The contractor was a good prospect for a lot of meat and merchandise.
CHAPTER XV
Inside Emory Dustin
Emory Dustin was faced with the problem of life or death.
And, student or not, he had got a tip from Webster’s veiled hint.
From childhood, Emory Dustin had been a complicated person. The combination of external events and his own complex nature and good mind had so involved him that during those many times when he had sudden flashes of curiosity about what he really was, what he really wanted, and what he really was going to do, he had to abandon the problems as too difficult for him, and follow whichever of his contradictory trends was strongest at the moment. Now he felt that he could not avoid the present problem, difficult as it was. A man could die for that neglect.
He had been born on a ranch in south Texas that was neither poor nor rich, while his neighbors were either very poor or very rich. His father was a self-righteous and hard-working rancher whose wife had died when Emory was born, and who with the aid of a Mexican woman housekeeper had tried to raise Emory to be nice and respectable, strong and courageous. Although the father did not know it himself, his interpretation of a boy being nice and courageous meant that Emory should fear him and the harness strap he wielded freely when the boy did wrong, but should be fearless and honest in his relations with everybody else.
Having a backside which was sensitive to the strap, a pride that was allergic to his father’s righteous bullying, and a mind that was shrewd and active, Emory was quick to learn his father’s strength and his weaknesses, and to exploit them to his own advantage. As long as his father had his own self-righteous way, and as long as Emory looked up to him as a pillar of morality and strength, and showed that he admired the old man, he could get anything he wanted from him. He learned to show broken-heartedness instead of anger when he didn’t get his way, and his dad was too convinced of his own perfection to allow himself the admission that he was mistreating his own child. So, when he suspected that Emory was silently suffering for the old man’s hardness, the old man would prove that he was not hard by giving Emory what he wanted.
Thus Emory Dustin learned at a very young age what most boys learn about life from their fathers, that the strongest man is always right, and that if you show him that you agree with him, you can go on and think what you please, and prey on the vanity that always accompanies self-righteousness.
He soon learned that the old Mexican woman who raised him despised his father and felt sorry for him, and he quickly learned to use this knowledge. Since the motherly housekeeper dreaded to see the boy whipped, she would not report his disobedience to the father, so Emory did just about as he pleased. By being nice to her, he kept her on his side.
It was that knowledge which had been responsible for the growth of Dustin’s cheerful and easy-going manner, which he always wore like a mask, hiding his self-seeking greediness, his rages at its frustration, and particularly the gnawing fear which ate at his vitals, and for which he cursed his father. His smile had brought dividends, but it had also cost him any genuine self-respect he might have had. And because of his knowledge of the duplicity behind it, he continuously blamed his father for his own sense of hypocrisy. He knew he was afraid, and he knew that he had developed a philosophy of ruthlessness in himself purely as a defense against his acknowledged cowardice.
This ruthlessness had crystallized behind his mask of casual ease at the time of his father’s death when Emory was fifteen. The old man had been crippled for several years and, on his death, Emory found himself out on his own with the ranch gone and nothing to do but make a living for himself. Having long since learned the art of getting out of work, he was too young, inexperienced and irresponsible to get a job as a regular cowboy, and had ended up as a hired hand for an unscrupulous cattle-buyer. Having to work for a crook was a great wound to his pride, but it was an education as well. And Emory was one who was quick to learn.
He galled under this work for a couple of years, while his own pride built up proportionately to offset the humiliation of having to do an honest day’s work for a crook, and this fired his urge for independence.
Having learned some of the tricks of the trade, he used them against his boss until he got enough money to go out on his own. He would have gone his way quietly, except for the fact that the boss interfered. It had come about when the boss who by the nature of his calling trusted nobody, had finally decided that he could trust Emory to drive a herd of hot cattle to a nearby construction company boss who regularly bought the stuff with no questions asked, paying in cash, so as not to leave any records of the tricky and profitable transaction. The boss had decided that Emory was trustworthy when he himself was in bed with a broken leg at a time when he got a tip that his herd was going to be looked over by the inspectors. Forced to get it out of his hands in short order, and being unable to go along with it to collect the money, he had formed a sudden faith in Emory’s honesty, and sent him along to sell the cattle and bring back the money. It was the only thing he could do.
Emory sold the cattle, pocketed the money, and kept going, knowing that the boss couldn’t very well voice any open objections to this re-theft of stolen cattle. Thus Emory Dustin, by use of his own self-admired intelligence, launched himself into the cattle-buying business.
He had gained independence.
And he had done well, keeping his independence until his own greed led him to the gambling tables. That was when he eventually woke up taking orders from J.B. Faulkner, who had more experience in that sort of thing than Emory had, and was more coldblooded in his business dealings. Faulkner was not acting as a crook to salve an injured pride in a doubtful independence, but purely for the vindictive purpose of acquiring money and power over those who were so much better off than he in looks, health, self-respect, and in the simple joys of living. Faulkner fought them with an aggressive and icy vindictiveness which left no room for even his own emotional satisfaction. Thus Emory Dustin found himself for the second time in his life under the domination of a man more powerful than himself.
He had made money working under Faulkner, and lost it at poker, and at the same time his self-respect had sunk to still lower levels, intensifying his conflict with himself. Knowing himself to have a high intelligence, he considered that he deserved the things that decent men had. He had a strong urge for respectability while hating those who had the respectability which he knew he could never have.
He had to satisfy himself with the symbols of respectability instead of the real thing, and Swanson and his daughter stood for the things he despised and wanted at the same time.
So it was that while he made love to Sonia Swanson, while he wanted to be married to her in order to establish his own respect ability, he still did not think of her except in the light of his own desires. She stood for the things he wanted, and he wanted her, but he gave little thought to how she felt about him. His egotism convinced him that she should be glad of the attentions of a young man of his personality and energy, so that his interest came not through any regard for her, but was for the purpose of showing her his own qualifications, and convincing her thus that she would be lucky to place her future in his hands. He had gone along since he had known her, firm in the conviction that when he was ready to ask her to marry him she would jump at the chance.
And yet, up to now, the lurking fear in him had held him back from asking her to marry him. He knew that living a double life as he did, she would soon find it out and despise him for it, and his pride was such that he could not tolerate the thought of a decent person’s contempt. Thus again the conflict in him left him paralyzed against action; he wanted her and he was afraid to have her find out what kind of a man he was. And again, he wanted to live a life of integrity, but he knew that there were too many conflicting factors in himself to permit that. His hatreds and his fears were so great that they had to be kept hidden behind a mask, a
nd the need to wear a mask gave him a sense of his own inferiority, which in turn was in constant conflict with his egotism.
Emory Dustin, in short, knew that his life was so entangled that it was hopeless to expect to ever get it untangled, and he knew that he was even afraid to try to do it.
And the advent of Webster had served only to throw him into a greater turmoil. He admired Webster’s cold-blooded callousness and the sharp mind which made Jim a leader, but at the same time he despised Webster for being a crook, and he hated and feared him because he was a better crook than himself.
Dustin had been the boss at the ranch, second only to Faulkner, and this had fed his pride. But Jim had come along, and he knew that Webster was a better man for the job, and knew that he had displaced him. And this knowledge fed the fires of his hatred, but his fear of Webster made it necessary for him to hide his hatred and fear from the man. More entanglements were thus thrust upon him, and this in turn gave rise to a new fear—the fear of the whole situation. He knew that things were going too fast for him; they were out from under his control, and his common sense warned him that he was in grave danger. His house of cards could tumble at any moment and, with that event, he would die; perhaps at the end of a rope, or with a bullet in him. The possibility of this disgrace and extinction fed his fear to the point of inner panic.
Webster and the crew had been on the road for more than a week now; all the cattle and merchandise, including the wagons it had been hauled in, had been sold, and now the group was in Boggy Depot, a stage stop on the Territory trail about thirty miles south of McAlester, with money in their pockets and a burning desire to let off a little steam.
The stage station was a cross between a hotel, saloon, general store and bawdy house, and the few inhabitants who lived in pine board shacks around the depot, Indians and a few nondescript whites, made their living one way or another off the people passing through on the stage or in settlers’ caravans and cattle drives.
They had ridden into Boggy the night before, and the boys had settled down to a bit of serious drinking with the women who had come along with them and with the half dozen white, near-white, and Indian women who hung around the bar at times when the crossing had visitors.
Now on the following morning when most of the men were nursing headaches and wondering what had happened to the money Webster had dished out among them, Webster himself was sitting at the breakfast table in another part of the rambling building, talking to a man who had dropped off a stage and was looking for a horse to take him down to Texas.
Webster had known the man in Texas, a cowboy who had worked for the Cattlemen’s Protective Association for a while.
When they recognized each other at breakfast, the man, Hoot Ballew, said, “What are you doing up here, Webster?”
“Just been selling some beef,” Webster admitted. “How’d you get lost this far from Santone?”
“Just been looking over the ground. Heard about it being a stockman’s heaven, and all that and wanted to see for myself.”
“Well, is it?”
“Good land. All it’s cracked up to be. But I’m getting too old to have to sit on my doorstep with a rifle on my lap just to keep my roof over my head. I’ll take it back down where I came from, where it’s a little more civilized.”
“It is pretty rough for a bit of heaven,” Webster admitted. “But that will be taken care of in due time. Are you in any hurry to get back where you came from?”
Ballew eyed him sharply, then grinned. “Watch out, now. I know you. Where there’s Webster there’s gunsmoke. I can smell it in your hair. Nope, don’t even offer me any kind of a proposition. I told you, there’s something about the smell of gunsmoke that turns my stomach, and something about the sound of a gun that makes me jump. I’m not your boy.”
“Who offered you a job?” Webster countered. “I just thought you might like to make expenses in an easy way that didn’t have any risk to it at all. You could probably do everything you have to do sitting in a rocking chair, and have fun and get money for it besides. If I told you what it was, I bet you’d jump at the chance to do it for nothing, just for the fun of it.”
“No, you don’t! Don’t even say another word! I don’t want it, and I don’t even want to hear about it. I told you I was now walking the path of peace. I don’t want a rocking chair in heaven; I want one under my own sycamore tree. Don’t even tell me what you’ve got in mind.”
“All right,” Webster agreed. “I won’t say another word. I just realized how much fun you’d have and thought you’d like to get a good laugh out of watching things. But I won’t even bother telling you what it was. Then you won’t know what you missed.”
“What would I be missing?”
“Nothing. Just—aw, forget it.”
“Forget what? Don’t be like that; telling a man just enough to get his curiosity aroused, and then stopping. That ain’t nice, is it?”
“Well, you’re an old lawdog, in a manner of speaking, and you know how crooks act. I thought you’d like to watch and see how they act when they know they’re watched. It would be instructive, and you might get a laugh out of it.”
“Well, what? Go on and tell me. Don’t be hinting around. Say what it is that you’re talking about.”
“Well, this is it. I’ve been on a loop with a bunch of cattle for Indian agencies and contractors and the like, and I’ve got a pretty tough crew and foreman. I’m carrying about twenty-two thousand dollars in cash, and those rannies’ tongues hang out a mile while they think about it.”
“Aw—there’s the fishhook. You need a gun-guard.”
“No! If I can’t take care of myself I deserve to lose it. You don’t even have to carry a gun.”
“What do you mean? I’d just as soon go around without my pants as without my gun in this heathen country. Anyway, what about it?”
“This is the setup; I’m leaving the men here to kick up for another night or two, but I’m starting out with that money about noon, just as soon as my foreman gets on his feet after his brawl last night. He’s going along with me. This guy looks all right on the surface, but he’s got snakes inside him. He’s hungry for a dollar, and that twenty-two thousand is a fortune to him. I’d gamble my last dime that he’s figuring right now on when and where he’s going to kill me and take it. Now here’s what I want you to do; you’re heading for Woodbine anyway. I can furnish you with a horse. You’re to come along, and you’re to hint that you’re on some kind of a big law case up here. Don’t say what it is, nor who you’re tied up with, but act like a dumb officer, one that hints too much. Just convey the impression that you’re suspicious of everybody.
“That’s on the trip down; give this guy—Dustin is his name—the uncomfortable feeling that you might be interested in him. I’ll get him aside and hint that I have the same feeling.
“Then when you get to Woodbine, don’t catch the first stage out. Hang around, acting mysteriously. Wherever you see Dustin, give him a pleasant greeting, but also make him feel that you’ve got your eyes on him. Let him catch you trailing him, maybe. Anyway, build it up till he gets nervous. That’s all you’ve got to do. I’ll pay you for it, and you’ll have some fun watching him. Later, if you like the game, say so, and maybe I’ll let you in on something else. But you’re tired of chasing crooks, Ballew, so it probably isn’t fun to you anymore.”
“You—I knew it. I told you all the time that you had something up your sleeve. You can’t fool me, Webster. And I told you I ain’t going to get the seat of my breeches punctured with any more lead.”
“Then you don’t want to come along with us and see how this fellow Dustin acts. Well, forget that I mentioned it.”
“Oh, I’ll go along with you, all right. And I’ll hang out in Woodbine a while for you, but after that, don’t count me in on the kill. I told you—”
* * * *
Emory D
ustin was in an upstairs room of the station lying on an old iron bed, his brain fumed with Indian whiskey and his body wrecked with the emotional tension that comes to a fearful man facing the crossroads.
He had been thinking of his position during the whole trip, and the more he thought about it the more impossible it seemed that he could work out any solution which would solve his problem here. Things had come to a head; he could not go on as things now stood.
He knew that he was not man enough to wrestle leadership away from Webster. Now he could not even run out on the deal and settle down somewhere as a respectable citizen, an idea that he had toyed with from time to time, but action on which he had always postponed in the hope of having enough money to go straight. He was at the end of his rope.
Webster had kept careful count of the money they had taken in for the stolen stock, and had promptly given him his fourth of it as they got it. Then he promptly won it back from Emory in their nightly poker game.
Now Webster was downstairs with all the money except the quarter of the proceeds which he had dished out to the men. There must be over twenty thousand dollars, Dustin estimated, and the thought of that money kept preying on his mind. With that loot, he could run out on the whole affair, go somewhere else and start life anew. He could even marry Sonia Swanson, and take her along with him.
It would hurt a man’s pride to run but, after all, a man lives over a thing like that, but he can’t live over the effect of a well-placed bullet. And Webster was a man who knew how to place his bullets.
Dustin thought of the inevitable thing that stood between him and the money. Webster had to be killed. But his personality was so strong, he had such a commanding presence, that the thought of killing him was enough to make Dustin shake as though he had a chill.
But it had to be done; it was either Webster or himself, and he had no trouble making his choice in that matter. With Webster dead, and with the money in his own possession, he would have practically everything he wanted; money, Sonia Swanson, and freedom from the domination of Faulkner.
The Fifth Western Novel Page 37