by M. K. Wren
“Well, not this momin’; Doc said he’d call soon as he seen him today. But I stayed at the hospital yesterday evenin’ till he got out of surgery and come around enough to know who he was talkin’ to.” Conan found his cigarettes on the table by the window. He looked out into the golden mosaic of leaves as he lit one, thinking about what Linc might have said while still groggy from the anesthetic. Ted hadn’t returned to the ranch until well after Conan had surrendered himself, at an unusually early hour, to bed.
“How was he, Ted?”
“He was okay. Still hurtin’, but, y’know, it was like a load was took off his shoulders. I guess he had his suspicions about Gil for a long time, but he couldn’t prove anything, and he figgered nobody’d believe him, anyhow. Prob’ly right, too. Whoever would’ve thought ol’ Gil…” He let the sentence hang, as if the enormity of Potts’s crimes defied expression.
“Did Tate have any news about Gil?”
“Don’t know. All he’d say was Gil was ‘took care of.’”
“Well, that sounds encouraging.” He was turning his thoughts to the impending interview with Tate, but something in Ted’s attitude distracted him: an air of uncomfortable determination. He had a purpose here beyond announcing Tate’s arrival. Conan waited, taking a leisurely puff on his cigarette, looking out into the blaze of leaves, while Ted gathered himself.
“Conan, I…I had a talk with Pa last night He waited up for me.” That seemed to amaze him.
“What did he say?”
“It was about that money. Y’know, the money he—he thought I stole. Well, Joe Tate talked to Pa, said that was one of the things Gil told you and Jesse he done.”
“He told me. He didn’t know Jesse was hiding in the closet, nor did he plan on my living to be a witness.”
Ted nodded. “Funny he’d even tell you, though.”
“He was proud of himself. What did Aaron say about the money?”
At that, he paused, again amazed.
“He…he apologized. Pa apologized to me.”
Conan smiled, fully sympathizing with Ted’s amazement “He’s an honorable man, however cantankerous.”
“Well, he come right out and said he was wrong. And he said he lost one son, but found out he had two more; said he…he was proud of us.” With the last words, his face took on a crimson glow.”He should be proud of his sons.”
“Mebbe. Anyhow, I—I wanted to say thanks for findin’ out about that money. And there’s somethin’ else.” He looked up at Conan resolutely. “It’s about Saturday night. About that…fight.”
Conan gave him an oblique smile.
“I chalked that up to genetic spleen.”
“Whatever it was, it scared me pink. I almost—almost killed Linc.
I didn’t want to talk about it, or even think about it, and I still don’t know what happened. Jest ever’thing let go all at once. Well, I guess you can’t thank somebody for somethin’ ’less you’re willin’ to admit it happened. But it did, and I—well…thanks.”
Conan said soberly, “I appreciate that, Ted, but Linc deserves an apology more than I do thanks, and you deserve an apology from him. He was asking for trouble.”
Ted grinned and shrugged. “Damn, if he wasn’t. Well, him and me got that settled out last night”
“Good. Well, maybe your gratitude will make some advice tolerable. That eighteen hundred dollars you have socked away in your room—you were saving it to replace the money you were accused of stealing, I suppose?”
Ted’s jaw sagged. “How’d you know about that?”
He sidestepped the question, admitting, “It had me worried at first. Anyway, my advice is to take part of that money and buy the best diamond you can find for Bridgie.”
His cheeks began to glow hotly again.
“Well, I…I been thinkin’ about that.”
“Then it’s good advice.” He looked out the window, smiling to himself. “Willful girl. Just like a Roman-nosed bronc, always ready to buck, but she loves you, Ted.”
He could only nod, tongue-tied, and Conan didn’t pursue the subject, but purposefully put out his cigarette, then checked the time as he slipped his watch on.
“Well, I’d better not keep the sheriff waiting. Tell him I’ll be down as soon as I dress.”
“Okay. Oh—Linc wanted me to tell you somethin’. He asked me to bring his gittar when I go in to see him today. He said mebbe you’d like to know about that.” There was a hint of a question in his tone, but Conan only smiled.
“Yes, I’m glad to hear that.”
*
Laura was just coming out of the kitchen when he reached the foot of the stairs.
“Conan, how do you feel? Oh, dear, you look awful.”
“Colorful, at least. You look extraordinarily good.”
“I—I feel good. I’m at the stage where I start crying at the drop of a word, but I can deal with that. Conan, thanks for staying with it; for being so damned stubborn.”
He kissed her cheek, laughing.
“It’s an equivocal virtue. Now, I’d better see what Tate has on his mind.”
“Oh, yes. Come on. He and Aaron are polluting the atmosphere in the living room.”
When they went in, Ted was leaning on the bar, while Aaron occupied his usual chair, Joe Tate the one to the right of the fireplace, both puffing at panatelas.
Aaron eyed Conan through a pall of smoke.
“Well, Flagg, you finally got yourself up outa bed. ’Bout time, too.”
Conan laughed as he eased himself down on the couch.
“Your hours are a little stringent for a greenhorn.”
“Mebbe you oughta stay on. You ain’t half bad handlin’ horses, and I’d get you shaped up in a couple of weeks.”
“I nearly didn’t survive this one week. How are you, Sheriff?”
“Not bad, considerin’. How ’bout you?”
“Not bad, also considering. Any word on Linc?”
“I phoned Doc; said he was doin’ fine. I’ll stop by the hospital later. Never got a chance to talk to him yesterday, but I don’t figger he can tell me much more’n you and Jesse did.”
“I doubt it, but he knew Gil better than anyone else. He might have some idea where he’d go now.”
“Well, we know where he went.”
“You found him?”
“In a way, yes, we found him.”
“Well, what did he say? Would he talk?”
Tate gave him a sphinx smile and adjusted his Stetson.
“No, he didn’t do no talkin’, but we learned a lot.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’ll tell you what happened. Kind of a long story, though.” Conan said irritably, “I’m not short on time.”
“No. Well, first we put out an APB. Too bad you didn’t know what kind of rig Gil was drivin’. Had to check with the ranch, and he had a hell of a head start by then. Anyhow, I called the state patrol and Sher’ff Culp down to Winnemucca, and he got his boys and the Nevada patrol on it. We set up road blocks, but there’s a lot of country out there, and a lot of miles of back roads. Ain’t no way we could cover all of ’em without callin’ out the Army.”
“You didn’t pick him up at any of the road blocks?”
“Nope. Did I tell you Ira Culp had his eye on a feller named Al Reems?”
“Yes. Didn’t Culp say he thinks Reems is kingpin of the rustling operation?”
“Doesn’t think it, knows it; jest can’t prove it. Well, yesterday Ira told me he was right next to certain Gil was on Reems’s payroll, one of his top hands, back before he left Winnemucca. Would’ve saved a lot of trouble if I’d knowed that, but I never had any reason to ask Ira’bout Gil.”
“Is that why he left Winnemucca? Culp was making it too warm for him?”
“Could be, but Ira never had any proof against him.”
“It seems no one ever did.”
“Least, nobody did and stayed alive, ’cept you and Jesse, and I don’t figger nei
ther one of you’d be alive if Linc hadn’t come bargin’ in.” He looked over at Aaron as if to make sure he understood that.
Aaron muttered, “Well, I’m glad he finally put his fists to good use.”
Conan put in, “And I’m glad he was smart enough to see through Gil; at least, suspicious enough to follow him to my hotel room. Gil turned out to be a little more than I could handle alone.”
Aaron didn’t comment, but he was finding it difficult to maintain his glower as Tate resumed his narrative.
“Anyhow, Ira figgered Gil might head for Reems’s place, so he sent some of his deppities out to look around the ranch in a hellycopter; thought they might spot that black pickup. They did, too, jest about sundown. Reems has this cabin way to hell and gone in the hills north of his place. It’s an old homesteader’s shack; he keeps some grub and a couple of bedrolls there for the buckaroos when they’re out workin’ cattle, or sometimes he uses it for huntin’. Ira thinks he uses it for a hideout, too, if any of his boys gets into trouble. There’s a road up to it, but it ain’t much more’n a cow path, and out there in them hills, a jackrabbit’d have to pack a lunch to stay alive. Well, when Ira’s deppities flew over the cabin, they spotted two pickups; the Runnin’ S truck and one of Reems’s.”
Conan leaned forward. “Reems was there?”
“Sure was.” He paused to emit a portentous cloud of smoke. “Him and two of his boys with their hands full of shovels, and Reems with the gun still on him.”
The question had to be forced out.
“What…what gun?”
“The gun he shot Gil with. That’s what the shovels was for. They was buryin’ Gil Potts.”
Conan leaned back, well aware that Tate was watching his reaction closely, but he’d be hard put to assess it; Conan himself wasn’t sure of his feelings.
“So, he’s dead.”
“Yep, and no city lawyer’s gonna talk Reems outa that one. That’s what you call getting’ caught red-handed.”
“Well, there’s…justice in it, I suppose.”
Tate was still watching him. “I guess so. I never did like that eye-for-an-eye business, but I ain’t sorry the way it turned out. Mebbe we could’ve locked Gil up with that confession he give you and Jesse, but it’d mean a trial, and a real rip-snorter. I seen too many people hurt that way; people who got somethin’ to hide that ain’t really nobody’s business. But it all comes out in a trial. The law ain’t choosy, y’know; dredges up the minnahs with the sharks.”
Conan caught the quick, ironic glint in his eyes, and knew without a doubt that Tate read him to the last line. But he offered no hint of acknowledgment.
“Well, Sherriff, I guess that closes the case.”
“I’m willin’ to call it closed; grateful, even. But there’s still somethin’ bothering me.” He crossed his legs, frowning critically at the teetering ash on his cigar before he tapped it into the ashtray.
Conan conceded the cue. “What bothers you?”
“Well, what I can’t figger out is why Al Reems wanted to shoot ol’ Gil.”
He shrugged. “Dishonor among thieves, I suppose.”
“Maybe. More likely, Reems was afraid of what Gil might tell about his beef wholesalin’ business if we ever caught up with him. But Ira says Reems took real good care of his reg’lar hands, and Gil wasn’t the kind to pull leather. Reems’d know that. Besides, I seen a good lawyer make mush outa better cases than we had against Gil. So, how come Reems was so quick to buy him?”
“I hope you don’t really expect me to answer that.”
He laughed. “No, I’m jest wonderin’ out loud. I guess Reems must’ve thought Gil was getting’ loose in the mouth, and I’m wonderin’ where he’d get an idea like that.” He paused, then when Conan offered no comment, “I figger it this way—somebody got to Reems and put that idea in his head about Gil, but Gil didn’t know it, so when he went to his boss for help, he set hisself up for a fast funeral.”
“Well, that sounds reasonable, Sheriff.”
Tate pulled a slow grin as he put out his masticated cigar, that cool irony still glinting in his eyes.
“Sure does. Well, I guess that’s somethin’ I’ll never know—who got to Reems. But the case is closed, and like I said, I’m grateful.” He rose and readjusted his hat. “Well, I gotta get back to town. Anytime I can lend you a hand, Mr. Flagg, you jest holler. Nice seein’ you, Laura; you too, Ted. Aaron, you take care of yourself.”
“That’s all I been doin’ lately,” he grumbled, rising to see Tate out. “But I’m grateful, too, Joe. Mebbe now we can get some work done around this place.”
Laura looked over at Conan, and when the screen door banged behind Aaron and Tate, she broke into a laugh.
“He’ll never change.”
“Probably not. Ted, when are you going in to see Linc?”
“This afternoon. Visitin’ hours start at one.”
“Do you mind if I go with you?”
“Glad to have you.” Then he frowned at his watch and started for the door. “Talkin’ about work, I better get out to the barn and get them leppie calves fed.”
Laura rose. “And I’d better get you fed, Conan. Do you feel up to some breakfast?”
“I may start on lunch, too. I’m starved.”
But they didn’t make it to the kitchen. In the foyer, they encountered Aaron coming back in from the porch.
“Flagg!”
Conan stopped, waiting impatiently while Aaron hooked his thumbs in his belt, mouth compressed sourly, the furrows lining his forehead deepening.
“I jest wanted to say—well, you done a damn good job.” That admission seemed to necessitate a pause for recovery. “Damn good. Whatever you charge for your work, you got it cornin’, and I…I’ll take care of the doctor bills myself.”
For that, Conan needed a pause for recovery, then he put on an amiable smile.
“Thanks, Aaron, I’m glad I could finish the job. And I’ll tell Doc to forward my bill to you.”
He blinked, but had no opportunity to comment on the quick acceptance of his offer. There was a pounding of footsteps on the porch, and the screen door swung open, propelled by a panting and wide-eyed Mano Vasquez.
“Senor—Mr. McFall! They—they’re here! They have come here!”
“What the hell’re you gabblin’ about, Mano?”
“The Dreenkwaters—they just now drive up!”
“The Drinkwaters?”
“Yes, sir, they are all come. Outside, you can see—”
“Damnation!”
He pushed past Mano to the door and stared out incredulously. Conan looked over his shoulder and saw Alvin, Emily, and Bridgie Drinkwater emerge from a dusty sedan, then stand side by side, nervously adjusting hats and coiffures.
Aaron demanded of no one in particular, “What the hell is Alvin doin’ here?”
“Alvin is with his family,” Laura said tartly, taking a stand only inches from his nose. “And I invited them.”
“You…you invited ’em?”
“Yes.” Then, with a glance at Conan, “My last act of civic duty in Harney County. Aaron, the feud is over, and Alvin was as much a victim of Gil Potts as you were. Don’t you think it’s time the two of you faced that together?”
He looked out to the car, where Emily was apparently engaged in a similar argument with her husband. But Bridgie was smiling, and without a word to her parents she walked away toward the barn. Conan didn’t find it at all difficult to guess what drew her there.
Aaron loosed a gusty sigh and squared his shoulders.
“I guess as long as they’re here…Well, go put on the coffeepot, Laura.”
“It’s already on.”
He nodded once, then with his jaw set resolutely, he marched out onto the porch like a soldier, a general, into battle, while Alvin Drinkwater began his advance toward the picket fence.
Laura glanced up at Conan. “Do you mind waiting awhile for your breakfast?”
He was alread
y halfway out the door. He laughed and took her arm.
“Come on. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”
