by Walton Young
‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked.
‘Riding. Sometimes I need to get away. It helps me to think.’
She held out the leather case. He smelled the newness of the leather.
‘I want you to take this,’ she said.
There was an urgency in her voice, and he did not understand.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s money.’
‘What have you done – robbed Father’s safe?’
‘I have money too. Take it. It’s yours.’
‘Why? I don’t understand.’
‘It’s enough money for you to start a new life somewhere else, somewhere far from here.’
‘Mother, what are you talking about? You’re not making any sense.’
‘I know about the lynching. You committed murder.’
Andrew froze as if a sudden burst of the northwest wind of winter had swept across the ranch and found him on the veranda. He stared at the leather case and realized his mother’s hands were trembling.
‘How did you find out? Who told you?’
‘Never mind who told me. I know what you did. A boy has been killed, and someone has to pay. Once the sheriff starts looking into it, the trail will probably lead to you. The sheriff will come for you. The Swearingen name and the Swearingen money can protect you only so far. So you must leave. Go farther west. Go to California. I don’t think the law will trail you that far.’
‘Don’t you think you’re overreacting? From what I’ve heard, the sheriff is not a man willing to do much of anything. There’s going to be a war between Father and the homesteaders. Haven’t you heard? I doubt that Sheriff Harrison wants to be in the middle of it.’
‘You’re gambling that he’ll do nothing. He may be pressured to do something. Andrew, you may go to prison. You may hang. Your father and that cutthroat Rayburn have led you down a path that was not meant for you. It’s not too late to change, but you can’t do it here. Listen to me, Andrew. Take the money and leave – tonight – while there’s still time.’
‘Someone has told you to tell me this.’
‘It doesn’t matter. But it was someone whose word I trust.’
Andrew reached out and touched the case. His fingers closed around it, and he took it. His father, Richard Swearingen, was practically a king in Wyoming. He won’t let me go to prison, Andrew thought. He certainly won’t let me go to the gallows. But then, perhaps Mother is right. Cheyenne isn’t New York. The Swearingen money may not be enough to shield him.
‘I didn’t want that boy to hang,’ Andrew said. ‘I didn’t think he rustled any of our cattle.’
‘Go saddle a horse. Don’t wait on the train.’
He tucked the case under his arm and left the veranda. He did not bother to go to his room and pack. Instead, he headed straight for the barn and saddled his mare. He pushed the case into his saddle bag. Before he heard a voice, he knew that someone was standing behind him.
‘You seem in a rush to head somewhere.’
The voice was coarse. Rayburn came close. Andrew could not really see his face in the darkness, but he was certain the foreman was smiling.
‘That’s right,’ Andrew said.
‘You must have a hankering for Rose. Lovely Rose. She’ll be glad to see you.’
‘I’m through with Rose.’
‘Is that a fact? I understand. She is a bit on the heavy side, but she was OK for starters. I’m sure I can fix you up with someone more to your liking.’
‘No, you don’t understand. I’m through with all that. I’m through with the ladies of the Two Rivers. I’m through with the killing.’
‘So you’re cutting out, are you? Things getting too hot for you? You just couldn’t take seeing that boy swing?’
Andrew’s hand went for his pistol.
‘You’d better think twice before you go for that gun,’ Rayburn said. ‘I’m not the lovesick farmer you shot down. I don’t care if you are Swearingen’s kid. You go for that gun and I’ll kill you.’
Andrew lowered his hand.
‘I’m leaving,’ Andrew said. ‘Get out of my way.’
‘Sure thing, kid. Your daddy gave up on your brother a long time ago. No gumption. He thought there was some hope for you. I guess he was wrong.’
‘I guess he was.’
Andrew walked the mare out of the stall and out of the barn and out of the corral. He mounted and spurred her into a gallop down the drive. In the darkness of the upper veranda Ginevra stood and watched.
Chapter Two
Outside the corral Curly Pike lifted the tin cup. The coffee was cold and he tossed what little remained. In the bright morning sunlight his reddish-brown beard shone more red than brown. Already beads of sweat dripped down his forehead.
‘Mind if I join you?’
Wade Treutlin walked up with a plate of fried eggs, biscuits, and fatback.
‘Suit yourself.’
Curly didn’t consider himself a good judge of age, but he guessed that Treutlin was in his early twenties, if that old. He hadn’t worked on the Swearingen ranch for long. Curly hardly knew him, so he figured he’d have to be careful what he said. Within the past few days Rayburn had hired at least a half dozen hands, and Curly suspected they knew more about guns than about cattle.
‘I gotta hand it to Swearingen,’ Treutlin said. ‘He makes sure we have a good breakfast every morning. It ain’t been that way every place I’ve worked.’
Treutlin pushed the sombrero back on his head.
‘Sounds like you’ve worked a lot of places.’
‘I’ve drifted around. No reason for me to stick around any one place too long. You see, I ain’t got a home. How ’bout you?’
‘Home is where I get paid.’
‘That’s me, friend. If the money runs out, I move on.’
Curly smelled smoke. It was not a pleasant smell.
‘You smell like a chimney that don’t draw,’ Curly said. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘Didn’t you hear? Some of us rode out last night. We had us a little bonfire.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘We set fire to this homesteader’s house. I think his name was Davis. It was dry tinder. Went up fast.’
‘Why the hell did you do that?’
‘I was told to. Just like you, I do what I’m paid to do. Swearingen pays pretty well. Forty a month. That’s good money. I’ve never heard of a rancher who paid that kind of money.’
‘Was anybody hurt?’
‘Well, let me think. I’m pretty sure we hurt their feelings. Yes, sir, I’m pretty sure of that.’
‘What’s the point of burning someone out?’
‘The next time I see Rayburn, I’ll ask him. A funny thing happened when we were riding back. We came across this fellow on horseback out in the middle of nowhere. We stopped and had us a nice little chat. It turned out he was the man who shot those train robbers. McPherson’s his name. I believe you brought him and some others here for dinner with the old man.’
‘What of it?’
‘What did you think of him?’
‘He’s not somebody you want to mess with.’
‘If the time is right, I believe I can take him.’
‘Don’t be a fool.’
‘Last night the time was not right. He got the jump on me. But it won’t be that way in the future. I’m damn sure I can take him.’
Curly was tired of talking to the young ranch hand. Curly had looked into the dark eyes of Ezra McPherson and he didn’t like what he saw. He thought about the long journey in the phaeton across the parched range. Taking McPherson, Luke Tisdale, Marcus Stokesbury, and Eloise Endicott from Cheyenne to the Swearingen ranch was not a job he wanted. He had considered telling Rayburn it was a job better left for someone else. But arguing with Rayburn was not something he cared to do.
Suddenly, as he thought about the journey in the phaeton, Curly remembered the boy swinging from a tree limb. The boy’s brother had waved from a
hilltop and gotten their attention. Curly didn’t want to get involved, but the others insisted. In my thirty-five years on this earth, I’ve seen lynchings, Curly thought, but I ain’t never seen someone that young at the end of a rope.
‘There’s talk of a range war,’ Treutlin said. ‘If it comes to that, I’m ready.’
Early in the morning, the ranch was busy, as busy as a small town. Riders went up and down the long drive. Curly noticed one rider didn’t fit in. On the far side of the corral, Sheriff Mitch Harrison came up the drive.
‘That’s a fine looking sorrel,’ Treutlin said. ‘Who is that?’
‘Sheriff Harrison.’
‘What’s the sheriff doing here?’
‘Maybe he wants to talk to the men who burned out a homesteader last night.’
Curly, still holding the tin cup, started toward the barn.
‘Curly, where you off to? What’s the matter with you, Curly?’
‘I’m going to do what I’m paid to do.’
*
The study was dark. Heavy curtains blocked the sunlight. Richard Swearingen raised his head from the mahogany desk. It was no easy task. His head throbbed and for a moment he thought he was going to vomit. His coat lay loosely across a chair near the desk. A knock at the door must have been the thing that woke him, but he wasn’t sure. He rubbed his eyes. He started to lower his head, but another knock startled him.
‘Yeah, who is it?’
‘Peter.’
‘What do you want?’
Peter opened the door and saw his father in the shadows behind the desk. The smell of liquor and stale cigar smoke sickened him.
‘Sheriff Harrison is here. He wants to see you.’
‘Harrison? What the hell does he want?’
‘Like I said, he wants to see you.’
Swearingen pushed himself back from the desk. His head pounded even more. Peter still stood in the doorway and stared and then turned and left. His father had come in shortly before daybreak. He had tried to be quiet, but the closing of the door to the study was enough to awaken Peter.
The entrance hall outside the study was dark. Closer to the front door sunlight spilled through the fanlight.
‘Damn, I dread that sunlight,’ Swearingen mumbled.
He heaved his big body forward. Beyond the front door, which stood open, awaiting his arrival, the sunlight was blinding. Ginevra came into view.
‘Damn, I dread that woman too.’
Sheriff Harrison sat on the sorrel, his wide-brimmed hat pulled low on his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun. He wore a brown suit, but he had shed his tie. He knew how much the mayor wanted him to wear a tie – ‘We’re civilized now, Sheriff,’ the mayor had said – but he was not about to wear a tie during the long hot ride to Swearingen’s ranch.
Swearingen’s house was the biggest house the sheriff had ever seen, and he wondered why anyone would want to live in something so big. Money. It all came down to money, Harrison concluded. You’ve got money. You’ve got to spend it and show folks just how much money you’ve got. You’ve got to make a statement. You’ve got to intimidate.
Well, I won’t be intimidated by Swearingen or anybody else, Harrison thought.
Swearingen tried to straighten himself. He left the hall and came onto the porch. He felt faint. He leaned against one of the pillars.
‘Sheriff, what brings you out here so early? Old men like us need extra sleep.’
‘There was some trouble yesterday, Mr Swearingen.’
‘Trouble? What kind of trouble? Did one of my boys shoot up a saloon? If that’s the case, I’ll certainly deal with it. But you know how it is. Boys will be boys sometimes. My ranch hands work awfully hard. Sometimes they just have to blow off a little steam. Still, we can’t be having that kind of stuff. I assure you, Sheriff, I’ll take care of it.’
‘Shooting up a saloon isn’t the kind of trouble I’m talking about.’
‘Well, Sheriff, just what are you talking about?’
‘A lynching. I’ve been told your younger son, Andrew, knows something about it. I need to talk to him, but I wanted to talk to you first.’
‘Well, that’s kind of you, Sheriff. I don’t know anything about any lynching, and I’m sure Andrew doesn’t either, but we can find out. Peter, go up to your brother’s room and tell him to come down here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Sheriff, why don’t you come inside and get out of the sun?’
‘I’ll just stay here.’
Ginevra stood not far from her husband. She did not look at him. She imagined what his appearance was. She smelled the liquor. She detected the smell of perfume, not an especially fine perfume. Well, he’s in for a surprise, she thought. Andrew should be far away by now, well beyond the reach of Harrison.
Harrison shifted position in the saddle. He did not become more comfortable. Riding out to the Swearingen ranch first thing in the morning was not something he wanted to do. For one thing, he did not like Swearingen. He stared at him. The capitalist from New York, it seemed, was as big as a small Wyoming mountain. His face, red in the morning sun, was hard. The eyes were bloodshot. His white shirt was wrinkled. Harrison suspected he had been out all night. He had heard about the big man’s late-night escapades.
After studying Swearingen, Harrison focused his attention on Ginevra. She was stone-faced. He had a hard time reading her thoughts, but she had a look that said she knew something that no one else knew. I’m starting to imagine things in this miserable heat, he thought. Still, something in her brown eyes conveyed that message. The sheriff then noticed Anne, Peter’s wife. It was obvious the baby would come any day.
Peter walked back onto the porch.
‘He’s not in his room.’
‘What do you mean?’ Swearingen said. ‘Where is he?’
‘It looks like his bed hasn’t been slept in. Anyway, he’s not here.’
‘Well, Sheriff, we have something of a problem,’ Swearingen said. ‘I do not know the whereabouts of my son. I don’t have to tell you. This is an awfully big ranch. He’s probably out on the range somewhere. He takes a keen interest in the protection of my herd.’
‘I’m sure he does.’
‘I don’t want to keep you from your other duties. When I find him, I’ll tell him to ride into town and talk to you. I’m sure we can get everything sorted out to our satisfaction.’
‘Any sorting out will be done to the satisfaction of the law.’
‘Well, of course, Sheriff. That’s what I meant.’
‘See to it that your boy comes to see me,’ Harrison said.
The sheriff headed down the drive, and Peter and Anne returned inside the house. Swearingen walked toward the barn. Riders emerged and galloped toward the western pastures.
Rayburn met him outside the barn and nodded in greeting. A cigarette hung loosely from the corner of his mouth.
‘Good morning, Mr Swearingen. Did you have a nice evening in town?’
‘I feel like hell this morning, so it must have been a nice evening. I guess you saw Harrison.’
‘Yeah, I saw him. What’d he want?’
‘He wants to speak to Andrew about what he calls a lynching. We call it something else. I don’t like Harrison riding here and acting like he owns the place.’
‘I don’t guess you do. You want me to have a little talk with Harrison?’
‘Yes, today. Now, where the hell is Andrew?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re supposed to make it your business to know where everyone is.’
‘Not when they decide to leave.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Andrew has left. Last night he saddled up and rode out.’
‘Where was he heading?’
‘He didn’t say. He isn’t coming back.’
‘Didn’t you try to stop him?’
‘Me? We both know how good he is with a Colt. He was in no mood to discuss his future plans, certainly not w
ith me.’
Swearingen did not understand. He turned and looked back at the large house. Ginevra remained on the porch. She stared at him. In the heat of the early morning he saw Ginevra and knew.
He left Rayburn and walked back to the house and stopped at the steps. Ginevra hovered above him.
‘Damn you,’ he said. ‘What have you done?’
‘I’ve taken care of our son, something you’ve been unwilling to do.’
‘You know nothing about taking care of him. You’ve taken care of Peter and look at him.’
‘I look at Peter and see a gentleman. I look at Andrew and see what you’ve made of him. It’s not what I want. More importantly, it’s not what he wants.’
‘He wanted to be a man, and I’ve made him a man.’
‘You’ve made him a man who has killed. He’s hurting. He’s lost.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
Swearingen climbed the steps more quickly than she thought possible. With the right hand he grabbed her left upper arm.
‘Don’t lie to me, woman.’
‘I don’t know. Let go!’
‘I’ll let go when I’m damn good and ready. What did you say to him?’
‘I told him he had to leave. I knew about the lynching. I told him Harrison would come for him.’
‘There was no lynching. There was justice. How did you know about it? How are you privy to Harrison’s plans?’
‘It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that Andrew is gone. For good.’
Swearingen released her arm and dropped onto the steps and looked at the corral, then at the barn, and then beyond.
‘I’ve tried to build something here for my sons,’ he said, ‘and for their sons and for their sons. It wasn’t your place to interfere, Ginevra. You had no right. You had no right.’
His voice grew weak and, for a moment, she almost pitied him. The moment was only that – a moment – and suddenly Peter came to the door.
‘Mother, please hurry. It’s Anne. Father, have someone go for Doc Grierson.’
Despite the heat that made the prairie a frying pan, Harrison was in no hurry to return to Cheyenne. In fact, the sorrel seemed in more of a hurry than he was.
