Quitting Time

by Robert J Conley

  “I didn’t see anything down there today that didn’t have the Lanagan brand on it,” said Colfax.

  “We just sold everything we had,” said Youngblood. “Ain’t got a cow amongst us just now.”

  “So what do you do next?” asked Colfax.

  “Look for mavericks again. You got any more questions?”

  “I guess not,” said Colfax. “Not just now.”

  “Then why don’t you and old Rondo just cross on over, if that’s what you want to do, and ride back down the hill?”

  “I believe we will, Mr. Youngblood,” said Colfax, touching the brim of his hat. “Thank you.”

  Colfax realized, as he rode behind Rondo Hughes on the way back down, that it was easy enough to believe that Youngblood and his ragtag bunch of ill-tempered ruffians were a gang of rustlers. He would have to be careful not to jump to conclusions, not to read circumstantial evidence or too little evidence as conclusive. His intuition told him that the Wheelers were straight. Lark was anyway, and Lark controlled his brothers, the surly Spud and the—and Tommy. But that bunch on up the hill were another story.

  “Mr. Hughes,” he called.

  Hughes twisted in the saddle to look back at Colfax.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think that bunch back there is guilty of rustling?”

  The trail was wide enough, so Hughes held back his roan to allow Colfax to ride up beside him.

  “We don’t even know yet that there’s been any rustling, do we? Ain’t that what you been saying?”

  “Yeah,” said Colfax. “I did say that, but you know those men. You used to stay up there with them. I asked you what you think.”

  “Aw, I don’t know them all that well,” said Hughes. “I threw in with them down in New Mexico. Youngblood said this would be a good place to get a start. He’d been up here before, I guess. I rode along. We all picked up mavericks. Wasn’t nobody rustling, though. Not while I was there. Not that I seen.”

  “Why did you decide to pull up stakes?” asked Colfax.

  “The pickings was too slim, and then Lanagan started his bellyaching. I thought I’d get out before it got too dangerous.”

  “And now here you are back in the middle of it,” said Colfax.

  “But the pay’s a lot better, boss. A whole lot better.”

  Dierks was a real surprise to Colfax. A short, slight man with an eastern dialect, he was balding and wore a neatly trimmed mustache. He was dressed in a suit and tie, but had pulled off the jacket, leaving the vest on and buttoned.

  What was I expecting? Colfax asked himself. Another Lanagan, I guess. Dierks had been polite and precise. He was pleased to meet Mr. Colfax, relieved to know that Colfax would be looking into the situation. Yes, he had lost cattle. Did he know who was responsible? No, not really. Mr. Lanagan was positive that it was Wheeler and those others up there, but Dierks really didn’t know. Would Mr. Colfax be at the play this evening, he wondered.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Colfax. “I will certainly be there.”

  “Oh, good,” said Dierks. “Then I shall probably see you there.”

  There was no one, thought Colfax, sitting in his bath, no one but Youngblood and his bunch. It had to be them. Youngblood had said that he grazed his cattle down on the prairie on the public domain, but Colfax had seen plenty of evidence of cattle on the riverside trail, and the evidence continued well beyond Wheeler’s outfit, on up and seemingly beyond Youngblood’s ratty cow camp. Well, he had his suspects, but he realized that he had reached this point in precisely the same manner as Lanagan had reached his. The only difference was that Lanagan included the Wheelers in with the suspected rustlers. What Colfax needed now, more than ever, was proof of rustling, then proof that Youngblood and company was guilty. Tomorrow he would go to work on that. Tonight was the play.

  Chapter Six

  The performance was magnificent. It exceeded Colfax’s hopes and expectations. It was more than he imagined it would be, from the moment Samuel Chase as Saturninus stepped on the stage and began the brief expository opening scene.

  The emperor of Rome had just died, and Saturninus was wanting to be declared his heir, but his younger brother, Bassianus, was challenging his right. In the midst of the quarrel, Titus Andronicus, a powerful and respected Roman general, returned to Rome from the Gothic wars, bringing with him prisoners, including Tamora, the Queen of the Goths, and three of her sons. Soon Titus allowed his sons to brutally execute one of Tamora’s sons out of revenge for the death in battle of a brother of theirs, leaving alive of the queen’s sons only Chiron and Demetrius. Titus, played with impressive bombast by Mr. Adrian Channing, gave his political support to Saturninus, thereby helping him to the throne. In gratitude, the new emperor decided to marry Titus’s daughter, Lavinia, played to perfection thought Colfax, by Mrs. Alma Dyer. But Lavinia was already betrothed to Bassianus, and the two lovers ran away. Emperor Saturninus blamed Titus, and he took for his new wife and empress the prisoner Queen of the Goths, Tamora.

  Tamora, played by Mrs. Dixon Lindsay, planned to use her new position of power to avenge herself on Titus for her defeat in battle, her capture, and the death of her son. All this, Colfax thought, was accomplished cleanly and clearly and in a short time. In spite of the complexities of the plot, Mr. Channing’s company played it so well that anyone not drunk or asleep or hopelessly thick-skulled should have been able to keep up with the characters and their desperate situations.

  Then when Mrs. Lindsay as Tamora spoke her first aside to Saturninus revealing her secret intentions, Colfax felt a thrill rush through him.

  But it was Act Two that Colfax was particularly anxious to see. It began with the entrance and soliloquy of Aaron, the Moor, played by Mr. Dallas Potter, who was in the service of Tamora and was her secret lover. Mr. Potter was an especially evil Aaron and a surprisingly satisfying speaker of Shakespeare’s lines. Things happen fast in Titus Andronicus. No sooner was Aaron introduced than he discovered that Tamora’s two sons, Chiron and Demetrius, played, quite capably Colfax thought, by Mr. Woodward Granger and Mr. Tyndall Tabor, were lusting after Lavinia. A hunt was organized, and out in the woods, Bassianus and Lavinia came across Tamora and her two sons. Aaron had already instructed the sons what to do to satisfy their lust. Tamora watched as the two stabbed Bassianus and held Lavinia captive. They made clear their plans to rape her, then dragged her screaming off the stage along with the body of her husband. Colfax noticed the audience grow nervous at this scene, but two women fainted and several left the theater when Lavinia returned, blood streaming from her mouth and from two stumps where her hands had been. While the lovely young woman bled horribly, the two brothers gleefully recounted to each other how they had raped her, then cut out her tongue and cut off her hands. Channing had been right, Colfax thought. The effect was realistic, too realistic, obviously, for some members of the audience.

  Those who managed to stay through the bloody entrance of Lavinia held out for the rest: the onstage lopping off of Titus’s hand with blood shooting in spurts clear past the apron of the stage and into the orchestra pit, accompanied by a ghastly shriek from deep in the lungs of Adrian Channing; the carrying on stage of the heads of Titus’s sons, looking exactly like the heads of the two actors who played the parts, also dripping blood; Titus’s slicing the throats of Chiron and Demetrius and filling a basin with their blood as it ran from the fresh wounds; the final horror when Titus stabbed his own daughter, Lavinia, to death, stabbed Tamora, and was himself stabbed to death by Saturninus, who was then stabbed by Titus’s remaining son, Lucius. All of these killings were accompanied by the Channing company with liberal use of the theatrical blood which had characterized the entire production. He said two quarts, thought Colfax. It seems much more.

  Not everyone in Pullman who attended the play was pleased at the performance, but all were impressed by it. Hughes and Colfax had been seated together in a box with a commanding view of both the stage and the house below. Colfax had taken advantag
e of his position before the opening of the first scene to look over the audience. He had seen Lanagan down there along with Mrs. Lanagan. Dierks was present as he had said he would be. None of that was surprising, but the others were. There was Boyd Gruver, all three Wheeler brothers and Mrs. Lark Wheeler, and Youngblood and two of his punchers. On second thought, though, Colfax realized that he shouldn’t have been surprised to see anyone in the theater that night. It had nothing to do with Shakespeare. It was simply something different for people to do. Probably the same people would have been in attendance had the play been by Colley Cibber or Dion Boucicault or had it been a show of dancing girls. When the final applause died down and the curtain calls ceased, Colfax turned to Hughes.

  “Well, Mr. Hughes,” he said, “what do you think?”

  “I don’t know what the hell it was all about,” said Hughes, “but it sure was a bloody son of a bitch.”

  “Come on,” said Colfax, and he led the way down to the lobby, where he noticed the Wheelers making their way through the crowd toward the big front doors. An ashen-faced Tommy was in the rear, trying to keep up with the rest of his family. Poor young fellow probably never saw anything like that before in his life, thought Colfax.

  “Ah, Mr. Colfax.”

  Colfax turned to see Dierks behind him. They shook hands and chatted briefly about the play. Dierks, it seemed, had a genuine appreciation for Shakespeare.

  “I do think they could have made a better selection of play, though,” said Dierks. “I’m afraid that the gore in Titus overpowers the poetry.”

  “You’re probably right about that, Mr. Dierks,” said Colfax. “It’s a common criticism of the play. On the other hand, I was pleased with the opportunity to see a production of it. I never thought to have the chance.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s one way oflooking at it,” said Dierks.

  Just then Tiff Lanagan walked up, his wife a little behind him.

  “Hello, Dierks,” he said. “Colfax, this is Mrs. Lanagan. Oliver Colfax, my dear.

  “It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Lanagan,” said Colfax. “I’ve arranged a little reception for the players in the Railhead. Mr. and Mrs. Lanagan, Mr. Dierks, you are all invited to attend.”

  “Is this going on my bill?” said Lanagan.

  “No, Mr. Lanagan, it is not. I wouldn’t allow anyone else to pay for this. It’s my privilege.”

  “Then we’ll be there. Come along, Agnes.”

  Colfax, Hughes, Dierks, and the Lanagans had each already had a couple of drinks apiece by the time the players began to arrive. Woodward Granger, Tyndall Tabor, and Alma Dyer were the first to appear.

  “I’m afraid that I found both of you gentlemen to be totally repulsive,” said Agnes Lanagan.

  “Thank you very much,” said Granger. “That was, of course, the idea.”

  “They are rather repulsive,” said Alma Dyer, obviously teasing the two actors. “Typecasting, you know.”

  “Oh, Alma,” said Tabor. “Please.”

  Alma Dyer laughed, a lovely laugh, thought Colfax, like music.

  “Mrs. Dyer,” he said, “may I congratulate you on a remarkably beautiful performance of an extremely difficult role.”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Colfax. And I understand that we also have you to thank for this lovely reception.”

  “It’s my pleasure, ma’am.”

  Just then Adrian Channing made his entrance, accompanied by Mrs. Dixon Lindsay.

  “A roaring success,” he shouted.

  Colfax moved quickly to see that Channing and Mrs. Lindsay were served.

  “Mrs. Lindsay,” he said, “you were at once beautifully seductive and appallingly evil, a compelling combination. I congratulate you on a fine performance.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Colfax. Tamorais a delightfully wicked role.”

  “And you, Mr. Channing,” said Colfax, “are to be doubly congratulated—once for your superb portrayal of Titus, and again for being the mastermind behind this entire effort.”

  Samuel Chase came into the room, followed almost immediately by C. C. Carpenter, the actor who had played Bassianus. The others, those who doubled and served as extras, had all arrived. Colfax looked around. One person was missing.

  “Where is Mr. Potter?” he asked.

  “Oh,” said Channing, glancing around the room, “I’m sure he’ll be along shortly.”

  Soon the party grew loud and lively. The Lanagans approached Colfax.

  “We’ll be going home, Colfax,” said Lanagan. “I want to talk to you tomorrow.”

  “I’ll stop out,” said Colfax.

  “A lovely reception, Mr. Colfax,” said Agnes Lanagan. “Thank you for inviting us.”

  The Lanagans left, and the party continued, but Colfax was uneasy. He excused himself to Channing, instructed Hughes to remain as host, and left the Railhead. He was soon at the theater but found it dark and deserted. He checked Channing’s wagons, remembering that Channing had said that Potter sometimes slept in the ambulance. The wagons were also deserted. He went by the sheriffs office. It was locked. Back at the party he pulled aside Channing, Dierks, and Hughes.

  “Mr. Potter is nowhere to be found,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” asked Channing.

  “I checked the theater and your wagons. Everything appears to be deserted.”

  “Perhaps Dallas is sleeping in his dressing room,” said the old actor.

  “Well, let’s find out,” said Colfax. “Mr. Dierks, are you bold enough to find the sheriff and bring him along to the theater?”

  “Yes. I’ll get him if I have to drag him out of his bed.”

  Dierks left immediately, and Colfax continued speaking to the remaining two.

  “Mr. Hughes,” he said, “check around town. It’s unlikely that Mr. Potter would venture out on his own, but check anyway. Mr. Channing and I will be at the theater.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  Channing opened up the building with the keys that had been entrusted to him for the duration of his stay in Pullman and began lighting lamps in the lobby. He took one lamp in hand and led Colfax through the lobby and the house and up onto the stage, then backstage to the hallway leading to the dressing rooms. Moving down the hallway in the semidarkness, Colfax stepped in something wet and slick and nearly lost his footing.

  “Mr. Channing,” he said, “bring your light here.”

  Channing moved toward Colfax.

  “Is that some of your stage blood on the floor?”

  “We clean all that up after each performance, Mr. Colfax.”

  The old man’s voice trembled as he lowered the lamp, and Colfax bent over to dip his fingers into the suspicious substance.

  “This is blood, Mr. Channing,” said Colfax. “Real blood. Go back to the front door and watch for the sheriff.”

  Channing started to speak, stammered, then handed his lamp to Colfax and started to make his way back through the building. The portions they had gone through on the way were already lit and Colfax followed the trail of blood to a dressing room. On the door a sign bore the name “Mr. Dallas Potter.” He went inside and found the room splattered with blood. Real blood. He lit the lamp in the room and went back into the hallway, lighting the lamps there. The trail of blood led to a back door and outside into the darkness.

  Chapter Seven

  Colfax tried to sleep, but he tossed fitfully in the bed. He had drunk too much liquor at the reception, and then he had discovered the body of Dallas Potter out behind the theater. Someone had apparently surprised Potter in the dressing room after everyone else had left the theater, hacked and stabbed him repeatedly, then sliced his throat from ear to ear, nearly severing the head from the body. Then the murderer had apparently dragged the body out into the hallway, down the hallway to the back door and outside. Colfax was a hard man, a one-time hired killer, and bloodshed and death were things with which he was too familiar. But he had admired Dallas Potter, a black man who must have overcome tremendous odds to become a succ
essful Shakespearean actor. Colfax had not really gotten to know Potter, but he had wanted to. He would have liked Potter. He knew that. Damn whoever had robbed him of that opportunity. He wanted to find the murderer and make him pay for his deed.

  Then there was the other business. He had committed himself to a job, and Colfax had always fulfilled his commitments. It was a matter of pride and honor. He had not really wanted this job, had taken it only as a convenient way of getting to Pullman to see the performance of Titus Andronicus, and his heart was not really in the hunt on this one. Yet he had committed himself to it, so he had to try to find evidence of rustling and then stop the rustlers, if indeed there were any. He was almost certain that Youngblood and the other down-and-out cowhands Rondo Hughes had abandoned were the guilty ones. But how to prove it? He remembered that he had promised Lanagan he would stop by for a talk. Damn it. He wanted to pursue the trail of the murderer of Potter, but he had promised. He’d have to go out to Lanagan’s ranch and give him a report. He guessed that it wouldn’t take too long. He’d go early and get it over with, then get back to town and begin to investigate the murder. But where would he start? Tracks? Tracks. He’d have to go back to the theater at first light. Lanagan would have to wait a little. He couldn’t take a chance that tracks, or any other kind of evidence there might be, might be wiped out before he’d seen them, and he didn’t trust that fool sheriff, Dort, to do anything right.

  Colfax rolled over onto his stomach. The sheet was sticking to his sweaty flesh, and when he rolled, he wrapped himself in it. He turned back again onto his back trying to unwrap himself, but the tangle only seemed to get worse. He realized that he was beginning to think like a lawman. He had two cases to work on at the same time. He would be searching for evidence and trying to track down the guilty in both cases at the same time. Why? It had just happened, he supposed. In the case of the rustling business, it was a matter of honor. He had taken a job. He had given his word. In the murder case, he cared. He was mad. But wasn’t it ironic? Colfax acting and thinking like a lawman. He wondered what Sarge would have thought had he known about it. He would like to see Sarge.