Ramrod

by Short, Luke;

  Presently he looked at the clock, and this time he rose. He stood, tall and lonely again, his brief pleasure ended, and Rose could see it.

  She picked up the lamp and led the way to the street door and unbolted it.

  Before she opened it, though, she turned to him and studied him searchingly. She said then, “You know the talk around town tonight, Dave?”

  “Frank Ivey?”

  Rose nodded and said, “I didn’t want you to be surprised,” and opened the door.

  Dave said good night and went out, and Rose stood in the door a minute, watching him until the night swallowed him up.

  In the darkness now Dave halted, his attention not on the night. He was thinking of this girl, and the way she had told him of what lay ahead. Jim Crew, who had seen more death than a dozen ordinary men, could not have been more casual. There had been no pleading for carefulness, no fright, only a warning and a confidence unexpressed. She knew a man did what he had to do, and whether or not she liked it did not weigh with her.

  He moved on again toward the scattered lights of the store and hotel and saloon, and now he felt a wary calmness. The stage was due in an hour, and beyond that time he did not speculate. He passed the livery stable and saw Crew in the darkened doorway of his office across the street watching the night, waiting for the men to fall into place, for the minutes to be spent.

  In front of the Special he saw another figure come out of the darkness by the doorway, head turned in his direction, looking toward the sound of his footsteps.

  It was Walt Shipley, and when he saw Dave he exhaled his breath sharply.

  “Where you been?” he asked irritably. “I thought you’d gone.”

  “No,” Dave said quietly.

  Shipley looked over his shoulder up the street and then said restlessly, “Let’s have a drink.”

  They went into the Special, where the poker game was still in progress. Walt got a bottle and glasses from Burch Nellis and led the way to one of the front tables. The players watched him covertly, saying nothing, and he knew they were watching. Seating himself, he thumbed his stiff new Stetson off his forehead and his glance restlessly roved the room. Dave, sitting slacked in his chair, watched him and thought bleakly, He’s spooking already. Nothing in Walt Shipley’s face gave him away, Dave thought, but it was there. Shipley was a dark man, perhaps in his late twenties, with restless, bold black eyes in his long face. He had a drive about him that would not let him rest, and it had reached into his very soul and turned into ambition. He was generous and impulsive, Dave had learned in the three weeks he had worked for him; he had a temper that flared like powder and died as quickly, but the bedrock of his nature Dave had never seen. He thought Connie Dickason, the girl Walt was going to marry, had seen it and become uneasy. They would both see it tonight, anyway.

  Shipley shuttled his bold glance to Dave and said, “He’s not here, is he?”

  “No,” Dave said.

  “He won’t be, either,” Walt said brashly.

  Dave didn’t answer, and Walt stared unswervingly at him. “You think he will?”

  “Yes.”

  Walt flushed a little and said, “I saw those two horses from D Bar. One is Red Cates’, Connie said. Red won’t move without Frank, and I haven’t seen a Bell horse in town.”

  “That’s right,” Dave said pleasantly.

  Walt said, suddenly bitter, “You seem pretty damn sure he’ll be here.”

  Dave shrugged slowly. “I’ve seen Frank Ivey.”

  Walt said, “Ah-h-h,” softly, contemptuously, and poured himself another drink. Dave’s drink stood untouched and Walt, spying it, looked at Dave with frank curiosity. “Tell me,” he said, “are you afraid of booze now?”

  Dave looked at him and then at the drink, and then picked up the whiskey and drank it. He had forgotten it was there.

  Walt laughed then, his lips breaking swiftly, his teeth white and even. “That’s an answer.”

  He leaned back now, his face altering into soberness, and regarded Dave carefully. “You know, you’re a queer one, Nash,” he said slowly. “Damned if you aren’t. Don’t anything ever excite you?”

  “No,” Dave said.

  “Can’t you talk?”

  Dave grinned faintly. “Not very good.”

  “Well, you’re lucky,” Walt said, his tone suddenly wry, and he did not need to explain himself. Long since, Dave had learned that Walt Shipley placed no value on words; he spoke off the top of his mind, and much of his life had been spent backing those words up. He was backing them tonight, but he was no longer sure of himself. That doubt was eating at him steadily, driving him to a new restlessness. He poured himself another drink and tilted the bottle inquiringly toward Dave, who shook his head in refusal. Shipley took his drink and coughed once from the rawness of it, and then said, without looking at Dave, “Connie’s over at the hotel. She wants to see you.”

  Dave was silent a moment, hiding his surprise. Connie Dickason had never spoken with him, other than to pass the time of day. He had been just one of the three hands working for Circle 66, the object of more than passing curiosity for a few days, because of the circumstances under which he had been hired. A deep caution stirred in Dave. “Why?” he asked.

  “She’s got a notion I’ll need help.” His sardonic glance shuttled to Dave. “Don’t scare her, but go see her, will you?”

  Dave rose reluctantly and went out. His pace toward the hotel was slow, and once, beyond Bondurant’s store, he halted. This was not a woman’s quarrel, and she should not even be in town, and he did not want to talk to her. The pattern of this was as old as life, and nothing she could say would change it.

  However, he went on, an odd resentment stirring within him. The hotel lobby, with its dozen deep leather chairs, was deserted; from the hotel saloon next door, joined to the hotel by a connecting door, came the slow murmur of voices.

  Dave went to the desk and looked at the register and went upstairs. At the head of the stairwell he knocked on a door marked A, knowing it was the parlor and bedroom suite which a cattleman invariably took for his womenfolks while he was about town.

  There was a short wait, and then the door was opened by Connie Dickason. She stepped aside and said quietly, “Come in, Dave.”

  Dave took off his Stetson and tramped into the room. His black, short hair, only shades darker than the deep brown of his face, was awry and somehow gave him, with his shabby calico shirt and levis, the appearance of a shiftless, taciturn puncher.

  “Sit down, please,” Connie Dickason said; and Dave sank into an upholstered chair by the table where the lamp stood. Connie Dickason sat down in a rocking chair facing him, and Dave watched her guardedly. He had, without wholly knowing it, a deep respect for this girl. It stemmed from her appearance; she was small, ramrod straight, and she had the unconscious pride of her size that Dave usually associated with a small man. If this pride bordered on arrogance, a man forgot it when he looked at her. She was truly beautiful, but the perfection of it was redeemed by flaws that made her the more charming. Her straight nose, for instance, was marred by a few faint freckles that conjured up a picture of a tomboy. Her eyes were a green-blue that was really neither color, and her hair was as black and shiny as an Indian’s, with a wildly unruly curl. Dave had seen her wear the same dress four days running, so he knew she cared nothing about clothes, and yet she wore them like a princess, and D Bar, her father’s outfit, was prosperous and freehanded. It was these small things and something else—a genuine sweetness in her speech, a character in her every movement, and a kind of shyness in her rare smite—that formed Dave’s respect. And this very respect bred a caution now as he watched her lean forward in her chair and, manlike, put her elbows on her knees and lace her fingers together.

  “Let’s get a lot of lumber out of the way, shall we, Dave?” she began. “First, you look like a bum and you were drunk like a saloon rowdy, and you’re indifferent to what anyone thinks of you—but you’re not a bum. I know
that, so you don’t have to pretend.”

  Dave crossed his legs uneasily, and a fleeting humor touched his face and he said nothing.

  “You’re the only one that’s stuck by Walt. Did you know Leach and Harvey quit Circle 66 today? Walt didn’t send them anywhere, like he told you. They quit.”

  Dave nodded, unsurprised.

  “You’re the only hand left. Why didn’t you leave?”

  “He helped me when I needed it.”

  Connie nodded imperceptibly. “That’s what I wanted to know.” She rose and walked slowly to the window that looked out on the veranda roof and the dark street. She stood there a moment, and then turned to Dave. “You’ve got to help me, Dave.”

  Dave didn’t speak.

  “Walt thinks Frank Ivey was bluffing when he said he would never let Walt take that stage tonight. Do you?”

  “No.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Dave shook his head slowly. “Nothing.”

  “You’ve got to.”

  Dave’s voice was almost irritable. “You don’t understand it. Walt says he’s going to bring sheep into a country. He says it in a saloon to a bunch of tough cattlemen. He tells them the day he’s going out to buy the sheep and he dares any one of them to stop him, and Frank Ivey says he will.” He paused, watching Connie. “The day comes to go out. He either goes or he doesn’t go. There’s nothing any man can do about that. The wrong is already done.”

  “What wrong? Sheep?”

  “No.” His voice became dry now and he still watched Connie. “If I wanted to bring sheep into a country I would bring them in. I would not dare a man to stop me. Neither,” he added bluntly, “would you.”

  “No,” Connie said softly. She came back to the table and regarded him, her eyes thoughtful. “What will happen? How many will there be?”

  “I saw a couple of D Bar horses downstreet. That means your Dad has given his men the sign?”

  “No,” Connie said immediately. “That’s Red Cates and Will Owen. They’ll stay clear.” She hesitated. “I told Dad if a D Bar man got in this trouble tonight, I would never set foot in his house again.”

  “Then Frank Ivey,” Dave said.

  “Alone?”

  Dave nodded and came to his feet, and Connie walked around the table to him. She stood close to him, looking up into his eyes. “Will you back Walt up?”

  “I work for him,” Dave said simply.

  He saw the swift relief mount in her eyes, and she stepped back. “Thank you, Dave.”

  He nodded to her and tramped over to the door and had his hand on the knob when Connie said quietly, “Dave.” He paused, and she stepped beyond the lamplight, so that her face was in darkness.

  “What if Walt does—take the stage? What if he brings in sheep?”

  Dave smiled narrowly. “He won’t have to bring them in. If he makes the stage tonight, he’ll own the Bench.”

  She didn’t say any more and Dave turned the knob. A sound in the street, faint but distinct, came to him, and he listened. It became clearer then, and he recognized the sound. It was the stage, pulling in from West Station at the end of its long haul through the Signal Breaks to the east. It would pass the hotel and pick up fresh teams at Joe Lilly’s, and then come back to the hotel for its passengers before it climbed the grade, crossed the Bench and moved on over the Federals.

  Connie Dickason heard it too; she went to the window to look out and Dave stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind him. Connie Dickason, he thought idly, was a tough girl. She had cut old Ben Dickason, her father, out of this fight tonight with an ultimatum that he could not accept. She had tried to give Walt Shipley courage by her very presence. And, finally, she had made sure of his own loyalty, had extracted his promise, which would not have been necessary, that he would back up her man. A woman could not do any more for a man except fight his battles for him, Dave thought, and he admired her.

  Going down the short stairs then, he knew that, whether he liked it or not, his own fate lay irrevocably for the next few minutes at the mercy of Walt Shipley’s unstable temper, and he accepted it tranquilly.

  For young Walt Shipley was hungry, and he couldn’t wait. He’d got Connie Dickason, so he’d have D Bar some day. But his own small spread edging into the rich grass of Signal Bench was not enough; he looked about him at the big outfits like D Bar and Frank Ivey’s Bell and he schemed, and all the time he did not see that the big outfits were only tolerating him because he was small. But because he was going to marry Ben Dickason’s girl he had demanded equality, and when it was refused, he had threatened to bring in sheep. It was his bid for a big chunk of the Bench, since sheep and cattle would not mix. No man who had heard him was his friend after that, and it had taken Frank Ivey to put their dislike into words. That was two weeks ago. Tonight, he must make good his brag, and Dave, like it or not, was backing him.

  The lobby seemed empty as he stepped down into it, but in the far shadows at the corner window he made out the stooped figure of the hotel clerk watching the street. Other people, behind other windows, were watching too, afraid and excited and safe.

  Stepping out into the gloom of the veranda then, he put his back against the wall and reached for his tobacco. A minute afterward, Walt Shipley crossed the side street and came up the hotel steps. He saw Dave in the darkness and grunted and went on in.

  Dave’s attention narrowed now, and he stepped up to the veranda railing and looked down the street. In the shadows of the sheriff’s dark office he saw a movement, and he knew this was Jim Crew biding his time, impersonal as death. A handful of men from the Special were drifting across the road to the deep black of some cottonwoods where there was a horse trough.

  His glance traveled upstreet now, and after long seconds of peering into that gloom, the shape of a man suddenly took form. He was standing at the end of the boardwalk where it petered out into the thick dust around the blacksmith shop, his shoulder against the corner of the building. His shape was blocky and implacable and somehow patient as an Indian’s. Frank Ivey was a man of his word.

  Dave faded back into the half-light of the veranda again, this time on the other side of the door, and finally touched a match to his cigarette.

  The stage, with its fresh teams, came out from Lilly’s, passed the side street and then drew up by the stepping block.

  The driver, primed by Joe Lilly’s gossip, glanced uneasily at the veranda and then, his foot on the brake, yelled, “Bice!”

  It could have been prearranged, but Dave thought not. At the mention of his name, the clerk scurried out the door and down the steps, Walt Shipley’s valise in his hand. He passed it wordlessly to the driver and scurried back up the steps and into the safety of the lobby. The whole action did not take fifteen seconds, and Dave smiled faintly around his cigarette.

  There was a bare moment of silence again, broken only by the stage team’s impatient jangling of their bit chains, and then the solid warning of Walt Shipley’s footsteps crossing the lobby.

  Dave moved a little away from the door, and Walt came out. He paused just outside the door and saw Dave and said softly, “All right,” and then they both saw Jim Crew at the same time. He was angling across from his office to the hotel at a leisurely pace.

  Walt watched Crew with still curiosity. He started to move, stopped, and then, his will sufficient, he went on and down the steps.

  At the same time Dave’s glance shuttled to the edge of the veranda upstreet.

  In less than a second, Frank Ivey’s blocky body moved out of the shadow toward the stage.

  Walt Shipley saw him and halted, and Ivey halted too. Ivey spoke, his voice toneless. “Made up your mind, sheepman?”

  Shipley stood in the middle of the broad boardwalk. By this time Jim Crew, walking slowly, was on the walk too, and he came up behind Walt and climbed the steps and turned and waited.

  “I’m going,” Walt said. His voice was not in its normal register; a kind of wildness mad
e it sing.

  “No,” Frank Ivey said.

  Dave moved away from the wall, and at the same time he flipped his cigarette away from him. It arced out onto the boardwalk and fell at Frank Ivey’s feet, a plain warning of Dave’s presence. Frank Ivey said, “I see you, Drunk,” and he turned his head, tilting it up a little to see Dave, and a brief dim light from the lobby touched it. It was a cold square face and might have been blocked out of granite, and the arrogance of its full jowls and broad, thin-lipped mouth was regal. The gesture of looking at Dave held a magnificent contempt, as if what Walt Shipley might do when Ivey’s attention was diverted was not worth consideration. The man, Dave thought narrowly, did not know fear.

  Placidly, almost, Ivey turned his head to regard Walt again. His massive shoulders moved a little under his black coat, and he did not speak. The silence ribboned on, until it was almost unbearable, and Dave knew swiftly that it would have to break soon.

  And then Walt Shipley said, in hot anger, “Listen, Frank! You ain’t God! You can’t keep a man off a stage!”

  Dave felt a slow sick shame flood over him. It was over. Walt was not going, and those hot, angry words held a sentence he would never escape as long as he lived.

  Frank Ivey knew it was over, too; he said calmly to the stage driver, “Throw down his valise, Harry. He ain’t goin’.”

  Jim Crew turned away then and went down the walk and out into the road. He, too, knew it was over. The driver, as if waiting for Jim Crew to pull out, tossed Walt’s bag to the boardwalk. He hesitated for one brief second, then kicked off his brake and whistled shrilly to his horses, and the stage pulled away toward the grade.