“You know the agreement Tiger made with the Salt Rivers,” Brian said angrily. “Wirt didn’t have any right up there. He’s as much to blame for Hollister getting mangled as anybody.”
“If Hollister got hurt it’s his own fault.”
Brian bent toward the man, trying to hold on to his temper. “You can’t be that blind, Pa.”
A sullen flush crept into the man’s face; he stepped to Brian’s horse and clutched the headstall with a knobby hand. His eyes were piggish with an old man’s irascible anger.
“When our bunch made that agreement not to send any straymen north of the Salt,” he said, “it was reasonable. Not many of our cattle drifted up on the Rim and what did was all sent back. But these last two or three years we been losing more and more stock on the drift. And they don’t come back.”
The inference brought a rush of hot blood to Brian’s face. Estelle saw it and tried to placate him. “We know the men on the Rim are too big to operate that way, Brian. They wouldn’t gain anything by hanging on to what little stuff drifts up from the desert.”
Brian glanced at her, unable to keep a sharpness from his voice. “Then why bring it up?”
“I don’t know.” She sent a troubled glance at Pa, continuing swiftly as though to keep him from offending Brian again. “We talked to Tiger a while back. He blamed our missing beef on those penny-ante border hoppers that’re always coming over. But that doesn’t answer it. There’s something strange going on all over the range.”
The phrase took away some of Brian’s anger. “Funny you should put it that way. Robles said the same thing.” He couldn’t help turning to look off at the vague shape of the Superstitions, lying northwest of town. “He’s been talking about strange signs for a long time. He couldn’t put his finger on anything, but he knew something was happening.”
She was looking in the same direction, and she asked, in a hushed voice, “Do you suppose it comes from these renegades in the Superstitions?”
“Renegades, hell,” Pa said. “We know where it comes from.”
Brian’s eyes flashed and his sharp jerk on the reins made the horse toss its head, jerking the headstall from Pa’s loose grip.
“Pa, don’t be a fool,” Estelle said heatedly. “You ask his help and then you insult him.” She turned to Brian. “Forget what he said. We’re in trouble, Brian, and everybody’s jumpy. We do want to work it out with you.” She hesitated, eyes dark. Then she asked, “You’ll keep Tiger’s promise, won’t you?”
He held his fiddling horse for a moment, looking into her soft face, her pleading eyes. A wind whirled alkali against the Steeldust and it stamped and fretted.
“For you, I’ll keep it,” he said. He glanced at Pa, tightlipped with disgust, and wheeled the horse around to gallop down the street. A block from them he turned off onto a meandering side street to see Hollister, who was at his brother’s house, a block from the Black Jack. The man was resting easy, both legs in splints, and the doctor said they would heal all right. He tried to be cheerful but Brian could see the man was uncomfortable in his presence. He left in a little while, promising Hollister full pay while he was convalescing. After that he went to Wolffe’s office.
He found the lawyer bent over a pile of papers on his desk, studying them in the dim light from dusty windows. Wolffe pushed them aside and rose, extending a hand to Brian. His smile was quick, and a little strained.
“Glad you came, Brian. I hear you’ve really settled down. Working on the roundup and everything.”
Brian tossed his hat onto a chair, ran a hand through unruly red hair. “Afraid I didn’t do so good there, George.”
“Don’t be discouraged.”
“I ran into the Gillettes this morning. Pa said Tiger had promised him a breather on his note till he got that new land paid off.”
Wolffe’s lips compressed. He locked his hands behind his back and paced angrily to a window. “He came to me too. How do we know Tiger gave any such promise?”
“We can’t go back on Tiger’s word.”
“But Gillette has no proof of any such agreement. If we honor this, a hundred men will be in here with all kinds of fantastic claims about Tiger’s promises.”
“Is this part of the business I was supposed to learn?”
Wolffe returned to the desk. “At least it will teach you what not to do.” He slid open a drawer and pulled out a handful of bank books and three ledgers with the Double Bit burned into their leather covers. “Here’s something a little more tangible than supposed verbal agreements. It’s long past time you studied them.”
Brian pulled a chair to the desk and they both sat down. Wolffe went through the bank books with him, the drawing account, the ranch account, the business account. It was all fairly simple and didn’t take too long. Then came the ledgers. They covered all the business of the vast Double Bit enterprise, the cattle sales and purchases, the operation of Tiger’s mercantile establishments in Apache Wells and Tucson, the countless land transactions that Tiger had been involved with. It was surprising how many notes and mortgages Tiger had bought up around Apache Wells in the last years. Half the men in the county seemed to owe him money.
Wolffe insisted on going over each item in great detail. Gradually, as he patiently explained the complexities of the figures, the picture began to emerge for Brian, and he felt a return of his old frustration. George Wolffe was handling this end of the operation as efficiently as Latigo was handling his.
“As far as I can make out you’ve got the Double Bit going along just great,” Brian said.
“Don’t be too optimistic.”
Brian shook his head. “That’s what I like about you, George. All the investments you’ve made are paying off handsomely. Only a couple of men behind in their notes. Latigo’s shipping beef that averages out ten pounds heavier than any other rancher in the valley. Cattle prices are up. And you say don’t be optimistic.”
George rose and walked to the window. “Your problem isn’t all financial. Tiger was a key man in the politics of this town. With him gone, the Salt River bunch is going to try and get in the saddle. This affair with the Gillettes is an example. They’ll be on you from every side.”
Brian remembered the incident with Wirt Peters at roundup and again knew an uneasy prescience of trouble. Yet what trouble? Brian had known vaguely that there was a clash between the shoestring ranchers south of the Salt and the few big operators up in the Rim country. But he’d never paid much attention to politics and in the last years had seen little evidence of conflict. As a matter of fact, Tiger had kept many of the smaller Salt River operators in business during the lean years.
“Let’s finish with the books first,” Brian said. “What happens if I learn all about them?” He saw a blankness come to Wolffe’s face and he added, “That’s what I mean, George. How often did Tiger go over the books with you?”
“Not often enough.”
“Every six months?”
“If that often.”
Brian shoved back his chair, the picture complete now. “That’s a big job,” he said. “Won’t leave me much time on the outside.”
“Brian, you’ve got to take this seriously.”
“Sure, George.” Brian rose and picked up his hat. He walked moodily to the door. “How about a drink?”
“Don’t start that. We haven’t finished.”
“Later, George. Got to get back to roundup. They can’t get by very long without me, you know.”
* * * *
Alkali sifted out of the hot street like cornstarch. The late afternoon sun turned westward windows to blazing copper. Brian walked down the rickety stairs from Wolffe’s office, bitter and moody.
What had they all wanted him to do when they had pounded him to settle down? The whole thing was running by itself. Latigo could obviously handle the cattle operation without ever seeing a boss
. And he had felt like a fifth wheel in Wolffe’s office, an observer again, watching a man conduct business ten times as efficiently as Brian himself could. Sometimes Wolffe seemed almost too efficient, as though he were owner of the Double Bit and every cent Brian spent was somehow money out of his own pocket. Then Brian realized he was probably just trying to justify himself. Wolffe was just doing his job—and damn well, too.
An intense restlessness swept Brian. The frustration was like a pressure building up in him, seeking some release. He saw Charlie Casket standing at the door of the Black Jack, cadaverous as an undertaker in his black clawhammer coat. His lusterless eyes were sunk deep in a sallow face and his black hair was shiny as varnish and plastered against his bony skull. He held out a pack of cards and his voice ran across the street like a sardonic whisper.
“Pick a card, Brian.”
Welcoming the diversion, Brian walked across the street, taking one of the cards. He looked at it without letting Casket see. It was an ace of spades. He slid the card back into the deck, face down, and then took the deck from Casket’s hand. He shuffled it twice and then fanned it and held it out to Casket. The man chose a card and turned its face up. It was an ace of spades.
The old trick brought some of Brian’s humor back. He grinned at Casket. “When you going to miss, Charlie?”
The man never smiled. “Haven’t seen you around, Brian. You aren’t turning parson on us?”
Jess Miller appeared in the door of his Mercantile, saw Brian, and came down the walk to the saloon. He was the picture of plump prosperity in his rust-colored fustian and tailored broadcloth pants. A friendly grin wreathed his round face and he clapped Brian on the shoulder.
“Good to see you in circulation again, Brian. Going to join us?”
“I guess that’s just about what I need,” Brian said.
They went into the gloomy adobe room smelling of damp sawdust and cheap whisky and the homemade grape wine the Mexicans loved so much. A scattering of men stood at the bar. Near the rear Brian saw Nacho and Ford Tarrant playing black jack. Tarrant was one of the big operators on the Rim, a squarely framed, hearty man in his mid-forties. He hailed them, asking them to sit in. Brian took a chair beside Nacho and Jigger brought over a fresh bottle.
They drank and Brian put his glass down empty. “Ford, how do you manage to spend so much time in town? I bet they never see you at home.”
Tarrant laughed jovially. “The secret is to have a good manager, like you, Brian. I’ll give you ten thousand dollars for Latigo and twice as much for Wolffe.”
Casket had begun to deal and Brian picked up his hand, fanning the cards. “Not for sale, Ford. I guess I didn’t know how valuable they were till today.”
They emptied the bottle before the hand was up. Brian knew he was drinking too much. The stakes were high and he was losing and sometime in the early afternoon he sent one of Jigger’s housemen to the bank with a note for more money.
Later a girl called Nita floated in. She was one of a score he had romanced, a girl from West Cochise, the section of adobe jacales and tarpaper huts removed from the more respectable section of town by Indian Creek. A round little face, deceptively wide eyes, a mouth too full. A woman who could love you one minute and knife you the next.
She watched the game for a while. Full-blown breasts pressed against Brian’s shoulder as she kibitzed, running slender fingers through his hair.
“Nita, howthehell can a man play cards?”
“Who wants to play cards, mi corazón?”
He looked at her big black eyes, her shimmering lips. She was right. The cards weren’t doing him any good. He couldn’t seem to drink enough. How did a man forget?
Nita smiled. “Why don’t we go somewhere, mi corazón?”
* * * *
At seven in the morning most of Apache Wells was still asleep. The sun was up but light came off the desert like reflection from a window, glowing, luminous, a little unworldly. Brian’s boots kicked up hollow echoes as he crossed the sagging plank bridge over Indian Creek. His mouth felt like a hundred pinto ponies had tramped through it in their stocking feet. His head ached unmercifully and the light made his eyes water when he kept them open. Squinting and stumbling, he made his way down Cochise.
It hadn’t helped much. He wouldn’t mind paying for it like this if it had helped. But none of it had helped. The cards. The drinking. Nita. Why had he thought she could help?
He felt like hell.
He figured somebody had put his horse in the stables so he headed that way. He was passing the feed store when he saw Arleen step out of Jess Miller’s place across the way, a sack of coffee in her hands. He had no impulse to avoid the meeting. She had seen him like this too often before. She crossed to him, pursing her lips as she looked at his puffy eyes. Her voice was matter-of-fact.
“You could clean up a little.”
“Don’t want to wake George.”
“He left early for Alta. Some case.”
He looked at the coffee, grinning faintly. “Some of that would help.”
Without a word she led him upstairs. While she put the coffee on he went into George’s room and shaved. He was halfway through when she came to the door. She regarded him soberly for a moment, hands clasped in front of her. Finally she said:
“Help any?”
He groaned.
“You needed something,” she said. “Tiger’s death was a terrible blow.”
“More than that, Arleen. The books, the roundup. They want me to settle down but they won’t let me. There’s nothing for me to do.”
“You found plenty to do before,” she said. Her voice had a strange, stiff sound. “Why try to change? They haven’t got any right to tell you what to do.”
He looked up, surprised by the outburst.
A little muscle twitched in her throat. “I guess I’ve kept quiet too long. All of them preaching at you and pounding at you. So you didn’t make out on roundup. You never cared what the crew thought of you before. They live in a different world, Brian. They’d look just as silly trying to live in yours. You had a good life. You were happy, everybody was your friend. Why try to twist things out of shape?” She made an impatient sound, and shook her head sharply. “I sound like George now—preaching.”
She went back into the kitchen. He stared at the empty door, puzzled. But his head hurt too much to think. He finished shaving and washed up and then went into the kitchen in his shirt sleeves. Arleen was pouring the coffee. He sat down at the table. Her back was to him and there was an odd, tense line to her shoulders.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She brought him his coffee, setting it on the table. Her eyes met his a moment, dropped to the floor. Somehow it made him think of Nita. Could Arleen know? Of course. George had been at the Black Jack last night. Brian was touched with a furtive guilt, and that was strange because Arleen had never made him feel guilty before. She had accepted his amours realistically. It was the thing he had always admired about her, the thing that made their relationship so unique.
“A new role for you,” he said.
Her back was still turned, but he could see her head lift. “I won’t judge you, Brian. I refuse to judge you.”
He smiled. “How about being jealous?”
She bowed her head, voice small and tight. “No.”
This was reminiscent of the last time he had seen her here, the same strange mood, so foreign to their relationship. Only it was stronger now, clearer. He rose and stood behind her, hands on her arms. Her glossy black hair had a perfumed scent.
“I don’t do it to hurt you, Arleen.”
Her head bowed more deeply. “I know … I know.”
“When did it change?”
“I don’t know. I thought I could play the game. I guess the joke’s over.”
What she wante
d was clear now. Solid ground, yes or no, mine completely or not at all. And yet she wouldn’t put words to it. They understood each other too well for that. How many others had he left at this point? He’d lost count. Except that he’d always been able to exit laughing before. There was no flippancy in him now.
She pulled free of his hands, took a step away, and turned. She was arched stiffly against the sink, lips compressed. She had been close to tears but it was gone now; she had control of herself again.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Drink your coffee.”
He took the cup and went back to the table. She stood watching him, eyes dull, lifeless. He felt stiff with her now, awkward. It was a familiar moment but it had never been so painful. He drank half the cup and then stood up. He would have kissed her good-by before. A laughing, teasing kiss or a thing of frank, full passion.
“I’d better go,” he said. She did not answer. He went into the bedroom for his coat. Slipping into it, he went back past the kitchen door. She still stood at the sink. He stopped a moment. “Things change,” he said. “Maybe you’ll feel different in a few days.”
“Sure.” She smiled, stiffly. “Maybe I’ll feel different.”
CHAPTER 6
Down in the street, he unhitched his Steeldust at the rack and stepped aboard. He glanced once at the windows above. The end of an episode. Why should it bother him? It never had before. Perhaps because it went back so far, with Arleen. Perhaps because he had thought it would never come to this, with them. It all seemed a part of the shaking-up his life had taken these last weeks. Tiger’s death seemed to have thrown everything out of joint....
He got back to the Double Bit near dusk, stripped the Steeldust and turned it into the corral. Robles’ two saddle horses were not there. He hurried to the house, a dark premonition growing within him. Pinto was in the kitchen, peeling potatoes. The crippled cook was used to Brian’s escapades and greeted him as if he had just come in from an hour’s ride.
“Afternoon, Brian. How about a hair of the dog.”
“The ride back took care of that, thanks,” Brian said. He hesitated, then asked, “Where’s Robles?”
Last of the Breed Page 6
