Quitting Time

by Robert J Conley

  “You shouldn’t have any problem there,” said Colfax. “You’re a fine actress.”

  “Thank you, but I’m afraid that my heart isn’t in it anymore. Not the way it used to be. I wish—”

  She paused and stared at the river rushing past. Colfax looked at her and waited for her to finish her wish. She didn’t, and he sat down beside her.

  “What do you wish, Alma?” he said.

  “Oh, nothing,” she said. “I’m being silly.”

  Colfax reached into his pocket for tobacco and papers. He started to roll a cigarette, paused, then held the makings out for Alma to look at.

  “Do you mind?” he asked.

  “Not at all.”

  He finished rolling his cigarette, lit it, and blew some smoke to the winds.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  “Go ahead what?”

  “Be silly. I won’t tell anyone.”

  “I don’t even remember what I was saying,” said Alma, and she laughed, a little musical laugh.

  “You had started to express a wish.”

  “All right, then,” she said. “I will. I wish that I could do like you. I wish I could say, I’m going to Texas, or something like that, and then do it. That’s what I wish.”

  “You could give up your career?” said Colfax with surprise in his voice.

  “I feel trapped in it, actually. It’s a tiring life. The tours are especially exhausting. I’ve been working since I was seventeen years old, Cole. Yes. I’d like to be able to quit. And now these awful murders. Aaron and Chiron and Demetrius and now poor Tamora.”

  Colfax looked at Alma. His face registered a sudden realization. He started to speak but didn’t. He knew. Now he knew. But he couldn’t say it. Not yet. There was no proof. But the proof would be up on the hill. Damn, he thought. It was so simple. All it took to make everything clear was just what she said—the way she said it.

  “Alma,” he said, “do you believe that there are people so unsophisticated as to be unable to distinguish between the action on a stage and reality?”

  “Oh, yes, of course there are. We don’t encounter them so much in New York, but there are all kinds of tales about that sort of thing—well—out west. What are you getting at?”

  “What kinds of tales?”

  “Well, one I recall was that someone once shot the poor hound that was pursuing Eliza in a production of Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you think it was because he thought he was rescuing Eliza?”

  “Well, I suppose there are other possibilities, but that’s the way the story’s always been told.”

  Colfax stood up from his seat on the rock. He took a final drag on his cigarette and tossed the butt away and paced off a few steps. Then he turned back to face Alma.

  “And you believe it? I mean, you accept that the man killed the dog in an attempt to protect Eliza? He thought that what he was watching on the stage was real?”

  “I don’t really know, I suppose, but, yes, I think so. A child would think it was real, you know. Perhaps an adult with no experience of the theater would experience it for the first time rather like a child, wouldn’t he?”

  “Yes,” said Colfax. “That’s exactly it. Like a child.”

  Alma stood up and walked to Colfax. She put a hand on his arm. He looked troubled, and it worried her.

  “Cole,” she said, “what is it? What are you thinking?”

  “You said it, Alma. Just now. You said Aaron and Chiron and Demetrius and Tamora. You know, when Mr. Potter was killed, I thought that it was because he was black. Then when the next two murders were committed, I thought it was someone out killing actors for some insane reason. I’ve been trying to figure out why anyone would want to kill actors—or why anyone would want to kill Potter, Granger, Tabor, and Mrs. Lindsay. You said Aaron, Chiron, Demetrius, and Tamora, and that’s the key.”

  “What?”

  “What do those four characters have in common?”

  “Why—they are the tormentors of Lavinia, of course. I—oh, my God, Cole. Do you mean to say that they were all killed because—?”

  “Because someone very unsophisticated and childlike saw them tormenting a lovely, innocent, helpless, young woman. I should have seen it, Alma. I should have figured it out sooner.”

  Colfax recalled the ashen-faced Tommy Wheeler as he was leaving the theater the night of the play. He remembered Tommy’s new boots. Tommy’s size was right. And, of course, the boot print in the corral.

  “Cole,” said Alma, a sudden desperation in her voice. “Cole, if you’re right, we must hurry back to town. Adrian may be in terrible danger.”

  “Adrian?” said Colfax. “Damn, you’re right. It was Titus himself who killed Lavinia.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Colfax banged the front door of the Railhead back against the wail in his haste as he rushed in, Alma Dyer right behind him. Passing by the front desk, he spoke brusquely to Monroe Bates.

  “Is Mr. Channing in the lounge?”

  “Yes, sir, I believe so, sir.”

  “Go get the sheriff and bring him back here. Quick.”

  Bates was out the front door about the same time Colfax went into the lounge with Alma still managing to keep up with him. Channing saw them as they stepped into the lounge, and he read the desperate intensity in their movements and expressions. He got up from his chair and hurried to meet them.

  “What is it?” he said. “What’s happening?”

  “Thank God you’re safe,” said Alma.

  Colfax looked around the room. There wasn’t a large crowd, and they were mostly seated at tables up near the bar. He selected a corner table with no one near it, motioned toward it, and put a hand on the back of each of his companions.

  “Let’s take that table over there,” he said, and he gave them each a gentle push in that direction. They walked across the room and sat down.

  “For God’s sake, Mr. Colfax,” said Channing, “what’s this all about?”

  “Mr. Channing,” said Colfax, “I know who the killer is, and I know that you are his next intended victim.”

  “What?”

  “Now try to stay calm,” said Colfax. “I’m going out to find him. In the meantime, I want you to stay here. Stay out in public with a crowd if possible. I’ve sent for the sheriff to be here while I’m gone.”

  “You know where to find this person?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, who is it, man?”

  Colfax thought about what had happened in his absence when the word had gotten around that Chase was a suspect. He had said that he knew who the killer was, and he felt confident in that assertion. But there was always the possibility that he was wrong. And even if he was right, he didn’t want an angry mob getting its hands on Tommy Wheeler. He had thought that when he found the murderer of these actors, he would have no mercy. He had thought that he would take delight in the killing of this deranged madman. But Tommy Wheeler was no madman. Tommy was a child in a man’s body. Tommy was guilty of murder, but his guilt grew out of his innocence. It was the greatest irony Colfax had yet faced in his life. The murders of the four actors sickened him, but the thought of the fate of the poor, pitiful young man with the mind of a child fIlled him with indignation at the inequities of birth. Yet what if Tommy was not at home, not to be found? What if, while Colfax was up the hill searching, Tommy should make his way into Pullman to complete his convoluted sequence of justice? Channing had to be told.

  “Mr. Channing,” said Colfax, “please keep this to yourself. I don’t want another mob incited to riot. I’m satisfied that I know who the killer is, but as before, I don’t have proof. You remember young Tommy Wheeler?”

  “Tommy Wheeler?” repeated Channing, his face wrinkled in a reflection of his mind’s attempt to put a face with the name.

  “The young man in the family we spoke to in the street,” said Colfax. “They were in a wagon.
”

  “Oh, yes. He seemed to be pouting, I believe. And he, uh, I thought he appeared to be a bit—slow.”

  “Yes,” said Colfax with a sigh.

  “I only saw him briefly,” said Channing, “but I—oh, not him, surely.”

  “I’m afraid so, Mr. Channing,” said Colfax. “He’s the one. Tommy Wheeler. Perhaps Mrs. Dyer will explain it to you while I’m gone.”

  “Yes,” said Alma.

  Colfax glanced up and saw Dort coming in the door to the lounge. The lawman glanced around the room, spotted Colfax and Channing, and headed toward them.

  “Be careful,” Colfax said to Channing. He rose from his chair and put his hat on. “I’m going out after him now.”

  Colfax turned to leave just as Dort walked up.

  “What’s this all about, Colfax?” said Dort.

  “Sheriff,” said Colfax, “I don’t have time to explain everything to you. I think I’ve identified the murderer, and I’m going after him. I sent for you to protect Mr. Channing here. He’s next on the man’s list.”

  Colfax turned and walked out of the lounge without another word.

  “How the hell does he know that?” said Dort.

  “Sheriff,” said Alma Dyer, “if you’ll sit down with us, I’ll try to explain to you and Mr. Channing just how Mr. Colfax knows who the next target will be.”

  The saddle horses were gone from the Wheeler corral when Colfax arrived at the Wheeler place. The brothers, he figured, were out somewhere at work. Smoke was rising from the stovepipe, so Dora Wheeler was inside, probably baking bread. Colfax felt somehow guilty. This was a happy family of good people. For a fleeting moment, he thought of riding away. Then he remembered the savage slashing of Dallas Potter and the equally brutal knifings of Granger and Tabor, and he pictured the body of Dixon Lindsay with its throat slit. He steeled himself to his unpleasant task and recalled a line from Hamlet. “Cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right.” He urged his rented horse forward and halted it at the corral, where he dismounted and lapped the reins around the top rail. Then he ducked under the top rail and stepped over the bottom one to get inside the corral. The wagon team moved lazily away from him as he walked across the corral to the fence on the back side. The boot print was still there. It was still clear. It had been protected because it was almost under the fence rail. Any other individual prints in the corral had long since been trampled by the horses. Colfax studied the print for a long moment, as if he wished that it would vanish, or that it would somehow tell him that he had read it incorrectly. Finally he stood up and walked away from it. He looked around the corral for any others like it, but he found none.

  He left the corral and started toward the house, but he stopped. What would he say to Dora Wheeler? He had no idea. How could he tell her what it was he was searching for? Facing Lark and Spud would be bad enough, but he didn’t know how to face Dora. Again he thought of riding away, but just then Dora Wheeler opened the front door and stepped out of the house.

  “Oh,” she said. “Hello, Mr. Colfax. I thought I heard someone out here. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m feeling just fine, Mrs. Wheeler,” Colfax said. “Thanks to you.”

  “Well, what are you doing back up here? I thought that your—business up here was done.”

  “Mrs. Wheeler,” said Colfax, “could I ask you where you throw your trash?”

  “What? What for?”

  “Please, Mrs. Wheeler.”

  “Well,” she said, “it’s right over here.”

  Dora Wheeler started walking around the far side of the house. Colfax followed her. She led him behind the house and down a narrow trail a few yards back into the brush.

  “Right here,” she said, indicating a partially burned heap of trash. “Sometimes we burn it.”

  Colfax walked up close to the trash heap and squinted at it. He thought that he could see a worn piece of leather, but it was only slightly protruding out from under some discarded rags. He looked around, found a piece of branch about two and a half feet long, and picked it up. Then, probing with his stick, he uncovered the boots. They were not burned. He pulled them out of the trash pile with his stick and dropped them at his feet. He dropped the stick and squatted down to examine the boots. He picked up the right boot and turned it over. The sole had a slash across it. The boot still had traces of what Colfax figured must be the blood of Dallas Potter on the sole and in the slash. His elbows were on his knees, the boot in his left hand. He put his right hand to his forehead, took a deep breath, and sighed heavily.

  “Mr. Colfax,” said Dora, “what’s this all about?”

  Colfax stood up and faced Dora. He still held the boot in his left hand.

  “This boot,” he said, but he couldn’t make the rest of the words come out. He heard the sound of approaching horses out on the trail in front of the house, and he felt a tremendous sense of relief. He glanced in the direction of the welcome noise.

  “That’ll be Lark and them,” said Dora. She turned and walked back toward the house and around it to the riverside trail. Colfax followed. Lark and Spud were just dismounting in front of the house.

  “Colfax?” said Lark. “What brings you up here?”

  Colfax held the boot out for Lark to see.

  “I just have one question for you, Mr. Wheeler,” he said. “Did you know about this?”

  Lark opened his mouth as if to speak, but he just stood there. Spud looked from Lark to Colfax in confusion. Suddenly he turned back to his horse and reached for the saddle gun there. Colfax had his Colt out and aimed at Spud before Spud had the rifle halfway out of its scabbard.

  “Don’t do that,” he said.

  “Let it go, Spud,” said Lark.

  “Damn it, Lark,” said Spud. “You know what he’s asking?”

  “I know,” said Lark. “I said let it go.”

  Spud turned loose of the rifle, and it slid back into the leather sheath. He turned slowly and took a couple of unsure steps back toward Colfax. Lark’s hands went to his face and he started to sob.

  “What is it, Lark?” said Dora. She got no answer, so she turned to Spud. “What is it? You better tell me what’s going on.”

  Colfax shoved his Colt back into its holster, high and toward the front. Again he felt like he was the guilty party. Someone had to answer Dora’s question, though.

  “This boot,” he said, “was worn by the man who murdered the actors.”

  “Tommy’s boot?” said Dora. “Who would be wearing Tommy’s boot? I—Oh, no. No. Lark?”

  Lark took a deep breath and ceased his sobs. He wiped his eyes with one swipe of a sleeve, and drew himself up tall.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” said Colfax.

  “How can I answer it?” said Lark. “Did I know? Maybe I did, but I couldn’t let myself believe it. No, I don’t think I knew. Not really. Not until just now, seeing you there with that boot, hearing your question. I don’t know how to answer your question, Colfax. God, he’s my baby brother.”

  “All right,” said Colfax. “We’ll let that go. Where is he?”

  “I thought he’d be here. He rode out with us this morning. A little while ago we couldn’t find him. We thought that he’d probably gone home.”

  “He’s got to be found,” said Colfax. “He’s got to be stopped.”

  “I know,” said Lark. “I’m going with you.”

  Colfax wondered briefly about the advisability of riding after a killer alongside the man’s brother, but he mentally shrugged off the worry and headed for his horse. This family was already hurting too much. Spud turned and started to swing into his saddle.

  “You stay here, Spud,” said Lark.

  “He’s my brother, too,” said Spud.

  “I don’t want Dora here alone. Not now. Besides, Tommy might come back home. One of us needs to be here.”

  Spud took his horse by the reins and started walking him to the corral. Colfax and Lark headed down the trail.

&
nbsp; Chapter Eighteen

  The sun was nearly down when Tommy Wheeler reached Pullman. He tied his horse to a hitch rail on one of the side streets, then walked to the corner and peeked out onto the main street. He looked up and down. He saw some people walking along, but he didn’t know them. He did not see the bad old man. He wondered how much time he would have before his brothers came looking for him. He hoped that he would be able to find the bad old man and do what he had to do and get back home before his brothers missed him. If they wanted to know where he had been, he would tell them that he had been at the river. He liked the river, and he spent a lot of time there. They would believe him if he said that he had been at the river. He wondered where the bad old man was. He walked down the street, the back street he had ridden in on, until he came to the back of the Railhead Hotel. He had seen the bad old man and the others who were with him go into the Railhead before. He might be in there. Lights were on already. It wasn’t really dark yet. Not quite.

  Tommy walked up close enough to look into one of the lighted windows, but not so close that anyone inside would see him. He was looking into the kitchen. He saw the cooks and dishwashers rushing about, and he thought that they must have hard jobs. He was glad that he was a cowboy and worked for Lark. Lark made him work hard sometimes, but Lark was his brother and took care of him, and besides that, Tommy liked the animals: the horses and the cows. He wouldn’t like to have to work in a kitchen. He walked around to the side of the building and looked in at another window. This time he found the lounge. There were lots of people in there. Some of them were eating, but most of them were just drinking. He saw some of the people who had come to town with the bad old man, and he saw the sheriff, Mr. Dort. Mr. Dort was standing at the door with his arms folded across his chest, and he looked like he was just watching things. Tommy wondered if Mr. Dort was expecting trouble, and he wondered, if that was the case, just what kind of trouble Mr. Dort was looking for.

  There were so many people in there that it took him a long time to look them over, to look at their faces, and some of them had their backs to him, so it was hard to tell who they were. Finally he was satisfied that the bad old man wasn’t one of the people he could see. He knew the room was bigger, though, that if he moved up closer to the window he’d be able to see more of them. Still, he didn’t want anyone to see him there pressing his face against the window. He looked up at the sky and saw that it was getting dull and gray. It would be dark pretty soon, he figured. He would wait. He put his back against the wall of the building a few feet away from the window and sat down in the dirt. The knife in its scabbard pressed hard against his thigh, and he had to shift its position so he could sit there comfortably.