THE BARCLAY MAN’S grin expanded into a raucous belly laugh as he swung around to head for the saloon. But his noisy high humor was short lived as the few people still on the street directed glaring stares and some reproving words at him. This as Adam Steele ambled along the street in the other direction, and crossed it to go into Chuck Naylor’s forge. Where just a faint glimmer of dull crimson showed here and there in the gray ashes of the almost cold fire. But enough blue-tinged moonlight reached into the building through the doorway and dusty windows for him to see that his horse was not there anymore. And the animals that had been in the small corral out back were also gone. His saddle and accouterments and bedroll, and the gunnysack of purchases from the grocery store were all where he had left them.
He was gathering these up when footfalls on the street approaching the forge caused him to turn toward the doorway, where he recognized in silhouette against the moonlight the unmistakable thin and fat forms of Charlie Cromwell and his wife. At this time of night they were without the small red-headed boy.
‘Saw you headed up this way and we figured you’d maybe wonder about your horse, Mr. Steele,’ the long-ago-pretty woman said.
‘Thelma means she figured, stranger,’ Cromwell said in a bored tone and with a glance along the street that suggested he wished he was somewhere else.
The woman glowered a tacit rebuke at him and gave the Virginian a smile that on her bloated face looked like a parody of coyness. Explained: ‘Barclay’s a friendly town, and I figured it would be a unneighborly act for me to tell you how your animal has been took care of—before you got to thinkin’ somebody around here stole him or somethin’?’
‘I’m grateful to you, ma’am,’ Steele said, his hands too full to allow him to tip his hat.
Thelma Cromwell glared triumphantly at the incurious Charlie, then told the Virginian: ‘It was Dean Butler took your animal just down the street aways to his brother’s livery. Along with the other horses that Chuck had out back of here. Seein’ as how there’s still a winter snap in the air at nights, I guess. Ned Butler would have done the same if he wasn’t out chasin’ after nothin’. Folks in Barclay take care of their neighbors’ needs when their neighbors ain’t—’
‘Okay, Thelma, you told Steele about it. Time you was gettin’ back to check on little Joseph.’
‘And you was in the Lone Pine with the others tryin’ to drown your conscience in hard liquor, I expect?’
‘I planned on takin’ a snort or so—’
‘Don’t worry about that, Mr. Steele,’ the fat woman interrupted her husband as the Virginian made to nudge the forge door closed with a knee. ‘You’re in the most law-abidin’ town in the state of Texas here. Ain’t hardly anybody around here bothers with lockin’ their doors and stuff like that. Mind, I said hardly anybody.’
She had dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and at the same time made a bleak-eyed survey of the broad and now almost deserted street.
‘Hell, Thelma, you don’t know—’
‘Oh, go say your piece at the Parsons’ place, Charlie Cromwell!’ she rasped, and gave him a slight shove in the direction of the Lone Pine before she relinquished her proprietorial hold on his arm. ‘Figure we have to be thankful Duke Rexall didn’t stay here to stand treat for you and the rest of them! But, as I recall, his boots looked to be licked pretty shiny when he was—’
‘I’ll take care of my tongue, woman!’ Cromwell snarled, but was moving away from her as he made the verbal counter-attack. ‘It’s yours that could cause trouble—’
‘Go to hell, Charlie Cromwell! And them that drinks hard liquor are already on the downward slope to Hades!’ She traded the glower for another smile and moderated her tone as she turned away from the departing figure of her husband to look at Adam Steele. ‘I hear you ain’t a drinkin’ man?’
‘But I’m not against others who use liquor for whatever reason, ma’am,’ he answered as he started up the street and she moved to walk alongside him. ‘It just didn’t work for me when I needed it most.’
Thelma Cromwell possessed the undentable composure of the natural and well-tried gossip. ‘It does not matter when or how a person sees the errors of their ways, so long as they do, Mr. Steele. I saw you talkin’ with Mr. Stone just now, didn’t I?’
‘Right, ma’am.’
‘I don’t know how much he told you, but—’
‘Nothing I asked to hear, Mrs. Cromwell.’
‘He and I and a handful of other people around here—poor Jane Quinn was one of us—are the only ones who do not consider the sun rises when Duke Rexall appears and sets when he goes away. But a man smart as I figure you to be, Mr. Steele … he doesn’t need to be told what a big wheel he is? After seein’ how long it took him to get his precious son and his office clerk out from behind what in any other town would be a charge of murder?’
‘Mrs. Cromwell?’
‘Mr. Steele?’
‘I’m grateful you told me about what happened to my horse,’ he said as they came to a halt out front of the Butler Livery Stables. ‘But none of the rest of this is any of my business. Or concern.’
The fat woman displayed the thickness of her skin again. She had dropped the strange looking smile when she mentioned Jane Quinn and the replacement expression of earnestness remained firmly set as she hurried on: ‘It’s a good town and I’m proud to belong here in a whole lot of ways, Mr. Steele. We’re all friends here, like I say—except for some of us who are wedded to each other, but ain’t nothin’ unusual about that?’ She grinned at Steele then briefly scowled along and across the street to where her husband’s slight frame went from sight between the batwing doors of the Lone Pine. ‘But there ain’t nowhere perfect outside of heaven, I figure. Different folks have different points of view. Them that owe their livelihoods to the Rexall Quarry Company—by workin’ out there or by sellin’ to the folks that do work out there—I guess they got to treat that big wheel different to most other folks. But land sakes, Mr. Steele, a man oughta draw the line at how far he’s ready to bow and scrape, wouldn’t you say?’
‘My opinion counts for nothing, ma’am,’ the Virginian told her. And for the first time realized that the obese woman with the bloated features was not simply talking because she was an innate gossip. In back of this, she was genuinely concerned about how a stranger to town had been given a poor impression of it. And perhaps, even deeper than this, Thelma Cromwell was another Barclay citizen obliquely asking him to help.
But, almost as if she could read in his impassive face that he was delving beneath the surface of what she was saying—and she was ashamed of what he might find—she rasped with a tone of anger: ‘It’s always easier not to get involved, isn’t it?’
‘Right, ma’am,’ he answered as he set down some of his burdens and tried the livery door. Found it unlocked. ‘And I don’t see any point in looking to make life harder than it can get to be of its own accord.’
While he spoke, the woman expressed dismay before she averted her face. But she had the bad feeling with herself rather than against him. And when she looked back at him her composure was rock solid once again. There was censure in her flesh-crowded eyes and in the sharp tone of her voice, but in the way her gaze wandered back and forth, up and down, and across the street, she made it plain it was the subjects she spoke of that were the targets for her condemnation.
‘Just so you’ll know, Mr. Steele—whether you’ll care or not. It is more than just a rumor that old man Quinn has a pile of money hid somewhere in his place. And if I had that kind of money I’d be ready to wager it that those three who held up the grocery were fixin’ to steal it. Not just show it’s there. Me, who isn’t a gamblin’ person, Mr. Steele.’
He had pushed the livery door open wide and now picked up his gear to take inside. Said: ‘Ma’am, I need to check that my horse is all right and then I need to get some sleep. So if you’re through with—’
‘I’m all finished, Mr. Steele. And I guess I ought to apologize for bendin’ your ear the way I have. Glad I got it all said, though. So you won’t leave this town figurin’ that every last person in it don’t give a damn about what’s happened here today.’
She turned and waddled away from the front of the livery, her head held high and with a surprising lightness in her step—like she was experiencing a sense of achievement and was eager for those who watched her to be aware of this.
Adam Steele watched her for just a second or so, then shrugged and went into the clapboard stable redolent with horses and leather and feed and straw. Again, moonlight from the open doorway made it unnecessary for him to strike a match. He ensured that the brother of the liveryman had put the unshod black stallion in a stall with clean bedding and that there was adequate feed and water for the animal. Then he transferred his new-bought supplies from the sack to the saddlebags and hung all his gear from two pegs at the front of the stall. Carried just his rifle as he left the livery and closed the door behind him.
Now that Thelma Cromwell was no longer in sight, the entire length of the curving street was deserted. Many of the windows that had earlier spilled lamp or candle light were now darkened. A low volume of talk trickled out from the doorway of the Lone Pine Saloon as Steele crossed toward it, but a gently blowing cold wind made more noise as it rustled the early spring foliage of the timber stands around Barclay and the scattered trees in town. The wind was not strong enough to swing free-hanging business signs but it did cause surface dust to ripple around the Virginian’s booted feet as he moved unhurriedly down the street.
There was something over a dozen men in the saloon, all of them standing at the bar counter. He recognized Charlie Cromwell, the pompous-mannered town doctor, the look-alike Bob and Oliver Dexter and Miles Stone, when the talk stopped and everybody turned to look toward him as he pushed through the batwings. He could recall seeing the rest of the customers at some time during his stopover in town but was unable to name them nor did he know at what they worked. There was a disquieting aura of guilt emanating from the group who looked not to have been enjoying the drink before Steele interrupted them—like they had been engaged in a shameful conspiracy and were now caught between humiliation and resentment by the appearance of an intruder.
The lone exception to this attitude was Miles Stone, who was as ill-humored as the rest of the customers, but was unabashed to see the Virginian. He gave a nod of greeting and looked about to speak, before Dorothy Parsons got in first.
‘There’s a pitcher of water and a basin in Billy’s room, Mr. Steele. And a pot simmerin’ on the stove if you want to heat it up and clean up before you bed down.’
‘Grateful to you, ma’am,’ he answered as he weaved between the tables and went around the group at the bar to go behind it, where the woman held aside the bead curtain in the archway. As he tipped his hat to her and went on through he could sense an air of relief fill the small saloon. And then drinks were finished and fresh ones ordered in a tenor that came close to being convivially normal for a saloon. After which, as he took up Mrs. Parsons’ invitation to use hot water from the pot in the kitchen to wash up and shave before he went to bed, the volume of talk fell and became by contrast melancholy. The few people he heard leave the Lone Pine did so without loud exchanges of farewells and their departing footfalls were quickly masked by the wind rustling the trees. But Steele did not remain awake long enough to hear everyone press out between the batwings, for he soon drifted into his usual shallow but restful sleep under the warm blankets and the crisply clean sheet on the narrow bed in the spartanly furnished and recently re-opened room of the Parsons’ absent son.
All was quiet and still in the building when he came close to being fully awakened by the clop of hooves on the street later. How much later he did not know. The wind had stopped. He drifted back to sleep, then rose again to the threshold of waking at the sound of voices in the Lone Pine. A man’s and a woman’s. The exchange was brief and in low tones, followed by padding footfalls and the closing of a door: both Dorothy and Bart Parsons taking pains not to disturb the stranger in Billy’s room.
He came fully awake to a room filled with sunlight filtered by the drapes at the single window, the smell of frying bacon and the sound of distant hammering—metal on metal. He washed up in the refreshingly cold water from the pitcher on the bureau and scraped off the minor growth of bristles that had sprouted since last night. The smell of hot coffee was mixed with the aroma of bacon while he got dressed; and all the time the metallic hammering rang out, the sound coming unmistakably from the blacksmith forge of Chuck Naylor.
‘Mornin’ to you, mister,’ Dorothy Parsons greeted brightly as he entered the sun-bright and redolent-with-breakfast kitchen. ‘It sure looks like it’s goin’ to be a fine spring day.’
She was neatly turned out in a black dress with a starched white apron. Her face glowed with happiness and her hair gleamed from vigorous brushing. There was just one place set at the scrubbed pine table under the window and she gestured for Steele to sit down.
‘You and Mr.—’ he started.
‘I never have but a cup of coffee in the mornin’, mister. And Bart will likely sleep until noon, that was how done in he looked when him and the rest of them got back to town after three o’clock this mornin’. And no wonder, all the miles they rode lookin’ for what wasn’t to be found. That’s Chuck you can hear workin’ up at his place. On shoes for your horse, I shouldn’t wonder. He’s young, of course. Half the age of most of them that rode out with him. Got the stamina to handle it. Or maybe he finds it easier to live with what happened … by keepin’ busy, I mean. That sufficient for you, mister? I can cook more. Help yourself to coffee and bread.’
While she chattered on, moderating her joyful tone just slightly when she spoke of the young blacksmith’s grief, she served the seated Virginian with a heaped plate of crisp fried bacon, two over-easy eggs, grits and beans. Her near rapture at having her husband safely back with her was seemingly enhanced by once again proving her skill as a plain cook and Steele was reluctant to tell her that he didn’t normally eat breakfast, either. And, when he was through eating it, he was glad he kept quiet, for he felt pleasantly replete and eager to ride out on an open trail again; without need to stop except to rest his horse until he made night camp where he might or might not decide to cook a second hot meal of the day.
The woman had left him to eat alone while she went out into the saloon to clean up after last night’s business. He could hear her humming tunefully and occasionally sweetly singing snatches of the lyrics of a cheerful sounding folk song. And sometimes it was almost as if Chuck Naylor was keeping time as he hammered hot metal into shape on his anvil.
Steele left two dollars on the pine table in the kitchen, under the empty mug beside the empty plate. Told the woman who was sweeping dust out through the batwinged entrance only that he had left his room rent there.
‘You’ll be leavin’ Barclay right away this mornin’, mister?’ she asked as she rested on her broom, and left a dust smudge on her forehead as she wiped beads of sweat off her plain face with the back of a hand.
‘I was married once, ma’am,’ he told her. ‘And I reckon one wedding is enough in this man’s life.’
‘You were?’ She looked long and hard into his quietly smiling face, as if she found it difficult to visualize Steele with a wife. Then shrugged that it was not important. ‘Was just goin’ to tell you. If you wanted to see the Rexall weddin’, you’d have to stay for another night. Seems the men ran into Rexall and his boy and Jansen, and Rexall made the same offer he made in town. And agreed to do what young Chuck asked. Leave today free for the buryin’ of Jane. Have the weddin’ tomorrow.’
The Virginian stepped out of the Lone Pine and tipped his hat with his right hand as he canted the Colt Hartford to his shoulder with his left. Told the woman: ‘I reckon I’ve been to more than enough funerals to last me a lifetime, Mrs. Parsons.’
She looked like she had been about to start singing again, but now expressed wistfulness as she shook her head and murmured ruefully: ‘Just one is one too many, mister, in my opinion.’
Steele responded with just a nod before he started up the almost deserted street. And before he had taken more than a dozen easy paces the woman burst into cheerful song again as she continued with her cleaning chore: this mood far more in keeping with the brightness and rising warmth of the early morning as the town of Barclay awakened to face the new day. But now chimneys other than those of the saloon and the blacksmith forge began to expel the smoke of newly lit fires to darkly stain the glaring blueness of the sky: as if to remind those with the perception to see it as an unwitting sign that there was a joyless task to be attended to this fine Sunday.
The Virginian had the imagination to make the connection, but considered it for only as long as he glanced with narrowed eyes up at the smoke-streaked sky. Then he saw a far less subtle portent of the disposal of the dead that was to take place in Barclay today. This the appearance on the trail between the escarpment and the newly leafing stand of timber of a buckboard with a single horse in the traces and just the driver riding on the seat. The horse was white and the wagon was old. The woman was clad entirely in black and despite having her face masked by a mourning veil there was something about the way she held herself stiff and erect on the center of the seat that suggested she was young.
Before she drove the buckboard at a sedate pace in off the north trail, there had been just Steele and Thelma Cromwell on the single street of Barclay—the fat town gossip having emerged from the forge as he came out of the saloon. This had doubtless been by coincidence, but when she saw him the woman started to make undignified haste toward him. Then, whatever she was so eager to tell him became temporarily unimportant as she heard the wagon and horse approaching: halted and turned out front of the livery stable to stare fixedly at the north trail.
A few moments later, as the Virginian completed his catty-cornered crossing of the street at the livery, the stockily-built, curly-haired Naylor stepped out of his forge. He was unshaven and not fresh faced this morning, with patches under his eyes as dark as the mourning band around his shirt-sleeved right upper arm. He exchanged a brief glance with Steele—just time for a tacit question to be posed and answered—and then joined Thelma Cromwell in concentrating his attention on the wagon. While the Virginian pulled open the livery door and stepped inside.
‘You know who that is, don’t you, Mr. Steele?’ the once pretty and now bloated woman asked in a rasping whisper.
‘Reckon it would spoil it for you if I said I did, ma’am?’ he answered as he went to get his gear from the pegs outside the empty stall where his horse had been last night.
‘That’s Mary-Ann Slattery, come to see Vernon Dexter about buryin’ her husband, poor woman.’
She had backed her bulky frame into the doorway as she imparted the information, without shifting her intensely interested gaze from the new widow who was steering the buckboard to a halt out front of the funeral parlor diagonally across the street. Steele, both his arms full again with his gear, asked:
‘Pardon me, Mrs. Cromwell, but I’d like to leave?’
The town gossip shot him a glowering sideways glance and vented a throaty sound of irritable annoyance as she stepped out of his path. Then growled as she returned her shiny-eyed gaze across the street: ‘I wonder if she’ll allow him to be buried here in town or if she has other plans?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Steele told her.
‘Nor—’ she began to counter in a sour tone.
‘It’s another funeral that isn’t mine,’ he completed to curtail her protest.