“I don't mean to imply I have his complete confidence, no, ma'am.” He didn't realize until now that she was upset. Judging from her tone, more than a little angry.
“Well, the next time you see him,” Janet Pierson said, “tell him to quit acting like a spoiled brat and grow up.”
“Mr.Early?”
“Like he got out of bed on the wrong side every morning. Tell him to make up his mind what he's mad at. If it's me, if I'm to blame, I'll gladly move out. Ask him if that's what he wants. Because I'm not taking any more of his pouting.”
“Bren Early?”
“Or his silence. All day he sat here, he didn't say a word. ‘Can I get you something?…Would you like your dinner now?’ Like walking on eggs, being so careful not to bother him too much. He'd grunt something. Did that mean yes or no? He'd grunt something else. Finally I said, ‘Well, if you're gonna act as if I'm not here, one of us might as well leave.’ No answer. Can you imagine living with someone like that?”
She did not seem too mysterious now.
“Bren Early?” Maurice said, puzzled. “No, I can't imagine him like that. He's so…calm. Are you sure he wasn't just being calm?”
“God,” Janet Pierson said, “you don't know him, do you? You believe the one in the photograph with the revolvers is the real person.”
“Well, what I do know about him is certainly real and impressive enough to me,” Maurice said.
“It is, huh?” Mrs. Pierson said something then that Maurice thought about for a long time after. She said, “That C.S. Fly, he should take all pictures of famous people in their underwear, and when they're not looking.”
He found Bren Early where he should have looked first, the Chinaman's: Early sitting in the quiet room, though near the front this time, by one of the windows. He was sipping whiskey. On the table in front of him was a handwritten menu, in ink, and one of the Dana Moon “wanted” dodgers, Moon's face in the photo looking up at Bren Early.
Maurice Dumas left his cap on and pulled up a chair. “The Chicago Kid,” some of the others were calling him now. Or “Lucky Maurice.” Lucky, hell, it was sensing a story and digging for it, letting nothing discourage or deter. Go after it.
“Moon's wife didn't bring him the gun,” Maurice said. He was going to add, flatly, “You did,” but softened it at the last second. “I have a feeling it might have been you.”
Bren Early was looking at the menu. He said, “Did you know this place is called The Oriental?”
“No, I didn't think it had a name.”
“The Oriental,” Early said.
Maurice waited a moment. “I also believe the company put up the five-thousand reward. Because I don't think the county would spend that kind of money on something that's-when you get right down to it-company business. Am I right or wrong?”
Early said, “Are you gonna have something to eat?”
“No, I don't think so.”
“Well, if you aren't gonna eat, why don't you leave?”
Maurice felt a chill go up the back of his neck. He managed to say, “I just thought we might talk.”
“There's nothing to talk about,” Early said.
“Well, maybe I will have something to eat, if it's all right.”
Maurice ate some kind of pork dish, sitting there self-conscious, feeling he should have left and tried the man at a better time. Though Early did say one thing as he sipped his whiskey and then picked up the Moon “wanted” poster. He said, “A man who likes his front porch hasn't any business on one of these.”
“No,” Maurice said, to agree.
“Sometimes they put the wrong people on these things.”
Early didn't say anything after that. He finished his whiskey and walked out, leaving the young reporter sitting there with his pork dish.
1
Sundeen appeared in Sweetmary, picked up fresh mounts and supplies and went out again with twenty men, some eager new ones along. He'd hinted he was close to running Moon to ground, but would not give details. This time Maurice Dumas and several news reporters trailed after him, keeping well behind his dust.
There were saddle bums and gunnysackers who came up from around Charleston and Fairbank with Moon's “wanted” dodger folded in their pockets.
These men would study the pictures of Moon in Fly's gallery a long time, pretending to have keen looks in their eyes. They would drink whiskey in the saloons-all these ragtag chuck-line riders turned manhunters-talking in loud voices how they packed their .45-70's for distance or how an old Ballard could outshoot a Henry. They would go out to their campsites along the Benson road, stare up at the Rincons and talk about dogging the man's sign clear to hell for that kind of reward money, come back here and buy a saloon with a whore-house upstairs.
Best chance, everyone agreed, squat down in a blind and wait for the shot. Moon was bound to appear somewhere, though not likely to be snared and taken alive. Yes, it was up to chance; but some lucky bird would get the shot, come back with Moon wrapped in canvas and collect the $5,000; more money than could be made in ten years of herding and fence riding.
The saddle bums and gunnysackers straggled out in pairs and small groups, those who had soldiered saying they were going on an extended campaign and would forage, live off the country. Most of them came dragging back in four or five days, hungry and thirsty, saying shit, Moon wasn't up there-like they had expected to find him sitting on a stump waiting. Wasn't anybody up there far as they could see.
How about Sundeen?
Him either.
The news reporters who had trailed out after Sundeen came back with sore legs and behinds-all of them except the Chicago Kid-to say Phil Sundeen had not found anything either. All he was doing was pushing his men up one draw and down another, finding some empty huts but not a sign of the mountain people.
Days went by. What seemed to be the last of the manhunters came limping in with the same story-nothing up there but wind and dry washes-and looked around for old chums who had gone out in other parties. A rough tally indicated some had not returned. Were they still hunting? Not likely, unless they were living on mesquite beans. Were they dead? Or had they gone home by way of Benson?
Ask Moon that one.
Ask him if you could ever find him. Or if he was still up there. Maybe he had left here for safer climes.
Like hell, said a man by the name of Asa Bailey from Contention. He had seen Moon, close enough to touch the tobacco wad in the man's jaw.
The news reporters sat him down at a table in the Gold Dollar with a full bottle, got out their note pads and said, O.K., go ahead.
Asa Bailey told them there had been three of them in the party and gave the names Wesley and Urban as the other two-last seen headed south-east, having sworn off manhunting forever.
They had come across Sundeen and his bunch at the Moon place and Sundeen had run them off, telling them to keep their nose out of company business. They had stayed close enough to watch, though, and observed Sundeen riding off with most of his men, leaving two or three at the burnt-out house. Yes, Sundeen had set a torch to the place, though the roof and walls seemed in good shape.
Asa Bailey said he had been a contract guide out of Camp Grant some years before and knew Moon and his Apaches surely weren't going to stand around nor leave directions where they went. Moon would use his Apaches as his eyes and pull tricks to decoy Sundeen out of his boots: let him see a wisp of smoke up in the high reaches and Sundeen would take half a day getting up there to a cold fire set by some Apache woman or little kid. Let them wear themselves out and go home hungry, was Moon's game, all the time watching Sundeen.