Clifford Simak - New Folks' Home - And Other Stories

“Titus and some of the other boys were in yesterday,” the clerk told him, “but I haven’t seen a sign of them today.”

The man turned away from the desk. Cornish stepped forward.

“I’ll carry Mr. Armstrong’s bags,” he offered. “I was going up, anyhow.”

Armstrong turned to face him and Cornish noted the pinched, squeezed face of a New England businessman. Lips thin and colorless, eyes the drab color of gray slate.

“Er—thank you, sir,” Armstrong said.

“Not at all,” said Cornish. “Glad to help you. What room, Jake?”

“Seventeen,” said the desk man, tossing him the key.

Cornish led the way up the flight of stairs, set down the bags and opened the door, then carried the bags inside.

Armstrong fumbled in his pocket. “Perhaps you’d have a drink on me?”

Cornish shook his head.

“Not a drink, Armstrong. Just a talk.”

Armstrong’s eyebrows went up and the colorless lips pulled straighter.

“I can’t imagine …”

“You own the Tumbling K,” said Cornish.

“Yes, I do.”

“Know what’s going on?”

Armstrong’s face tightened, went a shade more chalky.

“Look here, young man. I don’t know what you’re driving at …”

“Murder,” said Cornish, tightly. “Or it will be before the thing is finished. Titus is driving a herd up the Cottonwood. Not across it, or into it, but straight up it.”

“The Cottonwood,” said Armstrong. “Let’s see—that’s where the nesters are.”

“So you knew about the nesters.”

“Naturally. Titus keeps me well informed.”

“And you knew what Titus planned to do?”

“Scarcely what he planned to do. I intimated to him that he could feel free to take whatever action he thought prudent.”

“I suppose it’s prudent to destroy the crops of all those people who are trying to make homes in the valley. Destroy their crops and kill any of them that try to make a fight.”

Armstrong flicked a dust spot from his sleeve.

“Frankly, I would say we’d be doing them a favor. This isn’t farming land, it’s range land. Farmers would starve to death. A good year now and then, maybe, but not often enough to make both ends meet. They’ve been brought here by the false idea that they can make a living. It’s the government that’s to blame, really, for opening up the land.”

His eyes narrowed until they were gray slits. “I can’t imagine, young man, why you should be so interested. Are you one of these—er—nesters?”

Cornish laughed shortly. “No. I sell barb wire.”

Armstrong stiffened. “Barb wire!”

“I see you’ve heard about me, too,” said Cornish. “Did you advise Titus to proceed prudently with me?”

Armstrong pounded the floor angrily with his cane.

“I’ve never seen much impudence!” he shouted.

“Mister,” said Cornish, “you ain’t seen nothing yet. If you figure you’re coming out here to ramrod this war …”

“I don’t know anything about a war,” Armstrong shouted at him. “I always come out here every summer, for at least a week or two.”

“O.K,” snapped Cornish. “O.K., if that’s the way you want it, but let me tell you something. Your men are messing up a deal of mine. I’ve spent a lot of time selling wire to those nesters out there and I’m not letting you and your Tumbling K ruin all the work I’ve done …”

A step sounded in the corridor outside and Cornish spun around to face the door.

Squint Douglas stood just inside the room, feet spread, hand poised above his gun.

“So,” he said, and the drawn out word was a challenge and a shout of triumph.

Cornish jerked back his hand until his fingers touched the grip of the Colt that Steve had loaned him.

For a long moment the two men stood facing one another, each unmoving, eyes narrowed against the light, waiting for the slightest move to send them into action.

“All right, Squint,” said Cornish. “Go ahead and make your play.”

Squint stood as if rooted to the floor, like a man suddenly stricken into stone.

“You’re just a yellow rat,” Cornish snarled. “Yellow to the core. You’d hang me when I didn’t have a chance. You’d tackle me when you had a couple of men to help you. But you won’t shoot it out when the breaks are even.”

The twisted grin that twitched at Squint’s ugly face warned Cornish even before he heard the step behind him and he instinctively jerked his body to one side. The whizzing cane missed his head by a fraction of an inch, slammed into his shoulder so hard that he buckled at the knees.

Through pain-dazed eyes, Cornish saw Squint’s gun coming out of leather, saw the leer of triumph that spread across his face. Knocked off balance by the blow from Armstrong’s cane, Cornish clawed desperately for the Colt hanging at his hip, found it even as the blast from Squint’s gun filled the room to bursting with a monstrous clap of thunder.

The bullet brushed Cornish’s cheek, slammed into a bedpost behind him, breaking out a shower of splinters.

Squint’s gun crashed again and Cornish felt the sting of lead slash across his ribs, heard the bullet smash into the mirror that hung upon the wall.

Then his own gun was tilting in his hand and his finger was closing on the trigger. The run roared and slammed against his wrist and Cornish knew he would not have to shoot again.

In the doorway, Squint stood with a blue hole in his forehead, stood for an instant before he toppled forward, dead.

Cornish straightened from his crouch, stood looking at Armstrong through the stinging powder smoke that befogged the room.

Armstrong’s pale lips moved thinly. “You killed him!”

Cornish snarled back, motioned with his gun toward Squint’s lifeless body on the floor.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you, Armstrong. That is what I meant. The Tumbling K had better not try to stop me selling wire.”

Cornish moved toward the door, gun dangling in his hand. He stepped across Squint, but turned before he left.

“Next time,” he told Armstrong, “when two men shoot it out don’t go mixing in with that cane of yours.”

A crowd had gathered in the lobby downstairs and Cornish halted on the stairs, looking at the faces that stared up at him. Blank faces—some of them the faces of the men who had refused to drink at the Longhorn bar when Steve had set them up.

“I just killed Squint,” said Cornish, almost conversationally. “Anyone know of anything they’d like to do about it?”

None of them did, apparently. They parted and made a lane for him and he walked out onto the porch, crossed the sidewalk, vaulted to the saddle, went pounding down the street.

The wagon stood in front of the Hays’ place at the south end of Cottonwood valley and Steve was lounging against one wheel when Cornish rode up.

“You look all out of breath,” said Steve.

Cornish didn’t answer, jerked his thumb toward the house.

“How about it?”

“Doc says we got to take old Bert to town where he can keep a close watch on him. We’ll fix up a bed inside the wagon and have to travel slow.”

“Look,” said Cornish, “I got into a brush with Squint, had to shoot him.”

“Dead, I hope,” said Steve.

Cornish nodded. “The fat’s really in the fire, Steve. Do you want to stick with me?”

“Ain’t got another blessed thing to do,” said Steve. “Look at that there wheat field. Cows plumb spoiled it. Makes you hot inside just to think of it.”

“Soon as you get to town,” said Cornish, “get the barb wire I got stored in the railroad warehouse. I got enough to throw across the valley and stop those cows. Then come back as fast as you can. Head for the Narrows. Know where they are?”