Ringer was preparing his new art. The land would be the canvas where he would create his masterpiece. He would become richer than he already was. One detail stood in the way. The Lesser family.
Ringer tried to buy the ranch. His offer was politely declined. George Lesser had told him that the ranch was more than land. His parents and grandparents were buried there.
‘This ground,’ he said, ‘is rich in the blood and bones of the Lesser family. We’re the land, the land is us and we’ll never sell what we are.’
James Ringer had heard the word ‘no’ before. He was a man used to getting what he wanted by any means necessary. His favorite saying, which he repeated often, was: ‘Salesmanship begins when the sucker says no.’
The trouble began in the fall of 1958, when Ringer’s paid thug, Russell Byers, confronted George Lesser and warned him that it might be best to sell while he could.
‘Barns have been known to burn in the night,’ Byers told him.
George struck Byers with an uppercut, knocking him to the ground. Getting up, he was struck again.
‘I will not tolerate any threats against my family or property,’ said George, as Byers cupped his bleeding nose.
Two nights later, a fire burned down the Lessers’ barn and stalls. Sixteen dairy cows and twelve horses perished. The next morning George tried to press charges but the sheriff said there wasn’t enough evidence to charge Byers. In spite of the protests from George’s wife Catherine and some of the ranch hands, George and Walt drove into Livingston looking for Byers. They found him in the Mint Bar. Byers was sitting in the corner with some pals and watched as Walt and George walked toward them.
‘Hi, boys. Can I buy you a drink?’ Byers said for the benefit of all his potential witnesses.
‘My barn and stalls were burned last night. We lost cows and horses. You know anything about that?’
Laughing with his friends, Byers said, ‘Why boys, what would cause you to think I’d do something so low down?’
‘Because you threatened to do it and got that broken nose for your trouble,’ said George.
‘My nose, hell. I don’t hold it against you, George, no sir. I could see how you might of taken what I was joking about all wrong but no sir, I don’t blame you at all and I won’t be pressing any charges.’ Byers was laughing. His pals joined in.
‘All the same,’ said Walt, ‘ it’s quite a coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘What do you mean?’ Byers asked.
Walt moved over to Byers, but his father cut in.
‘What Walt means is you make a threat to burn my property and two days later my property burns.’
Fussing with the tape across his nose, Byers’s smile disappeared.
‘Like I said, George, it’s a coincidence and, besides, I suspect there’s a lot of folks around here with a grudge against you. I’d watch yourself. They might go after your family next.’
The threat was clear. Byers sat on the bar stool but his friends stood. George grabbed Byers and struck him down. One of Russ’s laughing friends grabbed George from behind and Walt grabbed him. After knocking out the man’s wind, Walt stood back and turned toward the other men and encouraged them to enjoy their drinks. Seeing their friend struggling on the floor trying to catch his breath, they took his advice.
George picked up the bleeding Byers and in front of everyone said:
‘If you ever set foot on my land again, or do anything to harm my family, God help me, I’ll kill you and Ringer. You tell ’em that.’
That night, in spite of them having been outnumbered four to one, the sheriff arrested George and Walt on charges of assault. There had been plenty of witnesses.
The family would learn too late that the game had been rigged months before in California and Montana. The conspiracy was well planned. They never had a chance.
Walter was crying now. The memories were too much. He pushed the gun harder into the side of his head, hoping it would go off on its own. He wanted it all to stop but he couldn’t pull the trigger. He felt frozen in place and in some perverse way forced to remember what he had been trying to forget for years. The memories bled out of every part of his brain where they had been hidden. He remembered how the county commissioners, along with Ringer, had managed to cut a development road through the Lessers’ ranch, claiming the agricultural road had always been a county one. Then, when it was time to sell the Lesser cattle, it was discovered the herd had hoof and mouth.
The Lessers hired an attorney but after a year they were nearly broke. George asked the bank for an extension on his loan. He was refused. He had no way of knowing that the bank had been purchased by a surrogate of Ringer’s the year before.
The final blow came when George received a letter from the county assessor’s office. The letter stated that the Lessers had underpaid their taxes for the last two years. Documents had been altered to support the claim. With penalties and interest, the total owed was $13,575. Payment was due in ninety days.
With taxes due, his loan being called and the lawyer’s fees, George was losing the ranch. Through tears Walt saw his father walk out to the family cemetery on the knoll that overlooked the Bridger Mountains. He placed some wildflowers on his mother’s grave and then walked back to the house. In his study, George raised the gun to his head and fired.
Walt was covered in sweat and weeping as he placed the gun back on the bed. After all these years he remembered it all. The rage ran deep. He stared at his parents’ photograph. There were accounts to be settled. They were long overdue. He stared into the mirror and straightened his hair.
The phone rang.
‘Walt, where are you? Dinner’s on the table.’
Walt looked at his watch. It was 7.30 and it was Friday. Every Friday he would have dinner with his landlady and her ten-year-old son, Michael.
‘Sorry, Annette. I lost track of time. I’ll be right down.’
Walter Lesser returned the gun to the dresser drawer and took out a piece of paper. He reminded himself that once he had been more than a transient bookkeeper who wandered from place to place. He was more than someone who ended up shooting himself in a Chicago apartment. He had been a man with a life, a good life, and now he was a man with a history again. He began to tally the years of restless travel and then, in a precise, neat column, he wrote seven names.
James Ringer
Russell Byers
Harry Colds
Sam McCormick
Bill Jakes
Norman Mitchell
George Lazlo
LEAVING CHICAGO
Walter walked down a flight of stairs and knocked on the door of apartment 2B.
‘Come on in.’
Annette was in the kitchen.
‘I hope I didn’t interrupt anything, Walt.’
‘Nah Annette, I was just daydreaming and lost track of time.’
Annette Janowski was a small woman with beautiful features and short blonde hair. She was a widow. Four years ago, her husband, a roofer, had fallen to his death while on a job. Talk around Chicago was he’d been murdered over gambling debts. Since moving in, Walter had been doing Annette’s books. She couldn’t pay much so she lowered Walt’s rent and had him over for dinner every Friday. Over the last two years they had become friends.
‘Tonight I’ve made lamb chops in a brown sauce with asparagus and baby potatoes,’ said Annette.
‘And an apple pie with ice cream,’ said Michael.
Walt chuckled.
‘It sounds great. I think you folks are trying your best to make me a fat cowboy.’
Walter watched as Michael set the table and Annette fussed over the sauce and realized they were the only people he had gotten close to in nearly twenty years. Since leaving the ranch, he had moved eighteen times. His time in Chicago was the longest he had stayed anywhere and, for a moment, he thought leaving Chicago might be wrong. Then he remembered. He was dying.
Over dinner, Michael and Walt complimented the chef, offering u
p ever-grander toasts, trying to outdo each other. Walt insisted on clearing the table and doing the dishes.
‘Okay,’ said Annette. ‘I’ll dry.’
They stood by the sink in silence.
‘Walt?’
He didn’t hear her.
‘Walt?’
‘Yes, sorry, what, what did you say?’
‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
‘Well, I, I think.’
Annette’s voice broke. ‘Oh, Walt, you’re leaving. You’re going, aren’t you?’
Michael, who had been doing his homework at the kitchen table, heard what his mother said. He sat frozen, waiting for his hero to say his mother was wrong.
‘Yes, I’m sorry. I’ll be leaving in about a week. Don’t worry, Annette, I’ll have all your books in order bef—’
‘Enough about books, Walt.’
‘Why are you going?’ Michael asked in a trembling voice.
‘There’s something I didn’t do a long time ago that I should have. I’ve been running ever since. I have to face it now.’
Annette Janowski saw a look in Walter’s eyes that she recognized from living in Chicago.
‘Don’t do anything you can’t live with, Walt.’
‘I’ll try, Annette.’
Michael was crying. Walt leaned over and hugged the boy.
‘You’re my best friend, Mike, and this isn’t easy, I know. You’re the closest I’ve come to family in a long time and I’m thankful for that. I love you and I need you to be strong for me and for your mom. I really need your help.’
Michael wiped his eyes and hugged Walt hard. Walt looked over to Annette.
‘Now look, you guys. The Patio Theatre is playing a Gary Cooper movie. Let’s go see it.’
‘You men go,’ Annette said.
‘Nothing doing,’ answered Walt. ‘Mike, you take one arm, I’ll take the other.’
It was two blocks to the Patio Theatre. From a block away they could see the marquee all lit up with the big black letters spelling High Noon. Walt loved the movies. Over the years he had filled a lot of lonely hours sitting in darkened halls watching stories where truth and justice won in the end. In the movies everything turned out okay. Michael had never seen the picture and that excited Walt.
They ate popcorn and Milk Duds and watched Gary Cooper stand up for what was right. Near the end of the film, one of the bad guys grabbed Grace Kelly. Michael yelled, ‘Look out,’ then turned to Walt, embarrassed.
‘I did the same darn thing the first time I saw the movie,’ Walt whispered.
On the walk home, Michael couldn’t stop talking.
‘Why did the town turn its back on him?’ he asked.
‘I guess people are just afraid sometimes,’ Walt answered. ‘I guess they forget that not doing the right thing is what they should be scared of.’
‘Have you ever been scared?’ Michael asked.
‘Sure, but remember Gary Cooper was afraid of those bad guys and his fear didn’t stop him. He still did what he thought was right.’
Walt walked Annette and Michael to their door.
‘See you tomorrow, Walt.’
‘See ya, Mike.’
Annette held Walter’s hand. ‘I wish you’d stay.’
‘You don’t know how much I wish I could, Annette, but wishing won’t help. I don’t have much time.’
His eyes betrayed his secret.
‘Oh, Walt. I’m sorry. I wish you’d stay. I could take care of you. You’re a good man. I’ll miss you. I’ll pray for you.’
‘Thanks, Annette. Thanks for everything.’
Walt lay on his bed and fell asleep to the hum of the neon sign over Nick’s Diner and dreamed of open spaces.
WINNEMUCCA AND HARRY COLDS
The Reckoning
Driving out of Chicago, Walt switched on the radio and turned the dial. Patsy Cline’s voice faded in and out. He opened the window, took a drag from his cigarette and settled back, lost in the music.
A few years back he heard a rumor that Harry Colds had sold his interest in the Montana ranch to Ringer and then moved to Winnemucca, Nevada. Before leaving Chicago, Walt called Nevada information. Colds was there.
Harry Colds had been a neighbor of the Lessers. While never close, the two families attended the same church and social gatherings. When Colds ran for county commissioner, he asked for George and Catherine’s vote. They, along with other ranchers, voted for him and he won.
Walt’s earliest memory of Colds was seeing him beat his dogs. He remembered how he seemed to enjoy it. Driving through Illinois he recalled how his father had helped Colds in 1951 when the heavy rains nearly destroyed everyone’s hay. While George Lesser didn’t much care for Colds, he was still a neighbor and neighbors helped each other.
In 1934, George’s father and Harry’s father had made a handshake agreement to cut a road through both properties. The idea was that the road would give better access to remote parts of both ranches. It would also be a short cut to town, cutting nine miles off the old route. It was agreed that they would both share in the expense and maintenance of the road and that it would only be used by the two families.
All went well until Harry’s father died and Harry became commissioner. When it came time for the road’s maintenance, George, Walt and some of the ranch hands pitched in. For his part, Colds sent county workers on county time to help. George told Colds that wasn’t right. It was a private road, he said, and county workers had no business working on a private road. Harry told George not to worry and continued to use county workers. For a time, George kept his tongue, hoping it would pass.
Harry Colds had been friends with James Ringer and, together, they had been planning to develop the area for years. Colds had not used county workers simply because he was dishonest. He understood that his father’s agreement had been agreed to with a handshake. There was no document to prove an agreement had ever been made.
By using county workers on the private road, Colds began to create a paper trail. In time, the myth being created would take on the appearance of fact.
In hindsight, it was clear that the foundation of the Lessers’ destruction had been constructed by a neighbor. The success of Ringer’s plan depended on Harry Colds doing his part.
In less than a year and a half, Colds had documented $40,000 of county money spent on the upkeep of the road. He signed a document stating that he had always understood from his father that the road was a county road and then had the document witnessed and notarized.
Walt had driven hard, stopping only for gas and coffee. It was late and the fatigue had set in. He checked into a cheap motel and fell asleep with his clothes on. He tried to sleep but the day’s bad coffee kept pulling him back. Around 3 a.m. the pain in his neck had him sit up fast. He fell off the bed and crawled to the bathroom. He wrenched open the bottle of pills and they scattered across the floor. He grabbed three, shoved them in his mouth and lay back on the cracked tile.
At 6 a.m. he came to. The pain was gone. He heard the crunching of pills as he tried to get up. He picked some up and put them back into the cracked plastic bottle. He showered and shaved then walked to the motel office and handed the keys to the young woman behind the counter.
‘I hope you enjoyed your stay,’ she said.
‘Yes, thanks. Can you tell me if there’s a place nearby where I can get some breakfast?’
‘Sure. Just turn right out of the motel and about a half mile on your left you’ll see a sign for Stella’s.’
The idea came to Walt as he ate his breakfast. The thought disturbed him. He wanted to confront the men responsible but hadn’t thought it through. What did he want? Did he want them to pay according to the law? No, he thought. The law had let him down before. What then? Nothing would bring back his family, so, what was it he wanted? From the moment he had put down the gun in Chicago he knew what he wanted. He wanted their lives.
He left some money on the table and walked out. The morning was clear but a cold
wind had come up.
There was no wind in Winnemucca that morning. The sun was out and the town was beginning its day. The Griddle House was full of regulars – ranchers, truckers, motel owners and some card dealers from the casinos. Some of the neon signs that ran down Main Street were already on and a few of the casino’s gaming tables had early action. Interstate 80 was empty except for the occasional passing rig.
Eighteen miles east of Winnemucca the land was hilly and barren. From the highway the landscape was deceptive. It gave the impression of a waterless, sun-baked soil that could produce next to nothing. But off the highway and toward the foothills there were productive fields with plenty of water.
Down a long, well-groomed road was the Double Irons Ranch. It wasn’t a working ranch; it was a rich man’s ranch and had the pretences a rich man’s ranch had. There were Arabian horses and a large outbuilding that was like a luxury hotel for horses. In the pasture were some llamas and sheep and three pot-bellied pigs.
The house was one level with big windows. The interior, done by Cold’s dead wife, Marjorie, was understated and elegant.
They had been happy there, but without her the house was a constant reminder of what had been.
The owner rose early. Since his wife’s death his sleep had been restless and, sometimes, frightening. He found that he was afraid much of the time but didn’t know why. He took the blue cup and saucer from the pine cabinet and poured some coffee. Long ago the cup, with all the other blue cups and dishes, had belonged to Catherine Lesser. He had forgotten that.
For years he had pushed back a lot of memories and what he couldn’t forget he had rationalized. What happened to the Lessers was not his doing, he thought. After years of telling himself that, he came to believe it was true. Besides, the family would have lost the ranch anyway. George Lesser was a bad businessman. Better that he and Ringer had gotten hold of it instead of a developer that didn’t care about the land. After all, he and Ringer had brought money and jobs into the community. They had provided housing for folks. Rich ones.
In all his rationalizing he chose not to remember how he had become rich off the misery of the Lesser family. He would remind himself that he had become a deacon of his church and had done good things since those early days. He was sure his good deeds made up for the past.
Dangerous Men Page 3
