“That's your job,” Jeff said bitterly. “If you want to make a fool of yourself, I won't try to stop you.”
“Then what have you got to do with Milan Fay, if he's not tied, up with Nate? The man's a hardcase, maybe a killer. I knew it the minute I saw him get off the train.”
Blasingame frowned, his small eyes brilliant with concentration. “By hell, Fay got off with that gambler that shot Phil Costain! I hadn't thought of that!” Thoughtfully, Elec rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “The gambler, and Fay, and the son of Nate Blaine,” he chanted quietly, almost to himself. “Now that may be something to think about.”
Jeff laughed, but the sound rang false and unconvincing.
The marshal looked at him for a long moment. “We'll see,” he said, turning abruptly and tramping out of the room.
For a long while Jeff sat unmoving, his mind racing. He knew that he'd go through with the robbery, for Nathan's sake. But he didn't like the way Elec was tying things together.
Walk gently, he told himself. He was a long way from shore and the ice was thin. He could almost hear it cracking....
Outside, the sun was already blasting away at the prairie, and the airless room became uninhabitable. For a moment, before leaving, Jeff Blaine regarded this room of his, this home that he had made for himself. The sagging bunk with its straw mattress, the scaling bureau, the crockery pitcher and bowl and the oil lamp. Once, not long ago, he had owned two sections of land and had had money in his pocket. Now he had nothing. Not even enough to pay the rent on this room at the end of the week.
Then he remembered that it wouldn't matter about the rent. The first of the month was only three days off—and then he'd put Plainsville behind him, for good.
Strangely, the thought did not please him. He had clung to this place because it was the only one he had. He told himself that he'd be better off for leaving the town, but agreement did not come easily. At last he pulled his hat on and strode angrily out of the room.
He had only one possession which he could trade for money. He pawned his Colt's with Sam Baxter for twelve dollars and came out of the store feeling strangely naked and ashamed. He told himself that it was a temporary thing, that he could pick up enough money at seven-up or twenty-one to reclaim the gun.
In the eating house, he took a booth in the back. As he was cutting into his eggs and side meat, Jeff saw Milan Fay's tall figure in the doorway. The man raked the house with his dark eyes, spotted Jeff quickly, and headed toward the booth.
Jeff looked up angrily. “Are you crazy, coming in here like this?”
Fay folded his lanky frame into the booth. “What's the matter, kid? You look jumpy.”
“I've got a right to look jumpy,” Jeff said tightly. “Elec Blasingame paid me a visit this morning. He's beginning to tie us together—me, you, and Somerson.”
Fay's eyes narrowed. “How does he figure that?”
“He saw you get off the train with Somerson. And he knows I borrowed your claybank.”
Unexpectedly, the tall man laughed. “He's just throwin' out some wild guesses. I'll get out of town and stay clear, if that'll make you feel easier. But I've got to take word back to Somerson about the bank job. What do you say, Blaine?”
“I'm ready. I've got no choice.”
Milan Fay allowed himself a small smile. “Somerson will be glad to hear it. So will your pa. Did Somerson tell you exactly what he wanted you to do?”
“Yes.”
“Then that settles it, I guess.” Fay worked himself out of the booth. “We'll be seein' you, kid.”
Jeff sat for a moment after Fay had disappeared on the street, his appetite gone. He wondered how a person went about the business of forgetting. How many days and nights would the vision of Amy Wintworth cling to his mind before he finally caught on to this business of forgetting her?
Far to the south that night a gaunt, big-boned man rode by starlight, hugging the high ground. He traveled as the cavalry travels in forced march, now riding, now leading, now resting. His big head thrown back with a savage pride, he kept his face to the north. He avoided the valleys and the lowlands scrupulously, keeping always to the ridges and crests of the prairie, his dark eyes intense and watchful.
He did not build fires. Once every twelve hours he would pause for a while to chew on tasteless jerked beef. He would feed his animal a few handfuls of corn that he carried in a sack behind the saddle, and he would unsaddle and unbit and let the horse graze in the scant grass of the hills. His own comfort and well-being seemed not to concern him, but with the horse he was attentive and gentle.
They had come a long way together, the man and the animal; they had as far yet to travel, and the time was short. The man knew his own weariness by the ache of his bones, by the cotton in his mouth and by the sourness of his stomach. He could scratch at the crust of filth which covered him as a second skin and feel the crawling of ticks from the brush and lice from the desert.
He did not wash, for water was rare in the hills and must be saved for the animal. The saddle sores on the animal's back must be attended to, lice must be brushed from flanks and chest and legs, and hoofs must be cared for and kept clean.
The man had no time for himself. He must move always to the north and the horse must carry him. With mounting impatience, he paced the rocky ground while the animal grazed, he grabbed snatches of sleep at odd moments, and he kept his Colt's and Winchester clean. Soon he would be off again.
Chapter Seventeen
WIRT SEWELL AWOKE TO heavy, monotonous pounding. He lay in groggy drowsiness, listening. Beulah stirred restlessly beside him.
“It's the door,” Beulah said peevishly. “Wirt, what time is it?”
“I don't know. Too dark to see my watch.”
“Well, get up and light the lamp, and see who's pounding on our door this time of night.”
Wirt climbed out of bed. “All right!” he said thickly, and the monotonous pounding continued while he fumbled for a match and got the lamp wick burning evenly. In his long cotton nightshirt he made his way stiffly into the parlor and opened the door.
He didn't recognize the face at first. It was stiff and ugly with a filth-matted beard, the thin lips cracked and gray with dust. But the eyes were the same.
“Wirt,” Beulah called from the bedroom, “who it is?” Wirt's dread was like a nightmare come to life. He felt himself shrink inside until his heart was a small, cold knot. In the back of his mind he could still hear Elec Blasingame saying: some day Nate Blaine will come back to Plainsville. When he does, I wouldn't want to be in your place, or your wife's.
“You look surprised, Wirt,” Nathan said coldly, pushing his way into the room.