schooner toward him and said, "I brought you a beer."
A muscle alongside the former deputy's neck began to twitch. He lifted his head and stared blearily at Gault. He pulled the beer to him, with all the tenderness of a new mother holding her first child, and he fumbled it to his mouth and drank steadily until the heavy glass mug was empty.
"Who are you?"
"Frank Gault. An old line rider called Yorty told me to look you up when I got to New Boston. I'm tryin' to find out about Wolf Garnett."
"Find out what?"
Gault couldn't bring himself to talk about Martha in a place like the Day and Night. "It's personal." Then, because Wompler seemed to be drifting back to sleep, he asked, "Can I buy you another beer?"
Harry nodded heavily, as if he were carrying the weight of the world on the back of his neck. "Make it whiskey."
The barkeep knew his customers well. He had already set two glasses and a full bottle on the table. The former deputy forced himself erect, sloshed some whiskey into a glass and downed it. "Nothin' to tell," he said haltingly, like a crippled man learning to walk. "About Wolf Garnett. He's dead."
"About the sheriff then?"
Wompler stared at him for a full minute without making a sound. He was a youngish man, still in his twenties. Once he might have been considered handsome, but a steady diet of the Day and Night's raw corn whiskey had taken care of that. His lower lip protruded curiously, giving him a pouting look. His face bristled with a week's growth of beard, but it was round and strangely youthful. He looked, Gault thought, to himself, like a sixty-year-old baby with pouchy eyes. "Why," he asked, "do you want to know about the sheriff?"
"I think he's mixed up somehow with the Wolf Garnett bunch. What's left of the bunch, anyway."
Wompler stared at him, blinking his watery eyes. Suddenly he began laughing. The sound was eerily hollow coming out of that bearded baby face.
Gault's own voice turned cold. "I didn't know I'd said somethin' funny."
"You did, though. I didn't think there was a man in Standard County—or Texas, for that matter—that didn't know about Grady Olsen and the Garnetts." He poured himself another drink and Gault noticed that his hands were steadier now.
"Tell me about them."
"Simplest thing in the world. For four years Olsen's been makin' moon eyes at Esther Garnett. Him old enough to be her pa. And then some."
Gault stared at the derelict in amazement. Since the night of the thunderstorm he had often tried to explain the sheriff's odd behavior—but this possibility had not occurred to him. "Olsen's in love with Miss Garnett?"
"Like a moon-eyed calf." Harry helped himself to another drink. "It's the reason he fired me."
The story was taking some unexpected turns. Grinning loosely, Wompler wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, "Me and Esther—I guess ever'body in the county knowed she took a shine to me. That's why he had to get me out of the way. Took away my badge." The old baby face turned ugly. "I guess that ain't the way you heard it, though."
"I heard that Olsen let you go for bein' too thick with a gang of rustlers."
Wompler's eyes were losing their focus. "Believe anything you please. It's all the same to me."
Gault sat for a moment digesting what he had heard. "Do you know a stock detective named Del Torgason?"
"Torgason?" Wompler's tongue was beginning to thicken. "Torgason and me are the only ones in Standard County that'll talk back to Olsen."
"Why would Torgason want to make an enemy of the sheriff?"
"It ain't that he wants to. He just don't give a damn. The big men in this part of Texas are the cowmen, and they're the ones that pay his salary. Not even Olsen would go out of his way to rile a cowman."
"I was beginning to get the feelin' that everybody in the county kowtowed to Olsen. The cowmen don't?"
"Cowmen," the former lawman smiled slackly, "don't kowtow to anybody."
"Where can I find Torgason?"
Wompler sensed that the period of
A muscle alongside the former deputy's neck began to twitch. He lifted his head and stared blearily at Gault. He pulled the beer to him, with all the tenderness of a new mother holding her first child, and he fumbled it to his mouth and drank steadily until the heavy glass mug was empty.
"Who are you?"
"Frank Gault. An old line rider called Yorty told me to look you up when I got to New Boston. I'm tryin' to find out about Wolf Garnett."
"Find out what?"
Gault couldn't bring himself to talk about Martha in a place like the Day and Night. "It's personal." Then, because Wompler seemed to be drifting back to sleep, he asked, "Can I buy you another beer?"
Harry nodded heavily, as if he were carrying the weight of the world on the back of his neck. "Make it whiskey."
The barkeep knew his customers well. He had already set two glasses and a full bottle on the table. The former deputy forced himself erect, sloshed some whiskey into a glass and downed it. "Nothin' to tell," he said haltingly, like a crippled man learning to walk. "About Wolf Garnett. He's dead."
"About the sheriff then?"
Wompler stared at him for a full minute without making a sound. He was a youngish man, still in his twenties. Once he might have been considered handsome, but a steady diet of the Day and Night's raw corn whiskey had taken care of that. His lower lip protruded curiously, giving him a pouting look. His face bristled with a week's growth of beard, but it was round and strangely youthful. He looked, Gault thought, to himself, like a sixty-year-old baby with pouchy eyes. "Why," he asked, "do you want to know about the sheriff?"
"I think he's mixed up somehow with the Wolf Garnett bunch. What's left of the bunch, anyway."
Wompler stared at him, blinking his watery eyes. Suddenly he began laughing. The sound was eerily hollow coming out of that bearded baby face.
Gault's own voice turned cold. "I didn't know I'd said somethin' funny."
"You did, though. I didn't think there was a man in Standard County—or Texas, for that matter—that didn't know about Grady Olsen and the Garnetts." He poured himself another drink and Gault noticed that his hands were steadier now.
"Tell me about them."
"Simplest thing in the world. For four years Olsen's been makin' moon eyes at Esther Garnett. Him old enough to be her pa. And then some."
Gault stared at the derelict in amazement. Since the night of the thunderstorm he had often tried to explain the sheriff's odd behavior—but this possibility had not occurred to him. "Olsen's in love with Miss Garnett?"
"Like a moon-eyed calf." Harry helped himself to another drink. "It's the reason he fired me."
The story was taking some unexpected turns. Grinning loosely, Wompler wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, "Me and Esther—I guess ever'body in the county knowed she took a shine to me. That's why he had to get me out of the way. Took away my badge." The old baby face turned ugly. "I guess that ain't the way you heard it, though."
"I heard that Olsen let you go for bein' too thick with a gang of rustlers."
Wompler's eyes were losing their focus. "Believe anything you please. It's all the same to me."
Gault sat for a moment digesting what he had heard. "Do you know a stock detective named Del Torgason?"
"Torgason?" Wompler's tongue was beginning to thicken. "Torgason and me are the only ones in Standard County that'll talk back to Olsen."
"Why would Torgason want to make an enemy of the sheriff?"
"It ain't that he wants to. He just don't give a damn. The big men in this part of Texas are the cowmen, and they're the ones that pay his salary. Not even Olsen would go out of his way to rile a cowman."
"I was beginning to get the feelin' that everybody in the county kowtowed to Olsen. The cowmen don't?"
"Cowmen," the former lawman smiled slackly, "don't kowtow to anybody."
"Where can I find Torgason?"
Wompler sensed that the period of
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