In spite of the bachelor air and the slight neglect of dress that sometimes made women wish to mother him, he was married to a nice little woman who kept house for him not so very far from Colorado Springs. There Brennan ran a modest establishment and a few cattle, though not enough to put' him into the ranks of the Cattlemen’s Association. That would never have done, for the majority of his work came from that quarter. Nester leaders settled quietly to their eternal rest for certain sums of money; a cow-thief whom the law was, for some reason best known to itself, reluctant to or incapable of bringing to justice; a blackmailer or two; a gunman or two. Always the threat made against Brennan, the drawn gun and the whole terminated by the single and deadly accurate shot.
His wife, Letitia, had no knowledge of his manner of earning a living. In her trusting simplicity, she thought they lived in comfort on the profit made on the cattle. She never suspected that would have provided no more than enough for Brennan’s cigars. She gave him respectability, something that he valued, not only because it was a good cover, but because he liked it.
Now, he lay on his bed, fully clothed, hands behind head and thought about the project on hand. Slowly, as the evening shadows lengthened, he became aware of the sound of voices in the room next to his. The plaster walls were so thin, he reckoned you could have heard a man scratch himself. Two men were talking. One of the voices was raised every now and then in anger. The other stayed as a low protesting murmur. Brennan found that he could hear every other word of the louder voice. Having caught half of what was being said, being human, he was curious to know what the other half was.
He threw his legs over the side of the bed and listened intently.
‘ … race … horses ... I tell you, Charlie … dead cert … can’t go wrong
Brennan stood up and crossed to the wall. He walked on his toes so that he would make no sound. He heard the softer voice murmuring. The louder voice: ‘ … I just don’t understand you, Charlie. Here I am … I’m giving you this ... we both of us know there isn’t a horse to equal it in the country. The race ... is as good as run …’
Brennan put his ear to the wall, but found to his annoyance that he could hear no better.
He searched the wall and found the hole in the plaster. He got down on one knee and put his eye to the hole. He could see into the other room, but all he could make out was the boots of the man sitting on the bed. However, when he put his ear to the hole, he found that he could hear a good deal better. The murmuring voice now produced words for him.
‘Just supposing,’ said the murmur, ‘that somebody comes up with a horse faster than yours.’
The other voice said: ‘Faster than mine? That’s impossible. Even if somebody turns up with a thoroughbred, it won’t be able to get round the rough course we produce.’
The murmur said: ‘The risk is terrible. We’ll have thousands of dollars in this. We could be ruined just because you think you can raise better horses than anybody else.’ The other voice said: ‘And I can. I’m putting my money where my mouth is. Mittelhouse’ll enter that Champion of his. He couldn’t resist the chance. He thinks he has the greatest horse in the world there.’
Excitement rose in Brennan as it always did when he heard horses discussed. It also rose because he thought he recognized the louder voice. As the man spoke on, Brennan searched back through his memory. It was a voice of individual tone and he knew it as well as he knew his own, but he could not place it for the life of him.
‘The canelos,’ said that same voice, ‘are the toughest breed of horse in the world. I’d back them against anybody. I’ve bred faster blood into them and now I’m ready to back them against anything on four legs over the right distance.’ Brennan’s heart almost leapt into his mouth. He had it! He had identified the voice: it belonged to Remington McAllister.
‘All right, Charlie,’ he heard McAllister’s voice say, ‘I’ll leave it with you. Think about it, but don’t leave it too long. I’m going to start making up the lists right off. I’ve given you your chance.’
Brennan heard McAllister’s boot heels head for the door. They stopped.
Charlie said: ‘I’ve made up my mind. Count me in. But, by God, if you ruin me, you’ll answer for it.’
McAllister said: ‘You made a wise choice, Charlie. It’s money in the bank.’
Brennan heard the door open and close.
Charlie paced up and down the room. Brennan heard him say to himself: ‘I don’t know. What the hell have I done? I can’t afford a thousand dollars. But if I split two ways with McAllister, I could win five. That kind of money don’t come a man’s way every day.’
Brennan went tippy-toe to the window and looked out at the street. A moment later, McAllister’s broad shoulders came into view. The big man headed down town. Brennan watched him go.
So McAllister thought he had the best horse in the world. He had mentioned Mittelhouse. The millionaire rancher was famed for his horseflesh. It was said that he had the finest thoroughbreds in the West.
Brennan made up his mind.
He’d show them. Suddenly, he was more excited than he had been in years. He would do it. What was there to stop him?
He came to a halt. There was something that would stop him. He could not carry out his latest commission and enter a horse in this race. It was his habit to knock his victim off, plead self-defense and quietly fade from the scene. It would be dangerous to hang around. Especially with that bastard McAllister in the offing. Just his being sheriff around here was making Brennan nervous.
He drove his right fist into the palm of his hand. The idea of the race had gotten to him. It was as though a new surge of life had entered his body. There was a kind of exultation in him. Like being young again and with hope. He’d do it, and never mind the consequences.
He stared across the street at the newspaper office. He could see Wallach crouched over his desk. Brennan could have shot him from here with ease. But that was not his way of doing a job. Best to stick to the well-tried method.
But how to kill Wallach and win this race? Could both be done? Why not? He would simply delay Wallach’s death.
When was the race – two, three weeks from now? Such a delay could do no harm, though his employer had demanded that the man be dead within the week. Brennan would think of some excuse. Something like – if he hurried the job there was a chance of it being traced back to his principal. He smiled a little. That one always worried them. How he despised the men who had to buy their killings. He would never make out the reason was lack of skill or a tender conscience. Like a man who could eat meat and yet not bear to kill an animal. The world was full of such hypocrites.
Briefly, he wondered who the man was behind this killing. Must be someone local. It usually was when a newspaperman had to be rubbed out. He had bought a copy of the Clarion and read it from first to last page. Even from that one copy, Brennan gathered that Wallach was a man who was adept at making enemies. He had enough in that issue to get him shot on the street by a half-dozen men any day of the week. Brennan admired that kind of journalism. It added some spice to life. Wallach was the catalyst in political life around here. The man must possess some wish to die a violent death. All right, Brennan would oblige him. Just so long as he got this horse race behind him.
He thought about how he had been hired.
Franklin Gough, the Colorado Springs lawyer, had approached him, as he had done on two or three former occasions. It was all cautiously indirect. Wheels within wheels. Gough had been approached by a lawyer from Denver. Apparently there had been another intermediary behind the lawyer in Denver. He guessed it was somebody local to Black Horse with a lot to lose.
He picked up the Clarion and glanced through it again. The name hardest hit in Wallach’s columns was Mittelhouse. The name was writ large in the Clarion's main leader. Brennan admired the way Wallach put his words together. In the Jew’s hands they were a mighty potent weapon. They were liable to inflame men’s minds. He could quite see why a ma
n like Mittelhouse wanted to get rid of him. Before he knew where he was, local opinion could go hard against him.
Brennan mentally rubbed his hands together. Here was a chance to clean up. Once and for all. He could win this race, kill Brennan and pick up a thousand dollars. Taking the blame for a killing came high on his charges list. That totally exonerated any other interested party. Then an evil and pleasing thought hit Brennan. It was the first time that he had ever seriously considered such a thing, because his trustworthiness earned him top fees. But if this was his final job, he did not have to worry about that. If he could identify the man behind this killing, he might shake him down for – he could name any sum he took a fancy to. Say five thousand dollars. Why not? It would be risky, but if he was cleaning up, a little risk would not come amiss. Besides, who would dare buck a feared gunman such as himself. He thought his position must be well-nigh impregnable. Except…
His thoughts shifted to McAllister. There was the fly in the ointment. His thoughts were bitter and hard. Maybe it would come to McAllister and himself. He knew that he could settle McAllister’s hash for him, but there could be a lot of trouble over the killing of a sheriff. And he would bet the son-of-a-bitch was popular around here. A man’s popularity always made matters a little difficult. A long shot from cover would settle it, though.
He smiled. He felt invigorated, filled with a kind of destructive and triumphant joy. He was enjoying himself and would before long be enjoying himself even more. He would keep Wallach spooked for a few weeks, then clean his plough for him. Brennan would take events as they came, knowing that he could keep one jump ahead of the other fellow.
He helped himself to a fresh cigar and lit up, settled down in the chair by the window and watched the evening street. He was getting the feel of this town. That always helped. If he was going to enter this race, maybe he should go on to the streets and mingle a little with the populace, make himself known. Maybe he should put about the story that he was looking for land around here with a view to locating. Yes, he liked the sound of that.
Six
McAllister walked down the street and he thought: I'm serious about this horse race. Really serious. I must be out of my mind.
He wondered if Cam Brennan was hooked.
If he was not hooked now, he would be before McAllister was through. He remembered Cam fifteen years back down on the Brazos in Texas. Cam maybe thought that McAllister had forgotten him from those days, but he had not. Cam had been callow and wild then, but he had been crazy for racing horses – and once a man had that fever he never got it out of his blood. Cam had ridden his own mounts in those days. Light as a feather he would perch up on the horse’s withers, face alight like a demon as he rode to win. And some of his wins had not been too clean either. He had to win, no matter what. And anything went. Rules were made by other men and were there to be broken. Even the young Cam had been a law unto himself.
McAllister halted and pondered.
If this race was going to be irresistible, there had to be really big money in it. So he needed a lot of backing. He must throw his challenge in Mittelhouse’s face. And if that beautiful woman was around, McAllister reckoned that old Mittelhouse would bet his pants just to look good in front of her. He wondered how Mark Tully was doing. He knew he could rely on his friend to come up with something big.
He strolled to Morrow and opened Doc Robertson’s white picket gate. He walked around the rear and rapped on the kitchen door. If he had knocked at the street door, Bertha would have taken offence. When nobody replied, he let himself in and called out: ‘Anybody home?’
Bertha trilled from the office and came through, duster in hand. ‘Oh, it’s you, Rem. Early even for you.’
‘I’m hungry.’
She laughed silently and said: ‘I never knew you when you weren’t. George is downtown. Some kid with the bellyache. He’ll be right along.’
She was a small, neat, busy woman. One of those fine boned women from the Scottish Highlands who would be lovely till the day she died. Gentle grey eyes and graceful hands. And a will of iron when she needed it, which she did quite a number of times a day with a husband like hers who would have worked himself to death had she let him. McAllister had never known a woman he thought more highly of. George Robertson was lucky – and he deserved to be lucky. The same went for Bertha in the choice of partners.
‘I heard something about a horse race,’ she said, starting to stir things in pots on top of the cooking range. The smell was driving McAllister frantic. How the hell had she heard about the race already?
‘Horse race?’ said McAllister. ‘What horse race is this, Bertha?’
She tasted something from a wooden spoon and said: ‘The innocence of it. Men are half-ashamed of a race like they are of drink or chasing women. Why, goodness only knows.’
‘Nothing fixed yet,’ he said.
‘I hear you’re going to clean up. Which horse’re you running?’
‘Give me your advice. You’re a good judge of men and horses.’
She looked grim and cocked her head to look at him. ‘I don’t know what ever gave you that idea. Depends on the distance, doesn’t it? Your saddler, Oscar, is the stayer of all time, but he doesn’t have the stallion’s speed. If it’s the one horse, I’d put my money on Caesar.’
‘Caesar?’ McAllister was a little surprised. ‘I’m not too sure he’s ready yet.’
‘He’s ready,’ she said confidently. ‘What’s the distance? That could decide it.’
‘Haven’t made up my mind yet.’ She glanced at him and saw that there were small crinkles at the comers of his dark eyes. His face was solemn.
‘You devil,’ she said in admiration. ‘You’re going to fix the distance that suits you best.’
‘Bertha,’ he said, ‘the amount of money I’m going to have on this race, I have to win it. My friends will be depending on me.’
‘Who’s financing you?’
‘All my friends, I reckon.’ Now he smiled openly. ‘I’ll know who my real friends are in the next twenty-four hours.’
‘Who are you going to ask?’
‘Just folks – like you and George. Those who wouldn’t fail me.’
She forgot all about her cooking then. She turned from the stove and she looked at him much as Betty at the hotel had done. ‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘George and I are your enemies. From this very minute. We don’t have much and we intend holding on to it.’
‘Don’t kid me,’ he said. ‘Between you you’ve bled the country white.’
‘Rem,’ she told him in that voice that brooked no opposition, ‘you can eat me out of house and home, you and George can drink more than is good for you, but you do not have our little bit of cash on your damned horses.’
He shrugged. ‘I know when I’m beaten. Just wanted to make a fortune for you, is all.’
‘Like billy-o, you did.’
The kitchen door opened and George Robertson came in. He looked tired. He had been on the go since two that morning. He slammed his little black bag down on the table and said: ‘Christ, I’m bushed.’
Bertha said: ‘Language. You know how I hate to have the Lord’s name taken in vain.’
‘It wasn’t in vain,’ said the doctor. ‘It was to good purpose. Feed me, woman, before I fall asleep. What’s this about a horse race, Rem?’
‘Go and have a dram,’ Bertha told him. ‘I’m dishing up now.’
McAllister and the doctor wandered into the dining room. Robertson found the malt whisky and poured enough for six men. They sighed and drank. The doctor started to look better. He said: ‘The only thing that makes this goddam town bearable. Now what about this horse race?’ McAllister told him. The doctor nodded. He took it very seriously, right from the start.
‘Bertha’s right,’ he said. ‘She’s always right. You should run Caesar.’
‘He’s young.’
‘He’s a hell of a horse. You’ll never have another like him.’
‘I told
Bertha to put her money where her mouth was.’ Roberston looked interested. ‘And will she?’
‘Will she hell.’
‘She’ll come around.’
‘When did Bertha ever come around?’
‘Never,’ said a voice from the doorway, and she walked in with a steaming stew-pot in her hands.
Seven
When McAllister reached Russ Corder’s place, he was not surprised to find Russ picking his nose, looking at the scenery and wondering whether it was not about time he got to work. He was also thinking that it was uncommonly hot for this time of the year and warm weather sure did not induce a man to labor hard. This did not mean that McAllister was in any way second-sighted, but that Russ was usually doing one or all of these things. He wasn’t always consistent about the weather. Sometimes he was discouraged from work by the cold.
McAllister reined in and looked down at Russ’s lank figure hugging the small patch of shade under the stoop cover.
‘Howdy,’ he said.
‘Howdy,’ said Russ. ‘What’s all this I hear about a horse race?’
‘How the hell did you hear about it so quick?’
‘Can’t say I recall, unless it was that goddam Indian that came moseying by. Who’s going to win?’
‘I am, of course,’ said McAllister. ‘That’s why I rid out this way. You being an old friend, I thought I’d give you a chance to own a share in Caesar when he runs.’
‘Caesar? Ain’t he a mite young? There’s Mittelhouse’s horse. Now there is a real humdinger.’
‘Don’t tell me you don’t have a hundred dollars when there’s a thousand staring you in the face.’
The mention of one hundred dollars almost brought Russ to life. ‘A hunnerd dollars?’ he exclaimed. ‘That I do not have, my friend.’
‘How about fifty?’ said McAllister.
‘Not that neither.’
‘For crissake you’ve got to have twenty-five.’
‘Yeah, I have twenty-five.’
‘I’ll take it,’ said McAllister. ‘It’s an embarrassingly small sum, but for friendship’s sake, I’ll take it.’
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