Leslie Charteris - The Saint Goes West

He had divided his words between Reefe and Morland, and he was looking at Morland when he finished, but then his eyes went back to the Saint, as if somehow Simon was the only one that he was in doubt about. And curiously, the others seemed to wait for the Saint too, as though without any assertion he had become felt as the man who was the most natural match for Valmon.

And yet the Saint hadn’t moved. He only seemed to become longer and lazier in his chair as he lighted another cigarette with his eyes narrowed but still casual against the smoke.

“You make it all sound so much like the plot of any western picture,” he remarked, “that I can only think of what the answer would be in any western. If I were Don, I guess I’d just cut down your fence and drive my cattle right through to your beautiful new dam.”

“And you know what happens in westerns when somebody does that,” Valmon said in the same tone.

“I don’t want any fighting,” Morland said, with the slightest jerkiness in his voice. “If you’re really in trouble, and you come to me properly, we’ll see if we can work something out. Perhaps I could let you water your cattle over here. I just don’t like you pretending to threaten me.”

“It’s the ham in him,” murmured the Saint, so lightly that for a second he didn’t seem to have said anything, and then calmly, astonishingly, so unpredictably that somehow it was not instantly believable, he began to sing something to himself to the tune of “Home on the Range”:

Valmon snapped to his feet, and his smile was gone.

“All right,” he said. “I’ve made you a fair offer. I’ll give you just twenty-four hours to take it. You can come and tell me tomorrow night. If you think I’m pretending, don’t come. You’ll find out when I start blasting the next morning.”

Morland stood up also, more slowly, his face a little paler.

“I think you’d better go, Valmon,” he said tightly.

Valmon picked up his hat and clapped it on at an insolent slant.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll go — while there are three of you telling me. But I’ll be back here after you’ve gone. And then we’ll see who makes the funniest cracks.”

His voice was still soft and well-modulated, but instead of taking the sting out of his words, that incongruous dulcetness gave them the malignance of a snake’s hiss. It whipped a dull flush into Morland’s face, but his lip quivered with the uncertainty of a man unused to violence. Hank Reefe started forward with a low growl, but Simon caught his arm and stepped ahead of him. Very courteously the Saint bowed Valmon towards the steps.

“Good night, Maxie dear,” he cooed, and Valmon gave him a long stare.

“I’ll know more about you before that,” he said.

“Maybe.”

Simon leaned on the porch rail and concluded his improvisation while Valmon strode across to his car and slammed the door.

The line ended in a vicious rasp of angrily meshed gears, and the station wagon’s engine roared as Valmon jarred in the clutch and pulled away.

Simon watched the lights bumping down the trail, and turned back with a little of the humorous mischief fading from his eyes.

“So,” he said slowly. “That seems to have done it.”

Jean Morland was hugging her father’s arm.

“Did you see?” she said wonderingly. “He looked really — wicked. Did you see, Daddy?”

“I’m afraid it’s my fault,” said the Saint. “I knew just how to get under his skin, and I couldn’t resist it. I’ve got an evil gift for that sort of thing. You’re right, Jean — he’s bad. But I suppose it still wasn’t my business. Now I’ve blown everything up for you. I’m sorry.”

“Perhaps it’s just as well,” Morland said quietly. “At least we’ve seen him in his true colours... I’ll go in to town tomorrow and see the sheriff, or whoever you have to see.”

The Saint shook his head slightly.

“You’re going to have trouble,” he said. “Maybe you’ll need some extra help. I kind of brought this to a head, so my offer still goes.”

Morland fumbled with his matches, trying to get his pipe going again. His hands were just a trifle clumsy, not quite so steady as they would otherwise have been.

“It’s very nice of you, but — we haven’t any right to bother you. I’m not going to worry.”

“But we can’t turn Mr Templar out at this hour of the night,” Jean said quickly. “At least we can find a bed for him.”

“We... we don’t have any room to offer him dear.”

Simon smiled at the girl.

“I can put up with the bunkhouse,” he said, “if you can put up with me. I’d like to stay.”

“There’s a spare bed in my room,” Reefe said detachedly. “He’s welcome to that.”

Half an hour later Simon Templar sat on the spare bed in Hank Reefe’s room, pulling off his boots and watching the foreman silently roll another cigarette. With the smoke going, Reefe dug under his bed and pulled out a well-worn suitcase. Out of it he extracted an almost as well-worn cartridge belt, from which the holster hung heavy with a Colt.45. He took the revolver out, sprung out the cylinder and spun it, checking the load.

“At least you didn’t think I was kidding,” said the Saint.

Reefe looked at him with his lean poker face.

“I’ve seen trouble build up before,” he said. “My father saw a lot more of it, when he wore this belt all the time. Things don’t change very much, out here.”

Simon Templar peeled off his socks and sat rubbing one instep, developing his own estimates.

They were drinking coffee after breakfast at the long communal table outside the kitchen with the four cowboys, Jim and Smoky and Nails and Elmer, and Don Morland said, “How far can Valmon really go?”

Jim drained his cup and got up, hitching his belt, and as if he was the spokesman for the others he said, “Well, you can go as far as you like, an’ if he wants to fight we’ll be right there with you.”

The others nodded and grinned in the slow slight way of their kind, as they also got to their feet, and Nails said, “You bet.”

“Let’s git goin’,” said Jim, with the speechmaking finished.

Hank Reefe watched them go, dawdling to roll a cigarette.

“They’re good boys,” he said.

“But what can Valmon do?” Morland protested.

“He can do enough.”

“But there’s still some law and order here, isn’t there?” The older man seemed to be arguing with himself. “There must be something about water rights in the title to this property. Valmon can’t do just what he likes and get away with it.”

“You heard what he said last night,” Reefe persisted woodenly. “He can do what he likes on his own land. If that damages you, you can sue him. Dunno if that does you much good, after the damage is done. An’ if we go in on his land to interfere with him, that’s trespassin’, an’ maybe he can sue you. Guess that wouldn’t help him so much either, if we had him stopped.”

“So he wouldn’t let us stop him,” said Jean. “He’d fight.”

“Sure,” Reefe agreed. “But he’s not the only one who can do that.”

“It’s ridiculous,” Morland said. “Things like that just don’t go on any more. I’m going to town and talk to the sheriff.”

Reefe nodded.

“You can try that,” he said expressionlessly, and shaped the brim of his hat as he straightened up. “I’ll get on with my job.”