At midnight a curtained buggy drove into Escalante off the Cougar Creek road. It was followed by two horsemen, one of whom trotted ahead as it approached the two-story house of Verona Ormsby. This one dismounted and tied the buggy horse. The other swung down beside the buggy and waited with a sort of deference for its occupant to alight. An old man got out of the buggy, snarled irritably at the dismounted horseman, and then stalked stiffly toward the house. Apparently someone inside had been expecting visitors, for the door flung open at the first sound of his boots on the porch. The other two, having tied their mounts, followed him silently inside. This was the Lacey tribe, old Brandt with Nick and Glenn following him in. Bruce, the handsome one, was the man who met them at the door.
The old man shucked out of his coat, tossed his hat on a chair. Then he went directly to the fireplace, backed against it, and spread his horny, gnarled hands to its meager warmth. He glared irascibly at his three sons, letting his gaze rest finally on Bruce. He said, “Now. What the hell’s been happening in town today? Why do you have to drag me ’way down here in the middle of the night?” He completely ignored Verona, seated on a brocade sofa over against the wall, a slight she resented violently.
Bruce was a classic-featured, dark-skinned man of perhaps twenty-five. His eyes were dark, holding a devil of merriment that Verona knew was not merriment at all but a kind of wastrel refusal to take anything seriously. Bruce said, “That damned Rawlins came in on the stage this morning. Seems he had a tussle with a gunfighter on the stage and accidentally killed him. I guess he was feeling pretty big about it because he wouldn’t listen to either Bauer or Hayden.”
Old Brandt’s face flushed with anger. His voice raised irritably, “Damn! It looks like I’m going to have to do this myself.”
Nick broke in calmly, “Don’t get yourself worked up. It’s all taken care of. For some reason Rawlins tried to come here tonight. Maybe he wanted to square himself with Verona, but …”
The old man interrupted savagely, “Don’t tell me not to get worked up! And what in tarnation’s Verona got to do with it?”
There was a silence in the room, broken by Bruce’s nervous cough. The old man’s eyes sought him out and pinned him fiercely in place. “Well. What’s she got to do with it?” There was a world of contempt in the way he said she.
Bruce colored. His smoothly olive face glistened with a beading of sweat. He said, “The gunfighter was Verona’s husband.”
Old Brandt shot a glance at Verona that made her shrivel. Then he turned back to Nick. “Go on.”
Nick, the strongest of the tribe and a squarish man of thirty, said, “Max was laying for Rawlins. He guessed he was coming here and got ahead of him with two of the crew. They worked him over out in front of the house. Damned near killed him.”
Again there was the briefest of silences, broken this time by Verona’s sharply indrawn breath. Brandt glared at her again. “So what did that accomplish?” he asked of Nick.
“Why, the man will sell when he’s well enough. Isn’t that what we’ve been working for?”
Brandt’s voice became very quiet but it was laden with contempt. “Yes. That’s what we’ve been working for. It’s what we’ve been working toward for damned near two years. And have we got it yet? Hell no. Because the bunch of you are bunglers. Because you refuse to use your stupid brains.” He paused for breath, and then went on. His audience was taking this with varying degrees of false humility. Bruce’s eyes held merry mockery, carefully veiled. Nick was angry. Glenn, the hypocritical one, was nodding sober agreement. Verona was white and trembling with her dislike and humiliation. Brandt said, patiently as though talking to children, “We need to own that Rawlins spread. It’s deeded land. If we take it, in comes the US marshal and we can’t handle him like we do Coe. So what happens? Will Rawlins tries to hold us up for it. Ten thousand he asks for it. And you get him killed. Does that help? Hell no. Because you didn’t take the trouble to find out whether or not he had any heirs. It turned out that he did. You know how you could have handled that? Sent a man back East to where this Rawlins lived, bought him out, if he’d sell. If he wouldn’t, kill him and forge a deed.”
Gradually the force in him and the logic of his argument subdued the resentment in his sons. Their expressions became faintly sheepish. Bruce asked, “What do we do now?”
Brandt shrugged. “Wait till the man recovers. Let Max approach him then. Let Max threaten him a little. See what happens.”
“What if that don’t work?”
Brandt smiled patiently. “The time is past for working with brains and logic. If he won’t sell, work him over again. And again. Until he does sell.”
He seemed to dismiss the subject from his mind. He left the fireplace and got his hat and coat. He stopped and looked down at Verona, asking disgustedly, “What the hell does Bruce want with you anyway?”
Giving her no chance to reply, he stalked out the door. Verona sprang up from the sofa, her green eyes blazing, her face chalky with rage. She turned her rage on the hapless Bruce. “Who does he think he is, coming in here like that, insulting me? Don’t ever let him in here again, or I’ll kill him!”
Bruce slipped the Schofield .45 from its holster and handed it to her, grinning. “Want me to call him back?”
She threw the gun at him with all her strength. He ducked it easily and it smashed a vase on the table. His grin widened.
Bruce’s mockery did not abate. But a certain spark grew in his eyes that had not been there before. He said, “Better go, boys. She’s a heller when she gets this way.”
They got their hats and hurried out. A moment later, Verona heard the drum of their horses’ hoofs retreating down the street. She looked at Bruce, hating him, wondering how she could ever have loved him at all. She said, “You, too. Get out of here.”
The spark was plain in his eyes now, and the mockery was dying before it. He murmured, “Sure you want me to?”
“Yes. Yes. Go on home. I want to think.”
The spark died in his eyes. He grinned again, mocking. “Grieving for your husband, darling?”
She sat down and buried her face in her hands, unspeaking. She could not combat Bruce. She ought to know better than to try. He could show her either passion or mockery, but nothing else. Whatever went on inside his head, in his secret thoughts, he never revealed, even to her. She realized suddenly that he was like a complete stranger to her.
He took a step toward her, his expression briefly serious, hesitated, then turned away. He got his hat and jacket from the tree beside the door and put them on. She did not glance up, so he opened the door and went out, closing it softly behind him.
Only then did Verona raise her head. She listened to the faint sounds Bruce made, getting his horse from the stable at the rear of the house, saddling, and riding away. Verona got up, crossed to the table, and began to gather up the pieces of the broken vase. Her hands trembled and she frowned at them. It had been a trying day. But at least her secret was safe. Not one of the Laceys had guessed her husband had been the killer, not the killed. What do I do now? she asked herself bleakly, and found no immediate answer.
She carried the broken vase to the kitchen and threw it away. She returned to the living room and picked up the Schofield .45. She held it thoughtfully for a moment, vaguely wishing she had the courage to turn it upon herself. Realizing that she had not, she opened a drawer and slipped it inside.
She had made such a terrible mess of things. Such a mess and now there was no way out. Walt had suffered terribly because of her, and he must suffer more before this was finished. “Oh, I’m no good. I’m just no damned good,” she whispered violently. Why hadn’t she waited for Walt? Why hadn’t she believed? She shrugged. Had Walt justified her belief? No. She admitted he hadn’t. Where he had been the past two years she had no idea. But he had not changed. He was still a brawler, a killer. He had killed on the stage half a day out of Escalante. He would kill again now. Walt would never take such a beating as he had received tonight. He would bathe the country in blood. Her hatred of him had been a violent thing this afternoon. Tonight her hatred was for herself, not for Walt Street. He had become no better in the two years he had been gone. But Verona had changed for the worse.
She walked across the room and stared into the leaping flames in the fireplace. She had acquired security, something that seemed inordinately important immediately after she had deserted Walt. He had offered her no security at all. He had not even been able to buy her a trinket for her birthday. An extravagantly beautiful woman was Verona, standing there. Her skin was like milk, flawless and having transparent appearance. Her eyes were green, framed by long, delicate lashes. Her lips were full and red, her body perfect in the green satin dress. But her expression was petulant, showing neither happiness nor contentment.
Nervously she crossed the room, recrossed it. For a few moments she paced back and forth like a trapped lioness. Perhaps now Bruce would want to marry her. And if he did, what would she tell him? How would she put him off? Bruce believed her husband was dead. She thought, I can put him off for a while. I can say it wouldn’t be decent so soon after Walt’s death. The irony of that did not fail to touch her. Who was she to talk of decency, living openly with Bruce, taking this house he had given her and all the other things? She knew she was accepted in Escalante only because the full power of Gunhammer insisted upon it. She knew what the town really thought of her. She wondered piteously, aloud, “What can I do? Oh, what can I do?” She had a thought then of which she was instantly ashamed. Perhaps they’ll kill Walt …
She threw herself face downward upon the sofa. Her hands were claws digging at the brocade upholstery. She whispered hoarsely, “Now I’ve reached the bottom. Now I even want Walt dead so that I can get out of this mess I’m in.” But she didn’t really want Walt dead, and she hadn’t reached the bottom. Walt was perhaps the one good thing that had happened to her in her life. The love they shared between them. She’d been too weak to appreciate it, to cling to it. And now she must pay for her weakness.