Quitting Time

by Robert J Conley

  He would get through with his ugly task this evening, he thought. He would be glad to have it over with. He didn’t like killing these people, but they were bad. They had hurt that young woman. He had seen it. The two men had taken her away somewhere and had cut off her hands and cut out her tongue. He had seen the stumps and he had seen the blood. And they had done other bad things to her, things that Lark and Spud didn’t think he knew about. But he did know about them, and he knew that they had done those things to her. And the black man and that other woman, they had told the two men what to do and helped them do it and then they had laughed about it and teased the woman after she had been hurt. People shouldn’t do those things to anyone, Tommy thought, but especially not to a pretty, helpless young woman. He had getten those four, but the bad old man was left. He was the one who had finally killed the woman. Now Tommy was going to kill him.

  The sun had gone down a little lower and the sky was a heavy gray. Tommy stood up and inched his way to the window. Standing slightly to one side, he pressed his face against the rough siding of the building and peered in sideways. He could see more people than before. He knew there would be more. He looked from one face to another, and finally he saw him. His back was to the window, but Tommy could tell who he was. He was a big man, and he had wild white hair that fell clear to his shoulders. It was the bad old man. But the room was full of people and Mr. Dort still stood in the doorway. He had to find a way to get the bad old man out of the room, or to get the other people out of there. He sat down again to think.

  Absent-mindedly he felt the matches in his shirt pocket. Lark didn’t like for him to have them. He had sneaked them out of the match safe, the pretty tin box, where Dora kept them beside the stove. He liked the way their red tips flared up when they were scratched on a rough surface, so sometimes, even though he knew that it would make Lark mad at him, he sneaked some. Then it came to him. He knew how to get them out of the hotel. He clambered to his feet and ran back to the street behind the Railhead, turned, and hurried down to the other end of the street to the back of the stable. He looked inside. He could see no one. He tried the back door and found it unlocked. Inside, he opened all the stalls and chased the horses up close to the front of the building, then opened the front door so they could get out. Then he ran to the back of the building again, and dropped down on his knees. The floor was covered with loose straw, dry and ready to burn. He struck a match.

  Pete Elston was Chief of the Pullman Voluntary Fire Department. He was proud of his position, and he was especially proud of the new steamer the town had purchased. It had never yet been used, not for a real fire, and Pete was secretly ecstatic when he heard the cry “Fire!” At last he would be able to get the new machine out and put it into action. It was a Hurp steam pumper with pumps under the driver’s seat capable of pumping 600 gallons of water a minute. A man on the rear platform of the wagon stoked the boiler to create the steam to build up the pressure to operate the pumps. The latest thing. The best available. It was painted red and pulled by two white horses, and the blood seemed to race through Pete’s veins as the white horses raced down the street toward the blazing stable. The bell was clanging, and people were running in the street alongside the steamer while the flames rose higher and grew hotter at the stable. Pete Elston shouted out orders, but they could not be heard over the general din.

  Tommy Wheeler watched the excitement for a moment from the corner of the Railhead. Then he pulled himself away, for he remembered that he had something much more important to take care of. The fire was just to help him do his job. He was glad to see, though, that the horses had all run out the front of the stable to escape the blaze. He ran around the building and came up to the window he had looked through before. The room was empty. Tommy felt panic grip his insides. Why had he not realized that the bad old man would run out with everyone else? Where could he have gone? Tommy ran to the front of the building again and searched the crowd racing by in the street. All seemed utter confusion. It seemed as if the entire population was out on the street racing toward the fire. Tommy reached into his pocket and found his remaining matches. He thought hard, then turned and ran for the opposite end of town.

  Adrian Channing’s wagons were parked on the south side of the big theater which Tiff Lanagan called his opry house. Tommy grabbed the tongue of the wagon out front, turned it, and dragged the wagon until it was right up against the side of the building. Then he crawled inside the wagon from the rear and piled up all the cloth he could find. He struck a match and started a new fire. When he was satisfied that it would burn, he scrambled out of the wagon, ran to the back of the building, and hid himself around the corner. The flames were soon licking at the side of the theater.

  Down at the stable Pete Elston’s steamer was not making a good showing. The boiler wasn’t hot enough to produce enough steam to develop the necessary pressure. The water pouring out the end of the hose was running uselessly onto the ground. People were running for buckets and forming a bucket brigade at the nozzle of the hose. Elston continued to shout unheeded orders while the fire roared. Horses ran wild in the street, and Jerry Slayton ran to and fro doing absolutely nothing worthwhile. Then someone in the crowd saw the flames from the other end of the street.

  “Fire!” he shouted.

  No one paid any attention. They already knew about the fire. He realized that, and shouted again.

  “The opry house is burning. There’s another fire.”

  A few heads turned. One was that of Adrian Channing.

  “My wagons,” he said, and he started down the street at a run. By the time Channing reached the theater, he was breathing hard and running more slowly. He had no water. No one had run to the theater with him. He rounded the corner of the building and saw his wagon in a blaze. Pulling off his jacket, he ran to the wagon and began beating at the flames.

  Colfax and Lark Wheeler saw the flames before they would have been able to see the town without them. It was as if there were two extra sunsets, but in the wrong part of the sky. In surprise and confusion, they reined in their mounts.

  “What the hell is that?” said Wheeler.

  “It’s Pullman,” said Colfax. “Burning from both ends.”

  It was the time between daylight and darkness, that time of day when, more than any other time except its direct opposite, the dawn, the light plays tricks on vision. Colfax knew that it would be dangerous to race the horses pell-mell down the trail. Also, the distance was too great to run the horses hard the whole way, yet the flames created in Colfax, and apparently in Wheeler as well, an even greater sense of urgency than before.

  “Let’s go,” said Wheeler, and he lashed his horse with the reins. Colfax, in spite of his better judgment, kicked his mount and shouted a command in order to keep pace with the other rider.

  Adrian Channing could feel the flames singe his hair. His face was burning hot, yet he continued to beat at the inferno that raged inside his wagon and up the side of the theater building. Where are the others? he thought to himself. Am I the only human being in this town who has seen these flames? He slapped again, and as he drew back the jacket, now smoldering, for another swing, a flaming piece of wagon cover came with it, came at him, and he dodged it with an involuntary cry. As he stepped back and aside, he tripped and fell heavily to his back. There on the ground, forced to pause, his mind took quick stock of his hopeless situation. Four of his actors were dead, and the wagon was a loss. He knew in that instant that he was fighting a losing battle. He raised himself up on his elbows and watched. He was giving it up. He was finished.

  Then from around the far side of the flaming wagon came Tommy Wheeler, knife held high. Channing screamed again as he rolled quickly to one side, just in time to avoid Tommy’s wild thrust. Tommy landed on his belly, his knife buried in the earth where Channing had been. Both men scrambled to their feet. Channing assumed the defensive posture of a wrestler. His eyes were opened wide, and the light from the nearby flames danced across his old
features, making hideous patterns.

  “Listen to me,” he said, his voice coming with difficulty through his heavy breathing. “Listen, Tommy. It was only a play. No one was hurt.”

  “I saw you,” said Tommy, and he raised the knife high above his head and lunged for Channing. The old man caught the arm that swung the knife in both his hands, then turned, throwing his backside into Tommy’s smaller much lighter body. He thrust with his hips and pulled with his arms, and Tommy went flying through the air over the old man’s shoulders. Tommy shouted as he flew, but the shout ended when he landed on his back with a hard thud and the wind went out of his lungs and he dropped the knife. He lay on his back, gasping for breath, and only a few paces away Channing stood. Channing knew that he should make another move, take advantage of his temporary upper hand, but the physical exertion of the whole evening had taken its toll. He felt his age more acutely than he ever had before. He was breathing heavily, his shoulders and chest moving in great, desperate heaves. He tried to move, but he couldn’t seem to lift his foot. He watched as Tommy tried to get back his breath, and he prayed that his strength would return before that happened.

  Then Tommy rolled over and got himself up to his hands and knees. He groped in the dirt for his knife. Channing took desperate deep breaths and braced himself for another rush. Tommy found the knife, grasped it, and stood up. But he didn’t rush Channing. He had done that before, and the old man had thrown him. He was more wary. He held the knife out in front of him and began to circle his prey. He reached out tentatively toward Channing with the blade a couple of times, and Channing reacted with defensive moves. Tommy saw that this one was not going to be as easy as the other four. He was frightened, but it was too late to change his mind. It had to be done now. There wouldn’t be another chance. He lowered the knife and rushed Channing with a swift uppercutting motion, the tip of the blade aimed low toward Channing’s gut. Again the old man reacted quickly, grabbing Tommy’s wrist. The point of the blade stabbed into Channing’s thigh, but only an inch or so deep. He held Tommy’s wrist in a viselike grip. With his free hand, Tommy reached up to grab a handful of white hair and began pulling Channing’s head to one side. Channing growled like an old bear. Gripping Tommy’s wrist as hard as he could with his left hand, he released the grip of his right and dealt Tommy a stunning blow to the side of his head. Tommy staggered backward, and as he did, Channing released his wrist. But the force of the blow caused the old man to drop forward to his knees. He tried to rise, but he could not find the strength. Tommy recovered himself from the blow to his head and stepped around behind the kneeling figure of the actor. He raised his knife high in the air.

  “Tommy.”

  The voice came cutting through the hot night air like something solid.

  Tommy stood still, his arm raised high. He looked in the direction of the voice that had called his name. There beside the blazing wagon, Colfax stood, his right arm extended before him, the big Colt in his hand. Tommy looked at the face of Colfax, demonic in the red glare of the flames. Then he looked at the barrel of the big Colt. It was pointed directly at his chest.

  “Tommy,” said Colfax, “it’s all over. Drop the knife.”

  Tommy stood still and stared. His eyes were opened wide in fright and confusion. He had heard his brothers and other men talk about this killing man. He had heard them say that no one had ever escaped Colfax once he got on the trail, and now Colfax was pointing his gun at Tommy. Did Colfax like the bad old man? Tommy had thought that Colfax liked him and his brothers. He didn’t understand.

  “No,” he said. “He’s the bad man. He hurt the lady.”

  “Tommy,” said Colfax as he thumbed back the hammer of the Colt, “put down the knife. Then we’ll talk about this. Put it down.”

  “No.”

  Tommy turned and ran into the darkness. Colfax followed the fleeing figure with his Colt. He had a bead on Tommy’s back, and he felt his finger tightening on the trigger. Then suddenly he bent his elbow and released the hammer. He holstered the Colt and stepped quickly to Channing’s side.

  “Mr. Channing,” he said, “are you all right?”

  Channing was still breathing heavily and had difficulty answering Colfax.

  “I’m afraid,” he said, “that I’m—not as young—as I used to be. The fire—and the fight—have utterly—worn me out.”

  “Can you stand?”

  Colfax put Channing’s arm around his shoulders and helped him to his feet.

  “Hadn’t you—better—go after that—young man?” said Channing.

  “Not until I get you to a safe and comfortable place,” said Colfax. “Come on.”

  The Railhead was a safe distance from the flames of either the stable or the theater, and Colfax walked Channing into its lounge, got him seated, and went behind the bar to get him a shot of brandy. No one else was inside, the fires having attracted every able-bodied man in Pullman. He poured the brandy and took the glass to Channing.

  “Here,” he said. “Drink this.”

  Channing took a sip of the brandy and coughed. He caught his breath and took another sip.

  “I’ll be all right,’ he said. “Thank you. You came just in the nick of time, you know. If you hadn’t come, I’d be a corpse by now for sure.”

  He turned up the glass and finished the brandy. Colfax picked up the glass and stood.

  “You want another one?” he asked.

  “Well, yes,” said Channing. “One more just might put me in tip-top shape again. God, I hope I never have to do that again. I’m past my prime, you know, and I’ve long since surpassed my fighting weight.”

  Colfax brought the bottle back from the bar and sat down again with Channing. He refilled Channing’s glass.

  “You’re not going after young Wheeler?” asked Channing.

  “I’m not leaving you here alone until he’s been caught,” said Colfax. “Not for a minute.”

  When Tommy Wheeler ran from Colfax, he went around the corner to the front of the theater. He looked down the main street of Pullman and saw the blaze of the stable at the other end of town. Most of the citizenry were still down there, shouting and rushing about, but they were beginning to get the fire under control, and a few of them had turned to start toward the theater. Tommy ran toward them for a confused moment, then turned and ran between two buildings. He stopped there in the dark to gather his thoughts. He wondered where Lark was. Lark would help him. Lark would be mad at him, but he would help him. He always did. Lark was probably at home. Tommy wanted to be home. Then he remembered where he had left his horse, and he ran for the back street he had come into town on. Reaching the street, he turned and ran for his horse. He saw it down there in the dark, a large shadowy shape. He would soon be on his way home. He was close to the horse before he noticed the other shape there, the shape of a man standing beside the horse, a man with a rifle in his hand. Tommy stopped. His heart was pounding furiously in his chest. Then he recognized the man, and he smiled.

  “Lark,” he said.

  Lark Wheeler raised the rifle and pulled the trigger. The bullet tore into Tommy’s chest, just above the sternum and slightly to the left. Tommy stood still, his mouth opened in amazement. He looked down at the wound in his chest. It was gushing blood. He dropped his knife and placed both hands over the spouting hole, and the blood ran freely between his fingers and down the front of his shirt. He looked up again at his brother.

  “Lark?” he said, and his eyes glazed over and his face went blank and expressionless and he fell forward like a tree that has just been felled.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was late. The flames were out, but there was nothing left of either Jerry Slayton’s stable or Tiff Lanagan’s opry house but smoldering ashes. The lounge in the Railhead was having a remarkably good night, as everyone seemed to be too excited from the events of the evening to go home to bed. Lark Wheeler had taken his brother’s body and left town as soon as Sheriff Dort had been apprised of all the necessar
y details. He had also told Colfax that he and what remained of his family would be moving on. Colfax himself felt a tremendous sense of relief. Both jobs were done. The murder case had probably been the single worst experience of his life, and he was glad to have it all behind him. He felt free again, and he was having a few drinks of brandy with Adrian Channing and what was left of Channing’s traveling theatrical company. He had enough cash from Lanagan to allow him some relaxing time. He would get drunk, and when he had slept it off, he would buy a ticket on the next train to Texas. He wanted badly to see Bluff Luton, although he couldn’t exactly say why.

  Boyd Gruver was at the bar. He had come into town with other cowboys from Lanagan’s ranch when they had seen the flames. He tossed down a shot of whiskey and walked over to the table at which Colfax was seated with Channing, Alma, and the other actors.

  “Colfax,” he said.

  Colfax turned to look at Gruver.

  “I didn’t like you at first,” said Gruver. “I admit you took some getting used to. But, well, you done what you said you’d do, and I got to admit, you’re a hell of a man. I’d like to shake your hand.”

  Colfax stared at Gruver for a moment, then looked away.

  “I still don’t like you, Mr. Gruver,” he said. “I don’t like you and I don’t like your boss. I don’t like the way you do things.”