by M. K. Wren
“Jest what the hell you gettm’ at, Flagg?”
“Alvin asked Foley for a loan to rebuild his dam, but he was turned down. He said Foley got his orders from you.”
At first, Aaron was speechless, his glass in danger of being crushed in his grip, until he slammed it down on the table beside him, oblivious to the splash of liquid.
“Orders! Orders from me? That yellah-bellied—I didn’t know a damn thing about Alvin askin’ for a loan, so how the hell d’you figger I give Foley any orders?”
“I didn’t say you did. I was only wondering.”
“Well, you can stop wonderin’ right now.” He frowned at the spilled whiskey as he picked up his glass. “Damn. Laura, I need a napkin or somethin’.”
She was already at the bar getting a towel, which she brought to the table and tractably cleaned up the spill. Aaron ignored her and glowered at Conan.
“Alvin have anythin’ else to say?”
“He said he was sorry about George.”
That predictably evoked another outburst. Conan let it run its course, watching Laura as she returned the towel to the bar, picking up her empty glass on the way, moving with an air of dogged containment.
Potts asked hesitantly, “You…uh, want me to mix you up another Potts special, Laura?”
“Thanks, no. I’ll just freshen this up a little.”
She freshened it up by at least three straight shots, then returned to her chair and began drinking it with the same dogged air. Aaron, quiet at last, watched her, something close to concern or even grief evident in the granitic lines of his face. He didn’t comment on her consumption of alcohol, although his doubtful gaze strayed to her glass.
But when Linc went to the bar to avail himself of the whiskey bottle, Aaron’s features settled into the familiar lines of frustrated contempt
“Ain’t you startin’ a little early tonight, boy?”
Linc didn’t look around nor stint as he poured.
“No, Pa. Too late. Too damned late.”
CHAPTER 11
Mrs. Mosely’s announcement that supper was on the table was welcome not only as a diversion, but because Conan was by this time ravenous.
They crossed the hall to the dining room, where the evening meal was laid out family style, and for anyone unaccustomed to ranch meals, it was an impressive feast. A pot roast of profligate proportions; heaped bowls of green beans, stewed tomatoes, and creamed com, undoubtedly canned from the summer’s garden crop; airy, nubbly drop biscuits; a mound of butter and pitcher of cold milk supplied by the ranch’s prize Jerseys; a small mountain of mashed potatoes with a tureen of gravy. As they seated themselves—-Aaron at the head of the table—Mrs. Mosely, with her gray hair pinioned under a net, eyes a little redder than usual, put two oven-hot pies on the sideboard, with the terse explanation, “Apple and peach,” then retreated into the kitchen.
Conan might have been a little embarrassed at his appetite, except that it attracted no attention at all; everyone was too distracted by personal considerations. There was little conversation to punctuate the desultory clatter of silver and china. Potts made an effort at small talk, but limited himself to matters pertaining to cattle or feed, and when that failed, engaged Conan in an uninspired exchange centering on the Ten-Mile and Henry Flagg.
Laura’s dutiful attempts at conversation were notably unsuccessful; she was in that paradoxical state of sobriety resulting from too much alcohol consumed under too much emotional strain. No one here was immune to the strain, and at first Conan took no notice of Aaron’s preoccupied silence or lack of appetite. But when he gruffly refused second helpings because his first were virtually untouched, Conan realized something was wrong, which was undoubtedly attributable to his emotional state but was more serious than bad temper. His leathery features had a gray cast, and his forehead was filmed with perspiration, although one of his few comments was a complaint about an unseasonable chill in the air.
Finally, when Laura got up to cut the pie, he rose unsteadily, bracing himself with a hand on the table. “Laura, don’t cut none for me. I’m goin’ on up to bed.”
She studied him a moment, frowning.
“What’s wrong, Aaron? You don’t look well.”
“Nothin’ wrong with me,” he insisted. “Jest tired.”
“You hardly touched your supper.”
“I ain’t hungry. You expect me to be hungry today?” At that, she turned abruptly, shoulders rigid, and his tone softened. “Sorry, Laura. Jest don’t worry ’bout me. Nothin’ wrong a little Pepto-Bismol won’t take care of.”
She managed a smile. “I know. Oh—I put some of those pills Doc left by your bed. You’d better take one.”
“Pills,” he muttered. “Ol’ Walt thinks there’s a pill to cure ever’thing.” He had more to say on the subject, but it became unintelligible as he went out and stumped up the stairs. Laura began cutting one of the pies.
“Aaron considers taking advantage of modern medicine a sign of weakness,” she said, apparently addressing no one in particular; it was only in such vague lapses that her consumption of alcohol was evident. “Like the digitalis. He’s supposed to be on a maintenance….” She frowned distractedly, then called up another forced smile. “Well, you have a choice of desert: apple or peach. Any takers?”
Linc was sitting with his hands in fists on either side of his plate, jaw muscles working. He looked up at her, but didn’t seem to understand the question, then his chair scraped harshly as he rose and headed for the door.
“I’m goin’ into town,” he announced curtly.
Potts frowned, then hurriedly wiped his mouth and tossed his napkin down as he left the table.
“Uh…mebbe I better tag along with him, Laura.”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Thanks, Gil.” She listened for the slam of the screen door, then turned to Conan and Ted. “Well, can’t I sell any pie? Irene makes the finest pastries west of the Rockies.”
Ted laughed politely as he, too, left the table.
“Mebbe later, Laura. I’m goin’ out for some fresh air.”
“All right, Ted. Conan?”
“Later for me, thanks.”
She only nodded absently and began stacking the dishes, waving him away when he tried to help her.
“Irene and I will take care of this. Men in the kitchen make her nervous. Woman’s work, you know.”
And Laura didn’t feel like talking.
“Well then, my compliments to Mrs. Mosely. I guess I’ll get some air, too.” Ted was sitting on the top step of the porch. He didn’t look around as Conan leaned against the post at the other end of the steps, but seemed engrossed in the rosy remainder of the sunset. The Mercedes thrummed at idle outside the main gate while Potts closed it. As soon as he got into the car, it rocketed down the road on a wake of dust.
“That’s quite a little toy Linc has there,” Conan commented as the roar died into distance.
“What? Oh. Yeah, toy’s about it, too. That’s all’s left of Linc’s music.”
“His music?”
“He used to play gittar and do some singin’. He was damned good, Mr. Flagg.”
“Conan—or am I to call you Mister McFall?”
Ted turned, watching him as he sat down on the step.
“Nobody calls me ‘mister.’ Okay, it’s Conan, then. That an Indian name?”
“Irish. My middle name is Indian: Joseph.”
“Joseph?” He laughed tentatively, and Conan smiled.
“For Chief Joseph. My mother was Nez Perce. Ted, has Linc given up his music?”
“Yes, I guess so, but he shouldn’t have. He even wrote some songs; some real purty ones. Course, Pa couldn’t see him makin’ a livin’ outa that.”
“What did you mean about that car being all that’s left of his music?”
He hesitated a moment, then shrugged.
“Oh, a couple years back he was all set to make a record of one of his songs; met a guy with connections in Los Angeleez. But
he needed a lot of money for promotion, you know. Well, Pa knew he had his eye on one of them Mercydes, so he put it up to him. He could have his record or his…his little toy.”
“A couple of years ago. Wasn’t that about the time Chari Drinkwater died?”
“Yes. That jest took all the starch outa Linc. Mebbe that’s why he settled for the car.” Then he studied Conan, eyes narrowing. “Did you talk to Bridgie while you was over to the Double D?”
“Yes, and I know about you and Bridgie, but she didn’t volunteer it.”
He nodded, satisfied. “Didn’t figger she would.” His flat tone effectively closed that subject. Conan turned to another.
“George told me he was sure no one at the Black Stallion took part in this feud, but wouldn’t it be possible for someone—one of the hands, maybe—to make raids on Drinkwater property without George knowing about it?”
“Oh, I guess it’d be possible, but it ain’t likely one of us wouldn’t get wind of it sooner or later.”
“One of us? You mean the family?”
“Or Gil. And why would anybody wanta do somethin’ like that, anyhow? Pa’d have reason enough now, but he didn’t start this thing.”
“Did Alvin?”
“Well…oh, hell, I don’t know. I guess so.”
“Do you know the Double D hands?”
“Sure. Good steady workers, and none of ’em has any reason to get a feud fired up between Pa and Alvin. Neither does any of our hands. It jest don’t make sense; none of it. And George—” His voice faltered and he turned away. “You heard what Joe Tate said. He thinks George dynamited the dam, and I can’t come up with any other reason for him bein’ out there. But I jest can’t believe he’d do somethin’ like that. ’Specially not right after hirin’ you to—to investigate this jackpot.” He turned appealingly to Conan. “That wouldn’t be too smart, now, would it?”
“No, and dynamiting dams wasn’t George’s style. Did he get along well with the hands here?”
“He got on real good with ever’body.”
“Including the family?”
“Sure. We never had no trouble.” The answer was too quick, and the emphasis on the “we” almost suggested that he meant specifically himself and George.
“And with Laura?”
Conan realized he had overstepped himself when Ted came to his feet and said curtly, “You been listenin’ to too much gossip.” He stood undecided for a moment, then thumped down the steps, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched.
“I’m goin’ out ridin’. Tell Laura I’ll be back in an hour or so.” Conan watched him go, irritably annoyed at himself; that question could have waited. As the desert silence closed in, he lit a cigarette and watched the burgeoning of stars. He heard Ted’s departure on Molly, but afterward the only sounds were distant slammings of doors from the bunkhouse as the hands settled in for the night, and later the eerie harmonic chorus of a coyote pack singing the moon up. A wild sound full of echoes of years and millennia past, a cast of mourning in it that unexpectedly brought tears to his eyes for a man who had been vital and alive when the moon last rose. Or perhaps his grief was for the survivors; for the victims of some vicious and senseless game.
He had finished a third cigarette when he heard the screen door close behind him. Laura walked over to him, a shadow in the darkness.
“Woman’s work is done. How about walking me home?”
He accepted that invitation with relief; some rapport still existed with at least one member of the family.
They walked around to the back of the house and under the breezeway connecting the back door with the cookhouse. There were lights in the bunkhouse and trailers, but except for a halfhearted bark from one of the dogs, the silence was unbroken. Behind the house was a trimly mowed lawn lit by a yard light haloed with motes of insects. Another light shone over the door of the house to the north; a relatively new building whose architecture would probably—ironically, perhaps—be called “ranch style.” The door was unlocked, but Laura hesitated before opening it, and when they were inside, he understood why.
It was another world. San Francisco. This was the kind of house he’d expect of the Laura and George he had known in San Francisco. Fine woods and carefully chosen materials and accessories; paintings thoughtfully arranged on every wall. And books. Half a wall filled with books whose diversity indicated they were read and prized.
Laura stood with her arms clasped to her body, brown eyes haunted. Then she crossed hurriedly to the kitchen.
“Let me fix you a drink. Scotch? No, I—I forgot. Bourbon, isn’t it?”
He started to decline, but thought better of it; she needed the drink. Another drink.
“Yes, it’s bourbon, and when the whiskey’s good, I prefer it on the rocks.”
“Oh, it’s good,” she assured him from the kitchen. “Put some music on, Conan.”
He went to the stereo and looked through the records, startled once by a sudden crash, followed by the assurance that she had only dropped a glass. She was all right.
He didn’t argue that, nor go into the kitchen, but concentrated on choosing music that would have as few emotional overtones as possible—a hopeless undertaking. Finally, he put on a combination of Monteverdi, Mozart, and the Modern Jazz Quartet. Laura was pale when she brought his drink; she sat down at one end of the couch, focusing on her glass as if she were afraid to look around her.
Conan seated himself in an armchair near her, tasted his bourbon and guessed Jack Daniels, then lit a cigarette and waited for her to set the course of their conversation, but she remained tensely silent
At length he asked, “Do you think you should stay hare alone tonight?”
She tipped up her glass. “Would the old house be any better?” Then, as if the whiskey had given her courage, she looked around, and the fear haunting her eyes gave way to fathomless regret.
“You know, when we moved into this house I was so happy. I thought, there’s hope now. A place that’s all ours; not the ranch’s, not the family’s, not Aaron’s.” She took another swallow of whiskey, grimacing at it. “But it didn’t work out that way. In the end, it was only all mine.”
“You mean now?”
Her eyes flashed briefly. “No.”
“What happened, Laura?” He wondered if she would answer that, or if it wasn’t cruel to ask. He only hoped he was right in assuming she needed to talk and wouldn’t feel comfortable talking to anyone else about George. And finally she did answer, although obliquely.
“Conan, I’ve thought of you so much this last year. Remember that day—it was right after George proposed to me—you dropped by my apartment in San Francisco, oh, so casually, for a big-brother talk.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“You tried to warn me. Very kindly, you tried to tell me I wouldn’t just be marrying George; I’d be marrying George McFall and the Black Stallion. You talked about the land and the life, and I thought I understood.”
“I know. Some things can’t be understood until they’re endured. It wasn’t working out, then. Your marriage.”
She laughed and raised her glass, drinking as if it were water and she was simply thirsty.
“You didn’t even make that a question. Conan, I did understand part of what you tried to tell me; I knew it wouldn’t be easy for me. I never was a country girl.” She smiled faintly over the phrase. “But I thought if I had George I could adjust to anything. Only I—I found out I didn’t have George. Not the same George. He didn’t change, really. He only reverted to what he always was; to George McFall, heir apparent to Aaron McFall. It finally came through to me. The man I met and fell in love with in San Francisco wasn’t the real George McFall; he was out of context. But here—” She stopped, tension choking off the words until she got herself under control with more whiskey.
“The attitudes, Conan. The roles. Woman’s work and man’s; husband’s and wife’s. And the ranch—the land—is everything, and there’s no room for anything else. N
o room for music or art or curiosity; no room for tenderness. A wife is not a lover; it isn’t respectable. And anyone bearing the title of Mrs. McFall must above all be respectable.”
For a moment, when she said “Mrs. McFall,” her self-control wavered. She bolstered it with the rest of her drink, then stared into the glass, rattling the ice.
“Empty. You want another?”
“No, thanks. Laura…”
She rose and went into the kitchen. “Don’t lecture me about demon rum. I know it’s not respic—respectable.”
He crushed out his half-smoked cigarette, wondering if she’d had lectures on demon rum before. When she made her way back to the couch, she lifted her glass to him defiantly.
“Consider it medicinal. I won’t take Doc’s pills. Still nurse enough to know better than to mix ’em with booze, and I have faith in brother bourbon. I may get messy—not before you leave, I hope—but at least I’ll sleep.”
He nodded vaguely. “Laura, how did George feel about…about your marriage?”
“Bewildered.” She gazed wistfully into space. “Once I asked him to go to Portland with me to a concert. We have a plane and he could fly; it would only mean one day lost. But it was branding time. Too busy. I told him we hadn’t been off this ranch together for three years, and he just looked vaguely surprised. ‘Honey, anytime you want to go to Portland or anywhere else, just say so. I can hire you a pilot.’ Hire me—oh, Conan, my mind, my feelings, were turning to ’dobe, but he didn’t understand. It just didn’t make sense to him that I wanted more than room and board and a clothing allowance out of marriage; out of life.”
Conan took a moment to taste his bourbon, watching her as she resolutely emptied nearly half her glass at once.
“Is that how it stayed between you?”
“Until a year ago. Then came the proverbial straw.”
“What was it?”
“Money. Root of all divorces. But not in the usual sense. You see, Ted had been entrusted with twenty thousand dollars to buy new breeding stock.”
“Yes, I heard about that.” And he was relieved that she brought it up. “Some of the money disappeared, didn’t it?”
