Silver Rock Page 9

  It just didn’t take. In his memory, he kept seeing Sarah in Tully’s arms, and when he finally, with a violence that he could not control, drove two balls off the table, he racked his cue and sat down heavily in an armchair against the wall. Someone in the distant reading room coughed, but Ben sat silent, sipping at his drink, an angry bafflement within him.

  In the past two days the whole pattern of his life had changed for him. It seemed to him that all he had liked and grown used to and accepted as his own was now threatened—and by a complete stranger. The Vicksburg Claims were slipping away from him, and more important, so was Sarah. It had taken him two years of solid dating, countless dinners, and a hundred grudging apologies to get his first kiss from Sarah. At that it had been a sisterly, half-mocking kiss. It had taken Gibbs just three days.

  Ben looked at his glass and found it empty. He tramped back into the bar, mixed himself a fresh and stronger one, and then, for fear he would be intruded upon, he retreated again to his chair in the billiard room. Slacking into the chair he relaxed, tilted his head back and closed his eyes, feeling the glass pleasantly cold in his fist. He decided now that he would have to act decisively or everything would be lost. This afternoon, to check Byers’s story of what went on in the commissioner’s meeting, he had told Olive Lindsay to call the Uinta Construction Company in Galena to check if a bulldozer had been ordered by Gibbs. It had not only been ordered, but it had been loaded on that day’s train and was probably on the Azurite siding right now.

  Carefully, now, Ben considered what advantages lay with him and the Mahaffey. Tully had a hundred and twenty days to build a road and move enough high-grade ore to the mill and smelter to pay back the ten-thousand dollar loan. If he didn’t—

  Ben sat up, opening his eyes, the idea dawning on him. If Tully couldn’t repay the loan, then Ben could attach his assets. And his assets were a share in the Vicksburg Claims. That’s it, Ben thought delightedly. His obvious move was to put every possible obstruction in the way of Tully’s completing the road and moving the ore. Ben spent five more seconds considering the man to do the job, and when he had him, he moved.

  He glanced briefly at his watch, put on his coat, snapped out the billiard room light and left the club. Out in the night he turned left at the first cross street, heading for the least prosperous section of town against the mountains. Here the town seemed darker and the street lamps farther apart—or maybe it was because this was the working-class section of town and working stiffs went to bed early. A dog picked him up, barking furiously, and Ben managed to kick him. Once the yelps of the retreating dog fell off, it was utterly quiet, and his footfalls on the gravel road sounded loud enough to wake the dead.

  At a dark intersection, made more confusing by the absence of a street light and by the emergence of two crooked alleys, Ben halted to take his bearings. Then he moved angling into the narrowest alley and tramped down it between rotting sheds until he came to a small, dark building abutting the alley whose painted window frames loomed gray in the black night. The building was unlighted. For a moment Ben hesitated, then he moved toward it, stumbling over a heap of cans before he reached the door.

  He knocked loudly and waited. Presently, a sleep-dulled voice called through the door, “Get the hell away from here!”

  “It’s me, Ben Hodes. Let me in, Arnie.” There was a sound of movement in the shack, then a light went on and the door opened. A gangling figure in rumpled under-drawers and shirt stood in the doorway. This was Arnie Lind.

  “Come in, Ben, come in. I thought you was a drunk on his way home.”

  Ben stepped into the squalid kitchen-bedroom which smelled of bacon grease and unclean bedding. Arnie shut the door behind him, then moved barefoot over to the chair over which his pants were draped.

  He removed the pants, swung the chair out, and said, “Sit down, Ben.”

  Ben eased himself into the chair, regarding Arnie, who was a wiry, but big-boned Finn with a thatch of thick iron-gray hair topping a wedge-shaped face. His hands were huge and permanently grease-stained, since he was a machinist at the Mahaffey mill. Ben had chosen him for a number of reasons, among which was the fact that he lived and drank alone and that Ben’s father, years ago, had got him out of a serious knifing scrape. Arnie was, Ben knew, reliable up to a point, thoroughly dishonest and sufficiently taciturn.

  When Arnie, still barefoot but wearing pants now, sat down on the edge of the bed, Ben saw that his small, pale eyes, cunning as a homeless dog’s, were regarding him with covert speculation.

  “Something break down at the mill?” Arnie inquired.

  Ben shook his head impatiently. He wished he had some other seat than this frail chair so nakedly in the open. Rising, he moved the chair almost against the wall, unbuttoned his coat, sat down, tilted his chair back and offered Arnie a cigarette. Arnie accepted, lit Ben’s cigarette and then his own and settled back on the bed again, watching Ben.

  “Arnie,” Ben began, “I’ve got a new job for you.”

  A faint alarm seemed to come in Arnie’s face. “You mean you don’t like my work?”

  “This has nothing to do with the mill,” Ben said. “I want a man I can trust, a man who won’t talk, and a man with some sense, and I’ll pay well.”

  “For what?” Arnie asked.

  Ben considered his cigarette a moment, wondering whether to give Arnie the whole story. He decided he’d have to if Arnie was to operate with any understanding of what was required of him. Accordingly, he told Arnie of Tully Gibb’s new partnership with Kevin Russel to mine the Vicksburg Claims. He related with complete candor his own ambitions to get those claims for the Mahaffey.

  This was something Arnie could appreciate, and he grinned faintly as Ben went on to tell of Gibbs’s appeal for county help, of the commissioners’ refusal and of Gibbs’s renting equipment from the Galena firm.

  “You see how it is,” Ben explained. “This Gibbs is racing against winter. He’s got a hell of a job getting in that road, and he hasn’t got the really big dough to rent lots of equipment and swing it in a hurry.” He paused. “I want you to see that he doesn’t get it in.”

  Arnie, not committing himself, was silent.

  “There’s a hundred things you can do, Arnie,” Ben went on. “You can find out what equipment he’s rounding up here and foul it up. When we find out who’s working for him, maybe we can reach them. Understand, I don’t want anybody hurt, but I want him to run into so much grief that he’ll be absolutely stalled. How does it sound?”

  Arnie inhaled deeply on his cigarette, staring at the floor, and then he shrugged, “I got a job to take care of, Ben.”

  “I thought of that,” Ben said. “Tomorrow send Everett around to check that motor on three level. Armstrong has been beefing about it for days. When he’s out of the shop, pretend you dropped something on your hand. Get it bandaged up, come in to me and ask to go see Doc Richards. That’ll give you three or four days off. Hang around town and see what you can find out about Gibbs’s plans. Check with me and then do the job at night. How about it?”

  Ben saw the sly amusement mount into Arnie’s eyes. Once the economic side of it was taken care of, Ben guessed, the natural inclination to delinquency in Arnie would conquer.

  “Okay with me,” Arnie said softly. “When do I start?”

  “Before you take it, Arnie, I want one thing understood. You’re off work with a hurt hand. If you damn well don’t stay out of the saloons, I’ll can you from the mill.”

  Arnie grinned in understanding. “Okay. When do I start?”

  “Tonight.”

  By the time Beth Hodes had the dinner dishes washed up and the kitchen spotless, Ben had left the house. She had no idea where he’d gone and cared even less. Snapping out the kitchen light, she walked through the dining room, straightened one of the heavy Victorian chairs as she circled the table, and entered the living room. There was the whole evening—a manless evening she thought—before her. She lifted a cigarette from the
coffee table and put it between her lips, but did not light it. It came to her with the weight of weary depression that this very act, in this very room, at this very hour had been repeated a thousand times, and would be repeated another thousand.

  She wondered bitterly what would happen if she went to the phone, called up Frank Nichols, Sam Horne, or even Tully Gibbs and asked them to drop over for a drink. With a kind of wry self-derision she thought, Nobody in his right mind invites a beating from Ben.

  Listlessly then, she lighted her cigarette, wondering how to occupy herself the rest of the evening. All the household chores were done for the day; she’d read all this week’s magazines and she had seen the movie last night. She could wash her hair, but the thought bored her. Idly she walked over to the phone and called the Moffit apartment, thinking a round of Canasta might appeal to Sarah. Mrs. Moffit, however, informed her that Sarah was out, and Beth boredly cradled the phone.

  But a deep restlessness was upon her. She turned down the living-room lights, got a coat from the hall closet and stepped out into the pleasant night. At the end of the walk she paused undecided, and then turned left toward the outskirts of town. She admitted to herself that this was a measure of her desperation; it was a spinster’s substitute for working off energy that should be channeled into working with a man, raising his children and looking after a family. She walked briskly now, taking consistent left turns, so that in an hour she had half circled the town and found herself at the far south end of Main Street.

  Tired now, she turned up Main and into the dim-lit business section. So far this evening she had met no one, and it only deepened her fancy, which sometimes almost amounted to a fear, that she was living a life hermetically sealed from the realities of other people. As she passed the hotel she heard the lobby door open behind her and a man’s voice said, “Why, hello, Beth!”

  Beth halted, turned and saw that it was Sam Horne who had spoken. She smiled pleasantly and said, “Evening, Sam!” It had been so long since she had used her voice that it sounded rusty and harsh, and she felt a small embarrassment.

  “If I didn’t know who it was, I’d swear you were a dame looking for a pickup,” Sam said. He came over to her and she saw his faint, wry smile.

  Remembering yesterday, Beth found it hard to meet his glance, but she decided to adopt his own flip tone of voice. “How do you know I’m not?”

  Sam slipped his arm through hers and said, “All right. You’ve made the grade,” and fell in beside her. His easy manner thawed Beth. She glanced curiously at him, and saw nothing but friendliness in his face. It was as if he had already forgotten yesterday’s unpleasantness. “I’m a working man and I can’t stand much carousing,” Sam said. “Will you settle for a cup of coffee and a doughnut?”

  “Two doughnuts. I think I’ve walked three miles tonight.”

  Sam glanced briefly at her. “That business yesterday upset you?”

  “Shouldn’t it have?”

  Sam didn’t answer. He steered her into the empty restaurant and gestured toward a booth at the right wall. When they were seated, he ordered from the aproned cook, and then settled back against the booth. Beth, knowing he was watching her, busied herself by taking a cigarette from her purse and lighting it.

  “You know, I hate coffee,” Sam said irrelevantly. “But I keep drinking it. Kevin Russel already fed me five cups tonight, and here I am again.” He pulled an ear lobe, scowling. “I wish I liked something else to drink besides alcohol.”

  Beth laughed in spite of herself.

  Sam said abruptly, “You know, you’re damned pretty, Beth. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  Beth started, and then thought, I’m damned if I’ll blush. “My mother did once.”

  Sam snorted. “No man has?”

  Beth smiled faintly and shook her head in negation.

  “That’s right. Ben never gives you a chance to hear one, does he?”

  A sudden discomfort came to Beth, and she could not hold Sam’s friendly gaze.

  “Well, a man just has. You can tell that to Ben.”

  “I don’t think I will,” Beth said softly.

  “You mean you think he’d beat me up?”

  “Something like that.”

  The cook interrupted them with their coffee and doughnuts. Sam ladled three spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee, grimaced at the glazed doughnuts and pushed them away from him, then folded his arms on the table top and said conversationally, “You know, you’re one of the few women I know who’s scared. You read these crummy three-name-female authoresses in the rental library and they’ve always got their heroines cowering in the corner because some nasty man is threatening them. They’re so damn delicate and sensitive.” He scowled thoughtfully and said, “Actually that’s strictly laughing gas. Women are tougher than hell, and they don’t scare easy. They’re not like you. You’d make a damn good cornball heroine.”

  As Beth listened, her anger began to rise. She knew Sam saw it, because he smiled. “Your next line should be ‘I didn’t come here to be insulted,’ just in case you’re reaching for it.”

  “I’m not reaching for a line. I’m just listening,” Beth said coldly.

  “Thereby admitting it’s true?”

  “I guess.”

  “Then why the hell don’t you do something about it?” Sam asked.

  Beth felt a real anger pushing her. “What do you suggest I do, shoot him?”

  “That’s an unclean thought. Purge yourself of it,” Sam said soberly. His tone of voice was just as sober, but it held more vehemence as he said, “Get out of that big house, Beth! Get a room! Get a job! Cook your own meals and ask the boys up to the place. If Ben bothers you, call in the law. You’re over twenty-one and fancy free, at least in theory.”

  The truth of his words galled Beth deeply. In effect, what Sam was saying was that instead of wallowing in self-pity, she should do something about her present life. And so she should. She was aware now of the gentleness in Sam’s eyes behind his glasses, and she knew there had been no malice in his words.

  “You’re just lazy,” Sam said accusingly. “You’re—”

  Beth cut in. “I can finish it, Sam. I’m used to good living, and I like our house.”

  Sam nodded. “You like it well enough to put up with what happened yesterday?”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “No, you’re not.” Sam’s voice was rough. “If you were, you’d do something about it.”

  “But what can I do? All I know how to do is cook and keep house. The only reason I learned that is because I was bored.”

  “Got any money?”

  “Enough to keep me. So what do I do—rent a dirty little room and buy a gas plate?”

  “You get a job. After that the room won’t seem dirty and you won’t mind the gas plate.”

  Sam reached up and removed his glasses, then flipped a paper napkin open and proceeded to clean them with it. He scowled at the coffee cup while he vigorously cleaned them. Suddenly he said, “Can you spell?”

  “Yes.”

  Sam seemed startled. “That’s the first positive statement I ever heard you make.”

  “All right. But I can.”

  “Then how’d you like to work for me?”

  Beth looked at him searchingly. A wild hope stirred within her for a moment and then it died. This, she understood instinctively, was a gesture stemming from pity. Her glance fell away from Sam, and she said, “Thanks, Sam, but I can’t write, and you know it.”

  Sam laughed, and put his glasses back on. “You’re not supposed to. All you’ll do for a long time is write items like this: ‘Oscar Johnson, the Misses Tillie and Georgia Johnson were visitors to Galena last Saturday.’ Just so you spell their names right.”

  Beth only smiled, and Sam went on, “I’ll pay you thirty bucks a week, more than I can afford.”

  Beth knew that Sam was exaggerating the simplicity of the job. She also knew that he was doing this in part out of pity for her and
in part out of liking for her. If she could pay her way, the pity would vanish, and the liking would remain. Lest he reconsider, she said recklessly, “I’ll take it.”

  “On one condition. You move out of that house first.”

  “I’ll do that, too.”

  Sam reached for the check and stood up. “Come on, I’ll take you home. I’ll probably try to kiss you, too, so start worrying about that.”

  Alec was dressed in a clean pair of green army mechanic’s coveralls, and, perhaps with the prospect of a steady pay check in sight, his pocket bulged with a handful of cigars, one of which he expertly fired up as he drove.

  Tully marshaled in his mind the chores ahead of him today. They would unload the cat in plenty of time to avoid a demurrage charge and then assemble their equipment by trailer. In the meantime he must round up a crew, one of whom would come with him in Alec’s jeep tomorrow to serve as level rodman for putting in the grade stakes. It was Tully’s guess that by the following day Alec would have all the gear assembled and would start pioneering the new road.

  Approaching the spur now Alec saw the big yellow fifteen-ton bulldozer resting on the flatcar. When they swung into the cinder-strewn siding, Alec braked to a stop and regarded the towering cat. “Nearly new,” Alec said approvingly.

  Tully, however, was already looking ahead of them. He spied the pile of ties mentioned by the station agent in their conversation yesterday. To unload the cat they must first shore up the near side of the flatcar and build a ramp to the ground. For this, Tully had asked permission to use the ties.

  “Let’s break our backs first,” Tully said, and reluctantly put the jeep in motion toward the pile of ties.

  They worked most of the morning hauling ties to the flatcar and bracing it against the moment when the monstrous weight of the cat would begin to tip it. That completed, they used more ties to construct a wide sloping ramp to the ground. Sometime after midday they took twenty minutes to drive back to town for food, and then returned to the siding. By this time they were both grimy with creosote from the ties. After a final survey, they swung onto the flatcar to warm up the cat’s motor. Alec stepped up onto the seat and then out onto the tread. Tully, checking the winch cable, suddenly heard Alec’s startled profanity and he glanced up.