Listen to the AudioBook: Stubborn people by Ernest Haycox

Stubborn People

By Ernest Haycox

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 kitc

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