“Boyd,” said the big man, “this Colfax?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Lanagan. This is Mr. Oliver Colfax. Mr. Colfax, my boss, Tiff Lanagan,”
Lanagan stuck a hammy hand out toward Colfax, who gave it a quick squeeze.
“Colfax,” said the rancher, “we’ve got a lot to talk about.”
“In the morning, Mr. Lanagan. Right now I want a hotel room, a bath, a good meal, a few drinks, and I want to know about the traveling players.”
“All right,” said Lanagan. “Follow me. I’ve got a room waiting for you. The best in town. I don’t reckon it can match what you got in Saint Looie, but it ain’t bad. Boyd, take care that Mr. Colfax’s luggage gets over to the Railhead.”
“Yes, sir,” said Gruver.
“Come on, Colfax,” said Lanagan, and he led the way down the main street of Pullman. The street ran east and west, and Colfax found himself walking alongside Lanagan directly toward the distant mountains. Low-floating cumulus clouds clung to the tops of some of the snowcapped peaks. They walked two blocks down the street and then crossed it to enter the Railhead Hotel, a two-story structure with an ornate facade, clearly the second most impressive building in the town. Down at the far end of the street a more imposing architectural form loomed incongruously over the scene. Inside the lobby of the Railhead, Lanagan issued orders to the desk clerk.
“Monroe,” he said, “this is Mr. Oliver Colfax. Give him the key to the suite I reserved for him and have a bath drawn.”
“Yes, sir,” said the clerk.
“Colfax, this is Monroe Bates. Anything you want, you tell Monroe, and if he don’t get it for you, let me know.”
“Could I just get you to sign the register, Mr. Colfax?” said Bates.
“Sure thing.”
As Colfax was signing the book, Bates snapped his fingers at an underling to get the bath prepared. Lanagan reached into one of his coat pockets and withdrew a ticket, which he held out to Colfax.
“Here’s your ticket to that play that’s coming to town,” he said. “The actors is supposed to be pulling into town either tonight late or sometime in the morning. They’re traveling in three wagons, so they can’t exactly be precise about their arrival time. I look for them in the morning myself.”
“Where’s the theater?” asked Colfax.
“You seen it straight ahead of us as we was walking down here. Right at the end of the street. Opry house. I had it built a few years ago for my wife.”
“Your bath will be ready in a moment, Mr. Colfax,” said Bates, handing him the room key. “Will you be needing anything else?”
“A bottle of Courvoisier,” said Colfax, “and Mr. Lanagan’s boy, Gruver, is supposed to be bringing my luggage over from the depot.”
“I’ll have it sent up to your room as soon as it gets here.”
Colfax turned to head up for his room, but Lanagan stopped him with his commanding voice.
“When do we talk, Colfax?”
Colfax turned and looked Lanagan in the eyes. The old man had the look, he thought, of one of those old-timers who carved his empire out of Indian country by means of his fists and his guns. A hard man. Colfax mistrusted him. He had the look and the manner of a man who would do anything to hold on to what he fancied belonged to him.
“In the morning,” he said, “over breakfast.”
“I’ll meet you right here at six o’clock,” said Lanagan.
“Make it seven,” said Colfax. Then he turned and headed for the stairway.
Soon Colfax was up to his chin in hot water. The tub had been placed in the center of the room, and just beside it was a small table with a bottle of Courvoisier brandy and a glass. On the other side of the tub was a straight wooden chair with a stack of fresh towels on it. Before climbing into the tub, Colfax had rolled a cigarette and lit it, then placed an ashtray on the table beside the brandy bottle. He finished the cigarette, snubbed it out, and poured himself a glass of brandy. His luggage had been brought up to the suite within a few minutes after he had climbed the stairs, so there was no reason for him to be disturbed. He had locked the door, and he intended to relax for a while. He thought about Lanagan and the possibility of a job—a good-paying job. He needed the money. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe Lanagan and Gruver. These big ranchers had a way of running over anyone who might get in their way, smaller ranchers, sheepmen, farmers, anyone who dared to believe that the open range was actually open, the public domain actually public. If they couldn’t buy them off cheap or intimidate them, they would simply label them rustlers and have them killed. Colfax had sworn off work like that. He would not murder for Lanagan or for anyone else.
But there was trouble in the area, and if Colfax or someone didn’t do something about it soon, someone would get killed. Well, he thought, that ain’t my worry. All I promised Lanagan was a talk. I’ll talk to the man, watch Titus and get the hell out of this country. Go somewhere. Find something to do. Then the image of a full-scale range war developing around the small town of Pullman came into his mind, and he thought of Sarge. What would Sarge Luton do in a situation like this? If Sarge were there to advise him, what would Sarge tell him to do? He tossed down his brandy and refilled the glass. Well, he would see Lanagan in the morning.
Following a meal in the hotel restaurant, which he charged to the bill that Lanagan would eventually pay, Colfax strolled out onto the street. He was again surprised by the freshness of the air. He turned west to look at the “opry house” where the performance of Titus Andronicus would be held, and he saw three wagons pulled up in front of the imposing edifice. In the lead was an ambulance painted green. Two straight-sided freight wagons followed. The freight wagons were covered in white canvas. All three were pulled by mules. Colfax could see some lettering painted on the sides of the wagons, but he was too far away to read it. As he got closer, he could see a number of men working to unload the wagons, hauling material into the building. Then he got close enough to read the lettering:
ADRIAN CHANNING THEATRICAL COMPANY.
“Hello there,” he called as he neared the wagons.
A young man dressed like a cowboy looked up from his work.
“Howdy,” he said.
“Are you with this company?” asked Colfax.
“Naw, not really. I just happened to be here. They offered me a job helping to unload.”
“You have the look of a cowman,” said Colfax.
“Work’s work,” said the young man. “Here comes the man you want to see.”
An older man had just stepped out the front door of the opry house, headed back to the wagons for another load. The cowboy heaved another box out of the lead wagon and turned toward the building.
“He’s the boss.”
Colfax turned his attention to the older man.
“Mr. Channing?”
“Yes, I’m Adrian Channing. And you, sir?”
Colfax held out his right hand, which the older man gripped firmly.
“Oliver Colfax, Mr. Channing. This is a great pleasure for me. I’ve come from St. Louis, Missouri, to see this production. I never thought to see Titus Andronicus played.”
“It is a bit unusual, Mr. Colfax, but I thought that it might be appropriate for the far west.”
“May I offer you some help?”
“Why, thank you, sir. Grab the other end of this long crate here and help me take it in.”
Two more men came out of the building and moved back toward the wagon as Colfax helped Channing pull out the long crate. In about an hour the wagons were unloaded, the mules stabled, and the actors’ housing arranged. Colfax invited them and the cowboy to join him in drinks at the Railhead.
“I assume that tomorrow’s set aside for getting the stage prepared and for rehearsing,” said Colfax to Channing. “I notice that your opening isn’t until the day after tomorrow.”
“That’s correct,” said Channing. “Do you have your ticket for opening night?”
“I certainly do,�
� said Colfax. “I have it right here in my pocket. You don’t appear to have a sufficient number of actors for the cast of Titus. Are you cutting and doubling?”
“We’re cutting as little as possible,” said the older actor, “and, therefore, doubling as much as possible. Those of us with the major roles are the only ones not doubling. I myself will portray Titus.”
“I guessed as much,” said Colfax. He poured himself another brandy. “Who is your Aaron? Will he play it in blackface?”
Channing reached for the bottle and refilled his glass.
“Ah, no, Mr. Colfax. We have a genuine black Shakespearean. He also plays Othello when we do that tragedy, and he plays the Prince of Morocco in The Merchant of Venice.”
“Well, where is he?”
“He got tired of being told that he couldn’t join us in hotels, restaurants, and bars as we travel this great nation, so he just quit trying. He’s in the ambulance, I expect.”
Colfax banged his hand down on the table and stood up.
“Well, by God,” he said, “he can drink in here with the rest of us. A Shakespearean actor kept out in the streets? Not if I have anything to say about it.”
The young cowboy then stood up.
“I think I can find him,” he said. “I’ll bring him around.”
He tossed off his drink and left the room. Colfax sat back down.
“Mr. Colfax,” said Channing, “I appreciate the gesture, but we really don’t want to create any problems here.”
“There will be none,” said Colfax. “You have my guarantee.”
He waved at the bartender, who came hurrying over to the table.
“That cowboy that just left here will be coming back soon with a black man,” said Colfax. “They are both guests of mine. If you have any problem with that, I suggest you speak to Mr. Bates.”
In a few minutes the cowboy returned, accompanied by the actor who would play Aaron the Moor. Colfax stood up and motioned them over to his table. The black man appeared to hesitate. Channing turned to face him and called out.
“It’s all right, Dallas,” he said. “Join us.”
When the two men reached the table, Channing stood up to make introductions.
“Mr. Colfax,” he said, “this is Dallas Potter, actor extraordinaire and our Aaron. Dallas, this is Mr. Oliver Colfax.”
Colfax extended his hand.
“Mr. Potter,” he said, “it’s a great pleasure.”
Then he turned to the cowboy.
“I never did get your name,” he said.
“Rondo Hughes,” said the cowboy, “and, uh, I’ve heard of you.”
“Well, then, by God,” said Colfax, beginning to feel his brandy, “let’s all sit down and drink.”
The actors were scattered around the room at several different tables. At a table some distance away from where Colfax sat with Channing, Potter, and Hughes were two actresses, and in a far corner alone Boyd Gruver sat, his face stem, his eyes narrowed and focused on Oliver Colfax. In response to a question put to him by Colfax, Channing was descanting on the special effects involved in the upcoming production.
“The realism,” he said, “will amaze you, Mr. Colfax. A warning will be issued at the door, handed out in print with the playbill, that the weak of heart or stomach had best stay away. Our blood has the look and feel of real blood, and we use two gallons of the stuff for one show. You will actually believe that you have seen Lavinia’s hands lopped off. Of course, the play must be played this way or not at all. It’s without question the goriest of the Bard’s tragedies.”
Channing paused to finish his drink; then he leaned back in his chair, pulled a large watch from his vest pocket, and checked the time. He tucked the watch back into its pocket and stood up.
“My children,” he roared in his best stage voice, “I’m afraid the hour has come. I must call a halt to these festivities. We have a full day of work before us, and we must begin early. To bed. To bed.”
As the actors began leaving the bar or tossing down their drinks in preparation to leave, Channing once more offered his large hand to Colfax.
“It’s been a great pleasure, sir,” he said. “If we don’t see you tomorrow, surely you will see us the next day.”
When the actors had cleared out, the bar was left with only a few customers, a half-dozen locals, Hughes and Colfax still at the same table, and Gruver still lurking in the far corner. Colfax shot a look at Gruver, who quickly averted his eyes, but Colfax knew that he was being watched. He wondered if Gruver was under orders from Lanagan or had simply assumed the job himself. He turned back to Hughes.
“So you’re a cowhand,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Out of work?”
“How’d you guess?” said Hughes. “Why, I do odd jobs like unloading them wagons all the time just for my own amusement.”
“It must have been a lucky guess. What’s the employment situation like around here for cowhands? I’d have thought that there would be plenty of work.”
“Your kind of work maybe. Not mine.”
Colfax poured himself another brandy, hesitated, glanced at Hughes’s empty glass, and held out the bottle.
“Thanks,” said Hughes. He took the bottle and poured himself a drink.
“There’s a couple of big ranches all right, and then a few smaller ones. There’s even a handful of guys like me who come in here thinking they could get a start on a small spread of their own.”
“Come in with cows?”
“No.”
“How do you get a start from nothing? A little rustling?”
“Mister, I appreciate the drink,” said Hughes, “but I don’t have to take that kind of talk for it.”
“Take it easy, Mr. Hughes,” said Colfax. “I’m just asking. Not accusing.”
“It’s still legal to pick up unbranded strays on open range, mister, even if the big boys don’t agree.”
“All right. That makes perfect sense to me. I accept your answer. So are you on the lookout for mavericks?”
Hughes tossed down his drink and exhaled loudly.
“I was,” he said, “but it’s getting too damn dangerous out there. Lanagan and Dierks have decided that all the small ranchers around are rustlers. They’ve been spreading it around that there’s going to be some killing if the ‘rustlers’ don’t pack up and get out. So I decided to get out.”
“But you’re still here.”
Colfax poured another drink for himself and one for Hughes.
“I moved into town. I’m out of the cow business. Been picking up odd jobs around town. I’ll save up a little pocket change and hit the trail. Say, don’t you know all this anyhow? What are you trying to do—decide whether or not to kill me for a rustler?”
“Why do you ask that?” said Colfax.
“Hell, everyone around here knows that Lanagan brought you to town.”
“Mr. Hughes,” said Colfax, “I’m going to tell you the whole truth, because I think that I kind of like you. Lanagan sent that sullen fellow over there in the corner all the way to St. Louis to offer me a job. I turned him down until I heard about these players who are in town. I want to see their production in a very bad way, so I made Mr. Lanagan a counteroffer. I said that if he would pay my way out here, I would talk to him about his situation. I made no promise to go to work for him, and I won’t go to work for him unless I can satisfy myself that he is in the right. I do not murder for hire.”
Rondo Hughes scratched his head.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll be damned.”
“In the morning,” Colfax continued, “I’m meeting with Lanagan to hear his side of the story. Then I’ll nose around and talk to some other people. But I won’t make a decision until I’m convinced of what’s right in this situation. Right now I’m going to have to turn in. That appointment I mentioned is early. Where can I find you?”
“Oh,” said Hughes, “just around town. I’m sleeping in the stable. Jerry Slayton, he owns it. He
lets me stay there in exchange for helping him out a bit.”
Colfax stood up and put his hat on.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Rondo Hughes. Good night.”
Colfax turned and headed for the door. As he did, he caught a glimpse of Gruver rising from his chair. Outside the door Colfax hurried to the stairs and headed up toward his room. At the top of the stairs he ducked into a dark corner and waited. Gruver came up the stairs and stood looking down the hallway. Colfax slipped the Colt out of its high holster and aimed it at Gruver’s back, chest high. He pulled back the hammer. At the click, Gruver turned, startled, reaching for his sidearm. He stopped, his hand on the butt of his six-gun when he saw the barrel of Colfax’s Colt aimed directly at him.
“This is twice, boy,” said Colfax. “If there’s a third time, I’ll kill you. What the hell are you following me for anyhow?”
Gruver stammered.
“I’m waiting for an answer,” said Colfax.
“I’m just trying to look out for Mr. Lanagan’s interests,” said Gruver.
“By spying on me?”
“That was one of the rustlers you were drinking with.”
Colfax reached out with his left hand and removed the six-gun from Gruver’s holster. He tucked it in the waistband of his own trousers.
“That’s what I’m here to find out, Gruver,” he said. “I’m meeting with Lanagan in the morning. I’ll decide who to believe after that. In the meantime I don’t work for Lanagan or anyone else, and you stay the hell out of my way.”
“What about my gun?”
“Just be glad I don’t throw you down the stairs. Now get the hell out of here.”
Colfax watched as Gruver descended the stairs and left the hotel. Then he went to his room, locked the door, and fell across the bed.
Quitting Time Page 2