He drank because he liked whiskey and because he wanted to forget what he would like to have done, and live in the present. He was always around, and a man who is always around and taken for granted by everyone hears a great deal. If he is a man of intelligence, he learns much more than people give him credit for.
Had Pierce Logan realized it, only one man in the Laird Valley suspected him. That man was Otis.
Texas Dowd smelled something odorous in the vicinity of Rawhide. He knew men, and if Banty Hull, Montana Kerr, and the rest were peaceful ranchers, then he was the next Emperor of China. He knew all about Sonntag. He did not like Logan, but did not suspect he was the brain behind the rustling.
Neither did Otis. But stumbling along the street one evening, Otis had seen Logan ostentatiously lighting a cigarette in front of his office. Later, he had seen him cross the street and enter the livery stable. Seated on the edge of the walk, he had seen Logan leave the stable, and a moment later a rider headed off across the country. The rider was a big man.
Otis was only mildly curious at the moment. Yet he wondered who the man was. The man had seemed very big, and in the Laird Valley country only five men were of that size. Logan himself, Judge Collins, Finn Mahone, Leibman, and Byrn Sonntag.
Dean Armstrong was bent over the desk when Otis opened the door. He looked up. 'Hi, Otis!' he called cheerfully. 'Come on back and sit down!'
'Mahone been in town?'
Dean shook his head. 'Not that I know of. No, I'm sure he hasn't been back since the fight. He said he would bring me a book he was telling me about, and he never forgets, so I guess he hasn't been in.'
Then the man wasn't Finn Mahone.
The idea had never been a practical one, anyway. What would Mahone want with Logan? And meeting him in secret? It wouldn't make sense. It had certainly not been Judge Collins. That left only Leibman and Byrn Sonntag. Otis shoved his hands down in his pockets and watched Armstrong's pen scratching over the paper. 'Dean,' he asked, 'what do you know about Pierce Logan?'
'Logan?' Armstrong put his pen down and leaned his forearms on the desk. Then he shook his head. 'Just what everyone knows. He's got one of the best ranches in the valley. Been here about two or three years. He owns the '* livery stable, and has a partnership in the hotel. I think he has a piece of the Longhorn, too.'
Dean picked up his pen again, frowning at the paper. 'Why?'
'Oh, just wondering. No reason. Nice-looking man. Do you suppose he'll marry that Kastelle girl?'
'Looks like it.' Dean scowled again. Somehow the idea didn't appeal to him. 'If he does he'll control over half the range in Laird Valley.'
Otis was restless. He got up. 'Yes, you're right about that. And if Mclnnis and Brewster decided to sell out, he would own it all.' He turned to go.
'Wait a minute and I'll walk over to the Longhorn with you.'
Then Armstrong glanced at Otis. 'Have you eaten?'
Garfield Otis hesitated, then he turned and smiled. 'Why, no. Come to think of it, I haven't.'
'Then let's stop by Ma Boyle's and eat before we have a drink.'
They walked out together, and Armstrong locked the door after him. Otis started to speak, and Dean noticed it. 'What were you going to say?'
'Nothing. Just thinking what an empire Laird Valley would be if one man owned it. The finest cattle range in the world, all hemmed in by mountains ... like a world by itself!'
Armstrong was thoughtful. 'You know,' he said reflectively, 'it would be one of the biggest cattle empires in the country. Probably the biggest.'
Both men were silent on the way to Ma Boyle's. When they entered, the long table, still loaded with food at one end, was almost empty. Harran, who owned the Emporium, was there, and Doc Finerty. So was Powis.
Armstrong, pleased with himself at getting Otis to eat, sat down alongside Finerty. 'How are you, Doc?' he asked. 'Been out on the range?'
'Yeah, down to the Mains's place. She's ailing again.' He sawed at his steak, then looked up. 'Seen that durned Mexie Roberts down there. He was coyotin' down the range on that buckskin of his.'
Marshal Pete Miller had come in. Miller was a lean, rangy man with a yellow mustache. A good officer in handling drunks and rowdy cowhands, he could do nothing about the rustlers. He overheard Doc's comment.
Rustler 'Mexie, huh? He's a bad 'un. Nobody ain't never proved nothin' on him, but I always figgered he drygulched old Jack Hendry. Remember that?'
'I ought to!' Doc said. 'Shot with a fifty-caliber Sharps! Never could rightly figure how that happened. No cover or tracks around there for almost a mile.'
'A Sharps'll carry that far,' Miller said. 'Further, maybe. Them's a powerful shootin' gun.'
'Sure,' Doc agreed, 'but who could hit a mark at that distance? That big old bullet's dropping feet, not just inches. That would take some shooting ... and he was drilled right through the heart.'
'They believed it was a stray bullet, didn't they?' Powis asked. 'I remember that's what they decided.'
Garfield Otis listened thoughtfully. During the period in question he had lived in Laird, but his memory of the details of Jack Hendry's death was sketchy at best. One factor in the idea interested him, however. He-asked a- question to which he knew the answer. 'What became of Hendry's ranch?'
'Sam, that no-good son of his, sold it,' Harran said. 'You recall that Sam Hendry? Probably drunk it all up by now. He sold out to Pierce Logan and took off.'
'Best thing ever happened to this town!' Powis said. 'Logan's really done some good here. That livery stable and hotel never was any good until he bought 'em.'
'That's right,' Harran agreed. 'The town's at least got a hotel a woman can stop in now.'
Otis walked to the Longhorn beside Armstrong, and they stood at the bar together and talked of Nathaniel Hawthorne and Walt Whitman. Armstrong returned to his work, and Garfield Otis, fortified by a few extra dollars, proceeded to get very, very drunk.
He had been drunk many times, but when he was drunk he often remembered things he had otherwise for gotten. Perhaps it was the subject of discussion at supper, perhaps it was only the liquor. More likely it was a combination of the two and Otis's worry over Finn Mahone, for out of it all came a memory. At noon the next day, when he awakened in the haymow at the livery barn, he still remembered.
At first he had believed it was a nightmare. He had been drunk that night, too. He had walked out on a grassy slope across the wash that ran along behind the livery stable and the Longhorn. Lying on the grass, he had fallen into a drunken stupor.
Seemingly a long time after, he had opened his eyes and heard a mumble of voices, and then something that sounded like a blow. He had fallen asleep again, and when he awakened once more, he heard the sound of a shovel grating on gravel. Crawling closer, he had seen a big man digging in the earth, and nearby lay something that seemed to be a body.
Frightened, he had stayed where he was until long after the man had moved away. Then he returned to his original bed and slept the night through. It wasn't until afternoon the next day that he remembered, and then he shrugged it off as a dream. The thought returned now, and with it came another.
For the first time, things were dovetailing in his mind. As the pieces began to fit together, realization swept over him, but no course of action seemed plain. His brain was muddled by liquor, and that dulled the knowledge his reason brought him, so he did nothing.
Remy Kastelle awakened with a start. For an instant she stared around the unfamiliar room, trying to recall where she was and all that had happened.
Quietly, she dressed, and only then saw the folded paper thrust under the door. She crossed the room and picked it up.
Had to take a run up to the next valley, be back about eight. There's hot water over the fire, and coffee in the pot.
When she had bathed and combed her hair, she poured a cup of coffee and went to the door.
She stopped dead still, her heart beating heavily and her eyes wide with wonder.
The stone cabin was on a ledge slightly above the valley, and she looked out across a valley of green, blowing grass toward a great, rust-red cliff scarred with white. It was crested with the deep green of cedars that at one place followed a ledge down across the face of the cliff for several hundred yards. Through the bottom of the valley ran Crystal Creek, silver and lovely under the-bright morning sun. In all her life she had seen no place more beautiful
