Quitting Time

by Robert J Conley

  Woodward Granger and Tyndall Tabor not only played the parts of the inseparable and amoral brothers in Titus Andronicus, they had become in real life practically inseparable. Like all the cast members, they were suffering from frayed nerves as a result of the murder. They were also suffering from intense boredom waiting to find out what Adrian Channing was going to do about the remainder of their western tour. Between them, they had a few dollars, so they decided to check out some of the local saloons. Soon they found themselves at a small bar called Hiram’s, at the far eastern end of the main street of Pullman. They bought a bottle of Cyrus Noble whiskey, and took it with two glasses to a table nearby. Granger looked around the small barroom a bit nervously as Tabor poured two drinks.

  “Cheers,” said Tabor.

  They clinked their glasses together, then tossed down the contents. Tabor poured again.

  “Filthy business about Potter,” he said.

  “Talk about something else,” said Granger. “Just thinking about that makes my skin crawl.”

  Granger tossed down his second drink and pushed his glass toward Tabor, who refilled it.

  “Go a bit slow, Woody,” he said. “The night is yet young.”

  “Yeah,” said Granger, taking a sip from his own drink. “What’s the old man going to do?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” said Tabor. “We’re already as doubled in the cast as we can get, and we’re not likely to find another Aaron the Moor out here in the wild West. He'll have to cancel. That’s what I think.”

  “We could do another play. With a few rehearsals we could do Macbeth. We all know those parts. Just a little brushup would be all we need.”

  “I don’t know. We’ll find out what he’s going to do when he decides, I imagine. Maybe we can suggest it to him if he doesn’t come up with it on his own. He looks awfully worn and tired, you know.”

  “Yes.”

  Tabor poured two more drinks from the bottle of Cyrus Noble. Back in a comer of the room, Rondo Hughes stood up from a table with a group of cowboys and excused himself. He made his way over to the table where Granger and Tabor sat drinking. Stopping, he touched the brim of his hat.

  “Howdy, gents,” he said.

  “Oh,” said Granger, “how do you do? I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “It’s Hughes. Rondo Hughes. Y’all can just call me Rondo.”

  “Would you join us, Mr.—uh, Rondo?” said Tabor.

  Hughes pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “Thank you,” he said. He placed the empty glass he had carried with him from the other table down suggestively in front of himself. Tabor pushed the bottle toward Hughes.

  “Please help yourself,” he said.

  Hughes poured himself a drink, then refilled the glasses of the two actors.

  “You know,” he said, “I never seen a play before. Not until yours. It was pretty damned exciting. Bloody as hell. And it looked real too.”

  “It turned out to be all too real,” said Tabor.

  “Tyndall,” said Granger. “Please.” He tossed his drink down in one gulp and reached for the bottle.

  “Sorry,” said Tabor with a long sigh.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Hughes. “That’s too bad what happened to your nigger. What y’all going to do now?”

  “We don’t know,” said Granger, “and we, uh, we never really thought of Dallas—that way.”

  “He was a fine actor,” said Tabor, “and a good friend. It’s a terrible loss to all of us.”

  Granger emptied his glass again, then leaned back in his chair and put a hand to his forehead.

  “Oh,” he said, “I’m afraid that I’ve passed my limit.”

  “You okay, buddy?” said Hughes.

  “No. Not really. I’d better get myself back to the hotel and go to bed. I’m afraid I may be ill.”

  Tabor stood up.

  “I’ll take you back,” he said.

  “No, no,” said Granger. “I can make it all right. There’s no need for you to cut short your evening just because I’m drunk. I’ll make it.”

  “You’re sure?” said Tabor.

  “Of course,” said Granger, drawing himself up straight and assuming as much dignity as he could manage. “Besides you still have whiskey in the bottle, and it mustn’t go to waste. You two enjoy it. Good night.”

  As Granger staggered out the door, Hughes twisted in his chair to watch the man’s progress.

  “He’ll be all right,” said Tabor. “He doesn’t drink very well, I’m afraid. A fine fellow otherwise.”

  “He seems a mite nervous to me,” said Hughes.

  “We all are. After all, one of our company has just been murdered in this town.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t let that bother me if I was you,” said Hughes. He tossed down his drink and reached for the bottle. “Y’all are white.”

  It was late when Tyndall Tabor said good night to Rondo Hughes and left Hiram’s to return to the hotel. He was a bit unsteady on his feet, but he didn’t stagger the way Granger had. Tabor took pride in his ability to handle the booze. On the stairway in the hotel he slowed down some and had to hang on to the banister and even pull himself up the stairs. He stopped on the landing to catch his breath, then reeled down the hallway to the room he shared with Woodward Granger. He fumbled with the key and dropped it on the floor. Bending to retrieve it, he noticed a faint light coming out under the door. The drunken fool, he said to himself. He’s gone to sleep and left the lamp burning. He stood up and started to unlock the door but found that it was already unlocked.

  “Damn,” he mumbled, as he opened the door. He stepped inside the room and looked up, then stopped. There before him in the faint light from the lamp on the table was Granger. He was lying in bed under the sheet. His eyes were wide open, his lower jaw hanging, and a horrible gash across his throat had let a vast amount of blood run down and soak into the sheets.

  “God,” said Tabor. “Oh, God.” He stepped closer to the bed in horrid fascination. He reached a hand out toward the bloody body but withdrew it with a twitch before it had touched anything. “Oh, my God. Woody.”

  Tabor took two faltering steps backward, then turned to rush from the room, but as he turned he saw a figure step out from behind the open door and step toward him. He started to scream, but the impact of the man’s fist in his stomach stopped the noise. It knocked the wind out of him, and then he felt the deeper pain. It had been more than a fist. He looked down and just before his world started reeling and turning black, he saw the knife which was buried in his flesh.

  Chapter Nine

  It had been a long and cold ride, but Colfax had managed to find his way around both the home of the Wheelers and the camp of Youngblood, and though he had never been there before and it was dark, he believed that he had found the dry wash that Rondo Hughes had told him about. He had used most of the night in getting there, and he couldn’t tell anything in the dark, so he settled down to wait for the light. He wanted to find out if Youngblood had any cattle up there. If so, he wanted to look at their brands. If not, he wanted to know if there had been any held there recently. He wasn’t at all sure what his next move would be if he failed to find any real evidence up here in the draw.

  As the sun began to cast light over the rocks, Colfax, leaving his black mare, walked down into the wash. There were no cattle there. He hadn’t expected any, for even in the dark had there been cattle in any significant numbers, he would surely have heard them or smelled them. No cattle. There was, however, plenty of evidence that a fairly good sized herd had been there recently. Probably, Colfax figured on the basis of the tracks and the droppings, they had been moved out only in the last day or so. He wondered what would have made Youngblood and his bunch move their cows out at just this time. Maybe his presence in the area had made them panic. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so open about his mission. Perhaps if he had been secretive about his reason for being in the valley, he might have been able to catch them off guard
. But no, he decided. His reputation would have precluded that. His presence alone would have alerted them.

  Colfax did not think that anyone was around, but he felt vulnerable there in the open. Besides, there was nothing to be seen in the wash. Cattle had been there and had been moved recently. He made his way back to the black mare and mounted her, then began to backtrack his own trail. The going was much easier in the daylight, and it wasn’t long before Colfax had ridden as far as he wanted to go. He dismounted and tied the black to some brush. If he had calculated right, he should be just due north of the Youngblood camp. He could cut through the brushy foothills and come up on the blind side of the encampment. He would have to go slow and easy. It was noisy traveling through the brush and on the rocks, and he wasn’t exactly sure about the route. He had only guessed that he had started more or less due north of the camp. And he wasn’t sure how far from the camp he would be, even if he did make a straight shot at it. He had ridden at least a mile north of the trail that led to Youngblood’s before heading up into the hills the night before, but the chances were slim that the two trails ran anything like parallel to each other. He could have a mile to walk, or a quarter of a mile. Colfax was a skilled outdoorsman, but he knew that, at best, outdoorsmanship was an inexact science.

  The sun climbed higher into the sky, and soon Colfax was glad that he had left the big coat back on his saddle. He had also left the Winchester. It would be of little use to him in the thick brush and on the rugged terrain through which he was painstakingly making his way, and it would be cumbersome. He moved slowly, stopping and listening frequently. He was on ground totally unfamiliar to him. When the ground suddenly began to slope downward in front of him, he knew that he was either getting close to the river or he had inadvertently changed direction and was moving east, down the mountain. He squinted up into the sky to check the position of the sun. He believed that he was moving in the right direction. Then he saw the smoke.

  He looked around for a better vantage point, spied a large rock just to his right, and scampered up on top of it. It was the cow camp, all right. The smoke was coming from a small fire out in front of the tent on the north side of the river. Colfax could see only one cowboy moving around the camp. From where he perched, he could see no horses. He eased himself back down off the rock and began picking his way toward the camp. Working harder to stay as quiet as possible the nearer he got to the camp, Colfax soon felt the strain. He was sweating freely, and his muscles began to grow weary. He knew that they would ache later. It crossed his mind that he was getting too old for this. Once again he told himself that after this round, it would be quitting time.

  He moved in as close as he dared to the camp. The cowboy was absentmindedly tossing a penknife at a piece of cordwood which lay on the ground. He was standing so that his back was toward Colfax. He tossed the knife, which failed to stick in the wood and fell to the ground. The cowboy bent to pick up his knife from the dirt, and Colfax got a glimpse of his face. It was Denny Doyle. Doyle wiped the blade of his knife on his trouser leg, then faced the tent.

  “J.C.,” he yelled.

  So there was at least one other in the camp. There was no answer, though, and Doyle hollered again.

  “J.C., what the hell are you doing in there?”

  J. C. Butler emerged from the tent.

  “None of your damn business,” he said.

  “I’m getting bored,” said Doyle. “I don’t know why we had to stay here anyhow.”

  “’Cause Youngblood said we ought,” said Butler. “That’s why.”

  Doyle flipped his knife at the stick of wood and missed.

  “But them cows had to be moved fast. They had to be moved fast. That’s what Rondo said. And if the two of us had went along, we could’ve helped them all along faster. Ain’t that right?”

  Rondo Hughes, thought Colfax. So he’s in with them for sure. Colfax had hired Hughes because of his claim to have been formerly associated with the Youngblood bunch. He had not believed the man’s claim that he had left the group, and he had not disbelieved him. He had just decided that it might be handy to have him around, and he had always kept him in sight. The act Hughes had put on for him with Youngblood and the rest the day of the pretended ambush had been a good one, and Colfax had about made up his mind that Hughes was straight, but then Hughes had gotten careless. Colfax had sent him up the mountain alone to follow the cow tracks, and Hughes had said that only a few head had been driven up into the wash. Colfax knew then that something was wrong with Hughes. He had seen the tracks on the trail himself. Now he knew. There was no more question. Rondo Hughes was still working with Youngblood, and they were the rustlers.

  “Denny,” said Butler, “you got a fuss with Youngblood, you tell him about it, all right? I don’t give a shit one way or the other, long as I get my cut.”

  They were guilty, thought Colfax. There was no doubt about it now. Maybe he didn’t have the kind of evidence that would hold up in a court of law, but then, he didn’t give a damn about that. He had enough to convince himself, and that was what mattered to Colfax. He might as well go ahead and take these two, and he’d best do it now, while they were both standing there close together. He eased the Colt out of its holster. He’d have to take about ten steps, he figured, to get into a position where he could adequately cover both men, and they would have to be quiet steps.

  “Well, what the hell are we supposed to do out here while we wait for them to get back? Huh?” said Doyle.

  Butler started walking back toward the tent.

  “Where the hell are you going now?” said Doyle.

  “I don’t want to listen to your bellyaching.”

  Colfax moved fast. He no longer had a choice, but his crashing through the brush alerted the two cowboys. Butler made a dive for a rifle which leaned against the tent, and Colfax made a split-second decision. He stopped, pointed the Colt at Butler, and squeezed the trigger. Butler had just grabbed the rifle and rolled. He was on his back trying to level the rifle. Both his feet were in the air. The .45 slug caught him in the midsection, and his hands went limp. The rifle fell across his thighs, and he made a vain attempt to sit up. He sat for a ludicrous moment on his butt, his head off the ground, his feet still in the air. Then he fell back and lay still.

  But Colfax had turned away from Doyle in order to fire at Butler, and that provided Doyle with all the time he needed to pull his own pistol from his belt and fire a quick shot at Colfax. The bullet burned through Colfax’s flesh on the left side just above his belt. He spun toward the pain, and a second bullet whizzed past his head. He dropped to his left knee, pointed the Colt, and fired. Doyle made a sound as if all his breath had been knocked out of him as the heavy .45 slug smashed through his sternum. He looked down at the wound, surprised; then he sank slowly to his knees. His right hand was still out in front of him, but the fingers slowly relaxed, and the six-gun fell to the ground. Doyle sat down on his feet, swayed a moment, then fell over on his right side.

  Colfax waited a moment, watching the camp and listening. He saw no movement, heard nothing. The gash along his side was burning. It felt like a red-hot iron had been jabbed through his flesh. He reached down and gripped the wound with his left hand and felt the blood running through his fingers. He walked into the camp and looked at the two bodies. Then he looked around. Two horses were in a makeshift corral downhill from the tent. He decided to take a quick look inside the tent. There he found fresh beef, and over in a corner, a cowhide. They had apparently slaughtered one for food before driving off the others. He moved to the hide and gave it a quick inspection. There, with no evidence of even an attempt to alter it, was Tiff Lanagan’s brand. He picked up the cowhide and got out of the tent. He stood there for a moment, trying to decide his next move.

  His horse was too far away and too hard to get to. He was already feeling weak and light-headed. The burning sensation in his left side had begun to give way to a heavy throbbing, each throb accompanied by a dull, sickening pain.
He felt like he was going to puke. The Wheelers. He could get to the Wheelers more quickly and easily than he could to the black mare. He started to walk down the trail. What was he thinking? There were two horses in the corral. The horses of the two men he had just killed. He could take one of them. There was a gray and a dun in the corral, both mares. The dun was a little larger but showed signs of ill use. Colfax chose the smaller gray. Two saddles were hung across the top rail of the corral. He dragged one off the rail and pain shot through his side. Somehow he managed to get the saddle onto the gray and himself up into the saddle without passing out. He took a few deep breaths, then headed the gray down the trail.

  He knew that the trail was steep, but he hadn’t realized before just how steep it really was. He had to lean back in the saddle to keep from losing his balance, and when he did that, it felt as if he were being ripped apart there at his left side just above the belt. The throbbing continued, and the dull, sick feeling at the pit of his stomach grew more intense. As he estimated that he had made it about halfway down to the Wheeler place, he began to feel drowsy. He was afraid that he would go to sleep or pass out before he reached his destination. He vaguely wondered how much blood he had lost. He wondered if the bleeding had stopped or if his body was continuing to be drained. He had no sense of what was happening with the wound other than his too-acute sense of the incessant throbbing.

  He wondered with what little consciousness he had remaining just how he would be received by the Wheelers. His instinct told him that they were not involved with the Hughes-Youngblood gang, but Tiff Lanagan was convinced that they were. Neither Colfax nor Lanagan had any real way of knowing, but then, he didn’t really see that he had much choice at this point. He might make it to the Wheelers. He knew that he could not make it to Lanagan’s, or to Pullman, or to Dierks’s. He certainly could not have made it back to his black mare.