by Short, Luke;
Slowly, he put both hands on top of the feedbox so that his movement could not be misread, and he said, “Bill, I got no fight with you about last night or anything else. Now quit it, will you?”
Bill came up to him, and his face was tight and wicked as he said, “I’m goin’ to kick your face, Ed. So help me.”
Ed’s hands remained on the feedbox and he knew with a cold and dismal feeling of fear that if he lifted them off it, he was a dead man. “Some other time, Bill,” he said quietly.
Bill was holding the cigar in his left hand. Now he took it and jammed the lighted end down on Ed’s hand. Ed pulled back his hand instinctively, and in that second he knew his time was up. In the same movement he wheeled away from the feedbox, his hand streaking for his gun.
It was quick, desperate, and it had caught Bill off guard. He dropped behind the corner of the feedbox. With his gun clear and Bill out of sight, Ed wheeled and laid a shot at George, and got an answering one on the heel of his own.
And then Bill rose. Ed saw him, and tried to pull his gun around, and was too late. Bill shot.
Ed slammed against the wall of the tall, and rolled off it and fell heavily in the dust of the floor on his face. Bill came over to him and rolled him halfway over and, seeing his face, let him roll back.
He wheeled now, and looked at Pokey and George, who still held the gun. The three of them regarded one another for a brief moment, and then Bill said quietly, “Pokey, take your gun and drift. George’ll have a bottle for you tonight.”
The breed accepted the gun with a stolid face and headed for the back door of the barn. Already there was the sound of men running toward the barn from the saloon.
“Pokey,” Bill said.
The breed paused.
“You never saw this. You weren’t even around. Remember?”
The breed nodded and slipped out the back door of the barn, and again Bill looked at George. He did not have to say anything to George, nor George to him. The promise of whiskey ensured Pokey’s silence; of each other, they were sure.
They were both standing beside Burma when the first of the saloon crowd reached them.
Bill looked them over and did not speak. A couple of them moved toward Burma, and George observed wryly, “He got it in the face,” and they stopped, not wanting to see it.
They were standing this way, mute, when Connie, breathless from her run, came up with several more men and saw Burma lying there. A small cry escaped her, and she looked swiftly up at Bill, dismay in her face.
“Ask George,” Bill said quietly. He glanced over at George. “Tell her. Go ahead.”
George looked around at the men, eyeing each of them, and his glance moved to Connie.
“He jumped Bill and got in two shoots before Bill pulled on him. I saw it.”
9
Night came in the timber suddenly, and with it a whole new life seemed to waken. Close to where the trail dropped into the foothills, Dave jumped a pair of deer and paused and listened to the sound of their passage, the faint jarring of the earth through the deep humus of the pines, die silently away in the night. A pair of owls called back and forth, and far off in the foothills a coyote lifted his chattering cry. He went on, then, and was presently in the foothills, where the rocks still held a little of the day’s heat.
He could think of Connie’s news now and know he was right. Ivey wanted nothing better than to have 66 strike back blindly in revenge for Curley’s beating, for that would bring open war, with Crew behind him and his hands twice outnumbering Connie’s. He thought of Jim Crew then, and again tried to read the man. Crew, he believed, did not like Ivey, but he would not let that influence him. Crew was old and he was tired, and his passions were spent. He wanted to be left alone, and he would deal his law out of the book, never surprised at the folly of man. But there must come a time when he could no longer be neutral, when he must punish someone. And once he was sure of his ground, he would be merciless as a wolf.
The lights of a homesteader shack moved slowly past him to the north, and as he leveled off onto the flats he heard the long baying of some ranch dog. He wondered again with a persistent speculation if Curley’s beating would pull Crew off the fence, and again he doubted it. But in passing up the chance to even the score with Ed Burma, he was making Connie’s case clean as possible. And thinking of Burma, he thought of Connie. He had been rough with her, because this was important to him. The thought of squaring accounts with Ivey by beating up his foreman was personally distasteful to him, but he did not blame Connie or Bill for their passion. It was that very fire in them both that he liked. In Connie, it was an endearing wildness that was tempered by her sweetness. She was, he thought, a strange and willful girl that he almost understood.
He dropped down into Signal in midevening, and its afterdark somnolence seemed unchanged. Bondurant’s store was still open, and there was a scattering of saddle horses in front of the Special. Jim Crew’s office was dark, so he passed it and went on to Rose’s. He dismounted behind her place and knocked on the door, and presently it was opened to him by Rose.
Her greeting was quiet, and when she stepped aside for him, he saw Jim Crew sitting at the dining table. At another chair sat an elderly man, a black satchel beside him, and Dave supposed this was the doctor and he looked questioningly at Rose.
“We brought Curley here,” she said, and as she took Dave’s hat she looked briefly into his face. “This is Doctor Parkinson. Dave Nash.”
Doctor Parkinson had a round, merry face that did not like sobriety. Always, he seemed eager to smile, and he did now as he rose and shook hands with Dave.
Jim Crew nodded wearily, and he too looked searchingly at Dave.
“Curley one of your men?” Doctor Parkinson asked, and when Dave nodded, the doctor’s face became genuinely grave.
“Well, there’s no more I can do tonight. I’ll set the nose tomorrow, since I don’t dare risk it tonight.”
“How bad is he?” Dave asked.
Doctor Parkinson shrugged. “He’s alive. I don’t believe he’ll ever see again, though.” He hesitated. “Was he dragged by a horse?”
“No,” Dave said, and went into Rose’s room. Curley was under the covers, and when Dave looked at his face a sick rage came over him. He heard the doctor and Jim Crew saying good night to Rose, heard the door shut, and he stood motionless, still looking at Curley, thinking, I’m going to kill a man.
Rose came in and adjusted the window, and Dave went back into the kitchen. She came out presently, and pulled the curtains behind her and passed in front of him to the stove. Suddenly, he heard her sobs, quiet, muffled as she tried to stop them.
Dave went over to her, and she turned away from him, and presently she said, “It’s all right, Dave. Somebody has to cry for him, I guess.”
Dave went over to the table and slacked into a chair and looked dully at the base of the lamp. “Who’s this Virg Lea?” he asked presently, when Rose was silent.
“I don’t know,” Rose said. She came up beside him and said, “Want some coffee, Dave?”
“Sure,” Dave said idly.
He waited until she had put the cup and saucer beside him and sat down at the table, and Dave glanced over at her. Her face was sad, and behind the sadness was a still quiet anger that he had never seen there before.
“They all come to you, don’t they?” Dave murmured.
Rose smiled fleetingly and said nothing, and Dave rose and took a turn around the kitchen and then halted behind her chair. He put both hands on it and spoke softly to the back of her head. “I’ll get him, Rose. I’d like to give him what he gave Curley, but I won’t. I’ll just get him.”
Rose nodded once, slowly. Again Dave circled the kitchen on his restless prowl. He stopped once by the stove and looked idly into the coffeepot and then came back to the table and stood where he could see Rose’s face.
“What kind of a man is Ben Dickason, Rose?” he asked slowly.
Rose hesitated a moment before she spoke. “A
bullhead, Dave. That’s the worst you can say of him.” She watched him a moment, and then said quietly, “He’s in town.”
Dave’s glance lifted quickly, and he was motionless a moment, and then went over to where his hat hung, took it, and stepped outside into the night.
He walked down to the Special, and looked over the opaque lower half of its windows and saw Ben Dickason sitting at one of the rear tables with Red Cates. A couple of homesteaders were at the bar talking with Burch Nellis as Dave stepped in.
He nodded to Burch and made his way back to Ben Dickason’s table. Red Cates, he noticed, had a thick and very white bandage across his nose, and at sight of Dave he put both hands on the table and waited, his eyes hard and hating. Ben Dickason had been drinking; the flush on his cheeks was like a stain, but his eyes were steady and watchful and only faintly truculent as they followed Dave’s progress up to the table.
Dave nodded to him and said, “Busy, Ben?”
“Not at all,” Ben said in a low voice.
“I’ve got something to show you,” Dave said. “Come along.”
“I don’t want to see it,” Ben said slowly.
“Afraid to, Ben?” Dave murmured. “Connie wasn’t.”
He saw Ben’s jaw thrust out a little in demurrance, and he waited, not moving. Ben looked at Red, and Red shrugged, and Ben sat a moment longer in sullen indecision before he came to his feet.
Red rose too, and Dave said quietly, “Not you,” and stepped aside for Ben to pass him. He did not look at Red again, and Ben did not choose to insist on Red’s presence.
Ben tramped out of the Special, Dave at his heels, and on the walk Dave fell in beside him. Ben apparently knew what he was going to see, for he cut across the vacant lot to Rose’s back door without any prompting.
Dave didn’t knock this time, only palmed the door open and stepped aside for Ben. Rose was at the stove, and at sight of Ben she nodded pleasantly, and Ben said in his grave, courteous voice, “Evening, Rose.” He looked around him curiously, and then his inquiring glance settled on Dave.
“In there,” Dave said, nodding toward Rose’s room.
Dave made no move to go in with him, and Ben went in alone and afterwards it was very still. When he came out, after a long time, his face was sick, and he looked immediately at Rose, as if to ask if the man was alive.
Rose watched him, and so did Dave now, and Ben shuttled his glance to Dave, who was leaning against the wall. Ben reached in his pocket for a cigar, and when he had it he glanced down at it and studied it, as if he had never noticed the shape and feel of one before.
Slowly, then, he put it back in his pocket and said in a low, tired voice, “So Connie saw that?”
“She dragged him into the house and doctored him.”
“Where—” Ben began, and he paused and shook his head and cleared his throat. “Where are his eyes?”
“Doc Parkinson said he didn’t think he’d see again,” Rose said.
Dave murmured, “He was kicked,” and watched Ben accept that, saw the stirring of revulsion within him.
Ben said tiredly then, “What do you want of me, Nash?”
“Nothing. You can go back to Frank now.”
Ben winced then, and protest mounted in his tired face. He went over to the sofa and sat on it, and leaned forward, his fingers laced together, and studied the pattern of the worn carpet.
“Why didn’t Frank shoot him?” he asked finally, not looking up.
“He leaves the shooting to D Bar, especially if there’s a woman to shoot at,” Dave said.
Ben’s head came up with a jerk. “A woman?”
“Connie was there while her crew was tradin’ shots with yours.”
Ben’s face paled, and he said in a shaken voice, “Nobody told me that.”
“Nobody figured you cared,” Dave said mildly. “You’re runnin’ with Frank Ivey, now.”
Slowly, Ben leaned against the back of the couch, his chin sunken against his chest. He watched Rose and Dave both now, his eyes somber and steady with the shock of what he knew.
Rose said at last, “You do care, Ben. You’re not that kind of man.”
Ben said quietly, “Thank you, my dear,” and he turned his glance upon Dave. “What’s got into Connie? Do you know?”
“She’s got pride,” Dave said narrowly. “You broke her man in front of her.”
“So she tried to ruin me.”
Rose said, “I would in her place,” and she came away from the stove, crossing the room to stand in front of Ben. “You don’t know a woman’s heart, Ben, or you’d never have let Frank do that.”
“But he was trash,” Ben protested grimly.
“And what is Frank Ivey?”
Ben’s protest died in his throat, and Rose went on quietly, “Trash or not, Ben, it was Connie’s right to find out for herself.”
Ben’s chin sank to his chest again, and he slowly stroked the worn leather of the sofa. Dave knew that this decision was coming hard to Ben Dickason, as it would come to any proud and loyal man. But the deep, sighing breath of Curley Fanstock in the next room seemed to creep in here now, as if reminding Ben of his choice, prodding his decision.
Ben rose after a while, and reached for his hat and said, “I’ll pull my crew off 66. Send Connie to me, will you?” and tramped toward the door. Dave knew then that he had pried Ben away from Frank.
Ben halted short of the door, and wheeled to face Dave. “I get her side of this. I don’t get yours,” he said slowly. “You after Connie?”
Dave pushed away from the wall and said, “You better go, Ben,” and Ben, after waiting a puzzled moment, stepped outside.
Dave glanced over at Rose, then, and said, “That leaves Frank,” and only afterwards did he notice the expression on Rose’s face. It was one of strangeness, as if Ben Dickason’s question had suggested something to Rose that had not occurred to her before, and for a brief puzzled second she was considering it. And then the expression was gone, and Dave heard her say, “Yes, only Frank,” and it came to him that he had never told Rose why he had changed his mind that morning. For that matter, he had never thought of it himself. He watched Rose go into Curley’s room, and drew out his tobacco and fashioned a cigarette and asked himself the question.
Rose came out presently and found him sitting on the sofa. She went over to the cabinet and took out some linen, some silver, a cup and saucer and arranged them on the table in readiness for breakfast, and Dave watched her sure deft movements, the soft curve of her arms as she worked at this homely task. When she moved between the lamp and himself, her thick golden hair seemed to light up with a momentary glow from the lamplight.
Rose said quietly, “I’ll have my dress done soon,” and when Dave did not answer, she halted and looked at him. He was watching her intently, not seeing her either.
Rose raised her hand and snapped her fingers sharply, and Dave’s eyes came into focus and he smiled faintly in answer to her smile, and tossed his cigarette in the saucer on the table.
“I was thinking of what Ben said,” he murmured.
Rose was suddenly intent on arranging the silver, and she said, “Were you?”
“It was seeing Ivey break Walt Shipley there in front of the hotel and thinking, ‘He’d never do that to me.’”
“And then he tried,” Rose said, and she turned to regard him. “Is that why you stuck after Walt left?”
“That’s why,” Dave said. He missed the inflection of her voice as she asked the question, the undertone of happiness. He rose and got his hat and said, “I’ve got to see Jim.”
Rose went to the door with him, and Dave said good night. Rose watched his tall shape fade into the night, heard the squeak of leather as he stepped into the saddle, and she waved.
Afterward, she shut the door and stood there, her hand still on the knob. A faint, wise smile was on her lips then, and when she turned to cross the room, she began to hum softly. He hadn’t stayed for Connie’s sake, then, and Rose fou
nd herself oddly happy.
Dave rode over to Crew’s office. It was dark inside, but the door was open, and Dave sat in the saddle a moment speculating. He dismounted and crossed the boardwalk and stepped inside. He saw a shape move by the desk and Jim Crew said, “I wondered if you’d come.”
Crew struck a match and lighted the bracket lamp on the wall over his desk, and gestured toward the chair beside his desk. His coat was off and his arms through his shirt sleeves looked thin and deceptively frail as he tossed Dave his sack of tobacco. Dave made a cigarette and returned the sack to Crew, who was tilted back in his chair, regarding the open doorway.
“What do you do now?” Crew said.
“I came to ask you that.”
Crew said bitterly, “I can arrest Virg Lea and get him time in the pen. That satisfy you?”
“No.”
“I’ll kick Ben off 66.”
“He’s off.”
Crew spread his thin hands and let them drop to his knees. “You don’t want to talk to me.”
Dave studied the end of his cigarette. “They’ll be packin’ Virg Lea’s body in to you some day soon.”
“Naturally,” Crew said dryly.
“What’ll you do about that?”
“Nothin’.”
The two of them exchanged an understanding look, and then Jim Crew murmured, “It’s the ones they tote in afterward I’ll get curious about.”
“How curious?”
“Real curious,” Crew drawled. “I’ll earn my pay.”
“I never doubted that,” Dave said soberly. He came to his feet and went almost to the door and threw his cigarette out into the night and said idly, “I’m short a hand, Jim,” and glanced over at Crew.
Crew smiled thinly and said, “Considering my age, that’s a compliment.”
Dave grinned too. “I’m not buyin’ a horse. I won’t look at your teeth.”
Crew almost laughed then, and he shook his head slowly. “Not yet, son.” He was silent a long moment, and then said carelessly, “I don’t like your crew, Dave.”
“I don’t either.”
“You better tell ’em,” Crew said, “that I’m playin’ this one by the book. They better believe it.”
