The Sixth Western Novel

by Jackson Gregory

  “Don’t talk big to me, Meyers. You’re not built for it.” Burk didn’t bother to look at Jane Alford when he added, “I said, peddle your charms.”

  She took a step away from them. Ernie reached out, fastening a hand on her bare arm.

  Reilly saw anger vault into Seever’s face. He said, “You’ve got yourself all primed for trouble tonight, Burk, but I’ll tell you now—don’t start it. There’s enough of us here to stomp a mud hole in your head, so you’d better move on.”

  The taunt seemed to drive Seever’s temper deeper. He said, “I’m not going to fool you, Reilly. I’ll give it to you straight out—you’re headed for trouble. I tied a can to your tail once and I’ll do a better job of it the next time. Get out of the country. That’s good advice.”

  “I wouldn’t take advice from you on a bedbug race,” Reilly said. “Go on back to your card game before your busted flush gets cold.”

  “You’re getting nervy,” Seever said. “You got nervy once before at Winehaven’s place.” He moved his heavy shoulders restlessly. “Keep away from my wife. If I hear of you bothering her, I’ll break up your face so no woman will have you.”

  He struck the bar with his fist and wheeled away, striding rapidly back to the waiting card game.

  Walt Slaughter grinned. “Mr. Seever is mad as hell, Reilly. He don’t like you.”

  “I don’t like him,” Reilly said. He took another drink and felt it slide warmly down, settling into a pool of fire in his stomach.

  “You’re dumber than when you left,” Jane Alford said. “Can’t you see that he’s out to get you, that it’s always been that way?”

  Reilly’s interest sharpened. “Tell me why, Jane. What did I see at Winehaven’s that he’s afraid I’ll remember?”

  Her face turned smooth and her eyes became remote and unfriendly. “I work here. I don’t know anything.” Ernie still held her arm and she said to him, “I have to go now, Ernie.”

  “You don’t have to go any place,” he told her, but he dropped his hand.

  “I have to go,” she repeated, and moved away. The four men watched her walk among the tables, smiling with her lips alone.

  On Ernie Slaughter’s face there was a quiet thoughtfulness that pushed the laughter out of his eyes as he turned to nurse his drink. Plainly he wished to be left alone and Murdock swung their attention away from him when he said, “Considering that Buckeye is a small town and the ranches are few and far between, Burk has really come up in the world. He handles all the beef contracts for the Piute Agency besides his law practice.” He leaned against the bar and sagged until his weight was on his forearms. “Somehow money just seems to stick to his fingers, and the way he spends it, his addition must be somethin’ new and different.”

  “You tryin’ to say something’?” Ernie asked.

  “Maybe.” Murdock swung around, hooking his elbows on the edge of the bar. “Let’s say a man makes a hundred a week bein’ a lawyer. If so, how can he spend a hundred and fifty?” He shook his head sadly. “You two clowns break horses for a livin’ but I manage a ranch. When I lose ten head, I worry. A hundred turn up missing and I’m out a lot of sleep.”

  “Not that bad, is it?” Reilly said soberly.

  Murdock snorted. “You know, I don’t have enough money on the books to show a decent profit this last year? As a safe guess I’d say that at least a thousand head has been rustled in the past ten months.” He tallied it up on his fingers. “Bob Ackroyd, at Hat, has lost some. Lovelock’s Lazy U has been hit. Your Hangnoose brand is gone, Reilly. Max Horgan’s Chain claims to have lost steers.” Murdock smiled wryly. “Where do they go? The Piute Agency? Harry Peters says not, but when the beef contracts are posted in Seever’s office, they don’t buy enough to feed half the Piutes. Yet the Injuns never cry ’cause they’re starving.”

  “This bores me,” Walt said. “I’m a horse wrangler.”

  “Everything puts you to sleep,” Murdock opined. He hooked his drink off the bar and finished it, pushing the shot glass away from him. “I’d sure like to get on the reservation some day when they was issuin’ beef.”

  “You mean you can’t get in?” Reilly asked.

  “Seever buys,” Murdock repeated. “Everything goes through him and then the agent at Carson City. We fill out a contract and the check is mailed to him. After his cut, we get ours.”

  “That sounds like a tight little setup,” Reilly murmured. He pushed his glass in aimless circles. “A deal between Seever and the agent?”

  “What else?” Murdock said. “But what does that prove? Harry Peters has been rappin’ his head against the wall tryin’ to find the break, but there isn’t any. Seever don’t rustle cattle. Winehaven’s been clean every time Peters crossed over the border with a warrant. Horgan’s brand is clean—at least it has been when Sheriff Henderson and Peters looked it over.” Murdock sighed and changed the subject. “You goin’ back to your place, Reilly?”

  “Nowhere else to go. The brand’s registered and the land’s mine.”

  “You could move on,” Murdock suggested softly. “Reilly, sometimes a man gets to a point where there’s nothin’ else for him to do but move on. Why don’t you think it over.”

  “I’ve thought it over.”

  “The deck’s stacked, Reilly. Seever is out to get you because you and Sally—well, you know what I mean. Henderson and Horgan would like to see you dead and gone. You tell me why, because I can’t figure it out. You make Winehaven very nervous. How can you buck a hand like that?”

  “I’m going to try,” Reilly said, patting the money belt beneath his shirt. “There’s a little over six hundred there, enough to keep me going for a year. In that time I’ll either make it back or be flat broke.”

  “All right,” Murdock said with some resignation. Rolling a smoke, he kept his attention on the paper and tobacco. The sense of fairness that ruled Murdock was now satisfied. He owed Reilly Meyers nothing more. Raising his eyes, he looked at his future brother-in-law and added, “Another for the road?”

  Reilly shook his head. “I’m going to get me a box of rifle cartridges and then head for the hills.”

  “Luck,” Murdock said, and raised his glass. Ernie and Walt said nothing, but Ernie winked at Reilly before he went out.

  Pausing on the porch for a moment, he surveyed the traffic, then cut across and went into the hardware store. Childress was still sitting on the hotel porch but Reilly did not speak. Two other men were with Childress, men who held no particular friendliness for Reilly Meyers.

  Bolder’s store was one large room, lamplit now and filled with the mingled smells of leather, bolted cloth and stored paint. At the counter, Reilly waited until Bolder finished waiting on Mrs. Ketchum.

  Bolder was shriveled, fifty some, with the pinched face of a man who counts money in his sleep. He shuffled along behind the counter and Reilly laid a gold piece down. “Two boxes of forty-four-forty, Gabe.”

  The man took two from beneath the counter and made change in a slow, cautious way. Sounds of movement from the street came into the building and a man’s boots hit the boardwalk with a hollow thump.

  “You figure on stayin’?” Bolder asked.

  “I might,” Reilly said.

  Bolder was leaning against the counter, his hands spread along the edge as a brace.

  The heavy footsteps stopped. From the doorway, Burk Seever said, “He’s not staying.”

  Reilly swung around slowly. Lamplight struck Burk’s face, making an oily shine on his forehead. Seever took another step into the room. “You’re leaving, Reilly.”

  “Are you looking for a little trouble, Burk?” Reilly raised his hand and touched the butt of his sawed off Remington. “I can give you trouble, Burk.”

  “You won’t use that gun on me, Reilly.” Seever turned his head slightly as footsteps approached from his rear. A young man pau
sed in the doorway, his eyes round and innocent. He looked first at Reilly Meyers and then at Burk Seever.

  He said, “If this is private I can go some place else.”

  “It’s open to the public,” Reilly said, and the young man smiled, taking another step into the room. He drew Reilly’s attention like a magnet, for in him Reilly sensed something daring and reckless, something that reminded him of times gone past, when he believed the world was fun and hills were made to be ridden over.

  Burk Seever said, “Get out of here or get in front of me where I can see you.”

  “Something bothering you?” the young man asked.

  “I won’t ask you again,” Seever said heavily.

  “I’ll bet you won’t,” the young man said, and leaned against the door frame, his legs crossed.

  No more sounds came from the street. Even the piano in Burkhauser’s Saloon was still. Burk Seever stood just inside the room, the problem seesawing back and forth in his mind, the urge to push this thing further prodding him hard.

  Finally he stepped deeper into the room, putting the young man out of jumping distance. His feet made the plank floor protest, and in the coffee mill, a few beans that had clung to the rolled rim came loose and clattered loudly in the hopper.

  Carefully, Seever removed his coat and unbuttoned his vest, tossing them on a stack of crates. Reilly shifted his weight and braced both hands against the counter. The young man stepped away from Seever and around him, placing himself on the big man’s left and directly across from Reilly.

  “Move away from there,” Seever said.

  Reilly left the counter, moving down to where a bunch of ax handles sat stacked in an empty barrel.

  “I like to lean,” he said, and shook out his sack of tobacco. Rolling a smoke, he struck a match against one of the handles. His eyes laughed at Seever over the flame.

  Seever jumped slightly when Reilly tossed the makings to the young stranger. The only sound in the room was Seever’s angry breathing.

  Seever said, “This is between you and me, Reilly. You don’t want this kid to get hurt, do you?”

  “He can make up his own mind,” Reilly said. He plucked one of the handles from the barrel, running his hand along the smooth wood. Out on the street a horse went by, the hoofs making dull sounds in the dust.

  Reilly said, “If you don’t want your skull caved in, put your coat and vest on and walk out of here.”

  Seever swung his head from the stranger to Reilly. “You sure got guts,” he said. “Are you afraid to use your fists?”

  “Better get out now,” Reilly murmured. “You’re wearin’ it pretty thin.”

  “Sure.” Seever managed a forced smile. “Some other time, Reilly.” His eyes went around and fastened on the young man. “I’ll be seeing you too.”

  “Don’t strain your eyes,” the kid said, and then Seever picked up his coat and vest and went out with plunging strides. Bolder let out a long sigh and went to the back room for the bottle he kept hidden behind the cider press.

  Reilly studied the stranger. He said, “You like your fun rough, don’t you?”

  “Any way that’s fun,” the young man said. He gave Reilly a lopsided grin and stepped through the doorway. He paused on the walk for a moment before crossing to Burkhauser’s saloon.

  The piano was going full blast again. Its tinkle filled the town.

  CHAPTER 4

  Bob Ackroyd of Hat, Swan Lovelock of the Lazy U and Paul Childress were still huddled on the hotel porch when Burk Seever came out of the hardware store and stalked across the street. On the boardwalk he rammed his shoulder against a man who partially blocked his path, and entered the saloon.

  A moment later, Reilly Meyers came out and walked to Cannoyer’s stable at the end of the street. He led his horse out, mounted and rode out of town. The young stranger who had left the hardware store a moment before Reilly, came sauntering up the walk and Bob Ackroyd leaned over the porch rail. “Hey, what happened?”

  “You seen who come out first, didn’t you?” The stranger took a final drag on his cigarette and shied it into the street. He gave Ackroyd a frank glance, neither bold nor wise. Just an appraisal. “That’s what happened,” he added and walked on down the street.

  “That might have been worth seein’,” Lovelock muttered. “Burk don’t back up too easy.”

  Paul Childress slapped the arms of his chair. “I think it’s time we paid Harry Peters a call.”

  “Buttelow’s over to Burkhauser’s. You want him in on this?”

  “Tell him to come along,” Childress said, and Ackroyd left the porch, cutting across the street. On Burkhauser’s porch he fronted the swinging doors, then recoiled as two men charged through, locked in each others arms and fighting with drunken intensity.

  For a moment Ackroyd watched them sway to the porch edge and topple into the street. Farther down, the young stranger who had paused at the porch crossed over and elbowed his way to the inside of the ring of spectators.

  The two men fought on, paying no attention to the crowd gathered around them. Ackroyd lost interest and went into the saloon.

  Spilled lamplight fell on the two men as they struggled to their feet. One man swung at the other and missed, falling back against the cheering crowd. Suddenly the man whirled and lashed out and the young stranger who stood there watching caught the blow on the mouth.

  Almost instantly he was in the fight, bearing the other man down with caroming blows. The crowd’s cheering increased, for now it was two against one with the young stranger making a good showing for himself. Surprisingly, the two fighters seemed less drunk than they had been. They concentrated on a quick finish.

  The stranger went down and was jumped before he had a chance to regain his feet. Childress and the others, sitting across the street, could hear the sodden impact of fists against flesh, and then Sheriff Henderson battled his way through the spectators and collared the young man, jerking him roughly to his feet.

  Without warning, Henderson whipped his long barreled Smith & Wesson out of the holster and cracked the young man across the head with it. A murmured protest rose from the crowd and Murdock, Buttelow and Ackroyd came out of Burkhauser’s in time to see this. Pushing his way through to Henderson, Ackroyd spoke tersely and the sheriff’s head came around quick and sullen and ready for trouble.

  Then Ackroyd and the other two men came across the street. Childress and Lovelock stepped off the porch and joined them. In a group they watched Henderson drag the unconscious man to jail.

  “That seemed damn sudden to me,” Lovelock said. “It’s hell when a man can’t have a little fun without gettin’ his head cracked.”

  “The other two beat it quick enough,” Buttelow said. He was a man in the shadow of sixty, rifle-straight, with a mane of white hair. He wore his mustaches long and a waterfall haircut touched his coat collar.

  At the corner, the young stranger began to come around. He tried to stand, but Henderson cuffed him and they moved on.

  “Somebody ought to go get him,” Murdock said.

  “Stay out of it,” Childress warned. “We’ve got enough problems of our own.” He addressed Jim Buttelow. “Did you see Reilly? He’s goin’ back to his old place. There could be trouble over that.”

  Buttelow grunted. “Trouble and Reilly always went hand in hand.” He nodded toward the street where the sheriff and the young man had disappeared. “Like him, he’s havin’ fun, but tomorrow he’ll be in jail.”

  “Not any more,” Murdock said, raising his eyes from the cigarette he had been rolling. “Reilly’s cooled off. He’s different now.”

  “Harry Peters is at the New Congress Hotel,” Childress said. “I thought we might walk over and have a talk with him.”

  They nodded and went down the street.

  The New Congress was a two-story frame building on the back c
orner, the older of Buckeye’s two hotels. Passing through the lobby, they mounted the protesting stairs and Childress rapped on a door halfway down the hall.

  “Come in,” the marshal’s voice invited. Buttelow opened the door, then stepped aside for the others to pass in ahead of him.

  Without his shaggy coat, Harry Peters seemed even smaller, a slightly dapper man. He shook hands all around and waved them to take seats. “I was getting ready to come to you,” he said. He patted his pockets for a cigar, found one and touched a match to it. “If you’re expecting good news from the Carson City office, though, I’ll have to disappoint you. After three years of work we still have no evidence that will stand up in court.”

  “That song’s gettin’ on my nerves,” Childress said. “We’re still losing beef right and left.”

  “The country is against you,” Peters said and puffed on his cigar. “It’s against all of us. The land is too dry and the vegetation too poor. With a cow for every ten acres a man’s holdings is spread over hell’s back yard. You’ve got three men on your payroll, Paul, not counting Al. How many acres? Twenty thousand at least. That’s spreading the men out too thin and you know it.”

  “Dammit, I can’t afford any more,” Childress snapped. “With all the damn rustlin’ goin’ on, I’m not making enough to support a full crew.”

  “I know,” Peters said. He paused to shy ashes into the wood box. “The rustlers know it too and they’re taking advantage of it. We’re up against a big thing here and we won’t whip it easy. It seems they know where the cattle are bunched and by the time Henderson gets on the trail, they’re in the rocks and the tracks peter but.”

  “One time the tracks didn’t peter out,” Murdock said softly. “But Reilly got four years for his trouble.”

  Harry Peters shot the Broken Bit foreman an irritated glance.

  Lovelock said, “Can’t we get Henderson out of office? He’s no damned good.”

  “Vote him out,” Peters suggested. “That’s what the polls are for.”

  “Another two years until election,” Bob Ackroyd said. “And who the hell are we goin’ to get to run against him?” He took out the makings and shaped a cigarette. “I, for one, never voted for him.”