"Back so soon?" Rally asked, trying to sound braver than he looked.
"Got some more questions I need to ask."
"June alright?"
"I haven't seen her since I brought her in this mornin'." He laid there and watched, waiting for me to make the first move. So I did. "Evan Simmons."
He finally sighed and relief flooded his face. Not that he wasn't frightened anymore, but at least now he knew what he was dealing with. "Yeah," he murmured.
"Wanna tell me about Evan Simmons?"
"Not really. He wasn't a very good person."
I sat down on June's chair. "Wanna tell me anyway?"
"No, but I don't have much choice, do I?" He paused for a minute, like he was trying to catch his breath, and started. "Evan Simmons was the oldest of three brothers. Middle brother named Raleigh, Rally for short, youngest Nicholas. Evan was a scoundrel. A cheat, a card sharp, a con man. Rally was an investment speculator, Nicholas, a lawyer. Rally was murdered at thirty-three by somebody Evan conned out of money. Evan knew he wanted to change, to quit and be legitimate, but his reputation followed him everywhere. So he studied everything that Rally was involved in, and when he had a fair idea of what he was doing, Evan Simmons died.
"Rally Simmons moved to Kansas City, then relocated to Sioux Falls. He was honest, and hardworking, and made a nice life for himself. Then one day Evan's past caught up to Rally. Johnny Farrel came to town and bought a small ranch, and got reacquainted with Evan." Rally paused for a minute, trying to catch his breath. I was in no hurry; I was willing to wait. A few minutes later he resumed.
"Farrel threatened to blow Rally's life apart if there wasn't something in it for him. So Evan started gambling, to win enough money to pay Farrel off. Instead, he lost and had to cheat several investors out of their funds to keep the Bar J owner happy. Every time he thought he was rid of Farrel, he found out he was wrong. He found somebody that loved him, and made him feel . . . . . . secure. So he went to Farrel to find out how to end the association for good. Like he could do that. It didn't go so well."
Sounded like Rally was out of breath again, so I asked a question. "And on the way back, Farrel's boys caught up with him?"
"No."
"No?"
"No. This had nothing to do with Johnny Farrel."
I could certainly understand if it did. But Rally insisted it didn't. So who was mad enough at Rally to beat him nearly to death?
"Was Tom Miller mixed up in all this?"
Simmons tried to nod; it didn't work. "Tom was a friend. To both Rally and Evan. He tried to help, even going so far as to propose turning the store over to Johnny as the final blackmail payment. Farrel had one of his men kill Tom to show Evan he meant business."
"Bobby Durfee?" I asked, although I'd already guessed the answer.
Rally looked at me like I'd just read his mind. "Yeah, how'd you know?"
"Bobby Durfee's dead."
That was met with absolute silence. Finally Rally said, "So how'd you find out about Evan?"
"Dandy Jim Buckley."
"Buckley. It figures. He always ran his mouth too much."
"Dandy owed me a favor." I was thinking about a poker tournament in Cheyenne, Wyoming, where I'd endured . . . . let's just say, a lot in Dandy's stead.
"And now that you know, who am I gonna be when I get over this pain?"
"One question before I give you an answer to yours, and I want the truth. Does Rally love June Morgan?"
I waited a long time for the response, and when it came it was barely audible. "Yes."
Then I gave him an answer that I think surprised him. "Get well, Rally."
XXXXXXXX
"So Doc looked everything over and pronounced it looked good; then he changed the bandage."
"Uh-huh."
"And he painted it blue for good measure."
"Uh-huh. Wait, what?"
My brother at it again. "Wanted to see if you were listenin'."
"I was, but I was thinkin', too."
"Thinkin' about what?"
"That I need some sleep."
"What time do you play poker?"
I couldn't remember, I was so tired. "Uh, ten o'clock."
Bret pulled out the watch he'd transferred to his right vest pocket so he could get to it easier with his left hand. "You can get four or five hours sleep if you hurry."
"If I hurry? Does that mean – "
"That I'm goin' back to Pete's? Yeah," Bret said finally. "Room's all yours."
"You're a good man, Bret Maverick," I told him and turned left while he turned right. In less than five minutes I was lying in bed, my gun and holster next to me, and praying that nobody knocked on or unlocked the door.
I was paying no attention to where the mare was walking and I almost missed the turn for the graveyard. When I headed her that way she shook her head and whinnied, as if saying "no." "Gotta go see Pappy," I told her, using the name I'd thrown at Bret whenever I felt him being too fatherly.
The hill appeared in front of me, with its dozens of crosses, markers and gravestones. It was impressive and startling. The sky had darkened and a storm loomed overhead, threatening to spill her deluge down at any moment. I really didn't care; it wouldn't be the first time I'd been rained on, and it probably wouldn't be the last.
I dismounted and tied the mare to the gatepost entrance to the burial ground. It was easy to find the grave – mounds of fresh dirt were piled up on it. Bret's was the last interment on the hill.
A chill went up my spine. There was a plain wooden cross at the head of the grave, with 'Bret Maverick' printed on it. 'NO' was the only word in my mind. 'NO, THIS IS WRONG. IT CAN'T BE.' I forced myself to walk closer. Even the rumbling in the heavens silenced as I approached my brother's final resting place, and all I could hear were my own footsteps on hallowed ground. My mind revolted, my stomach rolled, and my hands shook. I noticed that when I reached up to take my hat off. There was no one around, and as sobs wracked my body, I fell to my knees at the foot of the grave. Then without further warning the thunder cracked and the lightning flashed, and the rain began to fall in torrents. I howled in pain like an animal, much as I had in Mexico, the night I remembered everything I'd lost. That agony seemed minor in comparison to what I felt now.
I sobbed for long minutes, and I kept repeating over and over "No, no, no, no, no, no." All the love, admiration and gratitude I'd felt for my older brother my whole life spilled out on the earth, and the emotions I'd held in check from the moment I first read the telegram in Reno until now fell on the grave. The wind wailed and I wailed right along with it until every shred of feeling I possessed was drained from my body, and I had no more tears to shed. I collapsed on the wet earth and lay on my brother's grave until the rain stopped and nighttime blackness fell.
At last, when I became aware that I could stay there no longer, I raised myself from the ground and got to my feet. My body walked back to the horse tethered at the gate, but my soul stayed at the burial site, and I knew there would be no peace for me.
I gasped for air and bolted upright in bed. I'd lived that nightmare before in Dodge City when I thought for sure that Bret was dead and buried, and the story from Evan Simmons had brought it all back. I understood how he felt, but at the same time I didn't understand at all. I didn't have the need to assume Bret's identity when he was killed; just the need to kill the man responsible for his death. Was that what was going on here? Was Johnny Farrel the man that had killed Rally Simmons? Or was I imagining something that wasn't real? Whichever it was, I knew there'd be no more sleep for me tonight. Maybe some poker would help.