Jim Saddler 2

by Gene Curry

  I had the feeling there might be because I never knew a whore yet who didn’t have a story. “Let me guess,” I said.

  “All right,” she said happily.

  I tried a number of guesses on her; apparently they were all wrong.

  I tried some more and was still wrong. “Go ahead and tell me,” I said.

  Her face was well powdered but her beauty spot was inclined to fall off. “This is the absolute truth,” she began.

  It seems that her mother had been a famous actress; she couldn’t tell me the name because it might get into the newspapers and cause embarrassment for the family. Traveling between San Francisco and San Antonio, her ma had been abducted by Indians. Which tribe she wasn’t sure. She, the daughter, was just twelve at the time—ten years before. Ever since then she had traveled up and down the West searching for her mother. So far, in spite of all her efforts, she hadn’t found her.

  She said it was a very sad story; I agreed completely.

  “You don’t believe me?” she asked.

  I said I certainly did. “And what’s more, honey, you don’t even look as old as twenty-two to me. More like eighteen. What do you think of that?” She was at least thirty-five.

  “I think you’re most gallant, sir.”

  Just then Pardee’s ramrod, a big blond Swede named Nillson, came banging through the door with a sour look on his face. In the center of the floor John was dancing again, this time with a different whore, and as he steered the girl around he kept grabbing at anything his hands could get on. Pardee had slept enough to be back again at the bottle. One of John’s riders, a kid of no more than twenty, was lying on his back on the dirty floor.

  There was no call for Nillson to kick him in the leg. Pardee wanted to know what the blazes was going on. “You want to start trouble you go somewhere else,” he roared at the Swede.

  Nillson was mad as hell. “I went out to look at my horse. Somebody made off with my Remington while I was in here. That’s one hell of a powerful rifle, Mr. Pardee. I paid a lot of money for it.”

  John let go the whore and staggered over to the table. His eyes were red-rimmed and out of focus. “You trying to say one of my boys stole your goddamned gun?”

  Here it comes again. More trouble! I thought. But it didn’t.

  “Don’t act like a fool,” Pardee told his ramrod. “If it’ll keep the peace I’ll pay for the rifle. Join the party or take yourself back to the ranch. There’s been enough trouble. Don’t you start anymore.”

  Still mad, Nillson said he was leaving. After that the party began to thin out as the boys took the whores upstairs to their rooms.

  “You feel like a little fun?” my whore said.

  John had worn himself out dancing and now he was ready for bed.

  “I’ll see you later, boys,” he roared. “Isn’t this the cutest little gal you ever saw?”

  He had a fat whore in a bear hug; everybody agreed that she was better than all right. Pardee said he was going upstairs too. “That’s the spirit, Vince,” John encouraged him. “We’re going to remember this day a long time.”

  At the foot of the stairs he turned back to speak to me. “There’s no need to keep on watching over me, Saddler. It’s a waste of time and it’s getting on my nerves. Today is our day to howl and I want you to do the same. Take your girl upstairs and get in the spirit of things. If you run short of money just sing out.”

  My whore must have told me her name a dozen times; I still can’t recall what it was. But she was grand fun all right; I guess she was still young enough to get some enjoyment out of her work, or maybe she was just a good actress. It didn’t matter to me as long as she delivered the goods—and she did.

  I put ten dollars on the bedside table, top money in a flea-bitten burg like Dade City. That bought her for as long as I wanted her to stay and she promptly fell asleep. The poor kid was exhausted from her labors.

  I lay awake and listened to John going at it in the next room; the walls were as thin as a parson’s smile. John was old and it took him a while to do what he wanted to get done. I fell asleep listening to his grunts.

  When I woke up again he was coming into the room buttoning his pants. His face was red and the smell of rum that came from him was as thick as fog in a river bottom. He was still staggering but nowhere as bad as earlier in the day.

  “Put away the pistol,” he told me. “We’re going to steer clear of guns around here.”

  “That sounds fine to me. You been having a good time?”

  “The best. Don’t know when I had better. Maybe I never did. Looks like you were right the whole time, Saddler. The only thing still bothers, bothers Vince too—how did those two boys get killed on the north range?”

  I looked at him steadily. “We’ll probably never know about that. It’s possible it had nothing to do with the trouble between you and Pardee. A couple of saddle-tramps riding through, figuring to cut out a calf for food. Pardee’s boys braced them and got killed. Pardee said they were very young.”

  John said, “That could be it. I know that none of my men did it. There’s not a killer in the lot so nobody would have any reason. And sure as hell none of Vince’s men did it. It was a hell of a thing though.”

  It was a hell of a thing, but I wasn’t ready just then to throw charges at Jessie. I hated to see her go, but I was glad she was going. Life without her would be a lot less exciting, and what was wrong with that? Not much, in a way.

  “Yep, I guess we’ll never know,” John agreed.

  “Those two boys were cousins, Vince says, and still have folks back in Arkansas. We’re going to send some money. The least we can do. But I sure would like to string up the men or man who killed them. It would be a pleasure to yank on that feller’s legs when he started to kick his last.”

  I didn’t say anything, just started to climb out of bed.

  “Whoa there!” John said. “Don’t you stir. You look so comfortable in there. I just came in to bring you a fresh bottle before it’s all gone. J.M. Lord has never sold so much whiskey in a single day in his life.”

  “You leaving now?”

  “That’s right, but it’s no reason why you have to come along. I’m sick of you bodyguarding me so why don’t you stop? The trouble’s over, I tell you. Me and Vince talked the whole thing out. We’re going to keep our own spreads but we’re going to run the herds together. That way we stay independent and still make a lot of money like we used to.”

  “Sounds good,” I said, putting my feet on the floor.

  “I just told you to stay in bed. Come on out to the ranch later. I’d like to talk to you about an idea I have. By the bye, what happened to Jessie? A few hours back it seemed like she got mad at me for something.”

  “Jessie’s always mad about something. She’s going to New Mexico. That’s what she said.”

  “That’s too bad,” John said. “I sort of liked that girl.”

  “So did I.”

  “She’s got a lot of spunk.”

  “She’s got a lot of something.”

  John went downstairs and I watched from the window while he climbed into the buckboard and headed out of town. No bullets flew at him—no reason why they should.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was late afternoon when I woke up again. Everything was quiet except for loud snoring in the other rooms; even the player piano downstairs had stopped jangling. My whore had gone and taken her ten dollars with her. I looked in my pockets to see if she had taken more than that. She hadn’t, but I wouldn’t have cared it she had helped herself to a few extra tens. Whores work hard in a very hard profession.

  Before I left I eased open the door of Pardee’s room and he was sleeping the sleep of the drunk and the just. Many of the ranch hands, on both sides, had wandered on home. I had a twingy headache, but a short drink of whiskey took care of that.

  When I looked back on it, it hadn’t been such a bad day. Two old men I liked were still alive; the killing had stopped and peace was r
estored to the land. It was time for me to be moving on—in the morning after a big breakfast.

  Downstairs J.M. Lord, the saloonkeeper, was counting a pile of money on the bar. No great damage had been done to his place and he looked happy.

  “Come again and bring the boys with you,” he said.

  I said no thanks. “A day like this will hold me for a very long time.”

  Sheriff Brimmer was back and he watched me as I rode north out of town. I waved at him and he gave me a curt nod. The war was over; the warrants would gather dust.

  I was tired and I took my time getting back to the ranch. I wanted Jessie to be gone when I got there; the time for any talk between us was finished. Even so I wondered what would become of her. Like John had said, there was something about that girl that got to you—and I still didn’t want to see her again.

  I was still some distance from the gate in John’s boundary wire when they started shooting at me. I yelled and threw myself to the ground and slapped my horse out of there. They were on their bellies behind the wire, firing as fast as they could, trying their damnedest to kill me. I stayed flat while the shooting went on; bullets kicked up dirt all around me as I crawled for the cover of some rocks. They were small rocks, but were all I had.

  When the firing began to slack off I eased up my head, expecting to lose it every time a rifle cracked. I still didn’t know if they were trying to kill me, Jim Saddler, or just some man on a horse who had come too close to the wire.

  There was only one way to find out. “Stop the shooting—it’s Saddler,” I yelled.

  A few rifles threw lead my way, then stopped. I yelled again. “Saddler—Jim Saddler!”

  The firing stopped and I heard Curly Fitch telling me to show myself. That was a hard decision to make because Fitch had made it plain that he would like nothing better than to punch some holes in me. But what the hell!

  I stood up and let them take a good look at me. I stayed still, making no move toward the wire.

  Half a minute crawled by. Fitch had a slow mind and it took him a while to get the gears working. Finally he yelled, “Come ahead!”

  I was supposed to be on their side but their rifles were still lined up on me when I reached the gate.

  “Drop your gun,” Fitch ordered.

  I dropped it.

  One word from Fitch would kill me or allow me to pass through.

  “Come ahead,” he said again.

  Most of the hands were there, hard-eyed and suspicious, rifles ready to blast.

  I looked at Finch. “What in hell is going on here?”

  “John’s been killed,” he said. “Murdered on his way home. The girl Jessie was at the ranch, got edgy when he didn’t come home. She rode out to look and found him dead in the buckboard. Shot through the chest.”

  “When was that?”

  “Don’t you be asking questions, Saddler. You and John were still in town when the rest of us headed home. Where were you all this time—and why weren’t you looking out for the boss?”

  I didn’t know if he was ready to believe anything I said. “I tried to ride home with him,” I said. “He said there was no need for a bodyguard. John said the trouble was over.”

  “It’s over for John. I still say if you’d been doing your job John would still be alive.”

  Guns were aimed at me, still I got mad. “John said my job was finished—and you know what you can do with your goddamned questions!”

  Fitch lowered his rifle and told the others to do the same. “All right, I guess you’re in the clear.”

  “Clear of what?”

  “Of having a little talk with Pardee after John left.”

  “Pardee was too drunk to talk to anybody. Now do I come through or not?”

  Fitch said I could. I picked up my gun and whistled for my horse.

  “Pardee didn’t kill John,” I said.

  “He paid to have him killed. Jessie found Nillson’s rifle, the Remington, the one he said was stolen, behind a scatter of rocks.”

  I could only say, “What?”

  “That’s right. She found it right above where John was murdered. Nillson’s name on a brass plate on the stock. A spent shell near the rifle. About four miles back, on Pardee’s side of the fence.”

  I knew damn well that Nillson hadn’t killed John. “This doesn’t make sense,” I said. “Why would Nillson say his rifle was stolen, then use it to bushwhack John, and then leave it for somebody to find?”

  I said Curly Fitch had a slow mind; once he had a thought it was as good as set in cement. “How do I know? Maybe Nillson said it was stolen to put himself in the clear. Why did he leave the rifle behind? Got scared, I suppose. Panicked and ran. That’s one way of looking at it.”

  “It’s wrong. You know Nillson better than I do. You think he’s the panicky sort?”

  “No, can’t say that I do—but there’s the evidence.”

  “Too much evidence.”

  John was dead, but it wasn’t over for me. It wouldn’t be over until I had earned my wages. “Where’s Jessie now?” I asked Fitch.

  “Where do you think, Saddler? With John, at the ranch. You know she warned you something like this would happen—and it did. Why didn’t you listen to the warning? John might have done better if he hired the woman instead of you.”

  That was all right. I wasn’t mad at Fitch. In a way, he was right. Another man might argue that John’s orders had to be followed, that John himself decided the war was over; but when I thought about it, I didn’t have any excuses for myself.

  We rode back to the ranch in silence; nothing was said until we got to the house. After we put up our horses, Fitch followed me to the main house.

  “She’s taking it hard,” he said. “There’ll be plenty of killing if she gets her way.”

  “If she does,” I said.

  In the house Laughing Woman was wailing like the Navaho squaw she was; the other Indian woman was quiet. By then the sun was dying, throwing a red glare over everything. The keening of Laughing Woman sent chills up my back. At the end of the hallway the flicker of candles came from John’s room.

  Out in front of the house the men guarding it were stony faced, standing around smoking and talking quietly. They had the dead look of defeated men—men defeated by betrayal. They thought they had been slickered by Pardee and wanted to get started on their revenge—and it wasn’t just because they were out of a job. John, after all, had been a good boss and they weren’t going to let his death go for nothing.

  Laughing Woman cursed me when I started for John’s room. I had soaked myself in whiskey and rolled around with whores while her man was being murdered.

  No way to say it wasn’t true.

  Fitch followed me into the death room. Working on such short notice, the two Indian women had made John presentable. The dead man’s rusty black suit had been sponged and pressed, the hole over the heart carefully darned. The gray stubble had been shaved from his face, now the color of tallow. He wore a clean white shirt and a loosely knotted white tie. His waxy old hands were folded on his chest. A sight to see in death was old John Wingate.

  Jessie didn’t turn her head though she knew I was in the room. She sat on a chair close to the bed, her face shadowed by the candles flickering in the breeze from the open window. John’s big old brass-clasped Bible lay on the bed beside him because it was too bulky to put on his chest.

  “Jessie—” I said.

  She turned her head and her face was as pale and mask-like as John’s.

  “We can’t talk here,” she said, getting up.

  Fitch and I followed her out to the main room. A new Remington 50-caliber with a spent shell beside it lay on the polished wood of the dining table.

  I expected Jessie to start acting up; instead she was very quiet while she explained how she happened to find John. She made it sound so reasonable.

  “I was ready to leave,” she said. “You know that. Then I began to think how kind Mr. Wingate had been to me, a
complete stranger far from home.”

  I wondered where that home really was.

  Jessie went on. “I got the terrible feeling that something wasn’t right. I began to wonder why Pardee had fallen down after he fired his last shot. You know why?”

  I said no. “It looked like he was too drunk to stand up.”

  “Wrong,” Jessie said. “He fell down to keep from being killed. He knew Mr. Wingate had one bullet left and could kill him with it, so to save his life he played the fool.”

  “So you started back to look for John?”

  “I was on my way back when I heard a single shot, by the sound of it a big caliber rifle. It came from where the road dips between those big rocks. At once I thought of Mr. Wingate. I knew he was in trouble so I fired off my pistol and rode in hard, but it was too late. He was dead on the wagon seat. I heard the bushwhacker riding away.”

  “Why didn’t you go after him?” I asked.

  Curly Fitch was watching carefully, eyes darting back and forth.

  Jessie said angrily, “Because I couldn’t leave Mr. Wingate like that. I thought there might be a chance he was still alive. He wasn’t. Later I found the Remington rifle up in the rocks, with the name Lars Nillson on the stock.”

  I didn’t believe a word of it.

  Jessie picked up the Remington. “I’m going to kill Nillson with his own gun and I don’t want any help from you, Saddler. It’s too late for that. If you’d been … ”

  “Sure,” I said. “If I’d been doing my job. I’ll pay back for John in my own way.”

  I wondered if she had found another big shell for the Remington.

  “I’m going now and don’t try to follow me,” Jessie said.

  That was exactly what I intended to do; I didn’t want any shooting in John’s house.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “Nobody’s stopping you.”

  I turned to say something to Fitch and she cracked me across the side of the head with the heavy barrel of the rifle. There was a red light in my head and through it I heard her warning Fitch to keep back. Then I heard nothing else for a while.