Adam steele 43, p.11
Adam Steele 43, page 11
He had reached the edge of the timber on the east side of a bend in Main Street. There were no houses and no spurs cutting off along this stretch and he was about to cross. For he had the glimmer of an idea that meant he needed to get to the other side of the street. But then he had to halt the move, breathless and sweating. Backed off from the fringe of the trees, crouched down beside a thicket, as footfalls beat on the hard-packed surface of the trail-like street. People running from the south. From where the slashed and bloodied corpse of Susannah Lineker lay.
Two youngish women, one carrying a baby and the other holding the hand of a girl of thirteen or so, came running into sight, panting with exertion or shock. And went on around the curve in the street. Out of his sight, they began to yell.
‘Murder! Steele’s killed again!’
‘The Lineker woman!’
‘Stabbed her to death at the church!’
‘He has to be found!’
Steele was unsure of exactly where he was in relation to the spurs off Main Street. Now discovered he was close to a house. For voices, a man’s and a woman’s, began to call shocked responses to the news of another killing.
He rose, advanced slowly to the side of the street, glanced quickly in both directions, then broke out across the open width, plunged into the trees on the other side. Recalled how he and Susannah had crossed several spurs in this way between the Knight house and the church. Then thought only of his pursuers: hotter on his trail than Fallows would have been earlier this morning. And hot with anger, too. Maybe even ready to lynch him should they get him before the lawman came on the scene.
A bunch of ordinary, decent, country town people who had resented him from the start. Knowing much of his past. And how he had dealt with trouble since he came to Trail’s End. People willing to kill, as a righteous group, in the way they considered he killed as a vengeful individual. For vengeance, with viciousness. Uncaring at the heated moment for how they would live with the memory of their act in the future.
As he had killed Susannah Lineker. A woman who had loved him. But who he had spurned. A woman who had sought to take revenge of her own: by betraying him to the law. A woman who had died so awesomely by his hand when he discovered the truth of what she had done.
But almost that whole version of events was wrong!
Sure, Susannah had delivered the note to Fallows: never counting on being seen. But only as part of a half-baked ploy to win his gratitude, which might develop into something else. Gratitude for her coming to the Knight house, to warn him and take him to a new safe hiding place. A crazy and highly dangerous plan. But women in love—the kind of a woman this was, anyway—cared nothing for danger. And acted crazy.
But somebody had witnessed the escape from the rooming house. Followed them to the church. Waited for the chance, and supplied a tragic twist to the woman’s plan. Killed her in a way that would make everyone sure Adam Steele was responsible.
The birds throughout the entire timbered valley in which the town was situated now seemed to be silent. Maybe they had been so ever since Vera Daltry had started to shriek the news of the killing?
Behind him, far off, voices were raised: too distant for the words to carry to him, even for the tone to be discerned. But he could guess the people’s feelings.
Then he came upon his first objective. Emerged at the rear of the place where Arlene Forrester lived. At the end of a narrow track which angled off Mission Farm Road, finished at the black woman’s riverside cabin. Which was a one-roomed, timber building half the size of the house at Trail’s End. Set on the center of an area of hard-packed dirt bounded by trees on three sides and the slow-flowing Providence River on the other. At this point the river’s hundred-foot width was in sight for a quarter mile curve, it’s surface dazzlingly bright in the brilliant sunlight of a day now advanced past mid-morning.
Smoke rose lazily from the stove stack that angled out of a side wall of the cabin and a smell of steam emanated from the place. The mare Arlene rode out to Trail’s End and to other isolated places where she did paid chores stood on a patch of cropped grass in the shade of an oak. Just her tail moved, to flick at bothersome flies. Then the Negress’s voice intruded morosely on the stillness that was now hardly disturbed by the hue and cry which seemed to have lessened in impetus. She started to sing a mournful hymn about strife, sin, death and Judgment Day.
The far bank of the river was thick with timber: the nearest place out that way was Abe and Rose Steiners’ Mission Farm, something over a mile away. So Steele was able to hunker down on the river’s edge on this side, drink from his cupped palms and splash water on his sweat-run face with no risk of being seen.
And it was suddenly tempting to rest there for a while: indulge the ache in his back which now troubled him for the first time in a long time. Even to strip off his clothes, take a bath in the cool, cleansing river. Wait for the pursuit to totally fade. But, if he needed truly to rest up, this was not a good place to do so. For as soon as people realized they had lost his trail—if they had, in fact, ever got on to it—they were sure to start to look for him first in the more obvious places where their quarry was likely to go to ground. And Arlene Forrester’s cabin was certainly in this category.
So, feeling as refreshed as he was likely to be for quite a while, he moved out of the trees into the open yard. As yet undecided whether to steal the mare or to request the loan of the horse. If he stole it, he would have to ride bareback, for the saddle was nowhere to be seen—probably in the cabin. But this was not a prime consideration as he went around the corner from the rear to the side of the cabin, neither of which had windows in the clapboard walls under the flat tin roof.
He was indebted to Arlene and maybe something of what he owed her was an explanation of his intentions. But such an account would make her even more of an accessory than she already was. And to a second murder, the nature of which would deny her any of the kind of sympathy that had kept her out of a jail cell last night. So, on balance …
But the decision was made for him as he reached for the mare’s reins which were hitched to a low-hanging bough of the oak. The sound of Arlene’s singing abruptly rose in volume. This as she stepped out of the cabin’s only door, which was at the front. And then she cut short the dirge-like hymn as she sensed she was not alone. Gave a choked cry of alarm as she turned and saw Steele. Almost dropped the basket of sodden laundry she had been about to hang on a drying line where several freshly washed garments were already pegged.
‘Mr. Steele, sir …?’
She had recovered quickly, relieved to recognize the intruder, know he meant her no harm. Something close to a smile touched her round and shiny face, beaded with sweat from the steamy, overheated atmosphere within the cabin. But then she frowned, like she had acknowledged to herself the first expression was inappropriate to the circumstances.
Showed concern matched by her tone as she completed: ‘Lord, Mr. Steele. Whatever is you doin’ here? You look in such bad shape, sir, and I—’
He interrupted: ‘I need to steal your horse, Arlene.’
‘Lord, Mr. Steele. You don’t have to steal nothin’ from me. Nothin’s pretty close to what I’ve got, but anythin’ I do got you can have and willin’.’
‘I know, Arlene. But something’s happened. Something it’s best you find out about for yourself later.’
She seemed on the point of pressing for her curiosity to be satisfied. But suddenly stooped her bulky body to put the basket of wet laundry on the ground. Said as she turned and started back into the cabin: ‘I’ll get the saddle for you, Mr. Steele, sir.’
She was inside for a few seconds, and when she re-emerged there was a babble of distant voices being carried through the timber again. Along with rustling of foliage. By a new summer breeze. And Arlene paused, head cocked, listening intently. Had no need to advance further, for Steele led the docile mare toward her.
‘I heard somebody told on you to the sheriff this mornin’,’ she said as he took the saddle from her, showed her a fleeting smile.
‘I’m grateful, Arlene.’
She peered hard at him, a deeper frown on her face, which mostly in normal times beamed her happiness with her far from easy lot. Said with feeling: ‘You surely do look in a bad way, Mr. Steele. It has somethin’ to do with all that ruckus I can hear?’
‘Why don’t you go find out, Arlene?’ he suggested as he placed the saddle on the back of the mare. Made to scabbard the rifle before he recalled this was not his saddle.
‘I sure hope,’ she began as he crouched to fasten the cinch, ‘that it ain’t on account of me tellin’ that Lineker woman where she could go see you, Mr. Steele, sir? But she was so pitiful when she come here last night—’
‘The noise is on account of me,’ Steele broke in, crushing an impulse to anger. ‘Something I’m wrongly accused of doing. Since I’m taking your horse and saddle, it’s best nobody knows you were here while I did the taking. Natural for you to go find out what all the fuss is about. You won’t have to tell any lies about pretending you didn’t know already. And it’s better they think I stole your property while you were away from the house.’
He swung up astride the saddle and looked down into her puzzled face. Read in her eyes the questions that were forming in her mind. Then saw she came to the decision he wanted her to make.
‘Whatever you say, Mr. Steele. You take care of yourself, you hear. And you do what you gotta so we can all get back to normal out at Trail’s End—you and Billy and me.’
‘What I intend, Arlene. How’s Billy doing?’
‘He’s still at Harlan Grout’s livery stable, takin’ care of your horses, Mr. Steele. Far as I know. You want somethin’ to eat? You can steal some food, uh?’
‘No thanks, Arlene.’
‘Good luck to you, Mr. Steele, sir.’
‘Grateful to you, Arlene. I’m about due some luck that isn’t the bad kind, I reckon. You want to go and find out what the shindig is about now?’
The distant sound of voices had faded again, for the women spreading the news had moved further north. Toward the square where maybe Len Fallows was back in his office, after failing to pick up the trail of Steele and Susannah from the Knight house.
‘Yes, sir, I’ll do that,’ the black woman agreed. And hurried away, out of the unfenced yard and on to the track that led to Mission Farm Road. Still wearing her wash apron, leaving the basket of sodden laundry abandoned on the ground. A scene that fitted with her being curious and worried about the distant disturbance.
Steele watched her until she was out of sight around a curve in the narrow track. Briefly wondered if she could carry off the sham of total ignorance about his latest escape. Then experienced concern that even if she managed this, Len Fallows—coming to the decision himself or pressured into it by the incensed townspeople—might nonetheless lock her in a cell. Because it was her freeing of the Virginian from the house at Trail’s End that gave him the opportunity to kill Susannah Lineker. And then it occurred to Steele that Tom Knight might already be imprisoned in the sheriff’s office. Put behind bars by the sheriff out of sheer frustration: the need to do something after the morning incident which came in the wake of that of the previous night.
Then Steele grimaced sourly, canted the rifle to his shoulder and urged the reluctant but obedient mare into the river. Told himself he had no time right now to be anxious on account of other people. Impassioned as they were over the gruesome killing out back of the church, the citizens of Providence would not do harm to those who had helped Steele after the shooting at Trail’s End. Have them locked up, maybe. With the intention of eventually seeing them legally tried for what they did. But their spite would stop at that, for nobody could have foreseen what Susannah was going to do: and what Steele would do to repay her for the betrayal.
Once in the river, the mare relished the coolness of the water. Until she was out of her depth, when she made to panic and wheel back for the east bank. Gently but firmly, Steele kept her headed in the opposite direction. And, obviously for the first time in her life, the horse instinctively stayed afloat by paddling her legs. Then she was afraid again, but confined her response to a snort, when her forehooves sank into the yielding river bed.
A few seconds later, horse and rider were up on the west bank, in the thick timber, both shedding water. And Steele listened to the stillness that seemed more solid than before, after the splashing and snorting of the river crossing. But birds were calling, and foliage rustled in the breeze that continued to waft gently across the valley. No voices reached from town to this side of the Providence River, which made appealing trickling sounds as it flowed smoothly southward: from its distant source at the lake that gave the town of Broadwater its name, to the much further away Pacific Ocean.
Not so long ago, the Virginian caught up in the kind of dangerous circumstances that centered upon him now might well have contemplated putting a great distance between himself and the trouble. But not now!
He swung out of the saddle and began to lead the mare by the bridle through the thickest of the timber and tangled area of undergrowth. Then could not avoid the notion that, although he might have considered running in the old days, he would never have done so. The killings were too closely tied to him. And in no circumstances would he be able to find peace of mind knowing he had been manipulated into taking the blame for them.
In the old days, too, he would never have spared the time to feel concern for those who chose of their own volition to help him, even at risk to themselves: for back then he cared only for himself. But such days were gone and life was more complex now: as he endeavored to fit into this community where there never had been much encouragement in many quarters. But hell, it had been his choice to give it his best shot. Irrespective of anything the less than friendly townspeople and his ruling fates did to dissuade him.
He directed a globule of saliva forcefully at the ground, like he was spitting out all memories of the past.
Away from the river, the trees thinned, the ground between them richly carpeted with grass nurtured on leaf mold. And as he swung back into the saddle, uncomfortably conscious of the soggy dampness of his booted feet and lower legs, he ran a hand down the neck of the animal, murmured pensively:
‘Reckon there are better ways to cross a river. But if there ever was a bridge there, it wasn’t one of them I’ve burned.’
Chapter Twelve
IT TOOK HIM a long time to get to Trail’s End.
He made a wide swing to the west, to pass at a distance Mission Farm and the other outlying places scattered along this side of the valley. Stayed far enough up on the wooded valley side never to gain sight of the houses and barns he knew were there. Once did pass a fence, in need of repair, that bounded the western extreme of Gerry Chisholm’s ranch. Occasionally heard the lowing of cattle or the whinny of a horse.
The mount he had chosen to get, from one of the few people in town he could still trust not to betray him, was past her prime. Out of condition, too, from being ridden so infrequently and so sedately by Arlene. In part it was out of his feelings for the old mare that he traveled at such an easy pace. But, in the back of his mind, was the notion that should events call for a sudden spurt of speed, best the animal have as much wind as possible.
On his own account, he made the journey slowly because he could see no reason, other than impatience, for haste. Trail’s End might occur to Fallows, or somebody else, as a place where Steele was likely to run. And the casually paced ride along a route that more than tripled the distance from Arlene Forrester’s cabin to the ranch allowed time for people to check the place if they so chose.
But it was equally possible, of course, that the spread would be regarded as his last resort. And certainly the taking of the horse was designed in part to sow the seeds in people’s minds that he had fled much further away. Which conviction would serve another purpose if lodged in the mind of Lydia Rice: of lulling her into a false sense of security, putting her off her guard. Her and the curly-haired man should he be holed up at Trail’s End.
For the greater part of the way, Steele was on unfamiliar ground, saw landmark features of the valley from fresh viewpoints. One such was High Point Hill with the distinctive stand of timber on its crest. This rise was at the extreme northwest corner of the three and a half thousand acres of the Trail’s End spread. And once he saw it he then found it difficult to hold to the walking pace. To curb the impulse to demand a gallop toward the property he could not contemplate belonging to anyone but himself.
But from where he first glimpsed the hill there remained a considerable distance to cover and he still had no idea what brand of trouble awaited him at Trail’s End. So he maintained the walk as he angled his mount to a new course. Heading south of High Point Hill, to reach the wire-strung western boundary fence at about the midway point between the north and south extents of the spread. Briefly he considered breaking through the fence to approach the house from this direction: but the prospect of forcing a way onto his own property rankled and he immediately put the idea out of his mind.
He rode to the south end of the fence, then turned east. At no time was he able to see the house and barn, for hilly and timbered terrain intervened. Finally, when the day was well advanced into afternoon, he emerged from the trees onto the spur alongside Timber Creek, a few yards short of the gate that still hung open.
Because of the hard-packed surface of the trail and the constant use it was put to, it would have required close study to spot fresh signs which might or might not have told him something of importance. Better, he decided, to find out at first hand the situation on the spread, rather than to try to make educated guesses about it.
So, relying just a little on his no longer finely honed sense for being observed by hostile eyes, he went through the gateway onto the place. At once felt more composed than at any time since he turned away from the butchered body of Susannah Lineker. Calm, but not complacent, as he shifted the rifle from where it rested across the saddle horn to cant it to his right shoulder. Thumb to the hammer and finger curled on the trigger.
