‘Oh, that,’ he said, flapping a hand as if that were unimportant. ‘You don’t understand. …’ he said more hoarsely than ever. ‘They fired me!’
‘That’s what I figured,’ I answered.
Did he want pity, sympathy – or was he just explaining why he was going to try to kill me?
‘My wife and I were building a house in Pocatello. I can’t afford to complete it now. No one will ever take me on in the railroad industry again. I’m ruined!’
‘Yeah,’ I said as coldly as I could, ‘it can happen.’
‘It wouldn’t have happened!’ he exploded, and for a minute I thought he was going to go for his pistol. ‘If it hadn’t been for … you.’ He was having a hard time speaking. Emotion was making it an effort for him to talk.
‘McCallister,’ I said quietly, ‘you can only push a man so far. I would have thought a man of your experience would have learned that.’ I fished in the pocket of my jeans while Alton McCallister watched me suspiciously. I slid a silver dollar from my pocket and placed it on the table in front of him.
‘Remember?’ I said. ‘I owed you a dollar. I’m a man who always pays his debts.’
He stared for a long time at the shiny silver dollar then his eyes returned to mine and they were not normal eyes. They were hateful, animal, and I saw the flicker in them a moment before he made his move.
‘So do I always pay my debts,’ McCallister said wildly. Then he tried to jump to his feet, draw his holstered gun and kick over the table all at once. He just wasn’t good enough: it wasn’t his game. He should have stuck to the railroad business.
I hit the floor on my belly, and as McCallister fired two wild shots, one of them punching through the heavy oak table, I braced myself on my elbows and fired up into his body. He staggered back, slammed into the wall and fired again, his bullet gouging the polished wooden floor of the restaurant. He sagged to the floor then, his back smearing the white-painted wall with crimson, and sat there, his gun in his lap, his eyes no longer alive with furies and snakes. I gradually became aware of the shouts, screams and conversation around me.
‘Everyone saw it, Ryan. He fired first!’ a voice said excitedly.
‘Is he dead?’ someone asked. ‘As dead as he’s going to get,’ another voice replied.
They were hunched over McCallister. Two townsmen helped me to my feet, asking me if I was OK.
Was I? I didn’t know. I turned, picked up my hat and started out of the restaurant, only vaguely aware of the chaos around me. McCallister was dead. It was over – maybe. He was sitting there, an inert corpse with his gun in his cold hand … and a shiny silver dollar on the floor beside him.
I didn’t like it. I didn’t like myself suddenly. Had it all been worth it? I was no longer so sure. I knew one thing: I had to get out of Skogie, go … somewhere. Somewhere, which was where I had always been headed. I didn’t want to answer questions; I didn’t want to risk the chance that the law might be the one to ask them. I found myself in the stable without remembering how I had gotten there. My head lowered to the horse blanket thrown over the stall’s divider. I stood there for a long while, feeling a faint trembling in my body.
Then I straightened up, spread the blanket on my black horse’s back and reached for my saddle.
TWELVE
The letter didn’t reach me until 5 May though the postmark said it had been mailed on 11 April. I include it here for any of you who might be interested in how this saddle tramp ended up.
Dear Ryan
I am sending this care of the postmaster, hoping you check your mail every once in a while. Spring has finally arrived and the wildflowers are strewn in profusion and the cottonwoods are budding out prettily. I am hesitant to write this as you are probably hesitant to read it. I have made my decision – if you still want me to travel out there, I intend to. A wagon train heading west has paused in Billings for supplies and to rest their stock. I have already made arrangements to travel with them. It’s just as well, I am not a very good hairdresser!
Bobby will not be coming with me. He has made up his mind he wants to be a drover with a cattle ranch. I know it’s hard work and dangerous, but as he has pointed out there are many cowboys his age or even younger doing such work. And it seemed so important to him to go out on his own and prove he was a man. I cried a little when he left, but not much. I had begun thinking about you all the time. You and me, that is. If you have not changed your mind, Ryan, watch for me when summer comes.
Bandon, Oregon! Isn’t that a funny name? I hope it is every bit as beautiful as you say. Even if it isn’t, I want to be there with you. Together we can build our lives into something very special. I know this. I do not know how long this journey of mine might take, but do not worry, Ryan. I may not be there while summer lingers, but I will be with you before the first snows fall.
Nina
By the Same Author
The Devil’s Canyon
Copyright
© Owen G. Irons 2006
First published in Great Britain 2006
This edition 2013
ISBN 978 0 7198 0923 1 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0924 8 (mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0925 5 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7090 7904 0 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The right of Owen G. Irons to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
The Drifter's Revenge Page 12