“That’s okay. You don’t have to apologize,” drawled Jim, as he picked up his saddlebags. “And, to satisfy your curiosity, Benito saved my life by treating me for snakebite. I could’ve taken care of myself if I’d been bitten anywhere else, but …”
“Where was the bite?” asked Clay.
“Middle of my back,” grunted Jim.
“My gosh!” breathed Clay. “You must’ve been plenty worried!”
“I’d have been buzzard bait for sure,” said Jim, “if the Mex hadn’t showed up out of nowhere. And we’ve been together ever since.” Clay’s astonishment increased then, because Jim suddenly thought to check his own pockets, examining his wallet, counting his small change, ascertaining that he was still in possession of his watch. Poker faced, he explained to Clay, “Just wanted to make sure I have everything.”
“You mean …” Clay eyed him incredulously, “he steals from you—his friend?”
“He tries,” grinned Jim. “Professional pride, you know? He claims a good thief has to keep practicing.” He lifted a hand in farewell. “So long, Morrow, and thanks again for the information.”
Clay’s pipe had gone cold. He scratched a match, puffed the briar to life again and ambled out onto the porch to view the departure of his brawny customer. The big man was riding northward along Ellistown’s short and dusty excuse for a main street. His mount was a handsome, black stallion, a truly magnificent beast that contrasted oddly with the nondescript burro ridden by the Mex.
He noted the butt of the Colt slung to Big Jim’s right hip, and the polished stock of the Winchester protruding from the saddle scabbard. He thought of all the places this manhunter must have seen during his search for his quarry, and earlier during his army career. And he knew envy, the deep, gnawing envy and discontent of a man restricted to the humdrum confines of a small town. There was nothing to justify its existence, nothing but the fertile soil on which the homesteaders had established their farms. Fortunately for the sodbusters—if not for Clay Morrow—they were a stolid, insular breed. The quiet life suited them, as it suited the woman now joining Clay on the porch.
Nell Morrow had been born and raised on a farm. She was some five inches shorter than her husband, plump and rosy complexioned with clear hazel eyes and severely dressed hair, thick, shining and the color of ripe corn. In the checked gingham gown that he had come to hate, she looked neat, clean and capable. Her voice was gentle, but held that old familiar ‘no nonsense’ quality, as she asked:
“Was he wanting credit?”
“No credit,” grunted Clay. “A cash customer.”
“Good,” said Nell Morrow.
Neat, clean and capable—and no nonsense—these were the qualities of the storekeeper’s wife. She had borne his children, a fair-haired girl who strongly resembled her mother and showed signs of having inherited Nell’s orderly instincts. Instinct—or a mania? ‘A place for everything, and everything in its proper place’ was one of the many axioms by which she lived. At the start of their marriage, he had admired her for her orderliness, the ease with which she maintained her system of running their home—and the store. Lately, he had found himself despising her for it, wishing she would deviate from her adherence to routine, if only for once in her life, if only to break the grinding, soul-destroying monotony.
“The kids will be home from school pretty soon,” she remarked.
At this same time, every Monday to Friday, she voiced that same remark. The kids—little Betty and her freckled, always grinning brother, Marty—how much did they really mean to him? Had he gotten out of the habit of feeling affection for them, in the same way that he had forgotten his love for Nell?
“I’m a casualty,” he told himself. “In a war against monotony, I’m one of the wounded. Monotony has turned me against my family.”
This was all too true. Nell, in her stolid, unimaginative way, accepted the monotony as part of their way of life, and her placid acceptance only served to fan the flame of his bitter resentment. She took so much for granted! It never occurred to her that his restlessness was something serious, a malady crying out for a cure.
He was due to make another stock buying trip to the big town to the east. All preparations had been finalized. He had checked the condition of his saddle and had already packed the spare underwear and provisions prepared for him by the systematic Nell. Early on the morrow, he would saddle the bay colt, sling a pack roll into position and, after the usual farewell to his wife and children, begin the usual bi-annual journey to Reagan City.
“Well—not this time, by glory,” he promised himself. “This time I won't sleep two days in that bug trap hotel, that room that stinks of camphor. I’m not even going to Reagan City. I don’t know where I’ll go. And, wherever it is, I might decide to stay—and never come back.”
His resolve was unshakable now; the die was cast. In the morning, he would farewell his wife and children for the last time. They could manage without him; this was all too clear. As far as his family was concerned, the adventure hungry Clay was quite expendable.
Two – The Runaway
At a quarter of nine the following morning, sitting the patient bay and trading polite goodbyes with his family, Clay Morrow reflected that he must have developed a very negative personality in the twelve years of his marriage. Would he be missed by the brisk and efficient Nell or by either of his grinning children? It didn’t seem so. These twice yearly buying trips were part of the routine, of course, and the Morrows were devoted to routine.
“Take care of yourself,” said Nell, and it sounded more a command than a plea.
“You too,” he nodded, “and the kids.”
Betsy had planted a wet kiss on his cheek; Marty had flashed him a gap-toothed grin. Now both children were eager for him to be gone, because they hankered to join the other small fry playing tag in the schoolhouse yard, over to the south side of town. As for Nell, she was eager to hurry back inside and get on with her chores.
“I won’t be missed,” he assured himself again.
He was rigged in garments well suited to a horseback journey that would last several days. His Stetson, riding pants, flannel shirt and denim jacket were strictly utilitarian. The weapon he usually carried was a Henry repeating rifle. It rode in the saddle sheath as usual, not so much for protection; the trail to Reagan City was so quiet that a traveler wasn’t apt to need protection, but on the chance that he might sight a plump deer or a jackrabbit. On past trips, he had derived rare pleasure from killing his own meat. It depended, of course, on whether there was any game for the sighting.
He lifted a hand to the brim of his Stetson, wheeled the bay and started moving east. Near the outskirts of town —he reached that section only a few moments later, because the town was so small—he glanced backwards. And Ellistown appeared as nondescript, as unimportant as ever. A few children dawdling along the main stem towards the side street in which the schoolhouse was located. Old Jasper Connabree sweeping that strip of boardwalk fronting his feed and grain store. The spinster Hagar Druitt and the widow Alva Ridge trading gossip on the corner as they’d done for the past ten years. Pete Pryor squatting on the same box outside the barber shop, whittling. Yes, Ellistown looked the same as it always looked. It would never change. But Clay Morrow would change, by glory, and mighty soon!
Two miles east of town, he abruptly hustled the bay off the regular trail and turned it northward, moving across a stretch of yucca-dotted prairie, his immediate destination a range of wooded hills. At a chattering creek he paused to water his animal and to take the gunbelt from his saddlebag and secure it about his loins. The Colt slid easily from its sheath. He checked its loading. It wasn’t necessary of course, since he had nudged .45 shells into all six chambers of the cylinder only this morning.
Strange how the butt and trigger section of a Colt fitted so snugly into his hand. There wasn’t much demand for handguns in a farming community like Ellistown. Of the few he kept in stock, his favorite had been this Colt .45
, with its walnut butt and 5½ inch barrel. Every July 4th, Ellistown went through the motions of celebrating Independence. A few flags were hung—the same old moth-eaten rags. The bunting had lost its color years ago. A few farmhands insisted on organizing a horse race and the owner of the Ellistown Glad Hand Bar served free beer to all comers. This he could certainly afford, since a great majority of the citizenry were teetotal. And there were others who, with much laughter and back-slapping and brandishing of weapons, enjoyed to hold marksmanship contests, a rifle shoot, a pistol shoot. The latter contest was invariably won by Clay Morrow. It just happened that his shooting-eye was very keen—at least when working on immovable and inhuman targets.
He tested his skill in the late afternoon of that day, after he had traveled through the hills and was again hitting open country. Firing from the saddle and taking very little time to cock and aim the Colt, he caused a cottontail to somersault and flop lifeless.
That night he dined on jackrabbit stew, squatting by his campfire in the seclusion of a well-sheltered basin. It tasted fine. Better, he assured himself, than Nell could manage. Already he was enjoying the fruits of his decision, and was determined never to return to Ellistown. Soon enough, Nell would find the bulk of their savings in his drawer of their dresser, and would realize that he hadn’t wanted to leave her penniless. He had brought very little money with him; it was his intention to seek work—any kind of work—in some larger and livelier town.
Late afternoon of the following day he came upon a well-rutted trail that led northwards. He camped within sight of it that night and, around ten-thirty of the next morning, had followed it many miles to the north. It was then that he heard the distant but increasing sound of jingling harness, creaking woodwork and thudding hooves, an indication that he had happened upon a stage route. Was this the regular trail to a sizeable town? The easy way to find out would be to stop the stage and ask.
He was now inclined to wear his Stetson at a rakish angle. He hadn’t shaved since quitting Ellistown, and his pipe had never been taken out of his saddlebag. He now rolled cigarettes in the manner of Big Jim. As the stage came rolling around a bend and bearing down on him, he lit a smoke and turned the bay so that it stood at a right angle to the oncoming vehicle. The sun glinted off the polished butt of his .45, the stock of the rifle jutting from his saddle scabbard. He folded his hands over his pommel, worked the cigarette over to the right side of his mouth and waited patiently. And to the stage crew, always on the alert for hold ups, he looked considerably more formidable than he really was.
The team was halted in a rising cloud of dust. A few heads were thrust out the windows of the coach. The driver sat quiet, his jaws working on a chaw of tobacco, his eyes narrowed. The guard was lining his shotgun on the lone rider, hammering back, scowling ferociously.
“All right, stranger!” he called. “Don’t try nothin’!”
Clay immediately realized that these men were on the defensive, as far as he was concerned. They assumed him to be some kind of hardcase. Well, well, well! A few days ago, he would have stammered in his haste to correct this false impression … “I beg your pardon, gents. Didn’t mean to startle you. I’m just Clay Morrow, a storekeeper from Ellistown.” But why correct the impression now? Here was a chance to acquire a new identity, a new personality.
Unhurriedly, he nudged his Stetson to the back of his head, hooked a leg over his saddlehorn. Instead of pleading with the guard, he ignored the leveled shotgun and addressed the driver.
“Howdy.”
The driver nodded guardedly.
“Howdy yourself.”
“Your partner’s a mite jumpy,” Clay suggested.
“He ain’t paid for actin’ careless,” countered the driver.
The guard had finished his careful scrutiny of the terrain to right and left of the trail. Now, staring hard at Clay, he growled a reproach.
“You could get yourself killed—ridin’ out in front of us that way.”
“And you might just have to tangle with me, friend,” frowned Clay, “if you don't damn soon put down that scattergun.”
He didn’t raise his voice, but spoke quietly, almost casually, and his retort won faster results than had he shouted a threat. The guard uncocked his shotgun, the muzzles dipped.
“What’re you after?” The driver demanded.
“Information is all,” shrugged Clay. “I was wondering where this trail will take me. Is there a town ahead a ways?”
“Durrance,” grunted the driver. “Right on the border.”
“How long before I see Durrance?” asked Clay.
“That kinda depends on how fast you want to run that cayuse,” said the driver. “We’ll make it by early afternoon, after a team switch at Meloso Spring. If you’re in no hurry, I’d calculate you’d make it by sundown.”
“Thanks,” acknowledged Clay. “That’s all I wanted to ask you.”
“Well, you sure picked a damn fool way to ask,” protested the guard. “I might’ve cut loose at you.”
Clay was conscious of the intent gaze of the passengers, four of whom had alighted to stretch their legs. There were three men and a woman and they looked to be Easterners. What did they suppose him to be? A harmless drifter? Or maybe not quite so harmless, maybe a man capable of giving a good account of himself in any emergency. He took a long drag at his cigarette, dribbled smoke through his nostrils and, through the blue cloud of smoke, fixed a cold eye on the guard.
“I think it’s real fortunate,” he drawled, “that you didn't cut loose at me.”
He enjoyed the effect of that quietly-voiced rejoinder. The four passengers made haste to climb back into the coach, the woman darting a frightened glance at him. The driver averted his eyes. The guard licked his lips, swallowed a lump in his throat and looked downright apprehensive. Was it that easy? He chuckled inwardly, as he ambled the bay to the side of the trail and gestured for the driver to start his mount moving again. He had frightened them, by glory! Yes, the woman—and the shotgun guard in particular—had been badly scared. He was elated at the thought. So much for the negative personality of Clayton Reed Morrow!
After the stage had rumbled on across the northern horizon, he resumed his ride. He would be in Durrance around sundown. In that town he would linger a while, letting the citizens take him as they found him, playing his cards close to his chest, giving nothing away. As to what happened next, he would leave that to Fate. Assuming a new identity? He hadn’t dared hope it would be so easy.
~*~
By coincidence, Jim Rand and his untidy shadow arrived in Durrance at about the same time that Clay Morrow was questioning the crew of the northbound stage. It wasn’t the first time that the big man had visited a border town, and Durrance, on the Kansas-Oklahoma line, seemed much the same as all the others. What was it about border towns that gave a hint of half-restrained violence, the atmosphere of under-the-surface tension? The proximity of a territorial boundary, he supposed. Easy—ridiculously easy—for a wanted man to cross the line and take sanctuary.
The false fronted buildings lining the dusty main street were identical with those of San Marco, Libertad and so many other towns he’d known. Durrance appeared to contain the usual quantity of saloons, gambling houses and roughneck citizens. He wasn’t impressed, but then he wasn’t here to be impressed, to care a hoot in hell about Durrance’s citizenry, Durrance’s politics. As always, he would head directly for the center of law and order and enquire about Jenner.
As he dismounted at the hitch rail outside the marshal’s office, he gave the Mex a blunt order.
“Stay put—no matter how long I’m with the marshal. If you start mooching around, you’re bound to end up in some kind of strife.”
“You do not trust me?” Benito aggrievedly challenged.
“Don’t ask fool questions” was Jim’s scathing retort, as he climbed to the boardwalk.
The fattest badge toter he had ever seen occupied the chair behind the paper-littered desk. Mars
hal Gus Lundy was working his way through a mid-morning snack—a platter of cold chicken fetched from a nearby diner, a mound of sandwiches with a jar of pickles on the side and an out-sized jug of beer. Jim entered without knocking and was invited to state his name and business. He did so in a few concise sentences, then produced his sketch of his quarry and placed it on the desk for Lundy’s inspection. Lundy studied it with interest, while munching on a mouthful of chicken and pickles. He began his questions before swallowing, but Jim was able to understand the muffled mumbling.
“You’ve been lookin’ all over for this jasper?”
“All the way from San Marco to here.”
“That’s quite a ways, Brand.”
“Not Brand Rand—Jim Rand.
“Oh, sure. Well, let me take another look at this feller.” Lundy swallowed, fed himself several gulps of beer, wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve. “Uh huh. Could be I’ve seen him around.” He eyed Jim again. “What’re you fixin’ to do with him when you catch up with him? I better warn you, Rand, this here’s bad territory for a man that takes the law into his own hands.”
“When I take the law into my own hands,” countered Jim, “that'll be time enough for you to complain.”
“I don’t call that an answer to my question,” said Lundy.
“If Jenner surrenders without a fight, I’ll be just as satisfied,” shrugged Jim.
“But—if he goes to shootin’ …?” prodded Lundy.
“Let me put it this way,” growled Jim. “I don’t aim to let Jenner kill a second Rand.”
“Self-defense, eh?” mused Lundy, rubbing at his sagging jowls. “Well, I guess it could come to that.”
“It’ll depend on Jenner,” said Jim. “Meantime, have you seen him around—or haven’t you?”
“Ain’t sayin’ I have—ain’t sayin’ I haven’t,” muttered Lundy. “When you get right down to it, he could’ve come and gone and I wouldn’t know it. Tell you what you better do, Rand. You find yourself a place to stay, and …”
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