The Man From Laramie Page 6

  “Some pocket money. I’ll deposit the rest.” Will stood up and Freall got to his feet with a narrowing, contemplative question. “You’re staying in Coronado?”

  “Why not? Barb put me out of business until I get more wagons and mules.”

  Freall’s nod agreed. His remark was sober and unexpectedly personal. “I’ve studied Vic Hansbro for years. Barb is his life.”

  “Waggoman,” Will murmured, “must be a good man to work for.”

  “Not Alec—it’s the ranch.” And to Will’s inquiring gaze, Freall explained, “Hansbro was the foreman while Barb grew big. He never could have built Barb himself, and knew it. But as Barb foreman, Vic Hansbro grew important, too. More important than he’ll ever be again without Barb. Alec Waggoman can die. Barb goes on.”

  Irony came into Will’s faint smile. But George Freall remained sober. “Alec knows it. I’ve seen him laugh and ask Vic what he’d do if a new owner fired him.”

  “And—”

  “Vic thought he was smiling back at Alec. But Vic looked like a big dog snarling when his meat was threatened.” Freall shook his head over the memory.

  Will said bluntly, “You’re trying to tell me something.”

  “You whipped Vic Hansbro. It’s never happened before. And it was over Barb business. So you whipped Barb, too, in Vic’s mind.”

  With faint temper Will reminded, “Waggoman ordered no more trouble. Who’s running Barb?”

  “Sometimes,” said Freall slowly, “I wonder. Alec goes away on long trips. More and more Barb is left to Dave and Vic Hansbro. Dave will own Barb someday, of course. But—”

  Will prodded, “So Dave Waggoman and Hans-bro cut the cookies now? And I’d better pick up my crumbs and move?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “I’ll stay.”

  Freall shrugged, and Will asked a final, curious question. “Why bother to warn me?”

  In that, Freall finally found humor.

  “Not every man would knock three hundred off the check.” Freall’s smile was lean. “A banker gets a liking for a good note or an honest man. Step out to the counter, Mr. Lockhart, and I’ll open your account.”

  Chapter Eight

  This shaded east side of Palace Street was still cool when Will left the bank, thinking of Freall’s words. So the Barb trouble had not been settled by Waggoman’s check. Barb, it seemed, was no longer only Alec Waggoman.

  A fabulous character had aged. A giant had wearied of the game. Dave Waggoman and Vic Hans-bro were beginning to take over. And in the way of human nature, a little taking-over was always stretched. And stretched. By men like Hansbro. By hotheads like Dave.

  Absently Will bit off the end of the redhead’s cigar. Young Dave might have compromised reasonably at the salt lakes. But Hansbro’s will had dominated.

  So there it was—Hansbro could handle young Dave Waggoman. And when Dave finally owned Barb totally, then Hansbro, in a way, would also own Barb by dominating Dave.

  Will swiped a match against a wooden awning post and got the cigar going. Barb under Hans-bro’s fist after Alec Waggoman died—

  Wry and ironic, Will’s feeling came: I’d not care to be Alec Waggoman with that at my back! Hansbro counting my time to the grave, Hansbro might get impatient!

  Across the rutted, dusty street, the new sun flooded the high false front and black-lettered sign of Darrah’s store:

  Frank L. Darrah

  Merchant

  Supplies Contracts

  And guns, Will added darkly. Massacres!

  He crossed the street, and inside Darrah’s store he paused, scanning this headquarters of Darrah’s expanding affairs. From Kate Canaday yesterday, he’d learned more about Darrah. The man sold merchandise throughout this part of the Territory, taking payment often in cattle, sheep, wool, hides, grains, and beans.

  All that, Darrah resold at further profit. In four years he had prospered greatly. He bid now on army supply contracts. He formed side partnerships with other men in such ventures as sawmilling, real estate, ranching, cattle, sheep—

  And what difference between a quiet venture in sheep—and one in contraband arms? Only in the risk. Only in the enormous profit.

  McGuire, the clerk, came forward, a stocky, brisk man wearing brown-cloth sleeve guards. His droll smile was likeable.

  “I want a carbine and scabbard,” Will told him. “What have you got?”

  “Your choice,” said McGuire largely, leading the way back and speaking over his shoulder. “Two Winchesters.”

  “Only two?”

  “They’re hard to get. Mr. Darrah picks up all he can.”

  Will tried the guns McGuire put out on the counter. “This one,” he decided, tapping the first one.

  McGuire was surveying him with smiling admiration. “Sure now,” said McGuire’s loosening brogue, “’twas a grand soaping you handed out yesterday. Did the old man pay like they say he promised?”

  “He did.”

  When Darrah’s freight from Colfax had been unloaded at the platform out back, McGuire had checked the lists, brisk and chuckling. Now, ducking below the counter, McGuire’s voice floated up. “The devil’s in your hip pocket, or left his luck there.” McGuire came up with an armful of leather saddle scabbards and laid them out on the counter.

  Will chose one. “And a box of shells.” He glanced toward the office at the back. “Darrah here?”

  “Ain’t an’ won’t be. He rode to Roxton Springs last night.”

  “In a hurry, wasn’t he? Riding there last night?”

  “He was,” agreed McGuire cheerfully.

  “And what kind of business would push a storekeeper like that?”

  McGuire picked up the money Will counted out. His bright black eyes rested on Will. “Mr. Darrah comes an’ goes. After the fight yesterday, he read mail from Roxton, an’ decided to close early and ride last night.”

  “How long will he be gone?”

  McGuire shrugged. “If you’re going to Roxton Springs,” said McGuire casually, “you might mention to Mr. Darrah that the Half-Moon wagon came this morning. Loaded everything that was on the list Miss Canaday left, an’ another list she sent.”

  Will gave the man a thoughtful look. Only this moment had he decided to go to Roxton Springs. But McGuire had shrewdly guessed it. Or was McGuire fishing to see if he meant to go?

  “What makes you think I’ll be in Roxton?”

  “First stop away from Barb an’ Hansbro,” said McGuire with droll impudence.

  But after his customer walked out, McGuire took a sheet of folded paper from a shabby billfold on his hip and furtively opened it on the counter. Early closing last night had prevented sweeping and tidying the store. This morning McGuire had been about to burn the contents of the office waste-basket when a single word on a torn scrap of letter paper had caught his eye: pilfering—

  Only McGuire’s secret conscience knew why he had picked out all scraps of the torn-up New Orleans letter, why he had pasted the letter together again on this sheet of paper.

  …a clerk I had not suspected was caught this morning pilfering my office desk.... stranger had tempted him with money to scan letters recently arrived from the West. I fear the worst.... Perhaps the recent shipment has reached you in good order as you read this....

  McGuire, an underpaid and overworked clerk who received scant politeness from Darrah, hastily returned the sheet to his wallet as another customer entered the store. McGuire’s smile as he walked forward was broader than usual with an inner excitement, with anticipation.

  Will Lockhart had walked directly to the Sierra Corrals, off the lower end of Palace Street. There, beside a long adobe barn where the sun-baked wagon yard and pole corrals held a stir of morning activity, he bargained with the owner, a burly man named Roberts, for a horse and saddle.

  His selection was a star-faced roan gelding, short-coupled, powerful, with the rough look of mustang infusion. As they walked to the office to complete the sale, Roberts gave
grudging admiration.

  “Some woulda passed him. Best one I got on hand though.” Roberts’s speculative glance rested on Will. “In the market for mules now?”

  “I’m looking.”

  “Take looking to find twenty-five or thirty good mules,” Roberts stated. “Wagons won’t be easy to find quick, either.”

  “No hurry,” Will murmured.

  Later Will saddled the gelding himself and rammed the new carbine into the new scabbard forward of the stirrup. The saddle purchased from Roberts had saddlebags. He dropped the box of shells into one bag and was preparing to step on the horse when a stranger with a long, leathery Texan look strolled across the yard.

  “Lockhart?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Tom Quigby, deputy sheriff.”

  “Howdy.”

  “I got in last night,” Quigby drawled. “Heard there’d been a little trouble at the salt lakes an’ in town here. Any complaints or charges?”

  Will shook his head. The deputy’s drawl leveled to an even tone. “Mostly I handle the law here. I like it peaceful.”

  Will glanced about the wagon yard and murmured, “Seems peaceful.”

  Quigby’s “It ain’t” lacked annoyance. “A man who tackled Vic Hansbro like I hear you did, knows the score.” Quigby’s glance rested on the new leather scabbard and carbine. “I know Hansbro. And you, friend, ain’t exactly a shy violet. Next there’ll be a killing.”

  Will glanced down at his lack of cartridge belt and holstered gun. “You ordering a killing? Or warning me?”

  He got then a better measure of Quigby. “Hans-bro and the Waggomans will hear what you’re hearing, Lockhart. Make charges against them now, or forget what happened.”

  “Waggoman has paid for my wagons and mules. I’m satisfied.”

  A faint puzzlement entered Quigby’s look. “Any idea why Waggoman paid a stranger like you?”

  “Never saw the man before. Decided he owed, I suppose.”

  Quigby considered the idea. His head shook slowly. His smile took a wry twist, not unfriendly. “Well, you’ve been warned. Leaving town?”

  “I’ll be back. And I’ll not be interested in Barb. Or Hansbro.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Quigby’s wry, questioning smile lingered as he offered his hand.

  Will met the clasp, liking the deputy. Then, riding to the hotel, Will was satisfied. His interest in Darrah was still unsuspected. Save, perhaps, by McGuire, the clerk. McGuire disturbed Will a little.

  In his hotel room, Will took from the canvas duffel bag his rolled shell belt and revolver. He would have preferred leaving the weapon packed away. On his way out, he paid the room rent a week in advance.

  After that he rode south on the Roxton Springs road, trying out the new horse. He liked its smooth, powerful lope, easy trot, quick understanding of his wishes. This was another day of open sky and the climbing sun’s liquid blaze. Juniper and cedar here in the foothills, shin oak and piñon, gave greenness and dappled shade. Pulling the roan’s lope to a walk, Will twisted a cigarette and studied the lay of the country.

  East, over his left shoulder, towered the sky-reaching mass of Coronado Peak. Over that way Half-Moon and Barb straddled their runs of clear, cold mountain water, and reached up through the higher foothills to the yellow pines and loftier stands of spruce and Douglas fir.

  Barb, the greater ranch, flung its long drift fences far out on the lower, sun-scorched grasslands which gave winter graze. Both ranches, Kate Canaday had said yesterday, had been started about the same time. Half-Moon by Kate’s father. Barb by young Alec Waggoman.

  In those early years, Waggoman must have been a man, Will mused now—a driving, determined, lusty young giant, fearing nothing, ruthlessy determined to build. A man to admire, even if one had disliked him. That last thought had run grudgingly through all Kate Canaday’s remarks about Waggoman. A man to admire in those days.

  Will shook the roan into another stiff lope, restless to learn now what had taken Darrah so suddenly through the night to Roxton Springs.

  The narrow dusty road curved past the end of a rugged igneous dike. And midway of the open quarter-mile stretch, a woman was riding ahead of him. The next moment Will felt a quick, warm rise of anticipation. Barbara Kirby had not been on his mind. But there she was ahead, alone. The prospect was oddly pleasing.

  Chapter Nine

  Barbara Kirby recognized him warily as the blowing roan dropped to a walk beside her horse. Her “Good morning” was calm.

  “Miss Kirby—” Will said, hat in hand.

  Memory had tricked him. She looked less a small girl this morning. But the same small, square shoulders filled her lightweight wool jacket. Today her jaunty little hat of red-brimmed felt was entirely feminine. The coppery highlights he remembered ran liquid in her brown hair as the sun fingered it. And her calmness, he was aware, covered spirit and temper which could flare quickly.

  He asked, “Riding to Roxton?”

  “Only to Half-Moon,” Barbara said.

  Will grinned at her.

  “I was a stranger, wasn’t I?” Barbara laughed then and considered him. “And wise this morning to leave like this.”

  Will let her think it. A small silence held them as the horses paced together. He was glad now of the bath and shave and haircut last night. Barbara’s first estimating glance had clearly noted the change in him. Then Will saw the diamond ring on her left hand and the edge of his pleasure dulled.

  “I didn’t notice your ring yesterday.”

  Barbara glanced at the hand. “I’ve only had it since last night. You’ve met him—Frank Darrah.”

  Will nodded. Barbara sensed some lack of enthusiasm and her glance rested curiously on him. But her comment when it came changed the subject.

  “Did Uncle Alec pay you for your wagons and mules?”

  Will said in surprise, “Is Waggoman your uncle?”

  “Yes.”

  “The bank paid me this morning; more than enough.”

  “He can be like that,” Barbara said. “And you’re leaving now, so there’ll be no more trouble.”

  “Tell him so,” Will suggested. “Tell him I’m satisfied; I want no more trouble with Barb.”

  “We don’t meet often,” Barbara said. “If we do, I’ll tell him.”

  That was all; Will touched his hat and put the roan back into the long lope. In his mind was the thought that twice he’d met Barbara Kirby now and this time her own trouble lay ahead. Her soaring hopes of a happy marriage were going to be smashed, if he were right about Darrah. She’d chosen the man freely. The good—the bitter—Will did not look back. He hoped now he would not meet Barbara Kirby again.

  At Barb Ranch, in his large, quiet bedroom, Alec Waggoman cut himself while shaving. Razor in hand, he peered across the washbowl into the mirror, where the hazy reflection of craggy face, white mustaches, and foamy lather peered back. The cut was invisible, but a seep of red quickly stained the white lather.

  Impassively Waggoman watched the spreading blotch. East windows admitted the bright early sun into the bedroom, yet Waggoman finished shaving and dressing with slow careful movements, as if shadows filled the big room.

  The cook had beaten the iron triangle outside the cookshack before Alec Waggoman emerged from the low, fortresslike stone house into the wide, sunny back yard. In front of him bunk house and barn, wagon shed, windmill, and watering-troughs, cookshack, and storage sheds enclosed the hard-packed yard like the uneven stockade of a fort.

  It had been a fort; it was still a fort in a way, Waggoman thought with a flare of memories which brought his wide shoulders straighter. From a small one-room cabin on this spot, Barb had grown and defied the world.

  The low racket of breakfast came out of the cook-shack. When Waggoman opened the door and stepped in, momentary quiet fell. Then midway of the long crowded table came Dave’s mildly sarcastic query.

  “You try to cut your throat this morning?”

  Waggoman’s chu
ckle was easy as he took the vacant chair at the head of the table and fingered the cut chin. Over a shoulder he spoke to the cook.

  “One egg fried hard, Joie. A piece of ham fried soft. That’s all.” He could have breakfasted on the gall of helplessness. But a man had to eat.

  Vic Hansbro’s bearded face was in its accustomed place at the far end of the table. The foreman was eating in dark silence. What Waggoman could see of Hansbro’s face had a swollen, abraded look.

  The first men finished and got up. Waggoman spoke to them without emotion. “No one goes to town today.”

  Hansbro’s head came up challengingly. His protest sounded thick past puffy lips. “I got business in town.”

  “Put it off, Vic. Come to the office in half an hour. You too, Dave.”

  The blur of Hansbro’s swollen face glowered indecisively. Then Hansbro’s growled “Sure” ended it for the time being.

  A little later in the office in the south wing of the big house, Waggoman paced back and forth slowly, remembering Hansbro’s near challenge. Increasingly, a subtle arrogance grew in Vic. Almost as if Vic suspected.

  From east windows of the office the great forested lift of Coronado Peak cut off the farther world, and compensated with soaring cliffs and high frowning escarpments and the dark folds and bends of the great high valleys. And not a hand’s span of it he didn’t know, Waggoman thought with an ache.

  Peering through a window now with straining intensity, he could see only the peak’s dark and massive blur. The shape without the substance.

  South through the doorway glass one could see the vast down-roll of foothills to grassy meadows lost in the blue haze of lower distance. The haze now, when Waggoman looked, was not distance. This haze began on the wide porch outside the door glass and swiftly thickened.

  The sun-washed and lovely land was still there. Eyes unborn would admire it. But Waggoman knew the bald, bitter truth. For him it had gone, save in memory. He did not bother to glance through the west windows at the ranch yard. Paper work waited on the roll-top desk. Dave should have done most of it. But Dave disliked paper work.