“Nothing that should concern you,” Nate retorted.
Emil started forward to retrieve the Bible. With a quick movement, Nate drew the derringer he kept on his belt for emergencies and shoved the gun at Emil’s waist. The noise outside, growing ever louder as the evening progressed, masked the smart pop of the gunshot.
Emil’s face registered disbelief as he clasped his abdomen. He lifted his blood-soaked hands and looked at them, incredulous, before collapsing in a heap on the floor.
Working quickly, Nate wiped the blood from his own hands on the wool blanket on his bed. He searched Emil’s pockets. He found a couple of dollars, a pocket watch, and a knife in a leather case, and he kept them all.
He pulled the blanket from Emil’s cot. The Bible dropped onto the dirt. Blood that seeped from Emil’s wound stained a corner of the book. Nate swore and tossed the soiled book on top of the dead man. He wrapped the body in the wool blanket, wiped his hands again on his own blanket, and rolled that around Emil as well. The blankets soaked up some of the blood still staining the pale floor. Nate covered up the rest by kicking dust on it.
He peeked from the tent. The night was fairly dark with only a slight sliver of a moon shining in the sky. Nate let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Knots of men crowded around the Big Tent and the nearest restaurant. There were still a few gathered at the flat cars loading them with tent canvasses and poles. Some of them packed as much as they could now so they could carouse longer tonight and sleep later in the morning.
He hurried to take down his own tent and kicked the bundle of blankets onto the canvas. He rolled the canvas around the disgusting bundle and secured the ends with rope. With some difficulty, he dragged the heavy roll toward the flat car.
“Here, I’ll help.” A man grabbed the opposite end and together, they lifted the roll onto the flat car among several other similar packs. “That must have been a big one.”
Nate shifted a hip and sat on the flatcar, his back against the canvasses.
“What?”
The man jerked a thumb toward the canvas heap. “The tent.”
“Oh. Yeah.” He fingered his shirt pocket, felt the coins there, and found the makings for his cigarette. With slow and deliberate actions, he licked the paper, sprinkled tobacco on it, rolled it together, and twisted the ends. He struck a Lucifer against the rough boards of the flat car. The quick flare of the match cast a garish light on his angular face, sweaty from exertion.
He saw the other man’s scowl before shaking out the match and dropping it. “Want one?”
“No, thanks.” Monty Long recognized the man who had shoved past him in the saloon. He hesitated for a moment and then stated his case. He had repeated the story so many times that afternoon that his words sounded to his own ears like a memorized school day recitation instead of a sincere plea for help.
When he finished, Monty thrust his hand through the long dark hair at his forehead. The strands stood straight up for a moment before falling back into place, giving him a boyish appearance. “I’ll never give up,” he said. “I have a hunch I’m awful close to finding him,” he said. “It’s only a matter of time.”
Nate Hollander sat almost motionless as Monty had spoken of the lost brother he hoped to make amends with, shifting position only to rest an arm on one of the pale bundles behind him.
When Monty finished speaking, Nate puffed on his cigarette and held the smoke in his lungs for a long moment. He exhaled slowly. “Time’s runnin’ out in this place.” He took another puff. “You might try Harry’s,” he said finally. “I’ve seen Emil there sometimes in the evenings.”
Monty nodded. “Thanks for your help.” He strode toward the tent containing the restaurant, and midway, he realized he had not asked the man his name. He turned but the man was already gone.
Harry O’Malley welcomed Monty into his restaurant tent as he ushered a group of others outside. “We’re closing up. Moving out tomorrow,” he said, as he untied one of the ropes that held the tent to its poles.
“I’m looking for Emil Long,” Monty said. “I’m his brother.”
The heavyset man shook his head. “You don’t say.” He thrust a hand the size of a small shovel toward Monty. “Emil’s a great friend. Pleasure.”
Monty shook and asked if Harry knew where to find him. A frown crossed the man’s face and he rubbed his peppery beard. “Come to think of it, Emil’s not been back yet. He said he’d come back to eat. Not like him to miss a meal.”
Monty laughed. “You do know my brother.”
Harry’s expression had changed to one of concern. “Sometimes he walks about at night. Probably nothing to worry about.” He offered Monty bacon and bread. “He knows we’re packing up. Maybe he’ll be back by the time you’ve eaten.”
Philippe DeVrees cocked an eyebrow when Nate came back to the game. He produced fifty-five dollars, falling thirty dollars short of what he owed.
The cardsharp, his voice smooth and even, said, “That doesn’t cut it, Hollander.” He raised his smooth hands. Unlike those of most of the men Nate knew, they were clean and free from calluses and blisters. “But you will work off the rest. A dollar a day. Or should I say night? You’d have to keep your daytime employment as well I suppose.”
“No,” Nate said. He produced the pocket watch and tossed it onto the center of the table. “This’ll do and more. I’ll win the rest back.”
DeVrees tapped his slender fingers against the polished pine. After a moment, he made a welcoming gesture. “All right. Thirty dollars. But if you lose, you’ll work off what you owe.”
Distraught and exhausted, Monty Long entered the saloon. Emil had not returned to Harry’s. He had suggested that Monty take another look at the corrals and then, as a last resort, try the Big Tent. “I’ve never known him to bet his wages,” Harry had said. “But sometimes men behave differently when we’re closing a town. Philippe DeVrees has gained many a coin that way.”
The bartender directed him to a table in the back, motioning toward a slender man wearing a dark frock coat who stood talking to two others. When Monty approached, he greeted him cautiously.
“Our game has ended this evening,” he said. “Follow along with us tomorrow and we’ll take another turn in another town.”
Uninvited, Monty pulled out a chair and sat down.
The surprised DeVrees dismissed the men he had been talking with and sat opposite Monty. As he did so, Monty’s eyes came to rest on the loot piled in the center of the table. He reached out and retrieved the pocket watch.
“Pardon,” the gambler said, miffed by the man’s effrontery.
Monty held the watch by its leather strap. “This watch was my grandfather’s.”
“I think not,” returned DeVrees. “I won that just this evening in a game.” He watched as Monty twirled the watch on its strap, and then cradled it as delicately as if he were holding an injured sparrow. With a slight smile and a light chuckle, DeVrees said, “The young man who presented it could not possibly have been your grandfather.”
He earned a wan smile for his poor attempt at humor. “Could it have been my brother?” Monty’s eyes locked on the darker ones of the cardsharp. The gamester analyzed the dusty man seated before him. Deep creases fanned his dull eyes and framed his tight lips.
DeVrees leaned forward. “Possibly. What makes you so certain that watch belonged to your grandfather?”
Monty tugged on the slim leather strap. “He lost his hands in an augur accident working with wheat when he was a youngster,” he said. The lines around his lips deepened as he demonstrated the way his grandfather had retrieved the watch from his pocket.
“Ah,” DeVrees said. “Clever indeed. But many men carry similar timepieces. This one is not of great value, and it has no engravings to indicate ownership. Anyone might have attached a strap.”
“Yes,” Monty admitted. After a moment, he returned the watch to its place on the pile of coins and paper money. He rose to go.
DeVrees, i
ntrigued by the man’s behavior, plucked the pocket watch from the table and handed it to him. He described Nate Hollander.
Monty shook his head. “That’s not my brother,” he said.
A brief silence ensued. DeVrees said, “I’m feeling generous this evening. Clearly, this piece means a great deal to you.”
Monty shook his head. “I don’t want to be beholden to anyone.”
“And your brother?”
“I don’t know where he is,” Monty explained. “I came here hoping to find him, but I’ve missed him again.”
“Perhaps I could be of help to you.” DeVrees clapped his hands, and one of the men who had been near him when Monty entered came to his side. “Bring us some whiskey,” he said. To Monty he said, “Tell me about your brother.”
The servant brought a decanter and two cut-glass goblets. In silence, he poured with care and departed.
Once again, Monty related the story. “I came to make amends,” he said. “I should have never let Celinda come between us.” He sighed and took a sip. “Turned out she played us against each other. When she found out she had me, she up and left. Set her sights on some other poor bastard.”
“Women.” DeVrees smiled. “I’ve had my share of troubles with them myself.”
“I’ve searched Benton all evening,” Monty said. “This”—he held up the pocket watch again, watching it as the lamplight gleamed on its plain polished silver case—“is the closest I have come to finding him.”
“I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting your brother, Mr. Long,” DeVrees said. “At least, as far as I know. Some players don’t tell me their names. But I have ways of knowing who they are.”
“Emil’s not a gambler. But this watch…” Monty swallowed the last of the whiskey, savoring the burning sensation as the liquid slid down his throat. He stood up. “How much did you take it for?”
“Thirty dollars.”
Monty let out a slow whistle. He searched his pockets. “I don’t have thirty,” he admitted. “Would you take twenty and a thank you for the whiskey?”
DeVrees said, “Sir, if that watch truly belonged to your grandfather, I cannot accept any payment from you for it.”
Monty laid the money on the table. “And because it belonged to my grandfather, I cannot take it from you without paying. It’s a matter of family honor.”
DeVrees stayed silent for a long moment. And then he stood and extended his hand. “Thank you,” he said. “It is my fondest wish that you find your brother, and when you do, I hope you will introduce us. You are a rare man indeed.”
Nate clicked his teeth against his tongue. The bay, standing near the pole fence, ignored him, but a sorry-looking sorrel with a gimpy hind leg tottered closer. Nate moved away from the sorrel and tried again. The bay’s ears pricked but he did not move. Nate kicked a toe in the dirt, sending a spray of white dust into the corral. The bay eyed him and moved away. Nate swore. The sorrel nickered, and other horses in the pen responded with sympathetic whinnies.
Nate decided to change tactics. This time, he stepped on the bottom rung of the fence. He climbed and was ready to swing a leg over when he heard the mournful notes of a harmonica. He swore again and leapt to the ground. The music grew louder. Nate hid in the shadows behind some spike barrels.
The horses in the corral shifted their positions and neighed as the harmonica player approached. Nate recognized the tune, “Tenting on the Old Campground.” He stifled a groan, listening as the footsteps came closer. He drew his knees tighter against his chest, leaning forward just enough to see Harry O’Malley approaching the corral.
The stout Irishman rested an arm on the fence. After a few moments, he turned to leave. Nate relaxed and changed his position, ready to spring to action. He wanted to catch the bay and ride south, away from lingering gambling debts, from railroad work, from everything. He could sell the bay for a good price and start over somewhere else. He began to stand but heard Harry call out to someone. Nate pulled Emil’s knife from its sheath.
“Any word?”
“No,” Monty said. “He isn’t here, is he.” He spoke the words as a statement rather than a question.
“Not with the horses,” Harry answered.
“I think I’ll stay awhile anyway.”
“Try to rest. We’ll look again in the morning.”
Nate crouched lower as Monty approached his hiding place. He came so near that the toes of his boots stirred the chalky dust between the spike barrels. Nate tried to calm his breathing so that he would not sneeze. His heart pounded with such force in his chest that his whole body seemed to pulse with each beat.
Monty reached above the barrels, snatching a soogan from the top of a wagon filled with supplies. He turned and took a couple of steps, and then began unrolling the bedroll on the other side of the wagon.
Nate knew he had to move fast or be discovered. Raising himself from the crouch, he bent forward, ready to run. At that moment, the harmonica played again. “The Blue Tail Fly,” the annoying tune that Emil used to whistle or hum ceaselessly. Startled, he lost his balance, and struggling to regain his stance, reached for the spike barrel. The force of the blow toppled the half-empty cask. Spikes clattered into the dirt. Nate fell forward across the keg, his weight splintering the sides. The harmonica notes broke off in the middle of the tune.
“Who’s there?” Monty called. He drew his pistol.
Nate raised himself from the dust. His clothes, already grimy with wear, were now cloaked with a layer of the gritty white alkali. His face, powdered with the pale dirt, took on a ghoulish appearance.
Monty recognized Nate, even though he did not know his name. “Hey. You the one who stole my brother’s watch? Where is he?”
Nate raised the knife. “Gone to join the angels. Just like you will.”
The revelation stunned Monty. “Why?”
Nate took advantage of his astonishment by rushing forward. Using his free hand in a swift motion, he knocked the pistol from Monty’s hand. The knife was inches from Monty’s waist.
Monty staggered backward. He sidestepped as Nate, shrouded in white dust, slashed at him. He reached to grab Nate’s wrist but missed. The knife blade nicked his hand and drew blood.
Nate chuckled. The two men skirted the corral. Intent on their menacing dance, neither one noticed Harry’s return.
“Stop!” He grabbed Monty’s pistol and aimed at Nate.
The pistol’s pop frightened the horses. They trotted to the other side of the corral. The pounding of their hooves raised a wicked cloud of snowy powder, obscuring the fighting men from Harry’s view.
Harry’s shot missed. Nate lunged forward with the knife. Monty jumped back.
Nate stumbled on the pile of spikes, landing hard on his chest.
Harry and Monty closed in, but Nate did not move.
Puzzled, they stood quiet as the dust settled, revealing the splintered barrel and scattered spikes.
Nate lay spread-eagled in the dust, one arm raised above him. Harry toed the man’s hip, rolling him over. The knife handle protruded from his blood-soaked chest.
“Be damned,” Harry said. He grabbed the weapon and tugged it free. He wiped it on the dead man’s shirtsleeve and turned it over in his hand, squinting at the sinister object in the darkness.
Winded from the fight, Monty sagged against the poles of the corral. “Too late now to make things right with Emil. I don’t even know where his body is. Can’t even give him a proper burial.”
“No.” Harry peered at the knife, certain he had seen it before. “Ah,” he said.
Monty continued on as if he had not heard. “If only I had come sooner. I might have saved him. I’ve gone and ruined everything.” He ran a hand through his hair and then covered his face with his hands. Blood dripped from his knuckle where the sharp blade had scratched the skin.
“No,” Harry said. “This is rough country. You might have been right here when it happened and been unable to stop it. Don’t be so hard on
yourself.”
After a few moments, Monty regained his composure. “He didn’t even know that I came here. Didn’t even know that Celinda left.” He stood up and whisked the soil from his trousers. “It was all for nothing.”
“No,” Harry said. “Not for nothing. Emil wanted to make amends with you, too. Told me so himself.” He clapped a hand on Monty’s shoulder. “Didn’t know how to go ’bout it, I reckon. Here.” He handed him the knife. “Looks to me like he patched things up in his own way after all.”
Monty examined the knife. Even in the dim light, he saw the initials “EL” carved on the handle. “Emil’s,” he said softly.
“Yes.” Harry scowled at the dead man. “Let the gandy dancers deal with him. Come along, let’s get a whiskey afore this place gits stirring again.”
They walked toward the place that used to be Benton, past disassembled tent frames and stacks of lumber and through the immense dusty space that had only yesterday housed the gambler’s den. As they came to Harry’s wagon near the tracks, the first feeble rays of dawn cast a sallow glow on the jumbled heap of ragged canvasses stacked on the railroad flat cars waiting to travel west.
The Town That Wouldn’t Quit
Deborah Morgan
Anybody with a lick of horse sense could tell you by evidence of its very name that the town had troubles. Boulder Creek River. That alone implied there had been an argument between one settler and another (or, one group of settlers and another group) over whether the creek was a creek, or the river was a river, or the creek was a river, or…well, you get the idea.
It doesn’t matter that the body of water seldom appears, which leads me to call the thing a creek. Of course, it’s been raining like Noah’s nightmare for over a month, with no end in sight. That sort of fact used to give me nightmares, but those days were long before the turn of the century and for very different reasons.
A week’s ride west and you’ll fall into the Pacific. No, wait, that was back when the settlement was founded. Now, I hear tell a cowboy what can’t find work can drive one of them there automobiles out to Hollywood in a few days, and upon arrival lasso a paying part in an oater before sundown.
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