by H. V. Elkin
Cutler pretended he did not see Bill in the distance, sitting on the old black mare and watching him. He said nothing about it later when he got to the farm for breakfast.
The next day, he repeated the same routine, and so did Bill.
By the third morning, Cutler figured Bill would have accepted the ritual at face value. Apparently the young man was too smart for that. Cutler had picked his partner too well. Now that his hand was sufficiently healed, Cutler was impatient to get on with the job he had to do, the promise he had to keep. He could not give the poacher any more time. He gestured to Bill to join him, and Bill came riding over.
“A tracker don’t like bein’ tracked,” Cutler said unsmilingly.
“Guess I can understand that all right,” Bill said. “A partner doesn’t like gettin’ unhitched either.”
“Okay, boy. Spit it out.”
“You’re not foolin’ me. I don’t know what put it into your head, but I figure you’re aimin’ to finish this job on your own.”
“That a fact?”
“And you let me tell you one thing, John. When I start something, I want to be there when it’s finished. Get me? And I intend to be, too, whether you like it or not.”
Cutler looked stern. “You got five-hundred dollars comin’ to you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Bill was hurt. “That’s not what I’m worried about. What the hell do you take me for all of a sudden? I just told you what I was worried about. Did I mention anything about money?”
“Don’t care if you mentioned it or not. This was a thousand-dollar job, finished or not. You’ll get your half. Far as I’m concerned, that ends what I owe you, and that ends the partnership.”
Bill dismounted and stepped up to Cutler, looking straight into the older man’s eyes, his own eyes blazing with rage. “Why the hell are you tryin’ to get rid of me now?”
“Because I don’t want to owe you more’n five-hundred dollars.”
“You can keep it!”
“Fact is, I got me a little business deal with Hedge Bannister, and you ain’t in on that part of it. So this is where our trails part.”
“What business deal?”
“All right, if that’s what it takes to get you off my back, I’ll tell you. Before we went to Yellowstone, I made a deal with him to get him the hide of the rogue grizzly. Hobson’ll stuff it and sell it, and me, Hedge, and Hobson split it three ways. There ain’t gonna be no four-way split just because you want to tail along.”
“You left that bear in Yellowstone.”
“But I arranged with Captain Anderson to save the hide and head for me.”
“Why didn’t we just bring it with us?”
“Well, if I’d known I was gonna have to tell you about it, I would’ve. Thought it’d be easier if you didn’t know what was goin’ on.”
“Then you don’t intend to get the poacher arrested and keep your promise to Burgess?”
“Grow up, will you? Why would I want to get Hedge and Hobson put behind bars? How would I make any money off them then?”
Bill stared at Cutler for a long time, his face contorting as he tried to deal with what he had heard.
He was unable to deal with it, because none of it fit. None of it matched up with the man he had ridden close to death with. He spat on the ground as if he were getting rid of all the bile Cutler had been trying to feed him. Looking hard into Cutler’s eyes, Bill said, “I don’t believe it.”
Cutler looked up at the sky for guidance, sighed, shrugged, then sounded angry. “Are you callin’ me a liar?”
“I’m tellin’ you I don’t believe you.”
“You as much as heard Hedge admit it that night he cut your fences.”
“You said you were playin’ along with him then. Then I believed you.”
“And now you don’t.”
“That’s what I’ve been sayin’.”
“So you are callin’ me a liar!”
“And a damned bad one at that!”
Out of consideration for Bill’s remaining teeth, Cutler did not hit him as hard as he might have. But his hammer fist shot up with such speed that the blow pushed Bill off his feet. The young man splayed out against the snow-dusted ground. He was stunned but not unconscious. The hurt was worse than merely physical. He looked up, his mouth gaping open, and forgot to breath. If Cutler’s words did not ring true, his punch did.
Red was barking, confused, asking for instructions.
“Red! Stay!”
Bill rolled into a crouch. Then Cutler performed his most difficult piece of play-acting. He pulled out his six-gun. The movement made Bill stop, its meaning made him sit back down and hold his head in his hands.
Cutler’s voice was hard. “Okay, sonny. On your feet. Real slow.”
Bill got up, but he couldn’t look in Cutler’s face. He turned, shoulders drooping, and mounted the black mare. Without looking at Cutler, he rode away, looking as tired and as old as his horse.
“Damn!” Cutler hissed through his teeth. “Damn it all to hell!” He had to go back to the farm for ammunition.
Cutler stayed all day, never telling the rest of the family what had happened on the range. Bill said nothing about it either and avoided being wherever Cutler was. The Taylors could plainly see something was wrong and were resigned to the fact that they were not going to find out what it was. You didn’t question the silences of men. In their eyes, Bill was a man now.
Cutler also considered Bill to be a man. He hated the way he had had to act to release Bill’s hold on him. He was worried, as he had worried about Red when he had to call the dog off the grizzly’s trail back in Yellowstone. Had he broken Bill’s spirit? If Bill believed him now, would Bill believe Cutler later if he got a chance to explain what really happened, what the uppercut to Bill’s chin really meant? Did Bill have what it took to recover from this and learn the final lesson, that there are times when a man has to dash out of hero-worship in another man’s eyes, has to sacrifice his reputation for someone else?
The next morning, Cutler left. Alone. Except for the horse he rode and the dog that ran along beside him.
Alone, except for death looking over his shoulder.
Chapter Eleven
It was too early for the Silver Dollar to be doing serious business, even though business started earlier in the day as the weather got colder. It was also too early for Iris to be out of bed, so that’s why Cutler found her there. He sat on the bed’s edge and touched her soft hair. The feel of it, after the hardships of the past couple months, was almost enough to make him forget what he had to do.
She turned suddenly, wide awake. “John!”
“Hello, Iris.
“You’re alive!”
“So far.”
“Come to bed.”
“No, not now.”
Her smile clouded. “It isn’t over yet, is it?”
He shook his head, trying to bring the smile back to her face. “You been waitin’ here for me all this time?”
“No, I’ve done the whole circuit since you left. Just got back two days ago. Almost as if I knew you’d be back.”
“That fate thing again, Iris?”
“The truth is, I never thought I’d see you again.”
“I wanted to be sure you did, so here I am.”
“No.” She stared her gray eyes at him. “No, that’s not why you’re here.”
He remembered his manners and took off his hat. “That Hedge Bannister been around here lately?”
“Not that I know of. Not since I’ve been back. George Hobson would know better than I would.”
“I’ll get to him all right. At the end.”
She wrinkled her forehead. “The end?”
“Got to get some facts straight first. How you been?”
“No different. You?”
He shrugged.
“Different,” she said. “You’re not the same man that went out of here two months ago. Not exactly.” She could see this
was not a subject that interested him. “Whatever it is you have to do, John ...” He thought she was going to tell him to be careful, but instead she said, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I already got rid of one partner,” he said. Then he pulled himself away from the perfume and the softness of the room and went out.
After he closed the door, she whispered “Be careful.”
The Cheyenne Club was a large brick building that did not smell of brick. It smelled of money. It was a haven for the cattlemen who were known as cattle kings now. Here, they hobnobbed with remittance men and made deals over billiards, cards, or supper.
Cutler was met at the door by a tall, thin man in livery. He asked, “May I help you, sir?” as if he couldn’t imagine how he could help a man like Cutler, who was not well dressed and who had probably wandered in by mistake. “This is the Cheyenne Club,” the man explained. “Perhaps you had an appointment with one of our members?”
Cutler pulled out his calling card—the money he had received in Yellowstone, rolled up into a large roll. Cutler had wanted it to look impressive. That was why he had not given Bill his share yet.
“No appointment,” he said, “but if any of your members’re interested in trophies, I might have a little loose change to invest here.”
The man raised his eyebrows when he saw the roll of bills. “Yes, sir. Our Mr. McHenry is a hunter of sorts, and he happens to be here at the moment. Who shall I say?”
Cutler used the first name that came to mind. “Taylor,” he said. “John Taylor.”
“One moment, Mr. Taylor,’ the liveried man smiled and swept out of the hallway. He returned a moment later. “Mr. McHenry will see you, Mr. Taylor.” He led Cutler down the hallway and into a small lounge they called a wine room. Nobody was drinking wine.
“That’s Mr. McHenry over there by the window,” the man said and pointed to a big man with a ruddy complexion, a large red mustache, and a bald head. He wore a cowboy’s flannel shirt and had a string tie. A black jacket was over the back of his chair. He was talking to two cowboys and drinking whiskey.
“Hell,” he said to one of them, “you can ride out to my spread and get a meal any time you want it. Stay in the bunkhouse for the winter. Won’t be any jobs before spring.” He looked toward the door.
“Mr. McHenry,” the liveried man said, “this is Mr. Taylor.”
“Oh, sure. Come on in, Taylor. Sit down. Be with you in a minute.”
Cutler moved near the table and sat, waiting for McHenry to finish with the cowboys. As the cowboys turned to go, one of them stopped when he saw Cutler.
“You know Taylor, do you, Ben?” McHenry asked.
“Huh?” It took Ben too long to shake his head. “No, no, I guess I don’t.” Then he hurried out with his friend. Cutler knew he had been recognized.
“Tough.” McHenry shook his head. “You just saw two misfits walk out of here, Taylor. They just know one way of life, and they can’t adjust to the changin’ times. Hell, I had to. I didn’t like it, but I had to do it, and I landed on my feet. But a cowboy only knows how to be a cowboy. If I don’t have a job for those two in the spring, they’ll probably get even with the world by robbin’. Probably wind up doing’ a rope dance.” He drank his whisky. “Have a drink?”
“No thanks. I’m here on business.”
“State it.”
“I’m told you’re a hunter.”
“When I get a chance. You, too, I guess, by the look of you.”
“Except what I’m lookin’ for is too dangerous to hunt, the law bein’ what it is today.”
McHenry’s eyes narrowed. “How’s that?”
“The State don’t take kindly to buffalo killin’, and I know some men who’d like to get themselves some heads while there’s still some to get.”
“Our business is over, Mr. Taylor.”
“That a fact?”
“It’s not only the State that’s against buffalo killin’. I am, too. I try not to judge a man; man does what he’s got to do, I guess. But I do pick the company I keep, and your company ain’t it.”
“Good.”
“What?”
“The name’s Cutler.”
“John Cutler?”
“That’s right.”
“What the hell you been doin’, Cutler. You’re not a trophy man. Why you pretendin’ to be?”
“I don’t like it anymore’n you do. But I had to know who I was talkin’ to.”
“Well, now that we both know, what can I do for you?”
Cutler told his story. After he finished, McHenry said, “I hope you get the bastard, Cutler. But I’m not an informer.”
“Appreciate that. All I’m lookin’ for is those heads and the men responsible for takin’ ‘em. I want to know the lay of the land before I set foot on it, because there might not be enough time to ask questions.”
“Even if there was, you probably wouldn’t get any straight answers. Hell, I want to help you, but I’m not an informer.” He drank some more whisky. “Maybe if you went back to bein’ Mr. Taylor.”
“Consider it done.”
“Okay, Taylor. I heard George Hobson got himself a couple of heads a couple weeks ago. Heard a man named Hedge Bannister brought ’em in. Heard his arm was all bloody, but it’s pretty well healed now. But hear Hobson’s got the heads. Now if that’s a fact, you better watch out. Hobson’s a suspicious man, and he might not know you’re just comin’ to do business. And the heads won’t be right out in the open, either. If he’s got ‘em, they’ll be in his back room, probably all nicely mounted on a big, shiny board. You want me to come with you?”
Cutler shook his head.
“Have a drink now?”
Cutler shook his head. “Thanks, McHenry.”
“Good luck, Taylor.”
Cutler tied Apache to a post near the taxidermy shop. The horse was saddled and ready if fast riding became necessary. Cutler heard the jingle of spurs and saw a cowboy come out of the shop and duck around the corner. It was the one named Ben, who had been talking to McHenry in the Cheyenne Club. His friend was not with him.
Cutler stationed Red outside the shop door. “Red! Guard!” The dog sat there, alert, ready to keep back shooters out.
Before entering the shop, Cutler checked the street. The cowboy who had left the shop remained out of sight. At this time of morning, a cold morning, there were few people on the street. Bystanders could be a problem in situations like this, but there were few risks here. There would be even less if Cutler had accepted help on the job. Even if he was of a mind to protect Bill, he could still have had the law in on it. If might have been the sensible thing to do.
But there were matters that went beyond sense. The cowboy might have told Hobson that Cutler was back. Hobson, being of a suspicious and cautious nature, the kind of man he had to be to survive in a business that was not legal, would be on his guard. For Cutler to leave now for reinforcements would give Hobson time to hide the evidence that might convict him. There was a sensible reason for not turning back now.
Beyond sense was the need to see this through alone. Even though the odds were against Cutler, this might be the last thing he ever did. If so, it was important he do it alone, that he die the way he had lived. It was even more important than living to capture his grizzly himself.
He opened the door and walked inside.
Hobson was not there. The shop was populated by corpses. A deer head hung on a wall and stared across the room at an elk on the opposite wall. A giant wolf stood on a pedestal, alert, posed as it might have been in the last moment before a hunter killed it. On the counter a golden eagle, its wings outstretched, was frozen in preparation for a flight it would never take. There were four framed letters on display from satisfied customers. Not much light got inside, and the potbellied stove did not give much warmth. Dust hung heavy in the air. It seemed like a forgotten attic in winter.
And Cutler stood inside the door, as still as the trophies around him,
but alive, more alive than he had ever been before, feeling the blood running through his veins. His senses were heightened to such a degree that he knew George Hob son was in the next room, standing on the other side of the door.
The door opened and Hobson came in, closing the door behind him quickly. “Mr. Cutler!” He sounded surprised and pleased, very convincing. He was without his derby. The wispy strands of hair on his head looked as if they might be painted there. If a vulture could turn into a man, he would be George Hobson. The man was not to be trusted. He probably wasn’t very dangerous, accustomed as he was to dealing with bodies after the life was out of them, and depending on other people to do the killing.
There would have to be a short game between Cutler and Hobson before anything happened. That was the way you dealt with a man like this. An imitation of a smile appeared briefly on Hob-son’s face. “Are you buying or selling, Mr. Cutler?”
“I’m not buyin’, Hobson.”
“Hedge Bannister informs me we might work out some kind of deal with you.”
“Why don’t the three of us talk it over?”
“If you like, but as you can see, he isn’t here at the moment.”
“Nearby maybe?” Cutler felt there was someone left in the next room.
“I wouldn’t know. However, talking to me is the same as talking to him. Perhaps better. I run our little operation. Did you bring the grizzly?”
“I can get it.”
“Big one, is it?”
“About nine-hundred pounds with the meat still in him.”
“An excellent specimen, I’m sure. Well, Mr. Cutler, I can’t be absolutely certain what Hedge told you. He told me he proposed a three-way split upon sale of the beast. That is, in fact, the offer. I’m sure you will consider it a fair one.”
“As far as it goes.”
“Oh? Do you wish to propose a counter offer?”