Nelson Nye - Rafe

Dahl shook like the steam had run out of him, but only for a moment. Red necked and livid, he yelled in a fury, "No secesh bastard that ever was foaled—"

Rafe's gun started pounding. When it quit all those beautiful mirrors plus a sizeable number of stacked bottles and glasses were in shards on the floor and Dahl's eyes looked like they'd roll off his cheekbones.

"This has gone far enough," a new voice said crisply. A frock-coated gent in a stovepipe hat, whiskers curling out of his jowls like piano wires, pushed from the crowd to stop by Dahl's elbow. Even Bathsheba left off what she was doing as, avidly silent, all heads swung to watch. In his rusty garb of the backwoods politician he didn't look like a man who had this town in his pocket, yet he certainly had everybody's attention.

Dahl looked about ready to call out the troops. He was so mad he was shaking, but the other said coolly, "Better let it drop," and, skewered by that unwinking regard, the Cow Palace's proprietor managed after a fashion to get hold of himself.

He was still swelled up like a poisoned pup, the red from his neck surging into his cheeks. "Very well, Mr. Chilton," he said, like it choked him, "but who's going to pay for all that smashed glass and bar?"

A soft pale hand rasped the mutton-chop whiskers. "It can probably be arranged for some of the loss to be written off." Chilton's cold eyes scaled Rafe in shrewd appraisal. "Do you always react with such violence to stimulants?"

"Depends," Rafe said, "on the stimulant."

Chilton smiled through his teeth. "Would you be interested in a job?"

"We-ell, I wouldn't figure to put no widows and children out on the street."

"Oh, it's nothing like that," Chilton declared. "I, ah, notice your mare has no bridle—she a cutter?"

"She's cut a few in her time."

"I suppose," Chilton said, "you're familiar with cattle."

"I been around 'em some," Rafe admitted. "You got cows you want moved?"

"Not exactly. I need somebody who can manage a ranch, only it isn't that simple," Chilton said, looking thoughtful. "If you'd care to step over to my office—" His fishbelly glance, shuttling across Dahl and his goggling understrappers, took on a trace of impatience. "I expect I can dig up enough solid facts..."

Rafe, having also noticed their looks, cut in, "I'm persuaded for that, suh. But my old pappy always told me the first rule of business is to know who you're dealing with."

"Tsk, tsk—of course. I'm so in the habit of everyone—" Clucking again, he pushed out his chest. "Alph Chilton at your service, president and general manager of the People's Bank & Trust. Capital assets eight hundred and fifty-four thousand, surplus one hundred—"

"Proud to meet up with you," Rafe said heartily, grabbing the pale hand and vigorously pumping it. "Just Rafe, here. Not much surplus but ample room for improvement as the feller said."

The banker, wincing, extricated his hand. Flexing it a moment, and apparently reassured, he said, "I must be getting back, but if you'll step over for a moment I feel certain we can arrive at a profitable arrangement." That last he pushed out with considerable unction, not smiling exactly, but nevertheless managing to give the impression of an unending jingle of cascading dollars all bound for Rafe's pockets.

*****

The bank was the only brick building in town. Lines of jostling people, all with money in their paws, stood before the tellers' cages in an ornate lobby replete with guards and grilles and an overabundance of stuffed animal and bird heads; and the pride of them all, a dusty bald eagle, hovered on spread wings above the door to Chilton's office.

The banker escorted Rafe past the gun hung lackies, herded him inside and got him ensconced in a leather-covered chair that sort of closed out the world's woes like the sweet scented arms of a harem houri.

Chilton, after removing his hat, pushed a box of fat cigars across the shine of his desk and then, while his guest was stowing away half a dozen, fetched out a bottle of fine bourbon and a pair of glasses.

Rafe, surreptitiously pinching himself, picked up the pushed-forward nearest. Cold eyes sparkling above the rim of his lifted own, Chilton proposed, "Your health, young feller, and all that goes with it."

Rafe smacked his lips and, feeling some stronger, gawped around like a bumpkin. The banker evidently lived about as high off the hog as a man in this country was liable to get. Recognition of this brought to mind an old saw having to do with gifts and Greeks. With that jaw, and eyes that would have looked as much to home in one of those moose heads, Chilton's red carpet welcome had a lot more behind it than was being tossed onto the table.

With the stiff-fingered hand Rafe set down his glass. "Not much point chasin' clean around the barn, eh?"

The banker, showing his store teeth, sat back while Rafe fired up. Then he said, leaning forward, "This property I mentioned is being let go to hell. A man's entitled to protect his investment?"

"No argument there. Your bank owns the property?"

"Bank holds the mortgage. Last payment made—and it took care only of interest—was more than a year ago. These payments," Chilton explained, "are due quarterly. Our depositors have—"

"I dunno," Rafe said. "If you're wantin' 'em foreclosed I'd say your best bet's the sheriff."

Chilton snorted. "He won't even go near the place, and his deputy's more scairt of Spangler than he is. To make a long story short what we've got out there is a bunch of damn fools, a family of wastrels. The old man knows stock, and that's all you can say for them. Left alone I expect he could make a real go of it—that's why we loaned him the money. But—"

"How much was that?"

"Thirty thousand."

Rafe whistled. "That spread must take up half the county."

"Takes up enough. An old Spanish grant. First couple of years we didn't have no trouble. Then they took on this Spangler—"

"Who's he?" Rafe cut in.

"Foreman, range boss, whatever you want to call him. I won't try to fool you, he's a plenty rough customer. Old man's been failing—eyes ain't what they used to be. He's fell into the habit of letting Spangler pretty much run things. Spangler's stealing him blind."

Rafe said, "Where do I come in?"

"I don't say it'll be easy; you'll earn every nickel you're going to get out of this." Chilton said confidentially, "You'll be going out there as the bank's representative. You'll look into these losses, do whatever you think's called for."

"Hmmm," Rafe said dubiously.

"You'll draw two hundred a month, and a thousand dollar bonus if you wind this up to the bank's satisfaction. That's a lot of money, mister."

It was a good deal more than Rafe had ever got hold of or ever expected to. "This Spangler," he said, "must be hell on wheels." He got up with a sigh.

"Where you going?" Chilton growled.

"Ain't much doubt where I'd go if I took on that chore."

"You don't have to fire him, if that's what's bothering you. I'm not tying your hands. Work under cover, do it any way you want. There's a girl out there, old man's daughter, wild as a hare." Chilton smiled suggestively.

"I guess not," Rafe said, turning to hide the black leap of his anger.

"Where else can a secesh make that kind of money?"

The banker had something there, but money wasn't everything. Rafe, arriving at the door, grabbed hold of the knob. Chilton said, "Figure you can afford to entertain such fine sentiments?"

Rafe, chewing his lip, glared over a shoulder. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Got the price of that damage you inflicted across the street?"

Rafe bristled. "An' if I haven't?"

"Better think over my offer if you don't want to find yourself headed for Yuma."

Rafe had heard enough about this Arizona country to understand there was mighty little hope for anyone sent there. The Territorial Prison was about all there was to Yuma, and a lot more went there than ever got out. He didn't doubt for an instant Chilton had enough influence to get him committed. Pike was on his mind, too.