“And you do.”
“I certainly try to. So then he proposed another idea. Did you know that more than ninety per cent of the duels fought in this country took place west of the Mississippi?”
“If you mean on television, yes.”
“I don’t mean television, I mean history. I have researched it. They didn’t call them duels, but that’s what they were, and they didn’t happen often until our forefathers got west of that river. It’s an important historical fact, and my boys and girls are always interested in it. I don’t think...” She shut her eyes and compressed her lips.
She opened her eyes and went on. “I was trying to remember if Gilbert used that word that day, ‘duel.’ I’m pretty sure he didn’t. He just said he would take two guns, hand guns, and he would give one to Philip Brodell and they would shoot it out, and he wanted my advice on the details, how to arrange it, and where, and how many cartridges in each gun — he said he would need only one — all the details. Of course I had to talk him out of it.”
“Why of course?”
“Well, there were several things wrong with it, but the worst one was that historically — I mean our Western history — each man used his own gun, and probably Brodell didn’t have one, and who was going to check the one Gilbert gave him? There would have to be at least two other men in on the preparations, and who would they be, willing to get involved in violent death like that? Because Gilbert can shoot, and he would have killed him. So I had to talk him out of it, but I had to suggest something else and I did.”
“Let me guess. Tar and feathers.”
“That’s not a guess, I already told you. Tarring and feathering isn’t as Western as the American duel, because it didn’t always move along with the frontier. I’ve never been sure it was a good idea to give it up. If it was done by law, not just by a mob, and if you want a penalty to be effective, especially as a deterrent, tarring and feathering would be better than a fine or a month in jail. Wouldn’t you think twice before you’d risk being tarred and feathered?”
“I think twice before I risk a fine. Tarring and feathering, three times at least.”
She nodded and the glints came. “The way it looked to me, the main point was to get that man away from here, so he would stay away, and if he was tarred and feathered, that should do it. Gilbert tried to argue that it wouldn’t settle anything, but that was just talk, he really liked the idea because the one thing he couldn’t stand was the man coming back. He knew he was back ten minutes after he got off the bus that Monday. Some friend told him. You have friends like that, we all have. We decided he would need eight or ten boys to help him — he said he could get as many as he wanted — and the best time would be Saturday night at Lame Horse because Brodell would almost certainly be there, at Woody’s. I suppose you know about Saturday nights at Woody’s.”
“Yes.”
“We decided all the details — where to get the tar and feathers.”
“Homer Dowd and Jimmy Negron.”
Her chin jerked up and she frowned. “You knew all about it.” From her tone, she would have sent me to the principal’s office if it had been handy.
Not wanting to leave under a cloud, I explained. “No, I only knew where he said he went when he left here — to the Dowd Roofing Company and Negron’s chicken farm, but I didn’t know why.” I rose. “So he was completely sold on tar and feathers?”
“He wasn’t sold. He didn’t have to be. He just realized it was the best solution for his problem. Are you going? I haven’t told you much. All I’ve done, you asked me how sure I was it was that day, and I told you. What else do you want to know?”
“I want to know who shot Philip Brodell.” I sat down. “You said Gilbert — I’ll quote it — you said, ‘He had told me all about that problem, that girl he wanted to marry and that man.’ If you can spare the time I would appreciate it if you’ll tell me everything he told you about Brodell.”
“Well... there was the question of rape. Statutory rape. She was eighteen years old. But Gilbert couldn’t start an action.”
“I know, and Mr. and Mrs. Greve didn’t. But what did he say about Brodell? You may know that I don’t believe Harvey Greve shot him, and I’m trying to think it through. Gilbert might have said something about him that would give me a hint.”
“Not to me. I feel sorry for you, Mr. Goodwin. You have my sympathy. But I can’t help you with your problem.”
“Of course you think Harvey Greve shot him.”
“Did I say I do?”
“No.”
“Then don’t you say it. He’s innocent until a jury of his peers says he’s guilty. That’s one of the glories of our great Republic.”
“It sure is. So are you. Citizens like you.” I stood up. I wasn’t exactly sore at her; it was just that a man doesn’t like having a gate shut in his face any better than a horse does. I said, “I don’t quite see how you fit advising him to commit assault and feathers, which is a felony, into the Constitution of our great Republic, but that’s your problem. Think it through.”
I didn’t thank her for the time. I departed, not on the run, but fast enough to get outside and to the car without hearing any remarks. I pulled the car door shut and looked at both my wrist and the dash clock, a habit. Seventeen minutes past eleven. By the time I got to Main Street, only three short blocks, I had the situation analyzed. For the Dowd Roofing Company, which was a few doors from the library, I should turn right. For the road to Lame Horse I should turn left. I turned left.
I took my time on the curves and bumps and ups-and-downs, and when I reached the end of the blacktop at Vawter’s General Store it was three minutes after noon. Three o’clock Saturday afternoon in New York, and Saul might have found Manhattan so empty for the summer weekend that he had called it a day, so I pulled up in front of the Hall of Culture, went in, and got permission from Woody to use the phone. The arrangement was that Saul was not to call us unless he had something urgent; we were to call him. But all I got on two tries was no answer, so I returned to the car and headed for the cabin. In time for lunch, I thought.
There wasn’t any lunch. There was no one on the terrace, and no one in the big room, or in Lily’s room, or in mine, or in Wolfe’s. But there were noises in the kitchen, and I found Wade there, at the can opener, opening a can of clam chowder. I asked him if it was enough for two, and he said no but there was more in the storeroom. I went and opened the small refrigerator for a survey, and got out a Boone County ham — what there was left of one. As I got a knife from a drawer I asked, “Are they all riding range?”
He was dumping the chowder into a pot. “No, they’re on wheels. A car from the ranch. If I got it straight, you and Wolfe are going across to the ranch this afternoon?”