Hondo (1953) Read online

  There was a tin washbasin on a bench beside the door, a clean towel and a bar of homemade soap beside it. Removing his hat and shirt, he washed, then combed his hair. Donning the shirt again, he stepped inside.

  “Smells mighty good, ma’am,” he said, glancing at the stove. “Man gets tired of his own fixin’.”

  “I’m sorry my husband picked today, to go hunting those lost calves. He would have enjoyed having a man to talk to. We welcome company.”

  Lane pulled back a chair and sat down opposite the plate and cup. “Must be right lonely here. Specially for a woman.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind. I was raised here.”

  Sam came up to the door and hesitated, then came inside, moving warily. After a minute he lay down, but he kept his attention on Hondo. He seemed somehow remote and dangerous. There was nothing about the dog to inspire affection, except, perhaps his very singleness of purpose. There was a curious affinity between man and dog. Both were untamed, both were creatures born and bred to fight, honed and tempered fine by hot winds and long desert stretches, untrusting, dangerous, yet good companions in a hard land.

  “What can I feed your dog?”

  “Nothin’, thanks. He makes out by himself. He can outrun any rabbit in the territory.”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble at all.” She turned back to the stove and picked up a dish, looking around for scraps.

  “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’d rather you didn’t feed him.”

  Curiously she looked around. The more she saw of this man, the more she was impressed by his strangeness. Yet oddly enough, she felt safer with him here. And he was unlike anyone she had ever known, even in this country of strange and dangerous men.

  Even when he moved there was a quality of difference about him. Always casually, always lazily, and yet with a conservation of movement and a watchfulness that belied his easy manner. She had the feeling that he was a man that lived in continual expectation of trouble, never reaching for it, yet always and forever prepared. Her eyes dropped to the worn holster and the polished butt of the Colt. Both had seen service, and the service of wear and use, not merely of years.

  “Oh, I think I understand. You don’t want him to get in the habit of taking food from anyone but you. Well, I’ll just fix it and you can hand it to him.”

  “No, ma’am. I don’t feed him either.”

  When her eyes showed their doubt, he said, “Sam’s independent. He doesn’t need anybody. I want him to stay that way. It’s a good way.”

  He helped himself to another piece of meat, to more potatoes and gravy.

  “But everyone needs someone.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Hondo continued eating. “Too bad, isn’t it?”

  She moved back to the stove and added a stick of wood. She was puzzled by him, yet there was a curious attraction, too. Was it simply that he was a man? That the woman in her needed his presence here? That the place had been needing a man too long?

  She stirred up the fire, turned over a charred stick, and moved back to the table. He ate slowly and quietly, not talking, yet without the heedlessness of manner of so many Western men, accustomed as they were to living in camps and bunkhouses and away from the nearness of women.

  His boots were worn and scuffed. And there was a place on his left thigh where the jeans had been polished by the chafing of some object. A place that might have been made by a holster. Only this man wore his gun on his right side. Had he, then, worn two guns? It was unlikely. Not many men did.

  “You’re a good cook, ma’am.” Hondo pushed back from the table and got to his feet.

  “Thank you.” She was pleased, and showed it. She smoothed her one good apron with her hands.

  “A woman should be a good cook.”

  He walked to the door and hesitated there, looking out over the yard, then at the trees, the arroyo, and finally the hills. As he did this he stood just within the door, partly concealed from the outside by the doorjamb. Then he put on his hat, and turning he said, “I’m a good cook myself.”

  Chapter Two

  It was hot and still in the afternoon sun. The boy perched on the corral bars and watched Hondo Lane lead the lineback dun through the gate, then replace the bars. From the lean-to he got a sack of grain and put it across the saddle. The dun humped his back and sidled nervously away, but when Hondo walked off, leading him, he hesitated only briefly, then followed along.

  The mustang was used to rope, and had probably been saddled before, but not often. Angie Lowe had said that he had never been ridden, and there was little time to waste. Hondo walked around the yard a few times, then removed the grain sack and proceeded to take off and put back the saddle several times.

  He glanced at the boy. “Gets him used to it,” he said. “He’ll learn it’s nothin’ to be scared of. First thing they’ve got to know: not to be scared. After that, if they find out the man in the saddle is boss, then they’ll do to ride.”

  He talked to the horse a bit, then stripped off the saddle and bridle, returning him to the corral. As he did so, Hondo stepped back and looked around at the hills, a slow, studying glance.

  Angie Lowe came from the house and the boy trotted away and began picking sticks from under the cottonwoods, where a few dried twigs and branches lay.

  “It surprises me that you picked the most savage horse,” Angie commented. “He’s always been a fighter.”

  “Wouldn’t give a plugged nickel for one wouldn’t fight. Horse without spunk will let you down when the going’s tough.”

  He glanced toward the woodpile and then at the boy, starting toward the house with an armful of kindling.

  “Only fair I should trade kindling for a meal.” He picked up the ax and placed a chunk of wood against a log, in position for splitting. Then he glanced at the ax. It had no edge. Obviously it had not been sharpened in some time. It was equally obvious that it had suffered much misuse.

  “No edge,” he said. “I’ll turn the grindstone if you’ll hold the ax, Mrs. Lowe.”

  “I’ll be glad to. That ax has been driving me crazy.”

  The grindstone was a heavy, old-fashioned type and turned heavily. He started the stone turning and the rasping whine of steel against stone cut into the clear, still air of the afternoon. He paused in the turning and poured water in the funnel-shaped can that allowed slow drops to fall on the turning stone. “You were raised here on the ranch, Mrs. Lowe?”

  “Yes, I was born here. My husband was raised here on the ranch, too.”

  He glanced at her, starting the wheel turning again. Watching her intent eyes as she moved the ax against the turning stone, he found himself liking the stillness of her face. She was, he suddenly realized, a beautiful woman. Even the hardness of desert wind and sun had not taken the beauty from her skin. But there was a shadowing worry around her eyes that disturbed him.

  It made no sense, a woman living like this. Not this woman, anyway. Maybe she had been born to it, maybe she was doing a better job here than almost any women could be expected to do. It still was not right.

  He straightened from the wheel and glanced around briefly at the hills, then bent to the turning again. The woman was skillful with the sharpening ax, he had to admit that.

  When he straightened again she returned to the subject of her husband. “He was an orphan. His parents died in a wagon-train massacre. My father took him in and raised him here.”

  “Handy,” he said.

  The wheel turned again and the ax showed an edge, carefully honed down now.

  He straightened, taking the ax from her hands. She looked at him, not understanding his use of the word. She said as much.

  “Figures are against it. Only young fellow in a thousand square miles, only young girl in a thousand square miles, and they get in a whirl about each other. That’s what I mean. Handy.”

  “I guess it was a coincidence. But they say the right two people are going to meet by an arrangement of destiny.”

  He held the ax in his hands.
He looked at her thoughtfully. “You believe that, Mrs. Lowe?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  He studied her for a minute, and she met his eyes frankly, a little puzzled, and faintly excited. He turned away. “Interesting,” he said.

  He walked slowly to the woodpile. There were several logs and a number of large trimmed branches. There were also some stumps that had been grubbed out, and some chunks of ironwood. These last were all their name implied, hard as iron, but they burned with a bright and beautiful flame.

  His first swing of the ax split the chunk he had chosen. Methodically he went to work, and for a few minutes she stood watching him. There was a beautiful and easy rhythm in his movements. He handled his body as if it were all one beautifully oiled and coordinated machine. Nor was he awkward on his feet, as are so many riding men. He moved, she thought, like an Indian.

  He did not look up, moving easily from stick to stick. He cut through the log, then cut through it again, handling the ax with the skill of long use. Several times he paused, each time his eyes circled the hills rimming the basin.

  Keeping clear of the ax, the boy gathered the big chips into a neat pile, watching as Hondo swung the blade. Sinking it into a log for the last time, Horifio straightened. “Son, always sink the blade into a log when you’ve finished cutting wood. The edge stays clean of rust.”

  Angie walked from the house, watching him repile the wood to keep too much of it from becoming rain-soaked at any one time. As he piled it, the boy looked toward Sam, who watched from close by.

  The chfld hesitated, looked longingly toward the dog, then at Hondo. “Pet?”

  “You do what you want to, young one.”

  Hesitantly the boy reached his hand toward the dog. Sam bristled, then snapped. The boy drew back quickly, frightened and half ready to cry.

  Angrily Angie turned on Hondo. “Really, Mr. Lane, if you knew the dog bites, why would you—”

  “Mrs. Lowe,” Hondo said patiently, “I told the boy earlier not to touch the dog, but still he wanted to pet him. People learn by gettin’ bit. The youngster learned.”

  To cover her confusion, she turned sharply on the boy. “Johnny, don’t ever touch that dog again!’

  Johnny looked up at Hondo, and Hondo grinned, dropping a hand to the child’s head. “Don’t let it get you, old-timer. You’ll get snapped at a lot in this life. Might as well get used to it. Don’t trust nothin’ too much.”

  He wiped his hands on his shirt front. “And now I’ll get back to that horse.”

  The lineback had been thinking it over. He was losing his fear of the saddle and bridle, for already he had discovered they did him no harm, but he did not like the bit, and he did not like being led around. Yet he had learned the folly of fighting a strangling noose.

  He stood quietly, trembling a little, as Lane came down the rope toward him. He submitted to being tied, and although he jerked his head back several times, he finally took the bit He worked it in his jaws, not liking it. He jumped a little and tightened when the blanket was thrown over his back, and then the saddle.

  Later he would learn to blow himself up against the girth, but that he had not discovered as yet. He felt it tightened and tensed again. The man’s voice was soothing, and he was so sure of himself that the horse almost unconsciously relaxed. Then he was led outside and the man gathered the reins.

  Angie, half frightened, had come to the door to watch. Johnny clutched her hand, wide-eyed and excited. Hondo Lane stepped into the saddle.

  Instantly the horse bunched his muscles and bucked. The man remained in the saddle. Angrily the dun tried to get his head down so he could really go to bucking, but the man in the saddle kept his head up. Then suddenly the reins slacked a little and the lineback began to pitch. He buck-jumped across the yard, swapped ends swiftly, and tried to throw himself over backward. Yet the man stayed with him.

  There was a certain brutal beauty in the struggle between man and horse. The mustang, given his chance, decided to make a fight for it. Infuriated by the thing clinging to his back, the powerful horse bucked wildly, but the man remained in the saddle. Seeming to anticipate the horse’s every move, he swayed and bobbed with the maddened plunging of the horse, but stuck to the saddle and even seemed to urge the lineback on to do his worst.

  And the lineback liked a fight. He put his heart and his powerful muscles into the battle, and with it all the fiendish ingenuity he had acquired in his years on the range and inherited from his bronco ancestors. It was a good battle.

  Dust arose, lather flew from the plunging horse but Hondo Lane stayed in the saddle, and suddenly the horse lunged into a run. He raced down the trail, went under a low branch, and tried to charge into the brush, but Lane was ready for him and swung him into the trail and they went up and over the hill with no obvious slackening of pace.

  Behind them the dust settled. The yard was empty of turmoil, the trail dust settled, the skyline of the hill remained empty. Angie waited while the slow minutes passed. Johnny tugged at her hand. “Mommy, will he come back? Will the man come back?”

  “Yes, Johnny,” she replied quietly. “He’ll come back. I’m sure of it.”

  Yet as the slow minutes dragged by, she began to wonder if he might be lying up there with a broken leg, or if the horse was still pounding off into the desert on that furious run. She watched the skyline, and the skyline was empty.

  Nervously she bit her lip, then shaded her eyes to look again, circling the hills as she had seen him do, and as she often did herself.

  For the first time she found it impossible to understand her own feelings. There was an element of strangeness about the visitor that disturbed her, but was it only that? Was it his strangeness? Was it the fact that she had been so long alone? Or was there something else?

  He kept her excited and upset as she had never been around any man. Why should that be? Moreover, and what was far worse, she was sure he knew how she felt. Yet he did not look like a man who would have seen much of women. He was remote, and—the woman in her told her this—he was lonely.

  Yet he was a man who shielded his loneliness as he did all his feelings. He was ruthless, as ruthless with himself as he would be with others. Oddly, despite his strangeness, she felt more at home with him than she ever had with anyone else. When he had as much as called her a liar she had not been offended.

  The horizon was still empty. She walked back inside and glanced in the mirror, straightening her hair. Her heart was beating strangely, and it was no way for a married woman to feel, no way for any respectable woman to feel.

  That might be it … that might be the thing that disturbed her so. He made her feel like a woman. He made her feel … yes, that was it. She blushed into the mirror. He made her feel like a female.

  She turned quickly away from the glass, a little shocked at herself. That was no way to be thinking. He would be back soon, and she must not even allow such thoughts to enter her mind.

  When he came back over the hill the dun was lathered but moving smartly. Lane glanced at the woman in the door and was surprised by the relief in her eyes. Had she been worried about him or the horse?

  And this was a lot of horse. The dun had fight. He also had speed and bottom. Lane had not allowed him to run himself out, just enough to let the horse know that the rider could handle that, too. Then he circled and rode back to the ranch.

  A lot of horse, all right. Hondo Lane glanced up at the door and at the woman standing there. And that was a lot of woman, too. Slim, but graceful and with a lot of spirit and heart.

  “Ready to shoe now, ma’am. And while I’m at it, I’ll shoe that pair of plow horses of yours. Their hoofs are clean grown over the front plate.”

  “Thank you very much. They do need shoeing, I guess.”

  He led the dun to the stable, stripped off bridle and saddle, and he took a handful of hay and gave the mustang a brisk rubdown. It was new treatment for the horse and he took it nervously, needing time to decide whether he liked it
. But again the calm sureness of the man prevailed. There was simply nothing the dun could do about it. He was wary to kick, but he got no chance with this man, who seemed to understand just how he felt.

  Lane stoked the forge and heated the shoe. Angie watched, impressed. “You’ll find everything there.” Then she turned to Johnny, who stood watching with excited attention. “You’d better go to the house and get ready for your nap.”

  Johnny was hurt. “Oh, Mommy, can’t I stay?”

  “You’ll do as you’re told!” Her voice was firm. “Run along now.”

  With a backward glance, Johnny trudged off toward the house, hating to leave the glowing forge and the ringing hammer, hating also to leave this man who treated him so matter-of-factly, almost as if he were a man himself.

  Angie Lowe looked at Hondo’s face from time to time, uncertain as to the best words. There was a point she wanted to get across to him, but everything she could think of to say seemed somehow flat and foolish.

  Finally, shading her eyes toward the hills, she said, “I don’t see any dust coming down from above. I guess my husband’s having a hard time finding those strayed calves. Perhaps he won’t be home until late tonight.”

  Lane made no comment, continuing with his work. She watched him, noting the deft, sure movements and the easy way he had with the horse. He seemed almost not to have heard her.

  “He might even camp out in the hills and come in tomorrow after you’re gone. He’ll be so sorry to have missed one of our very occasional visitors.”

  She looked at his face, but there was no indication of feeling or hint of what he was thinking. Suddenly she was confused and wanted only to get away.

  She drew her hands down over her apron. “I’d better go look after Johnny.”

  “Mrs. Lowe?”

  His tone stopped her as she turned away, and, half frightened, she looked around at him. He was turning a shoe in the forge, not looking at her. She noted the breadth of his shoulders and the narrow hips. He must be awfully strong.