by T. T. Flynn
“I don’t think many people believe that story,” Barbara said defensively.
It infuriated Frank more. “What do you know about him, Barbara? A wagon tramp! A stranger! Jailed in Roxton! Why, right now he’s a desperado working for Half-Moon!”
“Kate is our friend.”
“But Lockhart will have trouble now with Barb!” Frank said hotly. “Barbara! We’re to be married in a few days! This will make talk!”
“He’s father’s guest,” Barbara said calmly. “Frank, you’re upset about nothing. Stop it.”
Frank glowered helplessly, aware of a baffling, infuriating stubbornness in this small, gay girl. His temper resolved that after they were married there would be no opposition to his wishes.
Barbara said mildly, “They are playing cards. Don’t you want to join them?”
“I do not! And I don’t want to sit here and listen to them!”
“That,” said Barbara quietly, “is your privilege, Frank.”
Reason intruded into Frank’s fury. Barbara was not yet married to him. Her infuriating stubborn side could well enough decide not to be married at this time. And they must be married now; they must. Frank reached for Barbara’s hand. His laugh was rueful, sheepish.
“Can you blame me, darling? The way I feel about you? Let’s walk. I want to be alone with you.”
Barbara pressed his hand understandingly. Yet these flashes of a total stranger which issued from Frank vaguely troubled her. And as they walked from the house together, idle curiosity prompted a question.
“Frank, how do you know so much about Lockhart’s hand? Where it happened and all that?”
For a moment Frank did not answer. Then his voice was oddly strained. “Let’s don’t talk about the man.”
“It was about you, Frank; can’t I be curious?” Barbara was smiling.
“Well, Lockhart went to Seldon, didn’t he?” Frank said after another sulky moment. “And I’ve seen Seldon. Now let’s talk about ourselves.”
“Let’s,” Barbara agreed, and she was ruefully aware of thinking even now about the card game and bursts of laughter in Jubal’s bedroom.
Frank’s mood quickly turned to a kind of exhilaration. He began to talk of the future, ranging widely, expansively over all they would do. The future seemed to intoxicate Frank to night, giving his fancies heated and at times almost incoherent assurance.
Laughing finally, Barbara begged, “Come back to earth.”
Frank laughed, too, sheepishly. They were strolling in deep shadows under tall shade trees. His arm brought her close.
“How,” Frank asked gaily, “can I be serious when I think of all that’s ahead for us?” Then a dark mood descended on him again. “I won’t sleep to night, thinking of that fellow in your house! You waiting on him!”
Barbara’s chuckle dismissed it. Her reminder, “If he needs attention, then I’ll be awake, too. We’ll both be sleepy tomorrow, won’t we?” gave Frank small comfort.
Almost malevolently now, Frank thought of Lockhart. Close now, even into Barbara’s home—Frank writhed inside at the thought, knowing he was helpless against Barbara’s smiling stubbornness.
A new fear lurked with him, too. What a fool to blurt in startled anger his knowledge of Lockhart’s trouble with Dave—knowledge that only Lockhart, Doctor Seldon, and Barbara should possess to night. And Jubal Kirby, of course.
Frank had seen Vic Hansbro down the street before dark and had turned into a doorway, not wishing to face Hansbro’s black-browed, boring stare. He had guessed why Hansbro was in town, and he had waited. And now he had talked in loose fury to Barbara. But she was a gay, lightheaded, pretty little thing, easily satisfied that he’d heard the details from Doc Seldon.
Barbara would not think of it again. Obviously she would not ask Seldon if he had talked with Frank Darrah. Why should she? Barbara was in love; she was going to be married; in the morning her head would be full of the future.
In the morning, Barbara’s question from the bedroom doorway was smiling. “Breakfast in bed or in the kitchen?”
From the bed pillows, Will told her firmly, “I’ll walk to the café.”
“The kitchen—in fifteen minutes—since you’re able to walk so far,” Barbara informed him, and Will hesitated and assented meekly, “Yes, ma’am.”
This morning he knew her better. It had been a night of fitful sleep, of pain, and Barbara’s soothing visits in a plain blue wrapper with hair braids over her small shoulders. A night of compresses on his arm and hand, and gingerly snipped bandages which eased angry swollen flesh.
He would never, Will thought as he went to the kitchen, forget the faint, comforting fragrance of her nearness in the quiet night hours.
Eggs and ham and clear tart grape jelly; rich, strong coffee, stewed dried peaches—A red-checked cloth on the kitchen table, and Barbara fresh-looking, gay as the sunshine outside. The range heat pinked her cheeks as she moved between range and table with light, quick steps.
Using his one good hand, Will buttered a hot biscuit and reflected that this was but one morning out of a lifetime that he would sit at her table like this. The rest of the mornings—all the rest—belonged to Frank Darrah.
He put it into words, lightly and smiling. “Darrah is a lucky man.”
Jubal had eaten earlier and gone out. They were alone. Barbara’s quick look seemed to suspect irony. Finding none, she countered, “You do know how to please the cook.”
She took his knife and fork and cut his ham bite-size, and she buttered two biscuits for him, completely without coquetry, Will noticed. Since their meeting at the salt lakes, she had never tried to impress him. Close now, her faint scent of Cologne water and femininity recalled the night hours.
Then midway of the meal they heard a vigorous voice out front halting horses. A pleased exclamation came from Barbara. “There’s Kate!” She hurried out.
Big Kate came into the kitchen like an invigorating gust, demanding, “How’s that fist?” She pulled out the chair opposite Will and sat down heavily. “I et before I started,” she told Barbara. “Coffee’ll do.” Kate’s keen look sought Will’s face. “You two ain’t heard the news?”
Will put down his fork. “What news?”
“Dave Waggoman never got to town yesterday. The Barb men have been huntin’ him all night.” Kate shook her head, obviously troubled. “You know anything about it, Lockhart?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so,” Kate said, sounding grim now. She dipped sugar into the black coffee Barbara put before her, and she drank half the cup at a gulp. It was, Will guessed, a measure of the big woman’s inner agitation.
Barbara’s question was plainly worried. “What could have happened to Dave?”
“Dunno,” Kate muttered. “Cinch mighta broke; his hoss mighta throwed him. You ridin’ in with Lockhart takes care of that.”
She might have had that in mind, Will guessed now, when she urged Barbara to ride with him. Barbara had made a perfect witness to any chance of trouble. “What,” Will asked thoughtfully, “takes care of the time I rode to Half-Moon?”
“Dave didn’t head down your side of the mountain,” Kate said absently. Her blunt fingers still held the cup handle. Her gaze was unseeing on the red-checked tablecloth. “Alec must be worried,” Kate said under her breath. The stiff black-straw hat bobbed on her hair as her head shook regretfully. “Dave ain’t much to worry about—but he’s all Alec’s got.”
Kate finished her coffee and addressed Will’s thoughtfulness briskly. “I stopped at Doc Seldon’s house. He says you’re bringing the hand to him for more fixin’. I’ll take you there soon as you’re ready. Then you can go back to the ranch.”
Will made a blunt guess. “Before there’s a chance of more trouble with Barb over Dave?”
“You guessed it,” Kate told him frankly. “I got a feeling this is bad. You ain’t in shape to handle trouble with one hand.”
She was shrewdly correct, Will conceded in his
own sobered and rather grim thoughts. Barbara could not hide her worry. Much of Will’s appetite had vanished. The three of them had little to talk about now. They were thinking of Dave Waggoman.
A little later Will heaved his duffel bag into the back of Kate’s old topless buggy. Before he stepped up to the buggy seat, he thanked Barbara gravely for his night’s care, and as the buggy pulled away, he saw Barbara’s faint smile give way again to gravity.
“There’s a girl now,” Kate’s comment broke into his thoughts. “Like her?”
“Any man would,” Will admitted. The buggy and its escort of trotting hound dogs turned into Palace and he immediately noted that more people than usual were abroad this morning.
There was a tenseness about the small groups loitering on the broadwalks, a furtive, close interest in the glances turned on Kate’s buggy.
It was visible; it was in the air. These Coronado people, Will sensed, had lived with Barb and Half-Moon, and they were apprehensive now. Kate called amiable greetings to friends, and in the block beyond the stores she pulled up before Doctor Seldon’s modest frame house.
She accompanied Will into the small hallway which served as waiting-room. There, bluntly, Kate demanded of Seldon, “This ain’t a time for double talk. What about his hand?”
“Sit down, Kate, out of the way,” Seldon ordered with his own calm bluntness. “How do I know so soon?”
Once more Will sat by the oilcloth-covered table. This time Seldon worked slower, easier. His small grunt of satisfaction as he studied the hand was more heartening than talk. When Seldon began to bandage the hand again, he said dryly, “No gangrene or corruption. You’re lucky, young man. Lucky.”
The bandaging was almost finished when Will’s ears caught a faint sound, an ominous sound. Seldon heard it a moment later and his hands paused.
In any cattle town one heard sounds like this—but not on a quiet morning like this—not in Coronado like this—the low, slow, muted strike of many shod hoofs in the muffling street dust.
There were many horses. They were walking slowly, coming into town. And the slow, measured beat of their approach filled the street with unmistakable foreboding.
Kate Canaday heard it, too. Her chair scraped in the hallway as Kate stood up. Never had Will heard her voice sound like this, quiet, too, and heavy with knowledge.
“They’ve found Dave!” Kate stepped to the door and went out.
Chapter Twenty
Barb was coming into Coronado. Will stood at Seldon’s elbow, looking over the white half-curtain of the office window, and the sight was ominous.
All the Barb crew and others who had searched for Dave Waggoman were coming into town. The lanky figure of Tom Quigby, the deputy, was among them. Townspeople were gathering on the walks, watching the slow cavalcade in apprehensive silence.
They filled the street, those slow-riding, grim men on tired horses. And catching the eye, catching the emotions, was the tall old man who close-reined a gray stallion beside a weathered buckboard.
The long, canvas-wrapped burden on the buckboard gave its mute story. For the last time Alec Waggoman was bringing Dave to town.
He sat erect in the saddle, that tall old man with the hard, calm look of power. His gaze was ahead, oblivious to those on the walks, ignoring the buckboard he sided so closely.
Will heard Seldon exclaim softly, “Don’t do it, Kate!”
At the edge of the boardwalk now, Kate Canaday was an arresting figure in canvas jacket and coarse wool skirt; and as the buckboard and its accompanying rider came abreast, Kate stepped out into the street.
“Alec!”
For a moment Will thought she was being ignored. Then Waggoman reined the big gray horse facing her, and the buckboard halted and the street full of riders pulled up.
A tight quiet dropped on the street. Bit chains clinked softly. A restless horse or two snorted. The abrupt quiet made Kate’s voice sound louder.
“I’m sorry, Alec.”
He eyed her while a man might count ten. The craggy face behind the long white mustaches had never, Will thought, looked more like stone. Not an emotion showed. Then coldly, Waggoman’s countering demand asked Kate, “Are you sorry?”
“Yes, Alec.”
“He was shot in the back. He never had a chance.”
Kate’s work-roughened hand lifted and dropped in a helpless gesture. “Don’t think wrong, Alec. Barbara rode to town with Lockhart and went to the doctor with him. She took Lockhart to Jubal’s house for the night.”
Will stepped away from the window and Doctor Seldon’s quick, sharp advice followed him. “Man, don’t go out there!”
“I’ll tell him myself.”
As Will’s deliberate figure descended the doctor’s steps, a startled awareness caught the horse-men in the street. Will noted them shifting alertly in saddles and turning tense, expectant stares to Alec Waggoman’s reaction.
At the walk edge Will halted and spoke to the tall old man who was ignoring him.
“Waggoman! You’ll not believe I’m sorry. But I’ll tell you this wasn’t my doing. I might have gone after him later. But it would have been to his face.”
Kate had turned uncertainly. Waggoman’s head came up, peering intently. A great straining tension drew out, thinning dangerously.
Waggoman broke it evenly.
“If you’d killed him fair, Lockhart, I’d not have blamed you, even when I killed you for it. But no one has accused you of this. You haven’t seemed to be the kind who’d shoot at the back. Or,” the cold tone added, “knife a man in the back like they say you did at Roxton Springs.”
The hooded gaze went back to Kate Canaday and a queer certainty touched Will.
The present, he guessed, was not now between that craggy old man and the rough, weathered woman who faced him in the street dust. Their eyes were locking now across the past, the long past turbulent years seeded with dislike, ancient enmities and suspicions.
Slowly, coldly, Waggoman broke the silence again.
“It’s done; he’s gone.” And a new, rough tone drove at Kate and filled the street. “Someone did it and I’ll find him!”
That was all. Will knew death, and this was death as Alec Waggoman rode on. The slow, dust-muffled cadence of the Barb riders followed, with Quigby’s narrow gaze estimating Will.
Kate stared after the buckboard and Will’s glance followed the hard, bitter straightness of Alec Waggoman’s back. Will’s conviction was complete.
He’ll never stop until he finds the man who did it. And kills him.
Slowly Kate turned and stepped up on the boardwalk. Her comment was quiet. “Now Frank Darrah gets Barb.”
Will nodded. Kate started to speak again, and then only shook her head in silent disapproval.
The wild and helpless bitterness which churned in Alec Waggoman through these empty hours found no help in the past, no hope in the future. With Dave gone, there was no future. Somehow the long day passed. Doctor Seldon headed a brief inquest in the afternoon. Testimony was brief. Dave’s saddled horse had been found. Backtracking had located Dave’s body in thick brush beside the lower ranch road. New tracks covered the road, blotting out all sign. The inquest verdict was a cruelly uncertain, “Death by party or parties unknown.”
The funeral next day was immense, and Dave rested finally beside his mother in the small, tree-shaded town cemetery. The minister spoke well of Dave. Waggoman answered the endless condolences courteously, with an empty sense of moving in a bitter void around which the blurring hours swirled without purpose.
Finally he could climb stiffly on his horse and ride erect, dry-eyed through the empty miles to the empty vastness of Barb. Alone in the fortlike stone house he faced the empty future.
He had whisky, and that was not the answer, Waggoman knew as he paced the silent rooms. A hard inner core rejected self-pity, aimless grief.
Slowly the chaos in his brain became stern order and he dropped on his bed and slept. At dawn he was up energeti
cally, bathing, shaving. When the iron triangle outside the cookshack clanged loudly for breakfast, he left the house with a new, purposeful stride.
The crew at the long plank table were subdued, uncertain. Curious glances watched Waggoman eating calmly at the table head with a healthy appetite. Midway of the meal, Waggoman broke the custom of years. He spoke of the day’s business to Vic Hansbro, silently bolting food at the other end of the long table.
“Vic, I’m satisfied the beef count is short.” A startled quiet dropped along the table. Vic Hansbro discarded knife and fork and swiped a huge hand over his bearded mouth, and Waggoman continued calmly. “A short tally means rustling. We’ll cure that like we used to. And we’ll bear in mind that rustlers may have shot Dave.”
Hansbro gulped his mouthful of food and mumbled, “They sure could of.”
“We’ll hunt the missing beef,” Waggoman said briefly. “Five hundred dollars to any man who finds Barb beef that seems to have been rustled. Five thousand dollars if Dave’s killer is turned up.”
A startled moment of incredulous silence broke in excited talk. Waggoman let it run unchecked. His blurred sight marked a man or two sitting in narrowing thought. Cynical logic already had suggested that some knowledge of rustling, even of Dave’s death, might lurk here among the crew. Lavish use of money was the one swift way to root it out, Waggoman knew.
He had the money, was Waggoman’s sad thought as he left the cookshack. Money and power at least were left. He had buckled on his old shell belt with its holster worn low and slanting forward. The gun’s familiar weight against his leg rolled back the years as he walked to the corrals and watched horses roped and saddled.
A noisy, jubilant eagerness in the activity reached into shuttered nooks of memory. A thin, grim smile of remembrance shaped under Waggoman’s white mustache. Long ago each morning had started this way, and Alec Waggoman had been the loudest of his fighting crew. The memories put back his shoulders a little. He swung lightly on his own big gray horse and watched the rush and buck of mounts unkinking as the men rode off in pairs and singles.