Stands a Calder Man (24 page)

“What's that?” Webb nodded at the bottle.

“Benzine.” Doyle identified the product. “You wash it over the area around the puncture, then coat the spot with rubber cement and apply the patch.” He glanced at Webb and laughed. “I can do this in my sleep. I figure I average three flat tires on a trip between my ranch and town, so I got a lot of practice.”

“I thought you had to burn gunpowder to patch one of those things,” Webb said.

“That's a hot patch, and it's more complex. Takes more time than a cold patch like this.” Doyle explained in terms that showed off his knowledge. “I oughta stop out and see your pa sometime. There's a fortune to be made in land right now.”

“You can talk to him.” Webb straightened in the saddle and gathered up the reins to leave. “But I don't think he'll listen.” He backed his horse away from the dusty black automobile. “See ya in town, Doyle, and take care or that horseless carriage of yours might buck you off.”

“If you don't show up by noon, we'll send somebody
back with a horse to get you,” Shorty taunted as they pointed their mounts down the road.

Two miles from town, the band of riders heard the belching horn of the automobile behind them. They split into two groups, riding off the road to make way for the faster conveyance. The noisy vehicle rattled and chugged past them. Doyle risked taking one hand off the wheel, usually gripped with both at all times, and gave them a mocking wave. With his passing, the riders were engulfed in a cloud of choking dust and exhaust fumes.

When they rode into Blue Moon, the street was bulging with carriages and buckboards and the high-boxed, heavy-wheeled grain wagons. The granary had ceased to be an item of talk and was now standing at the end of the street near the railroad tracks. Just about everywhere a man looked, there were farmers and their families. The congestion forced the cowboys to hold their horses in a walk. They were strangely silent, feeling out of place in this scene, with few realizing they were an anachronism in this changed society.

From her seat on the wagon so recently converted with the installation of higher sides to haul their grain, Lilli saw Stefan come out of the granary office. There was an exuberance in his stride as he approached the wagon.

“Fifty bushels an acre,” he proclaimed the success of their harvest. She summoned a smile to show her pleasure in the news, and wondered why she wasn't as excited as she should have been. It was the culmination of their dream; yet she felt curiously flat as Stefan climbed onto the wagon to sit beside her. “There is talk that Europe might go to var, and they think the price of vheat vill go even higher next year.”

“That's good news.” Although it didn't seem right to Lilli that they would profit from someone else's adversity.

“Now ve go to the bank.” Stefan took the reins and released the wheel brake.

“Are we going to pay off the loan?” She knew Stefan had not liked being in debt.

“No, ve are going to borrow more money and buy more land vhile it is still cheap,” he declared. “And ve vill need money for more seed. Maybe even ve buy a tractor. Franz says a tractor can plow in one day vhat it vould take a team of horses to plow in two veeks. Ve could plant a lot of vheat.”

Stefan had not discussed any of this with her, but it was obvious that he had talked to Franz Kreuger about it at considerable length. It was just another example of the subtle way she and Stefan had drifted apart. They weren't nearly as close as they once had been.

“I thought we were going to take the money we made on this harvest and build a real house.” Lilli made a tentative attempt to remind him of their initial plans. “Will there be enough to do that, too?”

“The house can vait,” he stated. “Next year, ve vill have much more money and ve can build a big house.”

But there were a lot of things in between that he left unsaid. Instead of paying off their loan, they were borrowing more money, which meant that would have to be closely budgeted. There would be nothing to spare for luxuries this winter—or even some of the minor necessities.

“Vhen ve go to the store, ve must get plenty of supplies,” Stefan advised. “Vinter vill come soon and it may be a long time before ve come to town again.”

“Yes.” But Lilli was noticing the horses wearing heavy stock saddles tied in front of the saloon. She wondered if Webb were inside. Almost guiltily, her glance darted to Stefan, and the silence between them grew longer. She couldn't decide whether she was changing or if it was Stefan, but things weren't the same between them anymore.

Shorty Niles stared incredulously at the aproned man behind the bar. “What do you mean we can't get anything to drink?” he demanded.

“We don't serve any liquor here until after three in
the afternoon,” the man repeated. “Now, if you want somethin' to eat, just park yourselves at one of those tables.”

“I don't want anything to eat. I want a beer, Where's Sonny?” Shorty looked around for the owner.

“He's back in the kitchen cooking.” The man jerked a hand over his shoulder.

“Since when did this become a restaurant?” Another Triple C hand pushed his way to the bar to add his demand for an explanation to Shorty's.

“Since the town passed an ordinance that outlaws liquor being served until after three in the afternoon,” the man explained none too patiently. “Sonny didn't see any reason for the place to stand empty all day, so he started servin' food since the town don't have a restaurant.”

A half-dozen tables were occupied by diners taking advantage of the roadhouse's additional service. The cowboys had been the center of their attention since they had charged into the establishment. Webb could tell they weren't exactly welcome.

“I don't care what any town ordinance says,” another disgruntled cowboy declared. “Let them eat, and give me a drink.”

“We got a sheriff that does care about that ordinance,” the man retorted. “Now, I told you we aren't servin' drinks until after three. And if you don't like it, I just call the sheriff and let him settle this.”

“Why'd they pass a damn-fool law like that?” Nate frowned.

“I guess they didn't want a bunch of likkered-up cowboys on the street molestin' decent women anymore,” the man suggested in challenge.

“Tell you what,” Webb inserted. “Why don't you sell us a bottle and we'll go somewhere else.”

“Yeah.” There was quick agreement within the group. “We'll go see Fannie.”

“Fannie ain't here no more. The doc's got his office back there now,” the man informed them.

“The doc? This town got a doctor?”

“A certified belly and bones doctor, name of Bardolph.”

“What happened to Fannie?” That seemed the greater concern among the men, since they preferred her cure for their ailments to any doctor's remedy.

“The sheriff presented her with a train ticket out of town,” the man replied.

“I'm not findin' much to like about this sheriff,” Shorty declared.

“What about the bottle?” Abe Garvey raised Webb's question again. “Is it against the law to sell that to us, too?”

“Don't remember there was any mention of that,” the man acknowledged. “So I reckon I can. But you don't drink it in here,” he reminded them. There was a mocking display of raised hands and solemn oaths being taken.

“Better make that two bottles,” someone suggested when the man reached under the bar. “It's a long, thirsty time till three o'clock.”

“Where are we gonna go?”

They all looked around at one another, trying to think of a good place to do a little serious drinking, until someone finally suggested, “Let's go down to the train station.”

Two of the cowboys took a bottle apiece and tucked them inside their jackets. All together, they trooped out of the roadhouse turned daytime restaurant and sauntered down the sidewalk toward the depot. They tipped their hats to all the ladies they passed and paid lavish compliments to the pretty, eligible ones. The responses were always the same. The quiet ones blushed and the others giggled. And the mothers always gave the cowboys stern, disapproving looks and hurried their virginal daughters along.

At the train station, they lounged around on the platform, making use of the benches and freight crates. After lonely months of having no one to talk to but horses and cows, they made up for the silence and lack of companionship with a lot of noise and laughter.

They'd barely got a good start on the second bottle when the sheriff strolled into their midst.

“Sorry, boys, but we don't allow any loitering in public places, and this is a public place. You'll have to move on,” he stated.

There was a lot of grumbling and a few choice words muttered underbreath, but they didn't argue. “Hell, I was outa tobacco anyways,” Nate mumbled.

“Yeah, let's go to the store.” Shorty picked up on the thought. “I been meanin' to buy me a new jacket for winter.”

They set out en masse, retracing their steps and passing the saloon to go to the general store. An intrepid motorist came chugging into town in another one of those horseless carriages. A homesteader fought to hold his rearing team of horses and keep them from bolting. Distracted by the commotion in the street, Webb walked right into the woman coming out of the store, jostling the packages out of her arms and scattering them on the board sidewalk. He grabbed her to keep from knocking her down as well.

“Sorry, miss, I—” He stopped abruptly as he stared into a familiar pair of blue eyes. “Lilli.” Her name came out with the soft breath he released. His hands immediately became gentle on her, the pressure changing to an involuntary caress.

For a fleeting second, he saw a leaping warmth in her eyes; then her lashes came down, concealing it. “It was my fault, Mr. Calder,” she murmured, and her shoulders moved slightly in silent request that his hands be removed from them. “I wasn't looking where I was going.”

He let her go rather briskly, a raw frustration filling his insides. When she knelt down to pick up her scattered packages, he was driven to help her.

“Let me get these for you,” he insisted.

“I can manage,” she returned curtly.

“It's the least I can do after nearly knocking you over.” Webb gathered up most of the packages and presented them to her. When they were once again
standing, he said, “I'd offer to carry them to your wagon, but—”

The door opened and Stefan Reisner stepped outside, carrying a shiny new rifle. Dark suspicion was in his expression when he saw Webb with Lilli. He stepped immediately to her side.

“Is he bothering you, Lillian?” he inquired, at least this time asking before he challenged Webb.

“No,” she asserted quickly and glanced at Webb through the top of her lashes. “I dropped some of my packages and Mr. Calder was kind enough to retrieve them for me.”

Webb noticed the inaccurate description of the incident, but didn't correct her. Whatever her reason for the white lie, he wasn't about to expose it.

“That's a fine-looking rifle, Mr. Reisner.” He observed that the muzzle was absently pointed in his general direction. “It will come in handy this winter for hunting, although there isn't much game around here anymore. The rabbits might be pretty thick, though.” Webb paused, then asked, “Have you used a rifle much, Mr. Reisner?”

“I know how to shoot it.” He was packing a box of shells under his arm.

“I don't know what it's like where you came from, but around here”—he casually reached out and laid a forefinger alongside the muzzle to point it in another direction—“we don't point a rifle at something unless we aim to shoot it. It's considered bad manners.”

“I vill remember that.”

They continued to face each other while Lilli stood to one side, uneasily watching them both. The air seemed heavy with the veiled antagonism that drifted between them, carefully undefined.

The sheriff interposed. “What's the trouble here?”

“No trouble, Sheriff,” Webb replied with an easy look. “I was just admiring Mr. Reisner's new rifle and wishing him good hunting.” He tipped his hat to Lillian. “Good day to you, ma'am.”

He stepped past both of them to enter the store, and
heard the trailing sounds of several pairs of heeled boots belonging to the Triple C riders behind him. A raw and reckless energy was pulsing through his blood. Webb wanted to hit something—anything.

Business was brisk inside the store, wall to wall with customers as entire homesteading families dawdled over purchases of merchandise and supplies. Youngsters in their knickers with a penny to spend were wavering between the candy jar selections, the decision of which to buy nearly as sweet as the stick of candy.

Webb walked to the back of the store, far away from the front windows so he couldn't see Lilli getting into the wagon with her husband. All of the Triple C riders stayed together in a loose, noisy bunch, browsing through the goods for sale. Nate was the only one with any intention of making a purchase, so he walked up to the counter to buy his tobacco. Webb prowled restlessly along with him.

A new clerk started to inquire how he could help Nate when Ollie Ellis, the proprietor, came over and sent the clerk to another customer. At first, Webb thought nothing of it despite the owner's stern and businesslike expression. Ollie Ellis had always personally waited on representatives from the Triple C, so it appeared to be no different this time.

“What can I do for you?” The crisp inquiry was not even accompanied by a familiar address.

“I need some tobacco. Better make it a whole can of Prince Albert,” Nate added, figuring it had to last him all winter.

“Is that all?” There was something in the owner's tone that seemed to resent such a small purchase.

Behind them, Shorty was trying on a lady's hat, to the hoots and guffaws of the other cowboys. Shorty had always been part clown and part banty rooster, so his hot temper and wild antics were equally well known to the local tradesman.