by Short, Luke;
Today, after Edwards had picked up his hat and gone across to the Territory House, Miles descended from the balcony, turned toward the rear of the store and went down into the basement. It was a long dark room, lit only be one dirty basement window on the side street, but he made his way unerringly toward the far front corner where the records were stored. Here he lighted a lamp in a wall bracket, then moved over toward the high stack of Free Presses. The April seventeenth issue of the newspaper he found easily, and simple curiosity prodded him into spreading it out on the waisthigh stack of wash tubs beneath the lamp and opening it.
He could see nothing relating to land office business in its news columns, and its advertising columns carried the usual final proof notices required of homesteaders. After noting that Cassel’s Hardware in Las Vegas, as of a year ago, was underselling them on cedar fence posts, he folded the paper under his arm and went upstairs.
He smiled without humor at the thought that Edwards, even if he suspected him of the theft would never mention it. Edwards’ unfailing tact and consideration for him were a source of malicious and secret delight to Miles. Ever since Edwards had bought the store from Henty, to whom Miles had lost it gambling, Miles’s air of humble pride, of sensitivity to his failure had worked a small magic in his relations with Edwards. It was a coin he spent freely, aware that Edwards was too gentle to protest.
Back at his desk he slipped the paper into the drawer and resumed his work. If he had thought about it, which he did not, he would have seen no shame in taking a few cents’ worth of stale newsprint and turning it in for fifty dollas. Some day his luck would turn at Henty’s monte game; maybe this was the stake that would turn it. All he needed was one run of luck, just one.
When his day’s work was done at six, he fussed around until Edwards said, “Be sure the night latch is on, Arthur. I’m leaving. Good night.”
When Edwards had gone, Miles turned down the night lamp, then unbuttoned his vest; placed the newspaper against his body, and rebuttoned his vest. Then he closed the store and went down four doors to the Plains Bar where he bought himself his usual six o’clock glass of whiskey. Afterward he crossed to the Territory House, took his customary place at a side table in the dining room, and selected as usual the cheapest meal on the menu. Essentially a friendless man, he did not need company and did not miss it. After finishing his deliberate supper, he went out into the lobby, halted at the desk, nodded good evening to the clerk—a man as old as himself, whose name he had never bothered to learn—and asked, “What’s the number of Mr. Welling’s room?”
“Number two,” the clerk replied. “He isn’t in, though.”
“When will he be?”
“Can’t say. I understand they’re all out on a resurvey.”
A kind of distress clouded Miles’s sallow face. He wanted this done with immediately, since there was always the risk that Edwards would discover this certain copy missing from the files. Besides, Henty’s monte table was waiting.
The clerk, seeing Miles’s disappointment, eyed him closely. “Is it about the reward?” he asked.
Miles glanced at him uneasily, and uneasily nodded. “After a fashion, yes.” Unthinkingly, he brought his hand to his chest to feel the newspaper under his vest. Its muted crinkle was nevertheless distinct enough so that the clerk looked down at his vest. Then the clerk’s glance rose swiftly to Miles’s face. “Would you want to leave it in the room?” he asked.
Miles said hurriedly, “No! No! I just wanted to talk with him.” He turned and beat a swift retreat to the street. I handled that badly, he thought irritably. He’ll tell Edwards about me.
He halted then on the boardwalk to think this out. Why should the clerk tell Edwards? What was so strange about a man having a copy of a wanted newspaper that the clerk would even remember it or think it unusual enough to mention? Nothing, of course. He’d let his silly feeling of guilt stampede him. The thing to do was wait until Welling returned to town, show him the paper and explain that he found it rummaging around his attic. Edwards be damned!
The clerk waited only until Miles was out of sight, then he rounded the corner of his desk and hurried over to the dining room doorway. Scanning the room, he did not see the man he was looking for, and wheeling, he hurried up the stairs, turned right and knocked on the door of room number one, Torreon’s room.
There was no answer, and thoughtfully, he retraced his steps to the lobby.
Corazon’s traffic was at its highest just before the supper hour and Welling was breasting it with a vast impatience. Giff, leading the pack mule in the rear, reined in at the hotel stepping block just as Welling and Fiske were dismounting. The long twelve-hour day they had put in had told upon Fiske. He looked at his horse with a red-eyed irritability and then his glance shuttled up to Giff.
“I’d kick him in the belly if I didn’t figure I’d have to ride him again,” he said. He looked over at Welling, “This time I’ll buy you a drink, Vince.” Again his glance touched Giff. “Come on over to the Plains Bar when you’re done, Giff.”
Giff nodded and stepped stiffly out of the saddle as Fiske and Welling cut across the street toward the saloon. He unpacked the mule, lugged his gear through the lobby and halted at the desk. “Did anyone show up looking for Welling?” he asked the clerk.
The old man eyed him blandly and said, “Nope, nobody.”
Climbing the stairs, Giff deposited the gear in Welling’s room, then descended and took the animals back to the livery corral.
The day largely had been a futile one of riding from one Torreon line camp to another, taking affidavits—sullenly given by Torreon hands—as to their knowledge of the disputed homesteads. More often than not, the Torreon riders, warned of their coming, had disappeared, so that Welling had uncovered little of value. It didn’t matter anyway, Giff had decided. This resurveying and taking of affidavits was only marking time; the real evidence they had to have would be in the missing newspaper, and it had not shown up yet.
He turned the mounts over to the livery hostler and on his way to the street checked to see if Cass had come in. He had not, and Giff knew he was tending his garden. The office was empty and he moved on toward the Plains Bar where Welling and Fiske awaited him. He knew Welling would be happy to be close to whiskey again; he had been without it a day and his nerves were already ragged.
The brawl at Torreon had had a peculiar effect on Welling. It had saddled him with a spurious authority and reputation he knew he could not maintain. It had pushed him to a decision he was not ready to face, and these last two days he had been apathetic and morose. He had declared against Sebree, but his heart was not in it, and Giff knew that Welling held him accountable.
The Plains Bar was crowded and most of the gambling tables were filled. Giff spotted Welling and Fiske, a half-empty bottle of whiskey between them, seated at one of the far tables. Fiske had lighted up a cigar and was comfortably reading an old newspaper. Welling, his face already flushed with many quick whiskies, was idly toying with a cigar from the handful lying on the table between them. Giff came up and settled into the chair next to Fiske, who wordlessly passed over the bottle and a glass.
Giff poured himself a drink and glancing up, caught the baffled and sullen expression in Welling’s eyes. Giff passed the bottle to him and then downed his own drink feeling its slow warmth coil inside him. He felt someone beside him and glanced up to see Sheriff Edwards standing there. Fiske, seeing him too, put down his paper and said, “Have a drink with us, Sheriff.”
Edwards reached out and took a cigar from the handful scattered in the middle of the table and said, “I’ll have one of these instead.” He sat down and, including them all in his question, asked without any real curiosity, “How did it go?”
Both Giff and Fiske waited for Welling to answer. He did finally, and in a discouraged voice. “It’s a long haul, Sheriff. We’ll get there, though.”
Edwards lighted his cigar and asked, “Have you checked yet to see if anybody is collec
ting your reward?”
“I did. Nobody has,” Giff said.
A faint flicker of malice came and vanished in Welling’s eyes.
Edwards looked down at the tip of his cigar, then raised his glance to Welling, “What would the Land Office want with that particular issue of the Free Press, if it’s any of my business?”
Fiske cleared his throat and said hurriedly, “Just a routine check of final proof notices for that issue. It was lost from the newspaper files.”
Welling laughed shortly. “Don’t you believe him, Sheriff,” he said. His voice was already a little thick and blurred from the whiskey.
Giff cut in mildly, “If we get it, you’ll know the whole story then, Sheriff.”
“He could know it now if he wants,” Welling said with a kind of alcoholic truculence as he regarded Giff.
Fiske folded his newspaper and rose; his casualness did not wholly cover the apprehension in his voice as he said, “Better come along before the barber shop’s closed, Vince, or else we’ll miss a hot bath.”
But Welling had never taken his glance from Giff who was aware that Welling, with the unerring instinct of a heavy drinker in choosing the wrong moment, was about to pay off his grudge. Welling did not accept Fiske’s invitation, and Giff thought bleakly, Here it comes.
Welling shuttled his glance to Edwards, “Are you a friend of Sebree’s?” He did not give Edwards time to say one way or the other before he contined, “because if you are, you can tell him he’s in trouble. He …”
Giff came to his feet then, saying thinly, “Shut up, Welling! You talk too much!”
Nothing could stop Welling and Giff saw it. For a brief second his impulse was to hit Welling and close his mouth. It was as if Welling read his thoughts, for he pushed his chair back out of Giff’s reach and rose looking at Giff but talking to Edwards. “Once we get that issue of the Free Press, Sebree, Deyo and Kearie are on the way to jail.”
Fiske sighed wearily, turned and left the table. Giff looked down at Edwards and saw the shock and the concern on the sheriff’s face. He glanced up at Welling and saw the expression of fierce triumph in his eyes. In disgust and without any anger at all, he turned and tramped toward the door.
Welling’s disclosure would be all over town in an hour, he knew. As long as people only read the reward notice and were in ignorance of the reason for the April seventeenth issue being wanted, there was a chance that one might be turned in to Welling. Now, with the threat of Sebree’s punishment implicit, that faint chance was lessened. No man would hunt through a year’s old newspapers on the off-chance that he could pick up fifty dollars it he knew that a bullet in the back went with it. Yet the harm was done and Welling had his brief moment of victory which, Giff supposed, was enough for him.
Halting on the plankwalk, Giff looked upstreet. Then the question that had been nagging at his mind for two days came unbidden again, and he was reminded once more of his conversation with Mrs. Sebree. Why had she said Grady is afraid of Mary Kincheon? Giff had wondered about that long enough; now he wanted to find out why she had said it.
He halted at the Free Press office and found it locked. Of a passing boy, he asked where Mary Kincheon lived and was told she had a room at the home of a widow named Mrs. Wiatt. He learned further that Mrs. Wiatt’s house was a short distance down the side street from the second corner below.
Giff found the house easily and as he lifted the latch of the iron gate, he wondered who Wiatt had been, for this big brick house, nowhere near new, bespoke a one-time prosperity. The yard was full of flowers he could not identify and the big lawn was neatly trimmed. He caught the sweet smell of lilies of the valley as he mounted the steps and twisted the handle of the door bell.
The door was answered by a short, stout, gray-haired woman wearing a blue dress that just matched the color of her eyes. She did not greet him but stood as if barring his way until he presented his credentials.
Giff said, “Is Miss Kincheon home?”
“Does she know you?”
“Dixon is the name,” Giff said. He saw a new interest mount in her eyes.
“Is this land office business?” Mrs. Wiatt asked.
Giff looked at her and could not keep a certain censure out of his voice as he said, “Would it make any difference if it wasn’t?”
“It would,” Mrs. Wiatt said promptly. “Mary is a pretty girl. If you’re courting her, you’ve chosen the wrong time. Besides, you’re dirty.”
Giff said curtly, “Maybe she is too. We both work.”
Giff took off his hat and followed her into the large tidy parlor, confused and a little wary of this woman’s strange behavior. She went on through the door, headed toward the back of the house and called, “Mary, a young man to see you.” Then she came back into the parlor.
“How are you doing with those scoundrels at the Land Office?” she asked.
Giff could not hide the surprise he felt at her question. “That would be Mr. Deyo?” he asked.
Mrs. Wiatt nodded. “All of them. The ones that work in it and the ones that own it.”
“Not very well,” Giff said.
At that moment Mary stepped into the room. She was smoothing her dress with a telltale gesture of a woman who has just taken off her apron. She halted abruptly at the sight of Giff. “Not even a black eye. I’m surprised.”
Giff shifted his feet uneasily and was aware that she was looking at the skinned knuckles of his hand that held his hat. He asked warily, “Should I have one?”
“Don’t be modest,” Mary said. “We’ve known about the fight at Torreon for two days.”
Mrs. Wiatt asked promptly, “It wasn’t Grady Sebree, was it?”
“No.”
“Too bad,” Mrs. Wiatt murmured. She looked at Mary now and there was a small devilment in her blue eyes. “Is it safe to leave you alone with him, Mary?”
“Heavens no,” Mary said. “What is it you want, Mr. Dixon?”
Giff looked closely at her and wished for once she could be serious. He said, “It would only bore Mrs. Wiatt.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Wiatt said. “I’m never bored.”
Giff said, “Not even by cooking supper?”
It was Mary who laughed then. Mrs. Wiatt good-naturedly accepted her defeat and said, “Don’t be long, dears,” as she left the room.
Giff nodded his head toward the door and said, “You two aren’t related, are you?”
Mary smiled and shook her head in negation. “I copy her. That’s the only way I can bear working for Earl Kearie—by being a little crazy, I guess.” She gestured toward a chair. “Sit down, please.”
Giff sank into the closest chair, which was an uncomfortable one. He had no notion of how to begin this and only a very faint idea of what he wanted to say. However he framed it, the words would be too bald for this occasion. Mary had seated herself, and seeing his discomfort, made no move to ease it.
Giff plunged. “I met Mrs. Sebree at Torreon. Tell me something about her.”
Mary studied him a moment, “Did you climb off a horse after a long day’s ride to ask me that?”
“No, I’m just making talk,” Giff admitted. “What about Mrs. Sebree?”
“She’s a frightful hag,” Mary said calmly. “But it isn’t hard to understand why.”
“Just what does it mean when a pretty woman calls an attractive woman a frightful hag?” Giff asked mildly. “Has she done something to you?”
“No,” Mary said shortly. “I’m sorry I was uncharitable.” She looked obliquely at him. “Do you think I’m pretty?”
Before Giff could answer, she said with total unconcern, “I withdraw that question. About Mrs. Sebree, now.” She thought a moment. “I guess I hate her just because she’s Mrs. Sebree. I hate anything connected with Sebree and that includes his wife.”
“Any special reason for hating him?”
Mary shrugged. “Just on principle I guess. When you were little and read stories about the king in the castle and
his happy, happy peasants, didn’t you gag? Didn’t you ever wonder if maybe just one peasant was unhappy at the king’s having the power that he had? Didn’t you think maybe just one of his subjects thought he had too much power? Couldn’t one of the peasants hate the queen just because she was the king’s wife?”
“Even queens can tell the truth sometimes. Does Mrs. Sebree happen to?”
Mary nodded emphatically. “So much so, it’s embarrassing sometimes.”
“Like it will be now,” Giff murmured. A slow apprehension came into Mary’s face as he continued, “Mrs. Sebree told me Grady is afraid of you.”
Mary tried to laugh but the laugh didn’t come off. Color mounted in her face and with quiet amazement Giff realized he had touched something private and important to her. He watched her, not helping her, seeing her mounting confusion. He judged that she was more frightened than angry; certainly for once she was inarticulate, and he waited.
“That’s the most foolish thing she’s ever said, and she’s said a lot of them.” Mary tried to make her tone light and failed. “Why would she want to say that?”
Giff didn’t answer her and she shifted her position in the chair. “Really,” she said earnestly, “you don’t believe that do you?”
“Why do you care if I believe it or not?” Giff asked coldly. “Is it true?”
Now the anger came, or rather the illusion of anger and not its substance. “Why should I answer that question anyway?” she demanded vehemently. “What right have you to ask it?”
Giff didn’t answer, only watched her.
The false anger vanished as quickly as it had appeared and in its place, as Mary leaned her elbows on her knees, was a sweet reasonableness. “Stop and think a moment,” Mary said quietly. “I’m only a printer’s devil. I help to run a broken down weekly newspaper and it just about pays for my food and clothes and shelter. Grady Sebree is a large stockholder and the manager of one of the biggest ranches in the Territory. Why should he fear me? You’ve just said I was pretty. Maybe it’s Mrs. Sebree who fears my prettiness, although she has no cause to. I loathe Sebree and all he stands for; and I guess I loathe Mrs. Sebree most of all after this.” Mary laughed suddenly and her laughter was genuine this time. “I’m beginning to loathe you.”
