It was nearly midnight by the time they rode into High Plains. Hastings, with one last admonition to go after Snake Ed, went home. Buck couldn’t raise the undertaker, nor could he find Marshal Olinger, so he left Skeetland’s body in front of the coffin shop door, took care of his horse, and went back to his hardware store. All seemed well. There was a couch in the office, and having no other lodgings, he lay down there. He’d had no supper, but was too riled to be hungry.
Or sleepy, either, it turned out. After tossing and turning for an hour in the dark, he got up and went pacing around the store, trying to lay out a sensible plan of action. By something after two in the morning he finally felt tired enough to go back to the couch where he slept fitfully until the first gray light of dawn.
It was Sunday. He put on his hat and went out locking the store after himself. Some distance down the street he found a feed bin called Hilda’s. A lot of empty rough tables, an old man sitting at one down the other end near the stove, a very stout woman tending a huge pan of bacon and eggs.
“You Hilda?” Buck asked, coming near. The stove felt good in the chill of early morning and he stepped close to warm himself.
“Who else?” she said in a surly tone, barely giving him a glance. Then in a loud voice she said, “Jenny? Get your lazy ass outa bed. We got customers. Jenny! Confound the girl. She’d be better off a whore, the hours she keeps.”
Jenny failed to appear or even make any sound and Hilda went on grumbling and muttering to herself. Buck waited for a pause, then asked if any of the bacon and eggs were for sale.
“Well, I ain’t fryin’ ’em to feed to the hogs!” she said, as though deeply insulted.
A couple more men appeared, sat at one or another of the tables quietly. Feeling well enough warmed, Buck went and sat down also. In a minute or so Hilda slapped half the contents of a large frying pan onto one plate, half onto another, and plunked them before Buck and the old man. Then she went back to the stove, hollering again for Jenny.
“Wonder what’s happened to her helper?” Buck said, to open a conversation with the man at his elbow, a gaunt fellow of about thirty who looked like a cowpoke down on his luck.
“Huh?” The man seemed caught off guard. “Oh, you mean Jenny?” He scratched the stubble on his chin with a hand that shook slightly. “She’s dead more’n a year now. Hilda’s got a little strange since, but she still can cook good.”
“I didn’t have any idea. I just got to town yesterday.”
“It ’uz too bad about Jenny. She got mixed up with Snake Ed McFee.”
“Snake Ed? Tell me about it.”
“Well, Snake Ed used to come here and got to looking at Jenny—and Jenny was worth lookin’ at, you know. Anyway, pretty soon they was thick as could be and Jenny thought she had Snake Ed all to herself. Well, course she didn’t, not Snake Ed. So sooner or later it had to happen she’d see him with a saloon girl, and Jenny had a hot temper and got after Snake Ed about it, right out in the street. And she slapped his face, too. That made him mad, and next morning Jenny’s body turned up in a pile of hoss shit behind the livery, a pretty battered up sorry sight. Hilda was always a little odd about things, but seeing Jenny that way pushed her over the edge.”
“McFee seems to be a general all around no-good, from what I’m hearing. Why hasn’t somebody had enough of him by now?”
“Where you from, mister?”
“Bighorn country.”
“Well, Snake Ed’s mean, but the big cattlemen like him, pay him to keep the rustlers thinned out. He does that, all right, but he ain’t too discriminatin’ as to who’s a rustler and who’s just somebody he don’t happen to feel like lookin’ at that minute.”
“We never needed his type to keep the rustlers off our range. I’d like to know what kind of cattlemen would keep Snake Ed on the payroll. It don’t square with the men I know.”
“Well, the kinds that lives in Cheyenne has lots of money and lives like kings, but they don’t only go look at their ranches except in the summertime. Lots of big money from England and Yourope running cattle.”
“I’ve heard that.”
The bacon and eggs went down easily and he had seconds, then paid up and left. The undertaker had opened his shop and was setting out sample coffins for display.
“You Dunderland?”
“I am.”
“Found Skeetland?” Buck asked him.
The undertaker was a wiry little man with an eye which automatically traveled over Buck’s big frame as though measuring him for a coffin. He said, “So that was you. Who’s going to pay?”
Buck was tempted to say Hastings would, but thought better of it. “I will. I bought his store. Buck Maxwell’s the handle.”
“Right, Mr. Maxwell. I’ll take twenty-five dollars for the job, payable in advance.”
Buck dug out his much-reduced sack of savings, gave the undertaker the money in coin. Dunderland eyed him doubtfully, tested the coins by biting them, then shoved them into a pocket.
“Coffin’s extra,” he said. “Pick one out.”
Buck’s eyes narrowed. “I ain’t paying for extras. I noticed a beat old trunk in the back room of my store. That’ll do fine.”
Muscles in the undertaker’s cheeks tightened. “You don’t want to do that,” he said. “If I haul Skeetland through town in an old trunk you’ll never hear the end of it. A simple pine coffin’s only fifteen dollars.”
“Tell you what. I’ll give you ten for the coffin, five for a hole in the ground, five for the ride in your hearse, and five for a headboard. That’s fair—that’s more than fair. I could probably find a man to dig the grave for fifty cents.”
“Mr. Maxwell, I have regular set prices for what I do. Either you want me to do the funeral or you don’t.”
“Course I want you to do it, or I wouldn’t be here. But I can afford just so much. If twenty-five dollars don’t pay for a coffin I’ll bring over the trunk. It don’t bother me any what kind of a box Skeetland’s remains rot away in. Be back in ten minutes.” Buck turned away.
“Wait a minute, Mr. Maxwell,” the undertaker said, and Buck stopped, a faint smile on his lips—the first since Hastings had walked into his store yesterday.
Buck turned where he was—half into the muddy street—made the undertaker come to him.
“I do have a coffin that I believe would fit Mr. Skeetland. It was made for someone else, but he didn’t die and has since moved away. I could let you have that for, say, five dollars?”
“That’s still five dollars more than the trunk,” Buck pointed out. “I’ll just go and get it.” And he started to turn away again.
“Mr. Maxwell, wait a moment. Come into my shop. I have another idea.”
Over his shoulder, Buck asked, “Less expensive than the trunk?”
“Perhaps,” Dunderland said, his voice getting smooth, oily, soothing. “Just step into my shop where we can talk business in more comfort.”
Buck followed Dunderland into the somewhat dim interior, which smelled rather pleasantly of freshly worked pine. A couple of coffins were under construction on sawhorses.
“Here’s what I can do for you. I’ll put Skeetland into this coffin I was just telling you about, and I’ll make arrangements for burial and for the preacher, but I’ll omit the customary viewing announcement and visiting hours. We’ll proceed straight to the funeral proper.”
“For twenty-five dollars?”
The undertaker hesitated—it was plain he felt he’d been bested in the deal. “For twenty-five dollars,” he said.
“Well, that saves me lugging the trunk over here. It’s a deal. But be sure to let Olinger have a look before you go ahead with the funeral.”
“How about two o’clock tomorrow afternoon?”
“Fine with me.”
Buck stepped back outside and nearly ran into a woman about to come into the shop.
“Excuse me,” she said, and stepped back.
“Ma’am,” he said, automatically lifting his hat. Then he recognized her as the woman whose husband had been shot yesterday by Snake Ed. “How are you this morning, ma’am?” he asked.
“Very well, thank you,” she said firmly, but not too convincingly.
“You were right about Olinger. Have you thought of trying the county sheriff?”
“It wouldn’t do any good. I’ll be leaving by noon today. I have come to get my husband’s body.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going home. To Pennsylvania. There are nothing but murderers, dead cows and hard winters here.”
“Have you found someone to sell your place to?”
“Our neighbor will buy it.”
Buck helped load the coffin into the battered old farm wagon.
“How far are you planning to drive this?” Buck asked, taking a close look at a couple of cracked spokes.
“To the train,” she said. “It brought us all the way out here. Now if it will just make it to Casper we can go home.”
“Anyone going with you to Casper?”
“Our neighbor offered, but I said no. I told him he should stay on his land and be ready to defend it. Nobody will care about me now. I’m leaving. It’s the ones who stay who need to watch out.”
“I wouldn’t count too much on that,” Buck said, reluctant to alarm her. “If your neighbor will go with you it might be smart to accept the offer.”
“Why do you say that?” She was looking at him sharply.
Buck hesitated, then told her what had happened to Skeetland.
“Oh, she said, looking overwhelmed. For a few moments she sat on the wagon seat blinking tears into her lap, hands gripped tightly together. “Perhaps I’d better accept Mr. Worthington’s offer.” She seemed to recover somewhat. “Thank you,” she said, gazing off up the street, lost in thought.
Then she looked at Buck, cleared her throat.
“Maybe you should know why Snake Ed shot my husband, in case it will help you,” she said. “He was a witness. He was in the store when Snake Ed held up Mr. Skeetland and took the church money.”
“Is that a fact,” Buck said, thinking. “Was he the only witness?”
“Oh no. There were at least three or four other men in the store, but Gordon was the only one who talked about trying to get something done about it. He went to see Markham—that’s the county sheriff—but nothing ever happened. Markham is no better than Snake Ed.”
“You mean Olinger.”
“I mean than Snake Ed. He shoots who he pleases, just the same way.”
“Really. Who are the other witnesses?’
“Gordon only mentioned Lyle Higsby. His little ranch is somewhere along the South Fork. Gordon said he tried to get Higsby to come with him to see the sheriff, but Higsby said it would be a waste of time. Somebody ambushed and killed Higsby three days ago as he was driving home with birthday presents for his daughter.”
“In that case, you be careful. In fact, perhaps I should ride along with you at least as far as your neighbor.”
“You think I’m in that much danger?”
“I don’t know. Could be, if Snake Ed is worried about witnesses.”
“Well, there’s no need. I’ll just drive along with the others when we finish our service.”
“Service?”
“It’s Sunday,” she said, as though his obtuseness on the subject wearied her as much as did the country full of murderers, dead cows, and hard winters.
“Oh, of course,” he said.
She drove off and Buck noticed the house she stopped at, the people going in. He decided she’d be all right.
He went along to the Bucket of Blood Saloon, pushed through the batwings. Nobody around but the barkeep busy polishing the mahogany, humming to himself. When he saw Buck the hum stopped and his mouth pursed.
“Morning,” Buck said. “Too early for Snake Ed?”
“As you can see, he’s not here.”
“When did he leave yesterday?”
“Who says he left?”
“When’ll he be back? I got a message for him.”
“You can leave it here.”
“I’ll deliver it in person. You let me know when he shows up. It’ll matter to him. Where’s Olinger?”
“Gone to hunt some rustlers. Might be back tomorrow.”
Buck went out unable to decide if the saloonkeeper was covering tracks for Snake Ed—or Olinger.
Twenty yards farther down the street he came to the Polecat Theatre, which he’d been thinking about in his early morning pacing. It was locked up, but he read the posters outside for some minutes. Then he looked around for hotels, saw one just across the street, went to the front desk.
“Do you have a Mr. Bixby here?” he asked the old man, who was cleaning his fingernails with the point of a Green River knife.
“He does not wish to be disturbed.”
“You tell him I want to buy him a drink in honor of his performance yesterday.”
“I’ll give him the message.” And he went on cleaning his fingernails.
“Give him the message now. I’ll wait.”
“I told you, he is not to be disturbed. But he’ll be stirring by noon or so, and when he comes by I’ll give him the message. Where shall I tell him to find you?”
Buck did not feel in a patient mood. “You tell him, right now, that Buck Maxwell wants to see him. Or do you want me to start opening doors?”
The old man pointed the Green River knife at him. “I told you I’d give him the message. Now git.”
Buck started toward a hall which had doors along both sides of it. The hotel man reached under the counter, started to bring out a pistol. Buck stopped that by drawing his own weapon.
“What room is he in?” Buck asked.
The desk clerk put away his .36. “207,” he said. “Upstairs.”
Buck holstered his Colt, feeling ashamed of himself. “Sorry about this,” he said to the clerk. “But I got urgent business with Bixby—I think.”
He listened a moment at 207, heard nothing, and knocked. There was a slight rustling of papers and a familiar voice said, “If that’s my breakfast, come in.”
Buck opened the door.
“Why, Mr. Denton,” he said to the man sitting up in bed reading a newspaper.
Bixby froze a moment, then calmly put down his paper. “Mr. Maxwell, was it?” he said smoothly.
“That’s right.” Buck shut the door and went to the bedside.
“I trust you’re well this fine morning?” said Bixby. “Have a seat,” he added, indicating a chair near the bed. Buck sat down.
“You had me fooled,” Buck said.
Bixby turned up a hand. “I’m a professional. How much over two thousand did Skeetland hold you up for?”
“Ninety-eight hundred thirty dollars.”
Bixby’s eyes widened momentarily. “That’s surprising,” he said.
“I bought a ninety-eight hundred and thirty dollar debt—which you know very well.”
Bixby rubbed his chin. “No, I didn’t know,” he said. “Who’d he owe it to?”
“Church Committee. You perform last night—on stage, I mean?”
“Of course. Why?”
“Just wondered where you were. How much did Skeetland pay you?”
“That’s confidential. But after hearing how much he took you for I don’t believe it was enough! He told me he only wanted to hurry things along because he had a sick wife back East to get to. And that at most he might get another hundred dollars out of the store with my help. Looks as though there was more to it than he let on about.”
Buck stood up. He’d found out all he needed to.
“Yep,” he said as he stepped to the door, “there was more to it.”
When he reached the street he could hear “Rock of Ages” being sung. He went along the board sidewalk to the house and considered going in. But Snake Ed was on his mind, so he walked on down to the south end of town and looked out over the range dotted with homesteads.
He hadn’t been looking and pondering long before a figure on horseback appeared.
As he watched, becoming more and more certain it was Snake Ed approaching, he thought over his options. The temptation was to confront him. Probably the result would be a gunfight. Not having seen Snake Ed in action Buck could not predict the outcome of such a fight, but it wasn’t that which made him hesitate.
What he ought to be after was the money.
Snake Ed came on, looking pleased with himself. When he saw Buck standing on the sidewalk at the end of town, he rode close to splatter mud, one corner of his mouth lifting. He tipped his hat and set his spurs, flinging more mud.
For about one minute Buck stood there working his lips tighter and tighter over his front teeth, watching Snake Ed ride on down the street.
Then he said, “Okay, you sonofabitch.”