Ernest Haycox - The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox

The two men swapped glances. Storm went out and closed the door. Niland leaned forward. Those papers Storm had left on the desk, he saw, were the ledger sheets and transit check records concerning Langdell's account. He drew the crumpled slip from his pocket. Occasionally his pencil touched and checked a figure; but when, an exact ten minutes later, Storm returned, he found Niland slouched idly in the chair. "Sorry I had to run out on you. Anything else you want to know?"

"No," said Niland.

"Whatever has passed between us is confidential."

"I'd like the privilege of tellin' one man, Ed."

"Hell!" grunted Storm, frowning. "Who is it?"

"Denver," replied Niland, and added, "if he's alive."

"I trust you—I trust him. Now I'm going to wash my face and hands."

"I've tried it at times," reflected Niland, getting up. "But what's the use? Nobody can live a useful life without gettin' dirty. What do you expect of Sundown? See you later, Ed."

On the street he found the scene changed somewhat. A great many men were standing just outside Grogan's. Nobody was going in and nobody coming out, but those by the doors seemed intently interested at the sounds emerging. Thinking that Steve Steers had developed a fight, he elbowed through the crowd and entered. Steve was lecturing the room morosely.

"When I tell you buzzards to play cards, then yuh can do it, and not a minute before. This always was a lousy joint, full of petty ante grafters and run by a sticky-fingered mug who's got a spine made o' yella soap. Meems, quit crawlin' against the bar."

Niland came forward, and Steve stopped talking. Both of his elbows were hooked against the bar; he swayed like a tree in a heavy wind. The alcoholic stupor blurred his vision; he failed to recognize Niland until the latter approached to arm's length. Then Steve stiffened—and remembered.

"Any news?"

"None."

"I had ought to of gone along," muttered Steve. "Ruther be dead than wait like this. Have a drink, Al."

Niland shook his head. "How drunk do you have to be, Steve? You're about paralyzed now."

"It ain't enough," sighed Steve. "Grogan, this bug-killer of yores is either rotten poison or else yore miserable mug is double. Always did know yuh to be two-faced."

Grogan leaned against the bottle shelf, breathing hard. One palm lay against a blackjack on the shelf. "I had about enough from you, Steers. My face is good enough for you, and my liquor is straight."

"Both of which is neither," jeered Steve. "Layin' for me, ain't yuh? Try it and I'll break yore back, you ox."

Meems and Wango went off in a sputtering argument. All Grogan's free lunch platters were on the bar in front of them, fearsomely raped. The litter of chicken bones and half bitten sandwiches strewed the floor at their feet.

"Don't yuh eat nothin' but white meat?" demanded Wango. "I been nibblin' on wings and necks till I c'd crow an' fly away. Gimme a chanst."

"Thasso? Ev'time I reach I run into yore cussed arm. Git yore fool head outa the platter. It ain't no bed."

"I'm tellin' yuh once an' all—quit throwin' yore bones anunder my feet!"

"I alius—uck—throw scraps to the dawg, Wango."

"Don't throw no more bones anunder my feet!"

"He calls 'em feet!" cackled Meems.

Steve reached for the bottle. "Hit this, you sod busters. Ain't there nothin' that'll stop yuh but arsenic?"

Meems shook with palsy as he drank. Wango paled and began to shudder enormously. Both of his feet were inside the brass rail; attempting to maneuver around, he began to wilt. His feet slid, his knees buckled, his hind quarters struck the rail, bounced, and settled to the floor. Meems, bereft of moral support, laid his head on the bar. "I reckon—I done got ample," he moaned. "My Gawd, what a night!"

Steve stared at the partners. "They never was no good and never will be. But if they look like I think they look, then I shore must be hog drunk." With a jerk of his arm he swallowed what remained in his glass. "Now I got to take my punishment. Stay here, Al, till I come back."

He batted the doors before him, glowered at the crowd, passed through. Toward the hotel he rolled. There was sweat on his face and a film over his eyes. Once he thought he would never make it and slouched against a hitching rack; but a horse backed away from him, and that roused sufficient anger to propel him to the hotel porch. He couldn't see Debbie and he knew he never would be able to master the stairs. So he dropped his anchor and called.

"Debbie—oh, Debbie."

Then she was standing above him, silent and still. She held her chin steady, but in a sudden passion of self-disgust he saw that he had hurt her as no other soul had ever done. The deep blue of her eyes was covered by a cloud. He had shamed her, soiled her by coming out in the street and calling her name. The damage was done, and for the rest of his life he would regret it. Even so, he clung to his purpose.

"Debbie," said he, "I'm drunk."

Something else appeared in her eyes. She spoke softly and not with the tart impatience to which he was accustomed. "I see that, Steve. Maybe we have waited too long. On the first of the month we'll be married. And you'll never drink again."

"What's that? Debbie—but, Debbie, yuh said—"

She was gone. Steve turned and plowed back to the saloon, on through the crowd, on across the hall to the bar. And in front of Al Niland he exploded.

"My God, Al, why don't wimmen make up their minds and stick to it? Here I went and spent thirty dollars to get this way—and it went for nothin'! Wimmen—why—!"

A running, rising murmur swept the saloon.

"Here's somebody! Clear that door—!"

"Doc—"

"Denver—"

That last name was repeated again with a dying inflection. The talk fell off. Steve turned slowly. The first face he saw was that of Al Niland, set and pallid. Then he discovered a figure framed in the doors, a tall, spare figure. Doc Williamson. Doc passed a hand across his forehead and broke the hush.

"I guess you boys had better know it. Dave Denver is dead."

All men are touched with queerness. Steve Steers pivoted on his heels and faced Grogan behind the bar. He called Grogan a name, a name than which there can be none worse when spoken as Steve spoke it. Grogan leaped for his blackjack. Steve smashed the man's head with a whisky bottle and flung the broken neck after Grogan's sinking bulk. He saw nothing but red streaks of fire, and it was an act of Providence that guided him through the door. Fifteen minutes later one of the Nightingale men found him stretched on the ground back of the Palace, stone sober. Crying like a child.

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A long gray column slid sinuously through the green thicket and shot across the Sundown-Ysabel Junction road. The last man in the column dismounted, erased the hoofmarks in the dust with his coat, and caught up with the procession. Then the column vanished through the ranking trees of the high ridge near Starlight Canyon. Some minutes later it reached a commanding summit, halted, and took rest. Lou Redmain rode off by himself to where the road, the lower end of Sundown Valley, and the Leverage home meadows were spread out before him. He tipped back his hat, fingers tapering down a cigarette. Having lighted it and swung one knee over the saddlehorn, he began a slow survey of the country from north to south.

For all his apparent ease of posture, there was a wariness about him, an animal restlessness. His clothes were streaked with dirt; a dark stubble of beard ran from temple to jaw. Normally Lou Redmain was almost like a woman in neatness and choice of clothes. Now, unkempt and sullen for lack of sleep, his features betrayed him. The willfulness, the faithlessness, the unbridled appetites—these faults any man could see at a glance. Redmain had never been anything else, nor anything better than he was now.