Hell. Obviously he couldn’t sleep. He ripped at the wet sheet, finally freeing himself, and stood up naked in his room. He found the lamp and lit it, turning the flame low. Then he got his makings and rolled himself a cigarette. He lit the cigarette and took a deep drag. He wished that he knew who it was he was after, so he could just go out and find them and kill them and get it over with. He was getting too old for all this, he realized. He should find another way to make a living. Once these two cases were disposed of, he thought, he would call it quits. Yes. It was just about quitting time. He was tired.
Colfax was at the theater before the sun was quite up. Hardly anyone in Pullman was yet stirring. He had noticed on his way that the sheriff’s office was still closed. The opry house was locked when he arrived at it, and he cursed softly, then admitted to himself that he should have expected that. He walked around to the back where he had discovered the body. The ground was dry and dusty, but Colfax could see the tracks of a horse. He studied the bloodstains, which were still sticky, and the marks made where the body had been dragged. It appeared to him that a man had dragged the body out the back door, left it there in the dirt, then mounted a waiting horse and ridden away—to the west. Colfax studied the hoofprints long and hard, trying to memorize them, hoping that if he ever saw prints made by the same horse again, he’d know them. Even as he studied, though, he knew that it was futile. They were not that clear, and, as far as he could tell, there was nothing particularly distinctive about them. The footprints of the man, the murderer, were no clearer. They were boot prints, cowboy’s boots. That was about all he could tell.
He stood up and ran his hand through his hair. He hated to waste the time, but he knew that he needed some food before he started on what he knew would be a long, tough day. Some food and some coffee. Lots of coffee after the short and restless night he had spent. He walked back to the Railhead, and went into the cafe, and ordered a breakfast.
“Keep the coffee coming,” he told the waiter.
Colfax had finished his breakfast and was drinking a last cup of coffee when Rondo Hughes walked in and sat down at the table.
“Morning, boss,” said Hughes.
“Morning. I’ve finished eating, but you can go ahead and order.”
“No thanks,” said Hughes. “I’ve done et down the street. It’s cheaper, and some friends of mine hang out there.”
“Good,” said Colfax. “We’ve got a busy day ahead of us. I’ve got to go out and see Lanagan. I’ll give him a quick report of what we did yesterday to content him for the time being. Then I’m coming back to town to see what I can determine about that—killing last night.”
“That was a bad business,” said Hughes. “What do you make of it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I’d say you’ll find plenty of suspects. Just look for folks who don’t like uppity niggers.”
Colfax took a last sip from his coffee cup, put the cup down on the table, and looked at Hughes.
“Does that include you, Mr. Hughes?” he asked.
“Well,” said Hughes, “I ain’t going to tell you that I was happy to be sitting at the same table with him the other night, but I don’t kill folks over a thing like that.”
“That’s my worry, anyhow,” said Colfax. “I want you to ride back up that trail we took yesterday. There were cattle tracks going up beyond Youngblood’s hangout. I want to know where they go. If there’s a way for you to get up there without being seen, take it. Look for cattle up there, or evidence of where they’ve been. See me back here later.”
“It’ll take a little longer to get there,” said Hughes, “but there’s another trail north a piece. I think I can get up there without anybody knowing it.”
“Mr. Lanagan,” said Colfax, “there have been cattle up that trail past Wheeler’s place and on beyond where Youngblood and that other bunch are camped out. It wasn’t convenient for me yesterday to go up the trail and follow the tracks, but I’ve got a man on that right now.”
“I knew it,” said Lanagan. “Wheeler and Youngblood. I knew it.”
“Just hold on a minute. I said I had seen tracks. I don’t yet have any hard evidence of rustling. I’m still investigating. At this point, I have a tendency to halfway agree with you. I don’t think that Wheeler and the others are working together, and I don’t think that Wheeler and his brothers are rustlers. I do think that our likely suspects are Youngblood and his bunch. At least that’s where I’m going to look first.”
The door opened and Agnes Lanagan came into the room carrying a silver tray containing two cups and other implements.
“Coffee, Mr. Colfax?” she said.
Colfax stood up.
“Thank you, Mrs. Lanagan,” he said. “Yes, I will.”
Colfax took a cup off the tray and sat back down as Agnes Lanagan turned to offer the other cup to her husband.
“I’ll leave you gentlemen to discuss business,” she said, and she left the room.
“Agnes is a fine woman,” said Lanagan.
“Yes, indeed,” said Colfax. “You’re a fortunate man.”
“Yeah. Colfax, I need to have this rustling business cleaned up quick.
“It’s not just that I’m losing money. That’s bad enough, but there’s more to it than that. I’m afraid of a war. I don’t want that to happen in this Valley. My men are getting restless. They want to ride up that mountain and start shooting. Dierks is having the same problem, and there are people in town who aren’t even directly involved who are talking the same way. So far it’s just talk, but I don’t know how long I can keep it that way.”
Colfax sipped at the dainty cup in which Agnes Lanagan had served him coffee. He didn’t like the cup. It made him nervous. He was afraid that he would drop it. In fact, Agnes Lanagan’s house made him feel that same way. He wasn’t sure that he should have stepped on her carpets. He was worried that his bulk might somehow rumple the chair he sat on. The cup rattled against its saucer when Colfax put it back down.
“Mr. Lanagan,” he said, “I’ll do everything I can to hurry this business along. I promise you that.”
He stood up and a bit awkwardly placed the cup and saucer on a small table which stood beside the chair.
“Please give Mrs. Lanagan my thanks for her hospitality,” he said. “I have work to do.”
As Colfax stepped off the Lanagan porch, Boyd Gruver rode up. Gruver stayed in his saddle and looked down at Colfax.
“Howdy, Colfax,” he said.
Colfax touched the brim of his hat and nodded.
“Gruver,” he said.
“I take it you’re still working for Mr. Lanagan.”
“That’s right.”
“You making any progress?”
“Boy,” said Colfax, “that’s between me and your boss.”
Rondo Hughes rode easy in the saddle. He had taken the same route as the one he had led Colfax over the day before, along the river on the north side up to the foothills that led into the mountains. From there the trail wound past the Wheelers’ cabin and on up to the camp of Youngblood and his bunch. He allowed his roan to move at a leisurely pace as he began the climb. Hughes didn’t seem to be particularly anxious or alert. He was certainly in no hurry. As he passed by the Wheeler cabin, he waved at Mrs. Wheeler, who was out in the yard washing. He continued on up the trail. Even when he reached the spot on the trail where Denny Doyle had fired on him the day before, Hughes did not glance up, did not look around, did not slow his pace. He continued along the trail. He wound his way around the sharp curve and rode underneath the very rock behind which Doyle had hidden. Soon he would be at Youngblood’s camp.
“Hello, Rondo.”
Hughes pulled back lightly on the reins and halted the roan in the middle of the trail. The voice had come from behind him. He turned slowly and looked over his shoulder, a smile on his face. There standing behind him in the trail, an 1860 model Henry .44 rifle cradled in his arms, was Youngblood.
“Howd
y, Youngblood,” said Hughes.
Youngblood shifted his weight from one leg to the other and let his right hand, holding the Henry, drop to his side.
“Rondo,” he said, “I sure didn’t expect to see you back up here so soon.”
Chapter Eight
“Go ahead, Mr. Channing,” said Sheriff Dort. “Open her up.”
Adrian Channing unlocked the front door of the theater building and stepped aside to allow Dort to enter first. Colfax went in behind Dort, and Channing followed, closing the door after himself. The three men walked through the lobby of the house, climbed up onto the stage, and made their way backstage to the hallway which ran past the dressing rooms. The bloodstains were still there. Dort pointed to a smear on the floor.
“What the hell’s that?” he said.
“That’s where I slipped last night,” said Colfax.
“Oh.”
“But here’s something a little more interesting.”
Colfax knelt to get a closer look. There were boot prints in the blood, and they were much more distinct than those he had found outside in the dirt. The murderer was apparently careless in the dark hallway while dragging the body. He had stepped in the blood and left clear tracks. The boot was small. Colfax guessed a size seven or so, but even more telling was the fact that the print of the right boot showed a clear gash across the sole. These prints would be easily spotted anywhere else they might be found. Of course, the killer likely had discovered his bloodstained boots and discarded them by this time. Still, it was a definite clue.
“Who’d ever thought a nigger to have so much blood in him,” said Dort.
“No more than you,” said Colfax. Damn, he thought. Hughes was right.
Trying to track this murderer in the community could lead up several dozen trails. He had a feeling that Dort was not going to be an enthusiastic investigator. He stood up and moved to the dressing-room door, opened it, and stepped inside. Several minutes of searching turned up nothing of any apparent help. The boot print revealing the slashed sole remained the only item of value gained from the search of the building.
“Thank you, Mr. Dort,” said Colfax. “Mr. Channing.”
“Colfax,” said Dort.
Colfax had already turned to leave. He stopped and faced the sheriff.
“Yes?”
“You’re conducting your own private investigation of this here killing. I don’t know what your reasons are for doing that, but if you come up with anything, you keep me informed. You hear?”
Colfax looked at Dort for a moment, then gave him a short nod.
“Mr. Colfax,” said Channing, “would you have a drink with me?”
Channing looked haggard and worn. He looked, Colfax thought, much older than he had seemed just the day before. At his age a theatrical tour such as he had undertaken was bound to be a strain, even without the grisly murder of a member of his company. Colfax put a hand on the old man’s shoulder.
“I'll join you,” he said.
They sat at a table in the Railhead, Channing with a large glass of whiskey before him, Colfax with coffee. He had decided to cut out the drinking. At least, he thought, until this business was over and done. He needed to keep a clear head.
“I don’t know what to do, Mr. Colfax,” said Channing. “I don’t know if I can develop another Aaron out of my cast. I don’t know if the tour can continue.”
“I can’t advise you,” said Colfax. “Why don’t you take a couple of days to consider the problem? Discuss it with your company.”
Channing swallowed a gulp of whiskey, then was convulsed with a sudden, choking sob. He covered his face with both hands and gave way to uncontrolled weeping. Colfax was uncomfortable. He took out the makings and rolled himself a cigarette, and as he was lighting it, Channing, with a deep breath, regained control of himself.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Colfax,” he said. He pulled a wrinkled and soiled handkerchief out of a pocket and wiped his eyes; then he blew his nose into it.
“It’s all right, Mr. Channing,” said Colfax. “I understand. I’m even a bit envious of your ability to achieve that kind of release.”
“But why?” said Channing, his eyes as well as his voice pleading with Colfax for an explanation. “Why poor Dallas? He was such a gentle man. He never hurt anyone in his life.”
Colfax took a long drag on his cigarette. He had an answer to Channing’s question—perhaps the answer, but he didn’t want to give voice to it.
“I don’t know, sir,” he said. “Who can explain human activities?”
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,” said Channing, “than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
“Exactly.”
The old man turned up his glass and emptied it, then stood up.
“Well,” he said, “I should be getting back to my charges. Thank you, sir, for your company, and for your kindness.”
Colfax gestured to the waiter for more coffee as he watched Channing take his leave of the Railhead. For my kindness, he thought. It was my kindness that got Dallas Potter killed. The idea had begun to form in Colfax’s mind that Potter would probably still be alive if he had held to his practice of keeping to himself, but Colfax had enticed him into the company of white folks, a forbidden society for Dallas Potter, and had threatened anyone who dared to interfere. Colfax had, in effect, dared Pullman society to do something about it, and one of them had accepted the dare. For the first time in his life, Colfax felt genuine, biting guilt. I killed him, he told himself, as sure as if I had wielded the blade.
But he had to shake off those kinds of thoughts. He had to concentrate on finding the killer. What did he have to go on? Not much. Sometime after the final curtain, probably after everyone else had left the theater, the killer went into the building and found Potter in his dressing room. He had probably arrived just in the nick of time, for Potter had already changed out of his costume and was dressed again to go out into the street. The killer had taken Potter by surprise and brutally murdered him, maybe with a sharp hunting knife. Then after hacking the body savagely, the killer had dragged it down the hallway and outside the building. Why? Had he intended to carry the body off and dispose of it? If so, perhaps he had heard someone coming. Perhaps he’d been interrupted and forced to abandon his original plan. He apparently had his horse waiting there for a quick escape, so when he was interrupted, he’d dropped the body, jumped on his horse, and made good his escape. He’d ridden off to the west, but his horse’s tracks had been soon lost in those of the town’s traffic.
It could have been anyone. Enough time had passed for someone who had been in the audience to have left with everyone else and returned, but it could as easily have been someone who had not seen the play. And what about motive? No one in Pullman knew Dallas Potter. Colfax had only the one suggestion—race—and already he knew that on that basis he had perhaps eighty percent of the population of the valley as suspects. The only real clue so far was the bloody right boot print with the slashed sole, and how in the hell was he going to find the boot that had left it? Well, he decided, he couldn’t just wander around the countryside looking at bootprints, and he was being paid by Tiff Lanagan to do a job. He would have to concentrate on Lanagan’s problem and content himself with keeping himself open and alert to anything that might appear to him along the way that might help in the other case. It would not be easy, but that was the way he would have to play.
It was late evening before Rondo Hughes returned to Pullman and found Colfax in his room at the Railhead. Colfax gestured toward the chair as he sat on the edge of the bed.
“Sit down, Mr. Hughes,” he said. “What did you find?”
“Well,” said Hughes, “it took me awhile, going around the long way like I done, but I did sure enough find a kind of a dry wash up there a ways beyond Youngblood’s camp. There’s been some cattle in there recent like, but there ain’t none in there now.”
“Many?”
“Naw. Just a few. It looks to
me like Youngblood and them probably herded what strays they could round up into that little wash to hold them until they could take them off and sell them.”
Colfax stood up and paced the floor. He took out his makings and rolled a cigarette, then offered them to Hughes. While Hughes was rolling his own, Colfax lit his and took a deep draw. Something was wrong. His instinct told him that if there had been stolen cattle from the valley, they had been taken up beyond that cow camp. His trail sense told him that more than a few cows had been driven up the trail that he had ridden with Hughes. If they had not been held in that wash, then where had they been taken?
“Mr. Hughes,” he said finally, “I want you to hang around town tomorrow on your own. Spend some time in the saloons. Wherever you can insinuate yourself into local conversation. Don’t ask any questions that would make anyone suspicious of your motives. Just talk casually with folks and listen.”
“All right, boss,” said Hughes, expelling smoke from his lungs, “but just ezackly what is it I’m listening for?”
“Attitudes concerning the murder of Mr. Potter. I want to know how people feel about it. I want to know what people think about.”
“Tiff Lanagan paying you to investigate that nigger’s killing?” asked Hughes.
“Tiff Lanagan is paying me,” said Colfax, “but I’m paying you, and that’s what I want you to do.”
Then under the pretext that he was ready to turn in for the night, Colfax sent Hughes on his way. He listened at the door to the cowboy’s footsteps as they faded down the hallway; then he strapped on his Colt. He picked up his big coat, for he knew that up in the mountains at night the cold could be bitter, even this time of year. He grabbed his Winchester carbine, put on his hat, and moved to the door. Opening the door only slightly, he peered out into the hallway. He saw no one. He stepped out, shut and locked the door behind himself, and walked down the hallway—not toward the stairway which led down into the hotel lobby, but in the opposite direction. The hallway led to a window which Colfax opened. Below the window was a small landing with a narrow stairway leading down into the alley—a fire escape. Unseen, he made his way down the stairs, down the alley, and around to the stable. Soon he was riding toward the mountains.
Quitting Time Page 6
