“No one broke their neck four years ago to help me,” Reilly said. “You can tell Harry Peters that the next time he asks why I didn’t come in this thing.”
“I will,” Buttelow said as Reilly turned the stud away. “But remember, boy—no man can mind his own business all the time, unless he lives completely alone.”
“I’ll get along,” Reilly said, and rode out of Buttelow’s yard.
It was after nine when he saw the lights of his own place and dismounted by the barn, off-saddled and walked to the house. He felt stiff and tired and he had eaten nothing since that piece of pie. Hunger gnawed an aching hole in his stomach.
He paused by the porch, peering around the side of the house at a heavy shape parked in the deep shadows. He took three steps toward it, then realized it was a buggy.
He whirled toward the porch when Sally said, “I was getting tired of waiting, Reilly.”
From the kitchen came muffled noises made by Milo Bucks. A heavy wagon had been drawn up to the back porch and the back door opened and slammed as Milo carried provisions into the house and stored them.
“What are you doing here?” Reilly asked, and came onto the porch. He sat on the railing, his feet braced wide on the floor. The light streaming from the door touched him, but Sally sat partially concealed in the shadows against the house wall.
She laughed softly. “Don’t you know, Reilly? Or is it that you like to have me keep telling you that I just can’t stay away from you?”
“Cut it out,” he said, and rolled a cigarette. “Was Burk to find out you’re here, he’d shoot me.”
“Or you’d shoot him,” Sally said. “Would you do that for me, Reilly?”
“No,” he said flatly. He scratched a match against the upright. Firelight made a halo of his face for an instant and then he whipped it out. The end of his cigarette glowed and died.
“You’re a restrained man, Reilly. Somehow I always liked that. You never panted and I didn’t have to fight off your hot, sticky hands.” Cloth rustled as she stood up and came close to him. She leaned slightly until her thighs touched his and stood that way, daring him, trying to draw him out of his shell.
“If I hadn’t married Burk, you’d be in my parlor now.”
“That’s if,” Reilly said. “You did marry Burk and I’m not in your parlor.”
She raised a hand and laid it against his chest. “But I’m here, Reilly. Why do you think I’ve come?”
“I know why you’ve come,” he said, “and I told you before that I want no part of it.” Her hand moved up his shirt front and caressed his cheek. He stood immobile for a moment, only a muscle in his jaw moving, and then his restraint gave way and he pulled her to him savagely. “Damn you,” he said, and kissed her, his tight arms shutting off her breath.
It was a long kiss, the kind he remembered, and afterward she clung to him. “You’re fire,” he said. “You think I’ve ever got over it?”
“Neither of us has,” Sally said in a fierce whisper. “Reilly, it need never end for us, you know that.”
Her words were like a dash of water. Dropping his arms, he moved slightly away from her, once more composed and on guard. “It’s ended,” he said. “It ended when you married Burk. Neither of us can change that now.”
“There’s a way, Reilly. You know there’s a way.”
“Shut up about it!” He gave her a little push. “You better get back to town. He’ll find out. Someone will tell him.”
“I don’t care.”
“I care,” Reilly said, and raised his voice. “Bucks!” He heard the movement in the kitchen stop, and then Milo Bucks came out and stood in the doorway. “Get Mrs. Seever’s buggy around here.”
Milo stepped off the porch, started to walk around the house, and halted, his head cocked to one side like a dog. From out on the flats, a horse beat a steady tattoo. “Someone comin’, Reilly.”
“I got ears,” Reilly snapped. “Get that buggy put away in the barn.”
He tried to steer Sally into the house but she shook free of his grip and stood in the deep shadows. “I like it here. If it’s Burk, I want to see it.”
Bucks led the team across the yard at a run. He had just closed the barn door when a horse entered the yard. Passing through the light, the rider showed himself for an instant. Reilly let out a relieved breath and stepped down from the porch.
He raised his arms and lifted Tess Isham from her sidesaddle. She paused with her hands on his shoulders for a moment, then said, “I came as fast as I could, Reilly. I think Burk’s on his way here and he’s hopping mad.” She peered past him, trying to cut the darkness along the wall. “Sally’s here, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” Reilly said. “She was just leaving when we heard your horse.”
“It’s too late. I can’t be more than ten minutes ahead of him.” She slid past Reilly and stepped to the porch. Without ceremony she grabbed Sally’s, arm and hustled her into Reilly’s house.
Once inside, she said, “You damn fool, Sally. Haven’t you any better sense?”
“Don’t preach to me,” Sally snapped.
“Oh!” Tess said and bit her lip. Tears of rage filled her eyes but she shook her head stubbornly. “Have you a place we can hide, Reilly?”
“I don’t like hiding,” Reilly said. “Better to face a thing out.”
“You’re a damn fool too,” she said, and started down the hall. Over her shoulder, she asked, “Which is your room?”
“The one on the end,” Reilly said. He watched until the door closed. Milo came across the porch and paused in the doorway, his face grave and faintly worried.
“I put the other horse away too,” he said, leaning against the frame. “Looks like a big night ahead, don’t it?”
“Quit bein’ funny,” Reilly said. He stepped past Milo. Another rider had left the road and was coming across the flats.
“You want me to stick around?” Bucks asked.
“If you want,” Reilly said. “No trouble now, regardless of how this turns out.”
“All right,” Bucks said, and went into the parlor, sweeping some discarded junk off a chair so he could sit down.
Reilly walked back to his porch and waited. Burk Seever pulled up a few minutes later. He dismounted, coming to the foot of the stairs.
“Reilly,” he said, “I’ve come for my wife.”
“She’s not here, Burk.”
“She’s here,” Burk said. “After I get her, I’m going to kill you.”
“I said she wasn’t here!”
“You’re a liar, Reilly. She was seen leaving the house all rigged for a night ride.” He stepped up one step. “I’m going to have a look around. Don’t try to stop me.”
“I’m not going to stop you,” Reilly said. “Make a fool out of yourself if you want to.”
He moved aside and Seever came across the porch. Reilly followed him inside. The big man glanced into the parlor and saw Milo Bucks sitting in a chair.
“Well,” Seever said, his face wrinkling into a grin. “If it isn’t the rooster. I’ve still got to pull some of your tail feathers, don’t I?”
“Not tonight,” Bucks said, and he stared at Seever.
The big man stood there for a while. Then he laughed and turned to the kitchen. He gave it a thorough going over and came back to Reilly. “Where’s the bedroom, lover?”
“You low minded bastard,” Reilly said.
“Where is it, Reilly?”
“At the end of the hall,” Reilly said.
Seever took three steps toward the door and stopped.
The bedroom door came open. Tess Isham stepped out, said, “Oh!” in a startled voice and ducked part way behind the door. She had removed her heavy riding dress and wore only a thin shift that revealed her bare shoulders and most of her legs.
Seever stood th
ere perfectly motionless, then wheeled and stomped out of the house. His boots rattled off the porch and saddle leather protested as he swung up. Reilly listened to the receding drum of hoofbeats.
There was no sound at all in the house for a moment. Then Reilly went outside, shaking, with a film of sweat on his face. In his mind he knew that he would always remember her as she had appeared for that brief time. When his thoughts became unbearable he wheeled and walked rapidly to his room, flinging the door open without bothering to knock.
Sally stood by the end of the four-poster bed, her face composed. Tess sat on his bed, her slim legs crossed and her hands folded placidly in her lap. She stared at some invisible spot on the floor and did not seem aware that Reilly was there.
Reilly said, “Wait for me outside, Sally.”
“But—”
“Do as I tell you!”
“All right, Reilly.” She moved past him with a rustle of skirts and smiled faintly at Tess as she closed the door. Reilly waited until her footsteps died out, then dropped to one knee and took Tess Isham’s hands in his.
“Tess.” She raised her head and her eyes brimmed with unshed tears. “You fool, Tess.”
He folded her against him and she cried in earnest. For several minutes he comforted her, and then she pushed herself away from him and rose to slip into her dress. He watched her hook the buttons and said, “She wasn’t worth that, Tess. Why didn’t you let him look? He came here after a fight.”
“I wasn’t thinking of her,” Tess said softly. She moved to the door and opened it, pausing in the aperture without turning around. “You would have shot him, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” he said. “I would have.”
He stood dumbly as the full implication of her act registered on him. She had not ruined her reputation for her sister. She had done it for him. Nothing would ever be the same for her now. The talk would get around and men would come to the bakery who wouldn’t be thinking of bread when they called.
Tess said, “You would have never found happiness with her if you had killed him, Reilly.”
“Tess, wait.” He moved toward her, but she stiffened.
“Don’t touch me, Reilly! I have to go now.”
She went down the hall. He followed her. Sally was waiting in the yard. Milo Bucks came from the barn leading the team and buggy, with Tess’ horse tied to the baggage rack. Tess walked to her horse, accepted a hand-up from Milo Bucks and waited for her sister to settle herself in the rig.
Reilly took Sally’s elbow to help her, but she turned and put her arms around his neck, holding him even as he pushed against her. Her lips came up to his, demanding and bold, and then she released him with a small laugh.
As she climbed in the buggy, she gave Tess a superior smile that spoke of more triumph than one. “I’ll see you again, Reilly,” she said, and whipped the team with the reins.
Reilly stood still until they left the yard and then he went back to the house, dimly aware that Milo Bucks was following him.
The next morning Walt and Ernie Slaughter came over. They showed a marked inclination to sit around and talk after breakfast, but Reilly put them to work digging post holes for the new corral.
The house was so littered that Reilly didn’t have to ask himself where to start: one part was as filthy as another. Building a large fire in the kitchen range, he and Milo filled four fire buckets and placed them on the stove to heat.
Emptying the cupboards, they sorted the dishes, throwing away the cracked ones. By the time they finished this job and cleared the sink, the water had come to a boil and they began on the floor. By noon the stove was clean and a large pile of rubbish by the back porch grew hourly.
The living room came next. They worked for an hour moving everything out to the porch, then beat the frayed rug until their arms ached. Reilly did not mention last night’s affair and Milo was too discreet to bring it up. Reilly knew, though, that he hid nothing from Milo and the fact that he took his temper out in hard work caused the young man to smile now and then.
At four in the afternoon they paused to cook a hasty meal and then tackled the bedrooms. When darkness came the house smelled strongly of laundry soap but the walls and floors were clean and the place had begun to look like a home.
Reilly got up at four the next morning and started work before the others ate breakfast. Walt and Ernie went back to digging post holes while Reilly and Milo took lumber from the barn loft and began repairing ripped siding. The windows from the tack shed replaced the broken panes in the house and the sills from the tack shed repaired the rotting well curbing. After supper that night, Reilly hung a lantern by the door, carried paint from the toolshed, and painted the front porch.
It took Reilly and Milo a day and a half to remove the accumulated manure from the barn and an hour to scrub themselves so they could stand each other. Ernie and Walt continued to dig holes and complained about it over the supper table, but Reilly showed no sign of letting up.
By the week’s end, Ernie and Walt had finished the post holes, while Reilly and Milo Bucks had completely painted the house. Reilly started to red-lead the barn. When he finished the job three days later, he took a team into the hills, and with Milo driving, began to fall pines for his corral.
Ernie and Walt set poles and within a week they erected the cross members. Now Reilly was ready to forge the hardware for the loading gate.
Reilly found an old forge buried under cast-off harness, repaired it, erected it and built a fire. Using scrap iron collected from a burned out buggy, he fashioned three heavy hinges and a clasp. With a heated running iron, one of the wild bunch’s few useful remains, he burned the holes for the lag screws. Finished at last, he tried the gate a few times, then casually suggested that they all go to town.
Ernie Slaughter seemed stunned. He spread his calloused and bleeding palms and said, “Damned if I think I can hold a whiskey glass now. My hands just naturally fit a post hole digger.”
“I’ll saddle up,” Walt said, and walked to the barn with rapid strides.
Washing at the pump, Milo said to Reilly, “Feel that chill in the air? Snow’s comin’. A man can smell it. It’ll be a long hard winter and a man sort of looks forward to the last whoop-up before he tucks his head in.”
“Still bayin’ at the moon?” Reilly asked.
“Man has th’ voice for it,” Bucks said, and dried his dripping face on a flour sack towel.
Walt came from the barn leading four horses. Reilly went into the house. He came out a moment later buckling on his gun. “That reminds me,” Milo said, and went in after his.
They mounted and rode from the yard, and before they were off the flats around the hills, Reilly paused to look back. His corral sat like a spindly legged animal in back of the barn. A large corral, he told himself, and was proud of the job.
In the perverse nature of Westerners, they took their time because they were in a hurry to get there and the sky had darkened when they came to the end of the main street and stopped. Milo leaned forward in the saddle and crossed his arms over the horn. “Now that sure is a pretty thing, ain’t it? Does it come apart easy?”
“Let’s leave it together,” Reilly said, and moved out. He dismounted at the restaurant and they filed in, taking a table in the far corner. The waitress set four cups of coffee on the table. After three minutes of fooling around, she managed to extract their order from them. She went into the kitchen muttering about ‘cowboys.’
Reilly sat hunched over in the chair, the lines of hard work not yet eased around his eyes and mouth. He toyed with the coffee cup, then took a sip from it.
Ernie said, “What the hell we want to eat now for. Burkhauser’s got a bottle over there waitin’ for me.”
“Later,” Reilly said. “I’m sick of my own cookin’.”
Four steaks arrived. They ate in silence, for they had learned ear
ly that a meal is not a social function. Reilly paid the girl and they filed out onto the boardwalk, teetering with indecision on the street edge.
Milo said, “You goin’ to see her?”
“Think I’m that crazy?” Reilly said. A part of his mind told him he should resent the question and put Milo in his place, but the young man’s face was guileless.
“I didn’t mean her,” Milo said. “I meant the younger one.”
“I’ve caused her enough trouble,” Reilly said, and swung his head to look up and down the street. The traffic was growing heavier as more families came into town for the weekend shopping. He recognized Paul Childress’ buggy tied up before the hotel.
Down the street, Burkhauser’s saloon doors winnowed as men came and went and the throbbing strains of a small band issued forth. Walt Slaughter nudged Reilly.
“What do you say? Now?”
Reilly looked at him and smiled. “You thirsty?”
“Damned right I’m thirsty,” Walt said, and they crossed the street. They mounted Burkhauser’s porch, went inside and headed immediately for the bar.
Reilly bought a bottle and four glasses from Elmer Loving, who still eyed him nervously, and then they took a table on the floor. Walt poured, drank and sat back, a sudden ease running through him.
“There’s nothin’ like good whiskey,” he said. He poured another. He culled his hat to the back of his head and said, “You know, I swore off once, but it was no good. I told myself I was a fool over women and whiskey, but then I found out that a fool was all I’d ever be.”
“Sure,” Reilly said, and nursed his drink. “There was a fella in the pen with me, from Kalispell. We got to talkin’ about the back street ladies one time and he said that when you had cowboys, you’d always have them around. For a while I didn’t understand him, but I guess I do now. Workin’ cows is about the loneliest job a man can have. He don’t get to town often and a good woman don’t want to live in a soddy on thirty and found. So he gets roarin’ drunk, lays up with some back street gal, and then goes back in the hills like a hermit for a couple more months.”
The Sixth Western Novel Page 64