Brunk said, “If we had a union we could—”
“There is not moral fiber enough among you to make a union.”
Brunk was silent for a time. Then he said, “Doc, I’m not saying what you just said isn’t so. But it isn’t all there is to it. We have got to have help to have a union, Doc. And the help we have to have is from respectable people. Like you.”
He had told Brunk many times he would not engage himself in trying to form a miners’ union; he had told himself, as many times, that there was no reason why he should. He said with finality, “I am a doctor, Frank. That’s all I am.”
“That’s a funny way to be. For I am a miner, but I am a man too.”
He didn’t answer; he picked up his bag.
Brunk said bitterly, “Well, don’t worry — they won’t fight when a man dies, not having any of that moral fiber you said. But maybe they will try to cut wages one of these days. I have never seen a man yet that wouldn’t fight for money.”
Brunk moved away from him, down toward the hospital room. Carrying his bag, the doctor walked rapidly to the entryway, and the stairs that led to the rooms on the second story of the General Peach. Outside the open front door a group of boarders on the porch were talking together in the darkness.
As he started up the stairs he could see through Jessie’s door, which she always left open, when she had company, for the sake of propriety. She was sitting stiffly on the horsehair sofa, with her hands clasped in her lap and her face alight. Just past the edge of the door a black strip of Blaisedell’s coat sleeve was visible, on the arm of the red plush chair.
“They were reasonable enough,” Blaisedell was saying. “Most men are, when you can talk to them straight. I don’t know as McQuown is one I’d trust far, but then I don’t know him.”
Blaisedell’s voice ceased for a moment, and Jessie glanced toward the door. The doctor went on up the stairs. Below him they began talking again, but now he couldn’t hear the words. In his room, as he poured a glass of water, and, into the water, the carefully measured drops of laudanum, he could not hear them at all.
7. CURLEY BURNE PLAYS HIS MOUTH ORGAN
IN THE night Curley let Spot pick his own way, only pushing on him when he began to fritter. By day it was a six-hour ride from Warlock to San Pablo, but by night it was slow. The stars were out and a burnt quarter-moon hung in the west, but the darkness was thick, and shapes came suddenly out of it to make his heart start and pound. From time to time he brought out the mouth organ that hung on a cord inside his shirt, and blew a tune through it.
He had dropped the others behind, but Abe had dropped him, too. Still, it was pleasant riding alone in the night, hearing now the wind whispering through trees he couldn’t even see. He reined up a moment to locate himself by the sound; he must be on the slope where, below, the river made a bend around a thick stand of cottonwoods. He turned downhill toward the river, Spot picking his way along with care. He heard the river itself and immediately, as he always did when he first heard it, he reined up again and dismounted to make water.
He rode on alongside the river, with its trembling rapid sheen under the moon and the trees soaring against the black sky, light-streaked where the wind turned the leaves. He listened for the thick rush of the rapids, and saw before him the outline of a horseman. He raised his mouth organ and blew into it, tunelessly. Spot scrambled down a rocky ledge, striking hoof-sparks.
“Curley?” Abe said.
“Ho,” he replied, and Spot whinnied at Abe’s black. They were on the northwest corner of the spread now, and Abe always stopped and watered here.
“Pretty night for a ride,” Curley said, dismounting and giving Spot a slap on the flank. “But I sure don’t own night eyes like you do. It is lucky Spot knows the route.”
“Where’s the others?” Abe asked.
“Back somewhere, bickering and whickering.”
Abe said nothing, and Curley waited to see if he would start off or wait. If he started off he would let him go in alone. But Abe waited until he remounted, and together they rode on down along the river beneath the cottonwoods.
After a time Curley said, “Quite a one, the marshal!”
“Yes,” Abe said. “He is quite a one.” Abe didn’t pick it up any more than that, nor, although his voice had seemed short, quite cut him off either.
Curley was silent for a time, thinking that it was still all right between the two of them, but thinking painfully now, too, that if he, Curley Burne, left San Pablo and moved west, or north, or down to Sonora somewhere, the way he had been considering lately, Abe would turn into pure son of a bitch. Like Jack Cade, only a bigger one; and that would be too bad. Abe had been knocking at it close for a good while now — he knew well enough that Abe had put Jack there to backshoot Blaisedell if it came to it — and it seemed to him more and more that but for him, and some kind of decency Abe owed him, Abe would go all the way over.
And the old man, he thought, shaking his head. The old man was a trial and a terror, and born unholy mean.
“Let’s go on along the river instead of cutting in,” Abe said.
“Sounds nice tonight, don’t it?” He reined right as Abe cut back down under the deep shadow of the cottonwoods. He spat, scraped his hand over his face, and braced himself to try again. Once he and Abe had been able to talk things out.
“Well,” he said loudly. “Looks like I am some beholden to him. He could’ve burned me down there as well as not.”
“No,” Abe said.
“Surely,” he insisted. “I was looking right down it, six feet long and six deep. And lonely!”
“No,” Abe said again. “It looks better for him like this.”
He grimaced to think of having to try to figure everything that way. “Well, he is greased lightning, sure enough,” he went on. “I never saw a man get unhooked that fast and have himself in hand enough so he didn’t have the trigger on the pull. I am some pleased to be with us here, tonight.”
Abe didn’t turn, didn’t speak.
“Well, it was coming anyhow,” Curley said. “Warlock was about due to get fed up with folks. There’s been things done that would make me mad, I know. Pony, now; Pony is an aggravating kind of man. Sometimes I think he don’t have good sense. Looks like Warlock was due for somebody like this Blaisedell.”
“I was here before he was,” Abe said, in a stifled voice. “But now he is set up to say who comes and goes in Warlock.”
“Aw, Abe,” he said. He didn’t know how to go on, but he was filled with it now and he had to try to say it out. “What’s got into you, Abe?” he asked.
“Meaning what?” Abe said.
He couldn’t bring himself to reproach Abe for setting Jack Cade to backshoot Blaisedell. He said, “Well, it used to be you’d come out and shoot tomato cans off fence posts with the rest of us. And mostly you’d win, but sometimes you’d lose out — that will happen to any man. And Indian wrestle and hand wrestle with us when we got to fooling, and that the same. But you have stopped it.”
The black cantered ahead, but when Curley caught up again he kept at it.
“Like you had got to be too big a man to lose any more.” His voice felt thick in his throat. “Like if you lost even one time at anything now you lost face, or some damned foolish thing. Like—” He cleared his throat. “Like I kind of think you couldn’t stand to lose tonight.”