by Dean Owen
“You can tell how things is between ’em. By the way they’re always lookin’ at each other.”
“But you don’t really know.”
Jellick’s broad face flushed in the lamp glow. “What difference does it make? Stallart’s beginning to watch ’em. That’s the main thing.”
“Just how did you plant suspicion in Stallart’s mind?” Ward asked, knowing this wouldn’t be too difficult an accomplishment when you took into consideration some of the tragic events in Stallart’s past.
“I told him that it’s funny how Rim Bolden always seems to find some excuse to go up to the big house when Mrs. Stallart’s to home and Stallart ain’t.”
“And what did Stallart say to that?”
“He looked a little worried. But he just said that Bolden likely had things to talk over with Mrs. Stallart.” Jellick suddenly laughed. “You should’ve seen his face when I said, ‘Seems to me I remember the first Mrs. Stallart gettin’ visited like that back in Kansas.’”
“That should give him something to think about,” Ward said, and rubbed his narrow brown hands together.
“Stallart sorta dug a finger into his throat when I mentioned Kansas,” Jellick chuckled. “Like he wanted to make sure it was his collar chokin’ him and not a noose.”
“Well, he knows you’re working with me now.” Ward’s pale gaze hardened. “And he sure as hell can guess why I moved in next door to him.”
“Don’t forget,” Jellick said, “that it was me who told you about Stallart. It was me that got you up here.”
“I won’t forget.”
“How soon do you figure to start in on him?” Jellick wanted to know. “Ain’t no use beatin’ around the bush no more. He knows now for sure that we’re out to get him.”
“We’ll start soon,” Ward told him. “I have some boys coming out from town. We’ll start with a couple hundred head and see how much he squeals.”
“And I hope Rim Bolden’s the one that comes lookin’ for them cows.”
Ward thoughtfully sipped his drink for a moment. “Damned funny,” he said, “but in every plan there seems to be one sour note.”
“You mean Rim Bolden?”
Ward nodded. “Everything was perfect when we first planned this last year. We could drain Stallart dry and he’s too frightened of his neck to do anything about it. Then before I can get this thing rolling on greased axles he takes in Bolden as a partner.”
“You’ll get gray in the head worrying over little things,” Jellick said. His right hand shot out and captured a lazy bottle-fly that was on the rim of his tin cup that held the whisky. He put the frantically buzzing insect against the table and flattened it with his thumb. “That’s the way it’ll be with Rim Bolden.”
“Just remember this,” Ward said evenly. “Don’t try some hero play and beat him up in front of the town. He went through the war on the side that didn’t know when to quit. Just make sure of him. With a gun.”
“A grudge fist fight is better. It’ll give me more pleasure. And Sheriff Dort won’t be wonderin’ about it.”
“We’re not in this for your pleasure or mine. We’re in it for profit. Let’s neither of us forget it.”
“And if I gun him maybe the sheriff will say it was on account of me stealin’ Anchor cows and Bolden comin’ after me—”
“You liked the idea a minute ago. You said you hoped it was Bolden who came after you.”
“Don’t hurt none for a man to think about his neck,” Jellick said. “Maybe the sheriff’s on our side of the fence. Then maybe he ain’t.
“You leave that to me.”
Jellick was silent a moment, then said, “The way you got things fixed now we won’t have to work over the brands at all like we figured at first.”
“This way is even better,” Ward said. “Now that I can see how frightened Stallart is.”
“You sure got him reined in short and tight.”
“Try and wait till we take the cows,” Ward said. “Then you fix Rim Bolden. Don’t chance getting in close with him. Use a rifle. We’ll say he tried to steal back those cows.”
Jellick leaned back in his chair, put his feet on the table. Ward, frowning with disapproval at the manure caked soles of the boots, moved the whisky bottle aside.
“There’s one other thing to remember, Meade,” Ward said. “Let’s forget any more talk about Mrs. Stallart and Rim Bolden.”
“I ain’t workin’ there no more, so how could I talk even if I want to? What good would it do?”
“I know that,” Ward said with faint impatience. “I mean don’t say anything about it in town. Let the matter drop. Stallart has the idea in his mind. He’ll do the rest. And maybe you won’t have to try for Bolden after all. Maybe Stallart will do it for you.”
“Or maybe Stallart will be the one dead.”
“I’m counting on that eventually, one way or another.” Ward frowned. “I’m sorry it seemed necessary to involve a lady like Mrs. Stallart in some ugly talk, but—” His voice trailed away and he thought of a year before the war when he went south to New Orleans and his horse broke a leg on the Natchez Trace in the worst downpour he had ever seen. He had been given shelter in a fine plantation house. He knew it was in such a place that Marcy Stallart had been raised. It was the only sad part of the war for him; that he had fought against such people. The gray-clad horse soldiers or riflemen he could slaughter without conscience. But occasionally one encountered a gentleman. That was the tragic part of the war. If the gentlemen of both sides could only have joined in cards or drinking and left the actual fighting to the underlings—
Ward considered himself a gentleman. And he vowed that even though he had never planned to take as his wife a widow, he knew in the case of Marcy Stallart there was no choice. Since their first brief meeting on the street in LaVentana last month he knew he would have her. And it was too bad that she had to become involved in this at all. But he would make it up to her in many ways. And help her forget the nightmare of living with a man like Bert Stallart who was so obviously beneath her.
He had written his half-sister April, in Kansas, and told her he would like her to meet him. And when he drove his herd to Kansas she would return to New Mexico with him. April could make friends with the widow Stallart and this would ease the tension considerably—
“Wonder what Stallart’s niece looks like when she ain’t all puffed out like a hoss that’s eaten green hay.”
“Don’t get involved with her whatever you do. We have enough obstacles as it is.”
Jellick laughed. “You never just know how things is goin’ to turn out.”
“Let’s keep our minds on cows. Not on women.”
“You been sayin’ Marcy Stallart’s name in your sleep,” Jellick said, his gaze narrowing. “Seems to me that’s a damn far piece from thinkin’ about the beef business.”
Ward, flushing, poured himself another drink.
CHAPTER FIVE
For two days Bert Stallart did not take a drink and Rim began to feel a lessening of tensions around Anchor. Rim knew it stemmed from the birth of the boy that Stallart intended to raise as his own. At least, Rim thought, he could thank Ellamae for that much. Providing she was willing to give up the boy. But he didn’t worry too much about that. He sensed that Stallart would have his own way. Since the night of Ellamae’s arrival Rim had not seen Marcy Stallart. Neither had he seen Ellamae.
Stallart spent several hours a day just looking at the boy. He would tell Rim how he seemed to be growing already. How he had a smart look in his eye for a young’un. “By God, Rim,” Stallart said this morning, “the boy favors my brother Paul—” And then, at mention of his brother, Stallart’s eyes got that haunted look again, and he glanced hurriedly over his shoulder as if to see if an enemy lurked close by.
On several occasions Rim had started to ask about Pa
ul Stallart, then decided against it. After all, it was none of his business. Not unless it in some way became a threat to Anchor.
But Rim did say on this night, three days since the birth of the boy, “Why don’t you name him Paul, after your brother?”
They were in Rim’s office-bedroom discussing the roundup that was due to start in a few weeks. Stallart got up from the cot where he had been sitting. His eyes were no longer bloodshot, and his breath did not reek of whisky.
“Reckon I’ll name the boy Grant,” Stallart said, and looked away. “After our president.”
He went out, leaving Rim alone. Rim felt a return of the old tensions. He tried to work on the books, but couldn’t make much sense out of the figures. He was thinking how, in the past weeks, his partnership with Stallart seemed to be getting mighty tenuous. It was nearly a year since Rim had come here to Anchor. He thought he knew Stallart, about as well as one partner could know another. But lately he felt that Stallart was a stranger. And Marcy, who used to laugh so much, now seemed despondent.
Rim was worried.
He was about to shuck his clothes and try to sleep when he heard a light knock on the door. Rim went over and opened it. Marcy burst in, looking distraught. “Bert—Bert—” Then she turned and looked at Rim. “One of the men said Bert was in here with you.”
Rim saw her eyes swollen from weeping. “He just left.”
She passed a hand over her eyes. “Oh, Rim—” She wore a cloak that was unbuttoned and moccasins. When she swayed, Rim sprang forward and caught her. “Oh, Rim, I tried,” she whispered hoarsely. “I really tried—”
The door opened suddenly and Bert Stallart walked in, his face gray. Rim’s gaze involuntarily flashed to his gun rig hanging from a wall hook.
“I was at the cookshack,” Stallart said, his voice steel sharp. “I seen you come in here, Marcy—”
She whirled into the circle of her husband’s arms. “Bert, we—we’ll have a burial tomorrow—”
Stallart stiffened and some of the rage left his eyes. He held his wife at arm’s length and peered down into her wet face. “So she died,” he breathed.
“I’m sorry,” Rim said.
“Reckon it’s like my pa used to say,” Stallart said gravely. “There ain’t nothin’ worse than a sinning woman. And she pays for it every time.” He took a bandanna from his hip pocket and blew his nose. “I ’member her once when I went East years back. She was a pretty little yellow-haired thing. Never thought she’d one day have a bastard kid—”
“Bert, don’t say that about the boy,” Marcy cried softly.
Something in her voice stiffened Stallart’s shoulders. “It is Ellamae, ain’t it? It’s her dead?”
“The boy,” Marcy sobbed. “I tried to save him, Bert.” She shook her dark head wearily. “I tried. I really tried.”
Stallart stood for a moment with his head bowed. Or at least Rim thought this was what he was doing in a moment of reverence. Then he was aware that Stallart glared at him from under bushy brows.
“Marcy,” Stallart said in a shaking voice, “I don’t never want to find you in Rim’s bedroom again.”
“Bedroom?” Marcy said, looking up. “This is the office—Bert, I came here to find you. To tell you about the boy.”
Stallart’s mouth twisted and he looked at his wife. There was hurt and bewilderment in her eyes.
“You mind what I said,” Stallart grunted. He gave her a shove toward the door. “Seems like I stand in the shadow of a black star. I had plans for that boy—” His voice broke.
“Be thankful your niece survived, at least,” Rim reminded him.
This seemed to jar Stallart. “Marcy, get her out of my house. Tonight!”
Marcy dashed a hand across her eyes as if to clear them of tears. “I thought you had a heart as big as this whole of New Mexico. It’s one of the things I loved about you, Bert. Don’t tell me you’d do this thing.”
Stallart stared hard at her, then swung his gaze to Rim. “Remember this. We share some of the profits of this ranch. We don’t share nothing else.”
Rim felt a rush of heat to his face. He took a step toward Stallart, but saw the swift pleading in Marcy’s eyes. He drew up, lowered the fist he had clenched.
“Come to bed, Bert,” she said in a voice taut with strain. “It’s been a trying day.”
Before he went to sleep that night he disassembled his revolver and gave it a thorough cleaning. Then he loaded it and placed it on a chair beside his bed.
They had the burial in the morning. The skies were dark and dripped rain and above the Mogollon Rim lightning flashed like a writhing snake against the wet trees. Stallart, stone-faced, stood with bowed head. Marcy was dry-eyed. Rim Bolden could not remember much of the Scripture his mother had read to him, so he improvised.
He said, “Lord, this boy stayed only a short time in our world. He didn’t have a chance to do right or wrong. Help him.”
Two roustabouts filled in the grave. Rim put on his hat, turned toward the house. He saw Ellamae’s face briefly at an upstairs window. He felt sorry for her, sorrier than he had ever felt for anyone in his life.
“What name shall I put on the headboard, Bert?” Rim asked.
“A bastard has no name,” Stallart said bitterly and moved down the slant away from the Anchor burial ground. There were other graves beside that of the boy. There was the horsebreaker who had been crushed against the corral fence by a fractious horse last spring; the cowhand who had succumbed to the results of a brief exposure to a blanket woman who had come down from the hills; another Anchor hand had been gored by a pecky cow who charged him with eyes open while he was dismounted. Rim had a feeling on this bleak day that before his association with Anchor was terminated there would be more graves on the knoll behind the house.
Marcy came close to Rim, her dark gaze serious. “I want Bert to give her enough money so she can go somewhere and make a new life for herself. Will you do all you can to persuade him?”
“I’ll try,” he promised, but he knew Stallart would not listen to him. He walked down to the house with Marcy.
Bert Stallart came up suddenly behind them. “You two are almighty quiet,” he said, his eyes strangely bright.
“That was a senseless thing to say,” Marcy snapped. She went into the house.
Stallart and Rim eyed each other. The men, saddling up down at the corral, were watching them. And Rim knew what was going on in most of their minds. These were days when a man sometimes rode fifty miles to get a job and when he got there found there had been maybe ten ahead of him. Two partners having trouble could mean disaster. It could mean the end of a ranch such as Anchor, and that in turn would mean the end of their jobs.
“We’re not doing each other any good by this, Bert,” Rim said, holding himself in for Marcy’s sake.
Stallart said, “What about you and my wife?”
“Marcy is a fine woman. I respect her. Somebody is trying to make some ugly talk. I have a hunch it was Meade Jellick.”
At mention of the horsebreaker’s name Stallart looked away toward the hills. “You shouldn’t have fired him. Not without talking it over with me first.”
“You’re afraid of him, Bert. Why?”
Stallart wheeled to face Rim again, his hands clenched. “I ain’t scared of no man on this earth. You better believe that.”
“Bert, when we sell some beef we’d better dissolve our partnership.”
“Yeah, reckon,” Stallart said and stomped on down to the corral.
For the rest of the week there was feverish activity at Anchor; so many things to do before roundup. The chuckwagon was set up on blocks, the wheels pulled, the axles greased. A rent in the canvas top was mended. Because there were still horses to break for roundup, Rim took over the task vacated by Jellick. Rim rode down to the horse camp with Willie Temple. He put Marc
y’s brother in charge. When Willie began to strut and cuss out the men in his new importance, Rim warned him.
“Don’t get too big for your hat, Willie, or we’ll have to shrink your head a little.”
Rim took the pounding in the breaking corral. He risked having his legs smashed against the wall of the circular pen. Twice he stepped down just in time to prevent a back-falling mount from crashing down on him. Since the funeral he saw very little of Bert Stallart. When he ate with the men in the cookshack the talk was spare. There was a minimum of joshing.
Ed Rule got him aside one morning when the hands had taken their assignments for the day’s work and gone out. “Saw Tut Tyler in town yesterday when I went in for supplies,” the old cook said. “He ain’t happy working for Ward. He wants to come back.”
“He made his choice,” Rim said, and helped himself to his third cup of coffee.
“Yeah, but sometimes a man ain’t as bad as he seems. Tyler took a five dollar gold piece from Eric Ward to come out and tell Jellick about you and Ward tangling. And about Stallart’s niece being all swole up with the kid. He didn’t figure it was being disloyal to Anchor.”
“I could never trust him again, Ed.”
“All the boys sort of miss Tyler around here. He always had something funny to say of a morning. Kind of got the day started right, if you know what I mean.”
Rim finished his coffee. With an expert aim he tossed the cup into the big pan beyond the table. “You might as well know the truth, Ed. When Stallart gets enough cash to buy out my interest, I’m through here.”
Ed Rule fingered the grease-spattered apron tucked into his belt. “I can tell you this, Rim. Tough as jobs are to come by, there’s a lot of us would follow you. Stallart ain’t an easy man to work for these days.”
“Bert’s all right.”
“Some of us don’t like the way he’s treated his niece. Sure, the girl done wrong. But it’s a failing of us humans. We all done wrong in our lives, one way or another.”
Rim got up, conscious of the weight of a gun dragging his belt. Usually around the home ranch he wore no weapon, feeling it to be an affectation. But since the episode with Jellick and the growing hostility between himself and Bert Stallart, he had altered his thinking.