Chapter Three
It was fifteen minutes past seven when Colfax walked into the room where Lanagan was impatiently waiting. Colfax had been ready, could have met the man on time, but he had delayed purposely. He wanted to test Lanagan’s patience. He figured that the cattle baron was used to getting his way, having people leap when he said frog. If he was irritated, he might tend to be less careful about what he said. Colfax didn’t want to hear a carefully prepared speech. As Colfax neared the table, Lanagan spoke gruffly to Gruver, who was sitting beside him.
“Get that waiter over here,” he ordered.
“Morning, Mr. Lanagan,” said Colfax, taking a seat.
“Colfax,” said Lanagan, “I’ll get right to the point.”
“Not yet. I talk business after I eat.”
Lanagan’s face reddened, but he didn’t say anything. Gruver returned, followed by the waiter. Colfax looked directly at Gruver but spoke to Lanagan.
“This has got to be a private meeting,” he said.
Lanagan jerked his head at Gruver, indicating that the young man should take his leave. Gruver stood up.
“I’ll be around, Mr. Lanagan,” he said.
The waiter was standing patiently by with pad and pencil in hand.
“Flapjacks and bacon,” said Colfax, “and black coffee, and keep the coffee coming.”
“Same thing,” said Lanagan.
They sat in tense silence, drinking coffee, waiting for the meal. Colfax rolled a cigarette and smoked it. The silence continued through the meal.
Lanagan’s face stayed red, and he ate fast. Colfax made his a leisurely breakfast. Once the plates had been cleared away and the coffee cups once more refilled, Colfax rolled himself another smoke and lit it. He had tested Lanagan’s patience about as far as he cared to.
“Mr. Lanagan,” he said, “I’ve read that newspaper story your hired hand carried to St. Louis. What can you tell me that I don’t already know?”
“You may have noticed, Colfax,” said Lanagan, “that we’re in a valley here. It’s a river Valley. The river runs down out of the mountains and continues to the east of us. I was the first white man in this valley.”
Colfax looked across the table at Lanagan from over his cup. Lanagan quickly continued his tale.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, “but don’t bother saying it. I never saw no Indians in this valley. Maybe they came in sometimes. I don’t know. But if they had been in the habit of using the valley, when they found me here they gave it up. I ain’t going to tell you that I fought Indians to keep my ranch, because I never. I never even seen any of them.”
Colfax nodded.
“All right,” he said.
“Anyhow, I settled on the north side of the river. A few years later Dierks came in. He settled south. We’ve always got along together. No problems. The town grew up here. Everything was all right, even when the railroad came in.”
“I imagine,” said Colfax, “that you and this Dierks just about ruled the valley and the town between the two of you. I’m sure everything was all right. From your point of view.”
Lanagan’s face darkened more, a purplish hue deepening the red that was already there.
“Well, damn it,” he said, “it was. I never heard no complaints.”
“You wouldn’t,” said Colfax. Lanagan clenched his teeth but otherwise ignored the comment.
“Until now,” he said. “Wheeler came in here about a year ago. He brought a few cows with him, but his herd has increased uncommon fast. He settled in up at the west end of the valley.”
“Legal settlement?”
“His settling down there is legal, but rustling ain’t.”
“Hold on,” said Colfax. “You’re moving ahead too fast. He running his herd on public land?”
“It’s public.”
“You and, uh, Dierks run on the public land, too?”
“That’s right.”
“About that ‘uncommon’ growth of his herd—picking up mavericks is still legal, isn’t it?”
“It’s goddamned low, but, yes, it’s legal.”
Colfax snubbed out his cigarette and then finished off his coffee. He held the empty cup up for the waiter to see.
“Mr. Lanagan,” he said, “have you seen any rustling in progress?”
“No, I ain’t, but—”
“Have you seen any changed brands?”
“No.”
“Why did you send for me? I saw a sheriffs office out there when we walked from the train station. Why doesn’t he take care of this?”
“He’s like you,” said Lanagan. “He keeps asking for proof. Says his hands are tied. If you find the proof, he’ll join in and help us clean them out.”
The waiter came with the coffeepot, and the conversation abated until he had refilled the cups and gone away again.
“Mr. Lanagan,” Colfax continued, “no matter what you’ve heard about my past, I am not a murderer. I won’t kill people for you because you tell me that they’re cattle thieves. There are some men around who will do that, and if that’s what you want done, you’ll have to find one of them.”
Lanagan smashed his fist down on the table, causing the recently filled cups to bounce and slosh some of their contents out onto the table. He shouted and stood up out of his chair at the same time.
“Goddamn it, Colfax, I am not a murderer either. I don’t want a murderer for hire. I want someone who can stop rustlers. Since Wheeler arrived in this valley, cattle have began to disappear. Not just mine. Dierks’s too. We’ve talked about it. I told you that Wheeler’s herd has growed too fast. Then six months ago others come in. Small ranchers, they call themselves. They moved in up behind Wheeler. He brought them in. They’re working together. What the hell does it take to convince you?”
“Proof, Lanagan.”
“Then go to hell, you son of a bitch. I don’t beg nobody. I’ll keep my bargain with you. You stay here until you’ve seen the goddamn play, and I’ll pay your bills up until then. Then I’ll buy your ticket out of town, and I hope I never see you again.”
Lanagan turned abruptly and started to stalk out of the room, but Colfax stopped him.
“Lanagan,” he said.
The old man stopped, then turned back toward Colfax, his face a deep purple.
“Lanagan, I’ll work for you, but in my own way.”
Lanagan stared hard at Colfax from under heavy, furrowed eyebrows.
“Let me investigate and find out for myself if there really is rustling going on here and, if so, who’s responsible for it. If I can find that out, get proof, satisfy myself as to where the guilt lies, I’ll stop it then.”
“Damn it, man, I know it’s going on, and I know who’s guilty.”
“I won’t kill anyone just on your say.”
Lanagan walked back to the table and sat down again—heavily. He suddenly appeared to be very old and tired, Colfax thought. The cattle baron sat silent for a long moment.
“Hell,” he finally said, “that’s all I wanted from you in the first place.”
“I want to hire me a helper. Will you pay?”
“I got plenty of boys,” said Lanagan.
“I don’t want one of your boys.”
“I’ll pay.”
“I want a free hand,” said Colfax. “I want to be left alone, and I want you to send me in a good horse and saddle.”
Lanagan again studied him in silence for a moment. Then he extended his hand across the table. Colfax took it and noted the old man’s hard grip.
“We’ve got a deal,” said Lanagan.
They shook hands, and Lanagan turned abruptly and left. The waiter appeared with the coffeepot in hand and looked at Colfax with a sheepish face.
“More coffee, sir?”
“Half a cup,” said Colfax. He was still staring after Lanagan. He knew the type. Cattle baron was a good name for them. They were like the medieval barons Colfax knew from the plays of Shakespeare. Rough, uncultured,
illiterate or semiliterate, powerful and spoiled bullies, they would trample anything or anyone they found in their way, and nothing would ever convince them they had done anything wrong in the process. In their own eyes they were simply a necessary cog in a necessary social machine. They were fortunate, of course, to have discovered that their cog was the one that drove the entire works.
Yes, Colfax knew the type, and he had been thoroughly prepared to dislike the man. But somehow Colfax sensed an innocence, a naivet� beneath the hard and hoary exterior of Tiff Lanagan. His reaction to the breakfast with Lanagan was beginning to puzzle him. Well, he would give the old man a chance. He would do exactly as he had promised. He would investigate. If he found actual evidence of rustling, he would try to determine who was responsible and stop them. If, on the other hand, his investigation led him to believe that old Lanagan was simply trying to run off smaller ranchers, eliminate his competition, he would leave. He would have no part of that kind of fight. He drained his coffee cup and walked outside just in time to see Lanagan being driven in a buckboard by Gruver on his way out of town. He turned and walked down the street toward the opry house.
The short walk in the crisp morning air felt good to Colfax, and he found himself in a surprisingly chipper mood as he stepped inside the imposing, oversized, ornate front doors of the gaudy monument to Mrs. Lanagan’s cultural aspirations. Something about the place was irritating to Colfax. It was superbly constructed and impeccably decorated, but it was—overdone. It was too damn much for this town. In the spot where it stood, it was a bold, declarative statement of bombast and pretentious, tasteless pomposity. As Colfax stood studying the lobby and his own analysis of its builder, one of the doors into the theater proper opened from the inside and Mr. Adrian Channing himself stepped forth.
“Ah, Mr. Colfax,” he said, a smile of genuine pleasure spreading across his ruddy face. “How are you this morning?”
He extended his hand, and Colfax took it and gave it a warm shake. This man he liked, this Shakespearean.
“Feeling good, Mr. Channing,” he said. “Thank you.”
“No ill effects from the festivities of last evening, I presume.”
“No. None at all. Is everything here working out all right?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Channing. “A beautiful facility, don’t you think? By lunchtime we’ll have the stage in readiness, and after our repast, we’ll rehearse.”
“Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Colfax, but everything is well under control.”
“How about Mr. Potter?” Colfax asked. “Is he being treated well by the local citizenry?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Channing, “he’s receiving the best treatment he’s experienced on this tour, thanks, I believe, to your intercession last night. The word seems to have spread that he has a guardian angel, so to speak, in this town.”
“Good. I’ll not keep you from your work any longer.”
Colfax walked from the theater to the livery stable, where he found a sallow-complected little man at a dusty desk laboring over some figures in a small notebook.
“My name’s Colfax,” he said.
The gaunt fellow looked up from his arithmetic.
“Jerry Slayton,” he said. “I own this place. Heard you was in town. What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Rondo Hughes.”
“Oh.”
Slayton appeared to be disappointed that he didn’t have a customer in Colfax. Then a look of suspicion played across his bony face. He gave Colfax a sideways glance.
“What do you want with him? he said.
“That’s my business.”
“You going to kill him?”
“I might kill you for being so damned interested in my business.”
Slayton rubbed a hand across his face, and Colfax thought that it looked like the thin, brittle skin might tear on the bone beneath it.
“He’s out back,” said Slayton, “forking hay.”
Colfax walked through the stable to the back door and stepped outside again into fresh air.
“Rondo Hughes.”
Hughes turned from his work to see who was calling his name.
“Colfax,” he said. “What brings you around?”
“Go inside there and tell that whey-faced bastard that you quit,” said Colfax. “You’re working for me.”
Hughes leaned on the handle of the pitchfork and studied Colfax’s face for a moment.
“What makes you think I want to work for you?” he said.
“Damn good pay and a hotel room.”
“Who do you want me to kill?”
“Maybe no one. Come on.”
Hughes tossed the fork to one side and headed for Slayton’s office. In less than a minute he was back with Colfax.
“Let’s start with the room,” he said, “and a bath.”
“That’s just what I was thinking,” said Colfax.
Chapter Four
Colfax and Hughes had their breakfast and walked from the Rail-head down the street to Jerry Slayton’s stable. It was Colfax’s third day in Pullman. Inside the stable they found a grumbling Slayton carrying a bucket of oats.
“I came for my horse,” said Hughes.
“You owe me for his keep,” said Slayton.
“Put it on Tiff Lanagan’s bill,” said Colfax. “Did he send a horse and saddle in here for me?”
“Third stall on the right,” said Slayton, and he turned his back and started to trudge away.
“Saddle up both animals and bring them out,” said Colfax. “Now.”
Slayton turned to face Colfax, giving him a hard look. Then he darted his eyes toward Hughes. He looked back at Colfax, dropped his bucket of oats, and went after the horses.
“He’s taking it kind of hard,” said Hughes, “having to wait on me.”
“He’s a bad mistake his mother made,” said Colfax.
Hughes guffawed.
“So what do we do today, boss?” he asked.
Colfax rolled a cigarette and offered the makings to Hughes, who accepted them and began to roll his own.
“You’re going to show me around. I want to see the Lanagan spread, Dierks’s and Wheeler’s, and those new small ranchers up behind Wheeler. I want to get a feel for the lay of the land.”
He took a small tin box out of a vest pocket, flipped open the lid and removed a wooden match. He struck the match on the bottom of the box and held the flame cupped in his hands for Hughes to light his smoke on. Then he lit his own, broke the match, and dropped it and put the box back into his pocket. He took a deep and satisfying draw on the cigarette.
“That sounds easy enough,” said Hughes.
“Can we do it and get back to town by seven this evening?”
Hughes expelled smoke from his lungs and looked thoughtful for a moment.
“Yeah,” he said. “I think so.”
“Good. We’re taking in the play tonight.”
“Is that part of my job?”
“Anything I tell you to do is part of your job,” said Colfax, “until I fire you or you get mad and quit.”
Hughes grinned.
“Fair enough,” he said.
Jerry Slayton came leading the two saddled mounts out of the stable. One was a roan stallion, a cow pony, the other a larger, black mare, obviously with some Arabian blood. Hughes stepped forward to take the reins of the roan, saving Colfax the trouble of asking which was which. Colfax took the reins of the black from Slayton.
“You paying now?” asked the stableman.
“I told you,” said Colfax, “bill Lanagan.”
He swung into the saddle, and it felt good to him. He had been too long idling in big-city hotels. He was going to enjoy this day in the saddle. He gave the black a kick in the sides to urge her forward when he heard a thump and a nicker behind him, followed by loud, raucous laughter. He turned to look over his shoulder, hauling back on the reins at the same time. Hug
hes, still astraddle his saddle, was lying on his side in the dirt, engulfed in a cloud of dust. The roan was fidgeting, and Slayton was slapping his thighs and roaring his enjoyment of his own prank. Colfax turned the black and raced her at Slayton, who took note of his danger too late. He tried to step aside, but the black smashed into him, sideswiping him and catapulting him into a water trough just behind where he stood. Slayton came up out of the water spluttering, spitting, coughing, cursing. As he started to heave himself up out of the trough, he saw the barrel of Colfax’s .45 pointed at his face.
“One good joke deserves another, friend,” said Colfax.
Hughes looked up from the dirt and laughed.
“Now,” said Colfax, “saddle that animal again, and this time do it right.”
Slayton did as he had been told, and when he had finished, he sulked against the wall of the stable. Hughes walked over to his horse.
“I think I’ll check it this time,” he said.
Slayton spat into the dirt.
“I’ll get you for this, Rondo,” he said.
Hughes, having checked the saddle, climbed into it and swung the roan around to face the surly Slayton.
“Any old time, buddy,” he said.
“Mr. Slayton,” said Colfax, “I’ve an idea that the only way you could best Mr. Hughes would be from the back, and if he ever turns up hurt from that particular angle, I’ll kill you.”
He turned away from Slayton and the stable.
“Which way, Mr. Hughes?” he said.
“Follow me, Mr. Colfax.”
Colfax and Hughes had crossed the river early in the day just east of Pullman. They had spent about half the morning studying the lay of Lanagan’s spread. Almost everything north of the river, it seemed, was either owned or claimed by Lanagan. The improvements, Colfax. noted, were first-rate, and there were plenty of cows out on the prairie. Not as many, of course, as Lanagan thought there should be. Rustlers could get in and drive cattle off in any direction without too much trouble, it appeared, except to the south. To go south they would have to cross the river. But then Lanagan had said that Dierks, on the south side of the river, had also lost cows.
Quitting Time Page 3
