The Sixth Western Novel

by Jackson Gregory

  This was a small clearing in the cedar breaks near the summit and water fell out of the rocks in a silver rope. A thicket of stunted cedars and pine hid him from the crest of the slope. This was Reilly Meyers’ fifth day in an eastward direction and he had been moving leisurely, following the natural breaks in this rocky range. Around him lay the sharp wild odor of the forests and the never ceasing upcast rocks. The evergreens and manzanita layered the sharp slopes and from the dry face, sage flourished in dark clumps.

  On the eastern side of the mountain the land tapered rapidly to dun colored flats, and farther on, lesser hills sat like small brown waves on a tossed sea. At the edge of this sea sat a ranch house, nestling against the base of a series of low hills. Smoke curled sluggishly from the cook shack chimney, breaking off in a wisp at the top as the morning breeze caught it.

  Smiling slightly, Reilly Meyers gathered his gear, then began to work his way off the mountainside.

  He was not a tall man, but the weight in his shoulders and chest gave him a bulkiness that made him appear big.

  His face was blunt and his chin was like the base of a setting maul, square and heavy on the bottom. Hair lay in dark chunks around his ears and his eyes were drill straight with splinters of light in their dark depths. He wore an old suit and a gray flannel shirt. His hat was black and sat squarely on his head. In his right hand he carried a brass-receivered Winchester, almost twenty years old, and in his waistband he had thrust a single action Remington.

  The early morning chill disappeared quickly under the sun’s blast and he removed his coat. Making his way down the tilting face of the slope, Reilly kept his eyes on the ranch house below as though he couldn’t bear to lose sight of it even for an instant.

  Sweat began to make runnels along his cheeks and his shirt turned dark along the back and under the arms. Heat bounced from the barren rocks and began to soak through the thin soles of his boots. He moved with familiarity down this slope, taking obscure game trails that clung at times to a sheer drop-off of several hundred feet. This was his land and he had traveled it before many times.

  By noon he had worked down to the flats and passed beneath the pole arch with the chain-hung sign proclaiming this to be Broken Bit range. The ranch house was square with a wide porch running around all four sides. Flat-roofed with no attic, the house seemed wide and squat compared to the large barn and other outbuildings.

  Back of the barn lay an enclosed area and three men worked horses there, raising a column of tan dust. Their yelling was faint and slightly distorted by distance. Far out on the flats a rider approached and Reilly Meyers gave this a study before turning to the well. Throwing off his bedroll and leaning his .44 Winchester against the stone curbing, Reilly worked the windlass and listened to the dry shaft squeak. As he lifted the dipper a second time, the screen door opened and a tall man came out, slightly bent with age. He put a shielding hand to his eyes and stood still in the drenching sunlight.

  For a moment he stared against the distance with a grave face, and then he spoke. “Reilly?” He came off the porch and closed the distance, between them with long strides and then shook Reilly Meyers’ hand.

  Tension ran out of Reilly. He said, “How are you, Paul? It’s been a damn long time.”

  “A little over four years,” Paul Childress said, and studied Reilly carefully. Childress was lean and age had left wrinkles around his eyes. He had a tolerant face, even slightly humorous if one discounted the stubborn set of the jaw.

  “You walk over them hills?” Childress favored the Sierra Nevada mountains with a glance. “You could have let me know, Reilly. Did you think I’d turned on you?”

  “I wasn’t too sure,” Reilly said. “Somehow I never got much of a chance to explain what happened. You never answered my letters, Paul.”

  “I know,” Childress said, and studied the dusty ground. “I’m ashamed, boy, but there’s things a man can’t help. There was others to think of besides me.” He took Reilly by the arm. “Come on in. There’s coffee on.”

  Going into the house, Reilly turned down the long hall with easy familiarity and went into the large kitchen. He laid his hat on the floor and sat down at the table. Looking around the room at the pine cupboards, the wooden sink, he recalled things nearly forgotten. At another time he had come here, but there had been a difference. He’d had a gun in his hand and a fear pushing him and outside men had called to each other and talked of a rope. Paul Childress had made no move to stop them when they took him away and for a long time Reilly held a deep resentment. Now he wasn’t sure whether he still had it or if he had left it in a California prison.

  Childress took two cups from the kitchen cabinet and placed them on the table, then poured from a gallon coffee pot. He said, “I didn’t think you was coming back, Reilly. And if you did, I figured you’d shoot me.”

  “Do I have anything to shoot you for, Paul?”

  “I left you when you needed me,” Childress said, and sat down. “I was thinkin’ of Emily, Reilly. I’m thinkin’ of her now. You got a record, boy, and some people don’t take kindly to that.”

  “I’m clean,” Reilly said, and added sugar to the coffee. He listened to the quiet in the house, catching the sounds of activity around the corral. When he raised his eyes he found Paul Childress studying him.

  Reilly said, “I’m back to stay, Paul. Am I going to have to take it up where I left off?”

  Childress moved his shoulders slightly. “There’s better places than here. You got a bad deal. Staying won’t make it better.”

  “I’m not the only man around here who’s shot a man.”

  The old man scrubbed a hand across his face, lifting the ends of his mustache with his fingertip. “That’s so, but the wild ones are after you and that makes it different. I wanted to help you that night, but I got enough sense to know I can’t buck that crowd. Burk Seever wanted to see you dead, and from the talk he passes around, he ain’t changed his mind none about it.”

  A horse drummed across the yard and stopped. The back door opened, slamming shut behind a young girl who halted suddenly when she saw Reilly Meyers. She stood like a rabbit in a field who is suddenly confronted by a strange force, poised, uncertain, and then she ran to him, bowling over a chair in her haste to throw her arms around Reilly’s neck.

  She was laughing and crying and kissing him. When he put her away to speak, his voice sounded choked and deeper than it had been before. “Little sister’s grown up, it seems.”

  Emily Meyers laced her arms around. Reilly’s waist and buried her face against the folds of his shirt. Her voice was muffled. “I waited a long time, Reilly. A very long time.”

  “The waiting’s over now,” Reilly said. He stepped away from her, then sat down again. She remained standing and he raised his eyes to her. Emily Meyers was nearly nineteen, tall for a girl, with frank eyes and a skin that was tanned golden. She wore a heavy riding skirt and a white shirtwaist, open at the throat. When she removed her hat, hair fell loosely across her shoulders in a dark wave.

  Taking a place at the table across from her brother, she crossed her arms, frankly admiring him. “You should have written to me, Reilly. I’d have gone to Carson City and met the stage.”

  “I came over the hills this morning,” he said, and took his cup to the stove for a refill. His movements were easy and gave people the impression that he had trained all surplus motion out of him, leaving him lithe and efficient He turned with the cup half-raised and said, “Better this way, Emily. Four years have gone by and folks might be on the edge of forgettin’ I’ve been to prison.” He glanced at Childress. “Where’s Ma?”

  “In town with Al Murdock,” Emily said quickly. “Reilly, you are going to stay here with us, aren’t you?”

  “No,” he said. “My coming back will be bad enough. Bad names rub off, Emily. I’m sure sorry if mine’s bothered you.”

  “That
’s silly talk,” she said shortly. “I’m going to get married, Reilly. Al’s asked me.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “That’s what I want,” she said. “Believe me, Reilly, I’ll be happy.”

  “Then that’s all that counts,” he said, and drank deeply.

  “Why did you have to come back, Reilly?” Childress voice was flat and unemotional.

  “This is my home,” Reilly said. Then he frowned. “Or is it?

  Emily glanced from Reilly to Paul Childress, then back to Reilly. The old man pursed his lips and packed his pipe. “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, boy, but I ain’t lyin’ when I say you ain’t got many friends. The Slaughter boys went with Buttelow when you got sent up, but the crowd you fooled around with is still ridin’ the big white horse.”

  Hunching his shoulder’s, Reilly came back to the table and sat down, his hands laced around the cup. “I’m not asking you for anything,” he said. “I guess you made your position clear enough the night the sheriff and his posse came here. Maybe I don’t have any friends, just like you say, but I’ve thought about this for a long time—how it was going to be, meeting people and lookin’ ’em in the eye. Right now, I don’t give much of a damn. I’ll get started again. Goin’ someplace else is the easy way.” He smiled slightly. “A man can leave a lot behind him, no matter what happens. All the time I was in prison I’ve been thinkin’ about Sally. Maybe I’ll get married now and settle down. You think that’s impossible?”

  A vaguely worried expression appeared on Childress’ face. Emily opened her mouth to speak, hut the old man gave her a quick glance with a definite warning in it. She looked at her hands and said nothing.

  “Better get your feet on the ground before you make any plans,” Childress said. “There ain’t much left of your old place, I hear tell.”

  “It was all right when I left it.”

  “Run down some now,” Childress said, and knocked the dottle from his pipe. “Nothin’ remains the same, son. The crowd that turned on you is still the big augur. Burk Seever’s telling the sheriff where to head in all the time, and Horgan and Winehaven still ride where they please and no one dares open their mouth about it.”

  Finishing his coffee, Reilly shied the grounds into the coal scuttle and rinsed his cup. “I’ve got a bone to pick with Seever and Max Horgan,” Reilly said. “Winehaven too, but this time I’m going to do it careful. That’s your trouble, Paul. You stand still and let these people walk all over you. I never would do that.”

  “No,” Childress said softly, “you never would. Shooting one wasn’t so smart either. You didn’t get your cattle back.” He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and leaned against the wall. “I suppose I could have taken a rifle and stood ’em off the night they was after you, but what would it have got me? My herd raided. My buildings fired while I was in town.” He shook his head. “They’d have got you anyway, regardless of what I could have done.”

  “That’s your story,” Reilly said flatly. “You just stick with it.”

  “I’m not goin’ to squabble with you about it,” Childress said. “Reilly, you was twelve years old when you came staggerin’ out of the desert with a baby girl in your arms. Your pants was in rags and the baby near dead. Even then you was a stubborn little devil, full of pride and fight. I clearly remember when I told you to do something you told me to mind my own damned business, that you’d get along. You were the kind that always had to find out for themselves, the hard way. I guess you’ll still have to be that way, Reilly.”

  Leaning against the sink, Reilly shook out his tobacco and rolled a cigarette. “Do you think I came back to buck the wild bunch, Paul?”

  The old man’s shoulders rose and fell. “I’ve give up guessin’ about what you’ll do next,” Childress said. “You was pretty thick with Horgan and Winehaven.” He held up his hand as Reilly opened his mouth to speak. “Now let me finish. You always said that they left you alone and you was returnin’ the favor, but when your toes got stepped on it was a different story. Once I was neither for you or against you, and I ain’t changed a damned bit, Reilly. It was your idea to play it the lone wolf and I’ll give you all the rope you want.”

  “You hate me, Paul?”

  The old man shook his head. “Reckon I care for you like you was my own son, but you got a way of holdin’ folks away, not takin’ help. You done it to me all your life and a man can get tired of it. Times have changed, Reilly. The country’s divided now between those who like Winehaven’s money and those who’re tired of havin’ their beef rustled. While you was in the pen, Max Horgan used your place and he made damn sure everyone understood that you told him it was all right.”

  “Used it?” Reilly’s eyes narrowed. “I never told him no such a thing!”

  “He had a paper, son. I asked the sheriff about it and we both went to Burk Seever. He said it was legal, and crooked or not, he’s a lawyer and ought to know.”

  Reilly struck the sink with his fist. “I never signed a thing. As for what people think, I don’t give a damn. I just came back for Sally and then I’m getting out.”

  “Gettin’ sore won’t help you, Reilly.” Childress glanced at Emily, but she had turned away and was staring out the kitchen door. “A woman is the most unpredictable thing of all, Reilly. You ever think of that?”

  “For four years I’ve thought of her,” Reilly said. “Sally believed in me when you and the others turned away. That’s what I remember, Paul.” Moving away from the sink he walked to the window, and stood there staring out on the blandness of the bleached desert. “For three days you sat there during the trial, listening to Burk Seever try to hang me, but never a change in your expression.” He turned and faced Paul Childress. “Did you think I drew first, like Seever said?”

  “I never thought that,” Childress murmured as he refilled his pipe. “I’m not a brave man, son. I’m old and don’t want to lose what I’ve worked a lifetime for. The wild bunch is big business, Reilly. A man who wants to go on livin’ has to keep his mouth shut.”

  “Thanks for nothin’ then,” Reilly said bitterly.

  Emily raised her hand and she was near crying. “Please, Reilly—don’t. Try to understand.”

  “Understand what?” He shook out his tobacco and rolled a smoke, kicking his unruly temper in place.

  “I’ve wondered why Seever and Winehaven lied you into the pen, Reilly.” Childress’ voice was softly puzzled. “They had a rope waiting and it’s bothered me. What did you see there that day that scared ’em that much?”

  “See? I didn’t see anything,” Reilly said. “I trailed my steers for a week until the trail petered out near Wine-haven’s slaughter house across the California line. They were there, but he had a bill of sale that I never signed.” Reilly slapped the window sill with his palm. “It was my signature and yet it wasn’t. I don’t know what got into me. There was my steers and here was this bastard sayin’ I couldn’t have ’em. When he reached for his gun I shot him.” He paused and looked at his sister and foster father. “The mistake I made was to come here, thinkin’ you’d stick up for me. I should have stayed in the hills and toughed it out.”

  “What does it matter now?” Childress said. “You’re a free man now and everything’s paid up. Remember that, Reilly, and you’ll be all right.”

  “Sure. I paid for something that I didn’t do.” He sighed and added, “You got a horse I can borrow?”

  “I’ve got a horse I’ll give you,” Childress said. He went outside, Reilly and his sister following him. By the well, Reilly retrieved his blanket roll and crossed to the barn. A gangly rider with legs like parentheses left the shade of the bunkhouse and came over.

  “Turn the buckskin stud out,” Childress said, and the rider shook out a rope, entered the corral and made a deft cast. The horse was loose-legged with a deep chest and the round barrel of a runner.

>   “There’s a saddle in the barn you can have,” Childress said, and the rider went in after it. Saddling up, Reilly lashed his blankets behind the cantle and slid the .44 Winchester into the boot.

  Pausing with a foot in the stirrup, he said, “I’m happy to be back, Paul. I want you to know that.”

  Childress nodded and his eyes were mere slits as he looked at the flat desert vastness. Something solidified in his mind and he said, “Stay away from Buckeye, Reilly. The town’s no good for you.”

  “Sally’s there,” Reilly said. He mounted. “I’d like to pay you for the horse and hull, Paul. I’m not broke. There was a poker game in Marysville—” He let the rest trail off.

  “Consider it a gift,” Childress said. He offered his hand. “I hope everything turns out well for you, Reilly.”

  “Hope? You don’t believe it, do you?”

  Childress shook his head. “Trouble’s always found you mighty easy. You never listened to advice very good.”

  “I’ve had my trouble,” he said gravely. “All I want is my own place and people to leave me alone.” He glanced at Emily and gave her a smile. “Sure is amazin’ what four years will do for a leggy female.” He bent from the saddle and lifted her. She put her arm around him and kissed his cheek before he set her down.

  “Come back here and stay, Reilly,” she said, and in her eyes there was a troubled pleading.

  “A man has to make his own way,” he told her gently. “I’m quotin’ Paul when I say it.” He rapped the stud with his heels and rode from the yard, not looking back.

  Once on the flats, the land changed. Water being scarce here, the ground was sandy, dotted with cacti, soapweed and lupin. Reilly rode slack in the saddle, letting the monotonous miles drift by. Toward mid-afternoon he saw a rising column of dust and cut toward it.

  Drawing closer, Reilly felt mild disappointment when he recognized a buggy, but with only one man in it. Halting, he waited for the rig to clatter nearer, and when identification came to him, his attention sharpened.