De Witt, a frail, fluttery man with a glistening bald head, broke away from two Osage squaws and moved up the counter to Owen.
“How are you, Owen?” the little man said, glancing toward the door.
Owen's eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch. De Witt looked even more nervous and fluttery than usual, and now the storekeeper took a handkerchief and carefully mopped his face and the back of his neck.
“What's the matter, Al?”
“Well...” The storekeeper swallowed. “You see, Owen, it's...” Finally he took the list from Owen and glanced at it. “I'm sorry, Owen, but I'm afraid I can't fill this order for you.”
“Why not?”
“You see, Owen...” He glanced again toward the door. “That is, I don't think I've got all the things on hand. Maybe one of the other places could fill it for you.”
“But this is the only place that carries my account, Al. You know that. Look,” he said with a heartiness that he didn't feel, “you go on and fill it the best you can, and Elizabeth will understand.”
De Witt would not look at Owen. He kept glancing nervously at the door. “I'm afraid I can't do it.” He shook his head. “I just can't.”
Owen's curiosity was becoming a slow, warm anger. He scowled down on the small storekeeper and said coolly, You mean you won't, Al. What's the matter? Isn't my credit any good these days?”
De Witt stared down at his hands and drummed his fingers on the counter. “I guess that's about the size of it, Owen.”
Owen came erect suddenly, as though he had been slapped. Never in his life had he been turned down for credit, and never had he failed to pay his bills every quarter. That De Witt was now cutting off his credit struck him as a personal insult. In anger he turned on his heel and started toward the door, and only then did it occur to him that this was Ben McKeever's doing.
He stopped near the door, smiling thinly. It never paid to underestimate McKeever; the man had his hand in everything, and no doubt Al De Witt was in debt to him himself. Owen walked slowly back to the counter and laid down the list.
“I think I understand, Al. Go ahead and fill it, and I'll pay cash when I pick it up.”
The storekeeper stared in grateful surprise, but all he said was “Sure, Owen. That'll be fine.”
Outside, Owen paused in front of De Witt's, making a visible effort to keep his anger under control. So McKeever had put the pressure on De Witt, and De Witt was made to put the pressure on Owen. Stay calm, Owen told himself, and think this thing out. Don't go off half cocked and do something you'll be sorry for later.
McKeever's running a bluff, he told himself, wanting to believe it. But Ben is a sensible man and his customers are my friends. He wouldn't risk turning those people against him; he'll call off the bluff when he sees I won't be brought to heel.
That seemed to make sense. A smart man knew where to stop a bluff, and no one had accused Ben McKeever of being stupid. As Owen thought about it, he was almost convinced that Ben was merely testing him. To prove to himself that he was right, he turned abruptly and started walking south on Main Street, toward McKeever's bank.
McKeever had his desk on the north side of the bank, behind a stained-oak railing, and the fat man looked up, smiling, when Owen came through the front door.
“Hello, Toller. Looks like quite a crowd in town to day.”
“Hello, Ben.” Owen was glad that he had his voice and anger completely under control. He even smiled as he approached the banker's desk.
“Anything I can do for you, Owen?” Toller shook his head. “I guess not, Ben.” He walked up to the teller's cage. He could feel the banker's eyes on his back as he made the withdrawal. Ben knows to the penny how much I've got, he thought. Less than four hundred dollars.
It wasn't much, Owen decided, but it might be enough to outlast the banker's bluff. McKeever looked faintly disappointed when Owen nodded pleasantly on his way out. He knows he's lost, Owen thought. He's just wondering how he can back down gracefully.
But in the back of his mind he knew that McKeever held a strong hand if he wanted to play it out. Owen worried this knowledge for a moment, then decided there was nothing he could do about it but wait.
There were several things to be attended to—bolts and nails to be bought at Coulter's hardware, a horse collar at the saddlery, and finally a sack of gum-drop orange slices and peppermint sticks for Lonnie and Giles. He took his load back to De Witt's to be picked up later with Elizabeth's order.
It was two o'clock by the fancy timepiece in Emmit's Jewelry Store, and Owen knew that he ought to be starting back for the farm if he wanted to get home before dark. Still, there was something else to be done.
Owen seldom came to Reunion without stopping at the courthouse to visit with his old friend Arch Deland. If a man wanted to get the news as it actually was, without distortion or fanciful coloring, Arch Deland was the person to go to. If Arch ever had an imagination, it had withered and died long ago; he was one of the few old-timers left in the state who still dared call a spade a spade, politics be damned. Which, Owen thought, is one good reason why he'll never climb higher than a deputy for Will Cushman.
Owen climbed the stone steps to the red-brick building that was the courthouse, then made his way down to the sandstone-floored basement where the sheriff's office was. The only man in the room was Will Cushman. “Hello, Sheriff,” Owen said mildly. Will looked up from some paperwork, startled at first. Then his face broke into a wide smile. “Why, hello, Toller. Glad to see you. Pull up a chair.” Just a little too glad to see me, Owen thought quietly. Cushman was a smooth-faced, youngish-looking man in his late thirties, well set up, but soft. Damn if he doesn't look more like a gambler than a sheriff, Owen thought, observing Will's spotless white shirt and pearl-gray cravat, his blue serge suit and polished shoes.
Owen said, “No, thanks, Will. I was just looking for Arch Deland.” He wondered vaguely how far McKeever's hand reached into the sheriff's office.
“Oh,” the sheriff said, as though he were disappointed. “I'm not sure where Arch is. You might find him over by the Sutherland feed store. Farm wagons were blocking the street and I sent him over.”
“Thanks,” Owen nodded. “I'll have a look.”
He found Deland coming out of the Red Dot Cafe, beside the feed store. He must be close to sixty, Owen thought in faint surprise. That's funny; I've never thought of Arch as an old man before.
But he was an old man—gray and grizzled, tough as jerked beef, dangerous and experienced. But old. He wore faded waist overalls, knee-high boots, and a patched hickory shirt. An old-style converted Colt's Frontier, completely without glamour, hung in its battered holster on his right thigh. Now Arch Deland came toward Owen with a lean, outstretched hand.
“By God,” he said,“all the sodbusters come to town.”
They shook hands warmly, exchanged the usual words of greeting. In his mind, Owen recalled those days, not so long ago, when he and Arch had worked together out of Fort Smith as deputy U.S. marshals. Oklahoma had been Indian territory then, and statehood no more than a dream.