Trouble at the Redstone (Leisure Western)

by John D. Nesbitt

  From the pleasant smile on the waitress’s face, he could tell he looked quite a bit more presentable than he had when he was sitting beneath the deer head with Mrs. Welles. In spite of his shabby appearance, though, he thought she had given him a good looking-over and had not found him repulsive. In spite of her reserve, and her role as the concerned wife, he thought she would look at him with even more interest now that he was scrubbed and clean.

  He told himself it didn’t matter. She was paying him to do a job, and he needed to keep his mind straight for that. Come sundown, he needed to put this town behind him and get out on the trail to Thorne.

  Chapter Two

  Will rested his horse at the top of a rise. He dismounted, and as he rolled and smoked a cigarette, he took in the country around him. It was still grassland but had become more broken, with dry-wash gullies fingering off in all directions. The grass had become poorer, too, with bare spots of a hand’s width between clumps. Prickly pear cactus grew in low, broad clumps, and stirrup-high sagebrush dotted the hills and gullies everywhere. He had passed a couple of large alkali flats, so even the cactus and sagebrush looked hospitable by comparison.

  He tipped back his hat and dragged his shirtsleeve across his forehead. His mouth was dry, but he didn’t want to drink the last pint of water in his canteen while he could still resist. He had gotten in a couple of hours of travel the night before and then had made an early start this morning, so he ought to make the town of Thorne by late afternoon. If he found water for his horse before then, so much the better.

  Down off the hill he rode. When the trail leveled out, a jackrabbit broke from the cover of a clump of sagebrush. The animal took off at a run, veering one way and then another but generally keeping a straightaway course, with the black tips of his ears aloft like deer horns. Will knew that if he whistled a bullet that way, the jackrabbit could put on a hell of a lot more speed. It was tempting, but there was no sense in making noise and wasting ammunition.

  A mile later he passed a prairie dog town on his left, a colony of burrows that covered nearly ten acres. The bare dirt shone pale in the sun, and here and there a tawny little rodent poked his head up out of a hole. Again, Will felt the temptation to take some target practice, but he let common sense prevail.

  A few miles farther, a way station came into view. It sat back from the trail about fifty yards, against the backdrop of a low ridge. Will imagined that the shadows of late afternoon and early evening would give some benefit, and he supposed that the ridge helped to blunt some of the winter winds that blew out of that quarter.

  The station itself was a typical structure, with walls of sod. Roof poles jutted out in front, and on each side of the solid plank door, a small window sat high in the wall. A set of patched-together corrals lay off to the right and farther back. To the left, a small area about twenty feet square was enclosed by a rail fence and no gate. It did not look like a corral, and as Will drew his horse to a stop at the hitching rail, he stood in his stirrups for a better view. He thought it might be an oil seep.

  As he swung down from the saddle, the front door of the building opened and a human form appeared. The man lingered in the shadowy doorway, and his presence suggested a smudgy quality.

  “Good afternoon,” said Will.

  “Same to you.”

  Will cast a light glance across the front of the building. “What place is this?”

  “Dunn Station.”

  “I see.”

  The man took a step forward, and Will got a better view of him. He was not a hulking type, but his body had thickened in middle age, and his sagging paunch hung out between his suspenders. He had a full head of short brown hair, and a stubbled beard of the same color. His dark eyes moved from Will to the horse and back.

  “Suppose you want some water.”

  “If I could. Just a little to begin with. Couple of gallons.”

  The man went inside and came out wearing a dark-stained brown hat. “Trough’s around back.”

  Will led the horse as he followed the man to the rear of the building. There he loosened the cinch and let the horse drink a few long swallows. He filled his canteen at the pump, got a drink for himself, and rinsed his hands and face. Then he led the horse back to the rail in front and tied him there.

  All this time, the proprietor watched without saying anything. Then when the horse was tied, he asked, “Where ya headed?”

  “Town called Thorne.”

  The man gave a knowing nod. “A few miles further on.” He looked Will up and down and said, “Lookin’ fer work?”

  “About the only thing worth lookin’ for that won’t get a man in trouble.”

  “Isn’t that right?” The man’s heavy brows went up a little. “Anything else I can git for you today?”

  Will glanced past him toward the door. “I wouldn’t mind sittin’ down for a few minutes, let my horse soak up what he drank before I give him another slug.”

  “Sure, come on in. We can chin a while.”

  Will followed him into the dim establishment, which was lit only by the light coming in from the two windows and the open door. As his eyes adjusted, he could see it was a typical road house, with a bar and two tables at the tavern end and a store counter at the end where goods were sold. The center area was taken up by shelves and a long, narrow table. At a glance Will could see canned goods, sacks of dry food such as flour and beans, and odds and ends of rope, chain, leather, and burlap.

  The proprietor took a seat at one of the two tables near the bar. He did not take off his hat, so Will didn’t bother to, either. When they were both seated, the man folded his arms across his stomach and said, “Lookin’ fer work. What kind do you do?”

  “Mostly ranch work, but I’ve done my share of other things. Not too fond of lumberjackin’ or underground minin’. Or sheepherdin’.”

  “Me neither.”

  “And I don’t think I could make a livin’ shoein’ mules.”

  “Huh. Them that wants it can have it.”

  “That’s what I say. By the way, my name’s Will Dryden.” He held out his hand.

  “Orry Dunn. No one bothers with the first name. I don’t.”

  “Good enough,” said Will as they shook. After a few seconds he said, “I wonder if there’s much work around here.”

  “Well, there’s sheep in this country, but you say you don’t care for that.”

  “Not if I can find something more to my likin’.”

  Dunn pushed out his cheek with his tongue and said, “Well, there’s one ranch out south of Thorne, they run cattle, and they might need a hand.”

  “Is that right? What’s the name of the place?”

  “It’s called the Redstone. Own er’s a fella named Donovan, mucky-muck type, but his foreman does the hirin’ and firin’.”

  “That’s good enough.”

  “Foreman’s name is Ingram. Earl Ingram.”

  “Have you got any idea what kind of outfit it is to work for?”

  Dunn shrugged. “Pretty regular most of the time, from what I’ve heard.”

  “Most of the time?”

  “Well, I think the reason they might need a hand right now is that one of their riders got killed a few days ago.”

  “Really? Did he take a spill on a horse?”

  “No, it was a bullet.”

  “Gunfight?”

  “Nope. He was just out ridin’, as the story goes, and someone put a hole in him. Young feller, pretty easygoin’ as I knew him, and not the kind to pick any quarrel with anyone.”

  “Huh. That’s too bad.”

  “It is.” After a few seconds of silence, Dunn spoke again. “Say, are you sure there’s not anything I can get for you?”

  Will thought for a second. “Why not? Have you got any beer?”

  “I do. It’s not ice-cold, but the keg hasn’t been open very long, so it tastes right.”

  Will raised his chin. “I’d go for a glass of it. And I’d be happy to invite you to ha
ve one with me.”

  “I’m not in the habit of turnin’ it down.” Dunn pushed back his chair and stood up. “I’ll be right back.”

  He returned with two glasses of beer, not frosty but with a half inch of foam on top. “Here you go,” he said, setting them on the table.

  When the proprietor was seated, Will raised his glass and touched it to the other man’s. As Dunn had said, the beer was not cold but it had a good bite to it.

  “Glad to find a product like this on hand.”

  Dunn smacked his lips. “It’s like other things. When a man knows where to git it, that’s where he goes.”

  “I believe you’re right.” Will took another drink, smaller this time. “How long have you been here at this place?”

  “A little under ten years.”

  “Does well enough, then.”

  “I get by.”

  Will brought out the makin’s and went about rolling a cigarette. After he lit it, he said, “That looked like an oil seep out there.”

  “That’s what it is.”

  Will blew out a stream of smoke. “Do you get much good out of it?”

  Dunn turned down the corners of his mouth. “Oh, some. Wagons and such.”

  “Do you make axle grease out of it?”

  “That’s right. Thicken it with flour or corn starch.”

  Will nodded. He figured that was where some of the smudges on the man’s clothes might have come from. “Mostly freighters?”

  “Them, and just people movin’ from one place to another.”

  “Emigrants.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Good idea to keep it fenced.” “

  Oh, yeah. It could be a hell of a nuisance.”

  Will took another drink. “Do the sheepherders come in for this stuff?”

  “Oh, some do, but not as much as the cowpunchers. Them sheepherders, you know, they’re tied down to their sheep. Kind of a queer bunch sometimes. They live alone for months at a time, maybe keep a jug of wine or a stash of whiskey, but get along on next to nothin’.”

  “They can be solitary, all right.” Will took a drag on his cigarette.

  “Fools, too. I knew one, come winter, he’d go into Rawlins and moon over a whore, same one every year, spend all his wages on her and whiskey, and then go back to the sheep wagon, flat-ass broke and nothin’ to show for it.”

  “Some of ’em don’t even care for women.”

  “They’re probably better suited to that kind of work.”

  “Each man to his poison. Me, I like to go into town once in a while and see if there’s any petticoats to rustle.”

  Dunn set down his glass, empty now, and smacked his lips again. “Been known to do that myself. Not as much as when I was your age, but sometimes it happens.”

  “What kind of places have they got in Thorne?”

  “They don’t have a whore house, if that’s what you mean. But they’ve got a couple of saloons and then all the normal stuff. Store, hotel, stable, blacksmith shop.” Dunn shrugged. “Nothin’ new.” He took out a tobacco pouch, and with his thumb and first two fingers lifted a stringy wad and tucked it into his left cheek.

  “Good place to start, though, I guess.”

  “I’d say. If you can’t find anything else, and if you’re not superstitious, you can try gettin’ on at the Redstone.”

  Will smiled. “Shall I tell them you recommended it?”

  Dunn spit out a fleck of tobacco with the tip of his tongue. “Oh, I don’t think Ingram would care. But the big boss, Donovan, I don’t believe he would be impressed.”

  “Oh.”

  “He likes people to kiss his ass, and I don’t do that. I’m more likely to say what I think.” He picked up a can from the floor and spit into it. “’Course, maybe that’s why I’m here and he’s there. And that’s all right, too.”

  The town of Thorne looked normal enough, with all the businesses lined along the Main Street. Houses were scattered out behind on each side, with plenty of vacant lots among them. Here and there a bottle on a rubbish heap caught the late-afternoon rays of the sun. Smoke rose from a few stovepipes, so Will imagined some house holds were getting started on the evening meal. He heard a couple of dogs barking, but he did not see any women or children.

  The first saloon he came to was called the Lucky Diamond. The sign had a picture of a gemstone, balanced upright on a point like a child’s top, with flat tapering sides and a crown with a dozen facets. Figuring that one saloon was as good as another, Will swung down and tied his horse. He heard men’s voices inside as he stepped onto the sidewalk and moved toward the door.

  Inside, the place had not yet been lit up for the evening, but a lamp above each end of the bar kept it from being as dim as Dunn’s place. A few men stood along the bar, while behind it, on a stool, sat a man who could pass for a brother of the jailer in Enfield.

  Will called for a beer and took a glance at the other patrons, who looked like the regular run of working men. He laid a silver dollar on the counter, which the bartender acknowledged as he set down the beer.

  The first man down the bar had his back to Will. He wore the outfit of a range rider, including chaps, which not all of the riders on the northern ranges wore at this time of year. He also had the handle of a six-gun hanging out in view. Will had already decided not to ask for Al Vetch at all and not to mention the Redstone right away, but rather to find out what any of these men might have to offer.

  After a few minutes, the man in the chaps turned, and Will got a full view of him. As a physical type, he looked like other men Will had known—slender and not very tall, hook-nosed and deep-eyed. He had light brown hair visible below a large-brimmed, mouse-colored hat. His face was clean shaven, and he no doubt put some stock in his appearance, for he had a large red handkerchief loose around his neck and tied in a thick knot. He wore a denim jacket, open in front, and beneath that a red cotton shirt. With two breast pockets and a row of buttons all the way down, the shirt would cost nearly twice the price of a common work shirt. Hanging out beneath the flap of the left pocket was the yellow string and circular tab of a sack of Bull Durham. The man also had a lit cigarette in his left hand, which he rested on the bar near a glass of whiskey. His right hand hung by its thumb at the top of his chaps, not far from the pistol handle.

  After a few seconds, Will said, “Good afternoon.”

  “Same to you.” The man moved the cigarette to his mouth and pulled in a lungful.

  “Time of day when a drink goes good.”

  The other man puffed out a cloud of smoke and let it drift upward in front of him. “Which way’d you come in?”

  Will adjusted to the question. “From the east.”

  “All the way from Cheyenne?”

  “Not recently.”

  With the cigarette between his fingers, the man lifted his glass and tossed off the rest of his whiskey. “People come from every direction. Most of the time, they’re not goin’ to any place better.”

  Will noted a Southern accent by now. “Might be. Sometimes they’re lookin’ for opportunity, and sometimes they just want a better climate.”

  “Anyone who’d come here for the climate has got the brains of a sheep.”

  “Oh, there’s more than one kind of climate.”

  “Meanin’?”

  “Some folks come west to get away from the fever and muggy weather, some go south to get away from the cold, and some go just about anywhere to get away from the hot water.”

  “Plenty of them.” The man cast a glance over Will, as if to suggest he might be one of the latter. Then he said, “How far west you headed? You know the whole country’s drier’n hell right now.”

  Will took a sip of his beer. “Heard that. I don’t have a real destination, though. I’ve been stoppin’ in each town to see what kind of work there might be.”

  “Not much. I can tell you that.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t take much. Not for just one man. Work a while, maybe for the season.”


  The bartender appeared with a bottle. “Another one, Max?”

  “Sure.” As the bartender filled the glass, Max took a last pull on his cigarette, dropped it on the floor, and ground it out with his spurred boot. Then he turned his unfriendly eyes on Will again. “Last I heard, the most work was in Idaho. A couple of big mines are goin’ at it.”

  “Something to remember.”

  “’Course it’s hard work, and some fellas don’t like that.”

  “Work’s work.”

  “Somethin’ to talk about, for a lot of men.”

  Will was picking up a note of antagonism. “How’s that?”

  “They talk about work more than they do it. Work a couple of days, drift for a month.”

  “I guess some are like that.”

  “You guess.”

  Will turned to his drink and didn’t answer.

  “You don’t look like you’ve been worn down too much by work.”

  “Maybe I handle it well.”

  “Handle what? A mop stick, a pitchfork?”

  A shaft of light entered the saloon as two cow-punchers came in through the door. Will took advantage of the distraction and kept to himself.

  One of the punchers walked over to Max, clapped him on the shoulder, and said, “Well if it ain’t Max Aden. What are you up to?”

  Max shrugged away the man’s hand. “Same as always.”

  The puncher looked at Will and said, “Makin’ friends, huh?” Then he and his partner walked farther down the bar.

  “How about it?” said the surly man in chaps.

  “Mr. Aden, I don’t know what you’re gettin’ at.”

  “Just Aden to you. Don’t mister me.”

  “Good enough.”

  Aden was standing up straight now. “Well, how about it?”