The Second Western Novel

by Matt Rand

“Yeah?”

  “I think you’d better stay put right here for the time bein’. Leastways, till we find out what’s doin’ with the Fowlers.”

  “And what’ll I do here?”

  “You’ll do whatever you’re told to do. What d’you think?”

  A thin smile parted Dave’s lips. “I was just wondering, that’s all.”

  “And I just told you,” McKeon retorted.

  “I’d be obliged to you, Mr. McKeon, if you’ll let me bed down somewheres on your place so’s I can kinda get caught up on my sleep. I’m kinda beat.”

  “And after you get caught up?”

  “I won’t bother you any more. I’ll be on my way.”

  McKeon frowned again. “Which way?” he demanded.

  “Back to town,” was Moore’s reply.

  McKeon made a grumbling sound in his throat. He pushed back from the table and got up on his feet. “Awright,” he said curtly. “It’ll be your funeral, not mine. Come on. I’ll take you upstairs an’ show you where you can sleep.”

  “The barn’ll do fine, if that’s all right with you.”

  “If you go straight down the path from here, you’ll find the barn at the end of it.”

  “Thanks,” Dave said as he bent and picked up his hat. He pushed back his chair, stood up and walked around the table to the door and caught up the rifle he had propped up against the wall beyond the door.

  The sound of footsteps announced Janey’s return to the room. McKeon raised his eyes to her. “Janey,” he said. “I think it’s about time this young un was gettin’ herself some sleep. She looks like she c’n do with some.”

  Janey smiled. “Her room’s ready for her whenever she is,” she replied. She shifted her gaze to Moore. “Dave, don’t you think you might do with some rest, too?”

  “He’s gonna bed down in the barn,” McKeon said grumpily. “I don’t think he likes us enough to wanna stay any closer to us than he has to.”

  Millie got up. Her face was a little flushed, and her eyes were troubled. “Dave, you’ll come to see me, won’t you?” she asked.

  “Yeah, sure,” Moore responded lightly. “One o’ these days.”

  “You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

  “’Course,” Dave said. “Oh, wait a minute now! I nearly forgot.” He dug in his pocket and produced a crumpled roll of bills. He peeled off a couple and thrust them back in his pocket, came to Millie’s side, smiled at her and handed her the roll. “There’s a hundred an’ eighty. I’m keepin’ twenty for myself.”

  “Will that be enough for you?”

  “Sure!”

  Dave’s and Millie’s eyes met for a moment. She turned slowly, and Janey took her arm and led her out of the room. Dave laid the rifle on the table, and McKeon looked at him. “This was Tom’s,” Dave said simply. He wheeled and went striding out through the back door.

  McKeon, his jaw muscles twitching, walked to the window that opened on the gravel path. He didn’t lift the curtain because he did not want Dave to see him standing there when he rounded the house. He simply peered through the curtain, saw Dave come swinging into sight and followed him down the path with his eyes. He had just turned away from the window when Janey returned.

  McKeon, slumping down into his chair, raised his eyes to her. “Get her to bed?” he asked.

  “Yes, Dad,” Janey replied. She came up to the table and halted. “I told her she wasn’t to get up till I said she could.”

  McKeon grunted. He lifted his coffee cup to his lips, took a mouthful and made a wry face. “Cold,” he grumbled.

  “I’ll warm it up for you,” Janey told him. “What happened while I was upstairs before, Dad?”

  “What d’you mean, what happened?”

  “You know what I mean,” Janey said gently. “I heard your voice, and you sounded angry. When I came downstairs again, the air in here was charged, and from the expression on your face and on Dave’s, I knew that something unpleasant had happened.”

  “What was that money he gave her?”

  “It was his money.”

  “What’d he give it to her for?”

  “That’s between them, Dad.”

  “He don’t look like much to me,” McKeon grumbled.

  “I don’t think that’s important. What’s important is how he looks to Millie, and did you notice how they looked at each other?”

  “H’m,” McKeon said.

  “Millie’s nineteen, and she told me Dave’s twenty-two,” Janey went on. “Dad, do you remember when you were s twenty-two?”

  McKeon’s head jerked, and he sat upright. “’Course I do,” he retorted indignantly. “Remember it just as if it was yesterday. I was married, an’ I had responsibilities, an’ I shouldered them.”

  “Mother was eighteen when you married her.”

  “What about it?” old John demanded.

  “Nothing. I was just making some comparisons; that’s all.” McKeon frowned.

  “Grandfather Wickford didn’t like you very much, did he, Dad? He didn’t like you, nor your looks, and he assured mother you’d never amount to anything.”

  “Old fool!” McKeon muttered.

  “But you didn’t let that stand in your way, did you? You got Mother to run off with you.”

  McKeon’s frown softened. “On a mule,” he related, and the thought of it made him shake his head and grin. But then he was grim-faced again. “Awright, Janey, what’s all this leadin’ up to?”

  “If Dave weren’t made of the right stuff, don’t you think he’d have lit out of here the very minute he dropped Millie off?”

  “H’m,” McKeon said.

  “You advised him to, didn’t you? And when he rejected your advice, you got angry with him.”

  “Danged fool’s just beggin’ to get his head shot off.”

  “Shall we go back again to the time when you were twenty-two, Dad, and someone, whose name we won’t mention, tried to give you some good advice?”

  “That Wickford was always handin’ out advice. Only trouble with him an’ his advice was that he never did like he told everybody else to do. When he finally got tired o’ talkin’, an’ upped and died, he didn’t leave your grandmother enough to pay f’r buryin’ him. I hadda pay for it. So you think Millie’s kinda stuck on this young feller, huh?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “What’s she know about him? Anything?”

  “What did Mother know about you, Dad?”

  “Awright, awright now,” McKeon commanded. “Don’t let’s go through that again. What d’you want me to do?”

  “I think I’d rather let you decide that for yourself. But to begin with, just give him a chance.”

  “Awright,” old John said with finality. He rose again and stalked to the door.

  “Where are you going, Dad?” Janey asked.

  “Gotta see somebody.”

  “The coffee will be ready if you won’t be too long.”

  “I won’t be more’n a couple o’ minutes.”

  McKeon went striding out. He tramped down the path to the barn, slowed his step and finally stopped altogether. He stood in front of the barn for a minute, rubbing his chin with the back of his hand. Then he suddenly swerved away from the barn and stamped down to the bunkhouse. As he neared it, the door opened, and a man came out. He looked up, and when he saw McKeon, he said: “Mornin’, boss.”

  “Walk over to the corral with me, Bill,” McKeon directed. “Wanna talk to you a minute.”

  “Awright.”

  The puncher was surprised, but wisely he refrained from saying so or asking any questions. He strode along with his employer to the corral, halted when McKeon did in front of the gate and turned to him.

  “I want you to ride into town for me, Bill,” McKeon began.

  “Awright. Want me to go now, or after breakfast?”

  “Now. You c’n get your breakfast in town,” McKeon replied. He dug in his pocket and brought out a silver dollar, and he flipped it to the puncher who
caught it deftly and put it in his own pocket. “There was a young feller named Dave Moore standin’ at Doc’s bar drinkin’ some beer when that shooting happened. You know about it, don’t you?”

  Bill nodded.

  “That young feller, that Moore, is stayin’ with us,” McKeon continued. “’Course that’s nobody’s business ’cept ours. The Fowlers are after him. They’ve got some friends in Stone City, so I want you to nose around town an’ see what you c’n pick up. Get the idea? You’re bound to hear somethin’.”

  “Yeah, I oughta.”

  “So’s nobody’ll think it’s kinda odd for you to be hangin’ around town all day, keep goin’ back every once in a while to the express office an’ make out you’re waitin’ around for a package for me. Get it?”

  “Yeah, sure, boss.”

  “Just keep your eyes an’ ears open, an’ watch your tongue. You c’n have a couple o’ glasses of beer if you want to.”

  “Awright.”

  “But no liquor. Y’hear?”

  “I’m off the hard stuff, boss. Haven’t had a drink o’ whiskey in more’n four months now.”

  “Good for you,” McKeon said. He patted the man on the back. “Awright, Bill. Get your horse an’ get going.”

  “Right, boss. Any special time you want me to head f’r home?”

  “Three o’clock or so will do about right.”

  Bill nodded, wheeled and strode off to the barn. McKeon leaned back against the gate and waited. It took Bill a minute or two to get his horse and saddle him, but then he came riding out of the barn, gave McKeon a half wave and a half salute and loped away. After he had gone, McKeon tramped back to the house.

  There was a cup of steaming hot coffee on the table when old John entered the kitchen. Janey was smoothing out the tablecloth. “That’s timing it perfectly,” she told her father with a smile. “It was ready, and I was waiting to pour it when I heard you coming up the path.”

  McKeon grunted and seated himself. “That boy looks like he c’n do with a change of clothes,” he said. “Bud oughta have something that c’n fit him, huh?”

  “I imagine so.”

  “Bud up yet?”

  “He got up a minute ago.”

  “Remind me to ask him when he comes down. Where’s Sing? Where’s he keep himself all the time?”

  “He’s downstairs,” Janey informed him. “In the cellar.”

  “What in blazes is he doin’ down there?”

  “He’s doing his wash, Dad,” Janey explained patiently. “Some of it’s out on the line already, or didn’t you notice when you came in?”

  McKeon grunted. “Got more important things to notice an’ think about,” he answered. He moved in closer to the table, lifted his cup to his lips and sipped a bit of the coffee. “Ah, that’s more like it. Good an’ hot, just the way I like it. Just the way it’s supposed to be.”

  Janey smiled, pushed the platter of buns closer to her father, and watched him for a moment. Then she turned on her heel and went out of the room.

  It was the middle of the afternoon when John McKeon came into the house from the veranda. Janey was sitting at the table, her sewing basket in her lap.

  “Got anything cold to drink?” McKeon asked. “It’s plain murder outside; it’s so blamed hot. My clothes are stuck to me.”

  “There’s a pitcher over there, Dad,” Janey told him, pointing to it on the shelf above the sink. “You can use any one of those glasses. I’ve just washed them.”

  McKeon crossed the room and poured himself a drink. “You have a look in at Millie?” he asked over his shoulder. “She still asleep?”

  “Half an hour ago, Dad, and she was dead to the world.”

  McKeon drained his glass and smacked his lips. “Good an’ cold,” he announced. “Oh, where’s that stuff Bud brought down for that Moore feller?”

  “Bud took it out to the barn,” Janey answered.

  “Dobie oughta be gettin’ back pretty soon. I’m kinda anxious to see him an’ hear what he’s got to say. Wonder if he hooked up with the Fowler outfit.”

  Janey didn’t attempt an answer. After another minute, McKeon poured himself a second drink from the pitcher, smacked his lips again and stalked out. Janey looked after him, shook her head and smiled.

  John McKeon had just seated himself in his chair on the veranda when a band of horsemen came loping up the incline from the road. He came halfway up out of his chair. One horseman, Dobie Cantwell, pulled away from the others and rode on toward the house; the other men wheeled into the barn. Dobie pulled up at the gate, dismounted stiffly and stamped about for a moment or two while McKeon watched him impatiently. A frown gathered on his face and began to deepen.

  “Take your time, Dobie,” John called. “I’ve only been waitin’ for you all day, so I suppose I c’n wait a while longer till you get ready to tell me what happened.”

  Dobie took off his hat and wiped his brow with his shirt sleeve. “I’m comin’,” he said curtly. “In case you don’t know it, from sittin’ on your backside all day an’ gettin’ up outta that chair only to eat or get y’self somethin’ cold to drink, it’s damned hot!”

  Dobie came stalking up the path. Just as he reached the veranda steps, the front door opened, and Janey came out, carrying a tall glass in each hand. Dobie looked up and beamed. “Ah, Janey, you’re wonderful!” he said. He bounded up the steps and took the glass she held out to him, giving her a peck of a kiss on her cheek. “You’re a honey, awright.”

  Janey smiled and moved across the veranda to her father’s side. “Dad,” she said, and held out the glass to him.

  McKeon took the glass with a grunt and balanced it on his knee.

  Dobie drained his glass, smacked his lips and handed it back to Janey. “Wonderful!” he said. “Just about the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Not too cold, but just right.”

  As Janey went inside, Dobie caught up a chair and spun it around next to McKeon’s. “Just to save you the trouble of askin’, we didn’t ketch up with the Fowlers,” the foreman began as he seated himself. He sank back and stretched his legs in front of him. He took off his dust-caked hat and put it in his lap. “They weren’t anywheres around. We found Tom an’ Jed, an’ we buried th’m. Tom’s in the plot where his folks are layin’, an’ Jed’s a little ways off. We put markers over th’m so’s Millie’ll know which is which, an’ who’s who.”

  “Uh-huh,” McKeon said. He gestured impatiently. “Go on.”

  “The house is a mess,” Dobie continued. “There ain’t a single windowpane left in the side facin’ the barn. An’ inside it looks like a twister hit it. Plaster an’ wallpaper hangin’ off in some places an’ ripped clean off in other places. The walls are full o’ bullet holes, and a couple o’ the doors were shot clean off the hinges. One or maybe two others, I don’t remember f r sure now, were all splintered an’ almost busted. They ain’t any good for anything ’cept maybe for firewood. The furniture looks like it caught hell, too, and—”

  “All those things can be fixed up so they’ll be as good as new,” McKeon interrupted curtly.

  “Awright,” Dobie said. “Outside we found three of the Fowler outfit. They were dead. Two o’ th’m were layin’ in the grass in front of the barn, an’ the third one was layin’ in the brush.”

  “What’d you do with th’m?” McKeon wanted to know. “You didn’t leave th’m there, did you?”

  “Heck, no!” Dobie answered. “We took ’em into town to Al Spencer’s office.”

  “What’d the sheriff have to say about this mess?”

  “Al wasn’t in, an’ neither was that Ab Wight,” Dobie related, and then he grinned, “so I had the boys bring the bodies inside, an’ I had th’m propped up against the wall.” He chuckled. “Wait’ll Al sees the presents we left him. He’ll be fit to be tied! An’ wait till Ed Fowler gets Joe Peters’ bill for buryin’ his dead. He’ll hit the ceiling. If Ed was one o’ th’m, I’da been only too glad to pay for plantin’ him.

&n
bsp; “Hey, you send Bill Rivers to town f’r anything?” Dobie asked. “I saw him standin’ out in front o’ the express comp’ny office, an’ when I started over to ask him what’n blazes he was doin’ there, he gave me a quick shake o’ the head an’ turned his back on me so I figgered I’d better leave him be.”

  “I sent him to town to nose around an’ see what information he could pick up about the Fowlers,” McKeon told him. “He oughta be back most any minute now.”

  “Well, that’s the story, John. What happens now? Do we do anything, or do we just wait an’ see what happens?”

  “There ain’t anything much we can do right now,” McKeon replied. “’Course we could go after the Fowlers an’ wipe ’em out, but I kinda think I’d rather have the law do it. ’Course if something was to happen that didn’t leave us any choice, then we’d go after them. Who’s this comin’? Ain’t that Rivers?”

  A horseman topped the incline.

  “Yeah, that’s him, awright,” Dobie said.

  The puncher trotted past the barn and came on toward the house.

  “Find out anything, Bill?” Dobie called.

  Rivers shook his head. “Not a blamed thing,” he answered. “Was too hot, so nobody was around. Mighta been better if I’da gone to town this evening. That’s when folks get to town.”

  “Forget it,” McKeon said with finality.

  “Awright,” Rivers said with a lift of his shoulders. “You’re the boss.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was about five o’clock. The sun had moved off, and the heat of the day had already begun to abate. Dark clouds were gathering in the sky, and they held a threat of rain in their grasp. Millie Cox, wearing one of Janey Fowler’s nightgowns, had awakened some fifteen minutes before, and now she was sitting up in bed, looking across the room at Janey who was standing in front of the window that opened upon the barn, the corral and the bunkhouse, and beyond them, the upgrade and the road that led to town.

  Millie stifled a yawn, and Janey smiled. “I think you really needed that sleep,” she observed.

  “Golly, I was tired! What time is it?”

  “Going somewhere?” Janey asked with an amused smile.

  “No. I was just wondering.”

  “It’s about five,” Janey told her. “It was a quarter of when I came upstairs, and I think I’ve been in here about fifteen minutes, so that should make it about five.”