by Short, Luke;
The moment had gone; Mary had completely regained her composure. She said now, “Is it impertinent for me to ask how all this concerns your work for the land office?”
Giff rose saying, “I was wondering when you’d ask that question. It doesn’t concern it at all.”
Mary rose too, her smile once again warm and faintly mocking, “I am sure Mrs. Wiatt has counted on you for supper.”
“Some other time,” Giff said. “Will you thank her and tell her good-bye?”
Mary followed him to the door and on the porch he halted and put on his hat. He was about to bid her good evening when she said abruptly, “Why don’t you come in some day and we’ll talk about flowers or horses? I’m tired of snarling at you every time we meet.”
“I’m tired of it too,” Giff said. “Good night.”
As he walked back the two blocks to the main street, the strangeness of this girl lingered in his mind. She was beautiful and had a needle-sharp and mocking cleverness, but she was hiding something. He had a disturbing conviction that Mrs. Sebree had told the truth, and he found himself disliking that truth. Minutes ago, Mary had asked him, Did you climb off a horse after a long day’s ride to ask me that? That was exactly what he had done; he had hurried to her to find out if Mrs. Sebree was right. He could have waited to ask her, but he didn’t, and now he wondered why. The answer came reluctantly. He had been in a terrible haste to hear her deny it. It was important to him that she should deny it, because he didn’t want her to be mixed up with any man in this land swindle.
He wondered glumly, Is she in it, too? No, she had accepted his reward advertisement. If she were in it with Sebree, she would never have accepted it, because the finding of the paper would uncover her guilt. No, that wasn’t it, yet Mrs. Sebree had spoken the truth, and he was none the wiser and considerably sadder for knowing it was the truth.
At the Family Cafe, he had a quick supper and then moved on to the livery, where he inquired the directions to Taltal of the hostler, and then helped himself to a fresh horse. There was still an hour of light left when the stage road began its climb to the distant peaks.
He was deep in the foothills when full darkness came and his thoughts turned again to Mary. He wondered what there had been in her life that had bred her dislike of Sebree. On principle she was entitled to dislike naked and arrogant power, but was that all that was behind her passion? Remembering her embarrassment at his questions, he knew there was something deeper and more personal than just principles. If it were something personal, why was she so careful to clothe it in those waspish generalities?
The stage road was lifting into thicker timber and the heavy scent of pine resin was in the air. He speculated idly on what he would learn in Taltal from Mrs. Bentham and why Mrs. Sebree had mentioned her. He had learned from the hostler that Taltal was a dreary, lonely stage stop at the bottom of a dark remote canyon. It was an odd place for a man to establish a mistress.
The up-stage passed him around nine o’clock; he rode in its persistent, hanging pennant of dust for another hour and when the last lingering smell of it was gone from the air, he saw the lamps of Taltal ahead through the thinly scattered spruce. The creek which he had forded many times below was now more narrow and its sound was a constant and pleasant part of the night.
As he crossed the bridge, he saw a half-dozen horses tied at the rail in front of the dimly lit building. He racked his horse among them, and dismounted. It was too dark to distinguish brands and he halted a moment considering this. If he struck a match and examined the horses, it would not go unnoticed by someone inside and would be a plain admission that he was wary of his company. He would have to take a chance that none of the horses was Torreon, for he knew that he was free game for Torreon hands in a place like this.
Mounting the steps, he entered the saloon. A game of poker was being played by four men at the far table. They were strangers to him, and probably to each other, he thought. Differing in features, they were basically alike, travel-weary, taciturn and suspicious. He believed he knew their life well, for it had once been his—a life of small and furtive dishonesties, of hunger, of driving restlessness, of movement and solitude.
They regarded him covertly as he crossed the room to the bar, and since his own dusty and unshaven appearance matched theirs, they accepted him by ignoring him. He wondered if the bartender was Bentham. The man had the look of an old and cynical ex-gambler who had lost his sharpness and his courage with cards, Giff thought.
Bentham was washing glasses, and when he looked up, Giff signaled for whiskey. Bentham, soiled towel over his shoulder, took a glass and bottle from the back bar, and set them silently on the bar before Giff. The clicking of poker chips and the muted but sustained noise of the creek outside was interrupted occasionally by a word from the men behind him. He had his drink, looking at the room and idly watching the dexterity with which Bentham went about his job. He wanted above all to establish the fact that he was in no hurry, that he was an aimless drifter, a stranger.
He said presently, “Can a man get a room here and bait for his horse?”
Bentham said, “For a dollar in advance, yes. No breakfast.”
Giff put two silver dollars on the bar top and got his change back. Bentham said, “Which horse is yours?” and when Giff told him the one farthest from the steps, he left the room quietly. His air of tight-lipped and studied silence was in keeping with this place, Giff thought. He fashioned his cigarette, then strolled to the door and looked out into the night. He saw a man, not Bentham, come around the building, take his horse and lead it around the far corner of the veranda. Giff’s brand, the livery brand, would probably go unnoticed until the morning. There was a quality of somnolent watchfulness about this place that began to push at his nerves; he had a feeling that he had been tentatively sized up but that he would not be forgotten for a second until he rode out again.
Bentham returned to the room and Giff wheeled and tramped over to him as he stood in the doorway. “Room number five,” Bentham said, “at your right, upstairs.”
“Is it too late for me to get something to eat?” Giff asked. He was not hungry, but he wanted to stir up movement in the place on the off chance that he would see Mrs. Bentham.
Bentham said, “I’ll see,” and crossed the dining room to the kitchen door. In a moment he appeared and said as he passed toward the barroom, “Go on in the kitchen.”
Giff went through the kitchen door and halted by the stove. A dark-haired girl with her back to him was cutting bread at the sink counter. Giff said, “Is there some place I can wash out back?”
The girl turned and Giff knew at once that this was Sebree’s Mrs. Bentham. She had a sullen sort of beauty that was not attractive to him, but was undeniable. Her dress was bright and clean and Giff thought, Sebree would teach her that.
“There’s a pump out back.” Her voice held an undertone of resentment of having to serve him at this hour.
He went on through the kitchen and washed up at the pump. When he returned, a place was set at the oilcloth-topped kitchen table and a cup of coffee was already poured. He sat down and sipped at his coffee, watching the quick deft movements of Mrs. Bentham as she prepared her food, wondering how to approach her.
Take a chance, he thought and now he spoke pleasantly, “Mrs. Sebree sends her regards to you.”
If he had hoped to startle her by these words, he succeeded almost too well. She dropped a knife that clanged on the counter and rattled into the sink. In the same movement she wheeled to face him, an expression of both amazement and fear in her face. Slowly, she got control of herself and then took three slow steps to the far side of the table. “Who are you?” she demanded suspiciously.
“Don’t worry; Grady didn’t send me.” Giff replied. Then he asked in a mild voice, “Is my supper ready?”
“Did Mrs. Sebree send you up here?”
Giff shook his head in negation, “No, she just said to say hello to you.”
For a full t
en seconds Mrs. Bentham regarded him with an alert wariness. She said then, “She doesn’t even know me.”
“She knows of you,” Giff said. He could see that she was weighing in her mind the significance of his words. She was puzzled, expecting trouble, wondering how to prepare for it. He repeated, “Is my supper ready?”
She turned reluctantly to her work and then crossed to him with a plate of cold steaks and cold fried potatoes.
He put his attention to the food, ignoring the girl; she had returned to the counter and put her back against it and was watching him. Giff had an idea that she would not let this rest here, but he ate unconcernedly. After a few moments he asked around a mouthful of food, “Stage crowded tonight?”
Mrs. Bentham started in surprise at the sound of his voice. He could see she was plainly surprised at the irrelevance of his words, and impatient too. She said, “Just who are you?”
He heard footsteps in the dining room at the same moment Mrs. Bentham did and now he watched her carefully, hoping for a hint as to what course to follow. She lifted her head in sudden alarm and then moved quickly toward the stove. She picked up the coffee-pot and as the door opened and Bentham came in, she walked to the table and freshened Giff’s cup of coffee. Afterward she moved to the cupboard above the sink, opened it and reached up for a can. When she had set it on the counter, she opened a drawer and took out a can opener. She’s afraid of him, Giff thought.
He looked up indifferently at Bentham who was standing in the kitchen door, then looked down at his plate and continued eating. Presently Bentham backed into the dining room and the door swung shut. He saw Mrs. Bentham pause in her movements, cock her head and listen. Then she glanced at him and raised her finger to her lips. Giff nodded and continued eating in silence. After a few moments, he heard a board creak in the dining room and he knew that Bentham, satisfied with his eavesdropping, had returned to the bar.
When Bentham returned to the saloon, he saw Perez, his hired man, standing beside the outer door, hat in hand, waiting for him.
He crossed to the Mexican and asked softly, “Quién es?”
The Mexican lifted his shoulders in a shrug, and then said in Spanish, “I don’t know him. His horse carries the livery stable brand.”
“Murray’s?”
Perez nodded, and Bentham said, “All right. Good night.”
When Perez had left the porch, Bentham stepped out into the night and walked slowly to the porch rail. The presence of one of Cass Murray’s horses here was suspicious in itself. An out-at-the-pants drifter couldn’t afford to ride one, and if he’d come from town why was he staying here tonight?
Memory of Murray’s name still lingered, teasing at him. What had he heard about Murray lately from the stage driver? Oh yes, that Murray had first hired this drifter that was making so much—
He turned, suddenly, realization coming abruptly. This man was Dixon, the land office chainman who had broken Traff’s jaw and had cleaned out the Torreon bunkhouse. Yes, his looks jibed with the stage driver’s description of him—“a tall, black-Irishman with a go-to-hell look in his eyes.”
Bentham speculated closely for a moment on what Dixon was doing here. He’s after Sebree—maybe through his woman, Bentham thought.
He hoped bitterly that Dixon would succeed.
For two long years Bentham had bided his time, taking Sebree’s orders, and fronting for his woman. And not one of these days had passed without his hoping and watching for some way to even the score with Sebree. He had thought of several ways; but after examining them he backed away from them, for they took something he had precious little of, and that was courage. He had the courage to face down a saloon drunk; that was a trick and took only steady nerves. But Sebree was different. He knew that the longer he waited the more servile he was becoming—and the more his hatred of Sebree grew.
Now, thinking of Dixon, he began to wonder. Casting back to everything he had heard about the man, his wonder grew into speculation. Dixon, he had already guessed, was the reason for Sebree’s wanting Jim Archer. The very fact that Sebree was that afraid of Dixon pushed Bentham to his decision now, and the thought Maybe he can do it. He stepped down into the night and circled the hotel. Approaching the back door, he walked slowly and quietly until he could touch it. The sound of Dixon’s and his wife’s voices inside was a low, indistinguishable murmur.
Bentham calculated, then. Both of them inside would be listening for sounds in the dining room. Knowing that, he put his hand on the doorknob and slowly turned it. When the latch opened silently, he pushed the door open until a tiny crack of light showed. Simultaneously, he picked up the sound of his wife’s bitter voice in mid-speech. “—all this way to tell me about Mrs. Sebree. What is it you want from me?”
“Your help.”
“In what? Sending Grady to jail?”
Dixon’s voice was dry. “Odd you should say that. I didn’t mention jail. Has he done anything that would put him there?”
Bentham heard his wife’s voice turn sullen as she answered. “I don’t know. I hear talk, though.”
I bet you do, Bentham thought grimly.
“About what?” Dixon asked her.
“Oh, I don’t know, I tell you!”
“You know he’s in trouble now,” Dixon prodded.
His wife was quiet a moment; Bentham wondered if she would answer. “Yes, I overhear talk from stage passengers and the drivers.”
“But what’s he said about it to you? Think back. If he hasn’t told you about it, then he thinks you don’t know about it. He’d naturally be careless. Has he said or done anything you don’t understand?”
Dixon’s voice was persuasive, and Bentham knew he was softening Sarita.
“Yes, I overheard—” Sarita’s voice ceased, and Bentham’s pulse quickened. What had she overheard?
“You overheard what?”
“Nothing.” Sarita’s voice was flat, scared.
“You’re afraid of him, aren’t you?” Dixon jibed.
“You don’t know Grady,” Sarita said dully. “He’d have it out of me if he suspected I’d even seen you.”
She’s whipped, Bentham thought. He’d heard enough to know Dixon could talk until midnight and get nothing more out of her. Softly, he closed the door, and then moved off into the night.
Pausing, he felt an odd excitement within him. Dixon was the kind of reckless tenacious fool who wouldn’t be stopped. His very presence here testified to that. Then why not help him? Bentham asked himself. They were both after the same thing.
Then, thinking of Sarita and her fear of Grady, Bentham knew he must play this carefully. She mustn’t suspect anything. After a moment’s thought, he moved around the corner of the saloon and went inside. The poker game was still in progress, and none of the players noticed him as he went behind the bar, lifted out a gun from under it, and tucked it in the waistband of his pants, then went out into the dining room.
Giff had heard the footsteps in the dining room, and he ceased talking. The door swung open silently; and after putting down his cup of coffee, Giff glanced up.
Bentham was standing in the doorway, a gun in his hand held hip high. His chill, malignant eyes regarded Giff closely.
“I got a look at the brand on your horse,” Bentham said. “It’s a livery horse of Murray’s.”
Giff waited, watching.
“You aren’t riding through.”
“I don’t recall saying I was.”
Bentham watched him a bitter moment. “You’re Dixon aren’t you?”
Giff only nodded and gathered his legs under him to move. Only the belief that Bentham had not reached the point of decision held him longer in his chair.
“Go saddle your horse and clear out of here,” Bentham said thinly. “Sarita, light a lantern.”
Mrs. Bentham moved around behind Giff and he could hear her take down the lantern, fumble nervously at the wall-box of matches and strike a light. Bentham never ceased watching him and now the old man
said, “Take it.”
Giff turned in his chair and accepted the lighted lantern from Mrs. Bentham. She hurriedly passed him and went out of the room hugging the wall and careful to keep out of the way of her husband’s leveled gun.
“Do I go now?”
“Get up.” Bentham moved in behind Giff as he turned toward the back door. Outside, Bentham directed him to the corral. For a dismal moment, Giff wondered if this was only Bentham’s way of moving him outside where there would be no witnesses to the kill. The flesh on his back crawled; he kept remembering the dead cold eyes of the man holding the gun. A break into the night would only bring it quicker, he knew; and he tramped on.
When he reached the corral, he saw his horse nuzzling the last of the hay that had been forked from the shed. With the corral poles between them, he might have a chance, he thought; he hung the lantern on the gatepost and reached for the wire latch.
Suddenly Bentham’s voice from behind him said quietly, “She’ll be watching from the house. Keep on working while I talk. Do you understand that?”
Giff didn’t, but he said yes as he opened the gate. He walked over to his saddle atop the corral and Bentham spoke in a low voice, “Sebree came to me the other night and asked me if I could send out for a reliable killer. I sent for him and he’ll be paid five hundred dollars for killing a man.”
Giff lifting the bridle from the top pole of the corral, moved over to his horse. “Who is it to be?” he asked without turning.
“You.”
Giff slipped the bit into his dun’s mouth and then moved back for his saddle. He glanced obliquely at Bentham, hoping the man’s expression would give some clue to the cause of his treason. Bentham’s news carried little surprise for him, but its manner of telling did. There was no time to follow it through now for Bentham was talking again. “The man’s name will be Jim Archer. His instructions are to put up at the Territory House and wait until Sebree gets in touch with him. Have you got that?”