Floyd Channon rose from the chair and pumped the action of the Winchester to eject the spent shell and jack a live one into the breech. Then stood for long moments, his eyes closed while his lips remained parted. Until every muscle in his big frame started to ache from the strain of holding so still — and the threat of tears receded.
Then he made his preparations to leave. He took the blanket off the corpse of Arturo Loera with a jerk that I set the rocker rocking and caused the dead Mexican to slump limply to the side over an arm. And went into the hallway to cover the woman: this act performed as irreverently as the first. Just a trace of the earlier anguish touched his features as he kept his head averted — so as not to look at the beautiful face, long blonde hair and work-clothed slimness of the woman’s body.
He went outside to the stable to saddle his stallion. Then took both geldings from the traces of the flatbed wagon laden with furniture and watered them. Saddled the grey and led this with his stallion to the front of the house. He cut lengths from his lariat to tie the blanket around the woman’s corpse, draped it over the saddle of the grey and secured it tightly in place.
Then he sat down on the edge of the stoop and ate a meal of jerked beef and cold beans from the can. Drank some water from one of his canteens and for the first time became aware of the chill which night had brought to the mountains. So, before linking the two horses together with a rope lead-line, he took a knee-length, fur-lined overcoat from his bedroll and put it on, turning up the collar so that it brushed the underside of his hat brim at the back and sides.
Only then did he mount the stallion and begin the long ride back toward the border and the one-street town on the other side.
Not once, after the putrefaction process began to become malodorously apparent during the hottest part of the following day, did Floyd Channon consider burying the rotting corpse out there in the wilderness. It had been a spur of the moment decision to arrange for a decent funeral, born out of the accident of his being within earshot of another interment.
But he was glad he had had the notion. He owed Emily Jane that much.
CHAPTER FOUR
IT was a little after midday when Floyd Channon came within sight of the small Arizona town which looked as deserted as when he had first seen it. Another similar feature was an open grave in the cemetery out back of the church. But today there was no sound of an organ playing the Death March or of the bell tolling the death knell. Nor would there be.
The people were eating or getting ready to eat, and as he rode closer he could smell the appetizing aroma of hot food mingling with the fumes of wood smoke that rose through the still air like dark columns from almost every chimney. But even when he was on the street, having ridden between a corner of the church and a small house, these everyday smells of a peaceful community were not strong enough to keep the stink of the woman’s decomposing flesh from his nostrils.
There were four houses to either side of this southern end of the street, each of than with a garden enclosed by picket fences. Beyond, on the eastern side, was a hardware store, a grocery, a bakery, a meat market, barbers, bank, three more houses, a saloon, drugstore and a blacksmiths. Facing these across the sixty foot wide, rutted and dusty street was a meeting hall, a candy store, drapers, funeral parlor, laundry, six houses and a school.
Many of the business premises incorporated the name Fairfax in their signs. The sign above the door and black-draped window of the funeral parlor read: Barnaby Gold and Son.
By the time the Texan had reached the front of this establishment, a large proportion of the citizens of Fairfax were uneasily aware of his return to town. And peered surreptitiously from curtained windows land half-open doorways, wrinkling their noses as the stench of long-dead flesh assaulted their nostrils.
There were four houses to either side of this southern end of the street, each of them with a garden enclosed by pocket fences. Beyond, on the eastern side, was a hardware store, a grocery, a bakery, a meat market.
Floyd Channon, aware of being the centre of attention but totally ignoring it, swung out of his saddle and untied the lead-line. Whispered words from the buildings along both sides of the street disturbed the peace like the buzzing of a swarm of flies.
A child’s voice demanded: ‘What’s happenin’, ma’am?’
‘Hold your tongue and eat, boy!’ a woman snapped.
‘But...’
A hand cracked against flesh and there was a cry of pain.
‘Do like your Ma tells you!’ a man growled.
The lanky, youthful, blond-haired inheritor of the funeral parlor opened the door. Today he was dressed in old denim pants and a cotton shirt, sweat and dirt stained.
‘Reckon you didn’t tell folks about me planning oncoming back, Gold?’
‘Just did as you asked, Mr. Channon. It’s out back in the workshop. You want to see it?’
The Texan took the roll from his hip pocket and peeled off some bills. Ten fifties this time.
The youngster emerged from the doorway and took the money with one hand and the lead-line with the other: as the taller, broader man shook his head.
‘A Channon is as good as his word and expects those he does business with to be likewise. If he gets cheated, he knows. And the cheater gets to pay.’ He thrust out his bottom lip and blew air up over his sweat-greasy face. ‘Need to slake my thirst. See you got the grave dug. You’ll send word over to the saloon when everything ready for the burying?’
‘Take a little while to prepare the deceased, Mr. Channon. The longer the time since death, the more work is necessary to give the corpse a … ’
The Texan took hold of the reins of the stallion and gave a negligent wave with his free hand. ‘That’s your business, feller. You want to pretty her up, you do it. I ain’t gonna look at her again.’
For the first time since he opened the door to see and smell what was draped over the saddle of the grey gelding, the young Gold expressed surprise.
The deceased is a lady?’
‘Used to think so,’ Channon answered, and spat into a wheel rut on the street. ‘Turned out she was nothing but a whore. So I don’t figure on any preaching and organ music and bell ringing. I’ll wait to hear from you.’
He turned away and led the stallion diagonally across the street to hitch him to the rail out front of the Fairfax Saloon. While the young undertaker led the corpse-burdened gelding into the alley between the funeral parlor and the laundry.
The shocked citizenry of the town, most of whom had been able to overhear the conversation between the two men, withdrew from their vantage points.
Floyd Channon pushed through the batwing doors of the small saloon after the bartender and his only other customer had got back to where they had been before the Texan’s return to Fairfax caused such a stir.
‘Beer, a bottle of rye and a shot glass.’
He dropped into a chair at the table nearest to the doorway.
It was one of only five tables in the place, which was about twenty by twenty-five feet in area with the bar counter running across the rear wall. There was sawdust on the floor, cobwebs hanging from the ceiling rafters and a thousand and one stains on the adobe walls. The air smelled of tobacco smoke, liquor and sweat. All stale. The bartender who delivered the requested beer and whiskey to the table was a heavily built man of sixty with an untidy black beard, a bald head and a belly that overhung the top of the leather apron he wore. He also wore a collarless, sleeveless shirt that tightly contoured his almost feminine chest.
‘Buck and a half, Mr. Channon,’ he growled and was given a five.
‘Keep the change.’
‘Didn’t I tell you that family was known for bein’ free with the money, Jeb?’
This from the man who stood at the bar with a half-empty glass of flat beer. A scrawny old timer who was more than eighty. Wearing what looked like hand-me-down pants and shirt that were three sizes too large for him. He had grey hair and a beard that was neatly trimmed.
‘Much oblig
ed,’ Jeb responded as he pocketed the five dollars. ‘Ain’t sayin’ I disbelieved what Jack Cater told me, Mr. Channon. But rumors, much as haircuts and shaves, are a barber man’s stock-in-trade. Wouldn’t you say?’
There was a spittoon beside each table and after he had taken a mouthful of beer the Texan scored a perfect hit with a stream of dust-flecked saliva. Then: ‘Don’t plan on saying much of anything until I’ve slacked my thirst, feller.’
‘Yessir,’ Jack Cater went on when the bartender was back behind his counter. ‘I’ve barbered in a lot of cow-towns from the south west up through Kansas and even the Dakotas. And any hand who ever worked the Doubled over to Texas’ he spoke highly of it. Had to work their butts off, but any puncher worth his salt is ready to do that. Iffen the pay’s good. And the Channons, they pay top rate. Hire the best cooks, provide the best grub and got bunkhouses and line shacks on the spread that are a damn sight better than some places call themselves hotels.’
Floyd Channon finished the beer and started on the whiskey, trying to keep his mind as blank as his expression while he listened to what the town barber was saying: his back to both men. But after the third shot of hard liquor, he began to smile pensively and this was a reflection of the pleasant thoughts which seeped into his mind. This as Jack Cater got into his stride, recalling from the distant and more recent past specific instances of how the Channons and the Double-Chad won and maintained respect among cattlemen from the humblest hand up to fellow barons.
The steadily-drinking Texan had heard some of the stories and they were told accurately. So it figured the ones he was hearing for the first time were also on the level. He recognized the names of some men and places, and had even been directly involved with some of the incidents.
Then the barber seemed to be through with his reminiscences of the Channon family and its fair treatment of Double-C employees and in the ensuing silence a clock struck to mark the hour of two. The pleasant double chime from a room in the back of the saloon jerked the Texan’s mind out of the past. He saw there was just an inch of liquor remaining in the bottom of the bottle. And became aware of sound and movement out on the street — signs that Fairfax was going about its afternoon business. But there were still just the two customers in the saloon.
‘Course,’ Jack Cater went on, his tone lower than before, ‘by the same token, the Channons is also known for not takin’ too kind to folks that cross them.’
‘Ain’t it time you got back to your parlor, Jack?’ Jeb said quickly. Uneasily.
The last traces of the smile drained out of the Texan’s face as he poured the final shot from the bottle to the glass, stood up and turned.
‘All right, feller,’ he said, his voice a little slurred. He was conscious of this, so took great care not to stumble as he made his way between the tables and chairs to the bar. ‘I’m not about to take offence at what’s the honest truth.’
He leaned his elbows on the bar top and hooked a heel over the rail, ten feet down the counter from where Jack Cater and Jeb stood. He set the glass in front of him and peered into a past that seemed to be overlaid on the bottle-lined shelves fixed to the wall.
‘I’ve known a few small towns in my time. And how they can be real dull unless people bring in some news from outside.’
‘You got no need to tell us your business, Mr. Channon,’ Jeb said.
‘I feel the friggin’ need, feller!’ the Texan snarled.
The barber glowered at the bartender. Said to the man down the counter: ‘I listen good as I can talk.’
Floyd Channon nodded his satisfaction with this. ‘The woman was in real bad trouble. Run up a month’s rent in a hotel at El Paso and didn’t have the money to pay it. The feller that had the hotel, he was fixing to get her to work it off in his bed. Another feller wanted to pick up her tab and put her into a Mex bordello. But she got lucky. I heard the shindig, laid out the two fellers arguing over her, paid the tab and took her back to the ranch.’
‘Real pretty, was she, Mr. Channon?’ the barber said into a pause.
‘Beautiful, more like,’ the Texan answered. ‘Just twenty years old and the most beautiful thing I ever saw.’ There was another short silence, which he ended himself with a sigh. ‘She said she could cook and it turned out she could. Real well. And that’s what she did at the house, for the family. To pay back what I ante’ed up for her at the hotel.
‘The old man, my two brothers and even my sister, they took to her. And they were real pleased when she and me reached an understanding. Helped me when I started to build a place for us down in the south-east section of the Double-C range. Had the place more finished than the Mex...’
His voice trailed off and he shook his head to rid his mind of the memory of Arturo Loera’s hacienda. While the bartender and the barber exchanged quizzical glances.
‘Anyway, needed to go up to San Antone with the old man. Land deal business. When I got back, she’d gone. Along with ten thousand dollars cash from the old man’s safe. And a Mex cowhand no one even knew she’d ever seen.’
‘Hot damn,’ Jack Cater rasped.
‘Ten friggin’ grand,’ Jeb added and whistled.
Floyd Channon raised his glass, drank half its contents and set it down again. ‘Had to be taken care of. But round-up heeded to be done first. Both out of the way now. Twenty thousand head of prime beef are being herded up to Denver. And two more people got paid out for crossing a Channon.’
Two?’ Jeb posed. ‘You only brought in the one body that I saw.’
The Texan finished the whiskey. ‘The Mex had a dream, feller. Left him dead where he was building it. Guess you could say the woman gave me...’
Again he allowed a sentence to hang half-finished in the hot, stale-smelling air of the small saloon.
‘Young Barnaby Gold looks about ready to start the buryin’, Mr. Channon,’ Jack Cater said, nodding across the saloon toward the dusty window.
‘Much obliged.’
He pushed away from the counter and turned around. Moved toward the batwings feeling a lot less drunk: but mentally and physically drained from reliving the pleasures, pains and humiliations of the recent past
‘Best of luck to you,’ Jeb offered.
The barber added: ‘Give my best to any of the Double-C hands that might recall I give them a shave or a haircut’
The Texan went out through the batwings, stepping from the shaded heat of the building into the glaring brand that beat down on the street.
‘Plan on forgetting I was ever in this place,’ he murmured as he blinked against the bright sunlight.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE street was virtually deserted once more. Except for Floyd Channon and his stallion and Barnaby Gold Junior and his hearse and two-horse team.
It was an impressive looking vehicle for such a small town mortician to own. A circular hearse with glass panels in the sides and pieces of curved glass at the front and rear. The woodwork painted in shiny black with silver trimmings at each corner. Clipped feather plumes along the top of each side. The seat upon which the undertaker sat, detached from the curved glass front panel of the body, was draped with black and silver hammer cloth.
The two horses which drew it were also jet black and had plumes in their bridles.
Barnaby Gold had changed into the somber garb of his trade.
The casket which rested between silver rails in the hearse met, from its outside appearance, the specifications that Floyd Channon had ordered.
‘You’re doing her proud,’ he said as he led the stallion across the street to where the hearse was halted at the front of the funeral parlor.
It’s what you asked for, Mr. Channon,’ Gold told him impassively.
‘Didn’t figure you’d have a special rig for...’
‘It’s the only one. Shall we get started for the cemetery?’
The Texan squinted up at the black-garbed younger man, whose attitude was suddenly so cold. Decided Emily Jane’s body had not decomposed to the ext
ent where Gold had failed to be moved by such a waste of beautiful young womanhood. He nodded.
‘Yeah, let’s get it over with, feller. So I can get back to Texas.’
‘And I can start for Europe,’ Gold countered, flicking the reins to set the team moving.
Floyd Channon took off his hat and walked behind the slow-rolling hearse, leading his stallion.
With a single exception, those who now watched the cortege move along the brightly sunlit street did so with greater surreptitiousness than when they had followed the Texan’s entrance into town.
The lone man who did not hide far back from windows and doorways was the elderly, slightly-built preacher. Who stood in the arched entrance of his church, hands clasped to his chest and head bowed.
‘I said she didn’t deserve any praying over, feller,’ Channon growled.
‘The Reverend Baxter sees some good in everyone,’ Gold answered. ‘I didn’t fix for him to be around.’
He steered the team to the left, to pass between the church and the fence of the last house on the east side of the cemetery where four somberly dressed men were waiting.
‘And these fellers?’ the Texan asked as he quickened his pace to move up alongside the slowing hearse; aware of the animosity which had been briefly glared at him before the quartet of men went around the other side of the hearse to get to the rear of it.
‘You asked for a lead-lined casket, Mr. Channon,’ Gold answered as he applied the brake lever and hitched the reins around it. Climbed down on the side where the irritable Texan stood. Tasked for some help to carry it. It was the men’s own idea to dress in mourning.’
‘All right to unload it, Mr. Gold?’ one of the pallbearers asked gruffly.
‘Sure.’
The rear glass panel was a door which hinged open to the right. As it was opened and the heavy casket was slid out along a track with grunts and rasped sounds of exertion, Floyd Channon massaged his forehead. And seemed to be on the point of spitting until he realized he and the youthful undertaker were walking side-by-side between graves.
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