by Ray Hogan
Ten
Mason Lynch slowed, watched Shawn cross the hotel’s narrow gallery and disappear through the doorway into the lobby. He moved on then, the irony of the situation striking hard at him in that moment; he was in his own home town, among persons he knew, perhaps had even grown up with, yet his only friend was an outsider—a stranger he had encountered on the trail.
But he guessed no one was to blame but himself, even for the way things had turned out for Marie Hope. If he hadn’t lost his head that day and cut down Wade Canfield, like as not he and Marie would be happily raising a family and building a ranch—in that order—down in the Mescal Mountain country.
He strolled on, noting idly the storefronts—some familiar, some new: Dr. Amos Hewlett . . . Cornman’s Hardware Store . . . Mrs. Broadwell, Ladies & Childrens’ Ready-to-Wear . . . Pete Gabaldon, Feed & Seed . . . Sam Lingle, Genl. Mdse. . . . His wandering gaze stopped on that long, narrow building with its warped, paint-scaled false front. Did Sam Lingle still own what evidently was still Lynchburg’s largest store? Sam had been an old man fourteen years ago.
Traffic along the street was light, and he saw only a few persons along the plank sidewalks—none he recognized or that acknowledged him. Several men lounged around the front of the Maricopa, and as he passed, aware of the tinkling of the piano, the muffled drone of voices and smells of beer and whiskey, something was said and there was a cautious laugh among the loafers.
Mason dismissed it without second thought. In the decade that had passed under the most trying and degrading of circumstances, he had learned the futility of taking offense at every disparaging remark cast his way as well as acquiring a philosophy for survival—accept the cards dealt you, play them as best you can. There was actually little in life worth fighting for.
He drew abreast the Rawhide Saloon—Newt Duckworth’s place—and slackened his step. Marie had been forced to work there for a time, he recalled Huckaby saying, and for several minutes he stood quietly in the warm night staring past the open doorway into the murky, smoke-filled depths of the small building.
It was hard to think of her working there—a third-rate establishment with no tables, no music, no gambling or dancing. What use would Duckworth have for a girl employee? His was the sort of place that catered to men seeking to get thoroughly and quietly drunk at the cheapest rates.
A yellow-wheeled surrey rolled into the north end of the street, its iron tires making a grating sound as they sliced through the sandy soil, the sleek-looking matched grays stepping proudly on their way to some destination at the opposite end of the settlement. A man and a woman occupied the front seat—two small children were in the rear. Strangers, too—newcomers to the area. Mason reconsidered that thought, corrected himself; after ten years’ absence he reckoned he was the newcomer.
The strains of “Onward Christian Soldiers,” sung with fervor and abetted by the solid thump of a piano, drifted to him from the open doorway of the church, now just ahead. With the hymn ringing in his ears, he entered the yard, circled the narrow, white structure with its steep, gable roof, came to the small cemetery lying behind it.
Weeds had made good progress with the two graves, and he spent a quarter-hour policing the mounds and resetting the wooden markers which time and the elements had conspired to tilt. The lettering, skillfully carved into the pine by the church sexton, was still legible, but just barely. Now that he had returned maybe he could replace the wood with stone or marble. It would take a little money, something he was plenty shy of at the moment, but later, perhaps—if things went well.
His thoughts halted as his eyes reached down the darkened street, moving past the squat adobe huts occupied by the Mexican people, and settled on the two-storied bulk of the Frisco House, standing silent and apart from all others.
Instantly Marie Hope was again in his mind, provoking memory, and giving rise to a vague, lonely aching. He was remembering her as he last saw her—dark eyes, smooth face sober, hair gathered in a bun on her neck as she stood in the crowd and watched him, cuffed and shackled, climb into the stagecoach with the U.S. Marshal who was taking him to prison.
He never saw or heard from her after that final moment. No letter writer himself, he would have found little opportunity in those first two years behind the grim walls of the penitentiary, even had he been so inclined, as brutal punishment details, designed to break the will and spirit, were a daily fare.
And after that, when matters eased off more or less into a dreary, monotonous routine, it was too late. Marie would certainly have forgotten him, for no word had ever arrived from her—not that such was proof she had never written; letters from home, more often than prison officials would admit, somehow failed to get delivered. But it was better to assume that she had forgotten him, had simply given him up; it was the only practical thing for her to do.
Now he wondered about her; had she changed? Would she be thinking of him, too, when word of his return reached the Frisco House—which it probably had by that hour? He shrugged. Likely Marie would give him no thought at all. He was a closed chapter in her life—meant nothing. Unquestionably the years of bitter tribulations had marked her appearance; as to her heart and soul, there could be no doubt of it.
Crossing to a log bench someone had thoughtfully placed beneath the spreading trees at the edge of the fenced plot, Mason sat down. The lilacs strung along the back of the area had bloomed and were now without fragrance; but wafting in from some close-by location was the odor of honeysuckle, and he sat for a time enjoying its sweetness and remembering how his mother had coddled and coaxed a vine to grow above the kitchen window of the old place.
The singing inside the church had ended and he could hear the deep-throated voice of a man—the minister, he assumed—exhorting his flock to walk the path of righteousness. The words were mostly unintelligible to Lynch but their urgency was undeniable, and he thought back to long ago when he, too, at the inflexible insistence of his parents, had regularly taken his place on one of the hard-bottomed pews and been fed a diet of salvation.
Those had been good times, and recalling them awakened pleasant memories; but there was no profit in thinking of days gone—for there was no method of changing what had happened. He had come to realize that just as no man had ever yet found a place where he could hide from himself, so also was it equally impossible for him to undo the mistakes he had made. It was a fact of life of which he had always been aware, but it had taken a decade for him to fully comprehend the meaning.
Head down, Mason sat in the darkness of the sweetly scented night, only partly conscious of the singing again pouring from the throat of the little church, of the black, star-spangled canopy above him, of the gradually decreasing activity along the street as the hour grew late. He knew only a nagging, persistent longing that throbbed deep in his mind to see Marie, perhaps even talk to her. What she was now did not matter, nor was there any desire within him to avail himself of her talents; it was senseless, useless, but the need simply to look at her once more was pushing at him with irresistible force.
Rising, he started back through the cemetery, following the path that wound among the graves and led finally to the churchyard. The congregation had departed, and glancing through the still-open doorway into the lighted sanctuary, he could see the minister, a tall, lonely figure, standing off to one side reading from a book.
Continuing, Mason turned into the narrow side street and made his way along the darkened huts toward the distant, taller structure of the Frisco House. Now and then a dog barked at his passage, and once he heard a child crying as if frightened by something in the dark.
Arriving there, he halted in the shadow of the long-abandoned stable that stood directly across from the large building. Once the place had been a stopping point for stagecoaches, with the depot on the ground floor, the upper level arranged in a series of rooms available to travelers who wished to lay over, rest briefly from whatever rigorous journey they were making. The stable where the teams were
fed and sheltered had been erected conveniently near, with the holding corral—now a square of staggering, rotting posts—to the south.
All had been abandoned for newer quarters in the settlement at some time during the years when he was away fighting the war, and a minor boom was taking place in Lynchburg. It had been called the Frisco House then, and as is quite often the way, the name stuck, was never dropped regardless of the change in the nature of the tenantry.
It now appeared to be in total darkness, but it was a deceptive impression. Light streaks lay along the edge of shades not completely drawn or that ill fitted their window frames, and from the squares of different-colored glass panes making up the front door—once a solid slab of thick wood—there issued a muted glow.
Abruptly that door opened and a slash of lamplight broke through the night, illuminating a rectangle of the weedy yard momentarily and offering a quick glimpse into the garishly furnished entry hall before it swung closed again.
The man who had emerged made his way unsteadily along the well-beaten walk, veering sharply once when his faltering legs carried him into a thorny bush of wild roses, came finally to the street. He pulled to a wavering halt there, got his bearings firmly established, and then began the trek back to the settlement.
Lynch stood for a time contemplating the weaving shadow, seemingly ricocheting from one side of the roadway to the other, and when it had at last vanished into the darkness, brought his eyes back to the building before him.
Uncertainty again possessed him. There was no sensible reason to see Marie, much less talk with her. It could result only in the reopening of old wounds, raking fresh the thinly healed scars. Yet . . .
On impulse he stepped from the doorway of the stable, crossed the street, and started up the path leading to the front steps. Reaching there he once more paused, torn again by indecision. He swore silently at himself; once such irresolution had been no part of his character—but after ten years during which all thinking, all decisions had been done for him, it had become a way of life.
Still vacillating, he turned from the path, moved to the window immediately to his left, where a strip of light separated the shade’s lower edge and the sill. It would be better, perhaps, first to have a look inside. Standing close to the wall, he peered through the narrow opening. This had been the main room of the depot, he recalled. Now it was the Frisco House’s parlor, replete with plush chairs and couches, a massive table with fancy, scrolled legs, carpeting on the floor and framed prints on the papered walls.
A thick-bodied woman was in one of the larger chairs. Her hair was a startling yellow, like the goldpoppys that cover the slopes in spring, and as she knitted at some sort of garment, face tipped down, she was talking steadily.
Mason shifted to the opposite side of the window, where he had a different view of the room. Two younger women were seated on a couch placed against the near wall, one leafing through an old, well-handled magazine, the other staring absently at one of the pictures on the wall. He felt his throat tighten as he recognized the latter. It was Marie.
In silence he stood there, leaning against the cool stone of the old building, eyes riveted to the girl. She had changed, of course. Thinner by considerable, her face almost gaunt and now turned ugly by the rouge and rice powder so generously applied. But her eyes were the same—or so he thought. A moment later she turned and looked directly toward the window as if suspecting someone’s presence.
There was change. No longer did they have the soft, doe like quality that had made of her, a girl of only ordinary attractiveness, one of quiet, stirring beauty. Her eyes now were dull, sunken, filled with a listlessness that bespoke the desperation that filled her.
Mason Lynch drew back, a sickness gripping him. He had made her that way. He had been the cause of it—him and his anger and his unwillingness to accept what he did not want to face. Now it was too late to make amends, to try and right the wrong he had done. Or was it? Should he talk to her, tell her of his plans for the place in the Mescals—ask her to become a part of it, of his future? Would she listen—or would she laugh in his face?
The light running sound of an approaching horse reached him. He glanced to the street. A rider was coming up from town. Stepping into the tangle of unkempt shrubbery growing along the wall, he watched the horseman, vaguely familiar, swing into the stable, reappear shortly on foot. Entering the yard, he crossed to the porch in purposeful steps and halted before the door.
The night suddenly echoed with his impatient pounding as he demanded entry. The door flung back. Mason’s lips curled as light fell upon the now easily recognizable figure of Kit Canfield. Then all was again plunged into darkness as the rancher entered and the multicolored panel closed behind him.
For several moments Mason Lynch did not stir, and then drawn by some irresistible force, he returned to his place at the window. Canfield, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, had entered the room, was standing before the two girls on the couch. His face was swollen, dark with bruises from the beating Shawn Starbuck had given him, and as he reached down, grasped Marie by the wrist, and pulled her upright, there was a brutish anticipation in the slackness of his hard grin.
Pushing her toward the stairway, he followed, saying something to the woman with the yellow hair as he passed, laughed. The woman joined in, dutifully it seemed, and thoughtfully watched the rancher climb the steps; then shaking her head, she resumed her knitting.
Mason continued to stand at the window, staring into the room but seeing nothing while an unreasoning, towering rage hammered at him. Kit Canfield and Marie—his Marie! Goddam the man to hell! If he had a gun he’d … he’d …
~*~
Town Marshal Virgil Huckaby stood in the dark passageway separating Spearman’s and the widow Broadwell’s establishments, and there wholly unnoticed by the few persons wandering along the street soaking in the evening coolness, maintained his watch on the side door of Duckworth’s saloon, into which Kit Canfield had disappeared an hour or so earlier.
There was no mystery as to what lay behind the door; it was the living quarters of the new girl Duckworth had brought in from Prescott to work for him. By rights she should be in the saloon now, helping Newt behind the counter. He had discovered, more or less by accident, that such was good for business—a well-rounded, skimpily clad female bartender—but Kit, in his usual loud and despotic manner, had claimed her services and Duckworth was being forced to cope with customers alone. Kit, however, would have his fill of her shortly, permitting her to return to regular duties—and thus turn Canfield loose on the town again.
For this Virg Huckaby waited hopefully. Not that the rancher’s insatiable hunger for women, so strong as to often require the services of several during a single night, was of particular interest to the lawman; likely, fired with liquor, goaded into a searing fury by the licking he had so publicly taken in the Maricopa, it was only logical to expect this would be just such a night—and God pity the whores he bedded down! The man was a sadist at heart and he’d be taking out his rage and frustration on each of them.
All of which was nothing new to Huckaby; he’d seen Canfield in similar moods before, had on occasion seen fit to step in, cover for the man’s actions, all in the interests of the town—but that was over now. Kit had drawn a sharp and definite line, making it clear where he stood and what his intentions were. Now, as far as Virgil Huckaby was concerned, all the bars were down and Kit Canfield had best look to his hindquarters—for one slip on his part and the wolves would close in.
Lock him up! Starbuck had said earlier that evening when he had mentioned the possibility of trouble from Kit after he had gone storming out of the Maricopa. Lock him up! Why not? If he could nail Canfield for doing something that was a clear violation of the law—why not? He could expect no mercy from the rancher—why not simply beat him to the punch?
He guessed he hadn’t ever really understood how deep his hatred for the swaggering, loud-mouthed rancher was until that afternoon late when
Kit had voiced his threats. Of course there had never been any cordiality between them, the lawman having categorized and pegged Kit Canfield for what he was the first day they met. And then when the Mason Lynch murder thing had been settled and much later, after Marie Hope had married, lived for a time with a husband, and become widowed, the feeling toward the rancher had intensified even more.
Virg had thought a lot about Marie, had not only felt sorry for her because of the turn fate had given her, but had known a genuine affection, entertaining thoughts of asking her to marry him despite the fact he was old enough to be her father. And it seemed to him he was making progress along such lines, too.
Then Kit Canfield became aware of Marie’s obvious charms—a young widow in the full bloom of early womanhood—and moved in. In a short time he had completely overcome her, swung her to his way of thinking, and if she had ever seriously considered wedding the lawman, it was blasted to the winds by the rancher’s swashbuckling, free-spending manner.
He’d had some rough moments there in the Maricopa when Mason Lynch had asked about Marie, and what he had been forced to say had ripped open all of the old sores, set them to festering again. He owed Kit Canfield plenty, not only for Marie, who, tired of within a few months by the rancher who kept her in lonely splendor and solitude in a cottage at the edge of town, eventually ended up in the Frisco House, but for all the insults, the humiliation, and the sly, steady undermining of his position in the town as well ...
His morose thinking came to a halt, as down the street he saw Mason Lynch emerge from the churchyard, where he had evidently been visiting his folks’ graves. Mason paused, then moved off through Mexicantown—on his way, no doubt, to pay a call on Marie Hope.
Mason was a fool to do that, he thought. He would find nothing but disappointment and disillusionment; things can never be put back in proper order once a change has been made. Physically, perhaps; in all other ways, no. Mason Lynch would be better off to turn around, come back—forget about the girl he had once planned to make his wife.