Quitting Time

by Robert J Conley

  “I remember that,” said Alma.

  “But that wouldn’t explain the killings of Granger and Tabor,” said Channing.

  “Perhaps they saw something or suspected something,” said Colfax. “The one real clue we have in this case is a small footprint. I’d say a size seven, eight at the most. It was a boot print, cowboy style, and it had a slash across the sole. The right foot.”

  “Oh, Lord,” said Channing, his face growing visibly whiter.

  “Sammy wore boots like that sometimes,” said Dixon.

  “I don’t suppose you’d know his size,” said Colfax.

  “Of course I do,” said Channing. “I have to costume all these people.”

  The old man sat with a defensive expression on his face. Colfax, Alma Dyer, and Dixon Lindsay all stared at him, waiting. No one had to say anything. He knew what they were waiting for.

  “It’s seven and a half,” he said.

  “Oh, God,” said Dixon. “It’s Sammy.”

  “Just hold on a minute here,” said Colfax. “We don’t know that. Not yet. We know that the killer is a man about Sammy’s size, and we know that the killer and Sammy both wear cowboy boots.”

  “And we know that Sammy resented having a black man as his equal,” said Dixon.

  “We’re fairly surrounded here by people who feel that way,” said Colfax. “And we’re surrounded by men who wear cowboy boots. The size narrows it down a little, but not all that much.”

  “But you said that it was one of us,” said Alma.

  “I said that was a possibility. It doesn’t look good for Mr. Chase just now, but let’s not accuse him just yet. Let’s look for more evidence.”

  Channing stood up and walked to the door. He ran his massive hands through his white hair, then turned and walked back to the chair. He did not sit.

  “So,” he said, “what do we do?”

  “Stay together,” said Colfax. “Don’t anyone go off alone. And keep your eyes and ears open. Anything you see or hear, anything you think of, let me know about it right away. I’ll be doing everything I can to sort this out.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Channing. “I suppose we had better be getting back to town now. We’ll do as you say.”

  The ladies stood up to leave, and Colfax stood. A pain shot through his side as he did so. He winced in spite of himself.

  “You’re still hurting, Mr. Colfax,” said Alma Dyer.

  “I’m all right, Mrs. Dyer,” said Colfax. “Mr. Channing, when I get into town, do you think it would be possible for us, you and me, to get a look at Mr. Chase’s belongings without his knowledge? I’d like to see those boots of his.”

  “Why, yes. I think we could manage that.”

  As the actors left, Colfax caught himself watching the women. They were lovely creatures, those two. They had beauty, grace, charm, and they were Shakespeareans. What more could any man want? Well, any man like Colfax. Then he chastised himself for his thoughts. He had more urgent things with which to deal. There were the rustlers up on the hill—or wherever they were. They would be back. They had left two of their number behind to guard the camp. Colfax wanted to be ready for them when they returned. His promise to Tiff Lanagan was only half fulfilled. He had found the rustlers. Now he had to stop the rustling. And there was the murderer to seek out.

  Even more important was the need to prevent further killings. If Chase had committed the murders, if he had killed Potter because of his prejudice and the other two because they knew, perhaps he would not kill anymore. But if the killer was someone else, someone just killing the actors for some perverse reason, then he could strike again. Colfax felt the need to be out of the house and back on the job. His assistant, Hughes, was one of the rustlers, and the local lawman, Dort, was a joke. There was no one else. Colfax was alone. Lives depended on him. Order depended on him.

  He walked out to the corral and found the black Arabian mare. She seemed rested and no worse for wear. The saddle that Colfax had been using was thrown across a fence rail. He considered tossing it on the mare’s back, but the pain in his side reminded him that such a move would be a foolish one. He looked around and saw no cowboys. Lanagan had not returned to the ranch house. Oh well, he figured, ranch work keeps men out all day long. Sometimes all night. He was glad it was not his line. He rolled himself a cigarette and lit it. Then he climbed up to sit on the top rail of the corral fence. He had used his right arm to pull himself up, yet the strain to his left side was more than noticeable. He was right, he told himself, to change his mind about saddling the black and riding out. It would have to wait one more day. But it would not wait longer. In the morning he would ride out. He took a deep drag on the smoke and filled his lungs.

  Something wasn’t right. There were some things that didn’t fit together. He couldn’t even tell himself what the things were, but he had a sense that inside his head there was a puzzle. All the pieces were there, but he couldn’t fit them in place. It was an uneasy feeling, a stupid feeling, and he didn’t like it. He threw away the cigarette, eased himself down off the fence, and walked back to the house. A cup of Agnes Lanagan’s coffee would taste real good.

  The next morning Colfax shaved and dressed, ate a hearty breakfast prepared by Agnes Lanagan, thanked her for all her kindness, and took his leave. He saddled the black mare without too much discomfort and rode to Pullman. It was a slow and easy ride. He knew better than to be overconfident. There was still pain in his side, but he managed to get to town without any problems. He left the mare in the hands of Jerry Slayton and went to the Railhead for coffee. There he found the actors. As soon as he walked in the door, Adrian Channing jumped up and rushed to greet him.

  “Mr. Colfax,” he said, “how good to see you about. Would you join us?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Channing. I will.”

  Channing conducted Colfax to a table where Dixon Lindsay and Alma Dyer were seated.

  “Good morning, ladies,” said Colfax. “You’re looking lovely this morning.”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Colfax,” said Alma.

  “That’s quite an accomplishment for us under the circumstances,” said Dixon, “but then, our business is deception.”

  Colfax smiled as he took a seat.

  “Yes,” he said. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “Not at all,” said Dixon.

  “Not if you allow me the same privilege,” said Alma.

  Colfax looked at Alma with mild surprise, then handed her the makings across the table.

  “By all means,” he said. He watched with a certain amount of admiration as the actress deftly rolled herself a cigarette, then handed the makings back to him. He took the tin matchbox out of his pocket and gave it to her, and she lit her smoke. Then Colfax rolled his own and lit it. The waiter came to the table, and Colfax ordered coffee.

  “I take it there were no problems last night,” said Colfax.

  “No,” said Channing. “Nothing. Of course, we were all a bit uneasy. None of us slept well, but nothing out of the ordinary transpired. We took your advice and stayed together—as much as possible. I spoke to the manager, and we consolidated our rooms. All the gentlemen are together in two rooms, and the ladies are in a room which is connected to one of ours. The one that I am in.”

  “Good.” said Colfax.

  “But how long must we keep this up?” asked Dixon.

  “I hope not for much longer,” said Colfax. “I’ll do everything I can.”

  Alma Dyer reached out and put her hand on top of Colfax’s hand, which was resting on the table. It seemed sudden to Colfax, almost shocking. And her touch sent waves of feeling up through his arm and into the rest of his body. He almost shuddered from the unexpected sensation.

  “We know you will,” she said, “and we appreciate what you’re doing more than we can say.”

  Then she removed her hand, and he was sorry. He missed it there, missed the feeling. He flushed slightly, and he was afraid that the flush was visible. His face felt hot
. He took a deep drag on his cigarette, leaned his head back, and expelled the smoke toward the ceiling.

  “Mr. Channing,” he said, “we have a little business together. Could we take care of that now?”

  “What?” said Channing. “Oh. Oh, yes. Of course.”

  “Would you ladies excuse us for a few minutes?” said Colfax.

  Channing took Colfax upstairs in the Railhead and unlocked the room in which he was staying. There were two interior doors in the room. Channing motioned to the door on his right.

  “That leads to the ladies’ room,” he said. He walked to the other door and opened it. “Mr. Chase stays in here. Come on. Everyone else is downstairs with strict orders to remain together. We should have plenty of time.”

  Channing shuffled about the room until he found a particular traveling chest. He unlatched it and threw open the lid.

  “This is his,” he said. Colfax crossed the room quickly to join in the search. Among Chase’s clothing and other personal belongings, they found two pairs of boots. Neither pair was the right style.

  “That’s strange,” said Channing. “They should be here. I made a point of noticing what he had on today. He’s wearing shoes. The cowboy boots should be here in his trunk.”

  “Maybe it’s not so strange,” said Colfax.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mr. Channing,” said Colfax, “if you had committed a murder and left a distinctive bloody boot print, what would you do?”

  The old man’s eyes opened wide, and he responded in a harsh whisper.

  “Why, I’d get rid of the telltale boots, of course.”

  “Mr. Channing,” said Colfax, “for now, let’s keep this to ourselves. It isn’t proof. There are other possible reasons for the boots to be missing. But keep a close eye on Mr. Chase, and be careful.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Colfax and Channing had just gone outside when Colfax noticed that a wagon loaded with the Wheelers, all of them, was pulling up in front of the general store. He angled his walk across the street in order to meet them.

  “Hello, Mr. Colfax,” said Dora Wheeler, as Colfax and Channing approached the wagon. “You look much better than when I last saw you.”

  “Thanks to you, Mrs. Wheeler,” said Colfax. “This is Mr. Adrian Channing. I believe all of you saw him on the stage.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Channing?” said Dora.

  “This is Lark Wheeler,” said Colfax. “His lovely wife, Dora, and his brothers, Spud and Tommy.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet all of you,” said Channing.

  Lark, who was busy securing his team to the hitch rail, said, “Howdy.” Spud nodded his head a bit grudgingly. Tommy sat in the back of the wagon, his head down. Colfax thought that he looked like a pouting child. He wondered what was wrong with the young man. Usually he was smiling and friendly. Maybe he had done something to make one of his brothers fuss at him, and it had put him in a sour mood. Tommy’s cuts and bruises were beginning to fade, but his scuffed-up face still added to the appearance of a bad boy. Colfax reached over the wagon box and slapped Tommy on the shoulder.

  “What’s the matter here?” he said. “You all right?”

  “Yeah,” said Tommy. “I guess so.”

  Colfax thought that Tommy was glaring at Adrian Channing. Oh, well, he thought, who knows what goes on in the mind of a child, and that’s what Tommy’s got, it seems—a child’s mind.

  “In town for your shopping, I suppose?” said Channing, more to break the silence than for any other reason.

  “Yes,” said Dora.

  “That and to stay as far away from the fireworks as we can,” grumbled Spud.

  Colfax shot Spud a quick look.

  “Fireworks?” he said. “What are you talking about?”

  Spud looked away, but Lark walked over to face Colfax.

  “You don’t know?” he asked.

  “What fireworks?” said Colfax.

  “Tiff Lanagan and his whole crew rode up to Youngblood’s. They’re up there now, waiting.”

  “Damn,” said Colfax. “Come on, Channing. I’ve got to get the sheriff.”

  “Don’t waste your time,” said Lark. “He rode up with them.”

  “Well,” Colfax said, “that’s something. At least he took the law with him. That’s more sense than I gave him credit for. I still think I ought to go up there. Mr. Wheeler, any sign of Youngblood coming back?”

  “Not by the time we left the house.”

  “Thanks,” said Colfax. “Channing, I’m taking you back to your people, and then I’m going to have to leave town for a while. Just keep doing as I told you. Keep everyone together at all times. Be careful. I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

  Colfax caught himself pushing the black too hard in his haste to get up the mountain to the camp of Youngblood and his gang of rustlers. He forced himself to ease off some, to establish a sensible pace. Dort was up there with Lanagan and his crew. That was some small comfort. Colfax had almost no respect for Dort, but the man did represent the law. The fact that Lanagan had taken him along must mean that Lanagan intended to do things right, to try to capture the rustlers and have them arrested and tried. Colfax was astonished at himself. If anyone had told me back before I’d met Bluff Luton that I would be worrying about having things done according to the law, I’d have said that he was crazy. Well, hell, times change, and people change with them, he thought. One way or the other, this job will soon be over. He could see on the trail going up the hill evidence that several men on horseback had passed by ahead of him not long ago. The problem was that he had no way of telling if what he saw was only the result of Lanagan’s trip or if Youngblood’s crew had also come back. He wanted to get there before the return of the rustlers. He wanted to be there to do what he could to make sure that the outlaws were arrested, were taken alive, if possible. There should be a trial, even if the end result was the same. He had found the evidence. He had pointed Lanagan to the Youngbloods. If Lanagan and his cowboys should slaughter the rustlers, he would have helped them to do it.

  It was midafternoon. Back in Pullman, in the restaurant inside the Railhead, the actors still huddled together. Samuel Chase was drinking rum rather heavily. All were bored and irritable. Chase had obviously just had harsh words with the other actors seated at the table with him. He stood up, bottle in one hand and glass in the other.

  “Shit,” he said, and he walked away from the table. Adrian Channing, in a fatherly attempt to try to raise the spirits of his children, had left the two ladies alone at their table and was mingling with others around the room, moving from one table to the next and cracking jokes. Chase saw the two women sitting alone and made his weaving way to their table.

  “May I join you ladies?” he said, but he didn’t wait for an answer. He set his bottle and glass down on the table and pulled out a chair, then dropped himself heavily into it and leaned over close to Dixon Lindsay.

  “Mrs. Lindsay,” he said, in an exaggerated theatrical voice. He had something more to say, but Dixon Lindsay didn’t allow it. She pushed her chair back quickly from the table and stood up, shouting at the same time.

  “Get away from me,” she said. “Get away.”

  “What the hel1?” said Chase.

  “Get out.”

  Dixon appeared to be on the verge of hysteria. Alma Dyer got up and moved hurriedly to her side, putting an arm around her shoulders.

  “Dixon,” she said. “Calm down. What’s the matter with you?”

  Everyone in the room was looking at the woman and Chase. Some got to their feet. Channing ran across the room to deal with the problem.

  “You know what’s the matter,” Dixon said to Alma. “You were there. He’s the murderer.”

  “What the bloody hell is she talking about?” said Chase.

  “Damn it, Dixon,” said Channing. “Colfax told us to keep this to ourselves. We agreed.”

  “I can’t help it,” she said. “I’ve had as much of
this as I can take.”

  C. C. Carpenter, the Bassianus of the play, a powerfully built man with a booming voice, stepped forward.

  “I don’t know what the hell this is all about,” he said, “but I think that someone had better tell us.”

  “But there’s no proof of anything,” said Channing. “Only speculation.”

  “We’re all in this together,” said Carpenter. “We’re waiting.”

  Channing looked around and found himself totally surrounded by his own acting company. As he looked, they moved in a little closer. The only ones not included in the group that pressed him were himself and Chase, who was still seated at the table. Suddenly Channing’s players seemed to him to be a very threatening group, almost a mob. Beads of sweat formed on the old man’s brow as his eyes shifted from one familiar face to another. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow.

  “All right,” he said finally. “I suppose there’s no getting away from it now, is there? The cat’s out of the bag, so to speak. Well, uh, everyone sit down and I’ll tell it all.”

  He waited while the company did as he said. Then he found himself facing a small and hostile crowd, with Samuel Chase sitting alone off to his right.

  “Now mind you, children,” he said, “this is a theory. One of several, as a matter of fact. As I think you all know, Mr. Oliver Colfax has taken a personal interest in our problems. When poor Dallas was murdered, Mr. Colfax determined to help track down the guilty party. I’ve had several conversations with Mr. Colfax during the course of his investigation. Initially we thought Dallas had been killed because of his color. That is, we thought the killer had done the deed because of the color of Dallas’s skin. But then the killer struck again. This time the victims, as you know, were Woody and Tyndall. Three actors had been murdered. It seemed then that all of us might be in danger, that some maniac was bent on ridding society of actors.”

  Channing paused to catch his breath, gather his wits, and mop his brow again. He was struck by the frightening, deadly silence in the room in the absence of his own voice. The silence was suddenly broken by the sound of approaching footsteps, and Channing looked over his shoulder to see the waiter coming in his direction. He waved the man away.