house.
“Drunk!” he raged. “They’re both drunk, flat-out devil-take-me drunk!” Clay watched him march twice around the room. “I won’t tolerate this tomorrow,” Edwin said. “A Sunday drunk is bad enough, but if Chaffey can’t perform his work come morning I’ll send him away, brother and all.”
He didn’t tell Clay that Chaffey’s brother had told him to either pour himself a drink and join in the merrymaking, or leave them in peace. Chaffey had looked a trifle sheepish at seeing his employer humiliated that way, but had said nothing. Edwin had already made up his mind about dismissing Chaffey, whether he was capable of work on Monday morning or not; the qualification was for Clay’s benefit.
“I … regret placing you in his hands, Clayton. Do you have any complaints to make about the fellow? I’m prepared to listen.”
“No.”
“You’re sure? A closed mouth is an admirable thing more often than not, but I want the truth now.”
“There’s nothing.”
Clay could not bring himself to speak of Chaffey’s advances. Delaney seemed content with silence, and began filling a pipe, muttering of ingratitude and low breeding. Clay excused himself and went to his room.
Morning saw the stranger’s horse still untended, and little improvement in Edwin’s disposition. Immediately after breakfast he went to Chaffey’s cabin and entered without knocking. Less than a minute passed before a gunshot was heard. Clay and Mrs. Delaney ran to the cabin. Edwin lay dead on the floor. Chaffey’s brother stood by the far wall, lingering wisps of smoke still issuing from the barrel of his pistol.
“Never did get acquainted,” he said, his voice slurred by liquor. “Bill Chaffey’s my name, and I don’t like for to be told my business.”
Chaffey was standing openmouthed in the corner, staring at the dead man. Mrs. Delaney moaned once and fell upon her husband to cradle his head.
“Won’t do no good, lady,” Bill assured her. “See where I got him? Don’t many men live with a bullet in the chest. He’s gone. I told him to quit yelling, but he wouldn’t, so I made him, and be damned if I say I’m sorry. He brung it on himself.”
Clay turned and left the cabin. He knew where Edwin kept his gun, a heavy cap-and-ball Colt of Civil War vintage; even hands large as Clay’s had trouble lifting the brute. Halfway across the yard, he heard a second shot. Instead of continuing on to the house, he turned and ran back inside the cabin. Mrs. Delaney lay across her husband, a patch of blood darkening the back of her dress.
“You be still there, boy,” Bill warned. “I’m in no mood for folks that don’t do what they’re told, so help me I’m not.”
Clay stared at the bodies. He felt paralyzed. He should have kept going to fetch the Colt from Delaney’s bedside table. Even now he could have been aiming it from the upstairs window, waiting for the murderer and his accomplice to step outside into sunlight. He’d made a terrible mistake, acted like a fool, and very likely would die for it. Vomit welled up inside him and gushed from his mouth, some of it reaching as far as the dead couple.
Bill watched him, not without sympathy. “Well,” he said, addressing no one in particular, “now what?” He seemed calm, even a little bemused by the situation. Chaffey hadn’t moved since Clay came in. A sour reek of bile filled the cabin. Clay began to hiccup with fear. Bill would have to shoot him too, as the only witness.
“Outside,” Bill told his brother. He had to push Chaffey’s shoulder to start him moving toward the door. Clay listened to the low buzzing of their voices. There was no other door to escape through than the one they stood near, discussing what to do with him. He heard his name twice before Bill came back inside.
“Boy, is there cash money on the premises?”
“No …”
“You sure?”
“He … he never kept money … not here.”
“I better not find any, or I won’t be
“Drunk!” he raged. “They’re both drunk, flat-out devil-take-me drunk!” Clay watched him march twice around the room. “I won’t tolerate this tomorrow,” Edwin said. “A Sunday drunk is bad enough, but if Chaffey can’t perform his work come morning I’ll send him away, brother and all.”
He didn’t tell Clay that Chaffey’s brother had told him to either pour himself a drink and join in the merrymaking, or leave them in peace. Chaffey had looked a trifle sheepish at seeing his employer humiliated that way, but had said nothing. Edwin had already made up his mind about dismissing Chaffey, whether he was capable of work on Monday morning or not; the qualification was for Clay’s benefit.
“I … regret placing you in his hands, Clayton. Do you have any complaints to make about the fellow? I’m prepared to listen.”
“No.”
“You’re sure? A closed mouth is an admirable thing more often than not, but I want the truth now.”
“There’s nothing.”
Clay could not bring himself to speak of Chaffey’s advances. Delaney seemed content with silence, and began filling a pipe, muttering of ingratitude and low breeding. Clay excused himself and went to his room.
Morning saw the stranger’s horse still untended, and little improvement in Edwin’s disposition. Immediately after breakfast he went to Chaffey’s cabin and entered without knocking. Less than a minute passed before a gunshot was heard. Clay and Mrs. Delaney ran to the cabin. Edwin lay dead on the floor. Chaffey’s brother stood by the far wall, lingering wisps of smoke still issuing from the barrel of his pistol.
“Never did get acquainted,” he said, his voice slurred by liquor. “Bill Chaffey’s my name, and I don’t like for to be told my business.”
Chaffey was standing openmouthed in the corner, staring at the dead man. Mrs. Delaney moaned once and fell upon her husband to cradle his head.
“Won’t do no good, lady,” Bill assured her. “See where I got him? Don’t many men live with a bullet in the chest. He’s gone. I told him to quit yelling, but he wouldn’t, so I made him, and be damned if I say I’m sorry. He brung it on himself.”
Clay turned and left the cabin. He knew where Edwin kept his gun, a heavy cap-and-ball Colt of Civil War vintage; even hands large as Clay’s had trouble lifting the brute. Halfway across the yard, he heard a second shot. Instead of continuing on to the house, he turned and ran back inside the cabin. Mrs. Delaney lay across her husband, a patch of blood darkening the back of her dress.
“You be still there, boy,” Bill warned. “I’m in no mood for folks that don’t do what they’re told, so help me I’m not.”
Clay stared at the bodies. He felt paralyzed. He should have kept going to fetch the Colt from Delaney’s bedside table. Even now he could have been aiming it from the upstairs window, waiting for the murderer and his accomplice to step outside into sunlight. He’d made a terrible mistake, acted like a fool, and very likely would die for it. Vomit welled up inside him and gushed from his mouth, some of it reaching as far as the dead couple.
Bill watched him, not without sympathy. “Well,” he said, addressing no one in particular, “now what?” He seemed calm, even a little bemused by the situation. Chaffey hadn’t moved since Clay came in. A sour reek of bile filled the cabin. Clay began to hiccup with fear. Bill would have to shoot him too, as the only witness.
“Outside,” Bill told his brother. He had to push Chaffey’s shoulder to start him moving toward the door. Clay listened to the low buzzing of their voices. There was no other door to escape through than the one they stood near, discussing what to do with him. He heard his name twice before Bill came back inside.
“Boy, is there cash money on the premises?”
“No …”
“You sure?”
“He … he never kept money … not here.”
“I better not find any, or I won’t be
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