Captain Andrew Rinehart sat in the tiny six-by-six cell, staring miserably at the rock wall just as he had stared ever since he had been brought in here. Seated in a cell next to the one occupied by the two cattle rustlers he himself had sent in, he hadn’t spoken a word and had hardly moved.
Sheriff Luke McKelvie watched him covertly from his chair at the roll-top desk. What he saw in the captain’s desolate face was what he had seen in the eyes of a wild horse that had been caught and thrown and tied, a captive thing waiting with broken heart for death to bring once again the freedom it had lost.
McKelvie stood up and paced restlessly across the floor, pausing to look out the door. He turned away from it, and couldn’t remember a thing he had seen out there.
“Captain,” he said, and his voice almost pleaded, “isn’t there something I can bring you—coffee maybe, or something to eat?”
The captain slowly shook his head, not even looking up. “Nothing, Luke, thank you.” McKelvie could hardly hear the voice.
McKelvie said, “If it’s cold in there, Captain, you can come out here by the stove.”
The captain gave no sign that he had heard. McKelvie turned away, a tightness in his throat.
“Captain,” he said, “I’d give anything in the world if—”
He broke off. Blinking rapidly, he looked down at the star pinned to his vest. He studied it awhile. Then, abruptly, he unpinned it and hurled it to the floor.
The captain looked up at him then, and his voice was firm. “Put it back on, Luke.”
Luke McKelvie shook his head. “Captain, I’ve done some hard jobs in my time, but this…”
“Put it on, Luke. There’s not another man in the county can wear it half as well as you.”
McKelvie stared unbelievingly. “How can you say that, after what I’ve done to you?”
Rinehart shook his head. His voice was soft again. “I did this to myself, Luke.”
“Archer Spann was the one who brought it on.”
“I didn’t have to listen to him, Luke—but I listened. I knew almost from the first that I was wrong about Noah Wheeler. But I’d been mad there for a little while, and I’d told Archer yes. Then I had too much pride to back down. Pride’s a treacherous thing. It can be the making of a man, or the breaking of him.
“I guess the main trouble was that I’d lost confidence in myself. You don’t know how hard it is to find yourself an old man and lose confidence. You find people aren’t listening to you anymore. You can’t do the things you used to do, you can’t ride like in the old days, you can’t even see good. Things you do turn out wrong, and you get to wondering if you ever can do anything right again.
“That’s the way it was with me, Luke. Then Archer Spann came along. He was a real hand, never made a mistake. I’d look at him and I’d see myself the way I used to be. I got to leaning on him, letting him make up my mind for me. I guess you could say I was letting him be the captain.”
McKelvie said, “Archer Spann never saw the day he was fit to wipe the dust off your boots.”
“I shut my eyes to the bad things till it was too late. You tried to tell me, and so did Sarah. But I wouldn’t listen because when you spoke against Archer Spann, it was like you were speaking against me.”
The captain went silent for a time then. Presently he said, “Luke, there is a favor I’d ask of you.”
“Anything you want.”
“I wish you’d find out if Sarah is still in town. I wish you’d tell her I’d like to see her.”
“I’ll go after her, Captain.”
A woman’s voice spoke from the doorway. “Never mind, Luke. I’m here.”
Sarah Rinehart walked slowly toward the cell. Luke McKelvie hurried to help her, but she waved him away. She was a tired old woman, but she had the Rinehart pride. “I’m all right.” The sheriff stepped to the cell and swung the door open. It never had been locked. Sarah walked inside, and McKelvie dragged a couple of chairs up close to the stove.
“Out here,” he said gently. “That cell is no place for a lady.”
The captain said, “Hello, Sarah,” then dropped his head and stared at the floor. Sarah Rinehart took his hands and led him out of the cell, to the chairs McKelvie had set up. “It’s all right, Andrew. I know what you want to say.”
“I was wrong, Sarah.”
“And so was I, Andrew. I should have known I could never leave here. I never got farther than the hotel. Then I was ready to go back to the ranch where I belong. When this is over, we’ll go back together. We’ll pick up whatever is left and make it good.”
“What can we do, Sarah?” the captain asked miserably. “We’re old. Time has gone off and left us.”
“Time never goes off and leaves anyone,” she replied evenly, “unless he is standing still.”
* * *
SIGHT OF THE captain sitting in the tiny cell, a helpless, bewildered old man, brought tears to the eyes of Noah Wheeler. The big farmer motioned Luke McKelvie to one side.
“Luke, that’s no place for a man like the captain.”
Luke McKelvie looked surprised. “Noah, you know why it has to be. You’re the one who’s suffered.”
Noah Wheeler shook his head. “Sure, he’s made a mistake, Luke, but look at all the big things he’s done, too. The country still owes him too much to let him sit here in jail.”
Doug Monahan stared at Noah Wheeler, wondering how the old farmer could so readily forgive. But then he looked at Captain Rinehart, and he thought he could understand. He had never believed the captain could be shattered like this, so thoroughly humbled. Looking at him, Doug realized that he no longer hated the captain, either. All the anger, all the bitterness somehow had drained out of him, and now he felt only pity.
Noah Wheeler pleaded, “Let him go, Luke. For me, let him go.”
McKelvie’s eyes were grateful. “I reckon if that’s the way you feel, Noah, there’s no use me holding him. If you won’t press charges, there’s not much case.”
“No charges, Luke.”
McKelvie walked across the room and opened the cell door. “You hear that, Captain? Noah won’t prosecute. You’re free to go.”
The captain arose stiffly, hardly believing. Noah Wheeler moved forward, meeting him halfway, his hand outstretched. “We used to be friends, Andrew. As far as I’m concerned, we never stopped.”
The captain took Noah Wheeler’s hand, but he made no reply. He couldn’t.
The front door opened. A breath of chill wind came with the shadow that fell across the room. Luke McKelvie stared in surprise at the pale young man with the bandaged shoulder, and the girl who stood beside him.
“I’ve come to give myself up,” Vern said. “For stealing Captain Rinehart’s cattle.”
The captain swallowed hard, studying the boy and looking at Noah Wheeler. “Son,” he said, “I’ve lost no cattle.”
Vern replied, “You would have, if we’d got away with it.”
Luke McKelvie put in, “Why did you do it, Vern?”
“To get my three hundred dollars, the money the R Cross owed me.”
McKelvie said, “It was Spann that took your money.”
The captain frowned. “What were you going to do with the money, Vern, your three hundred dollars?”
“Buy some land with it. A start for me and Paula.”
The captain nodded. “I started like you once, and I didn’t have three hundred dollars. The R Cross will pay you what it owes you. As for cow theft, I don’t know what you’re talking about. There weren’t but three cow thieves. Two of them are in that cell yonder, and the other is dead.”
After that, there wasn’t much to be said. They all stood around looking at each other. Paula Hadley was crying into a handkerchief, and Doug Monahan was afraid someone else was going to start.
Luke McKelvie said with studied curtness, “Well, if we got all our business attended to, I wish you-all would clear out of here and let me get my paperwork done. I’m a week behind on the mail.”
As they went out, Doug heard the captain say, “Noah, you remember that old marching song we used to sing, ‘The Old Gray Mare Came Tearing Out of the Wilderness’?”
Noah nodded, smiling. The captain said, “I’ve fogotten some of the words. I’d like you to freshen up my memory on them sometime.”
“I’d be tickled, Andrew.”
Doug Monahan held back as the others left. “McKelvie, I want to apologize for the things I’ve thought and said about you. You’re a pretty good Indian.”
McKelvie passed it off with a shrug of his shoulders. “I still don’t like your infernal bobwire fences, but I reckon they’re here to stay. You’re apt to have enough fence-building now to keep you busy a long time. I expect even the captain will come to it by and by, in self-defense.”
Monahan nodded. “It’s no life’s work, Sheriff, but it’s a living. Maybe it’ll put me back on my feet and into the cow business again.”
McKelvie said pointedly, “This is as good a cow country as you’re ever apt to find.”
Monahan said, “That’s the way I see it, Sheriff.”
* * *
NOAH WHEELER GOT back to the farm long before Monahan did. Doug rode up and found a lot of neighbors still milling around, cleaning up the debris. One of the Oak Creek farmers had even brought a milk cow, a hungry calf trotting along behind her, grabbing a drop or two of milk every time the cow stopped for a moment.
Doug found Trudy sitting up in a big rocking chair in the front room. Her face was swollen, and it had several spots bruised blue. But some of the healthy color had returned. Doug took her chin in his hand.
“How you feeling?”
“Better. How about you?”
“I’m fixing to get me a blanket and crawl up in that corner yonder and sleep for a week.”
Trudy said, “Dad’s already given us all the good news.”
Doug smiled. “Maybe not all of it.” He reached in his coat pocket and withdrew a bundle of papers. “I stopped by the bank and had a long talk with Albert Brown about the Gordon Finch place. It’s not the Finch place anymore.”
Trudy’s eyes widened. “You mean you…”
Doug nodded, grinning. “I’m going to have to build many a mile of fence to help pay for it, but it’s mine.” He gripped her hand. “Or it can be ours, Trudy, if you’ll have it that way.”
“Ours.” She tested the word fondly. She reached up and caught his chin and pulled him down to kiss her.
“Yes, Doug, I think I’d like that a lot.”