The Plains of Laramie

by Lauran Paine

  Thirst came to torment Parker. He got the dead man behind his cantle, tied him there, mounted up, and resumed his onward journey. Under his leg in its boot rode his own gun; across his lap was the carbine of the dead man.

  This was how he rode into Laramie. This is how people saw him who were sitting, idle and drained of energy, when he passed along to the sheriff’s office, stiffly got down, tied his laden horse, and pushed on into Hubbell Wheaton’s office to say thinly to the sad-faced man sitting at a desk there: “My name is Travis, which I’m sure you know, and, if you’ve the time, I’d like a few words with you.” He did not mention the dead man outside. Wheaton motioned toward a chair and studied Travis with close interest.

  “I was looking for you earlier this morning,” said Hub, “but the livery barn hostler told me you rode out before sunup.”

  “You won’t have to look any more, Sheriff. Neither will the others who’re interested in my being here in your town.”

  “The others, Travis?”

  Parker made a rueful little head wag. “You don’t have to put on an act for my benefit, Sheriff. Charley Swindin was one of the men who murdered my brother. Lew Morgan was involved in it, also. So were you. I know each of you now, by name.”

  “We weren’t the only ones, Travis. There were a lot of men in that posse. In fact, you didn’t name one of the men who was actually up there when your brother died.”

  “I don’t have to name that one,” said Travis.

  “No?”

  “No. You see, he’s paid his debt in full. He’s outside, Sheriff, tied behind my saddle…dead.”

  Hub’s gaze slowly widened. “Ace?” he said. “Ace McElhaney?”

  Parker nodded. “I was coming back to town this morning. A Cheyenne coach passed me. Ahead of it was a horseman. At first I thought he might be a mirage in the heat.” Parker paused slowly to wag his head. “He was no mirage. He took a long shot at me, missed, and I let him get up closer, then I killed him.”

  Hub got out of his chair, crossed to the door, flung it back, and stood in the opening, gazing out where Travis’s thoroughbred stood patiently with his grisly burden. From behind him Parker said: “This is his carbine. You can see that it’s been fired.”

  Hub turned, made no move to take the Winchester, and continued the study of Travis. Finally, still ignoring the carbine, he walked heavily back and dropped down into his chair again.

  “Anyone see this fight?” he asked.

  “No one.”

  Hub looked over where Parker had leaned the Winchester upon a wall. “I reckon, if a feller was dead set on makin’ another man’s killing look plumb legal when there were no witnesses, it wouldn’t be hard for him to shoot the dead feller’s gun once or twice after he’d killed him.”

  “It wouldn’t be hard at all,” agreed Parker, rising to stand there in the little breathless room. “It’ll be a damned sight harder to prove that’s how it was, though.”

  “Where are you going, Travis?”

  “To toss McElhaney off my horse, put the animal up, then go drink a gallon of water. Why?”

  “There’s cold water in that bucket yonder. I’d like to talk to you. It shouldn’t take long.”

  Parker paused in the doorway. A hot little wind was passing southward. Where he stood, it struck him, drying the sweat and making him feel cool. “Talk,” he ordered.

  “I don’t know how McElhaney died, but I can guess, since you knew he was one of the men who shot your brother, that you weren’t sorry to shoot him.”

  “You’re partly right, Sheriff. I meant to look him up sooner or later…but not particularly to kill him. That would’ve been up to him. I just wanted him to tell me why he and Swindin and all the rest of you for that matter…didn’t give my brother a chance to surrender.”

  Hub Wheaton offered no explanation. He only said: “Travis, what about Charley Swindin? You know who he is, don’t you?”

  “I know. He is the other one.”

  “Well…?”

  “That’ll be up to him, too, Sheriff.” Parker started to pass on outside. He checked himself briefly and added: “That goes for every one of you who were involved in the murder.”

  “We didn’t think it was murder.”

  Parker teetered there. Something Amy had said came back to him. He stepped back inside, drew forth a piece of paper, unfolded it, tossed it to Wheaton. “Read that,” he said.

  Wheaton bent to frown over the paper. He read it through once, took it in his hand, walked over to a little window, and reread it. From there he gazed across somberly at Parker Travis. He pushed out his hand with the paper in it.

  “Here,” he said. “Take it. Go get your drink of water.”

  Parker left the office and did exactly what he’d said he meant to do. Under the staring eyes of a large number of townsmen who had drifted up to look at the limp body of Ace McElhaney, he untied the corpse, stepped aside to let it slide down into roadway dust, stepped over it without once looking down, and walked northward up the road, leading his horse toward the livery barn. Behind him, Sheriff Hub Wheaton and not less than twenty-five totally still and silent men watched him go.

  Not always the most fragrant place in frontier towns, but certainly one of the coolest in summertime and also one of the most popular loafing places, the livery barn in Laramie was rarely vacant. When Parker walked in leading his thoroughbred, a number of idlers in the shade there, some whittling, some just sitting, put their unblinking gazes on him. These men had seen him ride into town; they had seen what he’d left lying in the naked sunlight down at Wheaton’s jailhouse. They were very interested, but, also, they were very careful. Parker Travis had none of the look of a killer or a gunfighter, but mostly those loafers were not very young men, and therefore they had survived in a perilous land because they could make correct appraisals with their mouths closed. They did this now. They also saw at once how Toby, the hostler, flinched when he came up out of the dark runway to take Travis’s horse.

  Parker held out his reins. He looked thoughtfully at Toby, then he said: “The next time you send someone out after me, I’m going to come for you.”

  He turned, walked out of the barn, through that deep silence, across the dusty roadway, and on into the hotel. There, he removed his shirt in the privacy of the upstairs room he’d rented, beat dust out of it, washed his entire upper body, dried off by standing at the window looking solemnly down where Ace McElhaney was being carted off by several men, got into the same shirt again, and went downstairs, on into the dining room, put his hat aside, and flagged a waiter. The man came with an alacrity he had not shown before when he’d served Travis.

  He ordered a midday meal, a pitcher of water, then sat tanking up, waiting for the food. The first glass of water brought forth a veritable flood of perspiration. The second one winnowed away some of the rawness from his gullet, his mouth, and lips, and the third one soothed his spirit.

  His table faced forward toward the outside door and the roadway beyond. He was idly looking out there when he saw a horseman go loping past northward. It was Sheriff Wheaton. He was riding too fast for this kind of weather. Parker inwardly smiled. It wouldn’t take Wheaton long at that gait to reach Lincoln Ranch. He wished he had known Wheaton was going to do this. He’d have asked him to be sure and tell Morgan’s niece her plot failed and that her assassin had himself been killed.

  His lunch came. He began slowly to eat. From the edge of his vision he saw men pass quietly into the dining room and pass out again. Others, lacking this boldness, came only as far as the doorway to gaze at the man who had killed Ace McElhaney, then they also moved on. One man only seemed as though he wished to speak. In the end, though, this man, too, faded beyond Parker’s sight. When the loitering waiter saw this man, he made a little gasp. Parker looked up at him, caught the waiter’s eye, and crooked a finger.

  “Who was he?” he asked.

  “Who was who, sir?”

  Parker leaned back, pushed his plate away, and
put a sardonic look upward. “I’m waiting,” he said very quietly. “Who was that man?”

  “Uh…foreman for one of the ranches hereabouts, Mister Travis.”

  “I see. He wouldn’t be foreman of Lincoln Ranch, would he, friend?”

  The waiter’s face turned white. “Please don’t put me in this spot, Mister Travis.”

  “What spot?”

  “Everyone in town knows who you are, sir. Word travels fast after a shootin’.”

  “I can see that it does. That was Charley Swindin, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” the waiter whispered, looking anguished. “Can I go now?”

  Parker nodded. The waiter scuttled rapidly away, and those prying-eyed men disappeared from the doorways.

  Chapter Nine

  Toby, the aging hostler, was limply parked upon a horseshoe keg just inside the door where coolness lay. Upon both sides of the runway inside the barn were box stalls and tie stalls; from these gloomy slots came sounds of horses munching, stamping at flies, or rubbing.

  Parker halted near Toby and considered him from a blank face. The hostler spoke up huskily at once, saying: “Hones’ t’gawd, Mister Travis, I had no hand in Ace McElhaney goin’ after you this morning. I can’t make you believe that, but it’s gospel truth.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Travis mildly. “You knew who I was when I came in here this morning.”

  “I wasn’t the only one, Mister Travis. Hub Wheaton figured it out, too. So did Lew Morgan of Lincoln Ranch.”

  “Morgan wasn’t in Laramie this morning before sunup, was he, Toby?”

  The hostler heard skepticism in Travis’s voice. “No, sir,” he answered right back. “But Hub was, an’ so was McElhaney. I don’t know this, mind you, an’ Sheriff Wheaton probably wouldn’t like it if he heard me say it, but him and Lew Morgan saw your thoroughbred last night an’ they talked about it.”

  “What of that?” asked Parker.

  “Well, there’s only one other thoroughbred in the country, and they suspicioned who you was from that. An’ the first thing fellers do under circumstances like them is warn everybody else, ain’t it?”

  Parker thought on this, and after a moment he nodded. “It’s possible, all right. Now tell me when you saw McElhaney the last time and who he was with?”

  “I seen him last night over at Johnny Fleharty’s saloon. Him and Johnny was talkin’.”

  “No one else, Toby?”

  “On my honor, Mister Travis, just them two.”

  Without another word Parker strode out of the barn, across the hot roadway, and into Fleharty’s Great Northern Saloon.

  Fleharty was standing listlessly behind his bar, picking his teeth and gazing drowsily over at a poker game, the only source of interest in his place at this suppertime hour of the day. He saw Parker Travis come in and became at once alert and apprehensive. When Parker crossed to the bar and leaned there, looking over at him, Johnny said quickly, with a false smile: “Ale? I recollect you as an ale man.”

  “Who told McElhaney who I was?” Parker softly asked, cutting out the preliminaries.

  The poker game had suddenly gone flat; those quiet-faced men over at the table were all looking straight up where Fleharty and Parker Travis stood. The saloon was quiet enough to hear each outside sound throughout its big barn-like room. Johnny Fleharty killed time drawing a glass of ale. He shot a look over at the poker players and turned red under their blank stares. He put the glass in front of Parker, made a mechanical sweep of his bar top with a rag, and lifted his eyes. Parker was watching him still; he was obviously awaiting his answer.

  “Sheriff Wheaton knew who you were,” he said at last, his voice scratchy. “I reckon a lot of folks knew, for that matter.”

  Parker pushed the ale aside. He shook his head at Fleharty. “Until last night they didn’t. Who did McElhaney talk to last night?”

  “How would I know, mister? Ace didn’t spend all his…”

  “I want a straight answer from you,” said Parker, drawing back a little from the bar as he interrupted. “Make it easy on yourself, Fleharty, or make it hard. It’s up to you.”

  Johnny, who was a little man in many ways, screwed up his face in pure agony. If he answered, those listening poker players would hear him surrender. If he didn’t answer, the killer of Ace McElhaney probably would do something about that. Johnny was at that crossroad many men face in a lifetime—he had either to sacrifice self-esteem and local respect, or perhaps his life. He wasn’t sure this was so but he had to make his choice now, and the wrong decision could be dangerous. But Johnny was a small man so he made the safe decision by saying: “Sheriff Wheaton and Lew Morgan talked to Ace.” He left off speaking, his breathing hurried, as though he was out of breath now.

  Parker nodded. “One more question. Charley Swindin was in town a little while back. Did he come in here?”

  “He usually does when he’s in town,” Johnny said, groping for some way to salvage some of that respect by seeking to evade another question. “Charley’s been comin’…”

  “Was he in here this afternoon?”

  There it was again, the blunt question from that unreadable, strong, and weather-darkened face. Johnny made another prolonging swipe with his bar rag. This time, though, like all men who have once given in, he had less difficulty answering.

  “Yes, he was in here a little after noon.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Well. He said you’d killed Ace. He said he knew who you were, because Lew Morgan told him last night at the ranch Frank Travis’s brother was in town.”

  “What else?”

  “Well, he said you weren’t goin’ to slip up from behind and get him like you got Ace.”

  Parker looked over at the poker players. There were six of them and they solemnly returned his look. “If any of you believe that’s how McElhaney died, go look at him. Go see whether that bullet hit from behind or from in front.”

  None of the card players spoke. They sat on, though, appraising Parker. Johnny Fleharty looked at his fingertips. At this moment he despised himself, could not bring himself to look out at the man who had made that kind of a coward of him.

  Parker wheeled about, left the saloon, and turned southward toward the hotel. He almost at once collided with Sheriff Wheaton. Hub stopped dead still. He was sweat-dust stained and red-necked.

  Parker beat him to it. He said: “Have a nice ride to Lincoln Ranch, Sheriff?”

  Hub shook his head, looking more mournful than ever. “No,” he replied quietly, “it’s hotter’n the hinges of hell on the plains today.”

  “Yeah,” grunted Parker. “In more ways than one. What’s on your mind?”

  “I was looking for you.”

  “I can see that. What for…to arrest me?”

  Hub Wheaton was not like Johnny Fleharty; he did not scare easily. “No. Not yet anyway. To tell you there’s a man in the hall outside your hotel room waiting to talk to you.”

  Parker’s mind selected a name and dropped it down. “Morgan?” he asked.

  “Yes, Lew Morgan. He rode back with me. Are you going to see us?”

  “I’ve already seen you, Sheriff. I’ll see Morgan alone.”

  Parker started past. Hub Wheaton turned slowly to watch him progress southward. Once, he parted his lips to speak, then he closed them again and stood undecided while Travis swung in and passed beyond his sight at the hotel doorway.

  Several men came out of the Great Northern Saloon. They saw Hub standing there and came to a rough stop. Johnny Fleharty also pushed through and saw Hub, but Johnny didn’t hesitate at all; he rushed at the sheriff.

  “Hub, that feller Travis was just in my place makin’ me tell him about you warnin’ Ace about him bein’ in town an’ that he was that other Travis’s brother.”

  Wheaton swung back. Over Fleharty’s shoulder he spied those rough range men standing together by the saloon’s doorway. He read their faces and their stances correctly.

&n
bsp; “What’re you tryin’ to do,” he asked Johnny, “start a fight?”

  Fleharty looked bewildered “What are you talkin’ about? I was in my own saloon mindin’ my own business…”

  “I’m talking about those riders back there…those six men who just came out of your place. Who got them on the prod?”

  “I didn’t. It was Travis. They heard him pumpin’ me about Charley Swindin an’ you talkin’ to Ace last night. You an’ Lew Morgan. They…”

  “Lew Morgan wasn’t in your place last night, Johnny.”

  Fleharty blinked. His agitation was considerable. “Wasn’t he with you when you talked to Ace?”

  “No, he wasn’t.”

  “I thought…I guess there were too many fellers in there for me to be sure last night.” Johnny’s eyes widened. “I thought he was with you ’n’ Ace. That’s what I told Travis.”

  “No,” growled Hub Wheaton. “You’re not tryin’ to stir anything up. Hell, no, you’re just tryin’ to get Lew killed along with Swindin.”

  Fleharty said protestingly: “But, Hub…”

  Wheaton, however, was passing northward toward those six grim-faced cowboys up the sidewalk. He left Fleharty standing helplessly, with new sweat bursting out upon his face, feeling more degraded than ever.

  When he was close to the motionless range riders, Wheaton said: “Forget it. There’s enough trouble here without you fellers butting in.”

  One of those cowboys, a gaunt, battered man, hooked both thumbs in his shell belt, looked coolly at the sheriff, and growled: “You folks here in town afraid of that Travis feller?”

  Hub’s long face settled into tough lines. He said sarcastically: “Yeah, we’re scairt to death of him. We’re also scairt to death of men like you. We’re so scairt I’m going to lock the lot of you up in my jailhouse unless you climb on your horses right damned now and hightail it out of town and back wherever you belong.”

  Another rider, broad, swarthy, raffish-appearing, looked around. He made an elaborate shrug with his shoulders and said gruffly to his friends: “To hell with it. Come on, let’s get goin’. These here folks don’t want no help.” This man turned his back upon Hub Wheaton, stepped down into roadway dust, and trudged over where six saddled horses were drowsing. His friends went along after him, one at a time, until only the gaunt, battered man remained behind.