by Lon Williams
Wooten looked along his nose disdainfully. “How do you, my good man?”
“Only tolerable, suh,” said Winters. He did not offer to shake hands; he disliked Wooten instinctively. Moreover, from habit, he avoided shaking hands with strangers he might later have to shoot. He put down his glass and backhanded his mustache. “What does J. Watt Wooten want, Doc?” Bogannon leaned back and folded his arms. His tenseness had relaxed. In repose Bogie was broad, tall, genteel, and intellectual.
He chuckled gently. “Wooten wants to know where he can find his man, one Winthrop Bullington, from Boston.”
“From Boston, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” declared Bogie. “From Boston. Insurance companies want to find this man Bullington, so they won’t have to pay his life insurance. A man is presumed dead, you know, after so long.”
Winters leaned back, with elbows on Bogie’s shiny bar. “Reminds me of that feller who visited Trinity Valley in my button days down in Texas, Doc,” he began dryly. “His name had been Euclid Porterhouse, and everybody called him Beefsteak. He didn’t like being called Beefsteak, so he had his name changed from Euclid Porterhouse to Cleve Porter. Years later one Gamaliel Porterhouse died in New Orleans and left millions, so ’twas said. His only heir was his nephew, one Euclid Porterhouse, whose whereabouts had become unknown. This here Cleve Porter, who’d turned private detective, started out to find Euclid Porterhouse. He was sort of forgetful, Cleve was; he searched twenty years before he realized he was lookin’ for hisself.”
Bogie arched one eyebrow at J. Watt Wooten. “Imagine that!”
Wooten’s face had tightened. Its lines proclaimed his extreme contempt for Lee Winters. By way of emphasizing his disdain, he tilted his head back and looked again along his nose. “I’ve known other men who tried to be funny; they never were.”
Winters put down another coin. “Doc, give J. Watt Wooten whatever he wants, with my compliments.” He turned to leave.
His dark, cold eyes fell upon two queer ducks who sat at a card table and stared benignly at their cards.
One said, “It is your draw.”
His companion responded politely, “No, it is your draw.”
So unnerved and angered Winters had been by his rough ride into town, and so distracted from business by his encounter with Wooten, that he gave those two queer ones but a single passing thought. Never before had he seen two humans who looked so harmless.
“Goodnight, Doc,” he said, and abruptly departed.
Bogannon, once more master in his own house, looked down his nose at J. Watt. “What will you have, Mr. Wooten?”
Wooten was in ill and angry humor. “I can buy my own drinks, thank you.”
Bogie washed Winters’ glass and dried it. In turning to his back shelf, he observed the two card players again. They were staring at Wooten. They glanced at Bogannon, then again stared at Wooten. One of them said, “Will he do?”
His companion nodded. “I think he will do.” Both nodded. One said, “We both think so, but possibly we should ask him.”
One got up and approached Wooten. “Pardon me, sir, but may I ask you something?”
Wooten’s contempt for Deputy Winters had carried over; he now bestowed it upon this odd-looking character. “All right, my good man, what do you want to know?”
“Oh—uh, nothing, sir.”
Wooten’s questioner returned to his companion, shook his head sadly. “He won’t do.”
“No, he won’t do.”
“That’s very disappointing; perhaps we should both ask him?”
“Perhaps so.”
This was getting to be interesting. Bogannon leaned over his bar, observed and listened.
His queer card players got up and came forward quietly. One of them said to J. Watt Wooten, “Pardon us, sir, but we should like to introduce ourselves.”
“Suit yourselves,” Wooten responded curtly.
“I,” said one, “am called Straight Gate.”
“And I,” said his companion, “am known as Narrow Gate.”
Wooten’s nostrils spread in scorn. “You don’t say!”
Bogannon was of similar mind, but he held his peace.
Straight and Narrow Gate nodded to each other and went off for consultation. Straight Gate was gloomy. He shook his head emphatically. “My brother, he won’t do.”
Narrow Gate was less pessimistic. “I think possibly he will do.”
“Do you think so?”
“I am inclined to think so.”
“No,” Straight insisted gently, “he won’t do.”
“Perhaps we should ask him again,” said Narrow. “Do you mind?”
Straight reflected, nodded. “All right, we shall ask him again.”
Bogannon had a creepy feeling as they came forward again. His lips puckered of their own accord.
They approached, and Narrow gave Wooten an eye-to-eye inquisition. “Sir,” he asked soberly, “would you give a portion to seven?”
Wooten started, then swung upon Doc Bogannon. “Say! Who are these lunatics?”
Bogie glanced at Wooten, his expression haughty. “As you Bostonians would say, they are Messrs. Straight and Narrow Gate.”
Wooten scowled at Bogie. “I fear your sense of humor is somewhat grotesque.”
Straight and Narrow Gate retired for further consultation.
“Now, will he do?” asked Narrow.
Straight Gate shook his head vigorously. “I don’t think he will do. Indeed, I’m sure he won’t. He did not answer our question.”
Narrow Gate shrugged resignedly. “Then let us resume our game.”
They sat down, divided their money into equal shares and resumed their play.
Wooten furrowed his brow at length. Then he addressed Bogannon brightly. “See here, Bogannon; I’ve got something to offer you.”
Bogie straightened and cast about for something to do. “I wouldn’t be interested,” he said coldly. He looked at his watch. “Besides, it is closing time.”
“Hear me one minute,” Wooten urged. He dropped his voice. “You and I can make five thousand dollars apiece, just like that.” He held up his right hand and snapped his finger. “I’m looking for Winthrop Bullington. If he were alive, he’d be as like you as your identical twin, if you had an identical twin.”
“Not interested,” said Bogie in more positive tone. He pulled down his bar lamp and blew out its flame.
“Mighty easy money,” urged Wooten. “You’d only have to impersonate Winthrop Bullington for three or four months.”
“My answer is no,” Bogie announced with finality.
* * * *
There was a tug at Wooten’s sleeve. Wooten flushed impatiently and swung around to face Straight and Narrow Gate. “Pardon us,” said Straight, “but we should like to repeat our question. Would you give a portion to seven?”
Bogannon laughed heartily. “Of course he would.”
Straight and Narrow smiled their pleasure. “Thank you so much, Mr. Bogannon,” said Straight. He faced Wooten again, and with much gravity. “Would you also give a portion to eight?”
“He would, indeed,” exclaimed Bogie.
“Ah!” breathed Straight and Narrow.
Straight said with assurance, “Then we have great news for Mr. Wooten; we know where he is.” Wooten’s eyes opened wide. “Where who is?” Narrow lifted his chin proudly. “This man you are looking for.”
Wooten was excited. “You mean Winthrop Bullington?”
Straight and Narrow nodded to each other. “We know where he lives, don’t we?” said Straight. “That we do,” said Narrow.
“Then tell me!” shouted Wooten.
Straight looked at Narrow. Straight said, “He would give a portion to seven.”
Narrow nodded. “As he would give a portion to seven, so shall we tell him.”
“Then tell me,” shouted Wooten; “show me where.”
Straight nodded at Wooten. “We said we would tell you.”
Narr
ow nodded. “Likewise, we shall show you.”
“Come on then,” cried Wooten. “Get going.”
Straight and Narrow nodded to each other once more and hurriedly departed, Wooten racing after them.
Bogie wiped his face, sighed deeply, and extinguished his lights. Possibly he was a queer one himself, he thought. Here he was, in a haunt of lunatics and ghosts, living with a half-breed Shoshone wife, when he could have been living like a prince in some Eastern city. Like a prince? He grunted in disgust. Thoughts of his amorous, faithful Shoshone reminded him that he was living like a king where he was. His homeward footsteps quickened.
Meanwhile J. Watt Wooten eagerly followed his guides into moonlit Pangborn Road; then through blocks of deserted houses and shacks; thence to one less-abandoned cottage beside Ragtag Common.
There Straight Gate fingered his lips. “Shhh!” he whispered. “He lives here.”
“He sleeps soundly,” said Narrow Gate.
“But squeaking door hinges might wake him,” said Straight.
“Well, let it,” declared Wooten.
They crept forward and Straight lifted a hand to let them in.
At that moment a terrifying sound arose. “Ow-woooooo-oo! Oo-woo!”
Wooten jumped and grabbed his hat.
“Shhhh!” whispered Narrow Gate. “That is his dog.”
They huddled close, then Straight pressed forward again. Door hinges screeched noisily, and Straight disappeared through a dark opening.
Before Wooten could follow, something hard was laid along his head. He glimpsed streaks of fire, his knees bent. He dreamed of being dragged through open doorways and across endless creaking, rough-board floors.
Eerie, far-off voices argued politely as to whether he would or wouldn’t do. It was decided finally that he would do, and immediately thereafter a wire was drawn tightly around his neck.
* * * *
Two mornings later, across their breakfast of hot biscuits, steak, coffee, brown gravy, and honey, Deputy Winters contemplated his wife with unusual concern. By marrying a young widow, he had acquired a neat cottage, a mining claim, and a lovely companion. But, with marriage had come responsibilities, too. Men who lived alone had no worries as to earthly events beyond their own short lives; men who married could leave widows— orphans, too, sometimes. That truth worried Winters, disturbed his sleep, gnawed constantly at his troubled mind.
“Myra,” he said gravely, “we ought to grab us some land.”
Myra Winters looked up hopefully, but then her face clouded. This had been talked of before— many times—and nothing had come of it. She nodded understandingly, nevertheless. “Yes, Lee, we ought.”
“I know where there’s spring water and no less than two hundred acres of rich, flat land close by. It’s ten miles up Elkhorn Road and off north about two miles. Let’s go out and look around; we might even start work on our cabin.”
Myra’s blue eyes grew wide and bright. “You mean, you might give up being an officer?”
“That idea grows bigger every day.”
“Well, then!”
They hurried through breakfast. While Myra packed grub, Winters went for their horses. He had acquired a magnificent star-faced bay for Myra; and, to his surprise and satisfaction, she proved to be an excellent rider. From his growing collection of weapons—involuntary donations from captured or slain desperadoes—he had given her, first a six-gun, then a rifle, and had taught her proficiency in their use. “When we settle down to ranching,” he had explained, “you may need to stand off some renegades all by yourself. Effective guns talk big, you know.”
“Yes,” she had agreed, happy with thoughts of getting settled. “When shall we begin this ranch life?”
“Any day; soon as a good quittin’-place shows up”
As yet, no good quitting-place had presented itself.
Well-armed and provisioned, they were mounted and ready to ride, when a woman came running in their direction. Myra’s joyous spirit sank.
“There’s Samantha Creekland.” In Myra’s voice were both sympathy and disappointment. “And she’s in trouble; I can just tell.”
Winters tightened bridle leather. “Her trouble can wait. We’ve got our own problems; let’s go.”
“No, Lee; we must see what she wants.”
Samantha Creekland’s steps lagged from weariness. “Officer Winters, I want you to look for my husband. He didn’t come home last night; I’m afraid something awful has happened to him.”
“That’s too bad,” said Winters dustily.
Samantha came panting on. She was slim, bedraggled and about forty, wife of miner Jake Creekland, who gambled with his gold—in consequence was sometimes rich, but oftener poor.
“Winters, you can’t ride off like this,” Samantha declared reproachfully, “what with Jake not comin’ home. I want you to find him.”
Lee was vexed and disturbed. “Had he ever stayed out before?”
“Never,” panted Samantha. “Of course, he’s come home late sometimes, but he’s never failed to come at all.”
Winters glanced at Myra, perceived disappointment which she sought valiantly to conceal. He turned to Mrs. Creekland. “Samantha, you run on home. If Jake’s still on his feet, he’ll drift in; meantime, I’ll keep an eye out for him.”
“Thank you, Winters. I knowed you’d help.” Samantha Creekland gave him a grateful look and trudged wearily off.
Myra sighed. “Well, one never knows.” She started to dismount.
Winters restrained her. “Hold it, Myra. There’s nothing to keep us from looking, as we ride along; no telling where he is, anyhow.”
“You mean we’re still going?”
Winters was determined not to disappoint his wife this time. “That’s what I mean. Whatever kept Jake from coming home can’t be mended now.”
“You mean he may be dead?”
“That’s my guess.” Winters lifted Cannon Ball’s reins. “But we’ll look.”
* * * *
They cantered onto Elkhorn Road and two hours later had staked their horses to graze near a spring in their beautiful cliff-rimmed valley. Winters and Myra stretched themselves to rest upon short, thick grass, face-up to cloudless sky, each conscious of peace, also of what loneliness there would be, if they did not have each other.
Suddenly, and without awareness that his thoughts had strayed, Winters said, “Myra, what makes dogs howl at night?”
Myra’s was an uneasy silence. She said at last, “Lee, you’re wondering about Jake Creekland, aren’t you?”
He sat up, then sprang to his feet. “Come on, Myra; let’s stake out our cabin.”
He gave her his hand, drew her up and led her to an elevated spot nearby. At its back, on plunging mountainsides, were numberless pines. With such building material at hand, their problem was half-solved already.
They gathered stones and outlined not merely a cabin, but also what might in time become their spacious ranch-house home. That done, they spread their lunch. “How wonderful it would be,” said Myra wistfully, “if this would only come true. But we’re dreaming idly, I fear.”
“Why be so gloomy?” Lee chided.
“Because,” she said forlornly, “you have your job; it’s a job without end. Even while we laid out our house plan, you were thinking of Jake Creekland and howling dogs, of lonely rides, ghosts and gun-monkeys.”
Winters studied her uncertainly. Myra worried, of course, but she had never before complained, never tried to change his way of making their living. But she was right; it was time they settled down. “I don’t like being what I am,” he said slowly. “If we could settle down, assured we wouldn’t be bothered, we’d begin today. But when there’s so many lawless dogs rovin’ around, I reckon somebody’s got to shoot ’em.”
Myra smiled agreeably. “Of course, Lee. Anyhow, it’s nice to dream about ranching. When you’re through shooting lawless dogs— Well, there’s plenty of time.”
Both were silent as the
y rode out of their valley. They might return; they might not.
At their cottage in Forlorn Gap an hour before sundown, they found Samantha Creekland sitting on their doorstep. “Did you find my husband?” Samantha inquired fretfully.
“Not yet,” said Winters; “I’m still lookin’, though.”
He and Myra swung down.
“Poor thing,” said Myra, understanding from Samantha’s sorrow why Winters felt it his duty to go on being a deputy-marshal. “Samantha, come in and let me fix you some coffee.”
“I’d be pleased to,” Samantha responded. “I’m so distraught, I’m near crazy.”
Winters returned Myra’s horse to its corral, told Myra goodbye, swung onto Cannon Ball again, and rode to Doc Bogannon’s saloon.
Trade at Bogannon’s had not yet commenced its evening rush. Bogie and Winters accordingly sat at a table and talked. “Doc,” Winters asked finally, “have you seen Jake Creekland lately?”
Bogie reflected, nodded. “He was here last night. And, last I noticed, his luck was running high.”
Winters regarded that as portentous. “Did you see him leave?”
Bogie reflected for a while. “No, Winters; don’t recall that I did. Why?”
Winters backhanded his mustache and got up. “Jake didn’t go home; his wife’s uneasy.”
Winters left Bogannon in a study and went out.
Then Bogie remembered, and ran after him. “Winters, wait!” But Winters was gone.
* * * *
Without having any place in mind, Winters had swung aboard his horse and started home. Then he’d remembered that dog he’d seen and heard on Ragtag Common. Why, he’d asked Myra, did dogs howl at night? Well, why did they?
Remembering his recent wild ride from that lonely spot, Winters wiped sweat, and swore privately that he’d never set foot there again. Yet, it was to there he rode. Having set out to find Jake Creekland’s body, why not look where it would most likely be?
He hitched Cannon Ball before an uninhabited cottage and proceeded on nervous feet. Dusk had settled, and windowless houses, lonely and depressing by day, became spectral and frightening in night’s weird, falling gloom.
Winters stopped and sank out of sight, as hinges screeched close ahead. He heard voices, too, and immediately two ghostly figures emerged. Hinges screeched behind them as they closed their door, and within seconds they were gone, headed toward that part of Forlorn Gap that was still alive.
