“I figured that.”
“And as far as why I’m so curious, I think anyone would be if he came in and took over where a man got killed and everyone’s mum.”
“Oh, yeah. Same goes for someone whose ridin’ partner got killed for no apparent reason.”
Will looked at the ash on his cigarette. “And as scowly as Aden is, you don’t think he had anything to do with it.”
“No, I don’t. Not this thing with Ben, anyway.” Calvert palmed the bowl of his pipe and drew a couple of puffs. “I’m like you. I can’t make the connection.”
“I’ve got the feelin’ that some of these people are in cahoots, but I don’t know where to start.”
Calvert shook his head. “Neither do I.”
“Well, let’s suppose a person started at the top, then.”
“The old man?”
Will squinted as he took a drag on his cigarette. He knew that some punchers called the big boss or owner of an outfit “the old man” regardless of his age, but even at that, whenever he heard Donovan referred to by that term, he thought it made the man seem more harmless than he might be. “Yeah, him,” he said. “He talks so sweet about everything, you’d think he’s got to be coverin’ up for something.”
“Oh, he might be.”
“He seems like he’s got other irons in the fire.”
“I believe he does.”
Will paused. “Do you know what he’s up to, then, other than honestly branding his cattle for all the world to see?”
Calvert tamped his pipe again and gave it a draw. “The way I understand it, he’s tryin’ to buy up land and push out the little fellas—homesteaders and the like. The story is, he’s got a partnership of foreign investors, Englishmen or Scotchmen, that want to run a big herd of cattle. This is supposed to be in addition to his own holdin’s.”
“Huh. I wonder how that could lead to a young fella gettin’ killed.”
“That’s what I can’t see, either.”
Will took a last drag on his cigarette and pinched out the narrow stub. “You don’t think he was some kind of detective, do you? Some fella who worked his way into the crew so he could get information for a party who was leery of getting swindled, and then the swindlers found out?”
Calvert shook his head. “I don’t think so. The kid was open about everything. He talked about his past, his family in Iowa. He got letters from home. I suppose a fella could make all that up, but I don’t think he did. He wasn’t that deep. Besides, he wasn’t new.
He worked here last year and came back again this spring.”
“Well, I guess we’ll have to hang on to that part. How about the other part, about the investor deal? Do you think it’s on the up-and-up?”
“I don’t know. After all, no one has seen these foreign investors. Leastwise, they haven’t come around here. I wouldn’t be surprised if Donovan was buying up land for some deeper reason, but I don’t know what it would be.”
“Are there any other partners, like from around here, who have figured into this?”
“Not that I know of.”
Will hesitated and then took his chance. “Have you ever heard of a man called Al Vetch?”
Calvert frowned. “No, I haven’t. Who’s he?”
“I’m not sure myself. Just someone whose name I heard, and I thought I should be on the lookout for him.”
Calvert shook his head. “Sure doesn’t ring a bell.”
“And as far as that goes, I’ve never heard the name, either, much less repeated it.”
“Then it’s damn sure I’ve never heard it.” Then in a louder voice, Calvert said, “I think bacon grease is a good idea. I use it on cuts and sores like that, too.”
Chapter Six
In the gray light before sunrise, Will tied the sorrel horse to the hitching rail in front of the barn. Although he had brushed the animal and looked him over the day before and had led him around the yard before turning him into the corral to eat hay overnight, he had not ridden this horse. The last time the horse had been ridden, Ben Forrester had been shot from the saddle.
Will took his time brushing the horse, then combing the mane and tail. He laid on the saddle blanket, smoothed it to make sure it had no wrinkles, and placed the pad on top of that. Next he swung the saddle up and let it settle onto the horse’s back. Still taking care not to make any abrupt movements, he reached under the barrel of the horse and drew the front cinch toward him. He ran the latigo through the cinch ring one, two, three times and snugged it. The horse hadn’t blown up against the cinch, so Will buckled the rear cinch with no trouble. Next he brought the headstall up to the sorrel’s ears and slipped the bit into his mouth. With the bridle in place, Will brought the neck rope up over the horse’s ears and down past the nose, then passed the reins through it. He coiled the rope and tied it to the right side of his saddle, checked to see that the left one was still in place, and turned the horse away from the hitching rail to walk him out a ways.
The door of the cookshack opened, and Max Aden came striding out, his large-brimmed hat bobbing. His chaps made a rumpling sound as his boot heels struck the hard ground. He hawked and spit, then lifted a half-smoked cigarette to his mouth. The tip glowed as he took a drag.
Will had been the first one to leave the breakfast table, as he had wanted to be able to take his time with the sorrel. He hadn’t paid much attention to the others, but he had been aware of Calvert and Brad Way going out to fetch their mounts. Aden must have had something confidential to discuss with the foreman, and now he was in a rush to get ready.
Will led his horse to the barn door and watched as Calvert and Way finished saddling their horses and led them out. Aden came in with a speckled white horse on his rope. He tied the animal, slapped the blanket on without shaking it or brushing the horse, and then swung the saddle high and let it slam into place with the stirrups rattling and the buckles jingling. He pulled the cinches quick and hard, giving the horse a knee in the ribs in case he had taken in air. As Aden took off the rope and held his arm around the animal’s neck, he slipped on the bridle. In less than two minutes he had his mount ready to go, and he pulled on his whitish gloves as he led the horse outside. Without a word he swung into the saddle and took off at a trot, with Brad Way just turning out his stirrup and pausing to gaze at his impetuous partner. Then Brad swung aboard and trotted to catch up.
Jim Calvert, meanwhile, stood with a quizzical smile on his face. “You don’t seem to be in nearly the hurry,” he said.
“I wanted to take my time with this horse. I didn’t know if he was going to be skittish. It doesn’t look like it. Why don’t you go ahead and get on, and then I will.”
Calvert put his foot in the stirrup and swung on up. Will did the same, and as he settled in and caught his right stirrup, he felt the sorrel move out at a smooth, steady pace. Calvert looked back, Will nodded, and they were off on their morning ride.
Their work took them to a part of the ranch Will had not yet seen, east and a little south of headquarters. He noticed the grass was dry and sparse, and he found the small bunches of cattle at broad distances from one another. Almost all the cattle had Donovan’s two brands, and he saw no unbranded calves.
The landscape itself held little variety, consisting of wide, rolling country with small dry-wash gullies. He did not come across any surprise canyons or sudden gashes, and after two hours of riding he could not remember having seen a single tree. A thin carpet of grass, cactus, and sagebrush, none of it stirrup high, stretched away in all directions.
Will found a high spot where, with his back to the sun, he could ponder this land that seemed almost empty. With its monotonous surface and its thin scattering of cattle, it offered little to study. As before, he had seen no evidence of shady enterprise—not so much as a lopped ear or tipped horn—and no sign of animals passing through. The landscape did not lend itself to out-of-the-way trails or tucked-away hidey-holes, and he concluded it must be poor country for rustlers and horse thi
eves.
As he squatted in the shade of the sorrel horse and continued to gaze across the broad surface, he considered the obvious. If he saw nothing out of order with the livestock, then maybe everything was on the square in that area. Still, he believed his deep-down feeling that something was not right and that if he could put things together here at the Redstone, it would help him find Al Vetch. He gazed at the land again, as if he could read the answer, but all he got in return was a mute stare.
Will returned to another set of details that evening at supper. Donovan came to the cookshack, smiling as before and bobbing his head as he greeted each one of the hired men. Will noted again the sloping shoulders, the belly that sagged like a soft-boiled egg, and the gun belt that seemed out of place.
“This hot weather doesn’t seem to want to let up,” said the boss as he took his place on the bench.
“These boys like it,” said Ingram. “They don’t like to have things too easy.”
Donovan gave a little laugh, put his hand on the white pistol grip, and shifted in his seat.
Ingram went on. “Take Max here. He wears a jacket up to the hottest part of the day. Then he’s nice and cool when he takes it off.”
Donovan turned his head and smiled, showing his wattled neck. “Is that right, Max?”
Aden kept his gaze on the table as he said, “It doesn’t get hot here.”
“It does to me,” said Brad Way.
Donovan put on his smile again. “I think you and I are the same.”
A movement from the kitchen caused Will to look up. Blanche came forward with two platters of beef fried in various sizes. She held back her florid face as she set the meat on the table, and she did not take any visible notice of the boss. He, meanwhile, sat with his nose wrinkled and his head raised, as if he was appraising his own generosity at the food being served.
A minute later, Blanche returned with two plates of fried potatoes. Again, she and Donovan seemed to ignore each other, but as she turned away, he spoke.
“Blanche, bring me a knife, would you? I don’t have one.”
She came back with a paring knife and laid it on the table next to his plate.
“Thanks,” he said, without looking at her. “You could bring the coffee now, too.”
Will waited as the other men served themselves. He was hoping Pearl would bring out the coffeepot, but Blanche herself delivered it, again without acknowledging that anyone sat at the table. Will caught another glance of Donovan, who was pushing down hard on the kitchen knife as he cut off a corner of meat. The older man’s face had a rigid cast to it, with the corners of his mouth turned down. Then he lifted the small piece of meat, opened his mouth without changing the stiff expression, and began to chew with small, mincing movements.
Will served himself and cut into his piece of beef. It was tough, all right, probably shoulder meat from the grain of it, but it tasted good after a long day of dust and tepid water.
Ingram poured a cup of coffee for the boss and then one for himself. “Even though we don’t like things to be too easy, everyone likes this part of the day.”
“It’s a welcome pleasure,” agreed the boss. “Eat good, sleep good, and feel good, whenever you can.” He paused with his fork above his plate as he gave his bland smile. “That’s what I’ve found. Keep your men well fed, and pay ’em an honest wage. Of course, some men aren’t even happy with that, but that’s all right, too. I always say, if a man’s not happy where he is, don’t try to keep him from goin’ someplace where he thinks he’ll have it better.”
“Sure,” said Ingram. “I’ve seen it. You’ve got a fella that thinks he should have a better job than night wrangler, and that’s all you’ve got for him, and he up and quits. Then you find out he spent the rest of the season gettin’ calluses from handlin’ a pitchfork and a shovel.”
Donovan dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. “All work is good work.”
“Oh, yeah,” agreed the foreman. “Lots of good men have done every kind of work.”
No one else spoke for the next several minutes, so the only sounds came from the meal in progress. All the fried pieces of meat disappeared, as did the slices of potato. As the men took out their smoking materials, Donovan pushed his plate away and swung his leg over the bench.
“Well, that’s it for me,” he said. “I wish you all a good evening.” As everyone returned the courtesy, he stood up and bobbed his head around, smiling. Then, with a glance at the kitchen door, he left.
Ingram took out his watch and wound it. “Seems like the grass turned dry early this year,” he said. “Not much rain, and now this heat.”
Aden shook out his match and blew a double stream of smoke through his nostrils. “It doesn’t get hot here,” he said. “People just think it does.”
Will did not have anything to add to the topic of the weather, so he listened to the sounds from the kitchen. He could tell there were two people working there. He thought it was too bad Pearl hadn’t come out, as he had not seen her since he asked her for the bacon grease, but he figured Blanche was keeping her on a close tether. Then again, Donovan didn’t call for her, either.
Calvert spoke up. “Maybe folks think it’s hot because it is to them. They just haven’t suffered as much as you have, Max.”
Aden rubbed his yellowed thumb against his index finger. “It’s not hot,” he said.
A slight breeze drifted through the bunk house from the back door to the front. Jim Calvert sat near the front door, as he often did, and smoked his pipe. Aden sat at the table, close to the lantern light, digging at the old sandbur spines in his left hand. Earl Ingram sat near the dusty wood stove, not far from the table. Brad Way sat on the edge of his bunk, shaving the bark off a two-foot length of chokecherry wood about an inch and a half thick. Will lounged on his own bunk, the farthest from the center of the little gathering.
As the subject of the weather had pretty well run its course before the men left the supper table, the talk in the bunk house had been running to homesteaders and how a lot of them couldn’t make it and had to sell out.
“Just as well,” said Aden. “Go back where they came from. Half of ’em don’t talk English. Swedes, Norwegians, bohunks.”
Ingram seemed to ignore the comment. “Thing is, it’s hard to make a livin’ on a quarter section. Especially when it’s all grassland, and not very good grass at that. It’s better if a bigger outfit can hold together a few sections, not have it cut up into so many little pieces. It can get some production then, even if it doesn’t come to very much per acre. People want to raise crops, they should do it where there’s more rainfall. Isn’t that right, Jim?”
Calvert stuck his little finger in the bowl of his pipe. “A lot of people have gone broke tryin’ to farm dry country, thinkin’ the rain would follow the plow. It’s a quaint notion, but faith doesn’t water the crops.”
Ingram went on. “This country was made for grazin’, and it should stay that way. Look at what was here before—antelope and buffalo. Hell, the Indians knew better than to try to raise corn here.”
“Anyone ought to,” said Aden without looking up.
Brad Way spoke. “I think the ditch projects are changin’ some of that. Like you said the other day, times are changin’.”
“In some places,” Ingram answered. “But there’s no ditches here.”
Brad paused in shaving the stick. “Up north and over east there are.”
“Well, that’s fine. They can water their alfalfa and corn, and have winter feed.”
“More winter work on those places,” Brad said. “Not that I’d care for some of it.”
“Me neither,” said the foreman. “Pitchin’ hay in the ice and snow.” He paused as a glow of recognition lit his features. “Say, Jim, that reminds me of something. That poem you recited last year. Do you still remember it?”
Calvert raised his eyebrows as he peered over the bowl of his pipe. “I suppose I do. I made it up myself.”
“You ha
ven’t forgotten it?”
“Oh, no. I run through it once in a while when I’m off on my own.”
“Well, why don’t you go through it now?”
Calvert looked around at the other men. “If no one minds.”
Will nodded. “Sure.”
“I’d like to hear it,” said Brad. “I didn’t know you made up poems.”
“Didn’t you hear it before?”
“Not if it was last year. You must be thinkin’ of Ben.”
“Go ahead,” said Ingram. “You don’t mind, do you, Max?”
Aden answered, again without looking up from his self-surgery. “I could hear it again.”
Calvert stood up and cleared his throat by way of a short cough. “Well, here it is. I call it ‘Thorns on the Rose.’ It’s kind of a story poem. I started it about ten years ago, and it just kind of grew on me.” Then, in a singsong tempo, he delivered the poem.
A flaxen-haired maiden from Sweden
Stepped down from the train in Cheyenne.
She said, “I’m a wheat farmer’s sweetheart.
I’ve come here to marry my man.
“I love him though I’ve never met him,
His photograph I’ve never seen—
But here I am now in this city,
To be his sweet bride at sixteen.
“He’s written me long, lovely letters
About the big farm he has here—
One hundred and sixty acres,
And six months’ vacation each year.
“He tells me I’ll find it delightful
Where winters are generally warm—
So please, if you can, won’t you tell me
The way to the Johnson farm?”
Well, the man she addressed was a cowboy
Who’d just ridden in from the range.
He said, “If it’s Johnsons you’re seekin’,
There’s a hundred from here to LaGrange.
“Them and their cousins, the Nelsons,
They came out in droves from the East.
Trouble at the Redstone (Leisure Western) Page 7