II
Even before he rapped on the door, Sam Graybull sensed that something was wrong at the home of Pete Peralta. Horses in the hay corral, nibbling from the snow capped stack. Gate down. No tracks around. Cattle, gaunt flanked and hollow eyed, bawling for water in the lower pasture. Woodpile buried in the snow. Yet there was smoke coming from the chimney. A light inside, against the coming dusk.
“Come in!” Was that the voice of Pete Peralta? Sam could not see through the window. Frost had made the panes opaque.
Cautiously Sam Graybull opened the door. His jug and carbine laid aside, he held his Colt in his hand, the hammer thumbed back. He kicked the door open.
For a moment Sam Graybull stood there, half crouched, ready. Then he straightened. The gun hammer lowered gently and the weapon went back into its holster.
For propped up on a bunk beside the stove, one leg in rude splints, sat Pete Peralta. A hollow eyed, gaunt cheeked, unshaven Pete.
“Sam! Sam Graybull!” His voice was like the hoarse call of a crow. But there was a prayer in its welcome, as he voiced the name of the killer.
From the bedroom beyond came a broken, moaning sob. A woman’s sob. A woman half delirious with pain.
“Horse fell and busted my leg . . . About a week ago . . . Rose took care of me until she had to quit . . . She's goin' to have a baby—and no doctor inside a hundred miles. I reckon she’ll die.”
It took Sam Graybull some seconds to comprehend fully. A pint or more of raw whisky on an empty stomach does not make for quiet thinking. The fact that he could retain even a semblance of his faculties proved the toughness of the killer.
“Doctor, eh?” Sam Graybull pushed back his muskrat cap and ran blunt fingers through his shock of coarse black hair. “Doctor? Yeah, you sure need one, don’t you, Pete?”
“Not me, Sam. Her. She’s out of her head, kinda.”
“Dyin’, Pete?”
“She will, I reckon. There has to be a doctor when a baby comes.”
Sam Graybull passed his hand across his eyes. He knew nothing of childbirth. There had never been room in his killer’s heart for sympathy for man or woman. Life and the losing of life meant but little to him. He nodded, black brows knit in a thoughtful scowl. Then he stepped outside and brought in the jug.
He poured three drinks into tin cups.
“Do us all good, Pete. Then we’ll kinda figger this thing out.” He took one of the cups and went into the next room.
“Howdy, Rose. Git outside o’ this. Nothin’ like it to kill pain.”
Dimly, through eyes that were mere slits of red, he saw the white face of the girl. White as the pillow against the mass of black hair. He lifted her head and held the cup against the lips that seemed drained of blood.
“The pain--the pain. . .”
“Hell, ain’t it? But that drink’ll do you good.”
He went back into the other room and handed Pete his cup.
“Here’s luck, Pete. Down ’er. More where that come from.”
Sam gulped down his drink without a grimace. His brain seemed to be clearing.
“Where do you keep your pencil and paper, Pete?”
“That shelf. God, Sam, if we could only do somethin’ to help her.”
“Keep your shirt on.” Sam found the writing pad and pencil. He handed them to the crippled man.
“Write a note to the doctor, Pete. Tell it scary.” Sam pulled on his cap again. “I’ll be ready by the time you git it wrote.”
“Where you goin’, Sam?”
“Out to saddle up the best horse you got. I’m goin’ fer the doctor. I’ll stop by the nearest ranch and have ’em send over somebody to ride herd on you.” The door banged shut behind him.
Sam caught Pete’s best horse. When he had saddled the animal, he came back inside.
“Got that note finished?”
“Yes. But you can’t make it into town, Sam.”
“The hell I can’t. The storm’s quit. I know the road, and I ain’t so drunk but what I kin ride. Lemme have that pencil.”
He scrawled something at the foot of the note. Then he folded the paper and put it into his pocket.
“Hang and rattle, Pete, till the doc gits here.” He poured some of the whisky into an empty vinegar bottle and put the corked bottle into his overcoat. Then he filled the two cups.
“Here’s how, Pete. If the kid looks like you, I shore feel sorry fer the critter.”
Sam tossed down his drink and before Pete Peralta could say a word, he was gone.