“I paid Skeetland what he asked and he signed the deed over to me,” Buck said. He pulled it from his pocket. “Skeetland’s name is over the door and on the deed. You’re telling me he warn’t the owner?”
“Oh yes, he was owner, but ...”
“Ain’t this a good deed?”
“Yes, so far as I know, but ...”
“And that is his signature on the bill of sale, ain’t it?”
“It certainly looks like it, but ...”
“Then the store belongs to me, fair and square. Don’t it.”
“No, it doesn’t. The sale wasn’t legal because there’s a lien on the property. The ...”
“What lien?” Buck asked sharply.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you but you keep interrupting. The Church Building Committee lien. You see, the Building Committee, of which I am the chairman, entrusted Mr. Skeetland with funds collected by way of contributions. It seemed a wise move since he has the best safe in town. And all went well until Snake Ed McFee held up Skeetland. He took the entire contents of the safe—all that was negotiable, at any rate. It was mostly in coin. Unfortunately, neither Marshal Olinger nor the county sheriff will do anything about the holdup, which undoubtedly was instigated by the cattlemen. Our only option is to get satisfaction from Skeetland. We’ve been negotiating with him about recovery.”
Buck moistened his lips, gripped the edge of the counter. “How much did you lose?” he asked in as cool a tone as he could manage.
“Nine thousand eight hundred thirty dollars.”
Buck winced. His hat seemed to be wearing at his brow and he set it on the back of his head.
“You say Snake Ed took the money in a holdup—you sure about this?”
“Oh yes. He did it in broad daylight. There were witnesses. But he’s the cattlemen’s man and runs wild.”
“Seems to me Snake Ed’s the man to go after, if he’s got your money.”
“Who’s going to take it back from him? Probably he doesn’t have it anymore anyway. It’ll be in the Stock Growers’ Association bank account in Cheyenne. There’s no prospect of getting it returned. The only thing left for us to do is take the store in satisfaction of the debt. If you want your money back, I’d suggest catching up with Skeetland. I’m afraid you’ve been taken, mister. I don’t like to think the building of our church will cost an innocent man so much, and I don’t like to see Skeetland get away with this, so I’ll ride with you.”
Buck turned it over in his mind a few times, trying to find the flaw.
“I want to see the lien.”
“I have it right here—I was coming to continue negotiations with Skeetland, hoping to settle the matter in a mutually satisfactory way.” He handed it to Buck. “But I’d suggest we ride while we talk.”
It certainly looked like a legitimate lien, but Buck was beginning to realize how little he knew about such things.
“I guess we’d better see what Skeetland says about this,” Buck said. “I’ll get my horse.”
~*~
“I never introduced myself,” said the Church Building Committee chairman as they climbed into their saddles in front of the livery. “Oliver Hastings,” he said, edging his mount nearer and holding out his hand. “That dry goods store across the street is mine.”
Buck shook the offered hand, repeating his own name, trying not to let his growing annoyance show.
“Which way did Skeetland go?” Hastings asked.
“South.”
“Must be headed for Casper. I’ve heard the trains have started to run there, but I don’t know the schedule offhand. If his train pulls out ahead of us we may never catch up with him.”
“Does he really have a sick wife back East?”
“He has a wife back somewhere, but I don’t know if she’s sick. I never heard of it.”
Buck was having trouble with the Maxwell temper. He tried to think clearly and reasonably about the thing, consider his options, think of how things must look from Hastings’ point of view. Not to mention the point of view of those who had given money for the church. But he was damned if he could see why he ought to tolerate any half-assed law that was going to take Wyoming Hardware away from him because of something Snake Ed had done.
Evidently his anger showed. When they slowed down to walk their horses after half an hour at almost a dead run, Hastings said, “No use to get mad yet. We’ve still got a chance to catch up with him.”
They had passed quite a number of homesteads on their way out town, seen land being plowed, barns being built, stock pens and fences being erected; now they left the creek and went onto open range amongst the bones left over from the big die-up.
“Not many cows on the range this year,” Hastings said. “I’ll bet the cattlemen will be a long time recovering.”
“Finished my outfit.”
“Did it.”
Perhaps it was just Buck’s mood but he thought Hastings was gloating.
“They say the range was overstocked,” Hastings said.
Buck didn’t want to talk about it, feeling he had been as much to blame as everybody else. He and Tar should have sold off a lot of stock that fall, however low the price, after such a dry summer. They’d known enough to discuss it, but not enough to do it. Trouble was, the country was so big you got to thinking there was no limit to the cattle you could run. Well, winter before last had ended that notion. They had tried to hang on for another year, but luck ran against them and Tar had decided to quit.
Buck was uncommunicative so Hastings gave up efforts at conversation. On they rode. Then, as the sun was drawing near the horizon, Buck noticed something ahead.
“That’s a man on the ground,” he said.
It turned out to be Skeetland, with a bullet hole just above his left ear. No sign of his horse.
“Guess you ain’t going to be doing no more negotiating with him,” Buck said, squatting beside the body. Skeetland wore an old Colt Navy percussion pistol, which remained in its holster. Buck pulled it out, noted that it was fully loaded, caps in place.
“Well, this is too bad,” Hastings said, sounding genuinely sorry. “Skeetland was sometimes a little sharp in his dealings—but hell, we all are one time or another.”
“Whoever did him in caught him off guard.” Buck was searching Skeetland’s pockets, knowing pretty well what wouldn’t be there—it wasn’t.
“Your money gone?” asked Hastings. He was still aboard his horse.
“Gone all right.”
“Snake Ed. I’d bet a twenty dollar gold piece. And headed for Casper to either turn it over to the cattlemen, or maybe just spend it on a high old time. Look, Mr. Maxwell, I have to get back. Got a store to run, things to do. My advice is, ride on to Casper and see if you can find Snake Ed while he still has your money.”
Until this point, Buck had managed to rein in his temper sufficiently to maintain an even, reasonable tone in his conversation. But looking up at Hastings now all he could see was a self-satisfied, soft-handed man who thought himself pious because he was chairman of a committee to build a church, but who had other things to do when it came to facing an obstacle like Snake Ed McFee.
“Appears McFee takes the gimp right out of you,” Buck observed.
Hastings’ face darkened. “Just what is it you’re implying, Maxwell?”
“Seems to me if some of you folks in town made more of a point of standing up to men like McFee you wouldn’t have had your church money stole.”
“Mr. Maxwell, I resent the implications of what you’re saying. I rode out with you to try to help you get your money back. I didn’t have to do that. This is your thanks?”
“Obliged for your help,” Buck said. “Let’s load Skeetland on behind you.”
“That’s not a good idea at all. Lord can’t stand the smell of blood. You can see how much work I have trying to hold him here. I’ll send out Dunderland—that’s the undertaker—to get Skeetland.”
“No need of that,” Buck said. “I’ll bring him.” He slung Skeetland’s body behind his saddle.
“So you’re not going after Snake Ed.”
“Nope.”
“Guess I’m not the only one he takes the gimp out of.”
“In case you ain’t remembering, I’ve got interests in High Plains. I ain’t planning to be off on a wild goose chase while you’re taking my store away from me.”
“You really would be better advised to try to recover your money, Mr. Maxwell. The Building Committee has no choice but to take the store. It was put up as surety.”
“Hastings, I worked eighteen years for the money to buy that store. I made it the hard way, punching cows. I burned in the summer and froze in the winter, worked for weeks on end with two or three hours’ sleep a night, fought Indians, and sometimes had to shoot it out with rustlers.
“Now, you get this straight, Hastings. Wyoming Hardware didn’t come to me easy. Don’t figure on my lettin’ it go easy. You catch my meaning’?”
“If you’re threatening me, Maxwell, it won’t work. The decision isn’t mine, it’s the Committee’s. I’m only telling you what they’ll do. I’m sorry about your life savings, and I feel a bit responsible for not watching what Skeetland was up to a little closer, but the fact remains that the lien exists and that makes the store ours. I tell you again that the best bet is to go after Snake Ed.”
“I guess you got different rules in town than out on the range,” Buck said. “I’ll go by them as much as I can. But any rule that says you can hold me up for everything I own because of something somebody else done ain’t worth a mouthful of ashes, by my lights.”
“I’m sorry you take that attitude, Mr. Maxwell. I’m afraid it will cost you not only your savings but perhaps even your future.”
Buck said no more. When they found they were negotiating from the wrong end of a Colt .45—and with a man who knew how to use it—they’d back off.