Quitting Time Read online

  QUITTING TIME

  QUITTING TIME

  ROBERT J. CONLEY

  M. EVANS

  Lanham • Boulder New York • Toronto • Plymouth, UK

  Published by M. Evans

  An imprint of Rowman & Littlefield

  4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706

  www.rowman.com

  10 Thornbury Road, Plymouth PL6 7PP, United Kingdom

  Distributed by National Book Network

  Copyright © 1989 by Robert J. Conley

  First paperback edition 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  The hardback edition of this book was previously cataloged by the Library of Congress as follows:

  Conley, Robert J.

  Quitting Time / Robert J. Conley.

  p. cm. — (An Evans novel of the West)

  I. Title. II. Series.

  PS3553.0494Q58 1989

  813’ .54—dc20

  ISBN: 978-1-59077-410-6 (pbk. : alk. paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-59077-411-3 (electronic)

  The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSIINISO Z39.48-1992.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter One

  Colfax meant to get drunk. It was a new development in his life, but in his late forties almost everything about his life had changed. He had spent several productive years, if such they could be called, as a professional gunman, a killer for hire. It was true that he had operated during those years by means of a peculiarly personal ethical code. He had believed that all men were depraved and therefore worthy of death, and each time he took on a new job, he had studied his prey until he had managed to convince himself that this particular individual did indeed support his belief. That way he had the comfort of both his generalized philosophy that no man deserved to live and the individual corroborations of the credo.

  It had worked just fine until he had met Luton. He had taken on the job of killing Luton, and he had put his usual practice into motion. He had met Luton, stalked him, watched for Luton to make a wrong move, reveal his tragic flaw, his secret depravity. It hadn’t worked. Colfax had wound up convinced that Luton was a good man. Its philosophical basis shattered, Colfax’s career came to an abrupt halt. He had eventually taken on new jobs, but he had been much more selective about them. He had served as bodyguard to people who were being threatened. He had helped run down known and wanted criminals. But the jobs were few and far between.

  Colfax was a man alone, with no place to go and nothing to look forward to. He still had some money, though the bank account was getting low, and he saw no immediate means of replenishing it. He was thinking that he would have to make some changes in his life, move out of the city and the expensive hotel in which he had been staying, go someplace different, find a new way of making a living. But first he would get drunk.

  He was sitting at a table alone in a dark corner of the hotel lounge, a bottle of Courvoisier there before him and a snifter in his hand, when he saw the stranger walk toward him. He knew the man was coming in his direction as there was no one else on that side of the room. He had seen the man come into the lounge and stop at the bar, had noticed the cowboy clothes and pegged the man for a rancher come to town on business. He had seen the cowboy speak to the bartender, but all that had just been casual observation. He had not really been watching, had not been concerned. Now the man was walking deliberately toward him. Colfax’s old reflexes caused him to reach down to feel the handle of the big Colt which was riding just to the right of his navel. The cowboy came closer. Colfax relaxed a little as he realized that the cowboy was not carrying a gun, at least not one that showed, and that he was carrying in his right hand a folded newspaper. Colfax tossed down the brandy in his snifter and leaned back in his chair. The cowboy stopped a few feet away from the table and took off his hat.

  “Mr. Colfax?” he said.

  Colfax stared at the stranger for a long moment.

  “I’m Colfax,” he said.

  “Oliver Colfax?”

  “That’s right.”

  “My name is Boyd Gruver. I work for Mr. Tiff Lanagan who’s got a big spread out in Colorado.”

  Colfax had heard of Lanagan, one of the western cattle barons, but he chose to remain silent and hear what Gruver had to say.

  “Mr. Lanagan sent me to look you up with a proposition,” said Gruver. “All right if I set down and talk?”

  Colfax poured himself another snifter of brandy and gestured toward the chair directly across the table from where he sat.

  “Sit,” he said.

  Gruver pulled out the chair and sat down.

  “Mr. Colfax,” he said, “my boss would like to hire you.”

  “I’m not a cowpuncher,” said Colfax, “and I’m too old to start a new trade.”

  “Mr. Colfax, no offense, but Mr. Lanagan knows what your trade is.”

  Colfax didn’t like Gruver. His eyes narrowed as he looked across the table at the younger man.

  “And just what is that trade, sonny?” he asked.

  Gruver stiffened and his ears reddened slightly.

  “Mr. Colfax,” he said, “you’re well known throughout the West as a, shall we say, enforcer? Mr. Lanagan needs someone with your abilities. He’s prepared to pay the highest price.”

  “Does he want me to commit murder for him?”

  “No,” said Gruver. “No, I wouldn’t call it that.”

  He looked nervous. He began to fidget in his chair, and he turned around and looked toward the bartender and made a wild gesture with his arm. The bartender came over to the table in a short while.

  “Can I help you, sir?” he said.

  “Bring me a bottle of Kentucky whiskey,” said Gruver.

  “Any brand?”

  “Yeah. I don’t care.”

  The bartender turned and headed back for the bar. Gruver avoided looking at Colfax. He took a small cigar out of his pocket and lit it. Colfax watched him the whole time with apparent disinterest.

  “Gruver,” said Colfax.

  Gruver jumped slightly.

  “Gruver, just what is this job that your boss wants me to do?”

  “Well, you gotta understand, Mr. Colfax,” said Gruver, “that Mr. Lanagan has been on his spread for a long time. He moved in there when the goddamned Indians was still running wild.”

  “I seriously question,” said Colfax, “who was wild in that situation, but go on with your story.”

  “Well,” said Gruver, “recently a new group has moved into the valley. A man named Larkin Wheeler has moved in. Brought a bunch of cows and a couple of cowboys.”

  “It’s open range, isn’t it?” said Colfax. “Nothi
ng wrong with that.”

  “Yeah,” said Gruver. “It’s open range, all right. But Wheeler’s shoving our cows off the range. He’s brought in gunfighters. We don’t have nothing but a bunch of cowboys. Professional gunfighters is too much of a match for us. What we got on our hands, Mr. Colfax, is the beginnings of a real range war.”

  Colfax turned down the contents of his snifter and poured it full again. He looked Gruver straight in the eyes.

  “And you—or your boss, to be more precise—wants me to come in and kill off—or run off—the opposition. Is that right?”

  “Well,” said Gruver, “that’s putting it pretty blunt, but I guess that’s about what it amounts to. Yeah.”

  The bartender showed up and placed a bottle of whiskey and a glass in front of Gruver. While Gruver dug into his pockets to pay for the bottle, Colfax reached into his pockets for the makings of a cigarette. He calmly poured the tobacco into a paper and rolled it. As he licked the rolled cigarette, the bartender was walking away. Colfax struck a wooden match on the underside of the table and lit his cigarette.

  “Gruver,” he said, “I stopped killing for hire some years ago. I’m real particular these days who I hire out to. I don’t know enough about your story to know which side is right and which one is wrong, and there’s nothing you can say to convince me one way or the other. Whatever you say is going to be from the Lanagan point of view. You’re going to tell me whatever the hell you know your boss wants you to tell me. Forget it.”

  “I didn’t know you were so goddamned particular,” said Gruver.

  Colfax tossed down his brandy.

  “Boy,” he said, “I’m going to let that pass. You just go back to Colorado and tell your boss that old Colfax wasn’t interested. Tell him the old man is rich and doesn’t need any more money. Tell him that I’ve lost my nerve. Tell him any goddamned thing you want to tell him in order to save your job, but just get the hell out of here and leave me alone.”

  Gruver’s ears reddened again. He kicked back his chair and stood up all in one motion, pulling a Smith & Wesson Pocket .32 out of somewhere and had it about halfway up to level.

  “Damn you,” he began, but Colfax’s big Colt was leveled at his chest and he froze in position.

  “Put that toy back in your pocket,” said Colfax, “and get the hell out of here. Leave me in peace, the way you found me. I really don’t want to kill anyone tonight.”

  Gruver slowly lowered the .32 and let it slip back into his side coat pocket. Then he held his hands out to his sides. He had been bested by a long ways, and he knew it. His face had turned gray, ashen, and he was trembling slightly.

  “Mr. Colfax,” he said in a quavering voice, “look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have tried that. I’m sorry. My boss has an offer for you. It’s a fair offer. No, more than that. It’s a good offer. It could set you up for life, Mr. Colfax. I ain’t lying to you. All right, maybe you got some scruples about who you work for. I don’t know nothing about that. But there’s a story in that newspaper there about what’s been going on in our valley. You read that. You read that, and it’ll tell you about what’s been going on. You don’t have to take my word for it. Read that paper, and I’ll come back in the morning to see you. Okay?”

  Colfax studied Gruver’s face for a bit, then eased down the hammer of his Colt. He dropped the Colt back into its holster, which was strapped high on his waist and practically in the middle of his belly, never taking his eyes off Gruver.

  “All right,Gruver,” he said. “Leave your paper here, and I’ll read it. I’ll have breakfast here in the morning with you. Eight o’clock. Right here. On your boss. No promises. I’ll talk to you in the morning. Now get out of here and leave me alone.”

  “I’ll be here,” said Gruver, and he turned and left the lounge without another word. Colfax poured himself another brandy. He wasn’t quite drunk yet, and he remembered that his intention for the evening was to get that way. Then he reached across the table and dragged the folded newspaper over beside his drink.

  “Son of a bitch,” he mumbled.

  Then he opened the paper to reveal the entire front page. There was the story that Gruver had referred to. The headlines blared out at him.

  LOCAL RANCHERS THREATENED BY RUSTLERS AND SQUATTERS.

  Colfax squinted his eyes and forced them to focus on the small print.

  “Our valley,” the article read, “is being threatened by an invasion. Rustlers and squatters have been moving in in droves and threatening the established economy of our community. Streams which flow through the open range, which belong to all of us, have been dammed and otherwise diverted, cattle have disappeared from the established herds of some of our most respected citizens, and squatters’ cabins are beginning to blot the landscape in every direction. Tiff Lanagan, one of the pioneers of this valley, has told this reporter that his losses in the past six months have been heavy, indeed. All our livelihoods, all our welfare is at stake here. Something must be done, and done fast, if life as we know it in this valley is to continue. The safety of our wives and children is at stake. Capitalism, free enterprise, and the American way is being threatened. Something must be done and done soon.”

  Colfax snorted at the article and tossed down his brandy. Then, absentmindedly, he turned the page. Another headline caught his attention.

  ADRIAN CHANNING TROUP TO PERFORM SHAKESPEARE HERE.

  Colfax read on eagerly.

  “On its tour of the western states, the famed Adrian Channing Shakespearean company of actors will stop here to perform the Bard’s tragedy Titus Andronicus. Mr. Channing himself will portray Titus, and the acclaimed actress Alma Dyer will play Lavinia.”

  Colfax raced through the remainder of the article, which gave names of a few other members of the company and specific dates for the performances. He smacked his hand down on the table.

  “Damn,” he said out loud. “Goddamn. Titus. Nobody plays Titus. Titus Andronicus. Damn.”

  Gruver was waiting when Colfax showed up for breakfast. He stood up politely as Colfax approached the table.

  “Good morning, sir. Did you read the paper?”

  “After we eat, sonny,” said Colfax. He waved an arm toward the waiter, then sat down in the same chair he had been in the night before. Then Gruver sat back down again. The waiter hurried over to the table.

  “My usual,” said Colfax. “And put it on his bill.”

  Gruver ordered ham and eggs, biscuits and gravy and coffee, and the waiter hustled away to set the breakfast in motion. He returned shortly with the coffee. Gruver took a sip, then put his cup back down.

  “This Saint Looie’s quite a town,” he said.

  “Your first visit?” asked Colfax.

  “Yes, sir. I was real surprised when Mr. Lanagan sent me. Course, the way things are going back home, I know he didn’t feel like he could just up and take off. Still, I never thought that he’d send me way out here on an errand like this. Hell, I’m just a cowpuncher.”

  There followed a long and uncomfortable period of silence in which the two men sipped their cups of coffee. Soon the waiter returned with two plates, a bowl of gravy, and a dish of biscuits.

  “Dig in,” said Colfax, and not another word was said until the meal was finished and the waiter had cleared away the dishes. Then Colfax rolled a cigarette and lit it. He took a deep drag and expelled the smoke, then leaned back in his chair.

  “You got a telegraph office out there where you live?” he said.

  “Yes, sir.” said Gruver.

  Colfax reached inside his jacket and pulled out the newspaper that Gruver had left for him the night before. He tossed it on the table in front of Gruver, folded to the second-page story of the traveling Shakespeareans.

  “I want to see that play,” he said. “Here’s my offer. You wire your boss and say that if he’ll pay for my railroad ticket out there and back and buy me a ticket to that play, I’ll come out and talk to him about his problems. There’s no guarantee that I’ll t
ake the job after I’ve talked with him. That’s it. That’s my offer. He can take it or leave it. When you get his answer, you’ll find me right here.”

  Gruver stood up hesitantly. He turned to leave the room, then turned back again as if he’d like to say something. Colfax pointed to the bill which the waiter had left on the table.

  “Take that with you,” he said. “And leave a decent tip on the table.”

  Gruver tossed some coins on the table and picked up the bill.

  “Mr. Colfax,” he said, “did you read the article in the paper that I showed you.”

  “Boy,” said Colfax, “that damned newspaper didn’t tell me any more about the situation out there than you did. Your boss is undoubtedly the biggest rancher in those parts.”

  “Yes, sir, he is.”

  “That means that he’s probably the most influential citizen, as well. He’s most likely got that newspaper in his back pocket. You heard my offer. That’s my last word.”

  Gruver left the lounge, stopping on the way out to pay for the meals.

  Colfax figured the timing just about right. He had finished one glass of brandy when Gruver walked into the lounge.

  “Well, Mr. Colfax,” said the cowboy, “it surprised the hell out of me, but you got a deal. The boss says to bring you on out. ”

  “You explained my terms to him?”

  “Just like you said. No guarantees. All you promise is to talk to him.”

  “You got our train tickets?”

  “Well, no, sir. I figured I better ask you first.”

  “Go get them.”

  “Uh, which train, Mr. Colfax?”

  “The next one west, boy. Time’s wasting.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gruver turned to hurry out of the room. He stopped, hesitated, then turned back to face Colfax.

  “Uh ... ”

  “I’ll be right here.”

  Chapter Two

  Colfax stepped off the train behind Gruver at the depot in Pullman, Colorado, a little town that had first existed for the local ranchers but had grown considerably since the arrival of the railroad. He noticed immediately that the air was crisp and fresh. Although Pullman lay on the flat and dusty plain, Colfax could see the mountains capped in snow off to the west. As he stood taking deep breaths, tasting the air, a burly white-haired man came toward him with long strides. As he got close, the big man’s eyes moved from Colfax to Gruver, who was standing close behind and to Colfax’s left.