Produced by Suzanne Shell, Beginners Projects, Mary Meehan and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team.
SIX FEET FOUR
by Jackson Gregory
1917
TO E. M. GREGORY
"HERE'S YOUR BOOK"
CHAPTER
I The Storm
II The Devil's Own Night
III Buck Thornton, Man's Man
IV The Ford
V The Man from Poison Hole Ranch
VI Winifred Judges a Man
VII An Invitation to Supper
VIII In Harte's Cabin
IX The Double Theft
X In the Moonlight
XI The Bedloe Boys
XII Rattlesnake Pollard
XIII The Ranch on Big Little River
XIV In the Name of Friendship
XV The Kid
XVI A Guarded Conference
XVII Suspicion
XVIII The Dance at Deer Creek Schoolhouse
XIX Six Feet Four!
XX Pollard Talks "Business"
XXI The Girl and the Game
XXII The Yellow Envelope Again!
XXIII Warning
XXIV The Gentleman from New Mexico
XXV In the Dark
XXVI The Frame-Up
XXVII Jimmie Squares Himself
XXVIII The Show Down
CHAPTER I
THE STORM
All day long, from an hour before the pale dawn until now after thethick dark, the storm had raged through the mountains. Before midday ithad grown dark in the canons. In the driving blast of the wind many atall pine had snapped, broken at last after long valiant years ofvictorious buffeting with the seasons, while countless tossing brancheshad been riven away from the parent boles and hurled far out in alldirections. Through the narrow canons the wet wind went shriekingfearsomely, driving the slant rain like countless thin spears ofglistening steel.
At the wan daybreak the sound filling the air was one of many-voiced butsubdued tumult, like the faraway growling of fierce, hungry, imprisonedbeasts. As the sodden hours dragged by the noises everywhere increasedsteadily, so that before noon the whole of the wilderness seemed to beshouting; narrow creek beds were filled with gushing, muddy water; thetrees on the mountainsides shook and snapped and creaked and hissed tothe hissing of the racing wind; at intervals the thunder echoingominously added its boom to the general uproar. Not for a score ofyears and upward had such a storm visited the mountains in the vicinityof the old road house in Big Pine Flat.
Night, as though it had leaped upon the back of the storm and had riddenhitherward on the wings of the wind all impatience to defy the laws ofdaylight, was in truth mistress of the mountains a full hour or morebefore the invisible sun's allotted time of setting. In thestorm-smitten, lonely building at the foot of the rocky slope, shiveringas though with the cold, rocking crazily as though in startled fear ateach gust, the roaring log fire in the open fireplace made an uncertaintwilight and innumerable ghostlike shadows. The wind whistling down thechimney, making that eerie sound known locally as the voice of WilliamHenry, came and went fitfully. Poke Drury, the cheerful, one-leggedkeeper of the road house, swung back and forth up and down on his onecrutch, whistling blithely with his guest of the chimney and lightingthe last of his coal oil lamps and candles.
"She's a Lu-lu bird, all right," acknowledged Poke Drury. He swungacross his long "general room" to the fireplace, balanced on his crutchwhile he shifted and kicked at a fallen burning log with his one boot,and then hooked his elbows on his mantel. His very black, smiling eyestook cheerful stock of his guests whom the storm had brought him. Theywere many, more than had ever at one time honoured the Big Pine roadhouse. And still others were coming.
"If Hap Smith ain't forgot how to sling a four horse team through thedark, huh?" continued the landlord as he placed still another candle atthe south window.
In architectural design Poke Drury's road house was as simple an affairas Poke Drury himself. There was but one story: the whole front of thehouse facing the country road was devoted to the "general room." Herewas a bar, occupying the far end. Then there were two or three rude pinetables, oil-cloth covered. The chairs were plentiful and all of therawhide bottom species, austere looking, but comfortable enough. And,at the other end of the barn like chamber was the long dining table.Beyond it a door leading to the kitchen at the back of the house. Nextto the kitchen the family bed room where Poke Drury and his drearylooking spouse slept. Adjoining this was the one spare bed room, with acouple of broken legged cots and a wash-stand without any bowl orpitcher. If one wished to lave his hands and face or comb his hair lethim step out on the back porch under the shoulder of the mountain andutilize the road house toilet facilities there: they were a tin basin, awater pipe leading from a spring and a broken comb stuck after thefashion of the country in the long hairs of the ox's tail nailed to theporch post.
"You gents is sure right welcome," the one-legged proprietor went on,having paused a moment to listen to the wind howling through the narrowpass and battling at his door and windows. "I got plenty to eat an'more'n plenty to drink, same as usual. But when it comes to sleepin',well, you got to make floors an' chairs an' tables do. You see this herelittle shower has filled me all up. The Lew Yates place up the river gotitself pretty well washed out; Lew's young wife an' ol' mother-in-law,"and Poke's voice was properly modified, "got scared clean to pieces. Notbein' used to our ways out here," he added brightly. "Any way they'vegot the spare bed room. An' my room an' Ma's ... well, Ma's got a realbad cold an' she's camped there for the night. But, shucks, boys, what'sthe odds, when there's fire in the fire place an' grub in the grub boxan' as fine a line of licker as you can find any place I know of. An' adeck or two of cards an' the bones to rattle for them that's anxious tomake or break quick ... Hap Smith _ought_ to been here before now. Youwouldn't suppose...."
He broke off and looked at those of the faces which had been turned hisway. His thought was plain to read, at least for those who understoodrecent local conditions. Hap Smith had been driving the stage over themountains for only something less than three weeks; which is to saysince the violent taking off of his predecessor, Bill Varney.
Before any one spoke the dozen men in the room had had ample time toconsider this suggestion. One or two of them glanced up at the clockswinging its pendulum over the chimney piece. Then they went on withwhat they were doing, glancing through old newspapers, dealing atcards, smoking or just sitting and staring at nothing in particular.
"The last week has put lots of water in all the cricks," offered old manAdams from his place by the fire. "Then with this cloud-bust an'downpour today, it ain't real nice travellin'. That would be about allthat's holdin' Hap up. An' I'm tellin' you why: Did you ever hear a mantell of a stick-up party on a night like this? No, sir! These herestick-up gents got more sense than that; they'd be settin' nice an' snugan' dry like us fellers, right now."
As usual, old man Adams had stated a theory with emphasis and utterlywithout any previous reflection, being a positive soul, but never abrilliant. And, again quite as usual, a theory stated was naturally tobe combated with more or less violence. Out of the innocent enoughstatement there grew a long, devious argument. An argument which was atits height and evincing no signs of ever getting anywhere at all, whenfrom the night without came the rattle of wheels, the jingle of harnesschains and Hap Smith's voice shouting out the tidings of his tardyarrival.
The front door was flung open, lamps and candles and log fire all dancedin the sudden draft and some of the flickering flames went out
, and thefirst one of Hap Smith's belated passengers, a young girl, was fairlyblown into the room. She, like the rest, was drenched and as shehastened across the floor to the welcome fire trailed rain water fromher cape and dress. But her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks rosy withthe rude wooing of the outside night. After her, stamping noisily, gladof the light and warmth and a prospect of food and drink, came HapSmith's other passengers, four booted men from the mines and the cattlecountry.
To the last man of them in the road house they gave her their immediateand exclusive attention. Briefly suspended were all such operations assmoking, drinking, newspaper reading or card playing. They looked at hergravely, speculatively and with frankly unhidden interest. One man whohad laid a wet coat aside donned it again swiftly and surreptitiously.Another in awkward fashion, as she passed close to him, half rose andthen sank back into his chair. Still others merely narrowed the gazethat was bent upon her steadily.
She went straight to the fireplace, threw off her wraps and extended herhands to the blaze. So for a moment she stood, her shoulders stirring tothe shiver which ran down her whole body. Then she turned her head alittle and for the first time took in all of the rude appointments ofthe room.
"Oh!" she gasped. "I...."
"It's all right, Miss," said Poke Drury, swinging toward her, his handlifted as though to stop one in full flight. "You see ... just that endthere is the bar room," he explained nodding at her reassuringly. "Themiddle of the room here is the ... the parlour; an' down at that end,where the long table is, that's the dinin' room. I ain't ever gotaroun' to the partitions yet, but I'm goin' to some day. An' ... Ahem!"
He had said it all and, all things considered, had done rather well withan impossible job. The clearing of the throat and a glare to go with itwere not for the startled girl but for that part of the room where thebar and card tables were being used.
"Oh," said the girl again. And then, turning her back upon the bar andso allowing the firelight to add to the sparkle of her eyes and theflush on her cheeks, "Of course. One mustn't expect everything. Andplease don't ask the gentlemen to ... to stop whatever they are doing onmy account. I'm quite warm now." She smiled brightly at her host andshivered again.
"May I go right to my room?"
In the days when Poke Drury's road house stood lone and aloof from theworld in Big Pine Flat, very little of the world from which such as PokeDrury had retreated had ever peered into these mountain-boundfastnesses; certainly less than few women of the type of this girl hadever come here in the memory of the men who now, some boldly and someshyly, regarded her drying herself and seeking warmth in front of theblazing fire. True, at the time there were in the house three others ofher sex. But they were ... different.
"May I go right to my room?" she repeated as the landlord stood gapingat her rather foolishly. She imagined that he had not heard, being alittle deaf ... or that, possibly, the poor chap was a trifle slowwitted. And again she smiled on him kindly and again he noted theshiver bespeaking both chill and fatigue.
But to Poke Drury there had come an inspiration. Not much of one,perhaps, yet he quickly availed himself of it. Hanging in a dusty cornernear the long dining table, was an old and long disused guest's book,the official road house register. Drury's wandering eye lighted upon it.
"If you'll sign up, Miss," he suggested, "I'll go have Ma get your roomready."
And away he scurried on his crutch, casting a last look over hisshoulder at his ruder male guests.
The girl went hastily as directed and sat down at the table, her back tothe room. The book she lifted down from its hanging place; there was astub of pencil tied to the string. She took it stiffly into her fingersand wrote, "Winifred Waverly." Her pencil in the space reserved for thesigner's home town, she hesitated. Only briefly, however. With a littleshrug, she completed the legend, inscribing swiftly, "Hill's Corners."Then she sat still, feeling that many eyes were upon her and waited thereturn of the road house keeper. When finally he came back into theroom, his slow hesitating gait and puckered face gave her a suspicion ofthe truth.
"I'm downright sorry, Miss," he began lamely. "Ma's gotsomethin' ... bad cold or pneumonia ... an' she won't budge. There'sonly one more bed room an' Lew Yates's wife has got one cot an Lew'smother-in-law has got the other. An' _they_ won't budge. An' ..."
He ended there abruptly.
"I see," said the girl wearily. "There isn't any place for me."
"Unless," offered Drury without enthusiasm and equally withoutexpectation of his offer being of any great value, "you'd care to crawlin with Ma ..."
"No, thank you!" said Miss Waverly hastily. "I can sit up somewhere;after all it won't be long until morning and we start on again. Or, if Imight have a blanket to throw down in a corner ..."
Again Poke Drury left her abruptly. She sat still at the table, withoutturning, again conscious of many eyes steadily on her. Presently from anadjoining room came Drury's voice, subdued to a low mutter. Then awoman's voice, snapping and querrulous. And a moment later the return ofDrury, his haste savouring somewhat of flight from the connubialchamber, but certain spoils of victory with him; from his arm trailed acrazy-quilt which it was perfectly clear he had snatched from his wife'sbed.
He led the way to the kitchen, stuck a candle in a bottle on the table,spread the quilt on the floor in the corner, made a veritable ceremonyof fastening the back door and left her. The girl shivered and wentslowly to her uninviting couch.
Poke Drury, in his big general room again, stood staring with troubledface at the other men. With common consent and to the last man of themthey had already tiptoed to the register and were seeking to informthemselves as to the name and habitat of the prettiest girl who had everfound herself within the four walls of Poke Drury's road house.
"Nice name," offered old man Adams whose curiosity had kept stride withhis years and who, lacking all youthful hesitation, had been first toget to the book. "Kind of stylish soundin'. But, Hill's Corners?" Heshook his head. "I ain't been to the Corners for a right smart spell,but I didn't know such as _her_ lived there."
"They don't," growled the heavy set man who had snatched the registerfrom old man Adams' fingers. "An' I been there recent. Only last week.The Corners ain't so all-fired big as a female like her is goin' to belivin' there an' it not be knowed all over."
Poke Drury descended upon them, jerked the book away and with a screwedup face and many gestures toward the kitchen recalled to them that aflimsy partition, though it may shut out the vision, is hardly to becounted on to stop the passage of an unguarded voice.
"Step down this way, gents," he said tactfully. "Where the bar is. Bein'it's a right winterish sort of night I don't reckon a little drop o'kindness would go bad, huh? Name your poison, gents. It's on me."
In her corner just beyond the flimsy partition, Winifred Waverly, ofHill's Corners or elsewhere, drew the many coloured patch work quiltabout her and shivered again.