Quincannon drew up at the far end of the yard, nearer the stable. The two paniolos in the corral stopped their work and came over to stand silently watching from the fence. The one in the smithy looked up but did not lower either the nippers or his animal’s hoof as Quincannon approached him.
The cowhand was middle-aged, sinewy, with an expressionless face sunburned to the hue of old mahogany. Quincannon stopped at a sidewise angle in the doorway so that he could see the corral and the house beyond.
“Aloha,” he said. This seemed to be the standard Islands greeting. “You wouldn’t be the luna, by any chance? Sam Opaka?”
“No. You want Sam?”
“My business is with James Varner.”
The name produced no reaction. The paniolo finished cutting away heavy cartilage, then picked up a wood rasp to smooth the edges and keep the hoof from splitting.
“James Varner,” Quincannon said again, more sharply.
“Don’t know him.”
“Mr. Millay’s friend from San Francisco. Arrived with him on Sunday.”
“Mr. Millay got no malihini friend here.”
“Tall man, slender, with a mane of silver hair.”
The paniolo shrugged. “Never see nobody look like that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure. Nobody with Mr. Millay when he come back Monday.”
Quincannon stared at him. What was this, now? A lie or evasion, for some reason? If it was the truth, where the devil was Lonesome Jack Vereen?
16
Quincannon
Scowling, he asked the paniolo, “Is Mr. Millay here now?”
“Sure.”
“Where would I find him?”
“Main house, maybe.”
“And his sister?”
“Miss Grace out riding with Sam Opaka. Back pretty soon.”
Quincannon left him to his chore and crossed the yard to the ranch house. It was almost tolerably cool in the shade of the monkeypod. The front door stood open behind a fly screen; he rattled his knuckles on the screen’s frame. When this produced no response he used the heel of his hand to make a louder summons.
A voice from the gloom within called out thickly, “Mele! See who that is!”
Quincannon waited. After a minute or so, when no one appeared, he pounded on the frame again.
“Mele!” Then: “Dammit, who’s making all that racket out there?”
“Stanton Millay?”
“... I don’t want to see anybody. Go away.”
Quincannon did the opposite: he opened the screen and stepped inside. Once his eyes grew accustomed to the half-light, he saw that he was in a large room whose rough-hewn walls were decorated with tapa cloth on which were displayed notched war clubs and a pair of crossed spears with polished wood shafts and ivory barbs. An assortment of other pagan objects — carved idols, feathered fetishes, calabashes made from coconut husks — were arranged on pieces of furniture made of native lumber and on woven mats that covered the floor.
In one of three chairs a young, medium-sized man with a mop of wheat-colored hair sat slumped on his spine, a glass propped on his chest. Judging from the bleary squint he directed at Quincannon, the glass contained okolehao or its equivalent and had been emptied and refilled several times from the decanter on an adjacent table.
“Who in blazes are you?” he demanded.
“My name is Quincannon.”
“Quincannon? Scotsman, eh? I don’t know any Scotsmen. Get out of my house.”
“Not until I have what I came here for.”
“And just what would that be?”
“Jack Vereen.”
A blank stare. “Who?”
“All right, then. James A. Varner.”
That name produced a twitch that nearly upset Millay’s glass. “Who?” he said again.
“Don’t try my patience, Mr. Millay. You crossed the ocean from San Francisco with him and his partner, Simon Reno. Spent a night drinking and carousing with them in Honolulu last week.”
“By Christ!” The exclamation startled a young Hawaiian girl, barefoot and dressed in a long flowered garment, who had just entered the room. “I don’t want you any more, Mele,” Millay snapped at her, and immediately she disappeared again. Then he said to Quincannon, “Casual companions, nothing more. What’s your interest in them? Who the devil are you?”
Quincannon laid one of his business cards on the arm of Millay’s chair. The rancher picked it up, squinted at the wording. A muscle flexed twice in his cheek, shaping his mouth into a grimace. He fortified himself with a deep draught from his glass before saying, “Detective? What’s Varner and Reno done to bring a San Francisco detective all the way out here?”
“You have no idea?”
“No. I hardly know them, just a couple of businessmen I happened to meet.”
“In San Francisco on your recent trip there.”
“So what? What difference does that make?”
“The fact that they shared your passage back to Honolulu makes a great deal of difference.”
“Why the hell should it? Listen—”
“No, you listen, Mr. Millay. Whether you know it or not, those two are not businessmen — they are thieves and swindlers.”
This was no revelation to the cattleman. The muscle flexed again; his gaze shifted away from Quincannon’s. Man under a severe nervous strain. “What does that have to do with me?”
“That is what I want to know,” Quincannon said. “What kind of fabulous scheme did they present to you?”
“Scheme?”
“Something to do with a clock or cloak, wasn’t it?”
The muscle flexed again. “You don’t make any sense, man. Clock, cloak... mumbo jumbo. I had no business with those two. I told you... good-time companions, that’s all.”
Quincannon didn’t believe him and said so.
“I don’t care what you believe or don’t believe,” Millay said. He drank again. “Not one damn bit.”
“Where is Varner now?”
“How should I know?”
“He came here with you on Monday.”
“The hell he did.”
“You left Honolulu with him Sunday morning.”
“... How do you know that?”
“How I know isn’t important. Do you deny it?”
“No,” Millay said. “We happened to take the same steamer, that’s all. Last I saw of him was five minutes after we docked at Hilo. He was meeting someone there, he said.”
“Did he, now? And who might that someone be?”
“He didn’t confide in me. And I didn’t ask. I keep my nose out of other men’s business.”
Quincannon had had enough of this verbal sparring. He growled, “Varner’s true name is Vereen, Lonesome Jack Vereen. His fat partner’s real name was Nagle, also known as Nevada Ned.”
“... What do you mean, his name was Nagle?”
“He’s dead.”
“Dead?” The cheek muscle danced this time. “How? When?”
“Three days ago of a morphine overdose. Possibly administered by Vereen before he departed.”
“Why would—” Millay broke off, wagged his head in a confused way. “What’s that got to do with me?”
“That is what I intend to find out.”
“Does Varner... Vereen know you’re after him?”
“If he doesn’t,” Quincannon said, “he soon will. I’ve come almost three thousand miles to take him prisoner and I won’t leave until I do. If you’re hiding him on this ranch, you’re guilty of aiding and abetting a dangerous fugitive.”