The Man from Yesterday

by Wayne D. Overholser

  Now, as always, a restlessness followed the nightmare. Neal couldn’t stay in bed, so he eased out from under the covers carefully, hoping he wouldn’t waken Jane. He picked up his clothes and slipped out of the room into the hall. He dressed quickly, then glanced into Laurie’s room just to be sure she was all right, and, closing the door, went downstairs.

  He built a fire in the kitchen range, put the coffee pot on the front, and stepped outside to cut the day’s supply of wood. The sun was beginning to show over the juniper-covered ridge to the east, but the air was sharp and he had to work fast to keep warm. That was the only way to retain his sanity. If he was active, he was able to put the nightmare out of his mind.

  When he returned to the house, the coffee was ready. He poured a cup, thinking of his father as he stood by the stove waiting for the coffee to cool. Sam Clark had been dead for four years, but he continued to dominate Neal’s life. His father had built this house for him and Jane here in Cascade City, and Neal had gone to work in the bank. He often thanked the Lord for Henry Abel. Without him, it was hard to tell what would have happened to the bank.

  The hard truth was that Neal’s first love was the Circle C. He had often thought of turning the bank over to Abel and taking Jane and Laurie back to the ranch. He wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t unless it was that his father had wanted him to be a banker. But that was only part of the answer. Perhaps it wasn’t even a part.

  Neal had never been able to talk to anyone about it. Not Jane. Or Joe Rolfe who was still sheriff. Or Doc Santee. He found it hard even to bring it out into the open in his own thinking, but he knew vaguely that it had to do with Ed Shelly, who would someday return to Cascade City. The outlaw would strike at the bank just as his father and brother had done eight years ago. When he did, Neal had to be there.

  Jane came in from the dining room just as Neal finished his coffee. She asked anxiously: “Neal, what’s the matter this time?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “I just couldn’t sleep.”

  She came to him and put her arms around him. “You’re worried about Ben Darley and Tuck Shelton, aren’t you? You’ve done all you could, darling. You can’t go on carrying everybody’s troubles on your back.”

  “I know.” He never told her about his nightmares. He always said, as he had just now, that he couldn’t sleep. It was crazy, and it would sound even crazier if he told her about it, so he kept it locked up inside him. “Jane, you know how I used to get sore at Dad because he had to run my life like he did everybody else’s, but he was a smart man. Now that he’s gone, I keep remembering things he told me.”

  She smiled briefly. “He was a smart man, all right, but I’m not sure he had a heart.”

  “I think he did,” Neal said thoughtfully. “I just remembered this morning how often he said that most folks didn’t have any sense about money. They’d save and then turn around and blow it on some fool deal because they were promised big returns. That’s exactly what happened here.”

  She turned away from him, shaking her head, and started getting breakfast. He knew how she felt. Let everybody go ahead and invest their money in Darley and Shelton’s phony irrigation project. It was their business. But Neal couldn’t let them do it if he could keep them from it. This was something his father had taught him. It was proof that Sam Clark, for all his arrogant and domineering ways, did have a heart.

  They’ll hate you, Sam used to say, but you’re smarter than they are, or you wouldn’t be where you are. They’ll cuss you, sure, but if you let them throw their money down a rat hole, they’ll cuss you for that, too.

  Neither Neal nor Jane felt like talking during breakfast. But when he was ready to go, Jane kissed him, and whispered: “Don’t let them upset you today, Neal. Please! Laurie and I should come first in your life.”

  “You do, honey,” he said, “but that isn’t the point. A man has to do what he has to do, even when he’d rather do something else.”

  “That’s more of what your father taught you,” she said with a hint of bitterness. “Many times I’ve wished he’d been just an ordinary little man like everybody else.”

  “But he wasn’t,” Neal said, “and I’m his son. Maybe his shoes don’t fit me, but I’ve got to try to wear them.”

  He kissed her again and, putting on his hat, left the house. Laurie was still asleep, as she usually was when he left. He walked briskly along the street to the river. There he stopped for a moment, eyes on the water that moved slowly here, very clear and cold. A short distance north of town, it began its swift, tumbling descent to the Columbia. Fog lifted above the water like smoke. It would be gone when the sun rose a little higher. Life was like that, he thought, shifting and vague and transient.

  Turning, he strode rapidly up the slope through the pines toward Main Street, his feet silent on the thick bed of long needles. When he reached the corner and turned toward the bank, the thought struck him that there had been little change in the town since his father had died. The railroad, the sawmills, the irrigation projects—still dreams, but Neal had no doubt that in time they would become reality.

  For an active, ambitious man, Sam Clark had possessed a great store of patience. Even as a member of the legislature, he had been unable to bring progress to the upper Deschutes as he had hoped, but he had never become discouraged. Destiny moves in her own way and at her own speed, and there isn’t much any man can do except get things ready, Sam used to say. In that regard Neal knew he lacked a great deal. He was not a patient man as his father had been.

  He reached the bank, unlocked the front door, and went in. Henry Abel was already there. He had built a fire and was sitting on his high stool near the window, working on a ledger. He liked his job, and he would have been lost without it, but Neal was never quite sure whether he worked long hours because he loved the work, or because the bank was a refuge from his nagging, gossipy wife.

  “Good morning, Henry,” Neal said as he walked past the teller’s cage to his private office. “You’re here early.”

  “’Morning, Neal,” Abel said. “You’re early, too.”

  “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I got up.” Neal took off his hat and opened the door to his office, then he glanced at Abel, wondering if he ever had nightmares, or if he ever thought about Ed Shelly’s return. Abel was under thirty-five, but he looked older, his face pale and pinched. He had not been well since he’d been wounded by the Shellys. He suffered a good deal, especially in cold weather, but Doc Santee said there wasn’t anything he could do.

  Abel looked up from his ledger. He said: “You’re worried, Neal. It won’t do any good. It’ll take more than worry to stop Ben Darley.”

  “I aim to use something besides worry,” Neal said. “Maybe I’ll kill the bastard.”

  “And hang,” Abel said.

  Neal went into his office, put his hat on a nail in the wall, and shut the door. That was the trouble, he thought. For the first time in his life, he hated a man enough to kill him, but he didn’t hate him enough to hang for it. Beyond any doubt Ben Darley was a crooked promoter, but he had a way of making people trust him. That was simply beyond Neal’s understanding. Except for Henry Abel, Joe Rolfe and Doc Santee were the only other men in the county who saw through Darley’s scheming.

  Neal had several letters to write, but he couldn’t get started. He uncorked a bottle of ink, dipped his pen, and wrote Cascade City, Oregon. April 28. Then he stopped and leaned back in his swivel chair, his thoughts returning to Ben Darley. The hell of it was Darley had turned old friends against Neal, men like Olly Earl and Mike O’Hara and Harvey Quinn who Neal had known since he’d been a boy.

  Neal was still sitting there thinking about it when Abel opened the bank at 9:00 a.m. A moment later he slipped into Neal’s office, as silent as a cat in the kangaroo-leather shoes he wore because they were soft and easy on his feet.

  “We’ve got another one,” Abel said. “Wants to borrow money to invest with Ben Darley.”

  “Who is
it this time?”

  “Jud Manion.”

  Neal groaned. Of all the men in the county who had asked to borrow money, Manion was the last one he wanted to turn down. During his growing-up years when Sam Clark had been too busy to work at being a father, Jud Manion, riding for the Circle C at the time, took on the job that should have been Sam’s.

  Manion taught Neal everything he knew about cows and horses and guns and ropes. With infinite patience he had shown Neal how to catch the big ones out of the Deschutes. He had taken the boy hunting. They had even explored the lava caves east of the ranch. Then Manion had fallen in love and, knowing he couldn’t support a family on his $30 a month, he’d taken a homestead. Now this man to whom Neal owed a great debt wanted to borrow money to pour down Ben Darley’s crooked rat hole.

  As Neal rose and walked to the window, Abel said in his precise way: “Don’t let sentiment blind you, Neal. Not even for Jud.”

  “How much does he want?”

  “One thousand.”

  “How many have we had this week?”

  “Seven.”

  But Jud Manion was different from the others. At least he was to Neal. He had four children. Six mouths to feed. Six bodies to clothe and keep warm in that tar-paper shack in the junipers. They had existed and that was about all, but now, like almost everyone else in Cascade County, Jud was determined to throw away his means of existence.

  “Send him in,” Neal said.

  Abel hesitated, then he said: “We can’t loan him a nickel. His farm’s mortgaged now for more than it’s worth.”

  “Send him in.”

  “He’s drunk and he’s mean. I can get rid of him. . . .”

  “Damn it, send him in!”

  Abel slipped out of the office, his thin face showing his disapproval. This wouldn’t be easy, Neal knew. Manion seldom got drunk, but when he did, he was a ring-tailed roarer.

  When he came in a moment later and kicked the door shut behind him, Neal saw that Abel was right. Manion was carrying a gun, the first time since he’d left the Circle C as far as Neal knew.

  “Glad to see you, Jud.” Neal motioned to a chair and, returning to his desk, sat down. “Haven’t seen you since I was at your place last month.”

  Manion didn’t sit down. He leaned against the door, scowling at Neal. He was a short, broad-bodied man who worked hard, but he was a poor manager and his farm showed it. He was the only cowboy Neal knew who was trying his hand at farming, and it had gone against his grain from the start.

  “I didn’t ride in just to pass a few windies,” Manion said. “I want to borrow a thousand dollars. Abel says you ain’t making no loans these days, but I allowed that didn’t mean me.”

  “It does as far as the bank’s concerned,” Neal said, “but, if you’re up against it, I’ll give you my personal check for as much as you need.”

  “I ain’t asking for no handout,” Manion said. “I’ve got some security. I own a team, a couple o’ milk cows. . . .” He stopped and wiped a hand across his face, anger growing in him. “Damn it, Neal, you know what I’ve got. You likewise know your bank ain’t gonna lose nothing on me.”

  “What do you want the money for?”

  “That ain’t none of your business. What does the bank care how I spend money I borrow?”

  “It cares a hell of a lot, Jud. Ben Darley and Tuck Shelton are a pair of thieving liars and their irrigation scheme is a swindle from the word go.”

  Manion stared at Neal with loathing. “You’re turning out worse’n Sam. All the time I was trying to teach you something. . . .”

  “I know what I owe you, Jud.” Neal rose. “I’ll do anything I can for you. I said for you, Jud, not Ben Darley and Tuck Shelton.”

  Manion walked to the desk, so furious he was trembling. “Sam or you have run this bank for years. What have either one of you done for this country? Nothing! Just nothing! Now Darley gives us a chance to make some money and develop the country to boot, but you’re so damned ornery you won’t let any of us take it.”

  “I’m trying to keep you from losing what you have got,” Neal said patiently. “Maybe you can’t see it now. . . .”

  Manion interrupted with an oath. “It’s like Darley says. You wanted a controlling interest in the deal, but he figured it was smarter to let all of us in on it than to help make a banker fatter’n he is already.”

  “Darley’s a liar,” Neal said. “I never offered to put a nickel into his scheme.”

  “You’re the liar,” Manion shot back. “Darley’s got a letter of your’n saying you wanted to buy fifty thousand dollars’ worth of stock.”

  “Ever see the letter?”

  “Alec Tuttle and Vince Sailor have.” Manion clenched his big fists. “I never thought you’d go like this, but I was dead wrong. Put a man behind a banker’s desk and something happens to him every time.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” Neal said.

  Manion didn’t leave. He stood there, the corners of his mouth working like a child struggling to hold back the tears. He put a hand on the butt of his gun. “Neal, I’ve got to have that money. You don’t know how it is to have a wife and four kids who never get enough to eat. I work sixteen hours a day, but I can’t make enough to feed ’em. Darley says he’ll still let me in, if I can get the money. He says every share of stock will double in value in six months.”

  “It won’t, Jud.” Neal laid a gold eagle on the desk. “Take it. Buy the grub you need. I’ll give you more when that’s gone. Or you can get your old job on the Circle C.”

  “A thousand dollars, Neal.” Manion drew his gun. “Give it to me or I’ll kill you. I’ve been shoved a long ways since we used to ride together . . . downhill all the time . . . but you ain’t gonna make me lose this chance.”

  “Put that gun away, you fool.”

  “I ain’t a fool.” Manion raised the gun, the hammer back. “You never heard a baby cry all night because he’s hungry. I have. My babies, Neal. All I’m asking for is a chance to take care of ’em. Write me a check. Or call Abel in here and have him give me the cash. I don’t care how you do it. Just see that I get it.”

  Hard work and privation and a little whiskey had turned Jud Manion’s head. Looking at him now, a big, trembling misfit of a farmer, Neal knew he would do exactly what he said. He’d be sorry about it later, but by then Neal Clark would be a dead man.

  “I’ll give you ten seconds,” Manion whispered. “I can’t wait no longer.”

  “They’ll hang you.”

  “I don’t care. Gimme the money so I can take it to Darley before it’s too late.”

  The office door slammed open. Startled, Manion whirled and fired, but Abel had lunged sideways out of range. The instant Manion started to turn, Neal dived, headfirst, over the desk. Manion threw a shot at him, a wild shot that missed by five feet, then he was going back and down, Neal on top of him.

  Manion hit the floor hard, the wind jarred out of him. He struck at Neal, but there was no real power in the blow. Neal twisted the gun out of his hand and rose, breathing hard.

  “You’ve gone crazy, Jud,” Neal said. “I ought to turn you over to Joe Rolfe.”

  “You’re crazy if you don’t,” Abel said. “He’ll try it again.”

  “No, I can’t do it, but I’ll keep his gun.” Neal turned to the desk and, picking up the $20 gold piece, dropped it into Manion’s shirt pocket. “Go get that grub for your kids.”

  Jud rose, looking at Neal with no repentance or regret in his eyes whatsoever. “Abel’s right. Taking my gun won’t stop me.” He walked out, reeling a little.

  Abel said: “You’re soft, Neal. Too soft.”

  Neal shut the door, leaving Abel outside. Maybe he was soft, softer than Sam Clark would have been under the circumstances, but he wasn’t his father and he was glad of it. He walked to the window, still breathing hard. He’d been scared, and he had a right to be, with Jud Manion half crazy as he had been.

  A wind had come up in the sudde
n, gusty way that was typical of April, blowing so much dust that he couldn’t see the Signal Butte Inn on the other side of the street. Staring moodily into the gray fog, Neal thought that being a banker hadn’t been so bad until Ben Darley came to town with his wife Fay and his partner, Tuck Shelton.

  They had rented the office rooms over Quinn’s Mercantile and started promoting an irrigation project on the high desert east of town. Darley was a smooth operator, the smoothest Neal had ever seen. He’d made big promises of quick profit, so it was natural enough, Neal thought, for the farmers and townspeople to swallow the man’s lies.

  Neal walked back to his desk, the smoldering hatred he felt for Ben Darley suddenly fanned into flame. He couldn’t blame Jud Manion for trying to kill him, but it would never have happened if Darley hadn’t come to Cascade City.

  One solution was to kill Darley. Neal opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a loaded .38. He remembered his father saying: A bank occupies a special position in a small community like this. Sometimes it has to protect people from themselves.

  That was exactly what he had tried to do when he’d turned down requests for loans to invest with Darley. But why should he make enemies out of friends who wanted to go broke? It was a good question. Still, he couldn’t rid himself of other people’s burdens. Jane had told him he couldn’t carry all of them on his back, but they were there just the same.

  Then, staring at the gun, he made his decision. He’d see Darley. A lot of problems would be solved if he were forced to kill Ben Darley.

  He slipped the gun into his pocket, buttoned his coat, and, taking his hat off the nail, left the bank.

  Chapter Two

  Ben Darley and Tuck Shelton’s office was over Harvey Quinn’s Mercantile, across the street and at the other end of the block from the bank. Neal paused on the boardwalk, looking at the men who sat on the weathered benches in front of the Signal Butte Inn. Alec Tuttle and Vince Sailor were among them, two farmers who were more vocal than the others in condemning the bank for its attitude toward the Darley-Shelton project. Jud Manion was not with them, and Neal was thankful for that.