Gun Play at Cross Creek (7 page)

Chapter 12

SATURDAY NIGHTS WERE
always the worst. No longer interested and, for all he knew, no longer even able to belt down a fifth of whiskey, cheap or otherwise, Morgan still sometimes got the urge. The lower he was, the higher he wanted to get. It had been a long time since he'd given in, and he wasn't about to do it now, not when he'd come so far and achieved so very little of what he'd come to do.

So he sat in his hotel room. The window was open, and he could hear the raucous clash of pianos, the shouts of drunken cowhands, and the restless galloping of horses whose riders were an inch from senseless with their untrammeled celebration. He thought a beer might be nice, but there was no way in hell he was prepared to risk a confrontation with Brett Kinkaid.

A prisoner, that's what he was. He stared at himself in the mirror, and was so depressed by what he saw he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. He tried to drown out the sound of Saturday night in full swing. When that didn't work, he tried to drown himself in it, letting the boisterous clamor wash over him in wave after wave, hoping that, sooner or later, he would no longer even hear it.

There had to be some way to deal with Kinkaid that wouldn't require him to pick up a gun. For the last three days, he hadn't even worn it to Henessey's store. If Kinkaid wanted to shoot him in the back, there was nothing he could do about it anyway, and if the marshal was simply going to push and push and push until Morgan had no patience left, then it was best he didn't have a gun. He could take Kinkaid apart with his bare hands. And unless things changed for the better and soon, he had no doubt he would do just that.

Lying there as the sun set, spilling its bloody light through the delicate lace curtains, printing a pattern like ruby snowflakes on the bedspread, and on his bare chest and the backs of his hands, he retraced his footsteps for yet one more try at reconstructing a past that had somehow come to dominate his future.

There had to be a way to get Katie to listen to him. He realized he hadn't even told her about the money. But he had held back, not wanting her to think he was trying to pay for his mistake with cash, or to buy her back. And he knew her well enough to know that that's exactly what she would think. And as for Tom, well, that was probably his biggest mistake. When the boy showed up, he had been caught off balance and never did get his feet back on the ground.

Thinking about his family was like trying to imagine the lives of two strangers. What were they doing at that moment, he wondered. And he admitted to himself that he didn't even know enough about them to make a credible guess. It would be easier to envision dinner at Tate Crimmins's house, or Lyle Henessey's, than to picture what his wife and son were doing while he lay there like a relic, one that didn't realize it was already dead, just unburied.

Morgan sat up and reached for a shirt hanging on the back of a chair. He had to get out of the room. The air was too thick, suffocating him with its stagnant heat. He should be alright, as long as he left his gun in his room. He ran a fistful of fingers across his chin, felt the stubble, and decided to let it be. He didn't trust himself with a razor at the moment.

He buttoned the shirt, tucked it in, and got to his feet. He was heading for the door when he heard a knock. He stopped in his tracks, his eyes instantly searching out the Colt .45, nestled like a rattler in its leather coils. He started toward it, changed his mind, and headed back for the door as someone knocked a second time.

“Who is it?” As if Kinkaid would announce himself like an expected guest.

Again a knock, and again he called, “Who is it?”

“It's me. Tom.”

He reached for the door with one trembling hand, bracing himself on the door frame with the other arm. As the door swung back, he stepped away, still not sure he'd heard rightly.

But he had. “Can I come in?” Tom asked.

“Hell yes, sure, of course. Come in, son.”

Tom flinched at the last word, his eyes flickering as if he'd been sucker punched by a master. He hesitated, then crossed cautiously over the threshold, like a man knowing he's taking an irretrievable step.

“Sit down,” Morgan said, indicating the lone chair in the sparsely furnished room. “I'm glad you've come.”

“I'm not so sure I should have.”

“Why not?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Look, Tommy, I . . .”

“It's Tom.”

“Alright then, Tom. If you came here to accuse me of being a bad father, you're wasting your time. It's true. I admit it. I know it better than you, and I have to live with that knowledge in a way you can't imagine.”

“I have enough pain of my own. I'm not here because I want to be.”

“Why then?”

“Because my mother asked me to come. That's the only reason.”

“So . . .” Morgan let out a long, slow breath. His next words were going to be critical. They might even govern the rest of his life in a way he could not foresee. He reached into his pocket for his tobacco pouch, and nodded to his son for a moment of indulgence while he rolled a cigarette. When it was finished, he couldn't seal the cylinder because his mouth was too dry. Walking to the night table, he took a glass, filled it with water from a pitcher, and took a sip. He licked the paper, squeezed the cigarette tightly enough to wasp it in the middle, and stuck it in his mouth.

The match filled the room with its sharp scent, and Tom watched his father's shaking hand move the still sputtering matchhead toward the cigarette. With his lungs full of smoke, Morgan said, “I'm a little nervous.”

“I thought you didn't get nervous. I thought that was your claim to fame.”

“I have no fame, Tom, claimed or otherwise. I never wanted to be well known. I hated the notoriety, every damned minute of it.”

“Then why did you do what you did?”

“That's a long story.”

“I have time.”

“Yes, you do. I don't know if I do, though. Not enough, anyway.” He felt it slipping away again. In his mind, he could replay his life. Every mistake, every error in judgment, every misstep, came back to him in one continuous stream of well-meaning ineptitude. How do you explain that to an eighteen-year-old boy, he wondered. How can you make him understand how much it hurts to know how badly you played the one hand you had been dealt?

“If you'd rather I come back another time . . .”

“No, don't leave. I just . . .” He shook his head. “Look, I don't know how much you know about me. Maybe I should start there.”

“Start wherever you want. You don't have to explain yourself to me, because I don't really give a good god damn. You know?”

Morgan tilted his head back slowly until he was staring at the ceiling. He felt his eyes mist over, and he swallowed hard, trying to clear the blur before looking at his son again. “You drink?”

“Beer. Sometimes.”

“Can I buy you a beer?”

As anxious as his father to get out of the room, which seemed to be shrinking by the second, Tom nodded. “Why not?”

As Morgan stood up, he glanced again at the gunbelt on the table. Tom saw the glance, looked at the gunbelt, then at Morgan. His face had gone cold. When Morgan moved for the door, Tom said, “Aren't you forgetting something?”

“No.”

Tom looked at the gunbelt again, but didn't say anything.

Morgan opened the door. He held it for Tom, turned the lamp down, and let the door close behind him. In the hallway, Morgan walked behind his son. The boy was big and going to be bigger. He was already an inch taller than Morgan, and probably had a little growing to do. He would fill out some, his shoulders broaden a bit, his arms thicken a little.

They walked down the wide stairs side by side. In the lobby, Morgan glanced back up the stairs as if debating going back up. “Change your mind?” Tom asked.

Morgan opened the front door and stepped out into the street. The sun was gone now, and there was a breeze, little more than a hot breath, but at least the air was moving. “You have a favorite place, Tom?”

“Nope. This is your field, not mine.”

Morgan crossed the street and headed for Largo's, the same bar he'd been in before. It was crowded but not, he knew, as crowded as The Hangin' Tree would be. Inside, they found a couple of empty tables, and Morgan led the way to one in a corner, as far away from the piano as they could get. Nobody looked up when they entered, and when they sat down, Morgan felt more comfortable, surrounded as they were by people who paid them no attention. It seemed somehow better than being face-to-face alone. Looking around would not seem so blatant an evasion here.

A waiter in a striped shirt took their order. When he was gone, Tom tapped his fingertips on the table. “Why did you come back?” he asked.

“I . . . a lot of reasons, really. I wanted to see you. I wanted to see your mother again. I thought I owed it to you both.”

“
Owed
it to us? What in hell did we do to deserve it?”

“Is that what you think? You think I want to punish you both somehow? Is that what my presence is? Is that all it means to you?”

The waiter reappeared, set the two mugs on the table, and took the silver dollar Morgan shoved across the damp wood. When he was gone, Tom said, “We had it all worked out, you know, Mom and me. We were in control of our lives. We knew who we were. We knew how our lives were going to be. You ruined all that. Just by showing up, you wrecked it all.”

“That wasn't my intention.”

“Maybe not, but my mother has cried herself to sleep every night for a week. She never did that before. Not ever.”

Morgan thought about the emphasis. Tom was probing, looking for a chink in Morgan's armor. And he'd found it. Katie. Always Katie. “Maybe she should have. Maybe she can let herself get rid of a lot of bottled-up anger now, anger she should have gotten rid of a long time ago.”

“No, that's where you're wrong. That kind of anger you don't ever want to get rid of. It keeps you safe.”

“What about you? You're angry, I know that. But have you ever let yourself feel it, or do you always have to be in control? Safe . . . as you say.”

“Is that what I am, in control? Funny, it sure as hell doesn't feel as good as it should.”

Morgan sipped his beer slowly.

“Son, I . . .”

“Don't call me that.” Tom shoved the beer across the table. The glass smacked into Morgan's, cracked, and spilled its contents all over the table. “Look, my mother wants you to come to dinner tomorrow. One o'clock.”

“Your mother does. But not you.”

“No. Not me.”

“I see.”

“The hell you do.”

Chapter 13

MORGAN DIDN'T SLEEP
all night. He spent hours looking out the hotel window, watching the night life, so very different from the daytime quiet. So different, too, from what the leading citizens of Cross Creek thought it should be. The difference was not just night and day. It was the difference between the serene barrenness of a flat rock and the teeming scurry when you pried it up and flipped it over. Just as pill bugs and spiders, ants and centipedes crawled and crept on secret business, so too did the cowhands and the women who preyed on them.

Morgan had done his share of pub crawling. And he had made a living for a while riding herd on the pub crawlers. He knew what was going on. But he knew it was more harmless than Tate Crimmins believed. He realized that what upset Crimmins was not what the cowhands and their floozies were doing, but that he didn't control it. The squeaky morality of men like Crimmins was usually less about the actuality of sin than it was about the appearance.

The irony, one that so far seemed to escape just about everyone but Lyle Henessey, was that Brett Kinkaid, hiding behind the shiny badge Tate Crimmins had pinned on him, didn't give a damn about either. He was obsessed with self-aggrandizement. Every tombstone he planted was another stepping stone up the side of Olympus. The way he saw it, you kill enough high-spirited, liquored-up cowboys, and you got to the top.

Morgan Atwater had climbed partway up the same mountain. He had gotten close enough to see there was nothing on top except a rocky path down the other side. The thing about a man like Kinkaid was you couldn't tell him anything. He knew what was what. He had to see for himself. And he had a kind of logic on his side. If you'd never been there, what did you know? And if you had, you were just jealous. Nice, neat, logical.

And dead wrong.

But Morgan was selfish, too. He hadn't come here to save Cross Creek from itself. He'd come here to salvage that little bit of himself that was worth saving and, in the process, just maybe rescue the one dream he'd never given up on.

By the time the sun came up, he was already dressed. Kate wanted him to come. He wrestled with that knowledge, tried to guess her motives, and could find none, at least none that he would allow himself to accept. But it didn't matter. She wanted him to come. It couldn't be bad.

If he could get her on his side, he might have a chance to win Tom's trust. He would settle for indifference at first. It had to be hard for the boy. But if he had a chance, that would be enough. He was determined to make it right.

He walked downstairs and out into the bright sunshine. Sitting on the porch of the hotel, he watched the families in their Sunday best making their way to the town's two churches. He wondered what it felt like, taking your son by the hand, your wife on your arm, everything stiff, the unyielding collar biting into your neck, your face red from the razor's scrape. Maybe even a squirt of witch hazel.

He remembered going to church with his father once. The old man's Sunday tweed whispering with every step, the smell of bay rum surrounding him like a cloud. And the bees, coming close, drawn by the fragrance, circling around the brim of his father's Sunday hat and buzzing angrily when they found no flower. He had been small then, looking up the legs of this stern and strange man whose massive hand swallowed his five-year-old fingers, the hand itself, and half the wrist.

He felt as if he were in the grip of some omnipotent being who had taken his father's place during the night, wore his clothes that bright Sunday morning. Whoever it was looked like his father, and sounded like him. If you didn't know any better, you'd have sworn it was James Atwater and little Morgan. Lily was there, too, a mound of red curls under a black hat. Both perched atop a larger mound of whispering linen, her feet impossibly tiny in black shoes with a dozen buttons up the front. And she kept looking at her son, her hot fingers fussing with the curls over Morgan's tight collar.

He remembered the long service, the minister high in a wooden pulpit thumping his fist, beating it like a drum. The resounding thumps echoed from the bare rafters for nearly an hour. It had seemed so strange to him. He knew the man in the black suit and the tight white collar, too. But like his mother and father, something had changed Frank Dillard. Instead of the rawboned farmer who cussed like a stevedore and snapped his galluses before cutting loose with a stream of tobacco juice, he was some kind of demon.

He had thundered about Satan and his minions, only too willing to skin them all alive and strip the flesh from their bones with beaks and scaly talons. There was no pain like that of fire, he shouted, warning them all of the fires of hell ready to spring through the floorboards and reduce them to cinders. And there was no escape for the evil man. The fire and the ravening beasts would get them all. He had scared Morgan so badly, Lily had to take him outside.

Afterward, his father ruffled his hair and told him not to worry, that Frank just got carried away when he preached. But they hadn't taken him back to church for years. His father even stopped going half the time, leaving Lily to save them all. And she had done her damnedest, Morgan thought.

Watching these people on their way to salvation, he wondered what went through their minds. When the rush died to a trickle, Morgan went inside and took a table at the restaurant window. He ate slowly, thinking more than he should, and left half his food. The waitress seemed insulted, and he tried to explain that it was him, not the food, that there was nothing wrong with the meal. She didn't seem convinced.

Milton was at the stable door, another pile of chips in his lap. He looked at Atwater with a curious smile. “Ain't you going to church, Atwater?”

“Not much on churchgoing, Mr. Milton.”

“Me neither. But then, I don't need savin' as much as some folks do.”

Atwater laughed. “I reckon I'm long past saving, Mr. Milton.”

“You want your horse?”

Atwater nodded. “You stay there. I'll get him.” He went on inside and saddled the big bay. Tugging the reins, he walked the animal outside and swung into the saddle.

“Nice day for a ride, Atwater.”

“I hope so.”

“But you be careful.” He got up, brushed the shavings from his wrinkled lap, and walked close to Atwater. With one hand on the reins, he said, “I don't like what's going on. But I can't do nothing about it. Crimmins and them has made a fair mess of things. You make sure you don't get ground up in it. Understand?”

“Thanks. But I don't think there's anything to worry about, Mr. Milton.”

“You're a fool, then.” He turned back to his chair, the knife blade catching the sunlight and flashing on the door. Without turning, he said, “I was you, I'd do myself and this town a favor and put one right through Brett Kinkaid's heart. He don't deserve no better, and he'll do it to you, he gets the chance.”

He sat down again and started whittling.

The ride to Katie's gave him time to think, the last thing he needed. He'd already been doing too much thinking. He felt a funny prickle along his spine, and the hairs on the back of his neck were bristling. He didn't know whether it was because of Milton's warning, or something more immediate.

As he crested the last ridge overlooking Katie's spread, he turned in the saddle. Looking back and down through the tall grass and the swaths of bright flowers he saw a rider come over the last ridge. The distance was too great, even without the blinding sunlight, to tell who it was. He thought about Kinkaid, but had never seen the marshal on a horse, so the mount meant nothing to him.

The rider was taking his time, letting his horse walk at its own pace. Morgan was sure the man was following him, but it was a free country, and he was afraid of seeming paranoid. If it was Kinkaid, he would just let the man know his pressure was working. If it wasn't, he'd make a fool of himself. So he shrugged and rode on down the hill.

Tom was on the porch when he rode up. The boy nodded, but said nothing. Katie came out on the porch. She smoothed her dress down the front, then tucked a few strands of hair behind her right ear. It looked like she was wearing makeup, and he was tempted to comment. But when he opened his mouth, Tom looked at him sharply, and he settled for a wave.

Slipping from the saddle, he tied up at the corral fence, close enough to the trough for the bay to drink. As he walked back to the porch, Katie smiled. “You're early. Couldn't wait to see me, Morgan?”

Tom got up in disgust and stomped off the porch.

“Tom,” she said, “you come right back here this minute.”

“Let him go, Katie.”

“I didn't raise him to have bad manners, Morgan.”

“I didn't raise him at all, and that's what he's mad about. Besides, there's a difference between good manners and lying through your teeth. The boy doesn't want to pretend. I think he's right.”

She started to object, then shook her head. “You're right,” she said, “I just wanted things to . . .”

“Me, too,” he said. “But we've got to learn all over again.”

“Learn what?” She cocked her head, half grinning and half scowling.

“To be civil.”

“Oh.” She seemed disappointed.

“You look wonderful,” he said.

“It's a new dress. I just finished it last night. I thought I might as well try it on.”

“It suits you.”

“Thank you, Morgan.” She seemed flustered, then turned to open the screen door. “Come in,” she said. “I have coffee up.”

It was cooler inside, and Morgan looked for a place to hang his hat. Kate stepped close to him and took it. She circled the hat by its brim, watching her hands move. She looked up at him then. “I'm sorry about the other day,” she said.

“I guess I surprised you some.”

She smiled. “Some.”

“You know, I don't want to upset you or Tom. It's just that . . .”

“I always believed you'd come back, you know. In the beginning, I knew it, really. But then, when you were gone so long . . . I didn't know what to believe. I started to think you were dead.” She looked away again, and set his hat on the table. When she turned back, she threw herself at him, pounding him with both fists. “Damn you, Morgan, how could you do it? Why? Why?”

He wrapped his arms around her and held her until she calmed down. She looked up at him, her mouth slightly open, waiting. “It's a long story, Katie.”

“Then you better start talking,” she said. She extricated herself and backed toward a chair.

He stood there, trying to decide what to do with his hands. Finally, he stuck them in his back pockets. “I had a reputation,” he began. “You knew that. But what you didn't know was that it was a millstone. I didn't want it and I didn't know how to get rid of it. So I tried to run away from it. Changed my name, changed the way I looked. But it didn't make any difference. Somebody always found me. Then, once I knew I couldn't run, I was ashamed to come back. And I was worried about you and Tom. Someday, somebody was going to come along and kill me. I didn't want you to have to live with that certainty. So . . .”

There was a footstep on the porch. He flinched. “It's just Tom,” Katie told him.

Then a knock, gently at first, then harder.

“He knock to come into his own house?” Morgan asked.

She shook her head. “I'll get it.” She went to the door and opened it.

From where he stood, Morgan couldn't see the visitor.

“Anything the matter?” Katie asked.

“I don't know, ma'am. Thought I'd better stop and see, though. Mind if I come in?”

Katie backed away to make room. It was Brett Kinkaid. He smiled at Morgan. “So, Mr. Atwater, what brings you out this way? Sunday visit, is it?”

“None of your business, Kinkaid.”

“Well, I don't know about that.” He turned to Katie. “You know this is a very famous man, ma'am? Very famous. Yessir, and very dangerous, too. A gunfighter of more than passing repute. Not sure you ought to allow him in your home, 'specially without your husband here.”

Kate looked puzzled. She looked at Morgan, who shook his head slightly. Turning back to Kinkaid, she said, “But my husband is here, Marshal.”

“Oh, is that right, Mrs. . . . ?”

“Atwater,” she said. “Mrs. Morgan Atwater.”

“I see.”

“Now, if there's nothing more you want, we were about to sit down for dinner.”

“No, ma'am. Nothing more. For now. I guess I'll see you again, though.”

Kinkaid smiled broadly, tipped his hat, and nodded to Morgan. “Mr. Atwater,” he said.

When he was gone, Katie sat down slowly. “What was that all about?” she asked.

“That was my past, turning into my future.”