He turned and walked out of the saloon.
Tranter said: ‘Son-of-a-bitch! If you didn’t stop me, Lew, I’d of gunned the bastard down.’
From the bar, Mark Tully said: ‘Was I you, boys, I’d drink up, saddle up and ride.’
Twenty-Four
Cam Brennan was not the happiest of men.
Nobody could have been happy under his circumstances. He had brought Mole Trusty in because he wanted a certain job to be done and because he needed assistance in the neat job of blackmail that he contemplated. Now that assistant lay in his bed at his rooming house with a lump of lead in his back. How Mole had managed to stay in the saddle, get back to town and behave for a while as if nothing had happened, was beyond Brennan. He had to admire the man’s guts and, in a way, his loyalty. Through Brennan knew that at the back of that loyalty lay the thought of all the lovely money that was to be gained. So Brennan saw himself not only with the killing on his hands, but handling the business of the blackmail on his own. As if that was not enough, there was the craziness of his having entered the race. For once in his life, he started to hate horses. They were his Achilles’ heel.
All he needed now, he thought, was for that damn fool Trusty to die on him. He sat in his room and he thought and he thought. If you thought long enough about a problem, it had a way of solving itself. But he did not have all the time in the world. Maybe he should forget about the blackmail. There would be other jobs. But his expectancy had been raised. His mind had become fixed on making a big haul here and going home to Letitia with enough money for them to be in comfort for the rest of their lives. Find a nice quiet little town somewhere and open up a store. Guns and danger could be forgotten. He could relax.
Then came the final catastrophe, the possibility which he had pushed to the back of his mind.
He heard firm footsteps on the landing outside his door and the door opened.
He said: ‘Don’t you never knock?’ and saw that it was McAllister, the sheriff. His heart seemed to leap into his throat. He fought to preserve a calm appearance. McAllister said: ‘You know I don’t never, Cam.’
‘The name,’ Brennan said, ‘is Walter Coulter.’ McAllister smiled pleasantly.
‘Well, Walter Coulter,’ he said, ‘I have just come from your friend, Mole Trusty.’
Now, he knew, the fear showed nakedly. The shock was so great.
‘Who?’
‘His landlady told me you’d been visiting with him.
‘Oh,’ said Brennan, trying to recover himself, ‘you mean Mr Trusty. I wouldn’t exactly call him a friend. We got into conversation in the saloon. He wasn’t well, so I took him back to his room. A man couldn’t do less than that.’
‘His landlady had the impression that he was ill. She thought maybe it was something contagious. So she thought it right that she should report it to the sheriff. I went down there with Doc Roberston and-guess what we found, Coulter-Brennan? We found that Mr Trusty, the man you got into conversation with in the saloon, wasn’t ill at all. No. The poor devil had been shot in the back.’
Brennan said: ‘I’m sure I don’t know anything about it, sheriff. On my honor.’
‘That ain’t all, Coulter-Brennan. I put two and two together. I knew there was a range detective staying in this very hotel, just two doors down from you, and he had been seen going out of town round about the same time your friend Trusty did. You know – the man you just happened to get into conversation with. This man, Rutter, has a knife wound in his belly and he’s been bleeding all over the place like a stuck pig. He described your friend nicely to me. Now ain’t that interesting, huh?’
Brennan said with a touch of righteous annoyance: ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you trying to imply, sheriff.
‘Imply?’ said McAllister in wonderment. ‘Why, I ain’t implying nothing. Just though I’d keep you informed, Coulter-Brennan. I mean, if you’re going to continue nursing your friend, you’re better off knowing what’s wrong with him.’
With that, McAllister turned and left the room. Brennan listened to his footsteps fading down the hallway and the stairs. He thought that he had made a big mistake in not killing McAllister when first he came into town.
‘In a manner of speaking, mayor,’ McAllister said to Lon McKenna, the mayor, amongst the corn, hay and straw of the livery, ‘you could say that I represent the honor of the town of Black Horse.’
‘I could?’ said the mayor, looking wary and possibly a little scared too. Like McAllister, he was a founder member of Last Chance Circle, which met in Mark Tully’s back room at least once a month to drink and tell lies together. So he had seen McAllister in action and knew how dangerous his powers of persuasion could be.
‘It would be a terrible thing if one of those thoroughbreds, nothing more than rich men’s playthings, should win all that lovely money.’
‘Would it?’
‘Ask yourself. Look yourself straight in the eye, mayor, and ask yourself.’
‘I’m asking myself,’ said McKenna, maybe a little desperately, ‘and the only answer I get is “What the hell does it matter to me who wins the goddam race?’’ It ain’t no skin offn my nose.’
‘I can look at it another way,’ said McAllister, seeing that he would get nowhere on that tack.
‘You could?’
‘From the point of view of friendship. Everybody in the Circle will have the chance of winning a heap of money, Lon, old timber, but we’ve left you out, and only today Mark was saying how hurt you would be if I didn’t let you in on such a good thing.’
‘Perish the thought,’ said the mayor.
McAllister might have been deaf for all the reaction he showed to this remark.
‘After all, we’ve known each other a long time.’
‘If you call two years a long time.’
‘Do you realize I could pick up ten thousand dollars from his race?’
The mayor felt the first soft tickle of the bait. ‘How much?’ he asked in a small voice, as if he didn’t want to be heard asking it.
‘Ten thousand dollars.’
‘You buy a tenth share in Caesar and … Did you do the sum, Lon?’
‘Caesar?’ said the mayor. ‘Hell, you don’t aim to run Caesar, do you? Why he ain’t much more than a foal.’
‘When did you last see him run? When did you ever see one of them thoroughbreds go over rough country that old Caesar takes in his stride? Aw, hell, you make me sick to my stomach, Lon, you surely do. I can’t waste no more time on you. You ain’t a friend, you ain’t even man enough to take a little risk for the good name of the town. I’ll go where I’m—’ He reached the open doorway of the barn and was almost out of sight.
Lon cried: ‘Hold on there, Rem. My gosh, you always so all-fired hurrying. A feller likes to talk it over for a while before he kind of lunges deep. After all one hundred dollars ain’t goddam peanuts … ’
Twenty-Five
Harvey Emmett did not look too pleased to see Glub Groos. If it had not been good politics, he would not have undertaken the risky business of busting him out of the Black Horse jail.
They sat on Emmett’s stoop and watched the cowhands indulging in a little horseplay over by the bunkhouse. They were in good spirits. They took a boy’s attitude to the troubles which lay ahead. To them it was a skylark. They would be acting out the picture of themselves they read about in dime novels about cowboys. Those who could read, that is.
Emmett’s Sioux wife sat at a modest distance down the stoop, listening impassively to the men talking. Her eyes were most often on her husband, ready instantly to see any wish of his carried out. She was cut off from the rest of the world by language. She spoke little English and could only communicate fully with the world through her husband. If she found such loneliness unbearable she never gave any sign. She was dressed in a flamboyant and barbaric version of an Eastern lady’s costume, all heavy brocades and silks and rich embroidery. She was very proud of her dress and she knew it pleased her husband.
Every now and then Emmett would glance towards her.
‘Glub,’ he said, ‘I don’t have to tell you I think you’re a damn fool.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ said Glub, ‘just get off my back, Harvey. You think I’m a goddam kid or something?’
‘The situation’s sensitive. You could have ruined the whole shooting match by going off half-cock as you did. All right, we’ll forget about it.’
Glub said gloomily: ‘I reckon I have to take this kind of talk from you, Harvey. You got me out. But, hell, leave it lie now, will you?’
‘The committee have decided that you should handle Randle’s sheep outfit to the north of you, Glub. How does that suit you?’
Glub was laughing silently, hugging himself with delight. ‘Suit me? Just fine, Harve. Christ, I’ve been itching to plough that bastard under for the last couple of years. Leave him to me.’
‘He’s a tough nut, Glub. How many men can you rely on for a fight?’
‘For a real knock-down fight? Ten.’
‘Good. We’ll give you five gunfighters to augment your crew.’
‘That’s great. Now all I want to know is when.’
Emmett paused, liking what he was going to say very much indeed. It appealed to his sense of humor. He said: ‘While my horse is winning the race.’
Glub roared: ‘You winning the race? That old crowbait of yourn don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell. But I like the timing. You and me and the rest’ll be watching the horses and-I like it, Harve.’
He stood up to leave.
Emmett said softly: ‘How much is the bank into you for, Glub?’
The smile left the big man’s face. ‘Ten thousand,’ he muttered. ‘You?’
‘Twice that.’
Glub said: ‘My God,’ and walked away to his horse.
McAllister went over the whole course carefully with Lige. They took the boy’s father along because they reckoned that three heads were better than two, and nobody knew horses and what they could do better than Mose Copley. Bella watched them saddle and mount with a gentle despair. ‘I has three horse-crazy men. That is two more than a lady can live with.’
Mose said: ‘We win and you’ll sing sweeter, honey.’
She said: ‘I should hope you would win after all this fussing.’
They rode the course slowly, McAllister pointing out where Lige could safely make short-cuts, where he could dismount and run beside the stud to save him.
‘No matter what,’ McAllister instructed, ‘you keep clear of the other riders. This ain’t going to be a nice race. There’s too much money on it.’
When they were back at the house again in late afternoon, Mose said: ‘You reckon you can do it, son?’ and Lige replied almost off-handedly: ‘Sure.’ McAllister wished he could be so sure. He had an uneasy feeling that he had let the boy in for more than anybody his age and weight could handle.
When he rode into town that evening, there was a note awaiting him on his office desk. To his surprise it was from Landon Chalmers, the banker. He did not miss the fact that the note was contained in a sealed envelope. Chalmers had a house on Howard Street right on the northern edge of town. It was a nice place, surrounded by a neat white picket fence, and Mrs Chalmers had grown a flower garden. She had done the job well and it made a pretty sight as McAllister walked up the paved path to the front door. Mrs Chalmers herself answered to his knock, a small, once-pretty woman in her forties. Pastry was her weakness and it showed. She twinkled brightly at the sight of the sheriff and told him to go through, Landon was in his office.
McAllister found the man in a small room at the rear of the house, at a desk facing the wall, which was hung with photographs of Chalmers at college, Chalmers with a foot on a dead buffalo he had shot, Chalmers riding a horse, Chalmers … There were endless pictures of Chalmers. McAllister gathered that this was a kind of temple to the glory of Chalmers. He knew little about the man and had had little to do with him. McAllister banked his money at Chalmer’s bank, but he had never borrowed from him.
‘Ah, sheriff,’ cried the banker, swinging himself round in his revolving chair with a flourish, ‘how kind of you to come.’ McAllister could not make up his mind if the man’s eyes reminded him of a fish’s or of small pieces of granite. ‘Take a seat. Drink? If you won’t, forgive me if I do. Relaxes me after a hard day. Drink in moderation never hurt anybody, huh? Huh?’
That having been said, the banker seemed momentarily at a loss. McAllister did not intend to help him.
‘Mr McAllister …’The banker paused here to laugh in a jolly kind of a way. ‘How can I put this? It is a delicate matter and I would not prejudice you against me by putting it indelicately. Let us put it this way. We are both men of the world and we know how the cogs of the machine work. Am I right?’
That meant that there was something dirty about to be revealed. Something which would be to Chalmer’s profit, but which did not fit the public picture of an honest banker.
McAllister said neutrally: ‘I daresay you are, Mr Chalmers.’
‘Good, good, good. Now, we are both in positions of enormous responsibility. You as sheriff and me as a holder of a good many purses. That being so, the stability of this area is of prime importance to both of us. In a way, we share it as no other two men do. Would you go along with that?’
‘I daresay I would, Mr Chalmers.’
While that reply may not have been ideal in the banker’s eyes, he clearly saw that for the moment he would have to be satisfied with it.
‘You will not be unaware that there is, to say the least, considerable tension between the responsible cattle-growers and the men of– er – shall we say lesser property?’
McAllister said: ‘This sounds like frank talk to me, Mr Chalmers.’
‘Indeed that is what I intend it to be, Mr McAllister.
‘In that case let’s call a spade a spade. The properties held legally by the little and the big men don’t differ worth a damn. The members of the Cattlemen’s Association have purloined and kept from public use vast areas of public domain.’
That stopped the banker dead in his tracks. He said a prolonged: ‘Aaaah!’ and his eyes glazed over for a moment. Then he said quickly: ‘That as maybe, but—’
‘There’s no maybe about it. It’s a fact.’
‘All right, I won’t argue with you. It’s a fact. Speaking of facts, you will know that a large part of my business is transacted with those same cattle-growers. You will also know that they have initiated certain action against the cattle-thieves and those sheepmen who have driven sheep on to cattle range and have subsequently ruined it for use by cattle.’
‘I know that certain sheepmen reached free range the cattlemen had earmarked for themselves first. I ain’t taking sides on that issue. But I’ll bring in anybody who starts a shooting war.’
Chalmers was starting to look a little mad. He sucked in his breath impatiently. ‘Hear me out,’ he said, getting some control over his emotions. ‘That shooting war you refer to is about to break out and I am sure that I do not have to tell you that a good big one always beats a good little one.
‘The little ’uns around here outnumber the big ’uns thirty to one,’ said McAllister. ‘Maybe that makes them a big ’un.
‘They’re unorganized,’ said Chalmers.
‘Sure, but that don’t stop them from killing men.’
‘Ah, that brings me to the point of this meeting.’ He stopped to think how he was going to continue. ‘I do not consider it in the public interest that the big cattlemen sweep the little fellows from the board.’ McAllister was instantly very interested indeed. This meant that it did not suit the banker’s interest. Why not? Chalmers continued: ‘I have it on the best information that the Association has imported twenty first-class gunmen. A force of such caliber that all who oppose them are doomed to failure. I cannot see that this would be in the best public interest.’ There it was again: ‘the public interest’.
There was silence in the room. Th
e two men gazed at each other, McAllister with his best poker-face on. Suddenly, it all came clear to him. He heard his own internal ironic laughter.
‘Mr Chalmers,’ he said, ‘let us take this frank talk one step further. Let me hear when you reckon to foreclose on some of the members of the Cattlemen’s Association.’
For a moment, the banker looked blank.
McAllister said with a little smile: ‘I reckon this is where us both being men of the world comes in.’
Chalmer’s face lit up. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I can see that we shall understand each other and get along fine.’
‘How fine?’ said McAllister, and his abruptness caught Chalmers on one foot, as you might say.
The banker said: ‘Rest assured that I shall look after you, McAllister.’ Politeness was done with now. They were down to cash. The banker’s eyes were definitely granite and not fish.
McAllister looked pleased and said: ‘By the time you’ve appropriated all the range land coming to your bank, Mr Chalmers, you should be about the most powerful man in this territory.’
Chalmers seemed pleased by this portrait of himself. He said: ‘You could say that, I think.’ He smiled. ‘Well, precisely what do you intend to do?’
McAllister said: ‘That depends on how much you intend to pay, Mr Chalmers. In the market place, a man gets the highest price he can.’
‘I admire your enterprise, sheriff.’
‘You ain’t seen nothing yet, Mr Chalmers. Now, where’s this famous fighting force of the cattlemen at?’
‘Harvey Emmett’s line camp.’
‘Which one? He has three.’
‘Eastern.’
‘What day does he aim to make his strike?’
‘That I don’t know. Harvey’s playing his cards close to his chest.’
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