Buell waited in the trees by the road to Kendrick. He’d followed David that far out of town, well out of sight. Now, the full moon cast a pale but bright light over the rough road, and the cold prairie perfumed the air with the dew-dampened leaves. He thought it must be close to two o’clock and he adjusted his seat a little, ears alert. One other rider had ridden past at about eleven. Buell had easily recognized him, a new man, but someone he’d seen around. A coyote hailed a neighbor, the long trailing cry carried clearly across the prairie, and was ignored. And then he heard the unmistakable click of horseshoe on rock. Buell touched his horse on the neck, murmured to it and waited another few seconds.
“Hello, David.” Buell moved his horse from the shadow onto the road, blocking David’s way.
“Sonuvabitch!” David bawled. “Scare the shit outta me.” He looked at Buell. “What the hell you want?”
“Thought we might finish our discussion from the livery.”
“Get out of my way,” snarled David. He attempted to turn his horse around Buell’s and his face froze when he saw the Remington pistol pointed at his chest.
“Get down.” Buell waved the pistol. “Now.”
David got off his horse.
“Get off the road.” Again the pistol moved. Buell dismounted, and looped his reins across a branch. “I’m leavin’ town, and I want to get something straight with ya. I heard you threaten Pa. And I heard you’re beating your ma. Either one could get you killed. Except Pa won’t kill you. He’s a decent man, and I think you’re counting on that. Feller once told me to take care of stuff like this with a chunk a wood. And to do it private. I got this instead.” He waved his pistol. “And this spot’s nice and private.”
“You ain’t gonna use that.” David tilted his head toward the pistol.
“Didn’t say I was, but it’ll keep your attention. I’m just telling you, Simon and I won’t forget our way back. If I hear you’ve said one more sideways word to Pa, or your ma catches another bruise, I will come back.” Buell holstered his pistol. “That’s a promise.”
David’s eyes went to the holstered gun and Buell watched him measure the distance between them. Go ahead and try it. With two long strides, David covered the ground, cocking his fist as he came. Buell laid the heavy steel weapon into the side of David’s head and David staggered sideways, blood gushing from a cut on his eyebrow. Blinking slowly, he shook his head a few times, then put his hand to his brow and stared at the blood. “You little bastard.” He charged again, and this time Buell laid the Remington’s barrel across the top of David’s head. He sagged to his hands and knees and stayed there, head down like a tired animal.
Buell watched him, smiling and hoping. Come on, David, one more time.
“Ya better do a good job, cuz I ain’t gonna stop,” David muttered, still on his knees. Then he looked up, his face contorted in rage, the blood running down his neck and into his shirt black in the moonlight. “And when I’m done with you, I’ll burn your pa in his bed.” He struggled to his feet, swaying drunkenly. “And then I’ll get Simon. And maybe get another look at that dainty little red mark on his girlfriend’s ass.” Head back, mouth wide open and lips stretched tight over his teeth, he laughed; a demented, soulless howl.
Buell’s eye’s narrowed as he heard again in his mind David’s last words, “Dainty little red mark on his girlfriend’s ass,” and his teeth ground hard together. He focused on the laughing face with its wide open mouth, and felt his entire body go slack and relaxed. He didn’t hear his pistol go off, nor did he see David’s head snap back in the silence.
The sound of drumming hooves reached him, and Buell realized David’s horse had run off, headed for home. He looked down at David, now flat on his back in a large pool of black that spread away from his head. He stepped closer. The mouth was open in a scream, and the eyes stared at the night sky, but David was silent and saw nothing.
Buell glanced at the gun in his hand and then slowly put it away. “That dainty little red mark . . . on his girlfriend’s ass.” He looked at the dead man again, and then reached down and felt for money in David’s front pants pocket. He found seven small coins, then checked the shirt pockets for paper money and found nothing. He grabbed him by his waist to roll him over and felt the belt under his shirt. Two buttons and the buckle freed it, and he stripped it from underneath the body. Buell felt the weight and unsnapped one pouch. Three fifty-dollar gold pieces dropped into his hand.
“Damn it,” he muttered. He put the coins back, and then felt around for a back-pocket wallet but found nothing. He climbed into his saddle, and still holding the money belt, he headed for town, angling toward the river.
His whole day had started out wrong-footed when he’d spilled half a cup of coffee in the middle of his corn fritters and eggs, and now this. Sheriff Staker looked down at David Steele, mouth gaped open, black blood all over his face, neck and shirt.
A dark patch of drying blood spread out a couple of feet from his head. He’s been worked over some, with a pretty good cut over his brow and a lump on top his head that would’ve raised his hat. Staker felt the front pockets, and then probed under David’s right buttock for a wallet. Nothing. Not a dime. Had to have been more than one. Don’t know anyone stupid enough to take on David alone, much less get the chance to hit him twice. And his horse is gone. How’d they talk him off his horse, at night? Doc Princher approached in his wagon.
“Beat him to death, looks like,” Staker said as the doctor climbed down stiffly.
“Uh-huh.” Doc Princher walked over to the body. Kneeling, he looked closely at the cut on David’s head. “Huh-uh,” Doc said, shaking his head. “Too much blood.”
“What do you mean?” Staker peered closer.
Doc looked up at the sheriff. “You done looking at him?”
“Yeah.”
“Help me turn him over, then. Easy like.”
“Good Lord.” Staker looked at the mess that was the back of David’s head: black blood, small rocks and dirt, and pink-white bits of bone mixed in a sticky blob. “Shot ’im behind the ear, back of his head is gone. He was executed.”
Doc Princher nodded, then looked at the farmer who had found the body. “Parley, help the sheriff load him up.” Princher went to his wagon and removed the tailgate. Together, the farmer and the sheriff picked up the heavy body and managed to scoot it into the wagon.
Princher headed back to town, and Staker started to look around, methodically searching for whatever he might find. Trying not to hurry, he moved a quickly as possible, but dreading his visit with Ruth Steele.
Mace, standing in front of the livery, saw Sheriff Staker step out of Shirley Moir’s shop and head his way.
“Mace.” The sheriff nodded when he got to him.
“Loren.” He looked closely at the sheriff’s face, trying to judge the mood.
“Nasty business.”
“Yep.”
“Can we go inside a minute and talk?” The sheriff headed for the livery door without waiting for an answer and Mace followed. “Shirley says you chucked David out in the street yesterday.” He shook his head and puffed out his cheeks. “Again.”
“Doesn’t look good, but yeah, I threw him out. I’m not going to go into the details, enough to say he got my goat, again, and we had words, again. I didn’t hit him, well . . . maybe once, and kicked his butt out. Same old threats about making me pay and burning the barn.”
“And about his mother’s accident?”
“Yeah. How’d you know about that?”
“Doc Princher. He had his doubts. No other bruises like you’d get in a fall.”
“Yeah, I thought the same thing, and told David about it. I’ll admit, if I knew for sure, I just might’ve planted ’im. But I don’t, and I didn’t.”
“You never have owned a pistol have you?”
“Nope. Got a shotgun. Want to see it?”
“Nope. No need. Where was Buell last night?”
“Now don’t start on Buell. He’s not the only man in town that has a gun and knows how to use it.” Mace’s voice had started to rise.
“And he’s not the only one I’m going to talk to either. Was he here?”
“I don’t know. You know as well as I do he comes and goes at all hours. And you know where he goes. You’ve checked on him. He said so.” Mace smiled at the surprised look on Staker’s face. “Didn’t think he saw you, did you? Well, he did. So you know he sometimes just sits out there and thinks. And you know where he practices, because you been there too.”
“It’s my business to know, Mace, you understand that.”
“Sure it is. And knowing your business, you know damn well Buell wouldn’t shoot someone in the back of the head.”
“How’d you know that? That’s not common knowledge.”
“Shit, it’s all over town. Parley Profitt’s talked to everybody he’s seen this morning. David was bushwhacked and robbed.”
“And you’re not all that upset about it, are you?”
“Matter of fact, I’m not. If it weren’t for Ruth, I’d dance on his grave. Lots of folks would.”
“A man’s died in a way no man should, Mace. He wasn’t very pleasant to be around but . . . Tell Buell I’d like to see him.” He turned to go.
“Loren.” Mace put out his hand. The sheriff looked at it for a moment and then stepped back and took it.
“Mace.”
Buell stepped into the jailhouse. “Pa said you wanted to see me.”
“Yep, thanks for stopping. Take a chair.” Staker pointed at the one closest to the desk.
Buell sat.
“Is your pistol always fully loaded?”
“Of course.” Buell looked a little surprised.
“Can I see it for a minute?”
Buell drew his gun and handed it butt-first to the sheriff.
Staker pulled the hammer back one click and turned the cylinder. Then he turned in his chair a little to get full light on the pistol and inspected it carefully. “Where were you last night? I mean after you left Luger’s.”
Buell’s eyebrows went up.
“I checked. You left there about seven,” Staker said. A slight smile crossed his face.
“Went down to the river and sat for a while.”
“For how long?”
“Can’t tell. Until eleven or so I guess.”
“See anybody?”
“Nope. Wait a minute. Nobody at the river, but a fella rode in from the west just as I went into the livery. New guy, lives past Simon’s place about a half mile.”
“He see you?” Staker sat up straight in his chair.
“I don’t think so. I was in the barn.”
“Would you recognize him again?”
“Sure. He lives in that old soddy that used to belong to the Piersons.”
“All right,” Staker said. He handed Buell his pistol. “Thanks for stopping.”
“Sure.” Buell stood up and nodded. “We’ll see you.”
Paul felt angry and disappointed and Ana, shoulders slumped, sat silently, her hands clasped.
Simon sat with them at the kitchen table. “She simply doesn’t want me. She was as cold as a frog. I’ve lost her, that’s all there is to it.” Simon paused, his gaze moving from one parent to the other.
Ana’s eyes told Paul there was nothing she could say, her heartache plain to see.
“I can’t stay,” Simon said. “Every time I walk through town I get a look or two.”
“So what!” Paul replied. “You know what you are. Why would you care what they think?”
“Because they determine my reputation. They make me feel what I am in this place. And if the feeling I get makes me this miserable, I can’t stay.”
“But to just leave with no plans, or destination. That’s crazy. Wait until we can work something out. Go to school. Anything, but don’t just leave.” Paul could see he was not making any difference. And he understood. He had taught his children to think for themselves, load all the weights, and go where the balance tilted. For the past hour, Simon had shown them the weights: Matt, Avery, David, Sarah and Swartz. And Paul had no trouble seeing the balance. He got up and put his arm around Ana. She burst into tears.
Mace listened and nodded. “I wanted a lot more than this, son, but I’ll settle for you being satisfied. I came here just like you’re leaving. And you’ll know where you’re going when you get there.”
“It’s not because I don’t want to stay. I kinda do, but I want to leave more. You been good to me. And I ain’t goin’ forever. I expect I’ll be back, and I’ll keep in touch.”
“Make sure you do, Buell. We’ll be here, Ruth and I.”
“That would be good. I like her. And Pa . . . don’t be up when I leave, okay?”
“All right, son. But I’m gonna listen.”
Mace stared at his son as though to imprint the image of his youthful yet somehow wise face on his mind. He stepped forward and grasped him in his arms and hugged him hard. “I love you, boy.” Buell’s body went tense and then suddenly relaxed.
“I love you too, Pa.”
Simon rode slowly in the early morning light, past the Kingsleys’ one last time. He glanced up at Sarah’s window and it mocked him with its stoic stare. He urged his horse into a canter and did not see her standing in the shadows by the porch.
Buell sat waiting astride his horse and swung alongside as Simon rode by the livery. Side by side they rode, the town meeting their passage with silence as even the roosters stayed their morning call, past the last house and into the prairie, heading west.