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  Play a Lone Hand

  Luke Short

  1

  For the second morning in succession Cass Murray stood in the rear doorway of his livery and watched the young man washing up at the water trough by the corral.

  This obsession with cleanliness brought no judgment from Cass: he knew a hayloft was no sort of bed, and it was only plain comfort that pushed a man into shaking the chaff out of his shirt and washing the dust from his body after a night there. It was the man’s modesty that troubled him.

  His back to the livery, the young man was washing his upper body in a furtive and hurried way, almost as if he were in a panic to get back into his shirt before he was observed.

  Suddenly, as if sensing he was being watched in the bright early morning sunlight, he looked over his shoulder and saw Cass regarding him. The taciturn pride and defiance on his dark face as he quickly buttoned his soiled calico shirt brought a moment of embarrassment to Cass, who turned and tramped up the runway toward the office.

  Cass unlocked the office, crossed it to the battered roll-top desk next to the dirty front window and was rummaging around a drawer for the key to the grain bin when he heard the footsteps in the runway. Cass was a middle-aged man and not easily put out of countenance, but when he heard the footsteps pause at the door, he felt a strange reluctance to look up.

  “Did you count them?” a voice asked dryly.

  Cass turned his pleasantly heavy face to the door, frowned, and saw the young man watching him. “Count what?”

  “The buckshot holes in my belly. That’s what you wanted to see, wasn’t it?”

  The young man was tall, long-jawed and badly in need of a shave. There was an implacable reserve in his dark eyes that were smoky with resentment now. Cass placidly gathered up a handful of matches, crossed the office and extended them to the young man. This overnight forfeit of matches was the only price Cass ever exacted for a night’s lodging in the hayloft.

  The young man accepted them and put them in his shirt pocket. Cass noticed then that the sack of tobacco which had been in the shirt pocket the day before was not there now. That fact combined with the memory of the young man’s pride made Cass’s voice oddly gentle as he asked, “Had breakfast?”

  “I’ve got to see a man.”

  “Give him time to get up,” Cass said mildly. “As soon as I’ve bought you breakfast I want to talk to you, Dixon.”

  A faint surprise at being called by name was reflected in Dixon’s face; he only nodded, his expression one of wariness as Cass shouldered past him into the runway, and waited on the plankwalk for Dixon to join him.

  Corazon was just stirring. The low sun was bright on the serrated row of wind-scoured storefronts opposite. A swamper at the Plains Bar across the street appropriated a barrel from the stack in front of the saloon and was standing on it to wash windows at this improbable hour. Above and beyond the stores on Grant Street the cedar-stippled foothills of the mountains seemed to rise out of the very edge of town, their distance deceptive in the clear light flooding from the plains to the east. The smell of cool dust was everywhere.

  At the Family Cafe downstreet, they turned in and took counter stools. Since Cass was paying for Dixon’s breakfast he ordered it, making it a big one, and watched Dixon wolf it down in famished silence. When they were both finished, Cass extended his sack of tobacco to the younger man. After they had both fashioned cigarettes and Dixon had lighted Cass’s, he rose abruptly. “I’m much obliged for the breakfast. I’ll go back now and give your hostler a hand.”

  Cass looked at him obliquely. “I thought you had to see a man.”

  “I can do that later.”

  “You can help the hostler later, too. Sit down.”

  Dixon sat down again. He stared at his empty coffee cup, his face contained, still wary, expecting nothing and wanting nothing.

  “Found work?” Cass asked him.

  He received a brief, sardonic and wondering glance from Dixon, along with a negative shake of the head.

  “How do you figure to, coming in here the way you did?”

  Without bothering to glance at him, Dixon put his hands on the counter, as if to rise.

  “Hell, I’m not scolding you,” Cass said shortly. “I want to know.”

  Dixon’s voice was toneless. “I’d like to know, too.”

  “For three weeks now, I’ve been waiting for Sheriff Edwards to get the word to pick you up. So has everybody else. That’s why you can’t get a riding job. That’s why you couldn’t get one even it you hadn’t sold your saddle to pay Doc Miller.” He paused. “Are you going to be picked up?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then don’t be so damn touchy about the holes in your belly. The whole town knows they’re there.”

  Dixon said nothing; he was rigidly watching his empty coffee cup, as if bare politeness demanded that he listen in patience to the man who had bought him breakfast.

  Cass had his moment of doubt, then. Dixon was a broke stranger, prideful and secretive, but any man who’d been found beside a dead horse, half-alive and with a belly full of buckshot, had earned the right to his silences. Cass remembered the day a month ago when the pair of trail drivers delivered Dixon; he was lying in their chuck wagon because he was too hurt to ride. The Texas trail hands were in a hurry to get back with their wagon, and all they could tell the sheriff was that a stampede had scattered their herd all over Beaver County and that in rounding it up one of their riders had come across Dixon. He wasn’t at a camp, but at the edge of some brakes. His horse had been ridden to death and he was near death. Here he was and here his saddle was, they said, and drove off.

  Doc Miller had pried the buckshot out of him, and Mrs. Miller had nursed and fed him. Three days ago, they had turned him loose, and his first act had been to sell his saddle to Burton for enough money to settle Doc’s bill for treatment, nursing and board.

  Two days of fruitless hunting for work, two nights in the livery hayloft brought his history up to date, Cass thought without much enthusiasm. But he paid Doc, Cass remembered. I guess I’ll do it.

  He reached in the hip pocket of his farmer’s bib overalls and brought out a tattered envelope which he flipped on the counter.

  “Sheriff Edwards got that a couple weeks ago. He turned it over to me and I forgot it until last night. It’s from the General Land Office. There’s a special agent coming out here along with his surveyor. They want Edwards to dig up a couple of horses and a pack mule—also a combination guide, cook, packer and chainman. Want the job?”

  Dixon reached out and picked up the envelope, but he did not read the letter inside. He put the envelope down gently and said in a flat voice, “I would if I had the horses and knew the country.”

  “I got the horses and they’ll have maps of the country,” Cass said impatiently. “The job’s yours if you want it.”

  Dixon looked at him now, almost for the first time. “What’s the matter with it?”

  A swift anger came to Cass, but when he reflected on Dixon’s question, he saw its reasonableness. Why, indeed, should the job go to him? Cass laughed suddenly. “You’ll know in a week.” He saw the unspoken question in Dixon’s eyes, and he went on, “No, there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s easy money, so take it. You’re just the man for it because you’re a stranger. You don’t know them, and you don’t know the country, so you won’t get mad at them. Remember that. Just don’t get mad at them.”

  “Who?”

  “This special agent an
d his surveyor,” Cass said shortly. “About every two years the land office sends out another special agent. He’s supposed to investigate reports of fraudulent entries for homesteads in this district. Hell, I can name twenty men who were crowded off their homesteads or were swindled out of them by the big cattle companies. I’m one myself. There must be a hundred, two hundred homesteads that they got illegally, one way or another. Every kid on the street knows the big outfits are stealing government land. But do these special agents ever turn up anything? No! The big outfits either kiss ’em to death or scare ’em to death.” He reached in his pocket for money. “I’m tired of watching it, that’s all. I know how it’ll turn out.”

  He slapped a gold piece on the counter with unnecessary violence; even the thought of another special agent coming had already spoiled his day. He received his change, and shoved it in front of Dixon. “Buy yourself a new shirt and clean up. Meet the Vegas train at two. They’re coming in this afternoon.”

  When Giff Dixon climbed the steps of the station platform, his long face freshly shaven and a clean shirt on his back, the scattering of men, mostly dressed in the half boots and range clothes of the cattle country, standing on the platform gave him a lingering look before turning their attention elsewhere. He was only a little taller than the ordinary man, but there was a kind of soft and bitter challenge in his long face that made a man wonder. It was a thin face, almost gaunt, and the full high cheekbones gave his dark eyes a deep watchfulness. A month indoors had bleach its weatherburn only a shade; the only place his skin paled was at the edges of his thick black hair where the barber had worked.

  He chose a spot of sun by the paint-peeled station wall, and because his knees still had a tendency to bend too easily, he hunkered down against it on his heels. The shimmering, endless plains to the east were a pleasant thing to watch. Presently, he felt the fat sack of new tobacco sagging in his shirt pocket. Although the pleasantly bitter taste of his last smoke was still in his mouth, he slowly began to fashion a new cigarette. Memory turned his thoughts again to this morning’s luck. The reasons for it he had not really considered, and now he put his attention to them.

  As he raised the cigarette to his lips, a shadow fell across the planks in front of him, touching him. He glanced up and saw a pleasant-faced man dressed in a rumpled suit of black clothes and the black, narrow-brimmed hat of a townsman standing before him. He was gray-haired, on the small side, wore a mustache clipped military fashion, and was somehow familiar.

  “Aren’t you the fellow they brought to me a month or so ago?” the man asked in a friendly voice.

  That would be the sheriff, Giff thought, and he nodded cautious acknowledgment.

  “Doc said he’d turned you loose with a well freckled belly.”

  Giff’s smile held only a faint humor as he nodded again.

  Sheriff Edwards went on, “Normally, I’m not a curious man, but sometimes I’m supposed to be. These Texas riders couldn’t explain how you got shot. Can you?”

  Giff looked carefully down at his cigarette. “A hunting accident. I was shooting quail.”

  There was a moment of silence and Giff looked up to see the corner of Edwards’ mouth lifting in a faint smile.

  “With buckshot?”

  “That’s all I had.”

  “That’s all the other fellow had, you mean. Who was he?”

  Giff again looked at his cigarette, and answered idly, “My horse. He wanted to get in a shot, but his hands were cold and he dropped the gun.”

  After a moment, he looked up again at the Sheriff. The smile was gone, and there was a faint flush on Edwards’ face. There was something else there, too—not anger, only a kind of pity mixed with puzzlement before he turned and moved away.

  That was a mistake, Giff thought narrowly. He realized too late of course that Edwards was asking only routine questions in a friendly way, much in the manner that Murray had quizzed him this morning. He remembered, also, that he had almost walked out on Murray because he’d resented his questioning too. In a bitter moment of self-knowledge, Dixon thought, You damn fool, this is a new start. You don’t have to be feisty now.

  The distant train, in sight now around the bend of the nearest foothill, whistled. Giff came to his feet and was still standing against the wall when the mixed train finally came to a halt at the dusty platform.

  A half-dozen passengers descended from the lone passenger car and moved away. Then the brakeman, who had been standing beside the car on the platform, moved quickly up the steps. He backed down, holding a transit whose tripod was folded and lashed, and gently set it down. Then, piece by piece, duffel bags and luggage were handed down to him. Giff noticed then that the attention of every man on this platform was directed toward the passenger car steps, and he knew that all these men, for whatever reasons, were having their close look at the special agent.

  When the agent finally descended, Sheriff Edwards went forward immediately, holding out his hand. Seeing him move, Giff remembered suddenly that the agent had written Edwards, and he thought bitterly, Then my job will last two minutes longer.

  The agent was a stocky man in clean range clothes, and his smile was easy, almost professional as he shook Edwards’ hand. His ruddy, loose face held a careless affability and the easy charm of the politician. It was the man behind him, however, who held Giff’s interest. This man was older and wore a disreputable duck jacket, scuffed lace boots and a derby hat that had once been black but was now a mottled and sun-faded green. Ventilation holes had been punched just above its frayed hatband. His eyes were the palest gray under sandy eyebrows that bushed fiercely; his unsmiling face held the contained patience of a man who knew and liked his job and thought every minute away from it was a waste of time. Even his handshake was abrupt, Giff noticed, and then he thought resignedly, Get it over with, and walked over to the pile of luggage. He picked up the transit, and was reaching for a duffel bag when the older man saw him.

  “Ho! You must be my chainman.” He held out a rough hand. “Bill Fiske’s the name.”

  Giff told him his and they shook hands. Sheriff Edwards had turned at the sound of their voices, and now he looked carefully at Giff. Here it comes, Giff thought, and he waited, watching Edwards with a still-faced defiance.

  But Edwards only turned and said to the agent, “Welling, this is your guide, Giff Dixon.”

  Giff received the same friendly handshake and the identical affable smile. He noticed, though, that Welling’s bloodshot eyes gave him a quick and shrewd appraisal.

  Afterward, Giff loaded the luggage into the back of the hotel hack, and when the others were seated, he took a place in the back seat beside the gear.

  There was talk, then, of the trip from Kansas City, all of it trivial, and then Giff heard Welling ask, “Where’s Deyo? Out of town?”

  “No, the train isn’t very punctual, and the land office was busy this morning. He’ll meet you at the hotel.”

  The Territory House, Corazon’s only hotel, was a two-story adobe affair with a double veranda built at the town’s main four corners. The hotel hack finished its quarter-mile journey from the station at the wide stepping block in front of the hotel steps. Giff was first down, and as he unloaded the luggage he saw the man come down the steps and approach them. He was a soft, well-barbered man of fifty, dressed in an expensive dark suit. The color in his sleekly jowled face came from good living, and not from the outdoors. There was a sort of bay rum elegance and arrogance about him that proclaimed his disdain for physical work.

  Edwards said, “Here’s your man, Welling. This is Ross Deyo. Vince Welling.”

  After acknowledging the introduction and introducing Fiske in turn, Welling said, “Where’s a comfortable saloon, Sheriff? I’d like to buy you all a drink and talk with Deyo.”

  Fiske cut in dryly, “I can’t take whiskey this early, Vince.”

  Welling laughed. “All right, you’ll get a cigar. Only let’s be comfortable.”

  Deyo mentioned the Plai
ns Bar across from the livery, and they started across the street for it. Fiske paused long enough to say to Giff, “We wrote for rooms. Just lug the stuff up there.” A faint humor wrinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes. “You drop that transit and you’re dead.” Without waiting for Giff’s answer, he started across the dusty street after the others.

  The room which the Territory House had reserved for them was a big corner one on the second floor facing Grant Street. Giff made two trips through the cool lobby and up the steps with the gear which he stored neatly in a corner of the room. Afterward, he moved to a window and looked out, musing. He decided he liked Fiske, who would be his real boss. Remembering Welling, his looks, his too easy manner, his eagerness for a saloon at this hour, Giff passed a narrow judgment on the man: he was a boozer and a lightweight. Recalling Cass’s warning, Just don’t get mad at them, he smiled faintly. How can you get mad at nothing?

  He went out, and took to the stairs. There were horses to arrange for with Murray, and he wanted everything ready when he was asked about it.

  The elderly clerk hailed him as he passed the desk in the lobby. Extending an envelope to him, he said, “Give that to your boss, will you?”

  “Which one?”

  “Welling.”

  Giff nodded, pocketed the envelope and went out into the street, turning down it toward the livery. A mild traffic stirred on the street. A dozen horses were racked in front of the Plains Bar, and Giff guessed that the word was out that the special agent was on view there. A puncher driving three loose horses passed Giff; he halted to look at them, and afterward turned into the livery. Murray was not in the office, and Giff saw the hostler out in back hammering at the corral gate.

  Giff tramped back to the corral and asked the ancient and dirty old man, “Where’s Murray?”

  The old man ceased hammering. “Farming, where he always is.”

  “Where’s his place?” Giff asked curiously.

  The old man smiled. “Hell, it ain’t a farm, but he pretends it is. He’s leased a half-block of town lots over east. He farms them half bushel crops just like they was three hundred acres. He can’t keep away from growing things. It’ll lose him his business, too, if he ain’t careful.”