The Man From Laramie Read online

  From the letters, he plucked and expectantly opened an envelope sealed in blue wax and mailed in New Orleans. The first lines of the letter registered as he entered his store. Frank moved mechanically back to the office, reading the letter, and the words seemed to shout derisively at him.

  …writing you via a St. Louis packet leaving today. A clerk I had not suspected was caught this morning pilfering my office desk. He confessed that a stranger had tempted him with money to scan letters recently arrived from the West. I fear the worst from this inquisitive stranger and hasten to inform you. Perhaps the recent shipment has reached you in good order as you read this. Or will shortly....

  Frank looked up haggardly and found himself in his office, and closed the door quickly. His throat was dry and rough as he read the letter again. And now fear was a pricking chill. The pre-sentiment of disaster was sickening. Frank dropped into the desk chair, tossed the rest of the mail to the desk, and stared sightlessly at it.

  Three years ago when he’d first realized the enormous profits in purveying rifles and ammunition to the tribesmen, he’d weighed the risk carefully. Safe enough, he’d decided, for a cool, calculating man who needed money to expand other business interests. He’d made the profits; he’d expanded. Someday, of course, the rifle trade would have to stop. But not quite yet, he’d thought only this morning. Frank’s sweating fist crumpled the letter. Then violently he tore the letter into bits.

  His fortunes were soaring suddenly to a peak. He’d discovered Alec Waggoman’s eye trouble. Barb, incredibly, might come now to Frank Darrah’s ownership. And now a treacherous clerk in New Orleans had opened the way for disaster. Frank groaned. Ruin—if gun sales to Indians were ever traced to him—Damn that clerk, Frank thought wildly. Damn him! Who can a man trust?

  The carefully planned, circuitous path of the gun shipments through New Orleans undoubtedly was being puzzled out by someone. And the stranger who’d bribed the clerk in New Orleans might be traveling west now toward Coronado almost as fast as the warning letter had come.

  Then Frank sat rigid again, gripping the chair arms in a new surge of panic. Suppose some other man were already here in the Territory? Possibly here in Coronado today—watching Frank Darrah? Frank stood up and looked wildly around. Then distractedly he began to prowl the office, trying to think. What strangers had been in town lately? Who had seemed to be watching Frank Darrah? Perhaps bribing McGuire—Undoubtedly McGuire was treacherous also. Already McGuire might have gone through papers here in the office. A new thought came to Frank and he halted in mid-stride.

  Merchandise from the East arrived steadily at Darrah’s store. Whose business was it, really, what Frank Darrah received and held for sale? If he made a mistake and overstocked on rifles and shells, for instance, whose business was it? The past would be hard to trace to him. Only what Frank Darrah did in the future could be dangerous. Frank laughed shakily and sat at the desk again. Now he could think and plan. He sat motionless in deep thought, and finally he began to open the rest of his mail.

  One brief letter from Albuquerque Frank studied intently.

  …beg to advise we dispatch tomorrow 11 wagons ass’ted freight to Colfax and Roxton Springs. Freight consigned to you will be unloaded as per yr. usual order at Roxton Springs by Sat. latest, if undelayed. About 2 wagonloads, mostly Eastern freight, in this shipment to you…

  Frank moistened dry lips. The shipment of rifles and shells might be on those wagons. But now panic was absent as Frank considered the problem intently, coolly. Finally he stepped to the office door and called curtly, “McGuire! We’re closing early! Bring the cash here now!”

  Frank closed the door, thinking he’d never again trust McGuire. Or trust anyone. He sat down at the desk again, lighted a cigar, and turned his thoughts with pleasurable anticipation on Barbara Kirby. Barbara had become the complete key to his plans. Frank sat thinking with complacent assurance about Barbara and what must be done quickly now.

  Night hung blackly outside the kitchen window as Barbara Kirby dried supper dishes at the zinc-covered sink board. She had eaten alone, pondering news a neighbor had brought at dark. A stranger named Lockhart had beaten Hansbro, the Barb foreman, with bare fists, while Kate Canaday’s rifle had held others out of the trouble. The Barb men had burned Lockhart’s freight wagons at the salt lagoons and shot his mules. And, most astounding of all, Alec Waggoman had promised to pay Lockhart for the wagons and dead mules.

  Thinking of Will Lockhart now, Barbara smiled faintly. At the salt lagoons today, Lockhart’s sun-blackened, ironically smiling confidence had had the look of latent violence. Barbara held the towel motionless on the scalded willowware plate as knuckles rapped the front door.

  Frank Darrah’s “Barbara?” called hopefully.

  “Come in, Frank!” Barbara was untying the red-bordered gingham apron when Frank came smiling to the kitchen doorway.

  “Wish this were our kitchen,” Frank said, watching her.

  “Dishes,” reminded Barbara dryly, “would still have to be washed.”

  She was glad now she’d kept on the white cambric suit. Lifting the lamp from the table’s red-checked oilcloth, Barbara suggested, “It’s cooler on the front porch.”

  Frank had shaved and changed into his best blue broadcloth suit. He seemed to have a small, secret air of excitement. Barbara put the lamp on the small marble-topped table by the front room window, and when they stepped out on the front porch, Frank guided her down the worn wooden steps to the gravel walk.

  After the heat around the kitchen wood range, the night felt cool and fresh. Barbara drew a deep breath, noticing how bright the stars were in the jet sky. Insects chirping in the grass and flower beds made the dark yard restful and intimate. Frank seemed to sense it, too. His arm slipped around her waist. Then, surprisingly, Frank blurted, “Can’t we be married right away?”

  “For goodness’ sakes!” Then Barbara’s half-laughing thought came, What an answer!

  Frank’s arm had tightened. He said, “I mean it!” Taking her hands, facing her, Frank asked, “Haven’t I waited long enough?”

  Barbara almost observed tartly, “Too long.” But she said, instead, the thought that was never far from her mind. “Jubal needs me.”

  “Your father can live with us,” Frank said readily.

  “He wouldn’t.”

  “What ever he wants,” said Frank largely. “Barbara, I have to go away for a day or so. Can’t we settle this before I go?”

  Barbara heard herself—and it was like listening to an uncertain stranger talking—“I couldn’t possibly in less than two weeks—”

  Chapter Seven

  The ring Frank slipped on her finger was a perfect fit, and completely unreal. All of this was suddenly, fantastically unreal. Barbara lifted the hand in the starlight. Frank struck a match. The wavering yellow flame glinted coldly back from the large solitaire, and Barbara said impulsively, “Frank, it’s beautiful!”

  Past the match flame she could see Frank’s satisfied smile. With a kind of shock, Barbara realized, In two weeks—married—

  Frank dropped the match and kissed her again. “Barbara, we’ll do everything! Have everything! Nothing can stop us!”

  Frank’s elation sounded like Jubal Kirby’s grandiose plannings of the past. But Frank wasn’t like Jubal. Frank was steady. Frank was careful, dependable.

  Barbara asked curiously, “Where are you going on your trip?”

  Frank said readily, “To Roxton Springs, first. I’m leaving to night.”

  “To night? Do you have to go to night?”

  Frank laughed easily. “Not the first time I’ve driven all night on business.”

  He was like that, Barbara thought; Frank was industrious, ambitious. But—married in two weeks? Two short weeks—In her own small bedroom an hour later, Barbara stood motionless before the oval mirror of her walnut bureau, her thick brown hair brushed loosely over her shoulders. She held her left hand up again, studying the undoubtedly expensive
diamond.

  Aloud, experimentally, Barbara said, “Mrs. Frank Darrah—”

  Barbara turned her head as footsteps came on the porch and cautiously entered the house and paused. Jubal Kirby’s question in the front room had never sounded airier. “Still awake?”

  Tartly Barbara answered, “Don’t you wish I weren’t?”

  Jubal opened her bedroom door and looked in. He was smiling. His black hair was rumpled and inclined to be curly. And as usual, Jubal had the infuriating, ingenious look of a man whose conscience was limpidly clear.

  Coldly Barbara reminded, “So you didn’t feel well? So I had to make the trip to Roxton.”

  Jubal stepped in. His unabashed gaze had an unholy gleam of eternal youth. Barbara tried to hold resentment as Jubal surveyed her with smiling pride. She knew what he was thinking. Jubal often said it to her. Like your mother—sunshine and laughter—too young, too pretty to be my daughter—

  What could you do when your father thought such things? Said such things? When he really believed each word? Almost despairingly at times Barbara knew what you did. Always you dissolved completely, continuing to love the lovable, raffish, and unreliable man fiercely, protectively.

  Jubal’s always interested and keen glance noted Frank Darrah’s diamond on her finger. He paused between the door and small brass bed. His smiling glance asked a silent question.

  Barbara told him almost defiantly, “Frank asked me to night. We’re going to be married in two weeks.”

  Jubal’s smile lasted another moment, then folded in and disintegrated. He sat heavily on the bed and stared wordlessly across the round brass footrail. The spicy odor of cloves, the infuriating yeasty fragrance of McGrath’s Bar were on him. But Jubal was entirely sober, and on his face now lay something stricken.

  Slowly Jubal inquired, “Love him?”

  Some held-in fiend deep in Barbara lashed back in long-suppressed bitterness. “Does it matter? Frank’s steady and reliable! He’s successful! He’s dependable! He’s—” Barbara bit off the rush of scalding bitterness and miserably watched Jubal sit there for a long silent moment.

  Slowly Jubal stood up and came to Barbara’s side and peered into the bureau mirror.

  Her mother’s mirror, Barbara recalled poignantly. How many times had Jubal stood like this beside her mother, looking at the two of them in the mirror?

  Jubal’s remark was gentle. “Enough fine qualities to make any girl happy.” He sounded absent, and he turned back to the bed and slowly began to empty his pockets.

  Barbara’s lips parted in amazement as Jubal tossed yellow gold eagles and larger double eagles and green currency on the figured counterpane of the bed. His brown suit had looked rumpled and sagging. Pockets stuffed with money had been the reason.

  “A little luck, finally, at McGrath’s,” said Jubal in the absent tone. His smile returned, strained-looking now as Jubal tossed a final flutter of bills on the pile. “Now you’ll have as fine a wedding as any girl ever had,” said Jubal quietly. He stepped over and kissed Barbara lightly on the cheek, and murmured, “Happiness, Barbee, all the years ahead.”

  Her “infant” name did it. Barbara reached quickly, holding to him tightly, fiercely, silently, Jubal’s arm went about her understandingly. Neither spoke. They both were smiling when Jubal stepped back and admitted, “I’m sleepy, too.”

  In the doorway Jubal faced around and inquired casually, “Going to have Kate Canaday at your wedding?”

  Barbara said quickly, “Of course. I thought I’d ride out to Half-Moon in the morning and tell Kate.”

  Jubal looked pleased. “Kate’s always been partial to you.” He hesitated, and said slowly, “Kate’s levelheaded. Her advice would be as good as your mother’s.”

  It was an odd remark from Jubal. Trying to sleep, Barbara guessed that Jubal wanted her to take Kate’s advice. But what advice? Kate couldn’t help but approve of Frank Darrah. Puzzled lines creased Barbara’s forehead in the dark. Almost, it seemed, Jubal thought otherwise about Frank Darrah. But why should he? No one else in Coronado did.

  Will Lockhart, the next morning, swung lightly onto a counter stool in Kitty’s Café and ordered an immense breakfast—flapjacks, ham and eggs, fried potatoes, hot biscuits, and a great slab of apple pie.

  His face was bruised. He ached from yesterday’s savage brawl with Vic Hansbro. He felt fine.

  Over the pie and coffee came a reflective, amusing thought. This keen, surging anticipation was a hunter’s reaction. It always came after a frustrating trail brought the quarry finally in sight. Then all was forgotten but the kill. The exciting kill.

  Will had the feeling this morning.

  Dark resentments had driven him since the Fort Kilham wagon train had been shot to a shambles in the Dutch Canyon ambush. Now most of the roweling uncertainties had faded. Here in Coronado lurked the shabby truth of how those waves of Apaches had brought fine new repeating rifles against the Kilham wagon train—how the bursting pride, the instinctive valor, and bright eager dreams of young Lieutenant Lockhart could have been blotted out in an unnecessary hour.

  Last night Will had scrubbed clean in the back room tub of a barber shop, had a shave, had a haircut. His canvas duffel bag with scanty belongings had been left at the Trail House, Coronado’s only hotel, while his wagons went to the salt lakes.

  This morning he had pulled on clean denims and blue cotton shirt—clothes which would never pass parade muster under some stuffy colonel’s critical stare. Will grinned at the thought.

  He finished breakfast leisurely, pondering the reasonable certainty that Frank Darrah was the man he wanted. The talk with Kate Canaday after the fight yesterday had riveted his conviction that Darrah was the man.

  But guilt had to be proved. The shipment of new rifles from New Orleans would probably do it. If they came. And if coming at all, that rifle shipment must now be nearing Coronado.

  At eight o’clock—bank opening time—Will thrust his cigarette sizzling into the coffee dregs and swung off the stool.

  The buxom redhead who was Kitty took his two silver dollars at the cigar case by the door. Her question was amused. “Do you eat this big every morning? Or only after fights?”

  Will chuckled. “Only when the cook is as pretty as this cook. And can cook like this cook.”

  Her ready laughter came back. “For that the house treats.”

  Will scooped up the cigar she pushed out on the glass. He saluted her with it and walked out smiling. And when he was gone, the lean, listening customer on the front stool spoke with morbid relish.

  “He better get serious about that Hansbro. You watch.”

  Will had somewhat the same thought as he paced the boardwalk to the bank. Even yesterday, as the huge bearded foreman of Barb sprawled inertly in the street dirt, Will had guessed there would be more to it. A thought now made him smile faintly. This trouble with Hansbro and Barb would at least obscure his interest in Frank Darrah and the shipment of rifles.

  He found the bank open. Short minutes later he sat in the banker’s small plain office and said, “Alec Waggoman said to see you.”

  George Freall, a pleasant, plain man with thinning brown hair, relaxed back in his swivel chair and nodded. “Four wagons and twenty-six mules, wasn’t it?”

  “Correct.”

  “Alec signed a blank check yesterday,” said Freall readily. “This morning I stopped at the feed corral and talked prices of wagons and mules. I filled the check in. Suit you?” He reached to the desk and handed Will a check.

  “More than I paid,” said Will quickly, looking up from the check. “Knock off about three hundred.”

  Freall refused the check. “Alec will be satisfied.” A mildly surprised warmth entered George Freall’s closer appraisal of this stranger beside his desk, this tramp wagon freighter, here briefly and then gone on the long rough roads in the way of his kind.

  A long, lean-jawed young man of indolent power and smiling reserve was what George Freall saw. The denim pants
, blue cotton shirt, and taut-skinned face scoured leathery by weather were marks of a boss teamster. But the calm look of poise and reserves of strength in every clean line were oddly different. A direct and smiling and vastly human understanding filled the steady, gray-eyed scrutiny which rested on Freall himself.

  To George Freall came a flash of insight, puzzling in a way. He sensed depths of experience and understanding in this man, forged into the calm of self-awareness. In Lockhart, a warmth, a sincerity, and a spontaneous humor evidently took life without cynicism. Savoring what was good, Freall guessed. Weighing events calmly with that smiling, indolent self-assurance. A man, Freall decided now, who had mastered himself, whose smiling reserves would not be mastered. Hansbro found it out, came with a kind of satisfaction to Freall’s mind. He felt impelled to speak.

  “Some say Alec Waggoman has been a hard man. More often he’s been fair. Always kept his word.”

  Will made no comment.

  Freall added musingly, “A man had to be hard in those days.”

  Will made a dry guess. “You like the man.”

  Freall said, “I’ve damned him, too.” He studied Will, a plain banker with shrewd eyes. “You got caught in a leasing mix-up between Barb and Kate Canaday. Where were you meaning to sell salt?”

  “Darrah’s store.”

  “Darrah say he’d buy?”

  Will nodded, and Freall casually inquired, “When’d Darrah say so?”

  So that, Will guessed, is the fish you’re trying to hook? Now why? He said thoughtfully, watching the banker, “The day before I started to the salt lakes. That’s why I rode out to Half-Moon and rented permission to dig salt. I had a buyer. I had work for my men and wagons.”

  Freall said blandly, “Plain enough.” And revealed nothing with the remark. A shrewd man, who deftly changed the subject. “Want cash for your check?”