by Elmer Kelton
He felt the eyes of the men upon him, however, and he hesitated. He had not allowed himself much familiarity with anyone these last years. Men watched him in awe, and part of the reason was that he somehow stood apart from the others, apart from and a little above them. With familiarity, some of this awe would surely vanish. Many a lonely time he would have given half of what he owned to be able to mix with men and be one of them again, the way it had been forty years ago. But with his strict self-discipline he had managed to remain aloof—aloof and alone. Noah Wheeler held out a cup of hot coffee. “Come on, Andrew, for old times’ sake.”
And Captain Andrew Rinehart stepped down from his big gray horse and took the farmer’s cup. “Thank you, Noah.”
Archer Spann watched in wonderment.
The two men stood staring at each other, sipping their coffee. “Been a long time, Andrew,” Wheeler said presently, “since we stood around like this and drank coffee together.”
The captain nodded gravely. “A long time and a long way off. Things were different then, Noah, and so were we.”
Wheeler thoughtfully shook his head. “Not so much. We’re a right smart older, but I doubt that we’ve really changed so much.”
“I guess you know why I’ve come, Noah,” said the captain.
Wheeler nodded. “The fence.”
“I thought you knew how I felt about fences. I thought everybody knew.”
Wheeler nodded. “I know.”
“Then why are you doing this?” the captain said sharply.
Wheeler frowned into his cup, studying hard for the right words. “Because I have to, Andrew. I’ve done a lot with this land in the years I’ve had it, but I’ve gone about as far as I can go with it open the way it is. I’ve got to close it in; then whatever I build can stay.”
“Fences will ruin this country, Noah.”
“You’re wrong, Andrew. They’ll change it, but they won’t ruin it. You watch, they’ll be the making of the country.”
“I like it the way it is.”
“Andrew, you were one of the first white men to come to this country and stay. You could see the possibilities in it, but you had to make a lot of changes first. Now other people are coming in, and there are a lot of changes they’ve got to make.
“I’ve got a dream for my place here, Andrew. I know what I want to do and how I’ve got to do it. But right now I can’t raise good crops for stray cattle coming into my fields. I can’t breed better cattle as long as scrub bulls keep getting with my cows. If I can’t do these things, then from here on out I’m standing still. That’s why I’ve got to have the fence, Andrew.”
The captain said, “I can send some of the boys by every two or three days and keep the cattle thrown back, Noah.”
Wheeler shook his gray head. “It wouldn’t work. Every two or three days wouldn’t be enough, and besides, your men have more things to do than help me to farm. If I want to make anything, I’ll have to make it for myself.”
The captain saw a rider coming up in an easy lope. He squinted, trying to recognize him. The horseman was less than a hundred feet from him before he recognized Doug Monahan.
The captain said, “I should have suspected, Noah. That the man who’s building your fence?”
Wheeler nodded and faced around as Monahan reined up beside him. Monahan’s eyes were cold. “Any trouble, Noah?”
“No trouble, Doug. We were just talking.”
Doug looked at the captain, his face grim. “If you’ve come threatening, Captain, you’d just as well go home. We’re ready for you this time. This fence is going up, and it’ll stay up.”
The captain stared hard at Monahan, and he felt the young man’s eyes hating him. It disturbed him somehow. The captain had never tried to be a popular man. He moved in his own way, in his own time, caring little what anyone else thought. He was becoming increasingly aware of the talk that went on behind his back, but much of it came from people who wore a pleasant smile when they faced him. Not in years had anyone boldly shown him such unmasked enmity as he saw in Doug Monahan’s blue eyes.
It brought an immediate response in kind. The captain said, “Monahan, I’ve given you more chances than I’d give most men.”
“I’ll make my own chances, Captain, and I’ll take them.”
Spann, who had not dismounted, edged his horse a little closer. “Say the word, Captain, and I’ll put him in his place.”
Noah Wheeler took a step forward, placing himself in front of Monahan’s horse. “This is my place, Andrew. Doug Monahan is here because I want him here.”
The captain’s face colored. “He thinks he has a private war with me, Noah. Don’t let him drag you into it.”
Wheeler replied, “I’m not in any war and I don’t want any part of one. I’m just trying to fence my land so I can build this place into what I want it to be, that’s all.”
Restlessly the captain moved his cup around and around in a circle, sending the remains of the coffee to spinning.
“If it was only you, Noah, I wouldn’t care. But if you build a fence, others will. Out of respect for old times, I’m asking you not to do it.”
Wheeler solemnly shook his head. “Out of respect for old times, Andrew, I’m asking you to understand why I have to do it.”
The captain looked at him with sorrow. “That’s your answer?”
Wheeler nodded.
The captain flipped the rest of his coffee out and dropped the cup into the brittle grass. He stepped stiffly back into the saddle. His spurs tinkled as he reined the big gray horse around and headed out again the way he had come. He never looked back.
Archer Spann rode silently beside him, watching the old cowman’s face twist with the bitter conflicts that went on in his mind. When at last it seemed that the captain had made his decision, Spann asked, “What was there between you and Noah Wheeler, years ago?”
The captain made no answer, and Spann said, “Whatever it was, he seems to’ve forgotten about it. He’s declared war on you, Captain. When do we hit him?”
The captain frowned, his mind still dwelling on something else, perhaps something far back in time. “Hit him? What do you mean, hit him?”
“Burn him out.”
The captain pulled his horse to a stop, and Spann reined up, turned back to face him. He had seldom seen the captain’s face clouded so.
“Whatever else we have to do,” Rinehart declared, “I don’t want to hurt Noah Wheeler. Doug Monahan’s the one behind this. He’s the one we want to hit. Cut his fences, burn his posts, run off his men. Do what you have to to stop Monahan. But leave Noah Wheeler alone!”
Spann rode along silently a while after that, keeping his thoughts to himself. Finally he asked, “What about Wheeler’s boy?”
“Wheeler’s boy?”
“Vern Wheeler, the kid we’ve got with Lefty Jones over in that north line shack.”
The captain nodded then. “I’d almost forgotten. Better let him go, Archer. If he’s any account he’ll want to side with his father. And if he’s not any account, we don’t want him anyway.”
Archer Spann smiled a little then, and the pleasure of anticipation shone in his dark eyes. He doubled his fist.
“I’ll go over there as quick as I can.”
He was waiting in the line shack when Vern Wheeler and Lefty Jones rode in from the morning’s work to cook themselves some dinner. He had been there an hour, resting in the warm comfort of the little bachelor stove, and had made no move to fix anything to eat. He would let them do that.
Husky young Vern Wheeler shook hands with him, showing him the deference of a well-brought-up youngster to the older man he works for. Lefty Jones, fifteen years older than Vern, nodded and gave Spann a civil howdy but didn’t shake his hand. It was plain enough that he didn’t think much of the foreman, yet he wouldn’t go so far as to be insubordinate. Jones’ glance flicked to the stove, then to the coffee pot which still sat cold and empty on the cabinet top. Range etiquette demanded that
Spann fix coffee for the chilled incoming riders, if he didn’t do anything else.
Jones went about the business of fixing dinner, saying nothing. The way he saw it, if there was any talking to be done, it was Spann’s part to do it. Vern Wheeler, younger and more eager, tried to be polite by drawing Spann out, asking him questions about the rest of the ranch. Spann gave him short answers, when he answered at all. He waited until dinner was over before he sprang it.
“I came over to tell you you’re through here, kid. Your dad double-crossed the captain.”
Vern Wheeler stiffened, almost dropping the dirty dishes he was carrying to the cabinet. In a strained voice he demanded, “What’re you talking about?”
“He’s putting up a fence, a bobwire fence. And after the captain all but begged him not to.”
Lefty Jones snickered at the thought of the captain begging anything.
Shaken, Vern put the dishes down on the cabinet and turned back to face Spann. “My dad wouldn’t do anything he didn’t have the right to.”
“In this country the captain tells people what they’ve got a right to do. He said no bobwire fences. Your old man’s building one anyway.”
“And you’re firing me for it?”
“You’re his son. If we can’t trust him, we can’t trust you.”
Face darkening, Vern Wheeler took a threatening step toward Archer Spann. “Watch what you say about my dad!”
Spann stood up, bracing himself. “Noah Wheeler’s nothing but another dirt farmer who’s let himself step over the line, kid, and before we’re through, he’ll know it.”
Lightning flashed in Vern Wheeler’s eyes, but the youngster held himself down.
Spann pulled a small roll of green bills out of his pocket. “It’s been three weeks since last payday. I’ve got you twenty-one dollars counted out here. Take it and git.”
Vern Wheeler stared incredulously at the money. “Twenty-one dollars?” He hurled the bills to the floor. “I’ve got a year’s wages coming to me! You’ve been holding them.”
“Back wages? You’re crazy, kid. This is all we owe you.”
Vern’s face drained. “You’re a liar, Spann. You’ve got it. You’ve been holding it, saving it for me so I could get married. Now I want my money, Spann.”
Spann’s hand dropped to the butt of the six-gun on his hip. “I told you, boy, you’ve got all that’s coming to you. Now pack up and git!”
Vern’s voice rippled with fury. “Not without my money, Spann. You give me my money.”
He lunged at the foreman. Spann’s hand came up, the gun in it. Lefty Jones grabbed Spann’s arm and wrenched. A blast rocked the line shack, and sugar spilled in a white stream from a can on a raw-pine shelf. Spann swung his arm back. The gun struck Jones in the face and sent him sprawling.
Vern Wheeler got hold of Spann’s arm, trying to twist it, to get his hand on the gun. Spann strained, cursing as he attempted to throw off the heavy weight of this husky farm boy. He wrenched savagely and tore his arm free. He swung, hard. The gun glanced off Vern Wheeler’s head, staggering him.
Spann saw his chance then. He lifted his knee to the boy’s groin. Wheeler gasped and stiffened. Spann lifted the gun and brought it down again. Vern Wheeler dropped like a sack of grain, a red welt rising angrily on the side of his head.
The boy struggled to regain his feet. Spann stood heaving, trying for breath. When Vern had almost managed to steady himself, Spann swung the gun again. This time Vern Wheeler wouldn’t get up, not for a while.
Lefty Jones sat on the floor, rubbing his hand across his bleeding mouth, still half dazed.
“You pack up too, Lefty,” Spann said. “You’re done. You had no business poking in there. It was between me and the kid.”
Jones was coming around. He blinked a few times, finally managing to focus his gaze on Spann. “That boy wasn’t lyin’. You owe him that money, and you’re stealin’ it from him.”
“I owe him nothing, Lefty.”
“Three hundred dollars. It’s all he talks about. The captain wouldn’t steal it from him. That leaves you.”
Archer Spann grabbed Lefty Jones by the collar and jerked him to his feet. Jones stood awkwardly off balance, his hand moving to take Spann’s fist from his collar. Then he stopped, feeling the fury that rippled in Spann’s face, seeing murder in Spann’s eyes.
Jones swallowed and looked down. Fear touched him with a death-cold hand.
“All right, Spann, mebbe I was wrong.”
“Ride, Lefty.” Spann’s voice crackled. “Don’t even go by town. Don’t stop riding for a week.” The voice dropped almost to a whisper, but it stung. “If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you!”
He gave Jones a shove, and the man fell back against a table, turning it over with a crash. The cowboy got up, silently gathered his scattered belongings and rolled them in his blankets. With a quick glance down at Vern Wheeler, then up at Spann, he walked out the door and off the porch.
Spann already had heard the hoofbeats trailing away before Vern Wheeler began to stir. Spann gathered up the remaining clothes and personal effects he found around the line shack. He rolled them in Vern Wheeler’s bed. As Vern pushed himself to his knees, Spann pitched the roll at him. He drew the gun again and stood there holding it, letting Vern get a good look at it.
“I could kill you and swear you made me do it, Wheeler, but I won’t. You just go on and keep your mouth shut about that money. Mark it up to experience and your old man’s fence.”
Vern Wheeler got shakily to his feet. He touched a hand to his face and felt the stickiness of blood. He stared blankly at his hand, and the red smear that was on it. His eyes lifted to Spann. They were glazed by pain, but they held a writhing hatred.
“I’ll go, but don’t you forget me. I’ll be back, and one way or another, I’ll get my money.”
Spann watched him go, then reached in his pocket and touched the roll of greenbacks there. He felt like cursing himself, now that it was over. He had brought the money with the intention of paying young Wheeler. He didn’t know what had changed his mind. Some grasping impulse had driven him into a spur-of-the-moment decision, and once it was made, he could not back down. He realized now that it probably had been a mistake. He pulled his hand away from the money as if it had been hot. What was three hundred dollars to the man who might someday control the R Cross?
Archer Spann had been on his own most of his life. As a boy he had known much of hunger and desperation, and it hadn’t been many years since a dollar bill looked as big as a saddle blanket to him. The memory of those grim times still haunted him, still put a cold touch of fear in the pit of his stomach when he thought of them.
That, he realized, was what had prompted him to keep the money. In a man who yearned to be big, this was a deeply ingrained streak of littleness that he despised but could not purge from his soul.
10
The bitter anger grew in Vern Wheeler as he started the long ride home. At nightfall he stopped and made a dry and hungry camp beneath a wind-breaking cutbank, no food or coffee to warm him. He wrapped in his blanket and kept a small fire going through the night, more miserable here than he would be in the saddle. But a thin blanket of clouds hid the stars from sight. He knew he might get lost in the darkness and ride many unnecessary miles.
Before daybreak he was up and traveling again, the cold having driven through to the bone. His head throbbed dully from the pistol-whipping. His stomach was tight and painful from hunger. The bitterness grew rather than subsided. He rode in a swirling, blinding anger.
Sight of the fencing crew at work slowed him but little. He paused for just a moment, making note of the fact that there was one, just as Spann had said. He felt a sharp resentment of the fence. This was what had brought his trouble.
Unseen, a rider came up on his left side, saddlegun across his lap. “Who’re you?” the man demanded.
Vern Wheeler glared at him. “None of your damned business!”
He start
ed to ride on, but the man touched spurs to his horse and pulled up directly in front of him. The saddlegun lifted now, not quite pointing at Vern but resting in a position from which it could instantly come into play.
The man eyed him levelly. “I don’t mean to be rough, kid. I just asked you who you are. I’ll even go halfway with you and tell you my name. It’s Dundee. Now, what’s yours?” The voice was pleasant but firm. That gun wasn’t to be argued with.
“I’m Vern Wheeler.” It was a grudging answer.
The saddlegun lowered. Dundee said, “I ought to’ve seen that for myself. But it would’ve saved us both some trouble if you’d just said so to start with.”
“To hell with you!” Vern said angrily and rode past him.
The encounter served to fan his anger. By the time he reached the farmhouse his hand was a-tremble on the reins.
Trudy Wheeler saw him and set down the basket of dry laundry she was carrying in from the clothesline. She moved toward him in an easy walk at first, then quickened her pace as she got close enough to see his face.
“Vern, what’s happened to you?”
Vern Wheeler swung down from the horse and stood weakly for a moment, holding onto the saddle, for the strength had been worn out of him.
Trudy caught hold of his shoulders. “Who beat you?”
“Archer Spann. He pistol-whipped me. Robbed me of the pay I had coming. And all because of that infernal fence out yonder. What’s the matter with Dad, anyway?”
Trudy Wheeler bit her lip. “Tie the horse and come on into the house, Vern. You’re cold, and I expect you’re hungry.”
She took him in the warm house, got the heavy coat off of him and sat him down in front of the big wood stove. She poured coffee into a big tin cup and placed it in his hands. He held it there, enjoying the warmth until it worked through the cold skin and became burning hot.
Vern started to sip it but found it scalding. He blew it gently, watching his sister. “I asked you about the fence.” His black mood showed in the way he moved, the way he looked at her.
Just then their mother came in, and the answer was delayed. He had to repeat the whole story for Mrs. Wheeler. The retelling of it did little to cool his anger. Trudy already had some biscuits pressed out and rising.
