The Man from Yesterday

by Wayne D. Overholser

  Then he remembered the note he had found in his pocket. It was the question he had meant to ask when he’d first dismounted, and had been sidetracked. Now he said roughly: “Maybe you’d like to tell me how that note got into my pocket this afternoon.”

  Wide-eyed, she asked: “What note?”

  “From Ed Shelly. It said he hadn’t forgotten what happened to his brother and father.”

  “Neal.” She put her hands on his shoulders. “You don’t think I had anything to do with putting it in your coat pocket? You . . . you can’t.”

  “Who did?”

  “I don’t know,” she said as if troubled by the question. “I didn’t know there was a note, but Ben might have done it. Or Shelton. They know about your trouble with the Shelly gang. I heard them talking about trying to scare you out of town by using Ed Shelly’s name, but I thought they gave up the idea.” She shivered. “Neal, it might be true. Maybe someone around town really is Ed Shelly.”

  “Well, by God,” a man said behind Neal. “If this ain’t a purty sight. I thought you was a married man, Clark.”

  Neal whirled to face the man who had come up behind him. As he turned, Fay Darley cried—“Ruggles!”—as if the name were squeezed out of her. She ran to her mare and, mounting, rode toward town in a gallop.

  Neal did not look at her, but stood staring at the stranger. He had never seen the man before. He was in his thirties, tall and very thin, with a sneering expression on his brown lips that told Neal how much filth there was in his mind.

  “Your name Ruggles?” Neal asked.

  “That’s my handle.” He walked toward Neal. “I’ve got a letter for you that a . . .”

  “You’ve been camping here?” Neal interrupted.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re on Circle C range. Get the hell off of it. We don’t allow saddle bums to hang around. Too many things can happen. A fire. Or you might get a notion to eat some Circle C beef.” Neal motioned toward town. “There’s a hotel . . .”

  “To hell with you and hotels,” Ruggles said angrily. “You’ve got gall, telling me where I can camp and where I can’t. But it’s all right for you to meet Missus Darley out here in the brush. If I’d have waited, I’d have seen something purty damned. . .”

  Neal hit him, sending him spinning half around. Ruggles tried for his gun, but Neal let him have it again, a hard right to the side of his head that knocked him flat on his back. Neal bent over him and pulled his gun out of leather, then stepped back and shoved it under his waistband.

  Ruggles lay on the ground, rubbing his face where Neal had hit him. He said: “I never forget a man who hits me. When I see you next time, I’ll be heeled and don’t you forget it.” He pulled an envelope out of his pocket and held it out for Neal to take. “I’m broke, and a fellow in town hired me to give you this. I was gonna take it to your house, but I won’t need to.”

  Neal took the letter and jammed it into his coat pocket. He said: “If you start any talk about me and Missus Darley, I’ll kill you. Understand?”

  “Yeah, I savvy,” Ruggles said. “But you don’t look like no hero to me. You got it turned around. Soon as I get me a gun, I’ll start hunting you.”

  Neal mounted and rode toward town. He looked back once to see that Ruggles was on his feet, leaning against a pine tree. Suppose the man did start some talk in town? What would he accomplish, and what would Mrs. Darley do? Maybe make the story bigger and worse, Neal thought bitterly.

  This probably was a put-up job from the first, with Ruggles working for Darley, and Mrs. Darley knowing he was here. It added up to more trouble, dirty trouble he didn’t want to bring upon Jane. Now that it was too late, he wished he had gone on and not stopped to talk to Mrs. Darley.

  Then another thought came to him, hitting him hard. Could this Ruggles be Ed Shelly?

  Chapter Seven

  Neal did not tear the envelope open until he was out of Ruggles’s sight. He was not at all surprised when he read:

  Yesterday has become today, Clark. You’ll pay for the murder of my father and brother, and so will your wife and girl.

  Ed Shelly

  No, Neal wasn’t surprised. It was making a pattern in his mind and he didn’t like the looks of the pattern. Mrs. Darley begging him to leave town and giving him that hogwash about having done her share of dreaming about him since she’d been in Cascade City. She knew the stranger Ruggles by name. The hours she must have spent out there on the road south of town waiting for him to come home. Ruggles, too. Now he could spread a story about the respectable banker with a wife and child who had met Mrs. Darley out there along the river.

  It was a pattern, all right, the dirty pattern set by men who didn’t care how they pulled him down as long as they did it. Neal wasn’t as concerned about this note as he had been earlier in the day when he received the first one. Ed Shelly was dead. He must be. Joe Rolfe had said so repeatedly and Neal had to believe it was true. Mrs. Darley had said that her husband and Shelton knew about his trouble with the Shelly gang and had thought about using Ed Shelly’s name to scare him out of town.

  That was the whole thing in a nutshell. Mrs. Darley had been honest with him to a point. She had mentioned a man named Stacey who was coming to town and had $10,000 to invest. Any sane man coming to Cascade City under those conditions would first of all go to the local banker for an opinion, so Darley and Shelton would do everything they could to get him out of town before Stacey arrived. They weren’t done, either, and they wouldn’t be done until he was gone or they were in jail, or they were dead.

  He rode back to town slowly, arriving at his barn at supper time. He pulled gear from Redman and watered and fed him, then, stepping into the runway, he was reminded of the gun under his waistband that he had taken from Ruggles. He didn’t want Jane to see it, or to know about what had happened, so he took a look at it—a walnut-handled .45, a good gun with a fine balance that might indicate Ruggles was a professional gunslinger brought here to kill him.

  In a sudden flurry of anger, he tossed the gun into the manger of a vacant stall and, walking behind Jane’s mare, left the barn. He stopped, remembering that both Mrs. Darley and Ruggles had been waiting for him beside the road, so they had known he was out of town and would probably return on the road. That meant, then, that they’d had him under observation all day, and undoubtedly many days before this because they knew his habits. He rode to the Circle C often, invariably following the same route that he had today.

  Suddenly he realized that it didn’t make any difference whether it was actually Ed Shelly signing these notes or not. The last one made a threat against Jane and Laurie. Darley and Shelton could be just as dangerous and ruthless as Ed Shelly had ever been.

  He stood motionlessly, breathing hard, and fought for composure. He didn’t want to go into the house and let Jane see him as thoroughly unnerved as he was now. He felt a sharp pain in the left part of his chest. It had been there before, but it was worse now. Nervous tension, Doc Santee had called it.

  “It’s not your heart,” Doc had said a little testily, “so quit worrying about it.”

  Well, he wasn’t worried about his heart. He wasn’t even worried about himself. Jane and Laurie’s safety was enough to worry anyone. He could not understand how two men could be evil enough to work through a woman and child to control another man’s actions, but now he was convinced that was exactly what was happening.

  It could be only a bluff. Possibly it would be enough if he left town only for one day, just long enough to let Darley and Shelton fleece the new victim who would be here in the morning, but he couldn’t do it. He was Sam Clark’s son, and for all of Sam Clark’s ambition, he had been a man who put duty first, and he had taught Neal to do the same.

  Neal waited until he had regained his composure. Sooner or later he would have to tell Jane what had happened and what he feared, but he would put it off as long as he could.

  * * * * *

  When he stepped into the kitchen, J
ane was pouring gravy into a bowl. The room was filled with the tangy odor of supper. He took a long, sniffing breath of appreciation.

  “That’s enough to make a man’s mouth water until he’s likely to drown,” he said.

  Jane looked at him, a question in her eyes. She knew him well, sometimes sensing his moods and troubles before he said a word about them. Now she was wondering why he had stayed away so long, he thought, but she didn’t ask him.

  “Go upstairs and wash, dear,” she said, smiling. “It’ll just be a minute.”

  He walked through the dining room past the table with its white linen cloth and napkins, the lighted candles and the good silver and the Ironwood plates. She was putting on a show for him tonight, he thought, something she seldom did, but she sensed how deeply his worry had cut into him the last few days, and this was her effort to take his mind off his troubles.

  He went on through the parlor and up the stairs to the bathroom where he washed. When he came back downstairs, Laurie had come in from the yard. She squealed—“Daddy!”—and ran to him. He picked her up and held her high while she kicked and kept on squealing: “Daddy, Daddy, you’ve been gone all day!”

  He brought her to him and hugged her, and she kissed him and put her arms around his neck. Jane came in from the dining room and stood smiling at them. She said: “Supper’s ready.” He put Laurie down and she ran to her chair at the table. Neal swallowed, fighting the lump in his throat. Nothing could happen to them, he told himself. Nothing! He wouldn’t let it.

  Laurie chattered while they ate, with Jane nodding and answering her questions. Neal didn’t say anything. He didn’t feel like it. He only knew he could not go on this way, torn by these fears for Jane and Laurie, and all the other worries that had come to him through these last months. He had let it go too long. He’d see Darley after supper and get the truth out of him if he had to beat him to death. If Shelton interfered, he’d kill him.

  After they finished eating, Laurie said in a commanding voice: “I want a story, Daddy.”

  “She’s been playing outside all day,” Jane said. “Why don’t you put her to bed, Neal?”

  He nodded, and rose.

  “I want a ride,” Laurie said in that same commanding tone. “Piggy-back.”

  Jane laughed. “You’d think she was the crown princess, the way she gives orders.”

  “What’s a crown princess, Daddy?” Laurie demanded.

  Neal looked down at her, fighting again for composure. He had always known how much he loved her, but now it was hammered home to him with terrible, devastating force. She was a strange child in many ways—delicate features, small for her age, and very shy with strangers—but she was strong and healthy and got along unusually well with the other children in the neighborhood. She was curious about everything; her question about a crown princess was typical of her.

  “Well,” Neal said, “I guess a crown princess is a princess with a crown on her head.”

  Laurie considered the answer for a moment, then she said: “I’d like to see one, a big crown with lots of diamonds.”

  Jane laughed. “So would I, honey. Run along, both of you.”

  Neal gave her a piggy-back ride to her bedroom, undressed her, and put her to bed, then he sat down on the side of the bed and told her the story of Cinderella, which was her favorite. Then he tucked the covers around her shoulders, kissed her good night, and blew out the lamp.

  “Go to sleep now,” he said.

  She yawned. “I will, Daddy.”

  He walked to the door; the lamp in the hall shone into the room. He stood there a moment, looking back at her. She yawned again. She said: “Good night, Daddy.” He said—“Good night, Princess.”—and closed the door.

  He had reached the parlor when he heard the doorbell. He hesitated, then he heard Jane coming from the kitchen.

  “I’ll get it!” he called, and hurried across the room and into the hall. Then he paused again, uneasiness making a prickle along his spine. It could be Ruggles. Maybe the man had got a gun from Darley or Shelton.

  Neal drew his pistol, hoping that it was Ruggles and he could get it over with. Holding the gun in his right hand, Neal flung the front door open. No one was in sight. Then he saw the envelope on the threshold. Stooping, he picked it up, not doubting at all what he would find.

  He stepped inside, closed the door, and slipped his gun back into leather. He tore open the end of the envelope, took out the sheet of paper, and, unfolding it, held it up to the bracket lamp on the wall. The note was printed with a dull pencil the same as the others.

  After waiting eight years, Clark, I won’t forget you. I’ll make you suffer like you made me suffer. I’m going to get Laurie.

  Ed Shelly

  He crushed the envelope and note into a wad and shoved it into his pocket. He leaned against the wall, his eyes closed. Three times within a matter of hours. He had been so sure this was Darley and Shelton’s way of getting him out of town. Now he wasn’t certain. A terrifying thought crept into his mind again.

  Suppose this crazy man Ruggles was really Ed Shelly who had come back for revenge? Instead of Darley hiring Ruggles, maybe Ruggles had hired Mrs. Darley or Shelton or someone else to drop the first note into his pocket. If he followed this line of reasoning, he could reach only one conclusion. These notes had nothing to do with Darley and Shelton’s irrigation scheme and their plan to trim Stacey when he reached town tomorrow.

  He had to find out, some way. He didn’t know who to fight until he did. It was the uncertainty more than anything else that was bothering him. But how was he going to find out? He thought of Jane and Laurie again. Fear took possession of him, in his belly, in the crawling tingle that worked down his spine, in a desperate rump-tingling feeling he had never experienced before.

  The doorbell rang again, giving him a start and setting his heart to pounding again. He yanked his gun from the holster and jerked the door open, fully expecting to see Ruggles. Or Darley or Shelton. He was frantic enough to expect anything, but it was Henry Abel standing there, looking more tired and worried than Neal had ever seen him.

  “Come in, Henry.” Neal holstered his gun. “Come on in. Jane’s probably got some coffee left from supper.”

  “I’d like to, Neal, but I can’t,” Abel said. “I haven’t been home yet, and Lena will raise hell. What was the gun for?”

  “I’m just jumpy, I guess. You can come in for a minute.”

  “I’d like to, but I can’t,” Abel said. “I stopped at O’Hara’s for a drink and kind of ran into something. A lot of men were there. Quinn, Olly Earl, Jud Manion, Tuttle. All that bunch. They pushed me around a little, trying to make me promise I’d talk to you about changing the bank’s policy.”

  Neal stepped outside and put a hand on Abel’s shoulder. He was not a strong man physically and Neal had never thought of him as being a brave one, but he suddenly realized that no one could judge courage in anyone else.

  “What did you tell them, Henry?”

  Abel grimaced. “Nothing. How could I? I don’t own the bank. I don’t determine its policies.”

  Neat dropped his hand. He could have expected this. What Abel said was true, but what he hadn’t said was that his judgment went a long way with Neal. If he had not been so convinced right along that the wise thing was for the bank to refuse all loans at this time, Neal might not have been as firm in his policy as he had been.

  “That what you came to tell me?” Neal asked.

  “No,” Abel said. “I’m scared. You see, they’re doing some talking about you. You don’t realize how they hate you. They blame everything on you because Darley says he needs just a little more money to start work. It’s the same old talk with just one difference. Now they’re threatening to lynch you. They mean it, Neal. They’re just crazy enough to mean it.”

  “With me out of the way, you’d be running the bank,” Neal said. “They figure they can manage you. That it?”

  Abel’s face turned red. “I guess
a man who’s as scared of his wife as I am hasn’t much right to claim he’ll stand on his convictions, but I will.” He shrugged. “Hell, Neal, that’s not the point. You’ve got me, the sheriff, and Doc Santee on your side. That’s all. You know how a mob starts. Some drinking and some talk, and then it’s out of hand. What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing right now,” Neal said, feeling a great flood of relief. “To tell you the truth, Henry, I hope they come after me. I need to fight somebody . . . somebody I can get my teeth into, not somebody that’s like a handful of fog.”

  Abel looked at him and shook his head. “You’re crazy, Neal. Clear, clean crazy.” He whirled and disappeared into the darkness.

  Neal stepped into the house and shut the door. Abel was right. His talk had been crazy. The situation couldn’t be changed by fighting his neighbors. He returned to the parlor, wondering if there was anything to this lynch talk. He was afraid there was.

  Chapter Eight

  Neal pulled the couch closer to the fireplace and sat down, his long legs stretched out toward the fire. He heard Jane putting things away in the kitchen, and then her steps as she crossed the dining room and came into the parlor.

  “Neal,” she said, “I want to know what you’re keeping from me.”

  He looked up and tried to smile, but it wouldn’t quite come off. “Nothing,” he said. “I mean, nothing you don’t already know.”

  She knelt beside him and put her head against his leg. “Who was at the door? I heard it ring twice.”

  “Henry,” he said. “I’d been gone most of the day and there were some things he had to know about.”

  She was silent for a time. He didn’t want to tell her anything else, not until he had to, anyway. This was something he had to fight out himself, or with Joe Rolfe and Doc Santee’s help. Not Jane’s. His job was to protect her. There was nothing she could do but have faith in him and love him, but he didn’t say that, for sweet words came hard for him.