Nevada (1995)

by Grey, Zane

  "It shore is terrible," responded Nevada, gloomily. "I can understand a man learnin' to throw a gun quick for self-defense.

  Shore that was my own excuse. But for the sake of killin'! Reckon I don't know what to call that."

  During the hour Mrs. Wood, who had a gift for learning and dispensing information of all sort, acquainted Nevada with all that had happened in Lineville since his departure. She did not confine herself to the affairs of the outlaw element who made of Lineville a rendezvous. The few children Nevada had known and played with, the new babies that had arrived in the interim, the addition of several more families to the community, the talk of having a school, and the possibilities of a post office eventually--these things she discussed in detail, with a pleasure and satisfaction that had been absent in her gossip about Lineville's hard characters.

  But it was that gossip which lingered in Nevada's mind. Later when he went into his little room he performed an act almost unconsciously. It was an act he had repeated a thousand times in such privacy as was his on the moment, but not of late. The act of drawing his gun! There it was, as if by magic, level, low down in his clutching hand. Sight of it so gave Nevada a grim surprise.

  How thoughtlessly and naturally the fact had come to pass! And Nevada pondered over the singular action. Why had he done that?

  What was it significant of? He sheathed the long blue gun.

  "Reckon Mrs. Wood's talk about Cawthorne an' the rest of that outfit accounts for me throwin' my gun," he muttered to himself.

  "Funny. . . . No--not so damn funny, after all."

  He had returned to an environment where proficiency with a gun was the law. Self-preservation was the only law among those lawless men with whom misfortune had thrown him. He could not avoid them without incurring their hatred and distrust. He must mingle with them as in the past, though it seemed his whole nature had changed.

  And mingling with these outlaws was never free from risk. The unexpected always happened. There were always newcomers, always drunken ruffians, always some would-be killer like Cawthorne, who yearned for fame among his evil kind. There must now always be the chance of some friend or ally of Setter, who would draw on him at sight. Lastly, owing to the reputation he had attained and hated, there was always the possibility of meeting such a gunman as Mrs.

  Wood had spoken of--that strange product of frontier life, the victim of his own blood lust, who would want to kill him solely because of his reputation.

  Nevada was not in love with life, yet he felt a tremendous antagonism toward men who would wantonly destroy him.

  "Reckon I'd better forget my dreamin' heah," he soliloquized. "An' when I'm out be like I used to be. Shore it goes against the grain. I'm two men in one--Nevada an' Jim Lacy. . . . Reckon Jim better take a hunch."

  Whereupon he deliberately set about ascertaining just how much of his old incomparable swiftness on the draw remained with him after the long lack of exercise. During more than one period of his career he had practiced drawing his gun until he had worn the skin of his hand to the quick, and then to callousness.

  The thing had become a habit for his private hours, wherever he might be.

  "Slower'n molasses, as Ben used to say aboot me," he muttered.

  "But I've the feel, an' I can get it all back."

  The leather holster on his belt was hard and stiff. He oiled it and worked it soft with strong hands. The little room, which had only one window, began to grow dark as the short afternoon waned.

  It was still daylight, however, when Nevada went out, to walk leisurely down the road into town. How well he remembered the wide bare street, with its lines of deserted and old buildings, many falling to ruin, and the high board fronts where the painted signs had been so obliterated by weathering that they were no longer decipherable! He came at length to the narrow block where there were a few horses and vehicles along the hitching-rails, and people passing to and fro. There were several stores and shops, a saloon, and a restaurant, that appeared precisely as they had always been.

  A Chinaman, standing in a doorway, stared keenly at Nevada. His little black eyes showed recognition. Then Nevada arrived at a corner store, where he entered.

  The place had the smell of general merchandise, groceries, and tobacco combined. To Jones' credit, he had never sold liquor.

  There was a boy clerk waiting on a woman customer, and Jones, a long lanky Westerner, who had seen range days himself.

  "Howdy, Mr. Jones!" said Nevada, stepping forward.

  "Howdy yourself, stranger!" replied the storekeeper. "You got the best of me."

  "Wal, it's a little dark in heah or your eyes are failin'," returned Nevada, with a grin.

  Whereupon the other took a stride and bent over to peer into Nevada's face.

  "I'm a son-of-a-gun," he declared. "Jim Lacy! Back in Lineville!

  I've seen fellers come back I liked less."

  He shook hands heartily with Nevada. "Where you been, boy? You sure look well an' fine to me."

  "Oh, I've been all over, knockin' aboot, lookin' for a job," drawled Nevada, easily.

  "An' you come back to Lineville in winter, lookin' for a job?" laughed Jones.

  "Shore," drawled Nevada.

  "Jim, I'll bet if I offered you work you'd shy like a colt. Fact is, though, I could do it. I'm not doin' so bad here. There's a lumber company cuttin' up in the foothills. It's a long haul to Salisbar, but they pass through here. Heard about Salisbar?"

  "Yes. Reckon I'll have to take a look at it. How far away?"

  "Eighty miles or so," returned Jones. "Some miners struck it rich, an' that started Salisbar off as a minin' town. But it's growin' otherwise. Besides mineral, there are timber an' water, some good farmland, an' miles of grazin'. All this is wakin' Lineville up.

  There's business goin' on an' more comin'."

  "Shore I'm glad, Mr. Jones," said Nevada. "Lineville has some good people I'd like to see prosper."

  From the store Nevada dropped into a couple of places, where he renewed acquaintance with men who were glad to see him; and then he crossed to the other side of the wide street and went down to the Gold Mine. Dark had fallen and lamps were being lighted. The front of the wide two-story structure appeared quite plain and business-like, deceiving to the traveler. It looked like a respectable hotel. But the Gold Mine was a tavern for the outlaw elect, a gambling hell and a drinking dive that could not have been equaled short of the Mexican border.

  Nevada turned the corner to take the side entrance, which led into the long dingily-lighted barroom. A half-dozen men stood drinking and talking at the bar. They noted Nevada's entrance, but did not recognize him, nor did he them. The bartender, too, was strange to Nevada. A wide portal, with curtain of strung beads, opened into a larger room, which was almost sumptuously furnished for such a remote settlement as Lineville. The red hangings were new to Nevada, and some of the furniture. He remembered the gaudy and obscene pictures on the wall, and the card and roulette tables, and particularly the large open fireplace, where some billets of wood burned ruddily. Six men sat around one table, and of those whose faces were visible to Nevada he recognized only one, that of a gambler called Ace Black. His cold eyes glinted on Nevada, then returned to his game.

  Nevada took the seat on the far side of the fire, where he could see both entrances to the large room. At the moment there was something akin to bitter revolt at the fact of his presence there.

  Certainly no one had driven him. No logical reason existed for his visiting the Gold Mine. He would never drink again; he had but little money to gamble with, even had he been so inclined; he rather felt repugnance at the thought of seeing Lize Teller, or any other girl likely to come in. But something restless and keen within him accounted for his desire to meet old acquaintances there. Trying to analyze and understand it, Nevada got to the point of dismay. Foremost of all was a significant motive--he did not care to have Cash Burridge or his followers, especially Link Cawthorne, or anyone ever associated with Setter
, think he would avoid them. Yet that was exactly what Nevada wanted to do. The mocking thing about it was the certainty that some kind of conflict would surely result. He could not avoid this. Deep in him was a feeling that belied his reluctance. Could it be a rebirth of old recklessness? He would have to fight that as something untrue to Hettie Ide. And as a wave of sweet and bitter emotion went over him, a musical rattling of the beaded-curtain door attracted his attention.

  A girl entered. She had a pale face, and very large black eyes that seemed to blaze at Nevada.

  Chapter three.

  She came slowly toward him, with the undulating movement of her lissome form that he remembered even better than her tragic face.

  Life had evidently been harsher than ever to Lize Teller.

  Nevada rose and, doffing his sombrero, shook hands with her.

  "Jim Lacy!" she ejaculated, with stress of feeling that seemed neither regret nor gladness.

  "Howdy, Lize!" drawled Nevada. "Reckon you're sort of surprised to see me heah."

  "Surprised? Yes. I thought you had more sense," she returned.

  "Wal, now Lize, that's not kind of you," he said, somewhat taken back. "An' I reckon I just don't get your hunch."

  "Sit down, Jim," she rejoined, and as he complied she seated herself on the arm of his chair and leaned close. "I've been looking for you all afternoon. Lorenzo saw you ride in and stop at Mrs. Wood's."

  "Ahuh! Wal, no wonder you wasn't surprised."

  "But I am, Jim. Surprised at your nerve and more surprised at the look of you. What's happened? You've improved so I don't know you."

  She leaned against him with the old coquetry that was a part of her and which Nevada had once found pleasing, though he had never encouraged it.

  "Thanks, Lize. Wal, there was shore room for improvement. Nothin' much happened, except I've been workin' an' I quit the bottle."

  "That's a lot, Jim, and I'm downright glad. I'll fall in love with you all over again."

  "Please don't, Lize," he laughed. "I've quit throwin' guns, too.

  An' I reckon it'd be unhealthy for me, if you did."

  "Probably will be, boy. You sure have me guessing," she replied, and she smoothed his hair and his scarf, while she gazed at him with deep, burning, inquisitive eyes. "But don't try to lie to me about your gun tricks, sonny. You forget I'm the only one around Lineville who had you figured."

  "Lize, I don't know as I remember that," he said, dubiously. He found she embarrassed him less than in former times. He had always feared Lize's overtures. But that dread was gone.

  "Jim, you forget easily," she rejoined, with a touch of bitterness.

  "But God knows there was no reason for you to remember ME. It was natural for me to miss you. For you were the only decent man I knew. But you treated me like you were a brother. And that made me hate you."

  "Lize, you didn't hate me," he said. "That was temper. Maybe you got a little miffed because you couldn't make a fool of me like you did the others. Shore I cain't believe you'd be mean enough to hate me."

  "Jim, you don't know women," she replied, bitterly. "I can do anything. . . . Where'd you say you'd been--workin'--all this long while?"

  "Wal, now, Lize, I don't recollect sayin'," he drawled. "Shore never liked to talk aboot myself. What have you been doin'?"

  "Me! Aw, hell! Can't you see? If I live another year I'll be in the street. . . . I hate this damned life, Jim. But what can I do? . . . Of course Mrs. Wood told you all she knew about me."

  "Wal, she told me--some," replied Nevada, hesitatingly. "Wish I'd been heah when you made such a darn fool of yourself.

  "I wish to God you had," she flashed, with terrible passion.

  "You'd have shot Cash Burridge. He double-crossed me, Jim. Oh, I know I'm no good, but I'm honest. Cash actually made me believe HE would marry me. I told Holder I was not a good girl. He seemed willing to take me, anyhow. But Cash told him a lot of vile lies about me, and it fell through. . . . I'm working here at the Gold Mine now--everything from bookkeeper to bartender."

  "Lize, I heah you're thick with Link Cawthorne," said Nevada.

  "Bah! You can call it thick, if you like," she returned, scornfully. "But I call it thin. He's a jealous tight-fisted brag. He's as mean as a coyote. I was half drunk, I guess, when I took up with him. And now he thinks he owns me."

  "Wal, Lize, wouldn't it be interestin' for me right now--if Link happened in?" drawled Nevada.

  "Ha! Ha! More so for me, Jim," she trilled. "I'll give him something to be jealous about. But Link could never be interesting to you. He's a bluff."

  "All the same, Lize, if you'll excuse me I'll stand up an' let you have the chair," replied Nevada, coolly, as he extricated himself and arose.

  She swore her amaze. "What the devil's come over you, Jim Lacy?" she demanded. "Why, two years ago, if Link Cawthorne had come roaring in here with two guns you'd have laughed and turned your back."

  "Two years ago! Lize, I've learned a lot in that long time."

  With sudden change of manner and lowering of voice she queried, sharply, "Jim, did you kill Less Setter?"

  Nevada had braced himself for anything from this girl, so at the point-blank question he did not betray himself.

  "Setter! . . . Is he daid?"

  "Yes, he's daid," she replied, flippantly mimicking his Southern accent. "And a damn good thing. . . . Jim Lacy, I lay that to you."

  "Wal, Lize, I cain't stop the wonderin's of your mind, but you're shore takin' a lot upon yourself," he returned, coldly.

  She caught his hand.

  "Jim, I didn't mean to offend," she said, hastily. "I remember you were queer about--you know--when you'd had some gunplay."

  "Ahuh? Wal, there's no offense. Reckon I'm sort of hurt that you accuse me."

  "Jim, I notice you don't DENY it," she retorted, with her brilliant searching eyes on him. "But listen. Only a few people in Lineville have heard Setter is dead. You know how we keep mum about that sort of thing. I heard it from a chance traveler who stayed here overnight. Setter had been shot by a wild-horse hunter over in California. That was all. That reminded me of something else. Last summer Steve Elkins saw you in a saloon in Hammell. He used to come through here occasionally and he'd seen you. So when I remembered that, I remembered you had a grudge on Setter, also that you loved wild-horse hunting, and I put two and two together and figured YOU had done for Setter. But I've never mentioned my suspicions to anyone. I'm not sure, but I don't believe anyone here has connected you with that little gunplay. Cash Burridge was glad enough to hear the news, you can bet. He had been sent to Arizona by Setter on some deal only the two of them were in. Cash had a roll of money big enough to stop up a stovepipe. He went to Arizona. And he never saw Setter again. That I know, for he told me so. Well, he didn't tell me how he'd benefited by Setter's death. I figured that, too."

  "Lize, you're shore a clever girl," said Nevada, admiringly.

  "Reckon you hit most deals right on the haid. But shore I'd rather you didn't give me credit for removin' so many undesirable citizens from the world. You used to do that. I'm not Billy the Kid, or Plummer, or Wess Hardin."

  "Have it your own way, Jim," she returned, with a sly laugh. "And now for what I was coming to. Did you ever hear of Hardy Rue?"

  "Wal, yes, somewhere or other that name struck me. Never saw the man, though."

  "He wasn't here during your time. But he's here now, and he's the man for you to watch. I think he was Setter's right hand man and came to Lineville to check up on Cash Burridge. They don't get along. I'd say Rue is a dangerous man. Deep sort of chap, seldom talks, never drinks, hates women, and has an eye like a hawk.

  He's . . . Hello! Somebody calling me. I forgot I have to work.

  I'll see you later. You bet I want to be around when Link strolls in."

  She ran from the room, leaving Nevada with plenty to think about.

  Yet he was considerably relieved that his name had not been openly used in connection with Setter's de
ath. That would have made his position less secure in Lineville. Not that security in this border town was possible for him or any other of its desperate men!

  Gradually the gaming tables filled up. More than one keen-eyed player gave Nevada a curt nod of recognition. Probably everybody in Lineville now knew of his return. There was nothing unusual about that. All of these men were absent now and then. Nevada felt that he labored with an unreasonable desire to be somebody else, thus to avoid the complications sure to be woven around the name Jim Lacy.

  He was approached presently by two newcomers, one of whom, a little alert man, no longer young, with a face like that of a weasel, and eyes that had a trick of opening and shutting quickly, he recognized as Blink Miller.

  "Howdy, Blink!" he replied to the other's greeting.

  "You're lookin' fust-rate, Lacy," replied Miller. "Shake hands with my friend, Hardy Rue."

  Nevada found himself under the surveillance of a quiet, penetrating gray gaze. This man Rue was matured, a stalwart type of miner rather than the rangy rider. He had a hard lined face, with prominent chin and set thin lips.

  "Care to drink with me, Lacy?" he inquired.

  "No, thanks," replied Nevada. "Reckon I'm not fixed to buy drinks, so I'm not acceptin' any."

  "Ain't you grown awful particular since you've been away so long?" queried Miller, with a smile.

  "Wal, Blink, come to think aboot it, I have," drawled Nevada, with all his old cool carelessness. "Particular aboot not owin' anybody favors an' particular aboot who I drink with."

  Nevada, despite his calculations beforehand, could not help giving that tart answer. If it was anything it was an instinct of antagonism, quick to grasp antagonism in others.

  Miller blinked at Nevada. "Reckon that's particular nice of you, Lacy. Nobody wants to buy drinks for a feller who's broke."