The Vanquished Read Free

some,” Charley told him.
    â€œFor a fact,” the yellow-eyed man replied, “I have.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    Douglas seemed to know that the tables had turned on him, but he showed no reluctance to answer Charley’s question. “There’s some satisfaction in traveling over the world when you know you don’t have to become part of any place. You see things, you learn things—but you’re not touched by them unless you want to be. You see?”
    â€œMaybe,” Charley said, not altogether sure. “But when you get all through, what have you got?”
    â€œThe most precious thing of all,” Douglas said quietly. “You’ve got yourself—you know what you are.”
    â€œAll right,” Charley said. “What are you?”
    â€œA man. All by myself.”
    â€œThat’s fine,” Charley said drily. “Must be kind of lonely.”
    â€œIt is, until you learn that you don’t need anything from anybody.” Douglas glanced back at his horse and sucked quietly on the pipe for a moment, and said, “How would you like to go to Mexico?”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œTo stake a claim. Build a home and make plenty of money.”
    â€œSure,” Charley said. There was a slight caustic edge on his voice.
    Douglas showed a brief smile. On his face, a touch of restlessness, a touch of isolation. Tough, he appeared, but at the same time mild. There was evidence of quiet humor in his eyes. “Think about it,” he said. “There will be plenty of profit in it for you—if you’re willing to do a little fighting.”
    â€œAgainst who?”
    â€œIndians. Mexicans, maybe. Probably not, though. There will be a good many of us.” He turned to leave. “I’ll be here if you decide to come along with us.” Saying nothing more, Douglas put his yellow eyes once more on Charley, and went out.
    Charley watched him go, slicker flapping in the rain, until the lean figure disappeared into the gray gloom.
    Woods came forward again and put his elbows on the bar, and said, “Fine fellow, that one.”
    â€œYou know him well?” Charley asked.
    â€œHard to say,” Woods said cautiously. “Sometimes I doubt I know anybody very well. People are hard to make out, sometimes. That’s something you’ll learn when you get a bit older, I reckon.”
    â€œI already learned it,” Charley said, and left the saloon.
    Over the mountains he could see slanted shadowy streaks of falling rain. On the veranda of the Overland depot a fat drummer sat with his sample case in his lap and a bulging suitcase by his feet. An ore wagon drawn by eight teams of oxen wended a slow track down the street; the bullwhacker’s livid calls echoed down the street. Two intersections up the street, near the Triple Ace, Charley turned off into a narrow alley. The air was still damp and cool but the sun now shot its rays down between buildings and the clouds were beginning to break up, receding southward, and he came to a little white frame house with pink-lavender curtains showing in the windows. Beyond this point were the scattered tents of the back of the town, littered in a patternless disorder. Charley turned up the stone-bordered walk of the little white house, passed between two precious strips of lawn, and knocked.
    When the woman opened the door, Charley said, “Hello, Gail.”
    â€œWell, hi,” she said. Her eyes were a pale agate in color, a little sharp, perhaps brittle. Her body was full-molded against the calico dress and she smiled a bittersweet smile, stepping aside to let him enter. He went inside, standing uncertainly with his carpetbag until she said to him, “So you’re leaving us?”
    â€œI guess so.”
    â€œGood. Good for you. If I had the guts and the money I’d go with you. I’m sick of this town—I’m weary of fools.”
    She went on; she always