by Ralph Cotton
For a moment Clay stood in complete silence, listening intently into the blackness between himself and the open barn door. The woman was out there, he knew it. He had caught her scent—now he sifted through the musky smells inside the barn and searched for the scent of her again. What had he detected in her scent? Something different, he thought. Fear? Tension? Excitement? A little of each? he asked himself.
It was not something he could have explained to people with sight, but he knew that each person carried his own scent. With that personal scent came certain distinct variations and changes, dependent on the state of mind and emotional condition. Clay had learned intuitively how to identify the underlying scent of fear, tension, anger, even grief and sorrow. He wasn’t sure how it worked or what brought it about, but he’d learned to depend on scent to identify in people what his blind eyes could not see in their faces.
Hoping to find the woman’s scent again and try to better identify what he’d detected inside it, Clay felt his way along the stalls, walking stick in hand, until he stopped at the inside plank wall beside the open door and listened closely as his nostrils searched for her. Through the faint drifting smell of crumbling adobe, Memphis Beck’s trail clothes, dried sweat, and riding duster, he found the scent of her again. As he breathed in the smell of her, he listened to traces of their two voices speaking, judging by the sound just how close they stood to each other.
“My goodness, look at you,” Beck said, having followed her gesture and joined her at the adobe wall. “I never thought I’d see you again.” They had embraced when he had crossed the alley to the wall. Now he held her at arm’s length and looked into her eyes. “You’re as beautiful as always,” he said softly, caressing her cheek. “Just the way I remember you.”
Emma smiled, closed her eyes, and cupped his hand on her cheek for a moment. But then she pulled his hand away and squeezed it in mock anger. “I shouldn’t even be speaking to you, Memphis Beck!” she said, yet without turning loose his hand. “I wrote to you after Dillard’s death…you never answered me.”
“Emma, I never received a letter,” Beck said with a look of regret. “I found out about Dillard from the ranger on our way here. Believe me, if I had only known, I would’ve been here first thing. Nothing could’ve kept me away.”
“You’re forgiven,” Emma said in a bit of a playful tone, clasping his hand in both of hers. “I had already decided you must not have gotten the mail. I sent the letter to the post office in Casper.”
“I haven’t been to Casper in almost three years,” said Beck. “Things got hot for all of us in Wyoming…even up in the Hole.” He considered the bad news about her husband and shook his head. “Ole Dillard, dead. I hated hearing it…especially from a stranger.”
“I—I made him happy, Memphis,” Emma said. “I mean, you and the others said we’d never make a go of it, but we did.” She looked into Beck’s eyes. “I loved him, you know?”
“That’s good, Emma,” Beck said. “I would never have made you for a lawman’s wife, but what did I know?” He shrugged and offered a smile. “When you said you were putting the life behind you, you meant it.” Now he clasped her hand in his. “Good for you.”
“He—that is, Dillard knew about you, Memphis,” Emma said. “I felt I had to tell him.”
“Oh, you did?” Beck’s smile went away. “Why did you have to go do something like that?”
“I wanted to be honest,” Emma said.
Beck looked a little annoyed and shook a finger for emphasis. “See? That always worried me, that honesty thing you carry around on your shoulders. You never got over that? You still have spells of it?”
“Not as often, but yes, I’m still cursed with it,” she replied. They both smiled at their humor.
“How did Dillard take it, about us?” Beck asked.
“Much better than you would ever have taken it if I told you I’d spent those years with a lawman,” Emma pointed out.
“All right, maybe I shouldn’t have asked,” Beck said. He turned loose her hands and looked into her eyes. “When can we see each other?” He looked all around. “Where do you live? Take me home with you.”
“I can’t right now,” said Emma, thinking of Wills lying sprawled on her bed when she’d left. “There’s things I have to do first.” She looked away as she spoke.
“Really?” Beck bent his head to look her squarely in the eyes. “You’re with somebody?”
“Only recently,” said Emma. “I’ve been in mourning over the past year. Only the other day I met—”
“Wait, stop right there,” said Beck, only half jokingly. “I don’t want to know. Just tell me if it’s serious. If it is, I’ll walk away, no hard feelings.”
“No, it’s nothing serious,” said Emma, shaking her head. “I’ve just got to break away from him.”
“Get rid of him, then,” said Beck.
“I will, but it’s going to take a day or two.” She’d been wondering how to go about easing Wills out of her house and her life before he made himself any more deeply entrenched.
“I’m not here for long, Emma,” Beck said. As much as anything he told her this to keep her from building any expectations. “I’ve got a posse on my back trail,” he added flatly. “They could be here any day.”
“But your horse,” said Emma. “You’re leaving it with Curtis, aren’t you?”
“Yes, for as long as I can,” said Beck. “I hope it gets healed up before I have to leave in a hurry. I can’t wait around for a lame horse, Emma. You know me better than that. There’s too many good horses standing around. If I have to I’ll take one and go.”
Emma shook her head slowly. “Nothing has changed for you, I see.”
“I still try to keep things simple,” Beck said. “I still travel fast and light.”
“Don’t worry, Memphis,” said Emma, realizing his reason for saying all this, “I’m not about to expect anything from you. I know how the life is, remember? No strings?” She looked into his eyes, summoning up conversations on the matter from years past. “It was always that way with us, wasn’t it?”
They stood in silence for a moment; then as if something had just occurred to Beck, he said, “Hey, wait a minute. This is not Sheriff Gale you’re hooked up with, is it?”
“Hooked up with,” she repeated. “What a romantic way of putting it.”
“Is it?” Beck asked. “Because if it is—”
“No, no, it’s not Vince Gale,” said Emma with certainty, shaking her head. “But it’s not because he hasn’t been trying.” She found that in spite of the time and distance between the two of them, being with Memphis Beck brought something youthful and restless out of her—a wildness she had kept suppressed inside herself for a long time. Her words surprised her.
“Then who is it?” Beck said, getting more curious about it now.
“Stop it, Memphis,” she giggled, shoving him back as he pressed closer to her. “It’s nobody. Let’s just say I made a foolish mistake, and now I need to correct it before I can go on and do what I want to do.” Was this her talking? she asked herself.
“I hope that means spending some time with me?” Beck asked.
“Some time with you? You’re hopeless!” Emma laughed and shook her head. “Be careful you don’t pin yourself down to anything.”
“You know what I mean, Emma,” Beck said, looking embarrassed. “If there ever was one woman I wanted above all the others, it’s you. I just can’t bring myself to say anything that sounds permanent. I’m afraid if I did, I would jinx everything.”
“I’m not asking you for anything, Memphis. I never did,” said Emma. “I just want to be with you. Let me get things settled first.” She couldn’t believe she stood here talking this way.
“I won’t rush you, Emma, posse or no posse,” said Beck. “I’ll take a room at the hotel. You’ll find me there or else at—”
“At the saloon,” Emma finished for him. “I know where to look.” She took a step back and gathered her shawl across h
er shoulders against the crisp morning air. In reflection she said, “Remember how we each always swore that the other was a bad influence?”
“Yeah, I remember.” Memphis Beck smiled.
She reached out and rubbed a hand down the front of his leather coat. “I’ve only been with you a few minutes, and I already feel like doing something bad.”
“Keep that thought in mind,” Beck said. “Now go get rid of your beau and come find me….”
Inside the livery barn, Curtis Clay stood close to the plank wall listening to only faint murmurs of conversation from across the alleyway. From the other end of the barn, he heard soft footsteps on the straw-covered dirt floor and turned in time to catch the sour scent of whiskey and tobacco juice waft through the front door.
“Clay, what the hell are you doing hanging around in here in the dark?” said the harsh voice of Bland Woolard, the livery manager and town councilman.
“Dark don’t mean a thing to me, Mr. Woolard,” Clay replied. He stepped away from the plank wall and felt his way along the stall rail until he put a hand on Beck’s horse standing at the empty stall. “You can see I’ve got me a horse needs tending.
Town council said I can come here anytime, take care of an ill horse.”
“Don’t tell me what the town council says, boy,” said Woolard. “I am the town council, don’t forget.” He thumbed himself on his chest in spite of the fact that Clay couldn’t see the gesture. “One word from me, you won’t come in here again, not without somebody watching, making sure nothing’s missing when you leave.”
Clay’s nostrils flared, but he held his rage in check. “You know me, Mr. Woolard, sir, I never steal nothing.”
“You’ve never been caught at it, let’s put it that way,” said Woolard idly, stepping forward. He brushed Little Dog aside with his boot as he looked the horse over good. The dog moped away a few steps, turned around, and sat down on the floor, watching Clay.
“Say, this is some fine-looking animal you have here, Curtis,” Woolard said admiringly. “What’s the problem with him?”
“Stone bruise, is all,” said Curtis, “not too deep. He didn’t walk much on it. His owner was wise to get off him as soon as he felt him limp.”
“Who is his owner?” Woolard asked, still looking the horse up and down. “I’m always on the lookout for good horseflesh. He might want to trade this one.”
“I never asked his name,” said Clay. “I figure he’d tell me if he thought it was important I know.” He felt his way to the animal’s side and deftly uncinched its saddle and lifted it, blanket and all. Woolard watched him toss the saddle over the rail no differently than a man with two good eyes would do.
“It always amazes me,” said Woolard, “seeing how you can go about doing things. And that trick you pull with the old revolver. You should be traveling with a carnival. Folks would pay to see what you can do.”
Clay let the remark about the trick with the gun go. It was no trick. And he disregarded the remark about the carnival—folks paying to see what he did. He was no freak to be singled out and stared at as something miscast by nature.
“It’s not so hard, what I do here. I know the layout of everything, Mr. Woolard,” Clay said as he stepped along the horse, felt its muzzle, loosened its bridle, and dropped its bit from its mouth. “Besides, I always got Little Dog pinting my way for me if I need him to.”
“Little Dog, eh?” Woolard stared down at the spotted cur. “This old runt isn’t worth an ounce of what it leaves behind itself.”
“He’s worth lots to me, Mr. Woolard,” Curtis said firmly. “He takes me anywhere I want to go, anytime I need to go there.”
“Bull.” Woolard laughed a little. “I’ve watched that old dog, he doesn’t do anything but walk along in front of you. How does that help you any?”
“I hear him walk. I can feel him with my walking stick if I need to,” said Clay. “If he stops all of a sudden, I run into him and know to stop myself. Nobody realizes what a good dog is worth to a blind man.” He reached a hand down and searched around until Little Dog stood, walked over, stepped under his hand, and licked it.
“Yeah, whatever you say, Curtis,” said Woolard skeptically. Dismissing the matter, he turned toward the front door. “When the owner of that dun comes back, tell him where to find me. I’m in a trading mood today.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Woolard, I’ll tell the man, sure enough,” said Clay, rubbing Little Dog’s bristly muzzle. When Woolard had walked out of sight, Clay turned his cloudy eyes toward the rear barn door, knowing intuitively that the man and woman had left the adobe ruins. “I hope she knows what she’s doing, Little Dog. We worry ourselves about her, don’t we?” The dog sat quietly on the dirt floor against his master’s ankle.
Chapter 6
No sooner had Emma left her house to find what she’d need to prepare her guest a hearty breakfast, than Omar slipped from the warm feather bed and into his trousers. He’d padded barefoot throughout the small cottage checking inside every drawer, cabinet, or covered bowl that might contain anything of value. Some things he’d already gone through while she had slept during the night. He’d found a coin purse in the pocket of her coat hanging on a coat tree in the corner by the front door. There had to be more money around here somewhere, he was sure ofit….
By the time Emma had finally stepped inside the mercantile store, she’d almost forgotten what had brought her there. Seeing Memphis Beck after all these years had caused something to change inside her. She didn’t realize how lonely and isolated from the world around her she’d become since her husband’s death. There had been times when she could not have said with certainty what part of her day-today living was real, and what part was some sort of dream that had seeped out into her waking hours.
Now, after seeing Beck, feeling his arms around her as he’d hugged her by the crumbling adobe wall, there was no doubt: this had been real; this was no dream. This was reality as she remembered it to be, alive and exciting with her back at the center of it. Yet this was a feeling that she knew had slipped further and further away from her over her years with Dillard Vertrees. But Dillard had nothing to do with it, she knew.
As she reached for a jar of peaches on a shelf, she realized that Memphis Beck had kindled to life a part of herself that had died long before her husband’s death. Perhaps died was not the right word, because she felt it alive inside her now. Perhaps it was something she’d lost only for a while, or that had slipped further and further away from her until she only saw it now through some distant and fading veil.
Well, whatever the case, she had a feeling all that was about to change. She had no idea what she had meant, giving herself to the likes of Omar Mills, some young, ignorant ruffian whose only redeeming feature had been his good manners—which as it turned out were false, she reminded herself, laying the peaches into her shopping basket. She drifted along a row of shelves and a locker of dried meat. She remained caught up in her thoughts about her and Memphis Beck until she’d made her way to the long polished wooden counter.
What she felt come alive inside her at the adobe wall had been live by the moment, she told herself, one moment at a time, because any particular moment might be the end of it. Beck had pointed that out to her long ago, the two of them lying naked on a blanket beside some cool and nameless stream, high up among drifting pieces of low white clouds in an endless stretch of hill country….
“Will that be all, Mrs. Vertrees?” asked Fred Gunderson, the mercantile owner, taking the canned peaches, a bag of dried beans, and a hand-six slab of jowl bacon from the basket she’d set absently on the counter.
“Yes, Mr. Gunderson, thank you,” Emma said, snapping out of her preoccupation. She reached inside her coat pocket, took out her small coin purse, and unsnapped it. As she fished inside it with her fingers, to her surprise she found the purse empty. “I—I’m sorry, I seem to have no money this morning,” she said. Odd, money should have been inside the purse. Embarrassed, she said at le
ngth, “Will you please—”
“Put this on charge for you,” Gunderson said, anticipating her words. “Of course, anytime.” He efficiently placed the items back into the shopping basket and stepped back from the counter. “Anything else you need, you feel free to point it out to me.” He grinned.
“That will be all, thank you,” Emma said, still wondering what might have happened to the coins in her change purse as she picked up the basket and turned to the door.
Stepping onto the boardwalk, she saw Sheriff Gale walking toward her, saying, “There you are. I didn’t know what had happened to you. I—I can’t wait to talk to you later. I felt like I owed you an apology, not so much for what I said, but for how you took it.”
“You mean an apology that is not an apology at all?” Emma said a bit curtly.
“No, that’s not what I meant,” said Gale. “I felt like we were starting to talk to each other for the first time back there…maybe coming to an understanding of some sort. I wanted to pursue it—I’d like to pursue it right now if it’s all the same with you.” As he spoke he stepped in closer and reached out, offering to carry her shopping basket.
But with Memphis Beck having walked back into her life and Omar Wills seeming to think he had some sort of hold on her, Emma suddenly felt crowded. “No, it’s not all the same with me,” she said harshly. Clutching the basket to her bosom, she stepped wide around the sheriff and walked off briskly along the boardwalk, saying over her shoulder in a chilled tone, “If you will excuse me.”
Through the dusty window of Little Aces’ telegraph office across the thinly peopled street, Sam stood watching Emma and the sheriff. Behind Sam a bushy-haired young clerk wrote down an incoming reply to the message Sam had just had him wire to the badlands ranger outpost regarding Memphis Warren Beck.
A question had nagged at Sam ever since his encounter with the railroad detectives. He wondered, why were so many men searching for Memphis Beck in this part of the country when every lawman knew that Wyoming was the gang’s stomping grounds?
