The Sixth Western Novel

by Jackson Gregory

  Cannoyer said, “The hotel’s up the street, and if you want a bath go to the barbershop. They got a tub there.”

  Putting on the clean shirt, Reilly slipped back into his coat and went back into the stable to roll his blankets.

  Cannoyer had left his place in the doorway and was leaning against the stanchion. He sucked on his pipe and watched Reilly carefully. Dropping his eyes to the gun in Reilly’s waistband, he said, “Couldn’t help notice that. Been a little work done on it, ain’t there?”

  “Some,” Reilly said and tossed his rolled blankets in an empty feed bin.

  “Knew a fella in Ellsworth who had his guns worked on,” Cannoyer said. “Short barrels and no front sights. Trouble was, he tried to pull it one night and he found out a short barrel didn’t make a damn bit of difference against a good man.”

  Reilly flipped his head around and stared at Cannoyer. “You got any good men around here?”

  The old man shrugged and hooked one suspender strap farther up on his shoulder. “Noticed that was a Broken Bit stud. You and the old man make up?”

  “Did we ever have a failin’ out?”

  “He never went to see you,” Cannoyer said. “A man do that to me and I’d be plumb aggravated.”

  He turned away from Reilly and went back to the stable door, closing one side and dropping the locking pin into the sill. Taking his chair, he elevated it against the door frame and cocked his feet up against the side that was closed.

  Reilly watched this, and then Cannoyer smiled. Clearly, Ben Cannoyer was barring the exit. Reilly had no doubt of it when Cannoyer said softly, “You wasn’t in no hurry now, was you, Reilly?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Past the stable door the street was bright with streaked lamplight and people moved up and down. In the stable archway an overhanging lantern puddled a yellow glow an the hoof-chopped yard. Reilly walked to where Ben Cannoyer waited and glanced down at the old man’s outstretched feet.

  “Let me through, Ben,” he said mildly.

  “Let’s talk a spell,” Cannoyer said. He knocked the dottle from his corncob pipe. “The news got around that you was comin’ back, Reilly. There was some talk on what you’d do.”

  “You mean go after Winehaven?”

  Cannoyer nodded. “Sheriff Henderson got word from the California law that you’d been released. He’s been waitin’ for you.”

  “Let him wait,” Reilly said. He nodded at the old man’s legs. “Better pick ’em up, Ben,” he said, and finally Cannoyer lifted them. The old man wore a faded pair of denim pants and run-down boots. He had his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow and the red flannel underwear sagged away from his skinny arms.

  “Something on your mind, Ben?”

  “Not much. Goin’ to be a lively little town tonight,” Cannoyer opined, “seein’ how you had to show your muscles to Burk in the bakery.” He bent forward in his chair, lowering his voice like a man passing on a smutty joke. “Sally was seen comin’ out of th’ alley behind th’ restaurant about th’ same time you was there. Now a man’d have to be pretty dumb not to be able to figure that one out, wouldn’t he?”

  “I don’t know. How dumb are you, Ben?”

  In the light of the stable arch, Cannoyer conducted a study of Reilly. Deep shadows boxed Reilly’s face, making him seem older. The gun tucked into the waistband gave him a touch of danger.

  “I guess it’s none of my business,” Cannoyer admitted.

  “That’s right, Ben. It isn’t.”

  “But I wouldn’t hang around Buckeye if I was you. When Burk gets wind of this he’s liable to come looking for you.”

  “I won’t be hard to find,” Reilly said, then broke off his talk as a fringed-top buggy wheeled into the yard. A small man dismounted, peering through the darkness at Reilly and Cannoyer. When he stepped closer, Reilly raised his head so the lantern light bathed his face.

  “Well, Reilly,” the man said, “I thought this country had seen the last of you.”

  “Don’t bother to pull your badge, Peters,” Reilly said. “I’m clean and you know it.”

  Harry Peters smiled and the ends of his heavy mustache lifted slightly. He was a moon-faced man with a derby and a shaggy buffalo coat. A cigar was fragrantly ignited between his teeth and the brown ends of a dozen more protruded past an inner coat pocket. Removing the cigar from his mouth, he rotated it between thumb and forefinger. He said, “A good cigar is like a loose woman, Reilly—a comfort a man may live to regret.”

  “Never use ’em,” Reilly said.

  “I like to see virtue in a man,” Peters said. He shrugged his shoulders beneath his heavy coat. “Turning off chilly, Ben. Won’t be long until winter.”

  Cannoyer grunted and refilled his charred pipe. “How’s th’ marshalin’ business, Harry?”

  “Tolerable when you think of it only as a steady job,” Peters said. “Is Paul Childress and Jim Buttelow in town yet?”

  “At the hotel,” Cannoyer said. “Some of the others too.”

  “Thanks,” Peters said, and licked a loose shard of tobacco dangling from his cigar. Glancing at Reilly, he added: “Keep out of trouble. I don’t want to spend the winter chasing you through the hills.”

  “Don’t lose any sleep over it,” Reilly told him. “I’m going to back the winter out at my place—all by myself.”

  “That,” Peters said, “sounds monotonous.” He walked down the street.

  “That’s some fella,” Ben Cannoyer said. “He sure don’t look like a U.S. marshal, does he?”

  “How does a marshal look?”

  “Hard to say. He seems kind of runty to be packin’ so much authority around.” Cannoyer slanted Reilly a shrewd glance. “Still, he ain’t done much about stoppin’ the rustlin’, has he?”

  “You’re telling me the story,” Reilly said. “I’ve been away.”

  Cannoyer grunted. Reilly walked up the main drag toward the saloon.

  * * * *

  Thirty years ago, Paul Childress had learned how futile it was to worry, and being a strongly disciplined man, resolved to rule it out of his system. But like other planned controls, it slipped now and then and he was forced to acknowledge a vague rat-gnaw of uneasiness.

  Sitting on the wide arcade of the new hotel, Childress watched the traffic flow past. He saw Al Murdock come out with Emily Meyers.

  “I’m going to see if that linen came in from Fort Reno,” Emily said, and left the porch, walking rapidly down the street to the mercantile.

  Murdock spotted the empty chair and sat down. Studying Murdock, Childress decided that the foreman was fine-honed in his habits and thinking. It showed plainly on the man’s blunt face.

  Murdock said, “We’re overstocked again for winter range, Paul. You want me to move some of ’em down from the north pasture and let them winter out by the creek?”

  “Whatever you think is best,” Childress murmured.

  “We need another forty ton of hay,” Murdock pointed out. “The cash is getting low so I’d better see Hammer-slip at the bank in the mornin’.” He removed his battered hat and ran fingers through unruly hair. Plainly, he was acting idle and feeling the opposite.

  Childress observed him closely for these small clues.

  “What’s eating on you, Al?” The old man struck a match and laid it across the bowl of his pipe, waggling it back and forth until the fire glowed evenly. He gave Murdock a darting glance. “Worried about Reilly?”

  “Some,” Murdock admitted. “That hothead’s going to get himself into it again if he ain’t careful.”

  “He’s a grown man,” Childress said. “Reilly can take care of himself.”

  “Too damn well,” Murdock said. He fell silent for a moment. “Paul, I’ve never stuck my nose in much that never concerned me, but what’s between you and Reilly?”

  “You th
ink there’s something?”

  “Reilly could use a friend, and some understandin’. You ain’t give him much of either.”

  “I guess not,” Childress said. He sighed. “A man’s got to take his own hard knocks, Al. Reilly wants it that way.”

  “I guess you know what you’re doin’,” Murdock said, and lapsed into silence.

  Sitting quietly with his pipe, Childress decided that Murdock worried too much about trouble. In fact, most men worried too much about it. Yet man was born into trouble, waded through it most of his life, and then succumbed to it or surmounted it. The stronger a man was, the more he fought it, while the weak died easily. He wondered who was better off, the man who died bending to it or the one who died fighting it.

  He said, “You and Reilly were never close, Al. Why all the concern?”

  Tipping back his chair, Murdock elevated his feet to the railing and sat there, loose-muscled and easy in his manner. When his gaze moved along the street, it swung like the needle of a compass, quickly, restless in its searching, pausing only with reluctance.

  “I’m goin’ to be shirt-tail kin to Reilly come spring,” Murdock said. “A man’s got his obligations, that’s all.”

  “Better leave Reilly alone,” Childress counseled. “He’s headstrong.” He touched Murdock on the arm and drew his attention to the two riders dismounting across the street. “There’s Reilly’s two wild friends from Butte-low’s. Go on over there before they come here. I’d hate to have ’em raise hell while I’m relaxin’.”

  Dropping his feet to the floor, Murdock went down the steps and across the street. Walt and Ernie Slaughter tied up, and as Murdock ducked under the hitchrail, they focused their attention along the boardwalk.

  Reilly Meyers came toward them through the darkness.

  Night lay in thick patches, broken only by the bars of outflung shop lights. Reilly flickered from patch to patch as he moved along the building edge. The Slaughters waited until he came abreast of them, then with wild shouting, leaped on him and smothered him in a flurry of arms. The force of the attack carried Reilly against the building with a jarring crash and he went down beneath their combined weight.

  Murdock ran to them and fisted a handful of Ernie’s hair, pulling him free. “Let him up,” Murdock yelled. “You damn fool, don’t you do anything but play?”

  For a moment Reilly had fought with a wild stubbornness, but the sound of Murdock’s voice cooled him and he struggled to his feet. Grabbing the Slaughters roughly, he pulled them into the light. Then his face wrinkled into a wide smile.

  “Damn fool pranksters,” he said. “When the hell you two goin’ to grow up?”

  “That’s for old folks,” Ernie said, and pounded Reilly on the back. “Now let’s catch up on some livin’.”

  From the open door of Burkhauser’s Saloon the sound of a tinkling piano floated out and a voice sang:

  Fond of fun as fond can be,

  When it’s on the strict q.t.

  They listened for a minute, then Walt Slaughter rubbed his stomach. He was a slat lean man, near thirty, and on his face a latent danger lay. Pleasure glowed in his pale eyes. “Damned if I don’t feel like havin’ a smile on this,” he said. “When did you get back, Reilly?”

  “Today. Things have changed some.”

  Ernie glanced at his brother and murmured, “Some have.” He craned his head around restlessly, as though searching for someone. “Let’s go have a look at the elephant.”

  “You think there’s one in there?” Reilly asked and shouldered the batwings aside. They filed in, Murdock trailing behind, and all bellied against the cherrywood. A girl was prancing across the stage, kicking her black stockinged legs high.

  Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay

  Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay

  Reilly seemed fascinated with her, an odd stirring of remembrance on his face. Taking Ernie Slaughter by the arm, he pulled his attention around. “That widow that lived by Alder Creek—ain’t that her daughter?”

  “Yeah,” Ernie said, and his eyes grew unpleasant. “Burk threw her over when he married Sally Isham.”

  Turning back to the bar, Reilly stared at the triangle formed by his forearms. “Is that all she can do for a living?”

  “Singin’s just a sideline,” Murdock said, and Ernie showed a quick resentment. Walt saw this and braced a hand against his brother, giving him a gentle shove backward.

  “Cinch up on it. Forget it now.”

  “Sure,” Ernie murmured, and glanced at Al Murdock.

  The Broken Bit foreman looked ill at ease. “Sorry, Ernie. My damn mouth’s too big.” He studied the bar’s polished surface.

  The bartender came up cautiously. When Reilly raised his head, he stiffened slightly, his hands sliding to the carved edge of the bar. For a moment neither man spoke. Then the bartender said, “Don’t try anything with me, Reilly. I got a double-barreled shotgun under here and I’ll blow a hole in your guts if you so much as lay a hand on me.”

  “Now what would I have against you, Elmer?” Reilly kept his voice deceptively, soft. He laughed. “When did you leave Winehaven’s? Is this better than being his flunky?”

  The bartender made a nervous movement with his feet. “You act like a man with a guilty conscience,” Reilly said, and the good nature in his manner vanished like a puff of smoke. “There’ll be no trouble tonight, Elmer. Just leave the bottle and get the hell out of my sight.”

  “Sure,” Elmer said, and went to the far end of the bar.

  The Slaughter brothers looked at each other and Murdock made a negative movement with his head. “Well,” Ernie said, “someone drink to my health. I feel faint.”

  Murdock fisted the bottle and came to his rescue. Making a large V with his index and little finger, Ernie said, “Whoop, whoop, whoop—just two fingers in a washtub now.”

  “Pour until it burns my hand,” Walt told him, shoving his glass down the bar. To Reilly, he said, “It seems like Elmer is still on th’ list, don’t it?”

  “Shouldn’t he be? I did four years on the rock pile, remember?”

  “So you did,” Walt said dryly.

  Reilly watched Elmer. The bartender grew increasingly nervous. Finally he could stand it no longer. He came back to where the four men stood.

  Speaking to Reilly, Elmer said, “You want to start somethin’ with me?” Elmer Loving was a round faced man with pop-eyes. He wore his hair slicked down in spit-bangs over the forehead.

  “I’d like to unscrew your damned head,” Reilly said pleasantly, “but I suppose that’s a pleasure that will have to wait.” He leaned forward on his elbows, his face only a foot from Loving’s. “Who paid you to lie, Elmer?”

  “You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.” Elmer made aimless motions with the bar rag. “Don’t make trouble for me, Reilly. I’ve got friends—friends who’ll eat you whole.”

  “No trouble,” Reilly said. “I’m going to be around for a long time, Elmer. One of these days we’re going to get together, just you and me, and have a nice, long talk.”

  “You’re not scarin’ me.” Elmer waited a moment before moving away. It was as though he lingered only to create an illusion of fearlessness.

  The girl finished her song and dance and Reilly turned his head to watch her. Leaving the stage, she walked among the tables, and a moment later she started for the bar. She was small and shapely and her dress was cheap. Beneath the rouge and lip paint she had a natural beauty, but she seemed to wear makeup to disguise, rather than accent it.

  When she saw Ernie Slaughter at the bar she halted. Then her shoulders moved slightly as though shrugging something aside. She came toward them, a wide, dead smile stretching her lips.

  Ernie said, “How are you, Jane?” His voice was gravely serious.

  Jane Alford laughed, a brittle, forced sound, and the smile remained on her lips although
it did not creep into her eyes. They were deep blue and very remote, for she deliberately held herself back, never revealing what she really thought or what she felt. “I’m sober,” she said. “But drunk or sober, I’m happy.”

  Reilly Meyers was half hidden by Al Murdock’s shoulder. When Jane saw him, her smile died and her lips turned stiff. Reilly said, “Don’t you remember me, Jane?”

  “I—Reilly, get out of here! If these two knotheads had an ounce of brains between them they would have never brought you in here.” She turned to Ernie Slaughter, openly angry. “Haven’t you any better sense than to flaunt him under Burk’s nose?”

  When she glanced past Ernie Slaughter, she found Burk Seever’s eyes boring into her from across the room. Seever sat at a table along the far wall and when Reilly looked, he found the big man’s stare a thing so solid that it almost rang like a struck saber blade.

  Placing his cards face down on the table, Burk excused himself and crossed to the bar, carefully threading his bulk between the filled tables. When he reached the bar, he raised a finger to Elmer and said, “Out of the private bottle, Loving.” Then he looked at Ernie Slaughter. “If you’d move down,” he said, “I’d have a little room.”

  “You move,” Ernie said, and kept his body braced, preventing Seever from coming against the bar.

  A dancing light began to shine in Burk’s eyes. He laughed. He let his eyes wander over Jane Alford’s stockinged legs and low-cut dress. “Run along, honey. Sell that charm to the customers.”

  “She likes it here,” Ernie said.

  Seever ran a hand over his mouth, pawing it out of shape. His eyes were bold and demanding, for he had physical power and used it ruthlessly.

  Tension swirled around them, and then Reilly Meyers edged his voice in. “Before you get lathered up, Burk, I want to tell you that your wife called on me when I was at the bakery. I just thought you’d like to know.”

  “Damn you,” Seever said. In his mind he had a good fight started with Ernie Slaughter and now Reilly had pulled his teeth. This rankled Burk Seever and he hid it poorly. Reilly began to press him then from another angle. “We were having a friendly drink until you butted in. Why don’t you pull your picket now?”