Stubborn people

By Ernest Haycox Author of “A Burnt Creek Yuletide,” etc.

Old man Bud sat on the porch of his Burnt Creek store, watching the shimmering heat waves that rose out of the jack-pine forest and trailed across the small sand-floored clearing. A lazy drone pervaded the air, broken by the snapping of myriad insects and the impalpable, shutterlike beat of the blazing atmosphere.

He had a habit of reflecting on life. Every act in a man’s life, he reflected now, was affected by every other act. There was no beginning and no end. Just an everlasting onward march. Take Jim Hunter for example.

Bud’s impassive face lightened. “Think of the devil an’ he’s sure to pop up.” From the north leg of the Bend Klamath Highway rode Jim Hunter, a tall and supple fellow who, even in the saddle, seemed unable to bend his shoulders.

“Stubborn as a mule,” reflected Bud in admiration. He waited until Hunter had reached the porch and led the horse into an ineffectual patch of shade before vouchsafing welcome. “You’d save a lot of energy, young fella, if you’d just slouch in the saddle when you’re ridin’. That’s advice from a broken-down cow-puncher. This ain’t no parade.”

Hunter stepped up on the porch. The effect of his stature was heightened by the way he carried himself and the seasoned leanness of his body. The struggle on homestead land had definitely left its impression. With some men the abrasion of weather and work affects only a general hardening of features. In Jim Hunter it brought out the original tenacity of his nature and left decisive lines on the berry-colored face. A flash of humor widened his eyes.

“There’s no use trying to save me trouble, Bud. Takes fire to burn a fool. I need some coffee and beans.”

“Huh.” The storekeeper hoisted himself from the chair and ambled into the dark building. “There’s a letter. Mebbe you’ll want it afore the beans.”

Hunter took it with unrestrained eagerness. The gravity dropped from him like a mantle. It seemed he could not tear away the envelope quick enough. Bud, sharply watching, saw the young man’s eyes race down the written page with actual avidity. But, as quickly did the face turn expressionless again and presently he crumpled the page in his fist, scowling--so bitter and unforgiving a scowl that the storekeeper clucked his tongue and dumped the provisions on the counter softly.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“No! There wasn’t anything else,” muttered Hunter. “There never is.” He stared out of the door upon the sun-scorched clearing. His mind was far from Burnt Creek.

“I mean in the line o’ grub,” added Bud dryly.

That brought the young man back. “You old goat, quit reading my mind.”

“I been called a lot of things in my time, but I pause at the term goat,” grumbled the storekeeper. “I figger some day I’m agoin’ to quit tendin’ store fer a bunch of sassy homesteaders. Take your grub and git.”

Hunter stalked to the porch, dumped the grub in his saddlebags, and climbed to the saddle.

“If a man was in his right mind, he’d never come to this God-forsaken land.”

“Road’s plumb open. You ain’t tied to that land. If you don’t admire it, why’n’t you just sashay out?”

“Same reason you’ve stuck to this dump for fifteen years,” retorted Hunter.

The two traded sober glances. Bud nodded. “Guess you’re right, son. We’re sort of spellbound. Gets in the blood, I reckon.”

Hunter turned his horse to the road. In a moment he had disappeared through the jack pines. Bud settled in his chair after securing a fresh cigar and reverted to his original lines of thought. Jim Hunter now had been a homesteader three years and wore the same hard-bitten look that they all carried. It was partly the result of fighting the land. But that wasn’t wholly so. Jim had come from Portland with the same tight lips and the same stubborn carriage of body. Three years had done a great deal in seasoning and tempering the body and wearing away all softness. The essentials remained untouched. Regularly he came to Burnt Creek for supplies and mail. Regularly he received a letter in the same feminine handwriting, which he opened always with a brightening of face and crumpled later with a scowl which seemed to cover hurt pride and forlorn hope. Those letters, evidently, demanded something he would not give, for he never sent an answer through Bud’s little post office.

The storekeeper reluctantly left the chair and wandered back to his kitchen. The sun blazed up in the sky, intolerably scorching. Bud viewed an empty pitcher and set to work at making a supply of lemonade against the greater heat of the long afternoon. A few beans, some hard bread, and a dish of canned peaches served for dinner. Then, with a fresh cigar and the lemonade at hand, he settled himself in the sultry shade. All things, in Bud’s philosophy, came to those who waited--provided the waiting was mixed with a little judicious helping.

But the afternoon was not to be lonely. He had just started on the lemonade when the sputter of the Bend Klamath stage motor reached him. The vehicle swayed out of the forest, climbed the ruts of the road, skidded perilously amid a shower of sand, and brought a boiling radiator nose and nose with the porch. The driver had a passenger this trip. A woman it was, veiled against the dirt and sun. Teddy Hanson climbed away from his wheel and helped her to the porch.

“Aw,” he said, “now what’s the good of stoppin’ at a horrible hole like this, ma’am? Gosh, think how lonely I’ll be all the way to Klamath.”

“Flattery,” said the girl. She drew back the veil and Bud, greatly puzzled by this visit, found himself looking at an extremely pretty mouth and a pair of hazel eyes that could, when they pleased, be very friendly. Some shade of dark hair strayed pleasantly down a white temple. “Is this Mr. Bud?” she asked.

“That’s him,” growled out the driver. “There’s a lot of circum-feerance, you see. He gets it sittin’ on the porch of this so-called store.”

“I wouldn’t listen to such slander,” replied Bud. “It’s the heat makes him that way. But I mistrust you’ve got to the wrong place. Ain’t hardly anything here you could stop off for. It must be Klamath you mean.” He could not help noting that it was not the friendly eyes nor the pretty mouth which most attracted him as it was a firm little chin with the dab of a freckle on it, and an Irish nose. “She’ll be wantin’ her own way,” he silently prophesied.

“No,” she answered. “It’s Burnt Creek.”

Teddy Hanson boosted the girl’s trunk on the porch, obviously disinclined to go. She settled the matter by paying him. “Thank you.” The inflection was as much as a dismissal. Teddy shot a glance of envy toward Bud, and climbed into his seat.

“It’s a wonder you wouldn’t fix the road in front of your shack,” he shouted above the clatter of the engine.

“That sand flea c’n burrow where it won’t climb,” retorted Bud. A cloud of sand shot from the wheels; when the dust settled, the stage was gone.

“I dunno how that thing sticks together,” he said. “It drinks sand an’ runs on grasshoppers. They’s a hundred dollars’ worth of bailin’ wire in it.” He saw that she had lost spirit and was staring wistfully at the road. “What’d you say you were after, ma’am?”

“They told me in Bend that you’d help me. I--I’m looking for a homestead here.”

“A homestead, ma’am?”

“Never mind how I look!” she cried. “And don’t try to argue me out of it! I’ve argued all the way from Portland, and it’s settled. If you won’t help me, I’ll have to get some one else. I want a homestead near Burnt Creek.”

“Why near Burnt Creek, ma’am?”

“For--for reasons.”

There was metal in her. She wore clothes that stamped her as a refined city woman, and her hands and clear skin were plain enough witnesses that she had never trafficked much with spade and bucket. Still, Bud did not make the mistake of arguing. He saw her determined little chin with the dab of a freckle on it. She was another of those stubborn people--such kind as made good in this country. They never knew when they were licked.

“Why, sure, I’ll help you, ma’am,” he agreed affably. “Most everybody comes to me sooner or later, around here, leastwise. But it’s powerful hot here. Come in an’ have some lemonade.”

It was a great deal later, when the courtesies were dispensed with and the subject of land well talked over, that Bud thought of the Hazen place. “I been thinkin’,” said he, spoiling a new cigar, “that you’ll be all by yourself. It’s a hard life any way you take it, an’ if you c’d get near other folks it’d be a great boost. I’ve located durn near every other family in these parts, an’ it strikes me there’s a nice section about an hour’s ride from here, adjoinin’ Jim Hunter’s place.”

Her head came up of a sudden and a sparkle of triumph set her blue eyes to shining. “That’s the place I want!” she cried.