Hondo (1953) Read Free Page B

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