Dark Trail

by Ed Gorman

  “But—”

  “Somebody might as well get something good out of this whole goddamned mess.”

  And with that, Carter pushed his way out of the office and into the dusky street.

  His hand wouldn’t quit twitching. He kept making it into a fist so Hollister wouldn’t see.

  “You all right, Mr. Evans?” Hollister asked, working the traces as the horses moved swiftly toward the Adair ranch. There was amusement in his voice. He could see how anxious Evans was and he was enjoying it.

  “How about you, Mr. Rittenauer?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m doing fine.”

  And he sounded fine, too. He really did.

  Hollister looked over at Evans and smiled. “Did you hear that, Mr. Evans? Rittenauer is doing fine.”

  Evans didn’t reply, just stared straight ahead. He should have gotten his own ride out to the ranch. Being this close to Beth wasn’t good. He wanted to turn around and shout at her about how she’d betrayed him.

  His hand started twitching again, his gun hand.

  Hollister said, “It won’t be long now, Mr. Evans. It won’t be long now at all.”

  He hitched the horses faster.

  The bar was filling up for the evening when the sheriff came in. Everybody was talking about the fight out at the ranch. Almost nobody felt that Evans could win. Everybody was talking about how Ben Rittenauer had once killed one of the Bremer brothers. Anybody who could kill one of the Bremer brothers didn’t have anything to worry about from Frank Evans.

  Guild was at the bar when the sheriff came up. He had to elbow his way up to Guild. The men were drunk enough now that they were no longer intimidated by a lawman’s badge.

  “You’re going to need that drink, Guild,” the sheriff said, pouring himself a shot from Guild’s bottle of rye.

  “Oh. How’s that?”

  Before he spoke, the sheriff downed his whiskey with great efficiency and poured himself a second. He didn’t ask permission this time, either.

  The sheriff said, “You put her on the train.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But she didn’t stay on the train.”

  “What?!”

  The sheriff shook his head. “She got off the train and went straight back to the general store and bribed the clerk into selling her another gun.”

  “I’ll be goddamned.”

  “Then she went over to the livery stable and got herself a horse.”

  This time it was Guild who shook his head. “How long ago?”

  “Half-hour, from what I can figure.”

  “You riding out there?”

  The sheriff nodded. “Thought you might want to go along.”

  Without asking, the lawman poured each of them one more drink.

  They raised their glasses and threw them back.

  “She’s a damned determined woman,” the sheriff said.

  “She always was,” Guild said.

  They left.

  When she reached the ranch, Sarah found more than two hundred people dressed in fancy dresses and evening clothes spread out across the rolling, shorn grass on the west side of the huge house. She’d reached the ranch before the wagon because the liveryman had told her of a shortcut that only a horse could handle.

  In the dusk, the first stars were coming out, the glass lanterns were beautiful against the sky, and the air was fresh with the scent of mown grass.

  The guests were loud with laughter and their own self­ importance. She had no trouble slipping among them to reach the house.

  Once inside, she went straight back to the kitchen. She wished there were time to stop and look at all the lovely furnishings and the paintings on the walls, or to watch the string quartet in the library tuning their instruments and trading soft, smart jokes.

  In the kitchen a small group of white, Mexican, and Indian women were busily preparing dinner. Outside the screen door a huge side of beef turned over and over on a fiery spit. Without a word, she grabbed a white apron and started helping. She was pleased with her own ingenuity. Nobody would question why she moved among the crowd.

  The gun was in a deep pocket in the folds of her dress. When the time came, when she could get a clear shot at Ben Rittenauer, she would be ready.

  Beth wished the wagon ride would never end. She wanted to go right on past the ranch to someplace golden and magical, someplace that her mother would have liked and admired, where older men with white walrus mustaches took care of young girls like Beth.

  But despite the vividness of her daydreams, Beth kept looking at Frank Evans’ back, at how he was half slumped-over and his right hand kept trembling. He knew he was going to die in an hour or so, and Beth felt more pity for him than she wanted to. He had been an abusive lover and a cold friend, and yet she saw his desperation and insecurity, had always recognized it as much like her own desperation and insecurity. She wanted to put her hand on his and say gently, I’m still your friend, Frank. I’m better off with Ben. But I’m still your friend.

  The wagon clattered on into the chilling night.

  Back in her daydream she imagined someplace wonderful, imagined herself floating into a ballroom in a dress that would shame a princess. And the men would watch her so admiringly.

  With perfect mean satisfaction Hollister said, “That hand of yours is starting to shake pretty bad, Mr. Evans. You want a drink from my flask?”

  Before she even knew what she was saying, Beth heard her own voice. “Leave him alone, Hollister. You’ve been picking on him all the way out here.”

  Ben was looking at her—curious, maybe even angry.

  “Just sit back and relax, Beth. He’s no concern of yours anymore,” he said gently.

  Hollister turned around and looked at her, the same cold smile as always on his face. Hollister was having himself one fine time.

  He sped up the horses and the wagon rushed on into the darkening night.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sarah was carrying a tray of glasses from the kitchen to a picnic table out under a chesnut tree when she saw, far down the dusty access road leading to the house, the black surrey. She paused, squinting her eyes so that she could see who was in the wagon. She recognized Frank sitting next to the driver. Frank. She felt sick and exhilarated at the same time. She wanted to run to him and tell him to go back, go back, tell him they could start all over again, that there was still time to get out.

  “Hey!” the bosswoman said. “Hurry up! There’s no time to lollygag!”

  Sarah rushed the glasses over to the table, nearly stumbling in the process. That would be a nice pickle; to stumble and shatter all those glasses; then she’d be exposed for who she really was.

  “Look, everybody!” a voice shouted to the red and yellow and gray streaks of dusk sky. “Look! It’s Hollister and he’s bringing back the gunfighters!”

  All Sarah could think of was the way the crowd had reacted the time Sarah Bernhardt—her favorite actress—had arrived at the train station in Denver. How they’d pushed to see the actress. There’d been something almost frightening about it. The way there was now. Nearly two hundred people formed a circle around the surrey when it pulled up near the ranch house.

  Despite several hours of liquor, the guests were curiously subdued. They were just looking, staring.

  Tom Adair, in a fancy red brocade evening jacket, eased his way to the front of the crowd, grabbed hold of the surrey, and helped himself up onto the first step.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, these are the folks we’ve been waiting for!”

  The crowd burst into applause and excited shouts. At the moment, Tom Adair sounded and looked like a circus barker.

  “I’d like to ask the two men to stand up when I introduce them,” Adair cried. “And be sure to give each of them a nice greeting.”

  Adair stepped down so that the people in the surrey could get out of the wagon.

  As Frank Evans stood up, Adair said, “This is F
rank Evans, whom we’ve all heard so much about!”

  This was the only time in Sarah’s memory that the adulation of a crowd made Frank Evans look uncomfortable. “On the second step down, he froze and ducked his head, his eyes averting from the noise and the crowd.

  “And now here comes Ben Rittenauer and his lady friend!” Adair sang out, once more sounding like a shill introducing a carnival act.

  As Frank pushed his way through the crowd, Beth and Ben came down the steps. Rittenauer handled the moment a lot better than Frank had. He stood on the ground shaking a few hands and letting drunks pat him on the back and shout out good luck.

  Sarah turned, looking for Frank.

  She saw him over by one of the tables, where a Negro in a white jacket was pouring whiskey for men and punch for women.

  Frank took a shot and quickly knocked it back.

  Adair led Beth and Ben over to the same table. Beth took a little punch. Ben declined anything.

  Adair then stood with the three people as if they were all posing for a picture. As the four of them faced the crowd, Adair said, “You’d better get over to the main corral if you want seats.” He looked at the two men and smiled. “I expect these boys want to get on with things, right, boys?”

  Ben managed a smile; Frank merely dropped his gaze.

  Sarah knew she wouldn’t have much time now. She felt in the folds of her dress for the reassuring touch of the gun. There. Yes. She wondered how she’d get the chance to draw Ben aside alone before the gunfight.

  Moving away from the oak tree now, she watched as the crowd began to push for the corral and the grandstand seats.

  Kerosene torches were lit and servants carried them down to the corral. The yellow flames whipped in the wind, and you could smell the kerosene burning. In their light, even attractive people looked somewhat grotesque, like beings that were not quite human. Larger torches encircled the corral. Even at dusk, the lighting here was good.

  The crowd pushed up into the seats. There was a lot of drunken laughter, and meanness in the laughter. They had come, after all, to see someone shot to death.

  Hollister went over and joined Adair in talking to Ben and Frank. Once again, Ben seemed attentive and interested; Frank didn’t seem to be listening.

  And then Sarah saw her opportunity. Ben broke from the crowd and started for the house. He likely needed to use the toilet facilities.

  She noted that he went in the west wing of the house, the side hidden from the grounds being used this evening. She hurried around the back of the house; she wanted to be in position when Ben came out.

  She found a gazebo that faced the west door of the place and stood flat against one side of it, so that Ben wouldn’t notice her when he came out.

  She took the pistol from the folds of her dress, gripping it tightly in her hand, her fìnger touching the trigger.

  She had to make Ben listen to reason. Had to.

  Frank decided to follow Adair and Hollister over to the corral. He was surprised when the scent of jasmine perfume floated on the shadows and drew close to him.

  “Hello,” she said, and he was surprised by how shy she sounded. He’d always been surprised by this part of her—the part that blushed at a dirty word, or was so insistent on disrobing and making love only in the dark, or that, as now, could be shy as a young girl.

  “Hello.”

  Adair and Hollister were many paces ahead now, letting themselves be caught up by backslapping drunks.

  “You mind if I say something?” she said.

  “I guess not.”

  “I’m sorry how things turned out.”

  “Yeah, I bet you are.”

  “You never did understand me, Frank.”

  “Well, it’s for damn sure you never understood me, either.” And in that you could hear all his rage and pain. He sounded young and naive.

  She grabbed his sleeve with surprising ferocity. “You stop here a minute.”

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “I want you to come to your senses.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning get on a horse and get out of here as fast as you can.”

  “Sure, Beth. And what about the ten thousand dollars you and Ben are counting on.”

  “I don’t care about that anymore, Frank. I just don’t want to see you die.”

  He slid his arm around her waist, trying to kiss her; that proved to be a mistake. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “I don’t want you, Frank, but I don’t want to see you dead. It’s time you changed your life and it’s time I changed mine. You need to be more like Ben and I need to be more like Sarah.”

  “Now isn’t that a sweet little speech,” Frank said.

  “I mean it, Frank. We both need to start acting like adults.”

  Then Hollister was there, one with the shadows at first, but his smile white and smirky the closer he got.

  He could see they were arguing. As usual, he seemed amused by the grief of others. He was one of those people who fed on such griefs.

  “Anything I can do to help?” he said.

  And then Frank swung around and caught Hollister with a good, clean uppercut. He knocked the man backward, right to the edge of his heels, but before Hollister could fall on his back, Frank grabbed him again so he could hit him a few more times.

  Beth screamed for him to stop, but Frank was too crazed now, the way he usually got once he hit somebody. He went over to Hollister and kicked him hard a few times in the ribs and then he pulled his boot back, ready to kick Hollister in the head.

  But Beth grabbed him and knocked him off balance and wouldn’t let go of him.

  “Find a horse, Frank, and ride out of here fast. Please. For your sake and Sarah’s. Can’t you understand that?”

  But fear was gone from him now, replaced with the kind of rage he could sustain for a long period. He thought of his life and how miserable it had become, and then he realized that this gunfight was an opportunity to be savored, not feared. If he lived, he’d have ten thousand dollars and could start his life over. If he lost, nothing would matter anyway.

  He grabbed at her arms now and pushed her away from him.

  “Leave me alone,” he said.

  He walked down to the corral where the torches flickered and the hard laughter of the waiting crowd could be heard.

  “How much further?” Guild said.

  “Up around this bend,” the sheriff said.

  The moon had come up full now, brilliant silver and so clear you could see the configurations on its face. The night smelled of autumn, sparkling. Guild wished there were time to appreciate it. He spurred his horse.

  “I sure hope we get there in time,” Guild said.

  When he came out of the house, Ben Rittenauer knew he needed some coffee. He needed the troubled edge it always gave him.

  Shadows were deep around the house. He was surprised by how quickly it had become night. From down at the corral he could hear the sounds of the waiting crowd. Gunfights usually happened spontaneously and were the result of anger. Tonight was different. Tonight was more like a stage show. He felt nervous about it now, a little uncertain.

  As he started down the sloping hill to the corral, a voice called out from behind him, “Ben.”

  At first he wasn’t sure who had spoken. He turned to see a figure separate itself from the shadows beneath the big oak tree near a small gazebo.

  The woman Sarah stepped into the moonlight. “Evening, Ben.”

  He knew immediately something was wrong here. He said, “Evening.”

  And then he saw the silver Colt she brought up from the folds of her dress and pointed straight at him. “I asked you not to come here tonight. You’re going to kill Frank.”

  “Maybe he’ll kill me.” He knew enough to stay calm, not rile her any more than she was already riled.

  “You know better than that.”

  She came closer to him, out from beneath the tree entirely now. He ho
ped for a moment that she’d be close enough for him to grab, but she instinctively kept her distance.

  “I’m sorry I have to do this,” she said.

  “You’re not feeling well, Sarah. We’ve all been under a lot of strain.”

  “It’s not right that she should have both of you.”

  “She’s not a bad woman, Sarah. Just confused sometimes. The way we’re all confused sometimes.”

  “He loves her. He can’t get her out of his mind.”

  “I know.”

  “I wish he loved me that way.”

  “I wish he did, too, Sarah, for everybody’s sake.”

  She was going to kill him.

  He’d thought her harmless, but now suddenly he knew differently.

  She was going to kill him.

  They stood in the soft shadows, moonlight touching the dewy grass with silver, the scent of hay and horses strong from the nearby bam, and looked at each other.

  “Why don’t we see if we can go find Frank,” he said.

  “You’re trying to trick me.”

  Every time she spoke, she sounded worse, crazier.

  “I’m trying to help you, Sarah.”

  “You’ll have somebody take my gun away, and then you’ll go kill Frank and get the ten thousand dollars, and I’ll be left with nothing.”

  She was starting to cry. “It’s not fair.”

  She raised the Colt higher. Directly pointing at his heart now.

  “Not fair,” she said again.

  Just before he threw himself to the right, he saw the Colt erupt in yellow-red fire. She cried out, but he couldn’t tell what the words were and anyway he wasn’t listening very well. He knew she would kill him if she got lucky with her shots, so his own gun was suddenly in his hand and he began firing, too.

  He meant only to shoot her in her gun arm, to disarm her more than anything, but she stepped forward, sliding on the dewy grass, slipping away from his aim, and putting her chest where her arm had been.

  In the terrible moonlight, he saw how blood bloomed on the front of her dress, and how she fell so fragile, arms waving in a horrible dance as she tumbled down, her Colt spinning from her fingers and arcing high through the air before landing on the footpath to her left.