The Man From Laramie Page 3

  “Go to the colonel at Roxton an’ have Evans shut up,” Charley suggested.

  “I’m on leave, acting unofficially,” said Will dryly. “I doubt if the colonel would approve what I’m doing in his district. Want to scout toward the reservation for me?”

  Charley’s slow grin was finally satisfied. “Sure thing, Cap’n. What’ll you do?”

  Will explained. “Hauling salt was an excuse to stay near Coronado and Frank Darrah. I’ll ride back to Coronado.”

  “Barb men won’t like it,” Charley reminded. “Hansbro warned you.”

  Will shrugged and stood up. “Darrah’s the danger. If that New Orleans shipment comes to him, he’ll have to make a move.” Will rubbed a palm over his jaw bristle. “I’d feel better knowing what Darrah’s been doing these last few days.”

  Frank Darrah, in Coronado, was measuring bolt cloth against a yardstick tacked to the counter edge, and relishing even this small sale of six yards of blue dotted swiss to Mrs. George Freall. The swiss had moved slowly. A commotion in the street drew Frank’s glance through the front store window at his left, and he frowned.

  Kate Canaday, who owned Half-Moon Ranch, was arriving in town as usual, her team in a fast run and her old topless buggy flanked by a swirl of tongue-lolling hounds. Frank always bristled instinctively at the sheer gusty impact of the woman.

  The buggy made a dust-roiling stop outside the store. A rifle scabbard was strapped to the whip socket, a canteen was lashed to one side of the seat, a rolled yellow slicker tied on the other side. Kate Canaday left a man’s gray hat on the seat and her agilely descending bulk tilted the buggy step down.

  Margaret Freall, a thin woman of sallow elegance, tightened lips as Kate Canaday stamped into the store and came to them, asking gustily, “H’lo, Maggie. How’s George?”

  “Quite well, thank you, Katherine.”

  Kate Canaday’s broad weathered face had a rough, lumpy, amiable look under an iron-gray, wind-blown pompadour. She wore a man’s red wool shirt and brown skirt, and her expression became grimly humorous as she regarded Margaret Freall.

  “Maggie, you look liverish. Whyn’t you hole up on Half-Moon with me fer a spell? A lion hunt up to timber line’d work that liver-look offa your face!”

  Margaret Freall’s smile was pained. “I don’t hunt, thank you, Katherine.”

  Kate’s gusty chortle was full-hearted and knowing.

  “You don’t hunt, Mag? Why, you never missed a heel-smell trackin’ down George Freall. I bet Jubal Kirby a box of Manila cheroots George’d get away, an’ did I get skunked! Mag, you treed Georgie like a red-bone houn’, an’ dragged him down an’ made him like it. Ain’t a sister this sida Santa Fe coulda done so well.”

  Frank Darrah broke the package string with a jerk. Worse than a bunk house roughneck, he thought irritably. Enough to drive trade away.

  Margaret Freall hurriedly picked up her package, and her strained smile and pallid flush departed hastily. Kate Canaday’s knowing grin followed her out the door.

  “Nothin’ wrong with Maggie Freall a whisky quart wouldn’t cure,” Kate said amiably. She pulled a folded paper from a pocket of the red wool shirt. “Here’s a list of stuff the wagon’ll pick up tomorrow. That Lockhart feller come in yet with his salt?”

  Frank left the penciled list untouched on the counter. “I have my doubts he will, Miss Canaday.” A swift question on Kate’s weathered face convinced Frank, She still hasn’t heard. Casually he said, “You know, I suppose, that Alec Waggoman has leased that land. Some of the Barb men rode to the salt lakes today.” Then pleas ur ably Frank watched a strained and bitter calm set on the woman’s broad, lumpy face.

  “So Alec skunked me on that Gallegos land!” Kate muttered. “An’ me like an ol’ fool figgering it didn’t matter whether I seen José Gallegos a few days early or late about renewing the lease. The old weasel never peeped he was dickerin’ with Barb.”

  Frank waited with pleasant patience. He’d never seen the big, booming woman quite like this, stricken and subdued.

  Kate was muttering to herself. “Alec knowed he was gettin’ my best winter grass. Twenty-eight year battlin’ that old pirate. Shoulda lined him in a rifle sight long ago!”

  Kate hauled at a buckskin thong looped around her neck, dragging out a fat silver watch. “Late,” she said absently, and dropped the watch back inside the shirt. Then Kate shrugged, drew a deep breath, and said loudly, briskly, “Well, git that stuff together for the wagon tomorrow.”

  Frank reminded, “Your bill is rather large now.”

  “What if ’tis?”

  “I’m afraid I’ll need something on account.”

  “So now I got you to worry with, too, Darrah?”

  “Business, Miss Canaday, is business.”

  “Business, young feller, is a pain in the gizzard! You git that order up! I got the eatin’ist cowhands this side El Paso!” Kate stalked out wrathfully.

  Across the store, McGuire was making a show of straightening canned goods on a shelf, all ears, of course. Frank listened to Kate Canaday’s loud voice outside ordering the dogs quiet. Through the window he watched her stand indecisively, then cross the street with long mannish strides. An irritable suspicion grew in Frank that he was going to fill her supply list on credit. Big Kate Canaday knew too many people in the Territory. Too many liked her. And she was too friendly with Barbara Kirby.

  He was glowering at McGuire’s suspiciously uninterested back when the sound of horses in the street drew his glance outside again. In a kind of fascination, Frank watched Alec Waggoman and three Barb hands pass the store. That powerfully built man with white handlebar mustaches, bold nose, and craggy face, always gave Frank a feeling of insufficiency.

  Alec Waggoman rode the muscular steel-gray gelding like a border chieftain of old, a man so accustomed to power he no longer bothered to be conscious of the fact. Waggoman waved the cowhands on, and reined to the bank hitchrack and leisurely dismounted. The bank door was closed, its green shade drawn inside, but Waggoman’s heavy, leisurely steps crossed the board-walk and his fist hammered on the door.

  The green shade presently was lifted a little at one side. Then the door was unlocked. Alec Waggoman stepped confidently in and the door closed again.

  Frank stood some moments behind the counter in deep thought, then walked back to the glassed-in office at the rear. From a pigeonhole of the roll-top desk he took a brown envelope and intently went over the papers inside.

  Satisfied, Frank thrust the envelope in his coat and caught his narrow-brimmed gray hat off the rack by the door. He paused a moment at the small mirror there, adjusting the hat carefully and centering his black cravat. His expression had a renewed complacence as he left the office and called to McGuire, “I’m going out.”

  He crossed the street and rapped on the bank door.

  Chapter Four

  Frank Darrah had to knock twice on the bank’s front door before George Freall peered again past the edge of the green shade, then opened the door as he had for Alec Waggoman a short while before.

  Smiling and confident, Frank said, “Is Alec Waggoman too busy to talk a few minutes? Save me a trip out to Barb if he can.”

  Freall’s, “Come in, Frank. Alec and me were just yarning,” was pleasant.

  Back of the bank counter and high, ornate grill, George Freall’s office was small and plain, like Freall himself—a pine desk, two wooden chairs, hat-stand, bookcase, and a black-framed engraving above the desk.

  Alec Waggoman, munching a half-smoked cigar gone dead, was lounging comfortably back in Freall’s own swivel chair. Like he owns the place, Frank thought; and entirely fitting, too, seeing who Alec Waggoman was.

  George Freall said tactfully, “Frank’s got some business with you, Alec. I’ll step out a few minutes.”

  “Stay,” Alec Waggoman said briefly. He surveyed Frank noncommittally from eyes that had an opaque look under heavy white brows. Frank had a renewed, baffled feeling about the man. Wagg
oman’s eyes were curtained eyes, revealing nothing, asking nothing. The man’s “Well, Darrah?” past the cigar was dry and neutral and not greatly interested.

  “This won’t take long,” Frank promised, smiling, as he dropped on the scuffed pine chair beside the desk. He had a thought which had come to him before: behind those sweeping white mustaches, Alec Waggoman had the face of a stone man.

  It was a chiseled sort of a face, a carved, eroded kind of face, chipped here, dented there, the whole of it powerful, commanding, almost majestic. And today an odd, vague shadow of sadness seemed to lie on the craggy face. Frank’s wry smile almost followed the thought. Alec Waggoman sad? This man who’d achieved everything worth while in life—land, money, power?

  Thought of what this one old man had accumulated held Frank Darrah for an instant of unrestrained envy and admiration. Then with smiling confidence he spoke of his business.

  “I’ve filled a few quartermaster contracts: lumber, corn, oats, and so on to the various forts, when I could locate supplies and bid low enough. You may have heard so.”

  Waggoman said briefly, “Yes.”

  Frank was opening the brown envelope. Each detail of this interview had been carefully thought over. “I might do a fair business in salt—if I can lease the one good salt source in this part of the Territory.”

  Alec Waggoman’s craggy face did not change expression. But past the cigar he rolled to the corner of his mouth, Waggoman drawled, “How’d you know I had salt to lease?”

  Frank hesitated, then admitted, “I tried to lease from old José Gallegos. He said to speak to you after the first of this week.”

  “You tried to lease out from under Kate Canaday?”

  Frank held his smile. “I merely tried to lease. Gallegos owns the land.”

  “You tell anyone I got the lease from Gallegos?”

  Damn the man, Frank thought uncomfortably. No telling what he knew. Man felt like flushing guiltily. The truth was obviously necessary.

  “Only Miss Kirby, in confidence, sir.”

  “You courtin’ Barbara?” Behind the sweeping white mustaches, the craggy face still lacked expression.

  Frank had the feeling he was close to perspiring. Damn the man. Alec Waggoman’s dislike of Barbara’s father Jubal Kirby, was known. What Alec Waggoman thought of Barbara herself was not known, uncle though he was to Barbara. The wrong answer now might draw Waggoman’s displeasure.

  George Freall’s amused chuckle in the doorway was no help. “If Frank ain’t sparkin’ Barbara, then every lady in town has guessed wrong, includin’ my wife.”

  Frank admitted then, smiling, “Barbara is very attractive.”

  Alec Waggoman slowly took the cigar from his mouth and asked noncommittally, “What’s your proposition about salt?”

  “This contract seems fair to me,” Frank said, opening the document.

  Alec Waggoman waved the paper away. “Just tell me.”

  “Perhaps I’d better read it.”

  Waggoman nodded, settled himself more comfortably in the chair, and listened silently while Frank read down the paper. When he finished and looked up, Waggoman’s half-closed eyes gave the look of out-ranging thoughts. Finally Waggoman turned the swivel chair to George Freall’s desk and picked up a black wooden penholder.

  “I’ll sign,” he said shortly, and reached to the small glass inkwell as Frank rose hastily and moved to his elbow with the contract.

  The pen point slid off the right side of the rounded inkwell. Waggoman stabbed again, and the pen point struck to the left of the small opening with its dull collar of dried ink.

  For an instant Frank was bewildered. Then the amazing truth crashed at him. The man can’t see! He must be almost blind!

  The improbable idea was staggering. In a kind of breathless, chilled fascination, Frank watched Alec Waggoman’s other gnarled hand reach deliberately for the small inkwell and bring it forward with a grip so crushing the knuckles stood out pallidly.

  “Put your finger where I sign.” The tone was controlled, grating only slightly.

  Mechanically Frank complied. He tried to keep his finger from trembling as it touched the document. No one knows this! It’s never been mentioned. And it certainly would have been talked about. Loss of Alec Waggoman’s keen sight would be important news through all the Territory.

  Frank realized he was blocking George Freall’s gaze from the doorway. Does Freall know? Frank swallowed. His throat had dried, tightened. In all probability, he decided, not even George Freall suspected.

  Alec Waggoman was a canny man. Lack of sight was a devastating affliction for him. The day word flashed out that Alec Waggoman—the great Alec Waggoman—was half-blind, that day three long, ruthless decades of old scores would stir and take life.

  They’d be after Alec Waggoman quickly. After Barb. They’d move in like pack wolves racing to hamstring a great lamed buck. In his day, building, expanding, holding Barb, Alec Waggoman had been completely ruthless. He’d get no better once he was considered helpless.

  The pen made a dull clattering sound as Waggoman threw it down. His tone held an even harshness now.

  “Darrah, you’ll make money out of that salt. I’ve been watching you. Now take an older man’s advice. Salt’s one thing even a cow an’ a damn’ sheep have to have. Don’t get too greedy.”

  Frank was folding the signed lease. “I’ll remember, sir.” He wondered if the slight tremor in his voice was noticeable.

  Waggoman had leaned back in the creaking swing chair, his opaque gaze hooded, brooding. And now Frank understood the odd, curtained look, the shadowy cast of sadness. Carefully he said, “Thank you, sir. It should be profitable for both of us.”

  He wondered if he didn’t hear a faint irony in Waggoman’s, “Let’s hope so,” and didn’t really care. He had Waggoman’s signature. He had knowledge now about Waggoman’s sight.

  Undoubtedly, Frank guessed as he emerged from the bank, he’d left too hastily. But his pulses were rioting; he had to get off alone with this bursting torrent of thoughts.

  They were overwhelming; they pushed and prodded. Something will happen now. The logic was inescapable. Couldn’t be long now until Dave Waggoman had Barb. All of Barb. And Dave’s uncontrolled temper might get Dave killed at any time. Then Barbara would inherit.

  The thought held a dangling, glittering promise. Alec Waggoman’s great Barb Ranch to Barbara Kirby! Complete fruit of a strong man’s ruthless, industrious lifetime thrown as a fabulous gift to small Barbara Kirby. And, of course, to the man who was married to Barbara—who loved Barbara—and that had been so easy. Barbara might have been ugly, awkward, repulsive. Looking at it now, Frank could detect something like destiny which had carried him to this ratty frontier town, put his interest on Barbara Kirby, led him to the bank just now.

  Frank realized he’d crossed the wide street without noticing. He paused on the boardwalk under the overhead sun roof, and tried to force some measure of calmness to his racing thoughts. Then with deliberate stolidness he walked to his store, went back to the tall iron safe in his office, and put the brown envelope and signed contract behind the safety of metal.

  He started to sit at the desk and was too restless. He was pacing slowly back and forth when the measured trampling of passing horses sent him to the office door. “Who’s passing?” he called to McGuire.

  “Some Barb men,” the clerk said carelessly.

  “Dave Waggoman?”

  “Yes.”

  Frank Darrah was conscious of a quick and secret regret. The tall, smiling wagon freighter named Lockhart had seemed capable of violence if crowded. And Barb always crowded. Tempers might have flared dangerously today at the salt lakes. Dave Waggoman had been keyed to it when he walked out of this office yesterday at dusk.

  Now Frank Darrah stood indecisively, and finally started out again, telling McGuire curtly, “I’ll be at McGrath’s.”

  In this last hour of glassy light, saddle horses lined the long tie rail of M
cGrath’s Bar. The Barb horses were there, frosted with dust and lather. Inside the slatted swing doors, Frank found the usual late afternoon din of talk and yeasty haze of tobacco smoke laced with the richer mixed odors of whisky, beer, leather, and sweat.

  This spacious log-walled saloon was a rendezvous for a hundred miles in any direction. One met here cowmen and merchants and traders, lawmen, prospectors, drummers, troopers, and politicians. Sooner or later everyone moving about the Territory stopped at McGrath’s. Frank Darrah had used the place to his profit, never drinking much and always listening carefully.

  He found Dave Waggoman breasting the bar halfway back. Vic Hansbro loomed at Dave’s right shoulder, a huge and powerful figure, bearded and silent. There was open space at Dave’s left elbow and Frank stopped there. His drinking preference was known. A hustling, white-aproned bartender slapped a bourbon bottle, glass, and water before him without asking. Dave, moodily turning an empty whisky glass in lax fingers, glanced indifferently at him.

  “They were there—four wagons,” Dave said shortly.

  Frank asked carefully, “Any trouble?”

  An aggressive arrogance hardened Dave’s tone. “We burned his damn’ wagons. Shot his damn’ mules. Told him to keep going.”

  The complete ruthlessness of it held Frank silent. “Lockhart,” he ventured finally, “won’t trouble you again.”

  He was conscious of Dave’s fine serge pants and expensive boots, the bright silver on Dave’s holster gun and the massive silver buckle of Dave’s shell belt. Always Dave wore expensive clothes with a swagger, as if taking carelessly for granted all the wealth and power of Barb. That was the way it should be, Frank reflected. Who owned Barb had everything. The thought was heady.

  Cautiously Frank said, “I’ve been talking with your father. He seems in fine health.”

  “Why shouldn’t he be?” Dave was indifferent.

  Vic Hansbro turned his head, staring across Dave, as if only now aware of Frank Darrah. Hansbro’s question came casually out of the dark, chopped-off beard. “You interested in Alec’s health?”