Trouble at the Redstone (Leisure Western)

by John D. Nesbitt

  They’re scattered all over the prairie,

  And plowin’ it up to grow wheat.

  “Not one out of ten has a woman,

  So lonesome it is on this land,

  That long, lovely letters get written

  To make the adventure seem grand.

  “You’re young and you’re sweet and you’re pretty,

  And I hope you don’t think I’m unkind,

  But a maiden like you deserves warning,

  Before she walks into things blind.

  “That six-month vacation you mentioned

  Will be spent in the ice and the snow,

  Knockin’ mud off the toes of the chickens,

  Milkin’ cows when it’s forty below.

  “The other six months aren’t much better

  With the wind and the dust and the heat,

  Then a dark cloud that comes out of nowhere,

  With a hailstorm to flatten the wheat.

  “On Monday you wash clothes for the baby, On Tuesdays you scrub and you bake,

  On Wednesdays dig spuds in the garden And keep an eye out for the snake.”

  “Enough!” said the maiden, now blushing, “You’re making me feel like a child.

  Is there nothing out here in this country To make all the hardship worthwhile?

  “If you weren’t such a clear-eyed young fellow

  I’d think you were telling me this

  To make me forget about Johnson

  And his promise of marital bliss.

  “So tell me, young man, on your honor, What better things you can propose—

  Is yours a soft life of warm sunshine Where harm never comes to the rose?”

  “Oh, no,” said the cowboy, still smiling,

  “The only rose I know is wild.

  It blooms for a few days in springtime

  When the weather is fragile and mild.

  “But the petals soon blemish and wither,

  And the rosebush goes back to the thorn.

  So my life is not one to entice you

  And I fear it would make you forlorn.

  “But there’s one thing I have over Johnson,

  I can tell by the look in your eye—

  You don’t mind a straight-talkin’ cowboy

  Who can’t find it in him to lie.

  “And at least you know what I look like—

  You don’t seem repulsed by the clothes

  Of an honest range-ridin’ cowpuncher

  Who admits there are thorns on the rose.”

  “That’s true,” said the flaxen-haired maiden,

  “You seem to be honest and kind.

  But a young girl has got to be careful

  With someone she meets the first time.”

  “It’s all for the best,” said the puncher,

  “To not take a step you’ll regret,

  And I hope you’re convinced not to marry

  This wheat farmer you’ve never met.

  “And if you don’t mind, I’ll invite you

  In the light of this warm afternoon,

  To stroll through the cactus and sagebrush,

  And see the wild roses in bloom.”

  So off went the flaxen-haired maiden

  To stroll arm in arm with this man,

  As meadowlarks sang to the whistle

  Of the train pulling out of Cheyenne.

  If ever this story has a moral,

  It might go like this, I suppose:

  Don’t promise your love to a stranger,

  But don’t fear the thorns on the rose.

  Don’t promise your love to a stranger,

  But don’t fear the thorns on the rose.

  When Calvert finished the delivery, he gave a slight bow to the applause from the other men and sat down.

  “That’s quite a poem,” said Ingram. “It’s longer than I remembered.”

  “Oh, it’s the same as it was last year.”

  “They do raise a lot of wheat there,” Brad offered. “Dry-land farming.”

  “They do,” said Calvert. “I was working for an outfit north of Cheyenne when I first started the song—or poem, I should say. The punchers were jokin’ about all the wheat farmers named Johnson, and those first few stanzas kept runnin’ through my head until I finally had to get ’em out.”

  Aden took an audible breath through his nose. “Cheyenne’s a long ways from here. Even if they grow wheat there, that doesn’t mean they can do it just anywhere.”

  Ingram took the toothpick from his mouth. “I like the part where he tells her what the work is really like.”

  “That’s right,” Brad Way agreed. “Of course he was doin’ it for his own good, but he opened her eyes a little.”

  “Then he walks her down the primrose path,” said Ingram. “Bright-eyed girl of sixteen, and him a worldly-wise cowpuncher. It sounds like you in the story, Max.”

  Aden still did not look up. “At least she’s the right kind, even if she’s a foreigner.”

  “You mean white,” said Calvert.

  “Blonde-haired.”

  “Maybe tomorrow I’ll do a ballad about a dark-haired señorita or an Indian maiden.”

  Aden set down his knife and reached for the Bull Durham in front of him on the table. “I’ve heard a couple of them,” he said. “One’s about three old whores in Mexico, and one’s about an Indian maid who puts sand up her flue.”

  Calvert rapped the bowl of his pipe on the heel of his boot. “You’re always right in there with a smile and a good word, aren’t you?”

  Ingram spoke up. “What was the name of the outfit you worked for back then, Jim?”

  “Fella named Herring. First name of Red.”

  “Red Herring? You must be kidding. Was that the real name?”

  “Nah,” said Calvert. “It was the Delmore outfit. But then the Swan Land and Cattle Company bought them out, and Tom Horn and a couple of others went to work for ’em, and it wasn’t fun to work there anymore.”

  “So you ended up here,” said the foreman, with a smile. “Is this fun?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “It’s work,” said Aden as he rolled his cigarette. “It doesn’t have to be fun.”

  Will shook out a loop and roped the bay as it backed away from the hay manger and tried to turn aside. The horse knew which animal he was after, and once he had it on the end of his rope, the game was over. Will dug in his heels to turn the horse, and then he walked toward it, coiling the slack.

  Being the first one out to the corral again, Will did not hurry. As he patted the horse on the neck, he looked out across the rail to the horse pasture. He was barely able to pick out his own horse, the dark brown, in the twilight before sunrise, but he had a clear view of Ben Forrester’s buckskin closer in. With the feeling that things were in their right places, he turned to walk the bay horse to the corral gate. He stopped short at the sight of Max Aden standing just inside the gate.

  Aden was dressed as usual in his hat, denim jacket, and chaps. He had his rope tucked under his right arm as he pulled his gloves snug and flexed his hands. He showed no inclination to step aside.

  Will moved forward. “Excuse me,” he said when he was a couple of yards away.

  “I’ve got a couple of words for you first.”

  Will stopped. “Say ’em, and let me get by. I’ve got work to do.”

  “I’ll tell you this. You’d better watch your p’s and q’s.”

  The remark caught Will by surprise. He had made sure to keep out of all the banter and bickering the night before, and he had steered clear of Aden in every other way. He frowned as he said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You’d like to let on you don’t know.”

  “Oh, shove along. I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about.”

  “The hell you don’t.”

  “The hell I do, the hell I don’t. You’re just tryin’ to pick another fight, and I’m not goin’ for it. Let me by.”

  “
You don’t listen.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m tellin’ you to watch yourself. Don’t put your nose in places it don’t belong.”

  An image of Pearl flickered through Will’s mind. It was the only thing he could imagine Aden was referring to, unless it was the conversations he had had with Jim Calvert, way off on the range. He knew Calvert wouldn’t have said anything to Aden, even if he himself was a company man, and there was no way Aden could have been eavesdropping. No, it had to be Pearl. Blanche must have said something that had gotten around to Aden. But even at that, what was his motive? Aden didn’t seem to have any interest in the girl—or in any Indian, for that matter—so it couldn’t be jealousy. Beyond that, Will hadn’t even gotten the chance to ask her anything in particular, such as about Ben Forrester.

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” he said, looking at Aden. “I haven’t been puttin’ my nose in any place that concerns you. What I say or do is none of your business. So just let me by.”

  Aden stepped aside, and as Will went past, Aden tried the same trick he had used in the Lucky Diamond. He stepped on Will’s spur, making him stumble and causing the horse to shy.

  Will caught his balance and turned around as the anger surged up. He dropped his rope, and with both hands he grabbed Aden by the open jacket and slammed him up against the corral rails.

  “Look here,” he said, noting the surprise in Aden’s muddy brown eyes. “We’re not goin’ to fight, not now, but I’m not goin’ to put up with your maneuvers, either. Now if you want to fight and get us both fired, you can give it a try, but you can be sure I’ll let Earl know how it got started. If you want to fight somewhere else, off the ranch, we’ll do it fair and square. Meanwhile, follow your own advice and watch your own p’s and q’s.” He relaxed his hold on the man’s jacket and stepped back.

  Aden’s coiled rope slipped down to his right hand, and he made a flinching motion as if he was going to raise it. Then his hand was still. “Stay out of my way,” he said, with his voice tense.

  “You stay out of mine.”

  Will gathered up his rope and slid the wooden latch on the gate. As he raised his head, he saw Jim Calvert and Brad Way, ropes in hand, looking on. Calvert had an amused expression, while Brad had the vacant look of a man who was waiting in line at the chuck wagon. Will pushed the gate open and walked through, raising his eyebrows as he handed Calvert the gate.

  “Go on in,” he said. “The water’s fine.”

  Will took the horse to the hitching rail in front of the barn and went to work on him. The more he thought about the flare-up with Aden, the more he was convinced it was caused by his attempt at a few words with Pearl. He wondered if Aden heard about it directly from Blanche or from someone who heard it from her, like Ingram. More likely the latter. That could have been what had kept Aden in the cook-shack the morning before, and then he took it upon himself to accost Will. Meanwhile, Blanche clamped down on her own, keeping Pearl out of sight. This was a tight bunch, but all they did was make him want to know more.

  Chapter Seven

  That evening at supper, Will felt that the atmosphere had lightened up somewhat. Donovan, all smiles, had called for Pearl to bring the coffee, and her glance had flickered once to meet Will’s. Aden was silent, Ingram made his usual goodwilled comments, and Blanche moved back and forth without breathing fire and scorching the tabletop. Will could not get a sense of how closely these people shared their information, but he formed the general impression that the incident of his asking Pearl for bacon grease, so trivial in itself, had blown over.

  A couple of minutes after Donovan left, Ingram took out his watch and wound it. “Boys,” he said, “you can sleep in tomorrow.”

  The cigarette-rolling and pipe-stuffing came to a pause.

  “That’s right. Frank said you can have the day off.”

  Will had been keeping track of the days like anyone else, and he had noticed no mention was made the Sunday before. Donovan must have decided now that they were caught up enough to take a Sunday off.

  “I won’t argue,” said Calvert.

  Brad Way smiled. “Neither will I.”

  “Well, it was Frank’s idea. You’ve got him to thank.”The foreman’s tone made Will feel as if they were all orphans and the benevolent Mr. Donovan had left a shiny new penny under each of their plates.

  “I wish I would’ve known earlier,” Aden muttered. “I coulda gone to town.”

  “You’ve got all day tomorrow, Max. Get some rest.”

  Will smiled to himself as he finished rolling his cigarette. He had heard from Calvert that in addition to not smoking, Ingram did not drink. Perhaps to keep his men from going to town on Saturday night and perhaps to practice his usual method of not giving out information any sooner than he had to, he had waited until this late in the evening.

  “Plenty of time for that later.” Aden pulled the string of the Bull Durham sack with his teeth, and as he did so, Will noted that the man got in the last word whenever he could.

  Will saddled his own horse in front of the barn, where the midmorning sun shone on its dark brown coat and warmed it to the touch. As he hadn’t ridden the horse in over a week, he thought it would be a good idea to take it out. In addition, it gave a casual aspect to his going on a ride. No one had asked him what he was doing, and he hadn’t said anything, but he took his time all the same.

  He had the sense that someone was watching him, but no one else was in the ranch yard. As he looped his latigo and tightened the front cinch, he looked across the horse’s back and caught brief glances at the ranch house, the cookshack, and the bunk house. He did not see movement at any window or door. Then, as he walked his horse out a few steps, Earl Ingram appeared at the bunk house door, leaned against the doorjamb, and raised his hand in a small wave. Will returned the gesture, then gathered his reins and mounted up. As he rode past the cookshack at a distance of ten yards, he saw a pale shape move back from the window a few feet. He was tempted to tip his hat, but instead he looked down at his horse’s hooves as if he were watching how the animal stepped out.

  Once he had crossed the first rise west of the ranch buildings, he turned his horse and headed northeast. He let the horse lope for about a mile, then slowed him to a fast walk for a half mile farther. Down in a swale where it looked as if a trickle of a stream ran for part of the year, he saw the remains of a sod cabin. The roof poles were gone and the walls were falling in. As he was in no hurry, he rode close to the ruins of the little shanty. On the west side, two cedar trees about four feet high looked as if they had reached their limit with no one around to water them anymore. They weren’t in a place where they would catch any runoff or even have started on their own. A few yards farther out, a clump of parched wild rosebush stood at the head of a six-by-three area covered with pebbles and loose bits of sandstone. Feeling like an intruder, he touched his hat brim and rode on.

  He figured it must be one of the places Ingram was talking about, although he could not see evidence of anyone trying to plant crops. More likely, someone had tried to make a go of it with a few head of stock and a quarter section, and after too many disappointments he had called it quits. Will imagined someone had carried water to those wild roses for at least a season. He wondered who was buried in that lonely place—a sad wife, a little boy who found a rattlesnake, a little girl whose fever wouldn’t go away. If it was the man, the others probably wouldn’t have stuck it out long enough to get the wild roses a start in their new place.

  Will shook off the sad thoughts by recalling Ingram again. The foreman was a company man, all right, justifying what ever Donovan was up to in his buying up of smaller land holdings. For all Will knew, Donovan might have bought the parcel Will had just seen, or he might have his eye on it.

  From what Will had seen and heard, an outfit that was buying up other claims usually concentrated on places with water, under the general principle that whoever controlled the water controlled the range. If a place was abandoned
and dry, a man could run his cattle on it without paying a dime, although he might have to cut a fence or two. It was hard to say what kinds of places Donovan was trying to acquire. Maybe the man had a map and a checkerboard plan. People said the open range was coming to an end, and maybe Donovan had a vision of how to keep from getting fenced out of things he wanted or how to keep from having his free movement blocked between his own holdings. Will stopped his horse on a rise and scanned the country. All he could see was the wide, rolling surface that stretched away from him. Someone with a plan would have a map he could look down on, grids he could mea sure, points where he could center a compass.

  Dunn Station came into view before the sun reached straight up. The building and corrals sat motionless in the full glare of the day, and the hitching rail showed no signs of Sunday visitors. Off to the left, a crow perched on the rail fence by the oil seep. Will took his horse on in at a walk.

  When he had come within fifteen yards of the station, the front door opened and the proprietor appeared.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said.

  “Sure is.”

  “I was wonderin’ when I’d see you again. I heard you got on at the Redstone.”

  “Oh, did Max Aden tell you?”

  Dunn’s heavy brows went up. “No, he didn’t. He don’t come by here very much. And I don’t miss him.” With a glance at the horse, Dunn said, “Go ahead and water him if you like. You know where it is. Then come on in.”

  “Thanks.” Will took the horse around back, let him drink about a gallon, and led him out front again to tie him up.

  Inside the dim building, he looked in a corner to let his eyes adjust. Dunn was sitting in what was apparently his favorite chair, with his spit can at his feet.

  “So what brings you here today? Are you on the job, or did that skinflint Donovan give you a day off?”

  Will took a seat. “He let us enjoy the Sabbath.”

  “Hah! He’s a good one.” Dunn’s dark eyes moved. “Can I get you anything?”