by E. R. Slade
“All right. Hope I’m not too late.”
“Oh no, Mr. Maxwell. Supper should be ready by the time you have unloaded the wood.”
Buck couldn’t think of anything else to say, so touched his hat again and spoke to the mules. Mary Ellen picked up her water bucket and went along in her careful, deliberate way toward the house. Grace, he thought wonderingly. That was Mary Ellen.
The neat, solidly constructed buildings were laid out sensibly. Not only was the woodshed right at the kitchen door, but the barn and other outbuildings were nearby yet easy to maneuver around. The chicken coop was just past the woodshed, and the kitchen garden plot next to that. Allen Parker stepped out of the barn as Buck pulled up at the woodshed door.
“How much is that?” Parker asked, looking the load over.
“Two cord.”
“Looks like good measure. Just toss them sticks to me one at a time and I’ll stack ’em.”
It went quickly.
“I guess the wife likes the stove,” Parker said after an interval. “She had Bob and me put it in as soon’s we got home.”
“Did she,” Buck said, musing on what this meant about Mrs. Parker’s motives. “But she should. It’s one of the best stoves made, and she got it at about two dollars over cost.”
“Martha’s a Yankee,” Parker said. “I never seen the man could best her in a trade.”
The sticks flew and chunked into the pile in regular rhythm for a minute or two. Then Parker asked, “You deal in cattle?”
“No.”
“Maybe that’s smart, considerin’.”
“Considering what?”
“Well, the big cattlemen would be sure to make trouble for you. I been hearin’ a rumor that the cattlemen has hired Texas gunslingers to do vigilance committee work—meaning drive off the farmers and homesteaders and us small-time cattle outfits. They say Snake Ed’s going to run it. Which figures. Don’t say nothin’ about it to Martha or Mary Ellen. It’d only make ’em fret. But Bob and me—Bob’s my hired man—we plan to keep a sharp lookout with them kinds of folks around.”
“How many are there?”
“Some say five or six, some say more. They got bunks out to the Lazy L.”
“That so,” Buck said, thinking of Calpet.
“I see you’re wearing a gun. I’d keep one handy, if I were you, but not in plain sight—might be provoking. Especially to Snake Ed.”
“Snake Ed’s pretty provoking himself,” Buck said.
“Don’t fool with him. He’s dangerous.”
“Guess Olinger must think so.”
“Oh, that ain’t it. Olinger’s a cattlemen’s man all the way. Why, what business have you had with him?”
Buck told him about Fred Smithly and his conversation with Olinger afterward.
Parker looked serious. “You’re lucky you’re here to tell about it. Snake Ed has killed men for stepping into the saloon ahead of him. You want to lay low and stay out of his sight all you can.”
“Why don’t the town hire a real marshal instead of Olinger?”
“Council is cattlemen.”
“With all these settlers out here?”
“Nobody wants to take a chance of getting shot.”
“What about the county sheriff?”
“Almost as bad as Snake Ed. We hate him but we got no say-so over him.”
“You know anything about this church committee?”
Parker stacked five sticks before answering. “I heard in town that they’re going to take your store. Don’t seem right to me—and some of that money’s mine.”
“Maybe you could tell them that.”
“I could. Don’t know as it would do any good.”
“I’d be obliged.”
They stacked the last few pieces of wood. Then Parker came out of the dimness of the shed and put a big hand on the rear wheel of the wagon, looked Buck square in the eye for several seconds.
“All right,” he said.
Chapter Eight
Mary Ellen and her mother had the new stove’s oven door open and were conferring on the state of the roast chicken. The smell of it, mingling with the aroma of fresh-baked bread, made Buck’s mouth water.
“Go along through to the living room,” Martha Parker said, straightening. “We’ll bring the bird right on.”
Mary Ellen didn’t look up and Buck followed Parker thinking that he ought not to do anything to make Mary Ellen feel cornered—this visit had not been her idea.
In the living room, an oil lamp hung over a table laid with what had to be Mrs. Parker’s best silverware on clean linen. Buck wondered whether these things were family heirlooms or the result of some her shrewd bargaining.
When everybody was seated, Allen Parker opposite his wife and Buck opposite Mary Ellen, with the bird in front of Parker ready to be carved, Parker gave a short prayer of thanks while Mary Ellen and her mother sat with bowed heads and folded hands. Buck hadn’t heard grace said in many years.
As Parker carved the chicken, Mrs. Parker picked up a plate full of sliced bread and passed it to Buck.
“Mary Ellen made it this afternoon as soon as the stove was put in,” she said. “Her own special recipe.”
“It’s nothing but a common buttermilk bread,” Mary Ellen said, giving Buck a sympathetic glance.
“It’s not common at all,” Mrs. Parker said. “You try a piece, Mr. Maxwell, and see if I’m right.”
Buck ate a slice, looked over at Mary Ellen. “Not much common about that,” he told her.
“You’re very kind,” she said. “Mother and I love our new stove. You carry high quality merchandise, Mr. Maxwell.”
Parker was passing along plates piled high with chicken and roast potatoes, and conversation stopped until everybody was served.
Then Mrs. Parker said, “We heard you were once the foreman of a ranch. Is that so?”
This sounded like a question asked for a reason—he was getting the feeling Mrs. Parker did very little without a reason.
“Yes,” he said. “But don’t think that makes me a forkful out of the same manure pile Snake Ed comes from. Tar and I might have been a little rough around the edges, but when men like Snake Ed came on our range we run ’em off.”
“Why did you buy a hardware store?”
“Big die-up. Finished off the outfit. Saw Skeetland’s advertisement and it looked like a good investment. Course, I didn’t know about the Church Committee lien.”
“How long were you a cattleman?”
“Eighteen years.”
Mrs. Parker’s lips pursed.
Buck concentrated on his meal.
“Somebody’s a good cook in this family,” he said, when the silence seemed to settle heavily. He chanced a look at Mary Ellen.
“That’s Mama,” she said. “Do you have any family, Mr. Maxwell?”
“Not now. Father and two younger brothers died in the war.”
“What happened to your mother?”
“She died when I was about three. I don’t really remember her.”
“You must have been quite young when your father died, also. How did you escape the war?”
“I run away from home just before it started. I was fourteen.”
“Where did you go?”
“West.” He could see how hard Mary Ellen was working to keep conversation going and decided he ought to give her better measure for her efforts. “I done a lot of things in a lot of places. Eventually I run into Tar Calhoun and we decided to go to California and get rich in the gold fields. We got up a stake—about six dollars—working for a farmer in Missouri, and off we went to the Mother Lode. Course, we was a good deal too late and too ignorant, and we run out our stake pretty quick and went to work in somebody else’s mine. When we could we rode for the Comstock, panned a little claim there, made just barely enough to keep us alive. It give out after a couple of years, and we had to quit.”
“What an interesting life!” she said. “What did you do then?”
“We heard trailing cattle to the railheads was a good way to get rich. So we went to Texas and rounded us up a herd of mavericks—a lot of them from the other side of the Rio Grande—and we drove north, aiming for Abilene. But then Tar said why didn’t we go on up into the Territory and start our own ranch? Tar was always one for thinking up a grand scheme and then turning around and figuring a way to make it even grander. We drove clear into the Bighorns before Tar decided we’d found a valley lush enough. It was a rough winter. The Injuns got most of our stock. And being new at the game we hadn’t ever thought about needin’ a bull.”
Allen Parker had been pretty quiet, but now he chuckled—until his wife stopped him with a look.
“Where did you go to find a bull?” Mary Ellen asked, encouragingly.
“Tar had family back in Rhode Island—I could never get it straight from him whether they was parents or brothers or cousins or what. Anyway, they sent him money and we went to Kansas and managed to buy some decent foundation stock, including the most ornery bull I ever run across in my life. Course, Tar said that was what was going to make him good, and looking back I’d have to agree. But gettin’ them critters to our ranch was a job I don’t want to have do again. Anyways, we started building our herd, and in a few years we was driving a pretty fair little bunch to the railhead at roundup time.”
“What did you do about the Indians?” Mary Ellen asked, after a slight hesitation.
“Sometimes we smoked the peace pipe with them, and sometimes they was on the warpath. But we found out that if we give them a few beeves once in a while when they was short—and watched the rest of our stock pretty close—we got left alone mostly. I’ve shot my share of Injuns, but rustlers was more of a problem, the last few years.”
That set up a tension in the room like a strand of well-strung barbed wire. Mary Ellen glanced at her mother, worry creases appearing over her nose.
Buck resolved not to talk any more about himself. He wasn’t hand enough at tact for it.
“Pass along your plate, Buck, and I’ll fill it again,” Parker said, trying to sound jovial, but he looked troubled.
Buck took him up on the offer. “This is the best chicken I’ve ever eaten,” he said.
“We’ve been here almost five years,” Mrs. Parker said, purposefully. “We came out from Connecticut because we didn’t have much and Allen saw an advertisement by the railroad for cheap land in Kansas. But when we got there we didn’t like what we saw and decided to keep looking. We loaded everything we owned into a wagon and drove until we found this place. Something about it made us think it was where we belonged. We filed a legal claim and we don’t have a single animal here we didn’t either buy or raise.”
Buck sat back, wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Mrs. Parker,” he said, “I want you to know I’m ashamed of the way men calling themselves cattlemen hereabouts behave. They ain’t like the men I know. We was all kind of rough, it’s true, but we didn’t none of us go around gunning down unarmed men, or holding up storekeepers for church money. And we sure never called nobody a rustler unless we caught ’em driving off our cows or changing brands with a running iron.”
Mrs. Parker did not respond, and Mary Ellen didn’t seem able to sit comfortably in her chair. Buck cleaned up his plate quickly.
“Obliged for the meal,” he said, and stood. “I’d better get back.”
Mary Ellen stood also. “You’ll want someone to hold a lantern,” she said.
Mrs. Parker gave her husband a look and he lumbered to his feet, said, “I’ll go out with you.”
“Mary Ellen,” said her mother, “help me get this cleaned up.”
Mary Ellen’s eyes flashed briefly, and then she said, “Of course, Mama.”
Out in the barn, Buck harnessed the mules, wondering what the flash in Mary Ellen’s eyes meant. Parker held the lantern silently, followed along when Buck drove the team out and backed them over the pole.
“Martha don’t have much use for the cattlemen,” Parker said, apologetically.
“I can’t blame her. I’ll bring the rest of your wood as soon as I can.”
“I aim to see Hastings tomorrow morning about that lien, and stir the neighbors, too. I’ll stop by to let you know if I got anywhere.”
“I really appreciate your help,” Buck said, thinking that if the world were full of men like Parker life would be a lot easier.
~*~
At ten o’clock in the morning Buck was sitting tipped back in a chair behind the counter whittling pieces of kindling into a pile of chips and speculating on his chances with Mary Ellen. He’d had only two customers so far—Dunderland looking for coffin hinges, and an old man of somewhat feeble mind who bought a pipe—but it didn’t bother him any.
Now the doorbell jangled again and he set down his whittling.
There was Mary Ellen.
“Hello, Miss Parker,” he said, coming quickly from behind the counter, glancing through the window. All he saw out there was a little pinto mare at the hitch rack. “Did you come with your father?”
“No,” she said, “I am alone. I wanted to apologize for last night. Mother was just trying to protect me. I’m sorry we made you feel unwelcome. I don’t think her feelings are justified, but I hope you can understand them.”
“I think so,” he said. “Would you like to sit down?”
“All right,” she said, “perhaps for a few minutes. I have to be going soon to help Mother with lunch.”
He brought a chair from the office and his own from behind the counter, set them facing each other what he hoped she would feel was a respectable but not excessive distance apart. He held hers for her while she sat, and something in the grace with which she did so brought a lump to his throat.
“Nice of you to take the trouble to tell me this,” he said, sitting down himself. “You didn’t come all the way to town just for that, I hope.”
She hesitated, leaning forward slightly, her hands absently stroking her dress.
“I often go for a ride in the morning, though not usually to town. I meant to tell you last evening, but I could see it would have upset Mother if I had gone outside with you.”
“Your father don’t seem to hold what I was against me.”
“Papa’s very fair,” she said. “And he doesn’t worry about me as much as Mama does. Mr. Maxwell, I don’t want to give you the wrong impression.” She stopped, squeezing one wrist in the other hand. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come. You’ll think ...” She stood up, some color coming into her cheeks. “I only came to apologize, Mr. Maxwell. That’s all. Thank you for being understanding about Mama. I should get back.”
Buck went to open the door for her.
“I hope you can find a way to keep your store,” she said, as she was stepping out. She stopped to look up at him. “I ... I admire you very much, Mr. Maxwell.”
~*~
At lunchtime Buck paid a boy ten cents to get him a meal from Hilda’s and ate it at his office desk, one ear cocked for the front doorbell. He had seen Parker’s farm wagon and mules at the rack in front of Hastings’ Dry Goods, and between that and trying to figure Mary Ellen he had a good case of the jitters.
After the third look out at the wagon he deliberately set to work taking inventory of implement parts in a back room. He hadn’t had a customer since the old man bought a pipe, but since he’d seen no sign of either Snake Ed or Fred Smithly around he didn’t worry about it.
He kept himself busy for over an hour before allowing himself another look out.
The wagon was gone.
He looked both ways along the street, and squinted south beyond the end of town. No wagon.
“Huh,” he said, going back into the store.
The afternoon dragged on. Parker didn’t appear. No customers appeared.
Late in the afternoon, he could stand it no longer. Leaving the store locked up tight he went to Hastings’ Dry Goods.
The two clerks waiting customers eyed him warily.
> “I’m looking for Hastings,” Buck said, confronting one of them.
“In his office,” the clerk said, after thinking about it a moment. He pointed.
Hastings looked up at Buck’s voice and put on a big smile that didn’t quite convince. He stood and held out his hand.
“Why, Mr. Maxwell,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about you, and hoping you would come to see me. Come in, come in.” He closed the office door. “Have a seat, my friend, and we’ll talk business.”
Buck sat.
Hastings, reseating himself and pushing papers to one side, said, “I was afraid I was going to lose you to one of my competitors! There are actually many opportunities in this town for a man such as yourself, Mr. Maxwell. You needn’t think this initial loss is the end of your hopes for the future. You’ll be in at the beginning of something big if you choose to work with me. I have so many plans and so few competent men to help me carry them out.”
“That ain’t why I’m here,” Buck said.
“Oh, no?” said Hastings, and his hands began to move around the desk as though hunting for something to do.
“No. Have you seen Allen Parker today?”
Hastings pulled his chair closer to the desk, folded his hands. He looked earnestly at Buck. “Yes, I have.”
“What time was that?”
“About noon. Why do you ask?”
“Know where he went after he left here?”
“He said he was going home.”
“Straight home?”
“Yes, indeed. He said his wife would be wondering where he was.”
“What did he have to say to you?”
“Well, he said he thought the Church Committee should consider allowing you to pay back the money instead of taking the store from you. I assured him that the decision had already been made and the sheriff sent for.”
“You could change your minds.”
“Not very well. As I explained to Mr. Parker, most of the comments we’ve had on our action have been favorable.”
“What did you tell him about me?”
Hastings looked uncomfortable. “He asked why we had taken the action that we had, and I explained the feelings of some of the members of the Committee about you. I believe he saw that we had some substantial reasons for our action.”