TEN
Otto Schneck was a stalwart man, bullnecked, heavy-shouldered, stocky as a Hereford bull, with orange hair, a brushy blondish moustache threaded with rust, and a mouth as pudgy as a blowfish’s. He wore leather straps on each thick wrist, and a wide gun belt draped his ample waist. His pistol nestled in a tie-down holster that was made of woven leather that matched his kangaroo boots. His large hooked nose emphasized the jutted jaw, the high chiseled cheekbones. His eyes were a pale blue that was almost colorless, giving him a vacant expression that was chilling.
He sat at the rustic table listening to the account of the two men who had helped hang the sheepherder. Halbert Sweeney and LouDon Jackson were both from the panhandle of Texas, both bowlegged as pairs of parentheses and balding under their ten-gallon hats. They called Sweeney “Hal” because he didn’t like “Bert,” and they called Jackson “LouDon,” making it into a single word.
Outside were the sounds of cattle and of men chopping wood up on the ridge. Otto could hear the groaning of the wheels on the wood cart as it rumbled onto the flat, and somewhere a horse neighed an arpeggioed ribbon of nasal and throat sounds.
“Sit down,” Schneck commanded. Both were standing at one end of the long table having just entered the log cabin to report to their boss. “Where is Rudolph?”
“Rudy’s dead, Snake.” Hal fished a cheroot from his shirt pocket and bit off the end.
“Dead?”
“Yes, sir, one of them sheepherders shot him plumb dead,” Hal said.
“Only I don’t think it was no sheepherder,” LouDon said.
Schneck fixed Jackson with those cold pale eyes of his.
“What was he, then?”
“He’s faster’n greased lightnin’, Snake,” LouDon said. “He looked more like a damned gunfighter than a sheeper. Rudy never had no chance.”
“That right, Hal?” Schneck said, turning his attention to Sweeney.
“They was a bunch of them sheepmen ridin’ to where we hanged that Messican kid and this one jasper got off his horse and walk toward where Rudy was hidin’ in the bushes. Rudy stood up and went to shoot the man, but he didn’t have no chance. No chance at all.”
“Why in hell did Rudolph stand up? If he was hiding in the brush, he should have stayed there,” Schneck said, his neck pulsating and bulging like a bull in heat. He looked over at Jackson.
“The man did somethin’,” LouDon said. “He pulled somethin’ from inside his shirt. I couldn’t see what it was, but Rudy jumped up like he was scared and started down the hill like somethin’ was chasin’ him.”
“I think there was somethin’ in that brush,” Hal said. “Somethin’ sure as hell put fire to Rudy’s feet. He boiled out of there like somethin’ was bitin’ him on the ass.”
Jackson struck a match and lit Hal’s cheroot.
Schneck waved the cloudlet of smoke away after it spewed out of Hal’s mouth.
“We heard somethin’, I think,” Jackson said. “I mean it was far off and hard to hear, but we might have heard it.”
Sweeney gave Jackson a dirty look that Schneck could not fail to miss.
“Did you hear something or did you not hear something?” Schneck asked. He looked straight at Sweeney when he said it.
“It all happened so fast, Snake,” Sweeney said. “I mean one minute that tall drink of water was walkin’ toward the hill where Rudy was hidin’ and ready to pick him off a sheepherder or two when they cut down the man we hanged. Rudy never had no chance. One minute the man was just standin’ there and the next he had a pistol in his hand. He plugged Rudy with one shot and Rudy fell down dead.”
“Rudolph Grunewald was a favorite of mine. He was turning out to be a mighty fine cowhand.”
“Yes, sir,” Hal said. “I’m real sorry Rudy got kilt.”
“I don’t know, Snake,” Jackson said, blurting the words out. “I heard maybe a buzzin’ sound. Coulda been a rattler in them bushes.”
“A rattler? This time of year? It’s a little early, I think,” Schneck said.
“Maybe Rudy woke this’n up,” Jackson said lamely.
“I didn’t hear no rattler,” Hal said, a little too belligerently to suit either Jackson or Schneck.
One of the woodcutters came into the cabin just then. Schneck looked up at him.
“I got somethin’ to report, Boss,” Cass O’Malley said. “Did you hear them shots up on the ridge a while back?”
“I did. What were you shooting at, snakes?”
“No, sir, weren’t us shootin’. It was us getting shot at.”
“Maybe you’d better sit down, Cass,” Schneck said. “Might as well listen to another tall tale. This seems to be the day for it.”
Cass sat down, a puzzled expression on his face.
A horse galloped up near the cabin, and they all heard the creak of leather as a man dismounted.
Then it was quiet. Schneck looked toward the open doorway as if expecting someone to walk through it. But he only heard the sound of the horse pawing the ground outside.
Cass told about the stranger riding up, and how he and Percy Wibble and Ned Kingman challenged the rider.
“We had him braced, Snake,” Cass said. “Ned told him to drop his gun belt, and he looked like he was a-goin’ to do it, then he up and slid sideways off’n his saddle, drew his pistol faster’n you could say ‘Jack Robinson,’ and come plumb at us, a-shootin’ that six-gun square at us. Well, sir, we all splayed out on the ground and he rode right on past us. Scared me plumb out of my wits. Them bullets plowed the ground right next to me and Percy.”
Cass wiped sweat from his forehead with a swipe of his sleeve. He was plainly rattled.
“Did you try and shoot him when he rode on past?” Schneck asked.
“Nope. I was pissin’ my pants as it was, Snake. I mean, I thought that man was part Injun or somethin’, the way he flattened out aside his big old horse and come at us with his pistol spittin’ fire and lead flyin’ all around.”
“Would you say that this man could have shot you dead, Cass?” Schneck asked.
“Hell, I don’t know. It all happened so fast. I didn’t even see him draw his gun. We never expected him to come right at us like that.”
Schneck looked at Hal and LouDon.
“Sound familiar, boys?” Schneck asked.
Jackson and Sweeney looked at each other.
“Was he a tall man wearin’ a Stetson and ridin a strawberry roan with a white blaze on its forehead?” Hal asked.
“Yep. It sure was a man on a strawberry roan.”
“Same man,” LouDon said.
Just then, Thor Sorenson stepped inside the cabin. He had been standing outside listening to Cass tell his story.
“Thor, did you hear all that?” Schneck asked. “You were standing right outside.”
“Horse had a splinter under its hoof. I didn’t hear anything,” Sorenson lied.
“I wonder if you saw a waddie riding a strawberry roan,” Schneck said.
Sorenson shook his head.
“Did you hear him shootin’ at us?” Cass asked.
“Nope,” Sorenson said. “I have been making the marks on the trees for you fellers.”
Schneck stared at Sorenson. He wondered if the man was lying, and if he was lying, why?
Sorenson stood there with no telltale expression on his face. In fact, he bore no expression whatsoever. He just stood there as if daring anyone in the room to challenge him. Hal puffed on his cheroot and dropped the ashes on the dirt floor of the cabin.
“Sit down, Sorenson,” Schneck said. “Cookie’s makin’ coffee, and he will bring the pot in here directly.”
Sorenson sat down on one of the benches next to the table. He took off his hat and reshaped the crown as if to show his disinterest.
Schneck looked at him for a long time before he spoke to the Swede.
“Well, Thor,” he said, finally, “that nobody you didn’t see killed Rudy Grunewald today. Killed him with one shot. And he shot some bullets at Cass here and just disappeared, I reckon.”
Sorenson looked up at Schneck with that same blank expression on his face.
“It appears to me you got a handful of trouble, Mr. Schneck. I hired on as a scout. Whatever score you have to settle with those sheepherders is betwixt you and them. I ain’t rightly no part of it.”
“In this outfit, Sorenson, it’s one for all and all for one. You got that?”
“There’s other jobs,” Sorenson said. He put his hat back on and squared it.
“Not as good as this one,” Schneck retorted.
“Maybe better,” Sorenson said.
“Is that a threat, Sorenson?”
“Nope. I just don’t cotton to no gunplay, that’s all. Without good reason, anyways.”
“You liked Rudolph, didn’t you?”
“I thought he was a good kid. Light on brains, but a hard worker.”
Schneck stiffened in his chair at the head of the table.
“Well, with this jasper on the roan, we got us a black boy in the woodpile, Sorenson. I want to know if you might be interested in a little bonus, some sugar in your pay.”
“That depends, Snake. What kind of string is tied to that bonus?”
“You’re a tracker. I want you to track that man down and kill him. His horse tracks should still be fresh.”
Sorenson drew in a deep breath.
“Just like that, eh?” he said. “Track a man down and put his lamp out. No judge, no jury, just the law of the six-gun.”
“Just like that,” Schneck said.
“Otherwise?”
“Otherwise, draw your pay and light a shuck out of here,” Schneck said.
Sorenson stood up. He looked at the three other men, then at Schneck.
“I’ll sleep on it,” he said, and walked out of the cabin. They heard him climb into the saddle and ride away.
“What do you think of that, Snake?” Hal asked. He stubbed out the butt of his cheroot with his foot, grinding it down into the black earth.
“I think we got more than one darkie in the woodpile,” Schneck said, and his cold eyes turned even colder and pale as shirred egg whites in a black bowl.
The three men looked down at their hands as if they wished they were anyplace else but there in that log cabin with Schneck.
None said a word, and Schneck looked at them with contempt as his neck swelled again and turned the color of an April sunset when the sky in the west was on fire.
