Authors: Gilbert Morris
Although he knew she was speaking honestly from her heart, he could not hide his bitterness when he spoke. “I suppose Harve Tippitt will make you happy, is that right, Susan?”
Her eyes dropped, and she said quietly, “I don’t want to talk about it anymore, Cody. I’m sorry that I’ve hurt you. I see now that I was wrong, that I should have broken it off a long time ago. You’ll have to forgive me.”
He stared down at her and knew that it was all over. A black sense of despair seized him. He turned and headed for the door. He heard her crying after him, calling his name,
but he ignored it, shoved on his hat, leaped off the porch, and then mounted his horse. As he galloped away, the sound of her calling, “Cody, Cody—” reached him, but he refused to hear. It was like slamming the door on that part of his life, and as he rode along the street a numbness set in on him such as he had never known before. He passed along the main street, more than once answering automatically when somebody called out to him, but he was like a man that had been struck by a bullet in a battle and was severely wounded, still able to move forward, but hard hit.
“Hey, Cody. Cody.” A tall, lean cowboy accompanied by one much shorter stepped in front of him, almost being run down by Cody’s horse. “Hey, come on. You’ve been working hard enough. Time for a vacation.”
“What’s up, Legs?” Cody said, staring down at the two punchers.
He’d known the two a long time. Both of them were punchers for the Diamond H, not far from his own place—Legs Freeman and Wash Melbourne. The three of them had made a trio growing up together, and usually he was glad to see them, but not now. However, Wash reached up and slapped him on the leg, “Come on, you slab-sided galoot, me and Legs got some celebrating to do.”
“Celebrating what?”
“Celebrating not punchin’ cows,” Legs grinned. “We’re going to ride the train over to Murray’s Bluff and pick up a herd for the old man, but in the meanwhile we can get as drunk as we want to—until the train comes in.”
“Yeah, we’ve been looking for somebody to put us on the train,” Wash grinned. “It wouldn’t look good for the Diamond H’s two best cowboys to get left drunk in town while the train went without us. C’mon now, you’ve gotta do it.”
Cody hesitated, then agreed. “Okay, I’ll be your keeper. What time does that train pull out?”
“Not till eleven o’clock tonight,” Melbourne said, “so we
got plenty of time to do our heavy-duty celebrating. Come on, tie up that horse and let’s get at it.”
The two punchers bracketed Cody and led him to the Palace Saloon, where they advanced to the bar and propped their feet up on the brass rail. “Joe,” Legs Freeman called, “we intend to test the quality of your liquor. You see this fellow here? He’s supposed to put us on the train. If he gets drunk, too, you’ll have to do it. So see that he don’t drink too much.”
Joe Wells, the bartender, scowled at him. “I ain’t no nursemaid to cow punchers,” he said. “Keep your own selves sober and on your own train.”
The three ordered drinks, and when they came, Cody lifted his thoughtfully. He did not like to drink, but a recklessness had come over him after his conversation with Susan. He tried to shake it off, but the whole situation had left him numb.
“Whooo!” Wash Melbourne said, almost choking. “That’d take the hair off a cow, wouldn’t it now?” His eyes watered at the power of the drink, and he shuddered, which made the fat on his body quiver. “I better have another one just to make sure it’s that bad. Set ’em up again, Joe.”
“If you don’t like my liquor, go somewhere else,” Joe grumbled, but he filled the glasses again. When he moved away, Freeman and Melbourne began talking freely. Soon the three moved over to a table, sat down, and drank steadily. After a while, the two punchers began dancing with some of the bar girls, but Cody just sat at a table nursing his drink along.
He was still there an hour later, and by this time Freeman and Melbourne were both fairly drunk. He himself felt a numbness, and the sound of the tinny piano in the saloon seemed muted. He still felt the sharp sting of Susan Taylor’s rejection as he had never felt anything in his life. He had hoped that the noise and the activity of the Palace Saloon would give him some peace, but instead he felt restless and dejected. “I’ll just have to get so drunk I can’t think about it,” he muttered under his breath. Pouring another drink, he tossed it
off just as his two companions came back, and falling into the chairs, they drank up, then began to tell outrageous lies.
Finally, Legs Freeman asked, “What time is it?” He had an owlish look now as he stared across the table at Cody. “Don’t wanna miss our train, you know. You being our keeper and all, you got to watch for that.”
Cody pulled out his watch. “It’s only ten o’clock,” he said. “You’ve got another hour yet.”
“Another hour,” Wash glared at him. “By that time, you’ll have to carry me to that train.”
He was not far wrong, for the two drank liberally, seemingly determined to get so drunk they couldn’t walk. Cody, while not matching them drink for drink, was aware that he was drinking too much. But the alcohol did not seem to touch that part of him that was crying out on the inside. It was ten-thirty when he heard a voice say, “Look, there he is.”
At the sound of Legs’ blurred voice, Cody looked up and saw that Harve Tippitt had entered the Palace and was standing at the bar.
“That’s the feller that tried to take your girl, ain’t it, Cody?” Wash said with indignation. He was the gentlest of men when sober, but alcohol seemed to turn him mean. This was unfortunate, since he had never won a fight in his life, even sober. But now he said, “I’m going over and whip him myself. You fellers wait here.”
Cody reached out, grabbed Wash’s belt, and shoved him back into the chair. “You stay out of this, Wash. It’s none of your business.”
Wash looked at him with astonishment, and with a slurred tongue said, “Ain’t none of my business when somebody steals my buddy’s girlfriend? What kinda friend you think I am?”
“All you’ll do,” Legs said, “is get yourself busted up. Now you set there and hush. We gotta get on that train. Might as well wander down to the station.”
Legs and Wash staggered to their feet, laid their money down on the table, and began to navigate toward the door.
Cody got up swiftly, too swiftly, for when he was upright, the room seemed to reel. It was then he knew he had had far too much to drink. He put his money on the table and started to follow the two outside, but when he got clear of the tables, Tippitt’s voice reached him. “Well, look who’s here. How are you doing, Cody?”
Cody looked at Tippitt and saw a triumphant smile on the man’s lips. Tippitt’s face was still scarred—as was his own, from their fight—but Cody, sick at heart, did not choose to continue the feud. “All right, Harve,” he answered. “Gotta take these boys to the train.”
Tippitt stepped over and caught his arm. “Wait a minute. You can’t go yet. You haven’t congratulated me.” Tippitt spoke loudly so that the men at the bar standing close heard. Having gotten their attention, Tippitt nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on Cody. “We’ve always said may the best man win, ain’t that right?”
“Whatever you say, Harve.”
“Well, the best man has won.” Tippitt reached over and poured two glasses full of liquor and handed one of them toward Cody. “I’m asking you to congratulate me, Cody.”
“Congratulate you for what?” Wash demanded indignantly. “I ain’t heard about you winning no fights.”
Tippitt stared at him and said, “You look like you’ve had too many already, Wash, but I’ll tell you what I’m celebrating.” He raised his voice even louder so that everyone in the saloon could hear it. “Me and Susan Taylor are gettin’ married.”
A murmur ran through the saloon, and most of the men fixed their eyes on Cody. They had known of the competition between the two men, but all of them had thought that in the end Cody might win. Joe, the bartender, stepped forward, saying, “You buying for the house, Harve?”
“Why not? Set ’em up.” There was a sudden rush toward the bar as Joe, the bartender, filled the glasses, and then Harve turned toward Cody. His lips were twisted with a triumphant smile, and he said, “I’ll just ask you to make the toast, Cody.”
Cody wanted to smash the man’s face in, as a bitter anger ran through him. “I’ll drink a toast to her, but not to you, Harve. Here’s to the finest girl who ever lived.” He hesitated, and then with a sneer on his face said, “And here’s to the rotten scoundrel she’s marrying.”
Silence fell over the saloon, and he drank his drink and turned and threw the glass at the mirror behind the bar. It shattered with a loud, tinkling sound, and Joe cried out, “What did you do that for?”
Tippitt’s face went pale, and he said, “You’re a sore loser, aren’t you?”
Cody felt the anger and the rage rising in him, but he was powerless to stop it. “Tippitt, stay out of my way or you’ll be sorry,” he warned.
Shaking his head, Tippitt answered, “I’ll be here in this town a long time, Cody. I’ll come and go as I please, and when I see you, I won’t turn the other way. You’re just a sorehead anyway.”
Cody considered him and said, “Maybe I’d better use my hands on you, Harve—as I did once before.”
The reminder of the fight and the outcome of it brought a redness to Tippitt’s cheeks as he said, “Keep your hands to yourself.”
Cody laughed. “Maybe I’d better take a gun to you, then. You’re wearing one, why don’t you go for it?”
“Aw, come on, Cody, let’s get outta here. You gotta get us to our train,” said Wash.
“No, let’s see what a big, bad man Harve Tippitt is,” Cody said scornfully. “Go on, go for it. This is a good day to die.”
The men behind Tippitt scurried to one side and Harve very carefully put the glass down and lifted his hands. “I’m not fighting you. I’m no gunfighter.”
“You’re not much of anything, are you? Better stay out of my way,” Cody said. “I’m gonna let you off this time, but the next time I see you, I might put a bullet right between your eyes.”
“Come on, let’s go,” Legs said urgently. He closed his hand on Cody’s arm and practically dragged him from the saloon. “Are you crazy? You don’t want to go to jail for killin’ a man like that. He ain’t worth it.”
Cody was not listening. He was thinking what a fool he’d made out of himself and murmured, “I know. I’m drunk. Not drunk enough or too drunk, I guess. You fellows get to the station by yourself. I’ll see you when you get back to town.”
The two protested but left, struggling not to trip over themselves as they headed for the train. Cody started for his horse. He mounted up, noticing how slowly he was moving, and then started down the street. He got almost clear of town and then, on impulse, stopped his horse, dismounted, went into a saloon, bought another bottle of whiskey, and headed out of town. By the time he was halfway home, he had consumed most of the whiskey and was still angry. A coyote appeared and he pulled his gun, but missed with two wild shots. By this time, he was swaying in the saddle, so he dismounted, tying his horse to a tree. He sat down, nursing the bottle of whiskey along, going over all the things that had happened. “She shouldn’t have done that to me,” he said bitterly. Then he thought of Tippitt and said, “If he gives me one word, I’ll break his back.” Slowly, he consumed the rest of the whiskey sitting there. With the effects of the liquor and the strain of the day, a drowsiness soon came over him. He leaned back against the tree, saying, “Just rest a few minutes, just a few minutes.”
He awoke slowly, squinting at the sunlight that fell on his face. His mouth was dry and tasted terrible, and when he sat up he cried out as pain racked his head. He had had only two hangovers in his life and this was the worst. Carefully, he got to his feet, glared down at the whiskey bottle, and shook his head. “I shoulda had more sense,” he said solemnly. “Sleeping out all night like a common drunk.”
He was stiff and sore from his night on the ground and groaned as he stepped into the saddle. Finally, he settled
himself and said to his horse, “Let’s go home. I sure hope nobody sees me like this.”
He made his way to the ranch, thinking of how he was going to have to put Susan behind him, yet knowing how hard that would be to do. When he rode into the ranch yard, he saw two strange horses tied outside. As he dismounted, Sheriff Rider stepped out from the house, accompanied by his deputy, Del Fanning. His mother and Dan were there, too. He quickly tied his horse and turned as they came up. Managing to grin crookedly, he said, “Don’t tell me you came all the way out here to arrest me for being drunk and disorderly.”
“No, I’ve come to arrest you for murder,” Sheriff Rider said soberly. He was a tall man with snow white hair, and there was sadness in his eyes. “I have to take your gun, Cody.”
Cody stood there, speechless, as the deputy lifted his gun. He shook his head trying to clear the cobwebs, but one glance at his mother showed the agony in her eyes, and he knew this was no joke. Dan Winslow was looking at him, his lips tight and his body tense.
“What are you talking about, Sheriff? I haven’t killed anybody.”
“Where have you been all night, Cody?” Fanning asked.
“Just a minute. You don’t have to answer any questions,” Dan said quickly. “We’ll get a good lawyer, and he’ll do your talking for you.”
“Dan, I’ve been out drunk. Slept all night passed out by the river.”
“Anybody see you?” Fanning inquired.
“I don’t think so. It was dark. I just woke up about an hour ago.” Cody felt cold twinges of fear beginning to close around him. “What’s this all about? Who’s been killed?”
“Somebody shot Harve Tippitt last night when he was on his way home, Cody.”
Suddenly the world seemed to reel, and Cody stared at the sheriff. A silence fell over the yard, and finally Cody said, “Well, it wasn’t me. I came straight home.”
“You threatened him in the bar,” said the deputy. “Twenty witnesses heard you.” He held up Cody’s gun. “Two shots fired. It was two shots that killed Tippitt. Forty-four caliber—like yours.”
“That was just talk. I shot at a coyote!” Cody exclaimed. “If you locked everybody up for threatening somebody, your jail would be full.”