by Les Weil
Ma said, "Art, you read too many books," to him, and began to dig into young Greene, calling him son, and acting as if what he thought was just as important as what he knew. At that she boiled it down better than anybody else had. Kinkaid had been killed way down in the southwest corner of the valley, eight miles below the ranch. They didn't know just when, but it must have been noon or earlier, because a couple of the riders had picked up his horse clear over by the ranch road, and at about two o'clock had found Kinkaid lying on his back in the sun in a dry wash over under the mountains. Greene didn't know if there were any more cattle gone; they hadn't been able to distinguish the rustlers' tracks. Too many cattle had been working over the range there, and there were still a lot of horses' prints from the roundup. She kept him toned down except on that one thing, that Kinkaid had been shot through the head. That was the one thing he seemed to have clear without question. He had kept on saying that to the men too. It impressed him that Kinkaid had been shot through the head, as if he could feel it more, as if he would have felt better if Kinkaid had been shot in the belly or in the back, or anywhere but in the head. When Ma asked him, he admitted that he hadn't seen Kinkaid, but that the man who told him had. No, he hadn't seen the sheriff down there; it must have been three o'clock before they sent him to Bridger's and he hadn't seen the sheriff all day.
Ma said to Davies, "I guess we're goin', Art; as quick as Bartlett gets here."
Somebody said, "He's comin' now."
The men who weren't mounted climbed up, Gi1 and I with them. Only Davies and Osgood and Joyce were left standing on the walk, and Canby on the steps. Sparks was back too, on an old and sick-looking horse with a wheat sack for a saddle.
Davies said to Ma, "At least wait for Judge Tyler. He's coming. I sent word for him." He sounded stubborn and defeated now, nearly as bad as Osgood. Riders looked at him contemptuously, and some started to tell him off, but Ma made them grin at him instead.
"Art, you're gettin' worse every day," she said. "First you let the reverend there give you prayin' faith, and then you let Tyler argue you into drummin' up business for him. It's them books, Art, them books. You better lay off them."
And then, "Not the reverend and you and Tyler. I couldn't stand it, Art. I'm only a woman, and I'm gettin' on toward my time." The men laughed.
Bartlett came up at a lope, his son Carl, the blond one, with him. The other one, Nate, was dark, but that was the only difference between them. They were both tall, thin, silent and mean. I wondered if Nate had got too drunk to sit in a saddle, the way he did, and they'd had to leave him. Carl stayed behind his father, away from the men, and after the first glance didn't look at them.
"Carl was riding," Bartlett explained. "We had to get him in."
"Tetley not here?" he asked, looking around. And then, louder, "We'll have to wait for Tetley. Nate's gone for "
"What do we need with God-Almighty-Tetley," Winder said. But he didn't say it loudly; if I hadn't been right next to him, I wouldn't have heard it at all. All the men were uneasy, but not loud. They were irritated at the further delay, but they were quiet about it, nearly sullen.
It was news if Tetley was coming. It would make a difference; even Ma was afraid of Tetley. Excepting Drew, Tetley was the biggest man in the valley, and he'd been there a lot longer than Drew, the first big rancher in the valley, coming there the year after the Civil War. On the west edge of town he'd built a white, wooden mansion, with pillars like a Southern plantation home, and big grounds around it, fenced with white picket fence. The lawns were always cut, and there were shrubbery and flower beds, a stone fountain where birds drank, and benches set about under the trees. Tetley was like his house, quiet and fenced away; something we never felt natural with, but didn't deride either. Except for the servants, he had only his son Gerald living with him now, and they didn't get on. Tetley had been a Confederate cavalry officer, and the son of a slave owner, and he had that kind of a code, and a sharp, quiet head for management. Gerald was always half sick, kept to himself and the big library as much as his father would let him, hated the ranching life and despised yet feared the kind of men Tetley had to deal with now. Things had been better between them before Mrs. Tetley had died; she had acted as a go-between, and even as a shield for Gerald, and had been such a charming little thing herself, beautiful, intense and cheerful, yet gentle, that nothing could be very unpleasant around her. But when she died each of them had become only more what he was. People who had been there said the house was like it never had the dustcovers off the furniture now, and Tetley, though he wouldn't tolerate a word about the boy from anyone else, was himself ashamed of him, and a hard master. Sparks, who worked there quite often, had said once, when he was more off his guard than usual, that he had seen things between them that made him sure Tetley would have killed the boy if he hadn't looked so much like his mother. He did, too, as much as a sullen, sick boy can look like a woman with all her spirit and knack for being happy.
It looked like Bartlett thought he had talked himself into something when he had to get Tetley. I knew that if Tetley came he'd take over. Wherever he came things always quieted down, and nothing sounded important except what Tetley had to say. Partly, I think, that was because nothing else seemed important to Tetley either. A man so sure of himself can always sound important if he isn't a windbag, and Tetley was no windbag. He didn't talk often, and usually it was short then. When you happened to meet him on the street, which was seldom, he would only nod, and nobody ever started a talk with him. It wasn't that he was impolite or superior acting either. He had more real manners than any other man in the valley, or than any I'd ever met. You just couldn't get close to him. I don't think it would have mattered who you were.
The word that Tetley was coming gave Davies a little more time, if that could do him any good now, but it looked to me like a reprieve for a man that knew he had to swing at the end of it, anyway. Tetley wouldn't be coming to do Bartlett a favor, and if he objected to the lynching on principle, which wasn't likely, he still wouldn't be coming down himself to stop it. There was only one reason that I could see for Tetley's interest, that he wanted that lynching.
Davies must have figured the same way, but he was still going to make a try. I saw him talking hard and quickly to Joyce again, and then Joyce, looking more frightened than ever, went off down the street at a run, and Davies went out, keeping it casual, to talk to Bartlett. Bartlett wasn't so wild any more, just touchy, the way a man is who feels strongly about something, but is a muddy thinker. He answered a bit short, but didn't blow off. He kept looking at his watch, a big silver turnip, and then at the sky, and only paid a fretful half-attention to Davies. Davies knew better than to argue the soul of society with Bartlett, and even held out on his notion of the men not going at all, and just stuck to legal deputation and trying to get a promise Bartlett wouldn't act without Risley. And he stayed friendly while he made his points, always seeming to be making just suggestions, and asking Bartlett's opinion, and Ma's, and even Winder's. The men let him talk because they had to wait, anyhow, though I noticed a few, close to him, seemed to be listening. Bartlett, though, wouldn't hear more than once about bringing prisoners in. Short justice was the kind he wanted. And Ma kept taking the point out of Davies' talk by making jokes. He hadn't got anywhere when the Judge and Mapes appeared, the Judge, by the way his free hand was waving,still arguing it hot and heavy with Mapes, who wasn't even answering now.
When they pulled up, just on the edge of the crowd of riders, everything was silent, even the people on the walks waiting to see what the Judge would say. They didn't have much respect for the Judge, but he was the law, and they waited to see what line he would take. The Judge felt the hostility and was nervous about the quiet; he made a bad start, taking off his hat by habit, like he was starting an oration, and raising his voice more than he had to.
"I understand how it is, men," he began, and went on about their long tolerance, and their losses, and the death of a dear friend,
a long apology for what he was working up to. Mapes, beside him, took off his sombrero solemnly, the way the Judge had taken his off, and began slowly and carefully to improve the crease in it.
The men grinned, and Smith called, "Cut the stumping, Judge," and when the Judge hesitated, "It's all been said for you, Tyler. All we want's your blessing."
Davies didn't want the Judge to get into an oration any more than the rest did. He came over beside the Judge's horse before the Judge could start again, and said something. Osgood trailed out too.
"Certainly, certainly, Mr. Davies," the Judge said, but still in his platform voice, "just the point I was coming to.
"Men," he addressed us, "you cannot flinch from what you believe to be your duty, of course, but certainly you would not wish to act in the very spirit which begot the deed you would punish."
"By the time you got us ready to act, Tyler," Smith shouted, "the rustlers could be over the Rio." There was agreement; others called ribald advice. Ma leaned on her saddle directly in front of the Judge and grinned at him. The Judge's neck and jowls began to swell slowly and turn red.
"One more word out of you, Smith," he bellowed, "and I'll have you up for impeding the course of justice and connivance in an act of violence."
It was a bad move after his weak start. The joking rose to shouting. There were jeers, and men made signs of his insignificance at the Judge. Ma said, still grinning, "Judge, you can't impede what don't move anyway."
"And you, a woman," the Judge shouted at her, "to lend yourself to this . . ." He couldn't describe us, but just waved a hand over us, choking, and then suddenly put his hat back on and yanked it down, and glared at us.
In the general roar you could still hear Farnley's voice, so furious it was high and breaking, "For Christ's sake, Butch, let's get out of this."
Horses began to mill and yank, and the riders chose to let them. A woman, holding onto a post of the arcade with one hand, leaned out and shrieked at us. She was a tall, sallow, sooty-looking woman, with black hair streaming down and blowing across her face, and her sunbonnet fallen back off her head so she looked wild. She kept screaming something about Kinkaid. Smith called out salaciously to know what Kinkaid was to her.
"More than he was to any of you, it looks like," she screamed back at him.
Some of the other women too called out at us then, laughing angrily and jibing. Others, who had men in the street, were quiet and scared-looking. One small boy, being yanked about by his mother, began to cry. This scared others of the children.
Moore rode over, holding his horse close, and spoke to the wild-looking woman. "We can take care of this, Frena," he told her, then said to the others, "Get those kids out of here; this is no place for a kid."
The woman he called Frena ran into the street beside him, as if she'd like to pull him off and throw him around. "Why ain't it?" she shrieked up at him. "There isn't anything going to happen, is there?" Moore didn't say anything, or even look at her, but just waited there until the women with children began to lead them away. Two of them stopped at the corner, though, and watched again.
Davies hadn't paid any attention to the uproar, but talked up earnestly to the Judge. He got the Judge calmed a little. He nodded and said something.
"Where's Greene?" Ma Grier called back. Things quieted a little. "Greene," she called to him, "come on up here. The Judge wants to talk to you."
The rest of us wanted to hear, and tried to bunch around the talkers, but the horses kept sidling out, and were blowing and hammering and making leather squeal. We couldn't hear much, but only catch glimpses of young Greene on his horse facing the Judge on his and making answers. They didn't appear to be getting anywhere; the kid grinned sardonically a couple of times and the Judge, though pompous, was flustered again. Then, apparently, Davies took over again. They were both looking down and not saying anything. The kid began giving answers again, and not looking so sure. The men right around them had quieted down a lot. Once most of them, all together, and the Judge, too, looked up at the sky, and the Judge, when he looked down, nodded. The Judge, then, was apparently putting in a word here and there for Davies. Greene looked ready to cry. Only once, when he'd stood about all he could, we heard him cry out, "Olsen told me so. I've told you that twenty times already." Mapes ceased pretending to look bored, and began glancing around the circle of men. Once he said something, but the Judge, a lot surer of himself now, turned on him and made a quick reply. The only thing I caught was the word "constituted" which sounded as if the Judge was in his usual line of blather. But Mapes didn't say anything further, only stuck out his chin and looked surly and stared for a moment at his saddle horn. But though we couldn't hear anything, we could feel that the drift was changing. Men close in began to look at each other, just quick glances, or look down. The temper was out of them. When, after four or five minutes, the woman Frena had waited as long as she could with her mouth closed, and wanted to know if they were holding a prayer meeting, one of the men angrily called to her to shut up.
It became quiet enough to hear the voices, the kid's choky and stubborn, Davies' easy in short even questions, or sometimes a longer remark, and then the Judge, his voice being so heavy, we could catch a word here and there from him. Then the kid was let out of the ring. His face was red, and he wouldn't look at any of us, or answer when Winder asked him a question, only shrug his shoulders. The riders who had heard pulled their horses back so that we had to pull away to give them room. Davies and Osgood came through them toward the arcade. Osgood looked happy, and kept chattering beside Davies in an excited way, Davies just nodding.
Under the edge of the arcade Davies climbed up onto the tie rail and stood there, holding onto a post to steady himself. He didn't call out, but just waited until it was quiet. Most of us reined around to listen to him; only Farnley and young Greene stayed clear out, as if they didn't want to hear. Farnley started to curse us for listening to more such talk, which he called lily-livered, but Moore quieted him, saying that Davies didn't want to stop them, and that they had to wait for Tetley anyhow.
"If you guys get careful of yourselves," Farnley told him, as if he meant it, "I'm going myself. Don't forget that." Then he was quiet too, and Davies started to talk. When the woman Frena tried to interrupt him, and twice Smith also, he didn't talk back to them, but just waited, as you would until a door was closed that was letting in too much noise, and then went on the same reasonable way, just loudly enough to be heard.
"We don't know anything about those rustlers, boys," he told us, "or whether they were rustlers, or who shot Kinkaid. Young Greene there wasn't trying to make trouble; he was doing what he thought he ought to do, what he was told to do. But he got excited; he was sent for the sheriff, but on the way up he got excited thinking about it. and forgot what he should do, and did what seemed to him like the quickest thing. Really, he doesn't know anything about it. He didn't see any rustlers or any killer. He didn't even see Kinkaid. He only heard what Olsen told him, and Qlsen was in a hurry. All that Olsen actually told him, when we get down to the facts, was that Kinkaid had been shot, that they'd found him in the draw, and that he was to come to town for the sheriff. That's not much to go on.
"Then there's another thing. It's late now. If it was a gang that Kinkaid ran into, they must have gone out by the south pass, as they did before." He went on to show us that it was twenty miles to that pass and would be dark before we got there, that the rustlers bad at least a five or six hour start of us. He showed us that the sheriff had been down there since early morning, that there were a dozen men there if he wanted them, and pointed out that it wasn't the sheriff who had sent for us, that nobody had sent for us, that Greene had been sent only for the sheriff, and that if the sheriff had wanted more men we'd have heard from him by now.
He argued that although he could understand our feelings, there certainly was no use in acting in a way that might get us into trouble, or lead us to do something we'd regret for a long while, when the matter w
as probably being taken care of legally as it was.
"It's my advice, men, for what it's worth," he concluded, "that you all come in and have a drink on me ..."
"Drinks," said Canby from the door, "on the house. But only one round, by God. I'm not filling any bucket bellies."
"Our friend Canby offers the drinks," Davies said, "and I'll make it two. I guess I owe it. Then, I'd say, we'd all better go home and have supper, and get a good night's sleep. If we're wanted, we'll hear. I sent Joyce down to the ranch to find out what the sheriff has to say. If any of you want to stay in town, Mrs. Grier can put you up, or Canby, or the Inn, if they can still get the doors open."
"I told you the money was all he thought about," Smith cried.
"And I can bed two myself," Davies went on, grinning down at Smith, "and no charge. I'd be glad of the company. I can take six," Canby said, "if they don't mind sleeping double. And no charge either; not for those beds, when I know I'm bound to see the guys again."
"I can take care of two, and more than welcome," Osgood said. He sounded really hearty for the first time.
