We rode into the yard and dismounted. The tailgate of the wagon had been let down, and I identified the dark object as a sheet-iron coal bin with a slanting top and four knobby cast-iron legs. The two individuals who had transported it had finished untying and were putting the ropes into the back of the wagon.
I recognized the taller one first. He had a large, ungainly shape and leaned forward. He was not wearing a hat or cap. Though he was balding, I knew he was about my age. He had close brows, brown like his hair, and his eyes had a cloudy appearance. His name came to me: Otto Trent.
His companion was short and slight of build. In spite of the weather, he wore a lightweight jacket buttoned up to the neck and with his shirttails hanging out below. His trousers sagged low and bunched up over his clodhopper shoes. Like Otto, he did not wear a hat or a cap. He had tousled hair the color of old straw, blank blue eyes, and a few days’ worth of stubble on his face. As he stared at me, I recalled his name as well—Carl Granger. Like Otto, he was close to my age.
The back door opened, and Emma stepped outside. She was wearing a gray dress and bonnet, and my heart skipped. She fluttered a wave at me and stopped to speak with Otto—loud enough, I thought, for our benefit.
“My father will be out in a minute. And look. More help arrived just at the right moment.”
Otto spoke in his deep, slow voice. “I think the two of us can carry it, unless we have to go downstairs.”
“We’ll see.”
The door opened again, and Del Bancroft stepped outside. “What, ho,” he said, smiling. “Extra help.”
“Glad to,” said Dunbar. He handed me his reins and gave me a knowing look. “I don’t think there’s room for more than four of us to lay hands on that thing, so you can hold the horses. Water ’em if you’d like.”
I stood back with the horses and watched as Del and Dunbar took over. With the help of the two lads, they scooted the coal bin to the back of the wagon, lowered it, and carried it to the house. Emma held the door open. When the last set of heels disappeared, she closed the door and walked toward me. I motioned at the water trough, and she fell in alongside me as I led the horses.
“Nice to see you again so soon,” she said.
“It was Dunbar’s idea to go for a ride. These are his horses.”
She drew her head back and looked them over. “Nicelooking.”
“Yes, they are.”
“Warm day for a ride, just to visit.”
“I didn’t notice it. I was surprised to see someone here.”
“Oh, Otto and Carl?”
“Well, yes. I didn’t know the mercantile did work like this on Sunday.”
“They were going to deliver it yesterday, but they had bad luck. One of the horses went lame halfway from town, and Carl had to take it back, riding the other one without a saddle. He came back with another horse this morning, and they set out again. Poor Otto had to spend the night alone with the wagon.”
“Don’t they wear hats?”
“Oh, yes. I think they took them off in order to handle that heavy coal bin.”
We arrived at the trough, and I let Dunbar’s two horses drink.
“Otto’s the gentlest soul. We went to school together, you now.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that.”
“He loves all kinds of animals.”
“Is he the one who brought you a toad and a baby rabbit?”
“Oh, don’t be mean. He’s never brought me anything. This is the first time I’ve seen him in a couple of years.”
“I’m sorry. But I have to admit I was afraid I’d come out here and see someone else on a Sunday visit.”
“Ha-ha. Like Boots Larose?”
My heartbeat jumped. “Does he come by here?”
“He stopped to water his horse one day, and he passed a remark about you. But he’s not my type at all, so don’t worry.”
“What did he say about me?”
“Nothing much. He asked me if I liked boys who were still wet behind the ears, like you.”
I recalled what a petty thing he had done when he kicked my stirrup, and I realized I hadn’t felt any aftereffects when I dismounted. “And what did you tell him?”
“I told him I didn’t like any boys.”
“I hope you didn’t mean it.”
“I think I did at the moment. He would make me not like men or boys or anything. If I hadn’t been out brushing my horse, I would have walked away and not talked to him at all. But I was stuck there.”
I thought of telling her what Boots Larose looked like when Dunbar knocked him to the ground, but I didn’t like the feeling I had when I thought that way. I said, “Well, I’m glad to be able to see you again. I don’t know when I’ll be back. I think Dunbar wanted to speak with your father, or I might not have visited today.”
“I’m always here,” she said. Her bonnet cast a light shade on her face. Her dark eyes met mine, and her pretty teeth showed when she smiled.
“I’ll look forward to it.”
The tan-colored nanny goat appeared from behind and crowded herself between Emma and me. Emma pushed against the goat’s forehead and said, “Get back, Bridget. Don’t be so pushy.”
Sound carried from the house, and Otto stepped outside, followed by Carl. A few seconds later, Emma’s father and Dunbar appeared.
Emma said, “I’d better go in.” She brushed her open hand against mine, and she left. The goat followed. Emma called a farewell to Otto as she passed the wagon, and she went into the house. The goat wandered off to the edge of the yard.
I led the horses away from the trough as Otto brought the wagon horses around to drink. He was wearing a short-brimmed felt hat, while Carl at his side was wearing a large, floppy cap with a broad, short bill.
I said good afternoon to them, and they returned the greeting. Otto looked away, like the shy person he was, but Carl stared at me as before.
Del Bancroft and Dunbar walked at an unhurried pace toward the spot where I was standing. Del called out a thanks to the two delivery boys. Otto called back, “Thanks to you, Mr. Bancroft.” Carl said something that I did not hear well.
Del smiled as he spoke to me. “Afternoon, Tag. Ridin’ good horses?”
“These are Mr. Dunbar’s. He’s having me ride the buckskin today.”
“He said he wanted to exercise them. Shall we go down to the barn where there’s a bit of shade?” He was not wearing a hat, and the sun had passed overhead enough to cast a narrow shadow in front of the open door of the barn.
The three of us walked without speaking. Dunbar and I each led a horse, and Del Bancroft moved ahead of us at a quick pace. He turned and waited in the shade as we caught up.
“Nice to see your stagecoach again,” said Dunbar, casting a glance at the interior.
“I haven’t done any more on it since I saw you last, which was only a couple of days ago, now that I think of it.” Del smiled, showing a good set of teeth. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”
“I’m a fellow of many curiosities,” Dunbar began. “We’ve been past Blue Wolf Spring a couple of times, and I’m curious to know the story about the old horse trader who used to be there. I understand that you know all the history of these parts.”
“Alex Garrison. Yes, he was a little odd. Reclusive might be the word. He lived there in a shack, and he used that narrow canyon as a pen for his horses.”
“How long did he live there?”
Del took in a long breath. “More than twenty years. I remember him being there when I was a boy and would ride out with my father, and I believe he died when Emma was a little girl.”
“Lived by himself.”
“Yes. When I was a boy, I thought he was a wild man. He was lean and long-legged. Wore suspenders. He had a long, gray beard and a wild head of hair. But that was just looks. He minded his own business and was civil to everyone.”
“Yet someone killed him.”
“That’s true.”
“Why do you think someon
e would want to kill him, other than the most obvious reason that he might have stolen, or been accused of stealing, someone’s horses?”
Del winced. “When they found him, they also found horses in his corral that had a couple of local brands on them. One brand was Borden Crowley’s, and I think people assumed that Alex was making light with Crowley’s stock when he was gone for the winter.”
“So no one pursued the case very far.”
“Not that I recall.”
“What do you think? Was he crooked?”
Del tipped his head to each side. “So far as to steal horses from a neighbor, I don’t think so. Not to mention that it would be poor judgment to do something so obvious. And I don’t think he was the type to be receiving stolen horses, in cahoots with someone else’s operation. But he was a horse trader, and sooner or later, something might have passed through his hands. I don’t know what other reasons there would be to kill a horse dealer.”
“So you don’t think he stole the horses in his corral.”
Del shrugged. “I don’t think he would do something like that, but they found the horses there, and that seemed to be a fact.”
Dunbar said, “Maybe he wasn’t killed for anything related to being a horse trader. On a broader scale, one man might kill another, or have him killed, over money and property, an old grudge, a new feud such as property lines, a woman, or to keep someone quiet.”
Del made a long face. “Like I said, he didn’t fight with his neighbors. The property lines on these homesteads and government tracts are pretty clear, although the deeds are not always in order. I think his was, because when his family members sold the place, there were no complications.”
“Who bought it?”
“Borden Crowley. He bought it for the spring, and the land itself extended his range farther south.”
“And that was the only property the old horse trader had?”
“As far as I know, yes. And Crowley paid for it, fair and square.” Del looked up at the rafters and came down. “There was one thing that was not everyday ordinary, though.”
“What was that?”
“People said that Crowley thought Alex had a stash of money. You know, there’s a hundred stories about buried loot from the old stagecoach robberies, and people get the fever. Crowley had his hired men knock the shanty into pieces, tear up the floorboards, and burn it all. People also said he searched the canyon for traces as well. But I don’t think, and I never heard anyone say, that the rumor of money would have been enough reason to kill someone.”
“How about a woman?”
Del laughed. “Maybe you know more than I do, but when I think of a man who is killed over a woman, I think of someone who’s good-looking, or has money, or is a smooth talker. Maybe all three. Alex was none of those. He was a dyed-in-the-wool bachelor, and he had a tendency to smell like an old billy goat. I don’t know of any woman who took a romantic interest in him, or the other way around.”
“So the idea of someone putting him out of competition in that way doesn’t seem very likely.”
“Not Alex.”
“I think the only motive we haven’t covered is to keep someone quiet.”
Del shook his head. “I don’t know what that would be for. Alex kept to himself. Like I said, he minded his own business. He didn’t go around and gossip.”
“He doesn’t seem like such a bad sort.”
“Once you got used to his . . . eccentricities, he wasn’t.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The sun was bearing down on us in the hottest part of the day as we rode southward through the parched grassland. Here and there we saw cattle, which, with my memory of the lone buck antelope we had seen earlier, kept me in a positive frame of mind. I believe that having seen Emma improved my outlook as well. Otherwise, the rays of the overhead sun, the haze above the surrounding landscape, and the heat rising with the dust and the grass particles stirred up by the horse hooves might have made me think of the rangeland as a part of the Great American Desert that a person had to endure and travel across. Dunbar’s horses also helped, as they kept their heads up and did not plod.
We watered the horses at the windmill where we had stopped on our previous return trip. The afternoon was stuffy and still, so the blades did not turn. As I was used to the creaking of a windmill, I noticed the absence of the sound. I dipped my hand in the water, and it was warm. As a general preference I did not drink out of windmill tanks unless I had to, as many of them, like the one at hand, were lined with green slime and jelly on the sides and had white skeletons of birds lying in the sludge in the bottom. I did take the opportunity to rinse my face, however.
Dunbar did likewise, though not with as much gusto as he did with the cool water of Blue Wolf Spring.
“Poor Bob,” I said. “With this weather, I can feel a swelling and itching around my eyes. It makes me think how much worse he has it.”
Dunbar smiled. “Makes the cold rain and the snow all the more welcome.” He tipped his head back and shaded his eyes as he noted the position of the sun. “It’s not that late. We have time to ride home by way of town if we wanted.”
“Do you think so?”
“Only if you wanted. I would hope not to corrupt you with the prospect of a cool beverage.”
“I had been thinking of sitting on the shady side of the bunkhouse,” I said. “But your idea sounds at least as good.”
We rode into Brome from the north, at that time of day when the shadows were beginning to stretch. The town itself was not very old, having come into being with the arrival of the railroad some ten years earlier, so the shadows came from buildings. What trees there were had not grown as tall as a man on horseback. They looked tired and dusty, and the leaves of some were already turning yellow. The town was laid out east and west, along the trail that ran parallel to the railroad. The Niobrara River lay a mile or so to the south, but it had so little water this far upstream that it would not have made an oasis, anyway. The town well provided for the people’s needs, and I imagined that these trees received their water as the tree outside the bunkhouse did—wash water that had already served at least one use.
When we arrived at the main street, Dunbar said, “Let’s find this place called The Bower.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, recalling that Mrs. Pearson had referred to it. “We’ll turn left here, then left again on the next block.”
We turned as I suggested. We rode past the mercantile and then The Missouri Primrose, both on our left. Dunbar stayed close enough that I did not have to raise my voice very loud.
“Say, do you think this saloon takes its name from the path you mentioned earlier in the day?”
Dunbar pursed his lips as he regarded the sign in our passing. “Could be. But The Missouri Primrose is a little more specific. It’s a prairie flower that grows in this part of the country and blooms in the springtime. Of course, given its name, it grows farther east and south, as well.”
“I don’t know which flower you refer to.”
“You’ve probably seen it. It has large white petals, not very rigid. They’re yellow in other parts of the country, but the ones that go by that name here are white.”
I shook my head. “I don’t place it right away.”
“I’m sure you’ve seen it. Blooms when the weather is still cool and moist.”
I could picture the short green grass at that time of year, with the various white and blue and yellow carpet flowers. “So this place is named for a flower.”
“Seems like it. But that doesn’t exclude the other possibility.”
“Leading people down the primrose path.”
Dunbar smiled. “Or offering it to them.”
After turning left off of the wide main street, we came to The Bower on the right. Compared with The Missouri Primrose, it was an unassuming place. A small sign with the name of the establishment hung from a wooden awning above the hitching rail. A large wooden sign covered most of the front window. On the larger sig
n, I saw a painting of someone’s idea of a beer garden, with an arbor and vines stretching up and over a table. On the table sat two mugs of beer. Above the arbor I saw the words “The Bower,” and below the table I saw, also in block letters, the words “Beer and Ale.”
We dismounted, loosened our cinches, and tied our horses. There being no raised walk on the side street, we crossed the footpath and went inside.
A bell tinkled, and the room grew silent around us. We were the only people in the place. As my eyes adjusted to the interior after a day in the bright sunlight, I saw the furnishings for the first time.
As in other drinking establishments, a mirror rose behind the bar, with a dark wooden pillar on each side. However, I did not see bottles of liquor or spirits. Rather, I observed mugs and glasses on two shelves. The place seemed almost bare. On the counter in back of the bar, I made out four pasteboard cigar boxes, a few rows of small white drawstring sacks for cigarette makin’s, and a couple of rows of tobacco tins. Glancing around to my left, I realized that strips of daylight came in from around the edges of the wooden sign that covered most of the window.
Movement on my right caught my attention, and a woman walked into the area in back of the bar. As if by habit, she took up a cloth from beneath the bar and swiped the bar top in front of us.
“What would you like?” she asked.
Dunbar answered. “We had in mind a cool beverage.”
“Which I have. Would you like something pale or something dark?”
Dunbar turned to me. “Given the weather, I think I’d prefer something pale. How about you?”
“I don’t know much about these things, so I’ll go along with whatever you think is good.”
Dunbar faced the woman and smiled. “Two glasses of beer, with a preference for whatever is coldest.”
The woman took two tall glasses from a shelf at the base of the mirror and moved down the bar to a place where beer taps stuck out of the wall. There she poured two glasses with an inch of foam on each. When she set the glasses in front of us, I caught a view of her.
She had light brown hair, bluish-gray eyes, and a clear complexion. She had her hair pinned up. She did not wear jewelry or rouge but rather had a plain appearance, with a lightweight gray jacket in addition to a gray dress. I would have guessed her age at about thirty-five, and although she did not wear garish or revealing clothes, her dress showed her full figure to advantage. I thought her proportions would be pleasing to someone her age or older.
Dusk Along the Niobrara Page 6