On Dead Man's Range

by Lou Cameron

  She leaped out of bed, saying she was sure the hall was clear now, and was out the door, dragging her nightgown after her, before he could stop her. All he got to see of her was a pink flash before the door shut, plunging him into the dark again. He chuckled, finished rolling, and smoked until he felt sleepy again.

  Willy the Death would surely know who’d brought him a late night snack, right?

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  *

  It didn’t work. There was no way to ask at the breakfast table which one of the ladies present might have crept into bed with him the night before. Even the hired help acted as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. Only one of them looked chubby enough as she served the flapjacks. The pretty landlady at the head of the table looked too slender. Sister Bertha, across from him, looked a mite more qualified and didn’t seem to want to meet his eye. On the other hand she acted shy with everyone, and didn’t seem as well rounded as he fondly remembered. The trouble with that was that none of ’em looked, fully dressed, the way they might feel, and there was no way a man could steal even a little feel in mixed company.

  After breakfast Stringer caught the chastized Willy the Death alone in the garden, weeding on his hands and knees. Stringer hunkered down beside him and yanked a sprouting chickweed as he said, “Don’t look so glum, old pard. At least you got milk and a sandwich to sleep on, right?”

  The kid scowled and said, “That’ll be the day. When my mom sends me to bed with no supper, she means it, and as soon as I get big enough, I’m going to run off and join the Apache!”

  Stringer said he felt sure the little rascal would make a fine Apache, and stood up with a puzzled frown. Then he shrugged and let himself out the gate, muttering, “Perfidity, thy name is woman.”

  He headed for the center of town, meaning to ask directions to the county courthouse. Then he spotted a newspaper establishment across the street and went over to see if he could save some time. Small-town newspapers only kept newsworthy items in their morgues. Pawing through dusty county records could get tedious unless one really cared about the births, deaths, marriages, and such of all sorts of uninteresting strangers.

  As he entered, a bell above the door tinkled and an old gent wearing glasses and a smudge of printer’s ink came out from the press room to ask what Stringer wanted. He looked disgusted to learn Stringer didn’t want to place an ad, and dubious when Stringer told him who he was.

  The old man said, “I have read and admired features written by Stringer MacKail. You can’t be him. He writes literate.”

  Stringer smiled sheepishly and said, “I majored in writing, not oration. You talk sort of cow yourself, no offense, and I imagine you still spell most of the words right when you stick a galley.”

  The old man cocked an eyebrow at the newspaper jargon. Then he said, “My devil talks about cowboys too. I wish I knew where the hell he is this morning. Can you stick type, or are you just showing off, son?”

  Stringer said, “The Sun uses union-set linotype these days, but I reckon I’ve worked on a few more modest papers in my time.”

  The old man said, “We’ll see about that. Come on back and give me a hand. If you don’t make too much pie, I might let you look through my morgue once we get this damned issue out.”

  Stringer followed him back to the press room. It was a typical small-town layout. There were Edison bulbs hanging above the work table, but the one press was an old hand-cranked antique. The old man handed Stringer a sheet of foolscap covered with handwriting or chicken tracks, depending on whether one held Palmer Penmanship in esteem, and said, “Stick this. Don’t galley it until I see how you mind your P’s and Q’s.”

  Stringer hung up his hat and jacket, stepped over to the case table, and picked up an empty stick, muttering, “P’s and Q’s, for God’s sake.”

  The partitioned wooden type trays, or cases, were set at a handy slant. Capital-letter type was stored in the harder-to-reach upper case. The more frequently used small letters were, of course, in the handier lower case. Stringer held the composing stick, which was really more like a flat metal box with a sliding margin block, in his left hand as he picked type with his right. Reading the handwritten copy, he stuck, not set, the type upside down and backward with the top line at the bottom of his stick. The old saw about P’s and Q’s derived from the simple fact that a lower-case P could be mistaken for Q, reading it backward, and vice versa. Stories about the notion deriving from Pints and Quarts or Peeps and Quacks had actually appeared in print, stuck by printers who surely should have known better.

  The copy Stringer was sticking was a news item about a record head of lettuce grown by a local lady gardener with plenty of time, water, and the Arizona sun to work with. When he’d filled the stick, Stringer showed it to the old man, who’d been working on another item, of course. The old man examined his work, said, “Galley it,” and added, grudgingly, “You can call me Tim, Stringer.”

  They got on even better after Stringer set, not stuck, the paragraph in the flat cast-iron frame, or galley, on a nearby table without spilling the type. As they worked side by side, old Tim was willing to talk more, now that he knew they were both old pros. Neither was distracted by discussing other subjects as they stuck from copy, because while both stuck at about the rate of a slow typist, reading that slow left plenty of time for thinking about other matters.

  Stringer was glad he’d come, despite the ink he was getting on his left thumb because the missing devil was apparently a slob who broke type without cleaning it good before putting it back in the cases. Old Tim was a font of local information, and being an old timer in the territory, remembered lots of things that might not have been in any morgue. Papers only kept what they’d once published, and a lot of details hadn’t seemed important enough at the time.

  By the time he’d helped the old man put the edition to bed, or had all the type bedded down in the galleys for the press to run off one at a time, he’d learned more minor details of the Pleasant Valley War and Sheriff Owens’s career in general than Sam Barca would have let him run, even if it had sounded more interesting. Old Tim didn’t make a liar out of anyone he didn’t already have down as a sneak. So as they washed up with naphtha and soft soap at a corner sink, Stringer said, “Whether it was John Tewksbury Junior or Indian John himself that got shot on his way to the creek for water, seems less important now than it might have years ago. The point is that all the Tewksbury and Graham boys wound up dead or scattered to parts unknown, right?”

  Old Tim shook his head and said, “Wrong. Old Ed Tewksbury lives right here in Globe. Or he did the last time I saw him. He’s not just getting on in years, he’s been sick a spell.”

  Stringer started to ask which Tewksbury they were talking about. Then he nodded and said, “You mean the one they called Big Ed? I thought Sheriff Owens arrested him years ago for murder.”

  The older man said, “He sure did. He was suspected of killing Tom Graham, among others. They couldn’t hold him up in Navajo County though. The higher court held it was an unlawsome arrest. Owens had no real jurisdiction over Pleasant Valley matters, bad as they got. Big Ed knew better than to ever go back there once they had to let him go. He did better down this way, where he belonged. Served as a town deputy a few years back as a matter of fact. Reckon he reformed, whether he was a killer in his wild west days or not.”

  Stringer whistled and asked if Jim had the old gun slick’s address. Old Tim said he didn’t, but that it would surely be in the city directory. He had one handy, and it was. As Stringer was writing it down he asked what old Tim might know about the mysterious Sol Barth. The old timer frowned, said he’d heard the name but couldn’t place it, and asked if Stringer had time for a beer.

  Stringer didn’t. He’d spent close to three hours getting to know old Tim and this part of Arizona Territory better. So they parted friendly, and he legged it up to the current residence of Big Ed Tewksbury, assuming he was still there.

  He was,
seated on his porch in a rocker with a blanket over his lap, even though it was pushing high noon and felt like it. It was easy to see why he’d been called Big Ed in his day. He was a ruined giant with the features of his Indian mother and the rangy build of the Anglo-Saxon Indian John. Stringer introduced himself and told the sickly-looking old timer why he’d come to interview him, slanting the story some to avoid insulting an elder who’d once been tamed considerable by the true object of Sam Barca’s esteem.

  The last of the Tewksburys was soft spoken, friendly enough, and sort of embarrassed by his eventful past. He said, “I’d like to think we’d lived all that feuding and fussing down, son. It was our elders who started the feud in the first damn place, and anyone here in Globe can tell you I’ve lived decent and peaceful a good ten years or more. It’s not true that me and Johnny Rhodes bushwacked the last of the Grahams. That tale about Tom Graham saying we was his killers as he lay dying was a spiteful lie, either by a man who hated ferocious enough to lie as he lay dying, or by an overly-eager sheriff who couldn’t tell where county lines might run. Rhodes proved in open court he had a perfect alibi for the time they say Tom Graham was bushwacked. I didn’t, I’ll allow. But here I am. So let’s say no more about it.”

  Stringer said soothingly, “I reckon a lot of the gossip both sides were subjected to must have vexed you some. Do you know a man in Saint John’s called Sol Barth?”

  Big Ed rocked back and forth as he gathered his memories together before he nodded and said, “Sure. Mexican Sol. Owned a general store, and just about everything else in Saint John’s by the time he was through. Married into a big Mex family and sided with ’em against everyone else. What about him?”

  Stringer said, “He says he’s looking for me. Or, that is, he says I might know something about two gun slicks he used to have working for him.”

  Big Ed shot him a canny look and asked, “Since you say they was gun slicks, I don’t reckon I want to know how come they ain’t on his payroll no more. Was they Mex?”

  Stringer shook his head and said, “Both Anglo. Both sort of old timers as well.”

  Big Ed frowned and said, “That don’t sound like Mexican Sol. I can’t say for sure he’s still in Saint John’s. I ain’t been up that way in years, and never spoke to the son of a bitch when I was there. He didn’t have many Anglo pals. It was one of the few things me and even Pear Owens agreed on. Barth is, or was, a moody hard-to-get-along with cuss.”

  “Was he an enemy of Sheriff Owens as well?”

  “Enemy might be too strong a word. I know Pear warned Barth to keep his Mex friends in line, more than once. Whether we was picking on them or they was picking on us depends on who recalls what, from which dance that turned into a free-for-all. Owens had to save many a Mex from an Anglo lynch mob, and vice versa when they come after one of our boys with a rope. I don’t recall Pear ever arresting Barth whilst the country up yonder was all one big county. It got quieter after Navajo County split off, with Holbrook as the county seat. I’d steer clear of Barth and old Saint John’s if I was you, son. Both the town and old Barth is half Mex and unfriendly to strangers.”

  Stringer said, “I’ve been thinking about that. Unless he’s inviting me to a showdown by public telegraph wire, he wired here crazy as hell. Do you know a deputy called Ed Nolan, Big Ed?”

  The old timer chuckled and said, “Ed is a common name for deputies in these parts. Can’t say Nolan means much to me. But it’s been a spell since I packed a badge. What about him?”

  “He says he doesn’t know Sol Barth either. Yet Sol Barth wired him about me, by name, asking what I might know about his missing gun slicks. I know he only told Nolan they were hired hands. But he must have known if I knew anything at all about them, I’d know he’d sent him after me. Does that make sense to you, sir?”

  Big Ed Tewksbury said, “Nope, and I told you I didn’t want to hear about any recent feuding. I told you Sol Barth had always had a rap for acting odd as hell. So go ask him, or better yet, stay the hell away from him.”

  Stringer said, “Saint John’s is out of my way home, and I don’t want to tire you, sir. So I’d like to ask you just one question about that range you once fought over, up in Pleasant Valley.”

  The sickly giant scowled up at him and snapped, “That war’s been over for years. I’ve never been back. There’s a curse on that land. The devil led us all into blood and slaughter up that way, and the devil is welcome to it all.”

  Stringer insisted, “Someone even meaner seems to be out to hog it, sir. You must have heard all the tales they tell about new settlers being driven off by haunts and worse. I’d like to hear a real Tewksbury offer an educated guess as to why things stayed so mysterious after both you and the Graham faction just packed it in and moved away.”

  The last of the Tewksburys shrugged and said, “Some of us just got sensible, I reckon. There’s nothing up that way worth fighting that hard over. There never was. I’m ashamed to say now that it took both sides so long to see that. It ain’t like Arizona is crowded, you know, even today. There’s open range enough for one and all. None of it’s worth spilling blood for. It don’t rain all that much out here.”

  Stringer nodded and said, “I noticed how fast the chaparral moves in when you graze Arizona hard. You’ve been mighty helpful, and I thank you, sir. One more question. Do you still hold a title to the water rights up yonder?”

  Big Ed looked startled, laughed, and said, “Hell, no. That’s all federal land now. You could file on that water yourself, if you wanted to.”

  Stringer said, “I don’t want to. Someone else doesn’t seem to want anyone else to either.”

  So Big Ed asked, “Why don’t he just claim it for himself, then?”

  And Stringer said, “I don’t know. I said it was crazy as hell.”

  Stringer was coming out of the feed store across from the livery when Deputy Nolan caught up with him again. The somberly dressed Nolan nodded at the big sack of oats on Stringer’s left shoulder and said, “I see you’re really going.”

  Stringer said, “I’m going north after sundown. First I got to go across the street and put this sack down. Unless they just cheated me, I’ve got forty pounds of oats here.”

  As they crossed to the shady side together, Stringer explained, “Now that I know the trail, I mean to travel mostly at night, with more speed, comfort, and supplies. I’ll let you know if I see any haunts in the dark, or any candle stubs in mason jars if they get too close to me and mine.”

  Nolan followed him into the tack room. As Stringer dropped the feed sack at one end of the long wooden saddle horse, Ed Nolan said, “I hear you just paid a call on old man Tewksbury.”

  Stringer said, “I’d sure hate to have a secret vice in this old town. I’m not sure Big Ed is that old. But he sure looks sick as hell. Do you know what ails him?”

  Nolan said, “Some say it’s a bum ticker and others say it’s a guilty conscience. Either way, the docs only give him a year or so more to live. What else did you two talk about?”

  Stringer said, “Old wars and recent haunts, of course. He was unable to offer any sensible suggestions. He said no survivors on either side had any interest up that way now, and he pointed out another odd thing. He pointed out that anyone who wanted that abandoned range could have it free, off Uncle Sam. It sort of makes one wonder why anyone would run about acting loco in the cabeza when all he’d have to do is fill out a few papers and pay a modest filing fee to the land office.”

  Nolan nodded and said, “I’ve always said a man would have to be loco to haunt a house a lot closer to civilization. How do you put it all together, MacKail?”

  Stringer said, “I just told you. I can’t. I might worry more about it if I was a lawman. But I doubt I’ll ever figure out how high up might go, or who created the creator. Unsolved mysteries don’t sell newspapers, as my boss, Old Sam, keeps pointing out to me every time I got bogged down on a story.”

  Nolan asked, “Then you’re just givin
g up?”

  Stringer said, “I just said that too. I should think you boys who get paid to worry about sinister local doings would show more interest in those haunts than anyone has, up to now.”

  Nolan grimaced and said, “If I had a dollar for every time I’ve poked around up that way, I’d buy everyone a drink. Plenty of folk have filed complaints with Gila, and hell, Navajo and Coconino counties. But nobody packing a badge has ever seen a thing up there. We thought the first nesters chased out by haunts were drunks. We still can’t prove anyone’s ever really seen or heard anything up that way. Though it does seem odd their stories match, if they were just making up excuses for not sticking out a claim.”

  Stringer said, “The riders from the Hash Knife I ran into said they didn’t believe in haunts either. You could be right. Some nesters hate to admit they just couldn’t cut it with a nagging wife in a nagging climate. I know I can’t wait to get back to the cool fogs of Frisco, and if you boys don’t care, I don’t care why some raving lunatic seems to want to preserve Pleasant Valley in a pure state of nature.”

  Nolan smiled thinly and said, “Maybe he thinks it looks more pleasant that way.” Then he said, more seriously, “I don’t know if I ought to tell you this—it being privileged information between us and the sheriff’s department up to Saint John’s—but as you mean to head north again, alone, I’d better tell you anyway.”

  Stringer waited. Nolan looked away and said, “We seem to have been slickered. That wire from Sol Barth was a fake. They say he ain’t in business in Saint John’s no more. They don’t know where Barth, his Mex wife, and all their half-Mex kids went. But it’s been some time since any of ’em was in a position to send wires from there. So who do you figure wired us about you and a couple of other mysterious travelers?”