The Long Ride Out | Page 5

high as...five dollars an
acre? Maybe higher?"
"Even for land that didn't cost that much in the first place? You could

still borrow as high as five an acre against it?"
"I don't quite see what you're driving at, but yes. The railroad has
brought civilization to these parts, and civilization is the magic elixir
that turns land into money. God's not going to be making much more
land than we got, I figure, so this bank's willing to take a risk on the
best of it."
*
Marlin pulled up a few hundred yards from Kraamer's house. The front
door was slightly ajar and only a thin line of smoke trickled out of the
chimney, despite the cold. Marlin got down slowly and dragged his big
Army Colt out of its holster.
He pushed the door open with one foot. The inside of the house was
dark and musty and smelled of blood. Kraamer lay in the middle of the
floor, flat on his back. His empty eyes stared up at the ceiling. There
was a bullethole in his chest.
Wallace, Marlin thought. Not likely to be anybody else around that
cool and that accurate. One shot, right through the center of the heart.
He put his gun away, turned, and saw the snake. Somebody--no doubt
Wallace again--had put a bullet in its head. Half its length still lay in a
hole in the wall, but the hole had been dug out and dirt lay all around it.
A shovel and an empty metal box, smaller than the diameter of the hole,
had been dropped next to the snake.
Marlin used the shovel to dig a shallow grave in the middle of the floor.
The ground outside would be frozen solid for months yet. After a
moment's hesitation he dragged the body of the snake out of the hole
and threw it in the ground next to the old man. He piled dirt over both
of them and rode back into Lincoln City.
*
He sat in the saloon for an hour or so, his greatcoat piled on the chair

next to him, blowing into his cupped hands to keep them warm. It was
nearly dark when Wallace arrived.
Wallace stood at the bar and downed a shot of whiskey. Trying to look
casual, most of the clientele began to move out into the street. "I'll buy
you a drink before you leave town," Wallace said to Marlin.
Marlin stood up and walked over to the bar. They were about ten feet
apart. "You're a little ahead of yourself. I got business to take care of
before I go."
"What business is that?"
"Somebody shot an old man to death this afternoon, and stole the deed
to his land. I mean to settle accounts."
"You're wrong, mister. That ain't your business at all."
"Old man Kraamer lied to me, and maybe he wasn't much of a neighbor.
But I ate his cooking and slept under his roof, and that counts for
something. It's not to do with money, and it's not to do with owning
anything, so I guess folks around here might not understand it too
well."
"You're about to have the opportunity to join the old man," Wallace
said. "And his snake."
Marlin ignored him. "What bothers me, really, is that I misjudged
Britton. He seemed a decent sort, too decent to hire scum like you."
"I fight my own fights," Wallace said. He seemed genuinely angry.
"Britton's a coward. He never meant anything but talk, just like you.
And I've had enough. Get out or shoot."
It had been leading to this, and Marlin had let it happen. Now he
wondered if it had been a mistake. He was old. Still, at the sight of
Wallace's grinning face, he felt the cold fire spread through his body.
There was a tiny spasm in the ring finger of his right hand where it

rested on the bar. This one last time, he told himself. If I live through
this I promise I'll never tempt fate again.
Then Wallace reached and so did Marlin. The air of the confined space
exploded with the noise of guns and the stink of powder. Marlin was
not a one-shot surgeon. He held the Army Colt straight out with both
hands and emptied the cylinder.
When it was over he was alive. He looked down to see if he was all in
one piece and saw no blood.
Wallace was dead.
People moved back into the bar, circling like vultures over the body. In
the darkening street Marlin could see the snow finally coming down.
He pushed through the crowd and pulled a sheet of paper out of the
dead man's shirt. He unfolded it, expecting to see the deed to Kraamer's
farm. Instead it