by Ron Schwab
“Yes,” Dan said, “I know Sol never quite understood my artistic pursuits. But he seemed to accept it and didn’t hold it against me too much. He even sat for a portrait.”
“Yes, he mentioned that, and I think, deep down, he was quite proud of it. Anyway, he said you were one of those rare men he had encountered who was true to himself, and he had an expression . . . what was it? Cowboy talk has always intrigued me, and I try to catalog these things in my mind. Oh, yes, he said your word was as binding as a hangman’s knot. Yes, that’s what it was. Interesting, isn’t it? I should think you would take it as a compliment.”
“Yes, I do. I don’t know that he was right, but it’s something to live up to. But that’s no reason to leave me a half interest in his ranch.”
“I suppose not.” Battie furrowed his brow and rubbed his temple thoughtfully. “Something else, as I recall, something that made little sense at the time and still defies understanding, unless—”
“Unless what?”
“You and Miss Grant,” Battie said. “You’re not betrothed, are you?”
“No, hardly. And at the time Sol made his will, Meg and I were barely speaking.”
“I see.”
“What did he say?” Dan asked.
“Well, I’m almost certain he said that sooner or later the ranch would get put back together anyway.”
Dan shook his head in disbelief. Had the old buzzard been matchmaking from the grave? Certainly, his death and the common ownership of the land had pushed him and Megan toward friendship again, and now they were more than friends. But he didn’t know yet how much more. He could just see old Sol sitting on a cloud somewhere grinning at his small joke.
Dan pushed his chair back from Battie’s desk. “Thank you, Mr. Battie. You’ve been very helpful.”
“I hope so, Mr. McClure. If there’s anything else, please don’t hesitate to get in touch with me.”
Dan started to rise but then sat back down. “There is something else.”
“Yes?”
“Do you represent Mr. Dunkirk or his enterprises?”
“No, sir. Woodson Dunkirk and I never quite saw eye to eye. He obtains his legal counsel in Ogallala, I believe. He also retains an Omaha firm for some of his more complex dealings.
“Good. Then perhaps we can speak freely about Mr. Dunkirk.”
“I should think so.”
“Do you think Dunkirk’s the kind of man to order the attacks that have been taking place on the small ranchers?”
“I doubt it. Not if he was in his right mind.”
“Why not?”
“Ten years ago, perhaps even five, one could understand a greedy, lawless man seeking such an approach. Understand it, mind you, but not approve it. But we have a sound system of law developing in this state. The criminal law is still lax in the Panhandle, but it’s coming, and an intelligent man like Mr. Dunkirk would see that. I don’t think he would risk his empire in such blatant ways. It troubles me to say this, but I suspect he would employ lawmakers to accomplish his objectives by more legitimate methods. And I never felt that Mr. Dunkirk was a violent man. I have been here some years, and there was never anything in his nature to indicate it. There was no violence until about two years ago. No, I do not necessarily accept the popular assumption that Mr. Dunkirk is behind the raids.”
“What about his foreman, Clay Sutherly?”
“I can’t say. I’ve seen the man on the street occasionally, but I’ve never met him. Folks tell me that the man is intensely loyal to Woodson Dunkirk and that he seems to be in love with Mr. Dunkirk’s daughter. It was evidently reciprocated at one time, I am told, but they have had a falling out in recent months. She’s quite headstrong, I gather, and there seems to be some dispute over who will eventually control the ranch. There’s a great deal of speculation over what will become of it. Mr. Dunkirk has apparently anointed Mr. Sutherly as his successor to the throne, and it would be only natural, I suppose, that he would find Mr. Sutherly’s marriage to his daughter very gratifying. I always wondered if Miss Dunkirk’s friendship with the other gentleman was the destructive influence on her relationship with Mr. Sutherly.”
“Are you talking about her rancher friend?”
“I know nothing about a rancher. I was referring to her friendship with Sheriff Keaton.”
“Liz Dunkirk and Keaton? They’re friends?”
“It would seem so. I hope it doesn’t appear unseemly of me, but I have a clear view of the sheriff’s office from my window. I’ve seen Miss Dunkirk enter his office on many occasions the past several years, as often as two or three times a week. They’re never seen together socially, but she has been in his office sometimes for as long as several hours. Of course, I’m not one to gossip, and I feel a bit uncomfortable relating this.”
Dan stood and extended his hand to the portly lawyer. “Mr. Battie, you’ve been very helpful. I can’t thank you enough.”
The lawyer rose and accepted Dan’s hand. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“I have to be going now, Mr. Battie. I’ll explain some other time. Thanks again.”
28
AFTER LEAVING LAWYER Battie’s office, Dan strolled over to the telegraph office and dispatched a message to Omaha for art supplies. He informed the telegrapher that he would return in a few days to see if there was any response.
As he stepped out onto the boardwalk, he debated whether to pay a call on Sheriff Stiles Keaton. His only motive was to badger and needle, hoping that Keaton would make some slip that would unlock the door to a lot of answers he was looking for. But it was a little like teasing a rattlesnake, he decided. You could tease it for a long time without getting bit, but if you moved too slowly just once, you could end up dead.
No, he decided, it was not time to face Keaton. There were still a few things he wanted to know before he confronted the man.
As he walked back up the street in the direction of the lawyer’s office where he had hitched the stallion, Dan saw that the decision had been made for him. Keaton, with his butt resting on the hitching rail, stood next to the horse and sucked contemplatively on a cigar. The sheriff looked up when he heard Dan approaching, but his reptilian eyes did not so much as blink to acknowledge Dan’s presence.
The sheriff turned slowly away, fixing his eyes on some invisible object across the street and blew out a billowing, perfect ring of smoke. Dan strolled slowly toward the sheriff who blocked his path to the stallion.
“You looking for me, Sheriff?” he asked.
“Not necessarily.”
“Fine, then I’ll be on my way.”
Keaton stood up and brushed some imaginary dust off his black trousers before he spoke. “But as long as you’re here, I thought we might have a few words.”
“If you like. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve been hearing some rumors about some vigilante activity in the hills. A cattlemen’s organization.”
“There is a new organization, yes. The Pine Ridge Cattlemen’s Association. I’m acting as temporary president.”
“Then I’m talking to the right man. McClure, I won’t have people taking the law into their own hands. I’ve heard about some things I don’t like.”
“Is that right? If you’ll tell me about them, Sheriff, maybe I can clear up any gossip.”
Despite his outward calm, Dan noticed that the sheriff’s hands and neck were tense, like flattened wire coils ready to spring.
“I’ve been told,” Keaton said, “that this association of yours is stirring up trouble. Making threats on the Diamond D. I got word this morning that you and some other men raided the Dunkirk place last night, set some fires, injured some men. I’ll be riding out there this morning to talk to Mr. Dunkirk and his people. If what I heard is true, I’ll be making some arrests.”
“For what?” Dan asked.
“Trespass. Assault. No doubt some other laws were broken too.”
“Is that what you’re here for? To arrest me? If
so, I’m unarmed. I’ll go peacefully.”
“No. Not yet. I’m just giving you fair warning. Let me take care of any problems in this county. If your Association keeps sending out patrols, somebody’s going to get hurt before long.”
“We’ve already been hurt, Sheriff, and we haven’t seen any sign that you’ve done anything about it. That’s why we organized the Association. We’d like nothing better than to get back to our own business interests, but you don’t seem to care much about what’s going on unless it works for Dunkirk.”
“Are you accusing me?”
Dan chose not to reply directly to the sheriff’s query. “While you’re out at Dunkirk’s place, Sheriff, you might swing by the Tumbling T. Chris Tyler had his barn burned to the ground last night, and we’ve got good reason to believe he and his family wouldn’t be alive today if it weren’t for the Cattlemen’s Association.”
“Oh? This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
The sheriff sounded bored. Was this the time to probe for an answer? He would never have a better opportunity; he was sure of that.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand, Sheriff.”
Keaton’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”
“I don’t see how you and Miss Dunkirk missed all the hell that was raised in the hills last night.”
The sheriff’s face flashed white, and Dan caught the fleeting moment of panic in his eyes. Keaton had been with Liz last night.
“Who says I was with Miss Dunkirk last night?”
The sheriff was moving cautiously, not denying it, but testing to see just how much Dan knew. Well, he would let the lawman think he knew a lot more than he did. “Several of our men said they saw you and Miss Dunkirk near the Tyler place last night. They couldn’t figure out why you didn’t lend a hand. You know one of them even had the silly notion that you were in cahoots with the raiders. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
The sheriff flicked his half-smoked cigar on the street and ground it into the fine dust with his boot. “Your men were mistaken, or they lied.”
“Well, I’d like to think so. But they were damned positive about what they saw. A man can’t help but wonder,” Dan said.
Keaton opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it, drawing his thin lips tight. He wheeled away from Dan and walked away, heading toward his office across the street with quick, deliberate steps.
So Keaton’s involvement was more than passive. And Liz obviously knew more than Dan had ever suspected. But who was giving the orders? Dunkirk? Clay Sutherly?
Dan had a feeling that he had all the pieces to the puzzle now, if he could just put them together. He stepped over to Atlas and rubbed the big stallion’s muzzle gently. The horse accepted the show of affection for a moment; then, as if remembering some distant hurt, he tossed his head defiantly. “It’s all right, boy,” Dan said as he mounted. “I understand. It all takes time. Maybe we’ll both find some peace soon.”
29
MEGAN LISTENED AS Dan’s pencil traveled across the thick parchment paper. She tried to visualize the sketches that were unfolding there. She could not explain it, but for some reason not being able to see what he was doing now pained her more than anything had since the early days of her blindness. She sat beside him at the kitchen table. They spent most of their time together at this table, and she savored these moments as much as she loathed the hours he was away.
The Pine Ridge had been quiet now for the better part of two weeks, not that anyone thought the days of flame and bloodshed had passed. It was a lull. Dan had called it the calm before the storm. She knew it was more than intuition on his part; something had happened the day he rode into Medicine Hill. He had bottled it up inside him, trying to spare her anguish, she assumed. It didn’t work that way. It only frightened her, leaving her with a sense of impending tragedy.
Dan’s voice broke into her thoughts. “We finished clearing the site this afternoon. Cal’s sending some men up to help lay the foundation the day after tomorrow.”
“Do you have enough limestone?”
“Yeah. I think we’ve got enough for the fireplace and the foundation.”
“I’m glad you’re nestling the new house in closer to the hills. It will be cozier, don’t you think?”
“Yes. We’ll have better protection from the winds. I hadn’t planned to build anything this large, but I’ll be able to use all native materials, and I want this place to last a long time. I don’t want to interrupt my work again with adding on.”
“What are you sketching now?” she asked.
“I’m making some changes on the room arrangements.”
“Why I thought we’d decided . . . you’re not doing anything to the gallery, are you?”
“No, the studio and the gallery are just like we agreed on. There’s a separate entrance to the gallery, so it will have access without interfering with the living quarters.”
“So what are you changing?”
“Well, I hadn’t said anything about it before, but I’ve added to the plans since we talked about them earlier.”
“Did you decide to put on a second story?”
“No, I just added to one wing.”
She was slightly hurt that he had not discussed it with her, but it was his house, she reminded herself. It was none of her concern. “What . . . what exactly are you doing?”
“I was thinking about it about a week ago,” he said. “The home was everything an artist could want. Working space, atmosphere, display rooms. But I’m not going to paint 24 hours a day . . . at least not every day.”
“I would think not.”
“I’ve decided there wasn’t enough room to live in,” Dan said.
“You have to be joking. You have a parlor, a study, a kitchen.”
“There’s only one bedroom.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“I decided to expand that bedroom and add two more.”
“But why?” Megan asked.
“I don’t want to live there alone. I don’t think I even want to build it if I have to live there alone.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I want to share my life with someone. I want a woman, and I want children. There’s no better country for raising children, sons and daughters who will be strong and free and creative. It would be a crime against nature for me to hole up in a big house like that and paint my life away. Besides, after a time, I don’t think I’d be much of an artist. You can’t paint life without living it. I’ve thought about that. I know you can’t. My best work came from what I lived.”
“Including Angela?” Megan asked impishly.
“Damn it. Yes. Including Angela.”
“I was just teasing.”
“I know you were. I have a way of taking myself too seriously. Somehow this isn’t coming out the way I’d planned it.”
“You mean the house?”
“No, I don’t mean the house. I’m referring to this speech.”
“Oh, you’re giving a speech. I’m glad you paint better than you speak, or there wouldn’t be much hope for you.”
Why was she fencing with him this way? Was she afraid of what he was going to say?
Megan heard Dan slide his chair back and get up from the table. Was he angry at her? Was he leaving? Damn, if she could just see his face, read what was in his eyes.
He took her hand. “Megan Grant, stand up and face me,” he said, his voice severe.
She hesitated, confused and mystified, and then rose slowly. He released her hand and she felt his hands close gently on her shoulders, and as she faced him, her legs trembled, and she felt weak at his touch. Her heart raced frantically as she struggled to control the turbulent emotions that swept over her.
“Dan, I—”
“Don’t say a word, Megan. Just this once. Let me say what I’ve got to say.”
She was more than willing to hear him out, for his actions had addled her brain, dried her throat and left her tongue-tied.
; “Meg, I knew it was building to this. It has been since we first met. But at first you seemed like such a child. I know different now. You’re a woman, a sensitive, intelligent, strong woman.”
“Dan, please—”
“Let me finish, Meg. I said I can’t paint without living any more than I can live without painting. When I think of life and living, your face is always there. I can’t separate my life from yours. Oh, hell, I can’t be making any sense. Why don’t I just say it . . . I’m in love with you, Meg. You’re the one I want to share the rest of my life with. We planned the house together. We put both our hearts into that home. It’s as much yours as it is mine, maybe more. I didn’t change much. Just enough to make room for you and our children.” His grip on her shoulder tightened and then relaxed. “I’m asking you to marry me, Meg.”
Suddenly her eyes burned and she felt the tears stream down her cheeks as his lips touched her forehead. “Dan, I . . . I don’t know what to say.” Was that her squeaky, crackly voice that said that?
“You don’t have to say much, Meg. Will you marry me? All I need is one word.”
“No,” she said, her voice shaky. “I’m sorry, Dan. I can’t. No.” Her body began to shake spasmodically. “I’m sorry.”
She tore away from him, knocking over the chair, disoriented for a moment as she wandered helplessly about the room. She got her bearings and clumsily made her way out of the kitchen and rushed to the bedroom. Once inside, she closed the door, pushed the bolt that locked it, and threw herself on the bed, surrendering to the sobs that racked her body.
She had not remembered falling asleep, and the dull, persistent throbbing in her temple told her she had not slept all that long. The night chill had left her bedroom, and the tantalizing smell of frying bacon confirmed that it was well past sunrise and that someone else was tending to the kitchen chores. Why hadn’t Charlie awakened her? She raised herself up and swung her legs off the bed, sitting there for a spell, trying to shake off the unfamiliar grogginess that numbed her brain. Only then did she realize that she was still in the gingham dress she had worn the night before.
