Cordell was skittish about riding into Fort Griffin in broad daylight. He staked the mare to graze near the narrow river and took his ease beneath the shade of heavy trees while he waited for darkness. Three people rode by but gave him no more than a glance. He took that for a favorable sign. Maybe this town was not given to asking a lot of questions.
At dark he rode down the dirt street, looking first of all for a place to eat, one not crowded with customers. He found a small joint that seemed to have no business at all. The cook was the only person in the place, and he was skinny as a snake. That should have been a warning about the food, Cordell decided once he bit into the steak. It must have come from a tough, old bull, and the biscuits were hard enough to hurt his teeth. But it was the first time in a while that he ate his fill.
Carrying his saddlebags, he walked down a couple of doors to a saloon that suffered the same lack of customers and decided to give it a little of his business. Two men stood at the bar. More accurately, they leaned on it and gave every appearance of having been there too long. Cordell walked to a dark corner well away from the kerosene lamp that sat on the bar. He intended to have a quiet drink or two and, when nobody was close enough to hear and remember, to ask the bartender about the Jackson family.
The barkeep brought Cordell a drink. Cordell said, “Kind of quiet here tonight.”
“Yeah, been a couple of days since a trail herd hit town. There’s several just south of here, though. It’ll get busier in a night or two.”
Bits and pieces of the two drunks’ conversation came to Cordell, but he could not hear enough to piece together any meaning, not that it mattered. They became louder when they argued over which had the fastest horse.
Their voices were drowned out by boisterous laughter from the street. Three young men pushed through the door, two jamming shoulders together as they tried to enter at the same time. A third trailed a couple of steps behind, dragging his feet. He looked to be the youngest, perhaps seventeen or eighteen. As the three approached the lamp and its full light shone on their faces, Cordell was startled. The two in the lead were the ones he had encountered at Phantom Hill. He remembered that their tracks had veered north a mile or so from the abandoned post. The posse had been wrong in assuming they went on west. They had circled and taken a roundabout way back to Griffin.
The third youth remained in a dim area well away from the lamplight. Cordell could not see his face clearly.
The oldest of the youths began to harass the two drunks. “How long has it been since you old farts took a bath? You stink.”
The older men tried to ignore him. The one who had spoken grabbed the nearest drunk by the shoulder and turned him half around. “It’d be a service to the town if we was to drag you down to the river and throw you in. A soakin’ would do you both a world of good.”
The other youth shouted in gleeful agreement. The pair grabbed the two men by their arms and pulled them toward the door.
The bartender’s face darkened. He slammed both hands down on the bar to get their attention. It sounded almost like a pistol shot. “Boys, I won’t have you manhandlin’ my customers. If you want a drink and have the money to pay for it, put it here where I can see it. Otherwise, go back outside and get you some fresh air.”
The oldest of the three said, “Now, Oscar, you better be careful what you say. You just might get a bath yourself.” He made a move as if to grab the bartender by the collar. Oscar stepped back out of reach, bent down, and came up with a double-barreled shotgun. His voice was angry. “Like I said, the air’s fresher outside.”
The challenger stared at the weapon but did not back away. Cordell had not intended to meddle, but he thought he saw serious intention in the bartender’s face. If someone didn’t yield, there was about to be a mess of blood on the floor and all kinds of people rushing in here to see what happened. A crowd like that was the last thing he wanted.
He said sternly, “Son, maybe you’ve never seen what a shotgun blast can do to a man.”
The youths’attention shifted. The one who had challenged the bartender took a step toward Cordell’s table. “Ain’t I seen you somewhere?”
The two drunks took advantage of the distraction to stumble out through the door.
Cordell laid his pistol on the table, where it immediately gained the youths’ full attention. “Not as I recall.”
The second young man said, “Sully, ain’t he the one that—”
“Shut up, Finn,” the older one snapped.
Cordell said, “I believe it’ll be better all around if you take your business down the street. The whiskey here ain’t that good anyway.”
The youngest of the three said, “I never did like this joint. Let’s git.”
Sully said grudgingly, “All right. I don’t care to spend my money where it ain’t appreciated.” To the bartender he said, “We heard what happened to Old Shep at his bar the other night, him and Hez. You might want to be careful how you talk to people, Oscar. It could happen to you.” He turned. The other two followed him out.
The bartender waited to be sure they were gone, then placed the shotgun back beneath the bar. Bringing a bottle and a glass, he sat down at the table, refilled Cordell’s drink, and downed one himself. “You said my whiskey ain’t very good. What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothin’. I had to say somethin’. It was about to get serious.”
“We got some wild kids around here.”
Cordell knew better, but he said, “Maybe they were just funnin’.”
“Their kind of fun ain’t funny. Sooner or later it’ll get somebody hurt.”
“Who are they?”
“The oldest two are the Keeler brothers. Got no mother, and their old daddy is too busy stayin’ drunk to pay them much mind. They’re like two young studs that nobody’s managed to put a saddle on.”
The Keelers were the ones Cordell had left afoot. “And the other?”
“Name’s Dobie Jackson. Got no daddy, just a widowed mother. She’s workin’ herself into the grave to keep the farm goin’. That boy needs a quirt taken to him. If he keeps runnin’ with them Keeler brothers, he’ll end up dead or killin’ somebody.”
Jackson! Cordell had found out most of what he wanted without having to ask for it. He hoped it was the right family. Trying to be casual, he said, “Ain’t she got any other sons to help her?”
“She used to have. She’s afraid Dobie’s liable to up and leave like her other boy did. If he keeps lettin’ them Keelers lead him around, he may have to.”
“What about that other son?”
“Name’s David. He hung around with the Keelers too much, too. Got in a little trouble and took to the brush. Aurelia has no idea where he’s at.”
Cordell felt a wrenching in his gut. Probably the whiskey, he tried to tell himself, but he knew the cause.
Oscar said, “It’s a damned shame to see a boy throw his life away. Like as not, David is in jail someplace. The way he’s goin’, Dobie is apt to follow right after him.” The bartender leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I got a strong suspicion it wasn’t no drovers that robbed Old Shep’s bar. Wouldn’t surprise me none if it was them Keeler boys.”
“They can’t be very smart if they think they can pull a stunt like that in their own town and not be recognized.”
“They covered their faces with sacks, but they ain’t half as smart as they think they are. If they was to try that trick on me, I’d know them. They wouldn’t get six feet inside the door.”
Cordell swallowed another drink, emptying the bottle. He tried in vain to drive away the image of Buster lying dead in a doctor’s office, taken down by a lawman’s bullet.
Oscar said, “All of a sudden you don’t look so good.”
“Somethin’ I ate.”
“Must’ve been in that joint down the street. I ain’t surprised. I wouldn’t let my dog eat what comes out of that kitchen.”
“I think I’d better go out and get me some air.” Cordell thought of a way around having to ask the question directly. “I wouldn’t want to run into those boys and have trouble with them. Whichaway will they be goin’ home?”
“East, down the river. The Jackson farm is three or four miles, the Keeler place a ways further. But they won’t be leavin’ town till they run out of money or they’re fallin’-down drunk.” Oscar picked up Cordell’s empty bottle from the table. “I wish we had chain gangs here like we had back home in Alabama. It’d do them boys a heap of good to work on the roads awhile. Maybe it’d sweat some of the meanness out of them. You ever see a chain gang?”
Suppressed memories and old emotions enveloped Cordell like a malevolent dark cloud. He winced. “Once.”
He felt unsteady, making his way out the door. He leaned on the outside wall until he had his feet under him. He knew he had drunk too much. That was dangerous for a man on the dodge. He would be an easy catch should a lawman show up, or a thief coveting what he carried in his saddlebags. He found a wooden bench in front of a darkened store and slumped there, hoping the effects of the whiskey would soon pass. He dozed off, wakened when the saddlebags slipped from his lap, then dozed again.
His sleep was again interrupted by loud talking and a voice raised in what was meant to be a song. Down the street he saw three shadowy figures stumbling around a hitching rail. Trying to mount his horse, one let his foot slip from the stirrup. He fell on his back while the other two laughed. Though he could not see them clearly, their voices told him that they were the Keeler brothers and Dobie Jackson.
A thought penetrated the fog that had enveloped his brain. He had wanted to know where the Jackson family lived without having to ask directly. All he had to do was follow these three. He hoped they were on their way home and not simply looking for another place to carouse.
The mare snorted as he untied her. She probably did not like the awkward way he approached her, or perhaps it was the smell of the whiskey. “You’re right, old girl,” he muttered. “I don’t like myself very much right now either.” He managed to get into the saddle on the first try. He had the presence of mind to be sure he had tied the saddlebags down securely. As the three riders pulled away from town, he put the mare into a walk. They sometimes moved out of sight despite the full moon, but he could follow the sound of their voices. They talked and laughed and sang. They occasionally stopped, passing a bottle around. As he gradually sobered, he felt some concern that they might not make it home.
Eventually he saw light ahead. A lantern was suspended from the roof of a farmhouse porch. It was a mother’s way of helping her boy find his way home, he supposed. He reined up to prevent overtaking the three. They stopped and talked a few minutes before two rode on. One made his way to a barn and started to dismount, then fell like a sack of grain. He lay on the ground a minute or two before he pushed shakily to his feet and removed the saddle, blanket, and bridle. Slapping his horse on the rump, he dragged his tack into the barn. He did not come out. Cordell suspected he had collapsed on the floor. He would probably spend the night there without going to the house.
Damned fool kid, Cordell thought. He remembered what the barkeep had said. Ought to have a quirt taken to him.
Now he knew where the Jackson family lived. He would retreat a little way and finish the night sleeping on the ground. Ever since Buster had died, he had tried to decide how to go about what had to be done. Now that he was here, all the options he had considered seemed to have evaporated. Maybe the morning sun would clear his head. Then he could make up his mind what to do next.
He slept fitfully, his stomach not taking kindly to the abuse he had given it. It’s bad enough when some chuckleheaded kid drinks too much, but a man my age ought to know better, he thought. After sunup he boiled coffee. It helped clear his head but did nothing for his stomach. His whiskers had been allowed to grow for several days. He feared his appearance might frighten Buster’s mother, so he took time to boil river water and shave. He knew he was still a long way from handsome, but he had done the best he could.
If he betrayed his true identity immediately, he might not be allowed to enter the house. Buster’s mother would have every right to blame him for losing her son, though the bartender had said the boy was already under a cloud when he left here. Cordell decided to play his cards close to the vest until the time felt right for showing his hand.
Riding toward the unpainted frame farmhouse, he could see that it was badly in need of work. A side window was broken out, a piece of cardboard put up in its place. Some roof shingles were broken, probably by a hailstorm. Out back, at the barn, a door hung by a single hinge. These were all things her son Dobie could repair if he were more inclined toward work.
Buster’s rightful share of the bank money would come to just over three thousand dollars. Cordell could see that the farm badly needed patching up, starting with the unpainted frame house. That kind of money could do this place a world of good. He wondered about Mrs. Jackson’s reaction. Would she eagerly grab the cash, as Irmadell almost certainly would, or coldly reject both it and him? He halfway hoped she would turn it down. He admired honesty and courage wherever he saw them. In that case, he would hide the money so she would find it later, after he was gone. A debt of honor had to be paid whatever the cost.
A picket fence surrounded the house, though like everything else around here, it needed work. He tied his horse and walked up to the front door. It was open, but it would be rude to enter without invitation, especially with the knowledge that a woman was inside. He knocked on the doorframe. He could hear the wooden floor creak as someone walked across it. A woman appeared at the door, wiping her hands on an apron. She said, “Yes?”
Taking off his hat, he had to look at her a moment before he could say anything. She was in her forties but by his estimation was still a handsome woman despite worry tracks around her tired eyes and gray beginning to streak the hair tied in a bun at the back of her head. “Ma’am,” he said, “my name is . . . Walter Goodson. I’m lookin’ for work, and I see your place could stand some fixin’ up.”
She gave him as intense a looking-over as he had given her. “That it does, but I can’t afford to hire anybody.”
He said, “That don’t need to stand in the way. I’ve been hungry awhile. I’d work for meals and a place to sleep out of the rain.”
He could see her struggling over the proposition. She said, “I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you, asking you to work for nothing.”
“It wouldn’t be for nothin’, ma’am. I’m takin’ it on faith that you’re a good cook.”
“Fair to middling, but you won’t see any fat people around here.”
“I’d regard it as a real favor if you’d let me stay at least a little while. I promise you I’d earn my keep.”
She was weakening. “I never like to turn anybody away from the door hungry, and it’s a fact that we could use some help.” She smiled. It was just a half smile, but it was a pleasant one. “All right, for a little while. And if there’s any way I can do it, I’ll pay you. I warn you, it may not be much.”
“I don’t need for much.”
“You’ll find hay in the shed for your mare. You can turn her loose in the corral. And there’s an old cot in the barn where you can lay out your bedding. It’ll still be a while before dinner.”
“I’ll find somethin’ useful to do till then.” He put his hat back on. “I thank you, ma’am.”
“By the way, my name is Aurelia Jackson.”
“Mighty pleased to know you, ma’am.” He took the hat off again.
He noticed a large woodpile in back of the house, but only a small stack had been chopped into the right length for a cookstove. He turned the bay mare into the corral and put out some hay for her. He found a folding steel cot and dropped his blanket roll on it. He hid his saddlebags beneath the pile of hay, then returned to the woodpile and began swinging the ax. His hands were tender, not used to hard manual labor. They soon became sore. He could feel a blister rising, but he was determined to get himself into the widow’s good graces. Then, at the proper time, he would tell her why he was here.
He became so absorbed in the work that he did not hear someone walk up behind him until he saw a shadow. He whirled, dropping his hand to his hip.
Dobie Jackson stood there, looking considerably less cheerful than in the saloon last night. His eyes were bloodshot. He sweated profusely though the day had not turned more than moderately warm. He demanded, “Who the hell are you, and what’re you doin’ here?”
“My name’s Walter Goodson, and I’ve hired on to work.” Though he knew, he asked, “And who are you?”
“I’m Dobie.” The youth frowned darkly, squinting one eye. “Ain’t I seen you someplace?”
“Maybe. I’ve been lots of places.”
“You wasn’t in Oscar’s place last night, was you?”
“I believe I was. And I believe I saw you there, too.”
Dobie’s voice carried a bit of resentment. “You busted up a little innocent fun. Me and the Keeler boys wasn’t really goin’ to throw anybody in the river. We were just hoorawin’ a couple of drunks.”
“It looked to me like you were a little drunk yourself.” Concern crept into Dobie’s eyes. “You won’t tell Maw about that, will you?”
“I won’t tell her about you if you won’t tell her about me.”
“Fair deal.” Dobie started toward the house, then turned back. “What did you say you’re doin’ here?”
“Just hired on to do some fixin’ up. The place needs it.” Accusation slipped into his voice. “Been needin’ it for some time, looks like.”
“Yeah. I been meanin’ to get around to it.”
Cordell leaned on the ax. “Who are those Keeler boys?”
“They’re neighbors.” Dobie jerked his thumb toward the east. “We used to go to school together till we all decided to quit. Got tired of teachers tryin’ to tell us what to do.”
“Do those Keelers tell you what to do?”
“Nobody tells me what to do. I do my own thinkin’.”
And a damned poor job of it, Cordell thought. Well, you’re none of my worry. But I feel sorry for your mother.
He chopped what he thought would be enough wood for at least four or five days, then drove the blade of the ax into a log he had used for a chopping block. He picked up an armload and carried it into the kitchen to replenish the woodbox beside the hot cast-iron range. He could smell bread baking in the oven.
Aurelia Jackson poked a couple of sticks of wood into the stove and said, “You’d just as well quit and wash up. Dinner’ll be ready pretty soon. I expect you’re hungry.”
He breathed a bit heavily from the exertion. “Yes, ma’am, I sure am.”
“I wish you’d call my son. He’s workin’ at the barn, I think.”
Cordell saw no reason to tell her that Dobie was slumped on a bench in the shade at the side of the house. “I’ll fetch him.”
He told Dobie what she had said. He did not look up but said, “I don’t know as I can eat anything. My stomach is all tore up.”
“Whiskey’ll do that to you every time. What you need is good hard work to sweat it out of your blood. I saw a stack of shingles out yonder. After dinner we’ll climb up and patch your mother’s roof.”
“It don’t rain here all that much.”
“We’ll fix it just the same.” Cordell’s own hangover made him short of patience. “Get off your butt and wash for dinner.”
“Who do you think you are, orderin’ me around?”
“I’m a man who can kick you from here to Fort Griffin. Now go wash up for dinner.”
Resentfully Dobie left the bench and walked to a small back porch where a bucket of water and a basin sat on a waist-high shelf. He glared at Cordell as he washed his hands, then splashed his face with water.
Cordell said, “Wouldn’t hurt none if you combed your hair. You look like a woolly booger.”
“You ain’t no rose yourself.”
Cordell washed up and went into the kitchen. He was greeted by the smell of fresh bread and roast pork. He had already noted a pen of hogs out back of the barn.
Mrs. Jackson said, “It’s a rare thing when we have beef around here, but hog meat is plentiful enough.”
Cordell had eaten his fill of ham out of the Fergus smokehouse. Roast, however, was a different matter. “It looks mighty good,” he said.
He was pleased to see Dobie walk into the kitchen with his hair combed. The youth flashed him a quick frown, then glanced away. Cordell said, “Me and your son are goin’ to work on your roof after dinner. Looks like it might have a few leaks in it.”
“That it does,” she agreed. “I’d be much obliged if you’d show Dobie how it’s done. Since his daddy died, there hasn’t been anybody here to teach him things like that.”
“We’ll get along just fine, him and me.” He gave Dobie a hard glance that told him there would be no argument.
He started to reach for the biscuits but saw Mrs. Jackson bow her head and begin giving thanks. That caught him off guard. It had been a long time since he had given the blessing or even heard someone else do it. Flustered, he looked down at the table and followed her “Amen” with a barely audible one of his own.
She said, “Dobie doesn’t know how fortunate he is to have someone show him how to do things. I wish there had been somebody here for David.”
Cordell felt a jolt but tried not to show it. “David?”
“My older son. He went kind of wild after he lost his father. Then one day he just up and rode away. We had a couple of short letters from him, but that was all. I wish I knew where he is.”
Cordell could not look at her.
She said, “I keep hopin’ he’ll come ridin’ in here someday, all grown-up, ready to settle down and start a family. That dream is about all that keeps me goin’.”
Cordell lost his taste for biscuits and roast pork.