The night man kept up a running fire of mumbled conversation as he lit a lamp, hung it from an over-head nail, then shaved kindling into a small castiron stove, and, when he had that appliance crackling, busied himself with making a fresh pot of coffee.
He really did not require answers to most of his questions. Nor did he usually wait for an answer be-fore going on to the next question, or on a tangent of robust swearing at either the coffee pot or the stove.
When he finally turned, though, everything ordered the way he felt that it should be, his small, keen eyes made a steady study of the larger, younger men. They looked exactly like what he thought they were— commonplace range riders. There was no reason for them to look otherwise, that is exactly what they were— except, perhaps, to the folks back in the Gila Valley, and also except to some men chained up in Elisabeth Cane’s log barn, and down in someone’s old bootleg whiskey hide-out, much nearer than the Cane log barn.
Jud offered openers by saying Clearwater appeared to be a fine town. The hostler pursed his lips, pinched down his eyes, and heavily pondered for a moment before replying to the effect that, yes, Clearwater was a good enough place to live, but it had its drawbacks.
Jud thought all towns had drawbacks, which the hostler assented was highly probable, although, since he’d been raised in Kansas during the troubles, and had afterward spent most of his life on the south desert, or as far north as Denver, but no farther, he really could not make a sweeping judgment about
Jud smiled. Every town had at least one—men like this, usually undersize, coarse-featured, in this man’s case goat-eyed, meaning one blue eye, one green or brown eye, very ignorant and ungrammatical, but convinced they were very clever and knowledgeable.
There was one advantage. These people equated knowing other folks’ business, with being intelligent. If they could discourse loftily on the affairs of others, making purest gossip out of it, they thought that amounted to being intelligent. Rufe and Jud knew this hostler’s type of individual, and, without having really to exert much effort, they coaxed him to discussing his fellow citizens. The town constable, for example, a rather large man, in his prime, whose name was Homer Bradshaw, and of whom his enemies said he had been a much better black-smith than he was now a peace officer.
The nighthawk repeated that tale, Tomake Jud and Rufe smile. They dutifully smiled. He then mentioned some of the personal facts about Homer Bradshaw, ending up with a comment Jud and Rufe remembered. He said: “Him and a couple other fellers been pickin’ up cattle off the desert the past year, and doin’ right well with’em. Seems they’re strays that been wanderin’ loose ever since Indians wiped out a train of settlers six, eight years back. Of course, that’s plumb legal, but folks been complainin’ a little that Homer’s spent more time out of town than in town this past year, and they don’t like payin’ his wages if he ain’t around to earn’em.”
Rufe, taking his cue from the way the hostler recounted his story, sympathized with the irate townsmen, saying: “That’s plumb right. Folks need protection, not some lawman who’s tryin’ to get rich instead of minding his business. Incidentally, where does Homer peddle these strays he catches?”
The hostler was unsure. “Mexico, I think, but maybe not, because that’s a far drive southward. I don’t rightly know.”
“Are they branded animals?”
“Oh, yeah!” exclaimed the hostler. “I only seen a couple of the horses…saddle stock it was. The brand was sort of blurry, and they was across a corral from me. I couldn’t make it out. Homer don’t corral his gather in the holding pens below town.” The hostler grinned about this. “I wouldn’t, neither, in his boots, with folks half mad at me for catching them strays. I think he drives’em south, down into the desert somewhere. Maybe he delivers’em to buyers down there.”
The hostler slid to his feet and went to the stove where the coffee was finally boiling merrily away, and outside in the barn’s chilly runway that corpse-gray predawn light was turning gradually toward a blushing, soft shade of pink.
Rufe rolled a cigarette, lit it, and ran a thoughtful hand over his beard-stubbled face. When the hostler finally filled three cups of not-bad java, Rufe asked him a question.
“Is Homer a friend of a cowman named Arlen Chase?”
The night man slyly winked. “You want to know what I figure…in secret, of course? I figure it was Mister Chase told Homer about them strays.”
Rufe affected surprise. “No! Why would Mister Chase do that?”
“Dunno,” stated the hostler, “but I can tell you this much. Them critters come off the north and east ranges below Cane’s Mesa, and the only cowman up in that country is Mister Chase. He knows every damned animal that’s abroad up there. You can bet your hat Mister Chase seen them strays.”
“Well, hell,” interjected Jud skeptically, “why wouldn’t he take them for himself?”
The hostler laughed down his nose at Jud. “Mister Chase, cowboy, is a mighty powerful feller. He don’t need no one’s ownerless strays. Not by a damned sight. Mister Chase is a feller everyone hereabouts respects all to hell.”
Rufe drank his coffee, looked out to watch dawn arrive, then thanked the hostler for his coffee and his interesting conversation, and was ready to move forth into the new day He only had one more question.
“What’s the name of one of those fellers who work the strays with Homer?”
“Matthew Reilly,” replied the hostler. “Sure you boys wouldn’t want another cup? This here’s the best java I ever made.”
XI
The cafe man was watering down the roadway out front of his establishment when Rufe and Jud ambled up. He flung the water, twisting his body as he did this, so that the bucket load would be sent forth in a high arch and cover more ground. Then he turned back and, seeing two faded range men watching, said: “You’d be surprised how many damned people in this world don’t have any more manners’n lope up a dusty road through the center of town in summertime. Well, come on in, fellers…I got something for breakfast you damned seldom get any more. Antelope steaks. Set there at the counter while I rassle it up. I’ll be back with the coffee directly.”
They sat at the counter, looked back out into the chilly, faint-lighted dawn roadway, saw a few indications that Clearwater was coming to life, then faced forward as their coffee arrived. Rufe let the cup sit there, but Jud had no objection to this cafe man’s coffee atop the hostler’s coffee. Jud rolled a smoke as he slouched at the counter with his coffee.
“We better find Matthew Reilly,” he murmured.
Rufe sighed. “I expect so. But, hell, we’re not down here to clean up Clearwater.”
Jud conceded that. “True enough. How else can we get anyone locked up? If their town constable is runnin’ off Elisabeth’s livestock, then he’s hand-in-glove with Arlen Chase, and we can’t do a damned thing about Chase until we take care of their damned town marshal, can we?”
Rufe sighed again. This was precisely what he had been thinking when he’d first sighed, and he did not like the implications. So far, they’d had a lot of luck. So far, too, they’d had their special advantage—no one knew who they were or what they were up to— but taking on a town constable in his own town with them being total strangers….
The cafe man brought their breakfasts, and, as a stocky, sleepy-looking range man walked in out of the cold roadway, the cafe man glanced up, then said: “’Morning, Matthew. Set down. I’ll fetch your breakfast in a minute.”
Rufe and Jud raised their eyes. Matthew was a young man, powerfully put together, sandy-headed and gray- eyed. He went to the bench and eased down, scratched himself, then yawned mightily.
The name was common enough, and, except for the fact that this particular Matthew fit the description of a range man, Rufe and Jud might not have been interested. As it was, they ate slowly and in silence, and had a second cup of java, and even smoked afterward to pass time until Matthew was finished. As he arose to count out coins, Rufe and Jud did the same. They then followed Matthew out into the roadway, which had a few pedestrians here and there, men heading for their jobs around town, merchants getting ready for the new day, and, as Matthew paused to resettle the hat atop his head, Rufe and Jud stepped up on each side casually, as though they were all old friends, and asked what his last name was.
