15 Western Short Stories — page 58: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

58 tongue-whipped by a young female. It’s plumb infuriating.” The girls dark eyes were a chal- lenge. A smile, ever so light, softened her lips. “We could be wrong.” She nodded toward the firehouse. “Why don’t you try again?” EVERAL days and two fire calls later Sam Morrey was still won- dering why he did it. Pete Hurrell, crew boss under Halloran, was carry- ing a heavy load of grudge. He had talked loud and mean when Sam had walked back into the firehouse that first day, all bloodied up. The big man had taken one look and roared with laughter. He told Sam to Stay on, if he was so blamed deter- mined. He said he’d even gamble ona crazy buckskin, if it would help to get the Foxtail back. In the next few days, Pete Hurrell had grown quieter and some degrees deadlier. Sam knew why, for he’d tak- en to walking Nora Halloran home in the late afternoons from the general store she and Lucifer ran down the street. Sam came to know that the sweetness of these walks was matched ounce for ounce by a mounting bitter- ness in Pete Hurrell. And Pete was no man to hide his feelings. He let the ‘“bunkers’—the men who roomed at the firehouse, Sam included—know that the recapture of the Foxtail was important to him, per- sonally. More important—and more strictly a personal matter—was his passion for Nora. There was no man who could Stand in the way of that passion and count on any glorious future. But Sam, in his innocence, foilowed feverishly on the trail of disaster. Nora could look at him with her half amused smile and give him the true answer to his strange discontent. What was the good of otter pelt, or gold dust, or store profits without a woman to share them with? And what was the good of a woman, if she were not the right one? And what woman in all his life held the sting and sweetness of Nora Halloran? And Nora? She wanted neither pro- fit nor pelt nor, seemingly, Sam him- self—but a foxtailf “A foxtail!”’ Sam said scornfully, WESTERN SHORT STORIES one late afternoon while walking her home. “I can trap you a thousand foxes. I could festoon this street with foxtails, I—” “Sam Morrey, maybe you could,” the girl flared. “But they’d not be worth the one I want!” So, at two small fires Sam pulled hysterically at the engine rope and won some respect from the crew for his speed and reckless daring. He built a hotter fire, however, than any he helped to quell. Pete Hurrell made his move on an evening of the third week. After meal- time and several of the bunkers had drifted off and there were maybe half a dozen still around the table, Pete said, “Sam, what is it you want around this place?” It was a question that came sudden- ly,.as a surprise, and stopped all talk around the table. It was somehow hos- tile and like a trap, but too clever a trap for the men to fathom. After a moment, Sam replied. “I’d want the pipe,” he said evenly. Pete nodded quickly, satisfied. He looked around at the others. “The pipe on my side of the engine tongue goes to the buckskin next time out.” That was all he said and it was de- cided. It meant Sam would hold the pipe—or blunderbuss—in the battle with other crews at the cistern. To hold the pipe was an honor, but this time the awarding of it to Sam came like a challenge. Sam got up slowly from the table and wandered outside. The strange and rebellious young city around him, in its fold of sandhills, was stretching and coming awake for a gaudy night. Halloran’s huge figure was seen ap- proaching down the street. Sam folded his arms, leaned back against the building and waited in silence. When Lucifer drew abreast he nei- ther spoke nor nodded. He just stood there for several moments, large and poised, seeming to size up the night. “Wind drifting from the northeast,” he said finally. “Good to know if we catch a blaze.” “Pretty damp, though.” “etter gTrunted. “Firell run through this town in a rainstorm, if it gets started. Wood and canvas is made to burn.” oO CoOMmiclboo SS CO