by E. R. Slade
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going home. To Pennsylvania. There are nothing but murderers, dead cows and hard winters here.”
“Have you found someone to sell your place to?”
“Our neighbor will buy it.”
Buck helped load the coffin into the battered old farm wagon.
“How far are you planning to drive this?” Buck asked, taking a close look at a couple of cracked spokes.
“To the train,” she said. “It brought us all the way out here. Now if it will just make it to Casper we can go home.”
“Anyone going with you to Casper?”
“Our neighbor offered, but I said no. I told him he should stay on his land and be ready to defend it. Nobody will care about me now. I’m leaving. It’s the ones who stay who need to watch out.”
“I wouldn’t count too much on that,” Buck said, reluctant to alarm her. “If your neighbor will go with you it might be smart to accept the offer.”
“Why do you say that?” She was looking at him sharply.
Buck hesitated, then told her what had happened to Skeetland.
“Oh, she said, looking overwhelmed. For a few moments she sat on the wagon seat blinking tears into her lap, hands gripped tightly together. “Perhaps I’d better accept Mr. Worthington’s offer.” She seemed to recover somewhat. “Thank you,” she said, gazing off up the street, lost in thought.
Then she looked at Buck, cleared her throat.
“Maybe you should know why Snake Ed shot my husband, in case it will help you,” she said. “He was a witness. He was in the store when Snake Ed held up Mr. Skeetland and took the church money.”
“Is that a fact,” Buck said, thinking. “Was he the only witness?”
“Oh no. There were at least three or four other men in the store, but Gordon was the only one who talked about trying to get something done about it. He went to see Markham—that’s the county sheriff—but nothing ever happened. Markham is no better than Snake Ed.”
“You mean Olinger.”
“I mean than Snake Ed. He shoots who he pleases, just the same way.”
“Really. Who are the other witnesses?’
“Gordon only mentioned Lyle Higsby. His little ranch is somewhere along the South Fork. Gordon said he tried to get Higsby to come with him to see the sheriff, but Higsby said it would be a waste of time. Somebody ambushed and killed Higsby three days ago as he was driving home with birthday presents for his daughter.”
“In that case, you be careful. In fact, perhaps I should ride along with you at least as far as your neighbor.”
“You think I’m in that much danger?”
“I don’t know. Could be, if Snake Ed is worried about witnesses.”
“Well, there’s no need. I’ll just drive along with the others when we finish our service.”
“Service?”
“It’s Sunday,” she said, as though his obtuseness on the subject wearied her as much as did the country full of murderers, dead cows, and hard winters.
“Oh, of course,” he said.
She drove off and Buck noticed the house she stopped at, the people going in. He decided she’d be all right.
He went along to the Bucket of Blood Saloon, pushed through the batwings. Nobody around but the barkeep busy polishing the mahogany, humming to himself. When he saw Buck the hum stopped and his mouth pursed.
“Morning,” Buck said. “Too early for Snake Ed?”
“As you can see, he’s not here.”
“When did he leave yesterday?”
“Who says he left?”
“When’ll he be back? I got a message for him.”
“You can leave it here.”
“I’ll deliver it in person. You let me know when he shows up. It’ll matter to him. Where’s Olinger?”
“Gone to hunt some rustlers. Might be back tomorrow.”
Buck went out unable to decide if the saloonkeeper was covering tracks for Snake Ed—or Olinger.
Twenty yards farther down the street he came to the Polecat Theatre, which he’d been thinking about in his early morning pacing. It was locked up, but he read the posters outside for some minutes. Then he looked around for hotels, saw one just across the street, went to the front desk.
“Do you have a Mr. Bixby here?” he asked the old man, who was cleaning his fingernails with the point of a Green River knife.
“He does not wish to be disturbed.”
“You tell him I want to buy him a drink in honor of his performance yesterday.”
“I’ll give him the message.” And he went on cleaning his fingernails.
“Give him the message now. I’ll wait.”
“I told you, he is not to be disturbed. But he’ll be stirring by noon or so, and when he comes by I’ll give him the message. Where shall I tell him to find you?”
Buck did not feel in a patient mood. “You tell him, right now, that Buck Maxwell wants to see him. Or do you want me to start opening doors?”
The old man pointed the Green River knife at him. “I told you I’d give him the message. Now git.”
Buck started toward a hall which had doors along both sides of it. The hotel man reached under the counter, started to bring out a pistol. Buck stopped that by drawing his own weapon.
“What room is he in?” Buck asked.
The desk clerk put away his .36. “207,” he said. “Upstairs.”
Buck holstered his Colt, feeling ashamed of himself. “Sorry about this,” he said to the clerk. “But I got urgent business with Bixby—I think.”
He listened a moment at 207, heard nothing, and knocked. There was a slight rustling of papers and a familiar voice said, “If that’s my breakfast, come in.”
Buck opened the door.
“Why, Mr. Denton,” he said to the man sitting up in bed reading a newspaper.
Bixby froze a moment, then calmly put down his paper. “Mr. Maxwell, was it?” he said smoothly.
“That’s right.” Buck shut the door and went to the bedside.
“I trust you’re well this fine morning?” said Bixby. “Have a seat,” he added, indicating a chair near the bed. Buck sat down.
“You had me fooled,” Buck said.
Bixby turned up a hand. “I’m a professional. How much over two thousand did Skeetland hold you up for?”
“Ninety-eight hundred thirty dollars.”
Bixby’s eyes widened momentarily. “That’s surprising,” he said.
“I bought a ninety-eight hundred and thirty dollar debt—which you know very well.”
Bixby rubbed his chin. “No, I didn’t know,” he said. “Who’d he owe it to?”
“Church Committee. You perform last night—on stage, I mean?”
“Of course. Why?”
“Just wondered where you were. How much did Skeetland pay you?”
“That’s confidential. But after hearing how much he took you for I don’t believe it was enough! He told me he only wanted to hurry things along because he had a sick wife back East to get to. And that at most he might get another hundred dollars out of the store with my help. Looks as though there was more to it than he let on about.”
Buck stood up. He’d found out all he needed to.
“Yep,” he said as he stepped to the door, “there was more to it.”
When he reached the street he could hear “Rock of Ages” being sung. He went along the board sidewalk to the house and considered going in. But Snake Ed was on his mind, so he walked on down to the south end of town and looked out over the range dotted with homesteads.
He hadn’t been looking and pondering long before a figure on horseback appeared.
As he watched, becoming more and more certain it was Snake Ed approaching, he thought over his options. The temptation was to confront him. Probably the result would be a gunfight. Not having seen Snake Ed in action Buck could not predict the outcome of such a fight, but it wasn’t that which made him hesitate.
What he ough
t to be after was the money.
Snake Ed came on, looking pleased with himself. When he saw Buck standing on the sidewalk at the end of town, he rode close to splatter mud, one corner of his mouth lifting. He tipped his hat and set his spurs, flinging more mud.
For about one minute Buck stood there working his lips tighter and tighter over his front teeth, watching Snake Ed ride on down the street.
Then he said, “Okay, you sonofabitch.”
Chapter Four
He crossed the street and set his heels down hard as he strode along to the Bucket of Blood Saloon. He was leaning on one elbow on the bar, other patrons keeping their distance because of the look in his eye, when Snake Ed McFee swaggered through the batwings.
The few men who had been talking went quiet. The barkeeper retired to the far end of the mahogany, went to wiping glasses, nervously.
“Well, if it ain’t the rustler lover,” Snake Ed said, and came straight to the bar. “Where’s my red-eye, Slick?” he demanded of the barkeeper, who quickly poured a shot and set it and the bottle before him, then retreated back down the bar to his glass wiping.
Buck watched Snake Ed drink off the whiskey, pour another, smacking his lips.
“Swaller your tongue or somethin’,” Snake Ed inquired, turning to entertain himself with a view of Buck.
“You got one week to come up with the ninety-eight hundred thirty dollars you stole from Skeetland’s safe. If you can’t manage that you’ll be worth more to me dressed out than on the hoof. Catch my meanin’?”
Snake Ed’s face overspread with a surprised grin, as though a small boy had threatened him with a toy gun.
“Don’t that sound serious, boys?” Snake Ed drank whiskey and then hooted at the ceiling. Several men ventured to guffaw, but they kept a wary eye on Buck.
Buck stood clear of the bar, shifted his hat. “One week, McFee. That’s it.”
~*~
He spent the next couple of hours in his store rearranging stock, sweeping the floor, converting a back room into living quarters for himself, trying to calm down. He’d done a useless thing, taken a foolish chance, and put himself in the position of having to make good a threat, all because he’d lost his temper. Yet, he couldn’t honestly say he was sorry he’d done it.
When he thought he had gotten hold of himself he went to find Hastings, was directed by a man in the street to an imposing house at the north end of town on the west side of the muddy thoroughfare. A young Chinese girl answered the door, led him into a well-appointed front room. While he waited, hat in hand, Buck looked over the Persian rug on the floor, the ornate grandfather clock, the polished oak bookshelves filled nearly to capacity, the leather-upholstered easy chairs, the oil paintings on the bits of wall not occupied by shelves. The place even smelled civilized. He couldn’t help but reflect on the contrast of this with life at the Box TC—and he wasn’t sure he could honestly say ranch life suffered by comparison.
Maybe he ought to go. If this was what playing by town rules got you, what was he doing here?
Trying to keep goodwill for his business. If people didn’t think he gave a damn about their church money they wouldn’t care about buying anything from him.
Hastings appeared in his Sunday best, making Buck aware of the dried street mud all over his own worn shirt and pants. Probably should have at least brushed the worst off before coming here.
Yet he really wasn’t in a mood to care what Hastings thought. Not really.
“Hello, Mr. Maxwell,” Hastings said, almost apologetically. “If it were not for what my wife would say, I’d invite you to sit down. But she sets such store by these chairs, you know. What can I do for you? Have you been looking for Snake Ed?”
“I found him. But that’s not why I’m here.” Buck paused, reconsidering, but the choice was clear. “I want to talk about a way out of this mess that will be best for all of us.”
Surprise flashed briefly across Hastings’ face. “What have you in mind?” he asked curiously.
Buck pulled the bill of sale out of his pocket, unfolded it, and with a dirty thumbnail indicated the place he wanted Hastings to read.
“It says as the new owner I take over the store with all its debts and liens and so forth. That means by your rules I’m responsible now for the money being gone.”
“Well, not my rules,” Hastings said, uncomfortably. “I really wish you had been able to get your money back from Snake Ed. Listening to the sermon this morning made me think more about what a loss the store will be to you, and it bothers me. But you seem to have some idea—what is it?”
“You said you were negotiating with Skeetland about getting your money back. That sounds to me like he didn’t have any more way than I do to make good the loss right off. So what’s the difference to you if you negotiate with me? I’ll pay you back as I can.”
Hastings scratched his ear, nodding slightly. “I think I would be in favor of something like that. We were asking Skeetland to put a mortgage on the business. That way we would have our money to build with immediately. If you can agree to do that, I will present it to the Committee. You understand I can guarantee nothing. I’m certain the sentiment is going to be to just take the store. But I will support you.”
“I wasn’t talking about borrowing money, but simply paying you back over time. Think about this: I paid only two thousand for the store. You are missing more than ninety-eight hundred dollars. If you take the store, who will pay ninety-eight hundred for it? What bank would mortgage the business for ninety-eight hundred?”
Hastings shook his head doubtfully. “You make a good point, but I’m quite sure the others won’t see it that way. They want to build this summer. It will take you years to pay back. They will want to sell the business for whatever they can get rather than wait a long time before seeing any substantial amount of money.”
“Will you let me try to talk them into it?”
At that moment there appeared in the doorway a large woman tightly encased in a very fashionable dress. She gave Buck a look of distaste and said, “Remember we have guests arriving at any moment for dinner, dear.”
“Oh, of course, my darling,” Hastings said. “This is Mr. Maxwell, who has had the misfortune to buy Skeetland’s hardware store.”
“Hello,” she said, without smiling. Then, “I think I hear the carriage stopping now, dear. Perhaps Mr. Maxwell could use the rear entrance?”
Hastings gave Buck an apologetic glance, and indicated a door at the other end of the room. “Minnie worries a great deal about appearances.”
Buck quelled a temptation to walk straight out the way he’d come in and instead went toward the door indicated. Hastings stepped ahead to open it for him, then led the way through two more sumptuous rooms to a kitchen where the Chinese girl and an old Chinese man looked up from their preparations in surprise.
At the rear door, Hastings said, “I’ll get you a hearing before the Committee. Our next meeting is tomorrow night at seven o’clock. I’ll let you know by five whether I was able to get it on the agenda. Thanks for coming to see me. I’m sure we’ll work out something. Just go around to the left through the alley and you’ll be on the street. Goodbye.”
~*~
Buck opened for business Monday morning at seven wearing a new suit he’d found on a rack in the corner—Skeetland’s definition of hardware was quite broad. Two men were waiting when he unlocked the door. One was a farmer after some nails, the other a small time rancher looking to buy a pair of fence pliers. Both of them already knew about Skeetland being dead, and even what time the funeral was. They had also somehow heard how much Buck had paid for the store and grumbled that if he had that kind of money to spend he had no business gouging poor men for necessary things like nails or tools. Buck assured them the prices were quite reasonable, and that if they could tell him of another place in town to get such things cheaper he’d like to know about it.
“You know damn well they ain’t nobody else in town got nails to sell” sa
id the farmer. And the rancher chimed in, “Nor tools, neither.”
Then they said put it on their tabs, they’d pay in the fall—after the roundup and the harvest. Buck, who had been hoping to see his dwindling stock of cash increased, dug out Skeetland’s account book, found that both men already had tabs amounting to over a hundred dollars each. There were others even higher, but only a few. There was no indication what Skeetland thought their credit limit ought to be. Buck decided to let these purchases go on the tab, but ride out to look at the holdings of his debtors at the first opportunity.
The stream of customers was constant. He had to give a boy fifteen cents to bring him lunch from Hilda’s, and it was cold by the time he got a chance to eat it. Seeing all this business—and there was a heartening proportion of cash buyers—made the idea of paying back the stolen money out of his own pocket seem more palatable, but also increased his determination to hang onto his store.
At ten minutes of two he finally turned the sign on the door to read closed and went to Dunderland’s. Skeetland lay in the promised pine box in a rickety hearse. Dunderland wore a black suit topped off with a tall old beaver hat. With a lugubrious expression he drove a team of mismatched duns that acted as though the short drive north to boot hill was the last leg of a trek to California. About fifteen people fell in behind—or rather, walked along the board sidewalks in preference to the mud wallow of a street. Three pigs and a yellow mongrel dog followed in the mud directly, however, and boys hooted at them and threw rocks so as to get some fun out of the event.
When they arrived at the six brave little rows of grave markers surrounded by a partially dismantled wooden fence—somebody having found it a convenient source of boards—the preacher told what a fine man Skeetland had been, gave up some prayers, and Buck and three or four others lowered the body into the hole. Each of them tossed in a shovelful of dirt. Then the hired gravedigger took over, shoveling away contentedly, smoking a pipe. Buck recognized him as the liveryman’s hired hand, with horse manure fresh on his boots. The dog and the pigs snuffled around the edge of the grave curiously, but the boys didn’t try to throw stones now.
