Ernest Haycox - The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox

He went out as a Mexican came in from the kitchen and laid a platter of boiled beef and potatoes in front of Charterhouse. The latter fell to, not yet rid of the feeling he was under observation. Judging from the stacked dishes the men of the outfit had already eaten. Savoring his meal with the gusto of a hungry traveler, he heard footsteps tramping through the front room. Somebody swore and a general murmur of conversation eddied meaninglessly back to him. Vasco returned from the kitchen with a tin of pie and the coffee pot, leaving both for Charterhouse's pleasure. Dallying with his food, Charterhouse posted up his silent observations.

"Den of forty thieves. Couldn't of horned into a worse joint. Everything I do today is wrong and getting wronger. I don't feel right and I don't feel very damned safe. Sooner I ride off the better it's going to be. But I ain't so sure—"

He rolled a cigarette and rose to go into the front room. He knew he would face additional men but he was not prepared for the crowd that fronted him when he pushed open the door. Fifteen or twenty of them, with here and there an individual he thought he had previously seen in Angels. But familiar or strange, they were a woolly, bitten lot, a stolid and unpleasant set of characters. Nor was it reassuring to realize that they had come out of hiding; either they felt he was harmless or could soon be rendered harmless. Shander lolled in a chair and waved at the center table.

"Help yourself to the bottle. Welcome to the party."

Charterhouse grinned. "Should of brought my invite. Must have left it home on the bureau top."

"Doubt if it makes any difference," said Shander, hard amusement cropping out. "Main point is you're here and among friends."

"I was wondering about that last point," mused Charter-house, helping himself from a bottle.

"You're not deaf or dumb," said Shander, "and you seem able to add round numbers. So you can make up your own mind about the friend business. Said you come through the timber and circled east at the Bowlus place?"

"I came through the timber," replied Charterhouse. "I don't make this Bowlus place you mention. But there was a house off a ways."

"See anybody there?"

Charterhouse liked the tang of his liquor and decided for another, all the while feeling the increased pressure of attention from these taut-cheeked men. He was going through the grist mill, no doubt of that.

"No-o, it looked like empty country to me."

"How many in the Box M party that stopped you?" Charterhouse considered. "Six, eight—ten, I gather."

"Any familiar faces?"

"Seastrom...Haggerty."

This seemed to contain meat. There was a slight shifting, a covert passage of glances. Through the smoke he made out a white- faced youngster sitting in a dark corner and staring at him like an unwinking reptile. Shander pressed on.

"Which way did they go after they left you?"

"Struck westward," stated Charterhouse and put down his glass very carefully. "And with that answered, school's out for old man Charterhouse's little boy."

Shander's mouth tipped down at the corners. "Considered you've paid for your supper, uh?"

"In my country," Charterhouse drawled, "a guest owns the house as long as he is in it, no questions asked, no pay taken."

"Nice sentiment—for a peaceful land," admitted Shan-der and seemed to be unpleasantly affected by the remark. He rolled his cigar between fingers. "But we have to do different in Casabella."

"I am making a stab at playing neutral, Shander. What I see or hear I keep to myself."

"Also impossible in Casabella."

"I have bought no chips in this game," Charterhouse remarked.

"Beg to differ. You have."

"As how?"

"By stepping into Angels, for one thing. By having your nose blistered at Nickum's hands for another. By having your horse stole. By being chased across the deadline. If I'm any judge of human nature, you can't truthfully say it is your intention to ride out of Casabella and call it quits."

"It was a point I was debating," admitted Charter-house.

"I was betting you'd already made up your mind," countered Shander, seeming to enjoy himself. Light gleamed against his eyes. "Sit down and take life easy."

"I'd prefer to ride," said Charterhouse with a great deal more casualness than he felt.

"Couldn't think of turning a guest out this late. It wouldn't be seemly. I've had one of the boys put up your horse."

"In other words, I do what I'm told," challenged Charterhouse.

"Good guess. You're old enough to know why?"

"I have been known to do some private thinking," agreed Charterhouse. "Well, I never argue with a better run of cards than mine And if this whisky holds out, what difference does it make?"

Shander's sick face broke into lines of cynical humor, and he was on the point of speaking again when the youngster in the dark corner rose and pushed himself toward the table with a swagger of shoulders. In full light Charterhouse saw a triangular face, strangely pallid and as smooth as a woman's, with a pair of eyes as pale and unwavering as he had ever marked. A lock of silky hair escaped the brim of a floppy hat and fell down in front of each ear. A kid with a dirty face stood there, smiling a little, yet without the slightest humor; a vain, boasting youngster armed to the teeth. He squared himself at Charterhouse.

"Ever see me before?"

"Haven't had the pleasure."

"I'm Curly. You know who I am now?"

"Your reputation is known to me," admitted Charter-house truthfully. There was no man in the state more notorious than this youthful bandit.

"What's this for?" complained Shander.

"So he'll know me when he sees me again," grinned Curly and turned away. "Seems like we've done a smear of talking and got nowhere."

Shander nodded. "Chaterhouse, I expect you're pretty tired. We'll excuse you. Louey, escort the guest to the bunkhouse, and stay there yourself."

"I had just got to drinking good," mourned Charter-house and walked through the crowd. "Thanks for the hospitality, Shander, and I hope you have pancakes for breakfast. My favorite dish."

His guard ambled out behind him; they crossed the porch and stepped down to the soft earth. Horses nodded patiently in the darkness and one groaned dismally right beside Charterhouse. He had the stub of a dead cigarette in his mouth and halted to find a match, while Louey, not particularly interested, stood a yard off and waited.

"Damn," grunted Charterhouse, breaking his first match. He searched himself once more, eyes questing through the shadows. "Pass me a light, will you?"

As he said it, he began marching forward again, toward the dim shadow of the bunkhouse. Louey fell in step, both hands dropping into his pockets. Charterhouse veered slightly, gun ripping out of its seat, rising and smashing across the solid head of Shander's man. He fell and lay sprawling. Charterhouse whirled and checked an almost irresistible impulse to run for the horses; instead he walked quietly up to the nearest animal, reached for the trailing ribbons and stepped into the saddle. From the angle of the yard he was able to look through the open door of the house and see part of the crowd as they shifted about the room, with Shander risen and tramping around the table. He even caught a stray word or two. "...to-morrow, but otherwise..." Pulling the horse clear of the porch, he suddenly stiffened, all nerves like cold drawn wire. Somebody walked out of the desert, saw him, and casually hailed.

"Who's that—where you going?"

"Back in a minute," muttered Charterhouse.

"What for?" demanded the other. Talk in the house stopped; boots tramped over the boards as Charterhouse increased the distance intervening. The man swore glumly. "Quit sucking your tongue and talk up. Who is it?"

Then Shander's voice echoed flatly. "Who is that? Hold on—draw in! Louey, where are you? Louey! where are you? Louey! Stop that horse or—"