble they could go on a hunting-trip.”

“But what would you do
if
you met a bear?” Carla asked, wide-eyed and troubled.

“I asked Bert. Seemingly you walk, don’t run, to the nearest exit.”

“But how do your legs obey you?”

“Bert said he had often wondered about that.”

“But bears are
sweet,”
Esther Park said. “Why, I’ve fed them in Yellowstone! They come right up to your car, and—”

“I think we may take it from Bert that a stray bear isn’t one that likes tourists,” Grubbock said. “Or do we know more than Bert does?”

This was such a new line for Grubbock that Mrs. Peel stared. Then she smiled. “Earl’s right,” she said. “There’s a hospital in Yellowstone Park that’s kept to sew up tourists after they’ve fed the bears... I believe that over sixty people last year had themselves scalped and de-armed and otherwise torn about. And these are the nice, safe bears, Esther, not the bad-tempered strays.”

“Do you mean to say that we taxpayers,” Atherton Jones began, “have to keep up that hospital and for—” But at that moment Mrs. Gunn entered to say that Milton Jerks had just driven up from Sweetwater in his new car, and Dr. Clark was with him. They were talking to Jim now out in the yard.

As Mrs. Peel started to explain about the doctor’s unexpected visit Mrs. Gunn passed over a note to Sally. It was addressed to her in Jim’s handwriting. She opened it and read it.

The note was written with extreme correctness, following the usual pattern of a formal invitation. “Mr. James Brent requests the pleasure of Miss Sarah Bly’s company at the corral of Flying Tail Ranch on the evening of Friday, the twenty-seventh of August, at seven o’clock.” Down in one corner was “R.S.V.P.,” while up in another was “Western saddle.”

Idiot, thought Sally happily, complete idiot.
Hello stranger, do you never go riding any more?
...
When I’m asked
...
Getting formal, aren’t we?
We were, she thought, but I’m not going to be a fool any longer. That is all past tense, Sally Bly.

* * *

“Well, who is it this time?” Dr. Clark said, when he entered the living-room, followed by Mr. Milton Jerks carrying newspapers safely tucked under his arm.

Mrs. Peel apologised for the trouble she had given them.

“No trouble at all,” Milton Jerks said, replying for both of them. Dr. Clark was too busy talking to Earl Grubbock, anyway. “No trouble at all. We were at the meeting— Sweetwater Improvement Committee—when this call came through. And Doc, after sitting down and thinking about it, said he was coming out here after all. That broke up the poker game, anyways, so I figured I’d just come along and give Doc a lift in my car. It’s a whole lot quicker than his old rattletrap. Eh, Doc? About time you were getting a new one.”

“When prices come down, Milt,” Dr. Clark said amiably. “Well, Mrs. Peel, it is just as we thought. Booster shot, needed here. And your other writer needs the whole works. I’ll give him an antitoxin test first, just to make sure. Brought everything along with me. Come on, Grubbock; we’ll get over to the cabin.” Grubbock followed him out of the room with only an eyebrow raised by way of objection.

“What on earth was he talking about?” Prender Atherton Jones asked.

“Tetanus injections. Wherever you’ve got horses you’ve got tetanus,” Milton Jerks said, with the wise air of a man raised on a ranch. Mrs. Gunn sniffed quite openly. That salesman from St Louis, she thought.

Everyone turned to look at the round, red face of Mr. Jerks, beaming with good-will and pleasure, but his elaborate costume made them speechless. He bowed to Mrs. Peel. “Brought you the papers, ma’am,” he said, and presented them with a flourish. “Guessed you wouldn’t get them until the mail carrier came tomorrow. Why keep good news? That’s what I say. It’s a real pleasure and honour to meet you, Mrs. Peel.”

That reminded Sally that she hadn’t introduced Mr. Jerks to anyone, although they must have seen many signs of him around Sweetwater.

“This is Mr. Milton Jerks,” she said, “who runs the Fill-up Gas Station, the airfield, the Western Supply—”

“With
the hitching-rail at the door,” Mr. Milton Jerks amended. “Sorry we don’t see you all using it more this summer, but the doods from Double Tee Emm and Fennimore’s, not to mention the Lazy Runaround, all find it kind of handy. Yes, sir, it’s become a mighty popular place, the old Western Supply. The best silver jewel’ry, rugs, beadwork, and hand-painted cushions you’ll find anywhere in the State of Wyoming. Or Colorado or Montana, for that matter.”

“What’s wrong with Arizona, Idaho, New Mexico?” asked Carla, and then giggled.

“Sure, them too,” Milt Jerks said generously. “Got all the best Indian work you ever saw. I’m a blood-brother of three tribes, the Iropshaws, the Squeehawks, and the Flatfeet. Yes, sir.” He looked at Sally expectantly. “Sorry, ma’am. I interrupted you.”

“But I’ve now forgotten all the other things you do, Mr. Jerks.”

“There’s the Rocky Mountain Regal Palace Cinema,” he prompted her.

“Oh, yes... And the Wigwam Laundry Service.”

“The one with the tepee outside?” Carla asked. “Is it a
real
one, Mr. Jerks?”

“Straight from the Squeehawks. Chief Bird-in-Hand gave it to me himself. He bought his new 1948 sedan super coupé model from me. And I got it for him before his cousin, Chief Two-in-the-Bush, managed to get his 1948 sedan super coupé from the dealer over in Three Springs.”

“I take it that meant a lot to Chief Bird-in-Hand?” O’Farlan asked. “Then he could add another coup to his stick?” He grinned around delightedly. He hadn’t made a silly joke like that for years. A wonderful feeling. Also, he was proud of the Indian knowledge he had been collecting from Mrs. Peel’s library ever since he had arrived. The others, startled at first, began to laugh.

As well they might, Milt Jerks thought. “He added the coupé to his garage,” he explained patiently. “He’s got three cars now. His squaw drives one, and the kids have the third to rattle around in.”

“And how many cars has Two-in-the-Bush?” Mrs. Peel asked.

“The same. They’ve always got to have the same. That’s how they got their names. Been rivals ever since they were strapped to their mothers’ backs.”

“Oh...” Mrs. Peel was horribly conscious of the strained look on her guests’ faces. So she smiled and said quickly, “Do tell us about the Indians. Do you know many of them, Mr. Jerks?”

“Sure. And just call me Milt. Everyone does. Eh, Ma Gunn?”

“What about a nice cup of coffee?” Mrs. Gunn asked pointedly, preparing to leave the room and hoping to take Milt Jerks with her. And don’t Ma me, she thought angrily. And Milt, that Jerk, is what Cheesit Bridger and old Chuck call you. Dr. Clark says you’re all right, just need a bit of getting accustomed to. He even says that Sweetwater needed someone like you, and if all the things you started here were taken away from us we’d miss them. But Cheesit says he doesn’t trust anyone who can make money as fast as you can; it just isn’t natural. Still, you’re generous too—this new hospital, and the new playground for the school-kids... Mrs. Gunn left the room then, for she wanted to fix something for the doctor to eat; she was still puzzling over the problem of Milt Jerks, much as she had done for the last fifteen years, ever since he stepped off the train at Three Springs.

“Well,” Mrs. Peel said, as Mrs. Gunn went and Milt Jerks didn’t budge, “do sit down. And if you don’t like coffee, what can we offer you? We’ve beer, and some Scotch, I think, and—”

“Teetotaller from the day born,” Milt Jerks said, waving his refusal as he took a chair. “Smoking likewise. I’m a Holy Roller.”

“A holy what?” Mrs. Peel asked faintly. Then, ever the polite hostess. “Ah, yes... I’m a Presbyterian myself. I didn’t know you had a Holy Rolling Church in Sweetwater.” I was only doing my best, she thought unhappily, watching Carla suddenly leave the room mumbling something about hay-fever and handkerchief. The others looked as if they needed a good excuse too. Mrs. Peel frowned at them slightly, and listened with rapt attention to Milt Jerks.

“We don’t,” Milt Jerks was saying gloomily. “That’s one thing I can’t persuade them to have. I’m the only Holy Roller in the place.”

“How lonely for you,” Mrs. Peel said sympathetically. “I mean, all by yourself.”

O’Farlan spilled the entire contents of the cigarette-box, with which he had been playing nervously, and went down on his knees to gather them together.

Mrs. Peel, conscious that his head was bent, that the others were laughing quite beyond all reason, could only shrug her shoulders and try to give a calm smile to Mr. Jerks. He was shaking his head over the uproar which had burst on the room so suddenly. They hadn’t much to laugh at, he thought, as he watched the thin, grey-haired fellow crawl around on all fours. They were all nuts. Writers, of course.

The girl with hay-fever came hurrying back and joined in the laughter. Just nuts, Milt Jerks thought. Only Mrs. Peel was not laughing very much, trying to show the rest of them how sane people behave.

Then Earl Grubbock returned from the cabin. He stood bewildered. He had never seen Prender Atherton Jones enjoying himself so wholeheartedly.

“Hello, Earl,” Esther Park said, suddenly serious. “You’re just in time. But I think it’s awful of us,” she added virtuously. “I really do!”

That silenced everyone, and they looked at her in dismay, waiting for her next words.

“So do I,” Sally said quickly, breathlessly. “We should all have helped Robert.”