“You can’t graze yer critters here.” Lacey sat his horse facing four dusty riders. “This here’s claimed, and we already have a herd settled.”
“And who claims it?” The smallest of the four seemed to be in charge.
“Who’s asking?” Lacey said.
“Name’s Baylor.”
“Mr. Paul Steele owns this herd and this here’s his range. And we’re riding for him.” Lacey tilted his head toward three riders scrambling out of a draw.
“I got orders to set this herd just north o’ that hill there. I was told this was free range. Where I come from in Kansas that means I put ’im where I want to.”
“Well, you been told wrong, and I reckon we can hold our own if’n you want to argue. Or, you can go see the sheriff in town. Your choice.” Lacey turned to see Nathan, Sweeney, and Griz, pushing their horses toward him.
“We got a problem, Lacey?” Nathan asked as he pulled up alongside.
“Nope. They do. They’re Kansans, and they’re looking to bed down right in the middle of us. Told ’em they can’t.”
“Youngster’s right,” Nathan said, looking at the four riders. “Yer squatting on private range . . . and that means yer trespassin’.”
Lacey glanced at the .44-caliber Colts strapped to the front of Nathan’s saddle. They were unlashed and ready.
The skinny one leaned over and whispered something to the rider on his left. “All right. We’ll go see the law. We find out yer yarnin’, we’ll come back and talk about it.”
“Awful close to calling me a liar, fella,” Lacey said. He turned slightly in his seat, exposing the butt of his Colt.
The skinny cowboy glared at him for a moment, and then turned his horse away. “C’mon, let’s get to town.” He spurred his horse savagely.
“Scummy sumbitch,” Nathan said.
Matt stood in front of the sheriff’s desk, thinking about what the sheriff had just said, but he had a hard time gathering his thoughts. “But there’s no way I can keep my cattle off a single quarter section of land. He’s effectively tied up that entire two-mile piece of range.”
“Looks that way,” Sheriff Staker said, shaking his head.
Matt thought he saw a glimmer of sympathy in his eyes. “But Paul can’t keep his cattle off of mine, either,” he said hopefully. “He has the same problem.”
“He would, if the ground was yours, or even filed on. It isn’t. Where you’re at is free range.”
“But it’s not free. I can’t keep my cattle on there without fencing it.”
“And you can’t fence it, it’s free range.”
In that instant Matt saw the neatness of it, and at the same time the basic unfairness. Lindstrom! Only a lawyer could come up with something like this.
“Unless you can guarantee me you’ll not trespass on Paul’s ground, I’m gonna ask you to stay off that range,” Staker said. “And I don’t see how you can give that assurance.”
“But I have to have good grazing, Loren. I’m facing financial ruin here.” Matt heard himself pleading.
“I’m the sheriff, Matt.” Staker looked uncomfortable. “I try to keep the peace and enforce the law. Paul is within his rights to do what he’s doing. If I force him to share the range, his investment is jeopardized, just like yours. I can’t do that. I’m truly sorry, but you just got beat in a business deal. Nothing I can do.”
Matt turned and shuffled out of the office, his shoulders slumped. Ruth had stopped talking to him, David’s insolence was getting worse by the day, Avery no longer wanted to see him, and Lancer had recently asked him to pay for his drinks as he got them. For the first time in months he got on his horse and turned west toward home; Lancer’s, just a block east, ignored.
Matt had spent forty-four hundred dollars on the purchase of the herd, plus another four hundred to feed and tend them over the winter. Now the drovers were demanding payment for trailing the cattle here, and he had exactly twenty-seven dollars and fifty-five cents to his name. He owned a herd, worth nearly ten thousand dollars a month ago, now a liability.
He could trail them back east and try to sell them there, but the drovers weren’t willing to trust him further. Queries to the cattle brokers in Saint Louis and Omaha had told him dozens of people had seen the same market, and were now well on their way with their own herds. His would be worthless by the time he got it there.
“We’ll give you three dollars a head for the herd,” Baylor said. The skinny cowboy sat at the kitchen table, across from Matt. He stank.
“I have nearly five thousand dollars invested in that herd. I can’t possibly sell for less than eight dollars. That’s half of what they’re worth.”
“They ain’t worth shit around here. You just found that out, didn’t ya?” Matt saw the predatory look the Kansan gave Ruth. She stood just inside the kitchen door with David. When her hand instinctively went to her bosom, Baylor grinned, and Matt’s pulse rose.
“I can’t do it, and I haven’t arranged for your money yet. Can you wait a couple days?” Matt could not meet Ruth’s eyes.
“Boys are gettin’ itchy. Might consider a little trade.” He leered at Ruth.
David clenched his fist, and mouthed an obscenity as he glared at Baylor.
Matt stood. “You’ve got a filthy mind, and you’ll get your money soon enough. Now leave.” He looked at David. “Show him the door.”
David stepped in front of his mother.
Baylor stood, glanced at David before smiling at Matt. “We’ll wait a couple days, and then maybe we’ll just take the herd.” He pushed roughly past David, strode across the parlor and left, leaving the front door open.
Matt slumped forward in his chair, his head in his hands.
Buell, Lacey, Sweeney, and Quigg had joined several soldiers from Fort Hartwell, a crew of buffalo skinners, and the usual group of locals for a rowdy night at Lancer’s. The four friends stood at the right end of the bar throwing dice for drinks, and Buell was up. He had four fives to beat, easy. He shook the dice cup.
The screen door at the front banged open and four cowboys barged in, only to stop and look directly at him and the Texans.
“Them’s the Kansans I told ya ’bout,” Lacey said to Buell. “Skinny one’s named Baylor.”
The newcomers strode to the middle of the bar. “Gimme a beer, and put an egg in it,” Baylor said, his speech slurred. He turned his back to the bar and leaned against it. “Who let the greasers in here, barkeep?” he asked the bartender who hurried over. “How you expect decent folks to keep their liquor down with them around?” He turned to face Buell and his friends.
Lancer waved the other barkeeper away, glanced at the Texans, and quickly worked the pump handle. After cracking an egg to half float in the yellow brew, he placed it on the bar. “Here, fella.” He eyed the other three men. “Rest?”
“Whiskey,” they replied, nearly in unison. They all looked toward the cowboys at the other end of the bar.
Lacey stepped well away from the rest. Buell fell in beside him.
“No call . . . for insults,” Lancer said to the Kansans. Swallowing hard, he suppressed a cough.
“You hear ’im fellas, no insults. That means the greasers gotta go.” Baylor stepped to the right, clear of his friends and looked directly at Lacey.
“I’m gonna make ’lowances fer the liquor, Kansas,” Lacey said. “But don’t be pushin’. You other three got a say in this?” No answer came. “Best be gettin’ clear of ’im if’n ya ain’t.”
The trio walked away from the bar.
“Now ain’t that jist like a greaser? Ya got four agin one Jay-hawker. Them odds is ’bout right.” Baylor, his mouth curled in an insolent smile, laughed at the Texans with his eyes.
“They ain’t gonna side,” Lacey said. “Only one talkin’s me and I’m askin’ you to ease back a mite.”
Baylor looked at them, his face smeared askew with contempt. “How about yer purdy pardner there?” His gaze shifted to Buell, and Buell felt his face stiffen with the insult. Baylor leered at him.
“He ain’t in it.” Buell caught Lacey’s eye as Lacey glanced his way. “Step back to the bar.”
Buell stared at the Kansan.
“It ain’t yer fight, Buell.” Lacey again.
Buell felt his teeth clench and his jaw muscles tighten, then he took a short step forward and moved a little to the left, in front of Lacey.
“Do like yer mammy says, boy,” Baylor taunted. “Met anoth’ern jist like ya today. Little Steele boy. I asked for a piece of his ma and all he could do was whisper cusswords at me.”
“What Steele boy?” Buell asked quietly.
The Kansan tilted his head back and looked down his nose. “What diff’rence it make? Reckon they’ll all pimp their mammies for a little nipple suckin’.”
“I asked, which Steele boy? I ain’t askin’ again.” Buell suddenly felt very relaxed.
“Buell,” Lacey said in a whisper, “you don’t have to do this. Leave it be. Kansas?”
“He’s right, boy. Leave it be. Go suck a titty some’ers.” Baylor eyes fixed on Buell’s. “Snotty little shit.” Then he reached for his pistol.
A small black hole appeared magically beside Baylor’s nose to be filled by erupting bright red that sprayed out of his head. A small patch of scalp blew away from above his left ear and hit Lancer in the neck. Baylor took half a step back, then crashed into a chair, clutching his mouth. His eyes first expressed amazement, then flashed to terror for a moment, and then begged for help in the few seconds the light in them lasted—and then the light went out. He heaved a gasp of air through his fingers, blood and spittle bubbling between them before his hand fell away and he lay still. The smell of human waste assaulted the room. Buell stood transfixed, his Remington still leveled at where Baylor had stood.
“Damn it, Buell,” Lacey cried. “Gawdammit!”
A customer bolted for the screen door, banged through it and ran out into the night.
Sheriff Staker covered the three blocks from his home to Lancer’s in less than two minutes. He had dreaded this night, one that he knew was inevitable, and cursed because he’d known he couldn’t prevent it.
“Put your pistol on the bar, Buell,” he said as he walked into the room.
Buell stood at the bar, facing the door. He lifted his pistol carefully, and turning slightly, put it down on the wood surface.
“You . . . move,” Staker said to a customer sitting with four others at a nearby table. “All of you, move.” They pushed their chairs back and stepped away from the table.
“Now, go sit in that chair,” he said to Buell, indicating the closest one.
“Did you see this, Mr. Lacey?”
“Yes’ir.”
“Art, how about you?”
“Self-defense.”
“I didn’t ask your opinion, Art.” The sheriff looked at the other barkeep. “You see it?” The man nodded. “How about one of you boys?” Staker asked of the three Kansans, now standing alone together, warily watching the rest of the crowd and casting glances at their fallen trail boss. No one spoke. “Well, one of you must’ve seen it.” Staker took a quick step toward the three. Two dropped their gaze to the floor. “You.” He pointed to the one who hadn’t. “You come with me. And you two,” he said, looking at Lacey and Lancer’s bartender. “Buell, walk in front of me to my office. The rest of you go on about your business. Leave that body alone. Doc Princher will be here shortly. Anybody not understand what I just said?” He surveyed the room, his steely gaze inviting no challenges. “Good.” He stepped to the bar and retrieved Buell’s pistol. “Let’s go.” He followed the four men out of the saloon.
Staker had sent a messenger to get Mace, who now stood in front of him. “What’n hell’d he do?” Mace asked, plainly frightened.
“Looks like he shot a man.” Sheriff Staker shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Mace.”
“Buell, is that true?” Mace’s face twitched.
Buell sat on a cot in one of the three cells at the back of the room. The door stood open. “I guess I did.” He lowered his head.
Staker thought he looked very young and small.
“Dammit it, Lacey, what’d you have to teach him to shoot for? Now look at what you done.” He glared at the cowboy, and the fear on Mace’s face had turned to worry. “What happened, Loren?”
“I haven’t figgered that out yet. I wanted you here before I questioned your boy. Take a seat. Rest of you, too, if you want.”
They all sat except Lacey, who moved toward Buell.
Staker looked at Lancer’s man. “I’ll start with you. Exactly what did you see? Not what you think happened, what you saw.”
“Jayhawker come in with his three friends. He ordered beer . . . with an egg. Art waved me off and pulled a beer, then the Jayhawker said he didn’t like greasers in the bar. He was talkin’ to the Texans.”
“How do you know he was talking to the Texans?”
“Ah, I figgered he was talk—”
“I told you,” the sheriff cut him off harshly, “what you saw, period. Is that so difficult?”
The man blushed and the Kansan looked at him with a faint smile. Staker stared at the barkeeper and waited for him to continue.
“The fella said something about greasers being in the saloon. Art told him weren’t no need to insult folks. Lacey there told him the same thing. The feller said something else about greasers getting out of the place. And he was looking right at Lacey and the boys when he said it. Lacey said the fella was drunk and to back off. And the fella was drunk.”
“I said, what you know!”
“Dammit, I’m a saloon keeper, Sheriff, I know a drunk when I see one. The fella was drunk. Anyhow, then he accused the Texans of ganging up on him. Lacey said he was the only one the Kansan had to deal with. And then the fella said something about Buell.”
“Like what. Something don’t tell me much.”
“Called Buell, ‘Lacey’s pretty partner.’ ”
The Kansan’s smile widened. Staker glanced at him. “You think that’s funny?”
“I do, Sheriff, then and now.”
“And then what?” Staker returned to the bartender.
“Buell stepped in front of Lacey and—”
“Stepped in front of him? How do you mean?”
“Just that. Stepped in front. Put himself between the Jay-hawker and Lacey. Lacey told him to get out of the way, but Buell ignored him. And then the Jayhawker started in on Buell. Said Simon Steele’s ma was a whore and Simon would let anybody use her.”
Staker looked at the Kansan. The smile was gone, but the Kansan returned his cold stare.
The barkeeper continued, “And Buell asked the fella to repeat what he said and the Kansan called him a little shit and went for his gun. I saw that plain as day. He went for his pistol first. Somehow Buell managed to get off a lucky shot and hit the fella in the face.”
“You, what’s your name?” Staker asked the Kansan.
“Gilmore. Will Gilmore.”
“What was your part in this?”
“I had no part. Baylor was drunk and on the prod. He and this feller”—he nodded at Lacey—“had a little run-in out on the prairie. Didn’t set well with Baylor. We saw the Texans and this young fella in the saloon when we came in. Baylor decided to lean on ’em a little. The youngster here took exception to something Baylor said about the Steele woman. We were out to the farm west of here today. I didn’t go in, but knowing Baylor, he said something nasty. He always did.”
“West of town? You mean east?”
“I know how to find Wyoming, Sheriff. I mean west. Anyway, Baylor started goading the kid. And the kid was standing almost in front of your cowhand there. Took him right out of the picture. Baylor drew . . . well, he started to draw, and the kid shot him in the head.”
“Did Mr. Lacey ask him to back off?”
“Yep. Twice. I remember, because I was surprised. Baylor was a little leery of the Texan. Said so. Reckon that’s why he took on the youngster. Figgered the kid and the cowboy were friends and all he wanted to do was raise a little hell. Guess he miscalculated.”
“You don’t seem too upset about it.”
“I’m not. He was going to get it one way or the other. I expected some indignant husband though, not some sodbuster’s kid. Baylor was a nasty piece o’ work.”
“It wasn’t, as you put it, some sodbuster’s kid. Buell is Mr. Mace’s boy and Mace is our blacksmith, not that that makes a bit of difference.” Staker was getting a little tired of the man’s indifference to another man’s death.
“You mean the kid was standing up for the wrong woman? That’s a good one. Old Baylor got killed by mistake.” The Kansan chuckled. “I’ll be damned.”
“Lacey, did Buell step in front of you?”
“Afraid so. I reckoned the scrap was ’tween me ’n that Kansan. But when he called Buell purdy, Buell got right in front o’ me. I told him to move but . . .” He shook his head in resignation. “And I asked the man ta ease up. Asked ’im twice’st. It weren’t no use. Feller had his nose pointed and he was goin’ fer it. I saw ’im start to draw, and saw his head get busted by that slug. I didn’t see Buell shoot. I was watching the other feller’s eyes.”
“Okay, Buell, come on out here.”
Buell emerged from the jail cell and stepped up to the sheriff. Mace got up and went to his side.
“So, Buell. I’ll ask you one simple question, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. But I gotta tell you, Judge Kingsley will ask the same question if you don’t, and then you will have to answer. Do you understand? How about you, Mace?”
“I’ve listened to everybody, Loren,” Mace replied. “I can’t see where Buell done anything but protect himself. That feller was bound to shoot someone, and I’m just glad Buell knew how to use that pistol, and it’s the other fella laying over at the saloon. Sorry as I am to say it, that’s God’s truth.” Mace laid his hand on Buell’s shoulder. “I don’t see any reason not to answer any questions, son. You go ahead.”
“All right. Buell, was it your intention to kill that man when you stepped in front of Lacey?” Staker watched Buell’s face closely.
Buell closed his eyes for a couple of seconds. “No, sir,” he said, shaking his head.
“I see a clear case of self-defense. Three eyewitnesses agree Mr. Baylor drew first and that Baylor was the aggressor. You can all go about your business. Buell, here’s your pistol.”
Staker stepped to the gun cabinet and picked up the Remington. Buell took it and nonchalantly dropped it into his tied-down holster. They filed out of his office and Staker followed, locking the door behind himself. The Kansan and the bartender returned to the saloon, now a beehive of activity as everyone tried to get inside to see that had happened. Lacey said a few words to Mace and Buell, and then walked away from them toward the saloon. Mace and Buell turned the corner as soon as they reached it and walked south, obviously avoiding the crowd a block farther down the street.
Sheriff Staker headed for Lancer’s. He’d help Doc Princher round up some men to pack the body over to the mortuary. And he’d try to find out exactly where Mr. Baylor came from so word of his demise and any personal effects could be sent. He felt weary as he walked, as though another’s death had taken a part of him too.
Simon and Buell strolled toward the river. “Are you sorry you killed him?” Simon asked.
“I’m not sorry he’s dead. You should’ve been there. The fella was mean.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Simon looked directly at Buell. “Are you sorry it was you who killed him?”
“I don’t really know, cuz I can’t remember doing it. One second I was listening to him call your ma names, and then Lacey is telling me to put my gun away and moving me back from the guy on the floor.”
“He wasn’t talking about my ma, Buell. He was talking about David’s.”
“Would that make it all right? He was saying some awful stuff.”
“I don’t know what to think, but I wish it hadn’t happened. Everybody looks at us like we’re something to avoid.”
“You mean us, or me?” Buell stopped and turned to face Simon.
“Some of them are afraid of you, Buell. I can see it in their faces.”
“Then you are talking about me. Fine, but that bastard deserved what he got. Do I care if it was me that give it to him? No! Would I do it again? Yes. Scum like that needs to be taken care of, and it’s scum like me that has to do it. I didn’t pick the fight. It came to me. Maybe I was born to do this, Simon. Shit, I killed my own ma, and maybe that’s all I’m good for.”
His friend’s face took on a woodenness that Simon had never seen. Buell stood silent, hard eyes locked on his own, head cocked expectantly.
“I get so mixed up when I try to understand you. You’re my best friend, even before Sarah. I’ve tried to make sense of what you tell me, about how you see things in your head, and how you seem to go away, right as we talk sometimes. I’ve tried to find out as much as I can about what’s going on by reading, but I always come out with the same answer. And I don’t like that answer, Buell. That answer means I don’t know you, and I don’t want that. Let’s try not to talk about it. Let’s just say you did what you did because you lost control for a couple of seconds. I can understand that, and still have you as my friend. That’s what I want. Okay?” Simon’s voice broke slightly, and he blinked his eyes quickly several times.
Buell looked at him for several seconds, and then stared off toward the distant river bluffs. Finally, he looked back at Simon and breathed a deep sign. “I think you’re right. I lost control. Maybe that fella didn’t deserve to die, but he’s gone, and I can’t do anything about it. You’re my best friend, and I want to keep it that way too. Now let’s not talk about it anymore.”
Simon looked at his friend for a moment, and then they turned and started back toward town, the need that had sent them on the walk satisfied.