DOROTHY PARSONS WHO was running the Lone Pine Saloon while her husband was away riding with the vigilantes said that she did not normally make coffee to sell to customers. And neither, ordinarily, did she rent to strangers their son’s old room. But, obviously piqued at Bart’s decision to join in the manhunt and eager to do anything that might conceivably annoy her husband, she made a pot of coffee for Adam Steele and promised him the use of the room if an overnight stay in Barclay became necessary.
Later, after the doleful afternoon had dragged its quiet and uneventful course into an evening that promised to be just as sadly serene, the fleshy, rotund and extremely homely Mrs. Parsons cooked enough supper for three people: without telling the Virginian there was a share of the beef stew and sweet potatoes for him until she delivered the meal to him at the table by the batwings where he had sat during his long wait in the saloon.
‘On the house, mister,’ she assured before he could say anything.
‘Grateful to you, ma’am, but why should—’
She had moved away from his table to begin lighting kerosene lamps. Cut in on him: ‘For bein’ such a good customer?’
‘One pot of coffee and more than four hours’ use of your—’
‘All right, if you want a good reason other than that, I’ve got a generous disposition, mister … for settin’ a fine example to men too thick skulled and empty headed to see they ought to follow it. Instead of followin’ that young Naylor boy. Who was too eaten up with grief over what happened to the poor Quinn girl to think straight. And them that are older and oughta be wiser and should’ve known better oughta have talked him outta doin’ it instead of encouragin’ him. Good enough, mister?’
Without giving him a chance to reply, the short and overweight, pale and round-faced woman in a shapeless and sweat-stained once-white dress moved behind the bar counter at the back of the small saloon, where a beaded curtain in an archway rattled as she pushed through into the living quarters at the rear of the building.
And Steele remained alone in the saloon, crowded with chair-ringed tables, while he ate the good tasting supper and listened to the quiet town of Barclay become quieter still as full night replaced evening outside the undraped windows and unmoving batwings. While he ate the food, became firmer in his resolution not to get involved in the consequences of the killing of Jane Quinn. And, as testimony to his determination, he placed a dollar bill on the table near his plate before he finished eating. For he had a good idea that Dorothy Parsons was finding it increasingly difficult to sustain anger over what her husband had done as her anxiety about his safety expanded. And had caught her in unguarded moments eyeing him with quizzical nervousness as often as he saw pensive apprehension on her unlovely face during the long, empty afternoon. So guessed the meal could well be an opening bid to win a favor from him. And Steele could think of just one chore this woman would like to have him perform. Not just her, either.
During long periods of the hot and sun-bright spring afternoon the Virginian had been a good customer of the Lone Pine Saloon by token of being the only one. But from time-to-time other men had pushed in through the batwings to take a drink or two; mostly singly but not always. Always, though, there was talk—with Dorothy Parsons or just between the men she served with drinks. Occasionally, the weather, work, long ago events or Texas politics were discussed. But, without exception, talk drifted or was steered to the subject of the killing and its aftermath. And, more often than not, agreement was reached that young Chuck Naylor could be excused for wanting to chase off after the men who killed his girl, but that he should have been talked out of what was surely a bad move, instead of getting help from certain Barclay men who ought to have known better.
Early in the afternoon the tenor of the talk about the forming of the vigilante group was reproachful and the Virginian’s unobtrusive presence at the table by the doorway was totally ignored. But as the sun dipped closer toward the ridge on the green hill west of town and there was no sign of the missing men returning down the north trail, Dorothy Parsons was not the only Barclay citizen to start to worry. Dean Butler, brother of the liveryman, began to be concerned. A man named Miles Stone who was brother-in-law to Matthew Wolfe, another member of the unofficial posse, tried without success to pretend he thought his wife’s mounting fears were groundless. Other men, related to members of the group, or friends of one or more of them, or maybe just fellow citizens of them all, brought a contribution to the almost palpable aura of uneasiness each time they came through the batwings. And some of them returned to the Lone Pine three or four times, with a degree of expectancy in their demeanor, like they thought it was at the saloon rather than the point where the north trail became the street that the first good or bad sign about the fate of the vigilantes would be seen.
And Steele, while he was never directly invited to join in the tense exchanges, was no longer made to feel excluded from them. Knew he was being obliquely referred to in words as well as surreptitious glances when comments were made about the feasibility of somebody going out to look for the missing men. But he pretended to be impassively oblivious to what was being said and no one spoke to him until, when he was once more the sole customer in the saloon, Dorothy Parsons brought the meal to his table. And he chose to infer that she would like to tie a string to the offer of the free food: thus forced him to have to make a conscious effort to remain detached from Barclay’s trouble.
Maybe fifteen minutes after she went through the bead-curtained archway, the woman re-emerged from it. She had red-rimmed eyes and now did not attempt to mask her true feelings that had erupted tears while she was alone.
‘Best meal I’ve eaten in a long time, ma’am,’ the Virginian told her as he put back on the skin-tight black gloves he had removed to eat the stew.
‘Knew it would be, mister. I cook plain but I cook good. Woman that looks the way I do and is barren to boot, she has to have somethin’ with which she can hold her man. Couldn’t touch but a morsel of it myself tonight.’ She had come out from behind the bar counter and was momentarily in a doleful quandary when she got to his table and reached for the empty plate: saw the dollar bill.
‘I’m not that big a tipper,’ he told her. ‘I’ll pay higher if you say. I won’t be indebted to you.’
Her eyes remained dully matt-black in the tear-reddened rims while he spoke. Then she nodded and breathed a short sigh as she picked up the bill along with the plate. ‘It’s ample, mister. Be the same for the room, okay?’
‘If I need it.’
‘Sure. You want some more coffee? Or maybe a drink now?’
‘Grateful, but nothing.’
The stranded beads rattled behind her. She made small sounds as she did the dishes and the sloshing of water and clatter of crockery were all that disturbed the silence of the lamp-lit saloon until Dorothy Parsons returned through the arch. And asked:
‘You’re like me, uh?’
‘How’s that, ma’am?’
‘Not a drinker?’
‘Not for a lot of years.’
‘I don’t like the taste of any of it. And just hate what it does to me … how I feel, I mean.’
‘Know what you mean.’
‘A man like you … he needs to keep his wits about him all the time?’
‘Like me?’ Steele countered to the woman who looked to be not much older than he was under the flattering light of the kerosene lamps—in the sunlight of day he had seen she was over fifty by more than just a year or so. He took his hat from the seat of a nearby chair and placed it on his head, at the same time as he took up his rifle from where it had leaned all afternoon against the wall at his side.
Dorothy Parsons took time to reach a decision. Then sighed her indifference to the outcome as she leaned both forearms on the top of the bar and gazed levelly at him to impart: ‘Opinion about you is divided, mister. Gambler or gunslinger?’
She appeared to be as disinterested in a response to the query as she had been about her decision to raise the subject.
‘I’ve played a lot of cards and I’ve shot a lot of men, Mrs. Parsons,’ Steele told her evenly. ‘But I wouldn’t tie either label to myself.’
‘Uh, uh.’
‘Tell you what I am right now,’ he went on as he rose from the table.
‘What’s that?’
‘Weary.’
‘Room’s right through the arch and last door down on the right, mister. Been more than a year since our Billy was last here to visit with us and use the place. I already cleaned the room some and made up the bed, so anytime you’re ready …’
She gestured with a motion of her head toward the bead-curtained archway near the end of the counter on which she continued to lean. And there was an uncaring dismissiveness in her attitude now, as if she had at last abandoned hope of drawing an encouraging response from him.
‘Need to get my stuff from Naylor’s place and take care of my horse before—’
A shout from out on the street, up toward the north end of it, caused him to break off from what he was saying. This as Dorothy Parsons suddenly lost her look of numbed hopelessness and came stiffly erect, head tilted to one side. Then, as more voices were raised and the indistinct words rang with shrill-pitched excitement, the short and fat woman moved with surprising agility to swing around the end of the counter and weave between chairs and tables to reach the doorway. Where Steele held open one of the batwings and allowed her to go outside ahead of him.
There was a chill in the night air that owed more to the winter just ending than the spring about to begin. Steele had been only vaguely aware of the lowering temperature as he sat out of any drafts from the doorway with his being still suffused by the warmth of the food in his stomach. Then for several seconds seemed to be the only person on the street who was conscious of how cold it had gotten to be—even though he wore a suit and hat while most of the men, women and a few older children around him had not waited to don street clothes before leaving their firesides in response to the rising volume of excited shouting. Which now began to falter to the same degree as the initial haste of the crowd to get to the north end of the street started to slow.
Within moments, the surge had diminished to a trickle and then almost all movement in this direction along the street came to a halt. Then, with hardly any talk at all, the elongated throng of Barclay citizens divided into two: so that a gap was opened up along the center of the street stretching from Dexter’s Funeral Parlor and the Brady house to the meeting hall and Wolfe’s Dry Goods store which was across a vacant lot from the saloon.
Steele was among the group out front of the store, but detached in his dispassionate attitude from the crowd who watched with tense apprehension the slow advance of four riders down the human corridor. One of them a dead man. None of the living from the vigilante group the townspeople had been waiting so anxiously to see return.
‘One at the front with the lead line on the dead man’s horse is Duke Rexall,’ the heavy-featured, bushy-eyebrowed Miles Stone told Steele, unbidden. ‘That’s his son, Tom, to the right. Guy to the left is Ambrose Jansen. Does the paperwork out at the quarryin’ plant. Tom’s just come on home to get married to some—’
‘Hush up, Miles!’ Stone’s beanpole-thin, sour-mouthed wife urged in a rasping tone, jerking violently on his shirt sleeve.
Every other hushed voice was suddenly stilled as, when Duke Rexall reined his mount to a halt and the men flanking the corpse-burdened horse behind him followed suit, the door of the grocery and notions store folded open. And the tall and emaciated figure of Amos Quinn stepped across the sidewalk and down onto the street. It would have been easier on the elderly and grief-stricken Quinn if Rexall had ridden on down to meet him, but that would have taken him away from the main body of the grim-faced audience to where just a few Barclay citizens were sparsely scattered along the lower stretch of the curving street. This, anyway, was how the Virginian judged the man’s motives from the way in which Rexall appeared vainly satisfied after sweeping an arrogant-eyed survey to left and right. While Tom Rexall stared straight ahead with an expression of total impassiveness, like a blind man completely out of touch with what was happening around him. And Jansen looked both nervous and shame-faced.
The Rexalls were both average framed men, with square-cut faces and clear blue eyes. The father, who was about fifty, had a crinkled and element-burnished complexion that emphasized the whiteness of his hair and bushy mustache. The son was approaching thirty, pale skinned and had brown hair. He was clean shaven. There was just a vague family resemblance between the two in the squareness of their features. Jansen was half a head shorter than the Rexalls and was a little heavier than them: with excess fat rather than muscular development. He had a round face and brown eyes. His clean-shaven skin was pale and soft looking. There were pockmark patches at the centers of both his cheeks. He was maybe a year or so younger than Tom Rexall.
Duke Rexall was attired in a dark-colored city-style suit with a vest, shirt and string tie displayed by the unfastened jacket. It all looked expensive. His son and his clerk wore far from new sheepskin coats and denim pants. All three had spurs on their heels and Stetsons on their heads. All that could be seen of the blanket-wrapped dead man were his hands and his feet dangling down at either side of the horse over which he was slumped. There were no spurs on his boot heels. Each living man had a repeater rifle in a forward-slung boot on his saddle. Duke and Tom Rexall and Ambrose Jansen all sat astride chestnut geldings. The dead man was slumped across the saddle of a black gelding. Not solid black, Steele saw. There was a perfect circle of white on the left rump of the animal.
‘Old man, it was terrible,’ Duke Rexall said gravely, and Tom and Jansen were just a moment behind in removing their hats as Amos Quinn came to a weary, stoop-shouldered halt some fifteen feet from where the mounted men sat. ‘She was a lovely young woman with everything to live for, despite her handicap.’
There was a falseness about the way the man spoke. It was not heard in the solemnity of his voice: instead in the preciseness of how he enunciated his words—he sounded like he was expressing his true feelings but was faking an accent.
‘Appreciate what you’re saying, Mr. Rexall,’ Quinn responded. He was dressed the same as when Steele last saw him, but the collarless shirt and stained dungarees looked now to be too big for him—as though many hours of suffering bereavement had shrunken further his already emaciated body. ‘That the one that did her in, sir?’
Rexall nodded and put his hat back on. And there was a just audible ripple of sighing among the crowd on either side of the street as it was revealed the dead man was not one of those who had gone hunting for the killer.
‘Name is Neil Slattery, old man. It could be you haven’t heard of him?’
While the people who had been scattered widely along the southern stretch of the street advanced tentatively so that they were better able to hear what was being said, Amos Quinn shuffled a foot or so to the side, so that he could look past Duke Rexall’s horse and get a clearer view of the animal on the lead line and its inert, blanket-shrouded burden.
‘Don’t mean a thing to me, that name,’ the grocery store owner answered in the same colorless tone, while his grizzled face displayed a scowl of repugnance.
‘Does to me, old man!’ the fat-bodied and bloated-faced Mrs. Cromwell said eagerly from where she stood at the side of her husband a few yards behind Quinn. ‘Him and his wife just the other day moved into that old claim shack out along the lake spur on the hill—’
‘Right, ma’am,’ Rexall cut in on the woman, just before her husband could get her attention with intent to tell her to be quiet. ‘He and Mary-Ann arrived in the neighborhood just two weeks or so ago. Explains how he didn’t know about Jane being deaf. But I understand Tom and Ambrose did try to warn Slattery about that?’
There was a sudden burst of talking and a moving closer together among the watchers on all sides of the mounted men and Amos Quinn. Shock and anger sounded as the dominant emotions, and Jansen looked abruptly more afraid—seemed rigidly on the point of spurring his horse into a gallop to escape from the center street spot. But then Tom Rexall showed he had not been completely withdrawn into a reverie since he rode into town. For he rasped something to his father, and Jansen was not too deeply enmeshed in fear to fail to hear what was said. And all three of them peered for perhaps as many stretched seconds at where the Virginian stood silently amid the chattering crowd.
‘If you will allow me!’ Duke Rexall shouted, raising his rear out of the saddle to stand in his stirrups as he looked at the people on all sides. Then sat down again and appeared to be arrogantly satisfied once more as the talking subsided and he captured the attention of everyone on the street, including his son and Jansen. ‘If you will allow me,’ he repeated, not shouting now. ‘I will give you the explanation you surely deserve. The old man, here, most of all. But every citizen of this fine town, too. Since in a community such as Barclay, an outrage against one person is a blow struck at all. And, I may add in all honesty, I consider myself a fellow citizen of you people.’
He made another grave-faced survey of his audience while he spoke and then, during a brief pause, showed an embittered frown to his son and Ambrose Jansen. The latter was unable to meet Rexall’s level gaze and hung his head while he toyed with his reins. Tom swallowed hard and developed a tic under his right eye.
‘Why’d you come into my grocery to rob me, Tom?’ Amos Quinn asked. He had shuffled across to look around Duke Rexall’s mount on the other side. And had given a terse nod before he posed the question. Steele guessed the hollow-eyed and near toothless old-timer had checked to see that the black horse carrying the shrouded corpse had a matching circle of white on his right rump.
‘Mr. Quinn, it was supposed to be a—’ Tom Rexall started nervously.
‘As a stupid prank, old man,’ his father interrupted, and just for a moment showed the fires of anger in his blue eyes. Hurried on so that the start of more talk was curtailed: ‘As you all know, Tom is back home to be married. Right down the street here at the Barclay church tomorrow afternoon. And I want to say, right here and now, that if you people would rather the ceremony did not take place here in view of what’s happened, then I’ll understand why and I’ll respect your wishes.’
He looked around again and there was in his demeanor a confidence that he would draw the precise response that he expected.
‘Jane’s dead and there’s not a thing can change that, Mr. Rexall,’ Quinn said, and there were many nods and a ripple of low-toned words that told of mass agreement with what the old man said. ‘Knowing how and why she came to be killed won’t bring her back, I know, but it might—’
‘Yes, of course,’ Duke Rexall cut in, and sounded more than ever like an uneducated man pretending to be cultured. ‘It was a tragic accident, old man. The outcome of an ill-conceived practical joke that went terribly wrong. Tom and Ambrose here, along with Neil Slattery, wanted to maintain the tradition of the bridegroom’s last day as a bachelor. An innocent enough wish, as I’m sure all you people will agree?’ Yet again the expensively clad and neatly turned-out older Rexall raked his quizzical gaze over the upturned faces on all sides of him. But this time his vain self-confidence suffered a dent when he saw that his patronizing attitude toward the citizens of Barclay was no longer being well received. He recognized impatience and not a little enmity in the gazes being directed back at him. And in his haste to get finished, his accent coarsened, which had the effect of making it clearer than ever that the emotion which sounded in his tone was true to his actual feelings. Most of them bitter.
‘All right, the three young fellers started in to drink at the company store soon as it opened this morning. Then they bought themselves a few bottles, saddled up and rode off out into the country. Too drunk to know where they were heading or to have anything in mind to do. Short of getting even drunker. Then the liquor was all gone and they started to sober up. Saw they were not far from town and rode on in, planning on getting drunk again at the Lone Pine. But then Neil Slattery came up with his crazy idea, old man. And I want you to know …’ he gazed earnestly down at Amos Quinn ‘… that I’m just telling it to you the way Tom and Ambrose told it to me.’
He paused, awaiting some form of encouragement from the old-timer. But it was not forthcoming and Rexall had to take the time to check an impulse to anger at this before he continued: ‘Seems there’s a rumor around Barclay and out at the quarries that you’ve got a cache of money hidden in your grocery, old man. And Slattery got this idea—’
He broke off as, unexpectedly, Amos Quinn nodded, spat at the ground in front of him and cast a baleful glance around at his fellow citizens before he growled: ‘Rumor there is, Mr. Rexall, and like most talk of that kind, there ain’t a jot of truth in it.’
There was a swell of talk as the townspeople denied the implied accusation and expressed their resentment of all being tarred by the same brush.
‘More than just a mite of truth in it, I’d say,’ the bushy-eyebrowed Stone growled sourly to Steele, then became sullenly silent under the withering stare of his wife as the rest of the people on the street also grew attentively quiet.
‘Whatever you say, old man,’ Duke Rexall allowed. ‘But the fact remains, these three liquored up young men took it into their addled brains to see if the talk was true. There was no intention to rob you, of course. The idea was merely to find out … find out if …’
‘Yeah, Mr. Rexall,’ Quinn acknowledged. ‘I can see that part of it. You’ve no need to say any more about that. And I can see how a man new around here wouldn’t maybe know about Jane being real hard of hearing. Was there in the store myself and heard two of the masked men try to tell the other one she was a deaf person. So I guess I just need to know now how this Slattery wound up dead over that there horse, Mr. Rexall?’
The older Rexall nodded several times while Amos Quinn was speaking, and seemed to be impatient for him to be through. Ambrose Jansen nodded just once, with great emphasis, when the old man spoke of the warnings about Jane’s deafness. This while Tom Rexall continued to react in the same way he always had since he first spotted the uncommunicative Adam Steele amid the crowd—tried to gaze stoically into the middle distance but felt himself frequently compelled to direct fleeting, part uneasy, part irritable, glances toward the Virginian.
‘That’s fine, old man,’ Duke Rexall answered as he wriggled into a more comfortable posture astride his saddle—and just for a few moments showed by his expression that he was also ill at ease in his mind. ‘It’s simple enough, what happened to Slattery. When he sobered up, he couldn’t handle the feeling of guilt. Talked a lot to Tom and Ambrose here about what he’d done gnawing at him while they rode out towards the place, old man. Didn’t say what he planned to do. But lots of us heard the gunshot soon after he left the place. Ed Vincent was coming by about the same time—you all know Ed who runs the company store?’ Rexall glanced to left and right and saw many heads nod. ‘Brought him back up to the place. I thought it only right and proper that I should come to town to explain to you people what happened. And that my son and Ambrose Jansen should be along, too?’
Once again he allowed his gaze to wander away from Amos Quinn, who offered no reaction to what he had said: to seek gestures and some vocal endorsements that he had done the right thing. Then the frail-looking old man standing in front of him seemed to be willed by his fellow citizens to put forward an opinion. And he said flatly:
‘Appreciate you coming to town, Mr. Rexall.’
‘Least I could do, old man.’
‘Mr. Rexall, you want me to take care of the arrangements?’ Vernon Dexter asked, as he stepped from that section of the audience grouped in the area of his parlor.
‘Certainly,’ the white-haired man said to the bald-headed one. And proffered the lead line as he signaled with a gesture of his head for Jansen to back away his mount. ‘His wife will be coming in, I’m sure. Do whatever she wants, Vernon. But bill the company.’
‘Sure thing, Mr. Rexall,’ the mortician replied as he took the line and led the distinctively marked gelding off the center of the street, through a broad gap in the crowd, the people drawing back in horror from the stiffly swinging hands and feet visible below the blanket at either side of the horse.
‘Accidents happen!’ Duke Rexall said in a louder voice, and turned deliberately in his saddle to emphasize that he was making an announcement to the entire town. ‘Some are far more serious than others, of course. But nonetheless, I believe that the old maxim should be applied in all cases. Least said, soonest mended. I’ll see all of you at the wedding ceremony tomorrow?’
‘Like I already said, Mr. Rexall,’ Quinn replied to the implied query. ‘Not a thing can be done to bring back Jane. No reason for the wedding not to be held here in the town church tomorrow, far as I’m concerned.’
There was a gabble of concurrence with this and all three mounted men were visibly relieved by the smooth change of atmosphere now that the prime purpose of their ride to town had been dealt with.
‘One thing before you leave, Mr. Rexall!’ Dorothy Parsons called, and the trio of men who had been about to wheel their horses were abruptly tense again as they all looked to where the plain-faced, heavy-bodied woman stood in the light from the batwinged entrance of the Lone Pine Saloon. ‘My Bart and a bunch of other men went chasin’ off after the shootin’. Fixin’ to catch up with them that killed little Jane Quinn and—’
‘It was Slattery alone who killed the girl, Mrs. Parsons!’ Duke Rexall cut in grimly. But then remembered to tip his hat to her before he moderated his tone and added: ‘We didn’t see any sign of a posse on the way in from the place, ma’am. Rest assured, though, if we see Bart and the others on the way back, we’ll tell them what has happened and have them ride directly for town.’
‘Appreciate it, Mr. Rexall!’ another woman called, and this signaled another swell of vocal agreement.
‘You don’t need me to tell you that guy’s a real important man around here, mister?’ Stone growled to Steele as the three riders now completed turning their horses and started to move back up the street.
‘Right,’ the Virginian answered.
‘If it wasn’t for the Rexall Quarry Company there wouldn’t be anythin’ around here!’ the skinny and sour tempered Mrs. Stone countered, with the kind of scowl that placed her husband at the bottom of the scale on which Rexall was at the top.
The crowd began to disperse, as the people became suddenly aware of just how cold it was outside in the night. Several men, not always with the ready agreement of their wives, headed for the saloon instead of back to their homes as the Rexalls and Jansen spurred their mounts to a gallop at the start of the trail between the escarpment and the timber.
‘There are some around here rate him higher than God,’ Stone muttered, apportioning his bleak look equally between the now deserted north trail and the narrow back of his departing wife. ‘On account of God only made the world. And Duke Rexall, he made it comfortable for local folks to live in.’
‘One day that loose tongue of yours will get you in bad trouble!’ his wife warned bitterly, just before she went into her brother’s dry goods store and slammed the door forcefully behind her.
Stone suddenly looked troubled, as if he had been lost in a world of private thought and only now realized he had spoken aloud opinions that he should have kept to himself. But then he showed a sheepish expression on his heavy features for a few moments, before he shrugged and grinned, his dark eyes twinkling out from under his bushy brows. And growled: ‘Hell, maybe my Annie’s right, mister. But what the hell?’
‘No problem, for a feller like you,’ the Virginian answered.
‘Meaning?’
‘Reckon you have to know just how far to go.’
‘Uh?’
‘With a name like Miles Stone.’