Relentless (24 page)

    He sat down without being asked.

    “I came back to town to apologize. And to thank you.”

    “For what?”

    “For saving my life. I really thought I was a gunny. Then you put on that little demonstration in my hotel room and when I sobered up, I realized how much I’d been kidding myself. I could shoot the hell out of cans down by a crick. But as for an actual gunfight- So I came back here and cleaned myself up and got me a job over to the lumberyard. I start tomorrow morning.”

    You hear that people don’t change. But they do. I’ve seen it dozens of time. Sometimes the changes don’t last. But sometimes they do. Looked like the kid here was going to give it a real good try.

    He said, “Ryan’s the marshal now, huh?”

    “Yeah.”

    “He seems like a decent enough sort.”

    “He is.”

    “I always felt sorry for him the nights we played cards.”

    “Cards?”

    “Sure. At the hotel. The ones in Sanderson’s room.”

    “He played cards there?”

    “He did the two nights I did anyway.”

    His family. His debts. His trap. Why would he add to it by gambling? But the answer was easy enough. Desperate men do desperate things. He’d pay his way out of debt by gambling.

    “How much he lose?”

    “About a hundred.”

    That was nearly half his monthly paycheck. “Who’d he lose to?”

    Hastings shrugged. “Me, for one. But the big winner was Stanton. That’s who he owed the most to.”

    “Stanton was there?”

    Hastings grinned. “He didn’t have no woman that night, I guess, so he sat in on the game. Ryan owed Stanton plenty. We all had to take his IOUs. Nobody liked it, but him bein’ the deputy marshal and all- But he paid me back right before I left town.”

    The woman came over and put some more tar in my cup. Hastings gazed out the window. “Figure I’ll make a little money here and then head back to Arizona. I’ve got a gal back there.”

    “Quit reading those dime novels.”

    He laughed. “Bad influence on me?”

    “Definitely. They’re a bad influence on everybody who reads them.”

    He said, “So what happens to you now?”

    “Good question. I’ll get one of the regional newspapers and see who needs an experienced town marshal. ‘Experienced’ meaning old.”

    “You’re not old.”

    “I’m old compared to most men who’re town marshals.”

    “Well, you were young enough to scare the shit out of me, I’ll tell you that.”

    “Well, I’m glad I could do that much for you.”

    

    

    We talked some more, maybe twenty minutes, idle and somewhat strained conversation between strangers, but I was there in body only. I had an idea and it was a terrible idea, an idea I wanted to cut out of my brain with a very sharp knife, but an idea I needed to follow down or it would torment me the rest of my life.

    The first place I needed to go was the hotel. I was trying to remember exactly a conversation I’d had with Gunderson. He’d said something that didn’t jibe with my memory of things the afternoon Stanton died.

    He didn’t wake easy. I did everything except start kicking the door in. He’d likely had one of his all-night poker sessions.

    He answered in a pair of trousers and an undershirt. And an old Navy Colt that looked as if it could leave quite a hole in anything it was fired at.

    “I don’t have to talk to you. Get out of here.”

    The first thing I did was slap him. The second thing I did was grab his wrist and wrench the Colt away. The third thing I did was shove him back inside his room. The poker table he dragged out for a game was covered with cigarette and cigar butts, two empty whiskey bottles, and a pack of playing cards that had photographs of nude women on them. “You’re not the marshal anymore.”

    “I’m sorry I slapped you.” And I was. A couple days of frustration had gone into that slap. There were others I should have used it on first.

    My apology seemed to startle him. “What the hell’s going on, Morgan? I was asleep.”

    “I need you to remember something.”

    “Oh, shit,” he said. “You mean about Stanton?”

    “Yes.”

    “It’s over, Morgan. In case you hadn’t heard, I mean. It was Laura Webley who killed him. I got the word early this morning when the game was still going on.”

    “I need you to think, Gunderson. Remember something you said to me.”

    He sighed. He was scarecrow-skinny. He looked tubercular. “All right. What is it?”

    “The evening Stanton was killed. You said that Tom Ryan told you that he was up on the second floor looking for Conroy.”

    “Yeah, Conroy. The con man. That’s what he told me.”

    “You’re sure he said Conroy?”

    He thought about it. “Pretty sure. Sure as I can recall anyway.”

    “And what time was this?”

    “Right before six.”

    “How many times did Ryan play cards with you?”

    “That isn’t any of your business.”

    “He told you not to tell me about his gambling, didn’t he?”

    “He’s entitled to a personal life, isn’t he?”

    “How much did he lose altogether playing cards?”

    “He’s a nice fella, Morgan. I promised I wouldn’t tell you.”

    “How much?”

    The sigh again. “You always were a pushy sonofabitch.”

    “How much, Gunderson?”

    “Eight, nine hundred.”

    “In how long a time?”

    He looked miserable. At least betraying a trust made him feel bad. “A couple of weeks.”

    “You trusted him for that?”

    “He said he was coming into some money. Besides, he was a deputy marshal. He could make things bad for me if he wanted to.”

    “He ever pay you?”

    “Yeah, he did. And for what it’s worth, he swore off gambling right then and there.”

    “He paid you after Stanton died, didn’t he?”

    “Say, what the hell you getting at, Morgan? Ryan didn’t kill Stanton. Laura Webley did.”

    I pitched his gun back to where he sat on the edge of his rumpled bed.

    

    

    The next two hours went slowly. I ground-tied my horse and waited in the pines on a small hill in back of the place. She played with two of her little girls as she hung laundry in the backyard. She hid in the wind-blown sheets and the two girls would have to find her. Then they’d all laugh and giggle in voices as pure as mountain water.

    Just before eleven-thirty she left, one little girl toddling along on either side of her, a wicker shopping basket hanging from the crook of her elbow. Shopping.

    I moved quickly. The inside of the house was a tribute to her industry and frugality. She bought most things secondhand, and yet the place had a hard, stubborn pride about it. There was even a homely beauty to the way the mismatched pieces of furnishings sat next to each other. The cotton curtains were yellow as May sunlight. There was even an old upright piano. She had a nice voice.

    Sadly, it didn’t take long to find what I was looking for. He’d probably thought that everything would be nice and safe here. Nothing at all to fear. I found a sack for it and carried it back to my horse and stuffed it into my saddlebag.

    Then I headed back to town to find the killer.

    

    

    HE WAS SITTING in my old chair in my old office. Paul Webley was sitting in the chair on the customer side of the desk.

    Webley said, “I know a lot of people, Morgan. I can probably find you a job somewhere.”

    “I appreciate that, Paul. But I guess I’ll be staying around here for a while. You never know when my old job just might open up again.”

    “Now what the hell’s that supposed to mean?" Webley said.

    I looked at Tom Ryan. He was suddenly gulping, as if swallowing was hard. His eyes started moving this way and that.

    “You’re saying I can’t be here?” Webley said.

    “This won’t take long,” Ryan said. He cleared his throat. “We just need to settle a few things.”

    Webley seemed to sense the undercurrent here. The eyes narrowed, the jaw muscles bunched. He studied Ryan’s face and then he studied mine. “I don’t like this.”

    “I don’t much give a shit what you like, Webley. This is between me and Ryan. Now get out.”

    “You’re not the marshal,” he said.

    “Neither are you.”

    He got red. Made his face ugly. He was probably thinking of how his old man would’ve handled this. Brought in some hard boys and pounded on me for a while.

    He walked to the door. He walked heavy. He wanted me to know he was somebody important. But I’d known that for too long anyway.

    I picked up his Stetson and sailed it to him. “You forgot it.” He cinched it on his head and said, “I’ll be up front, Tom, you need anything.”

    “Thanks, Paul.”

    I was making a fifty-fifty bet with myself. Whether he’d slam the door or not. He didn’t. I owed myself a cup of coffee. But he made up for not slamming the door by walking real heavy down the hall. No spurs. Just loud thudding footsteps like a giant would make.

    “I didn’t want to say it in front of Webley,” I said.

    “I’m afraid this is all kind’ve mysterious to me, Lane.”

    “Aw, c’mon, Tom. Don’t make this any rougher than it needs to be. You might get manslaughter-involuntary, even-if you come up with the right story. He pulled that knife on you and you fought- You know how that one goes. You ought to. You’ve heard it enough in court.”

    He went back and sat behind his desk. He put his face in his hands. He started crying. Nothing theatrical. He wasn’t good at it. He was embarrassed and he was laughing, too. He took his hands from his face. “God, man, don’t ever tell anybody I was crying, all right?”

    “You stupid sonofabitch,” I said. “You make me feel like crying, too. Tell me you didn’t plan to kill him when you went up there.”

    He reached into his desk drawer and brought out a pint of rye. Then he reached into another desk drawer and brought out two glasses. “I added this since I took over. I have to have a belt every hour or I start shaking so bad people start to notice. And that’s no shit. Look at this.”

    He wasn’t kidding. His hand was caught in a spasm. “You didn’t answer my question. You didn’t go up there to kill him, did you?”

    “Hell, no. I went up there to shake him down. I was desperate, Lane. I’d been gambling-”

    “Yeah, I heard. That was one smart move, Tom. You didn’t have enough money worries, you had to start gambling, too?”

    “It was my last chance to keep the ranch.”

    “I really do want to start cryin’, Tom. You and that ranch. Everybody told you years ago to get rid of it and move into town and have a nice sensible life for yourself.”

    He poured us drinks. Shoved mine across to me.

    It was the kind of cheap stuff that made you wince, but right then I needed it.

    He said, “He was blackmailing Webley, so I thought I’d blackmail
him.
I’d get enough to keep the bank off my back for a while. He was pretty drunk. He came at me with the knife and-”

    And that was when the door was flung open inwardly. And there stood everybody’s friend Paul Webley. “Don’t say another word, Tom.”

    “What the hell’re you doing here?” I said.

    “I tiptoed back down the hall. I’ve heard every word.”

    “So?” I said.

    “So my lawyers will have this dismissed without a trial. Clear self-defense.”

    Ryan said, “I appreciate the offer, Paul. And it was self-defense. But I just don’t want to be beholden to you like that. And anyway, I’m afraid I couldn’t do you much good since Lane’s going to be marshal again.”

    “What the hell’re you talking about, Tom?” Webley said.

    “Grice and the town council-they were talking this morning about asking Lane back. I was out in the hall waiting for the meeting to start. I guess they didn’t think I heard.” He smiled. “Sort of like you overhearing the two of us, I guess, Paul.”

    “Well, Morgan sure as hell won’t be marshal in this town again. That’s something I guarantee you. Guarantee you on the Webley name. A town marshal with wife who used to be-”

    I never did find out what he was going to call her. And actually, I didn’t much care. I’d been waiting a long, long time to do what I was about to do.

    I started it going by clamping my hand over his mouth. And then I said to Ryan, “The judge’ll fine me a hundred dollars for this. But I hope you won’t put me in a cell until we can go see him.”

    Ryan grinned. “I guess I can release you on your own recognizance, Lane.”

    “Thanks, Tom.”

    And then I did what virtually every man, woman, and child in this valley has wanted to do for years. I hit Paul Webley in the mouth. It was a pretty good punch. Not a great one-I’m not as fast or as muscular as I used to be-but I loosened a couple of teeth and I drew some blood when his lip split. And that was good enough for me.

    He started shrieking. It was unmanly as hell, his shrieking, but his rage had made him crazy. Not crazy enough to try and swing on me. But pretty damned crazy nonetheless. “You know,” Ryan said, “you could’ve hit him harder.”

    “I know,” I said. “Maybe I should’ve turned that over to a younger fella like you.”

    He managed to laugh, even given all that was ahead of him. “I sure wish you would’ve thought of that sooner.”