“Mr. Brewer, say that over again and to me, what you just now said to your men, about the jury’s verdict on your brother.”
“I said it’s a disgrace.”
“And how is it a disgrace?”
“Roger Duval meant to kill my brother, that’s how.”
“You mean — he murdered him?”
“He saw his chance when this thing started tonight, and I say it’s shameful that he be exonerated, and treated like a public hero, instead of being held for trial like the rat that he is.”
“Mister, this is a serious charge.”
“You think I don’t know it?”
“You got any proof?”
“The idea that Roger Duval could kill somebody by accident is just about as silly as the idea he wouldn’t kill him if he had a reason. He’s the best gunman in town, he’s here because he’s a dead shot, and he doesn’t hit what he aims to miss, and he doesn’t miss what he aims to hit.”
“That just says he done it because he done it.”
“He did.”
“What might this here reason be?”
“A woman.”
“Just that?”
“Isn’t it enough?”
“A man kills a woman over a man, and a woman kills a man over a woman, but a man kills a man over a woman so seldom that I’d have to know a little more about it if I really meant to believe it. Can you tell me who this woman is, and why one man would kill another on account of her?”
“Yeah, she’s a—”
I don’t know if my hand twitched, or if one of his men gave him a sign, or what. The deputy had let me clean and reload the gun while the inquest was going on, and it was in its regular place under my arm. Anyway, he cut it off in the middle of a snarl, and finished off with: “—a resident of this town.”
“That don’t prove nothing to me.”
“It does to me.”
He started out after the body, but every two or three steps he’d turn and look at me and lick his lips, and from the way the whole crowd looked at the both of us, I knew I had that man to kill or he’d do the same for me.
11
When they’d been hollering for me as a hero I didn’t want any drink, but now they were staring at me as a killer I had to have it. Because maybe nothing could be proved, but they knew from the way it was said and the way it was heard that what had been said was true. And even if it meant nothing to them, except one more thing to bet on, as which man would get it when the shooting began, it did to me. I hadn’t got used to it, this Western idea that a man’s life was the cheapest thing there was, and I had killed a man that had never done anything to me but take off my hands the worst girl in the world for me to have, and I’d shot him in the back of the head without even giving him a chance to turn around. Eyes were looking at me, and my face felt like it was hanging off my cheekbones in pouches. I ordered wheat, because it gets there quicker than rye, and I guess I had a dozen slugs. Then I must have looked queer, because Rocco came over and said take the rest of the night off, so I went home. But I didn’t sleep. I lay there, and it got light, and the bugle sounded, and the flag went up on Mount Davidson, and still I lay there, staring out at the sky. I tried to think of Raymond Brewer, and what I had to do to him, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t take any interest in him, or what I was going to do next, or Morina, or anything. It was like I had turned numb all over.
I must have dropped off, though, because when the knock came I jumped and gave some kind of a moan. It was Mrs. Finn, to tell me a Mr. Arthur Haines was in the front parlor, waiting to see me. I washed up, strapped on my gun, and dressed. When I went in there he had on a new checked suit, and got up and shook hands, though until then he had never shown any great interest in me. He was a good-looking Irishman, in a flashy kind of way, with round, pale face, and light blue eyes that were warm and soft and friendly, specially when he was singing a song, and he picked some girl out there to smile at. I asked him how everything was, and he said fine, and then I asked how he’d like to step out and have a cup of coffee with me, but he said he was due at the International in a few minutes for lunch and wouldn’t have time. “Well, Art, what’s on your mind.”
“Just a friendly warning, Roger.”
“Is any warning friendly?”
“This one’s supposed to be.”
“What’s it about?”
“Renny. And Biloxi. Both of them.”
“They’re friends of mine.”
“They were.”
“Well, Art, say it.”
“On account of Brewer, they’re sore at you, Roger. They were close to him, you know. And then another thing, now he’s gone, it’s mixed up the house question the worst way. He gave it to her, you know. He gave Biloxi the house, and had it built so there’d be a wonderful music room for Renny, and had all that furniture sent up, some of it from San Francisco, so it’s still on the wagons and hasn’t been unloaded yet — but not one deed, check, or draft has been signed yet, and Biloxi’s going crazy. She’s sold out on D Street, and she’s lost out on A Street, and Renny’s out to get you.”
“Why me?”
“The brother says you killed George.”
“The brother’s a goddam fool.”
“And Renny says you did.”
“Was he there?”
“He claims he didn’t have to be.”
“And what have you got to do with it?”
“Roger, it’s just like I said. It’s a friendly warning, that’s all. He says he’ll get you, and I don’t know if he will or not, but he might try. I’m a good hombre. I don’t like to see nice people in trouble.”
“Meaning me?”
“And him. And her. All of you.”
He lit a cigar, sat back, gave a nod, and that little smile. I tried to get my mind on Renny, but it was like the night before, when I had tried to get my mind on Raymond Brewer and what I was going to do about him, and all I could think about was nothing. But this little smile was going all the time, and all of a sudden it struck me there was something funny about it. What was he doing here, talking to me? I didn’t mean a thing to him, and if he was just somebody that knew something why didn’t he get on a stage for Carson or Reno or some place like that and get as far away from it as he could? And if he was such a friend of Renny’s, why was he telling me, and giving me the one thing I would need to take care of myself, which was a tip in advance? “Upsets me about Biloxi.”
“I can understand that, Roger. She’s nice.”
“Good-looking, too.”
“Yeah, those Creoles have got something.”
“How is she?”
“How do you mean, how is she?”
“In bed.”
“Good God, Roger, how would I know?”
“She’s got it for sale. Haven’t you bought any?”
“Roger, you’re quite mistaken. Sure, Biloxi’s in business. All her life she’s been in business, it’s the only thing she knows. But since Renny moved in, down in San Francisco after she went there in ’52, she’s been strictly one man’s woman. That was nice, that was. He showed up one night, with a message from her sister, that lives up in Shreveport. He’s a little younger than she is, you know, and at that time he was nothing but a nineteen-year-old kid. And he just moved in. I mean, just like that. He took one look at Biloxi, and a few minutes later, when she started upstairs with a colonel from the Presidio, he pulled a rapier out of his walking-stick and said there’d be nothing like that. Biloxi, of course, she loved it, and when she heard him play, that clinched it. No, don’t jump to conclusions, Roger. I’m just a friend.”
“But you could be more?”
“In what way?”
“If Renny got it.”
I didn’t expect him to jump out of his skin, or do anything, as a matter of fact, except what he did do, which was to act hurt, and smug, and tell me I’d hung around too many gambling saloons to know what real friendship was like. Just the same, for one second he was caught by surprise, and there came this little flicker in his eye, so I knew I wasn’t talking so foolish as he said. I thanked him for his warning, and he left. On my way back from breakfast I stopped at a bar and got a pint of wheat.