Dusk Along the Niobrara

by John D. Nesbitt

  I assumed it went without saying that having a work camp was far less expensive than having to pay room and board for all the workmen.

  Dan said, “Yes, and the bad thing is that all these men will be within walkin’ distance of a saloon. They won’t have time to grind coffee, but you can bet they’ll have time to go look at the picture of the naked lady.”

  I had been in The Missouri Primrose, so Dan’s words brought up a picture in my mind. In a large painting above the mirror in back of the bar, a woman with no clothes lay reclined on one elbow on a couch with only a thin, gauze-like scarf covering some parts of her.

  Lou sniffed. “I think Crowley and his man Ainsworth will work these men hard enough that they’ll be mindful of gettin’ their rest. After the first couple of days, anyway.”

  I grimaced. When I first heard of the corral project, I looked forward to the prospect of learning to work with milled lumber, to take accurate measurements, to plumb and square, and to build something durable. I thought it would be a step up from building pole corrals. But from the moment I learned that Borden Crowley would be in charge of the crew, I had a sense of dread. Having Crowley as the big boss and Ainsworth giving orders as well was unpleasant enough, but I was sure Larose would find his chances to swagger and bully.

  “Too bad you can’t be there,” said Dan.

  Lou held his crutch aside, stood on his ailing leg, and brought his crutch into place again. “If I get to moving around better, I will. But the way I am, I’ll just get in the way.”

  Dunbar and I stood with the rest of the crew as Crowley and Ainsworth assigned men to their tasks. Two men went to laying out and staking the dimensions. Six were sent to measure and cut lumber. Four were told to begin building gates. Two men had the task of building sawhorses. That left four of us to dig holes and set posts.

  With Ainsworth at his elbow, Crowley stopped in front of Dunbar and me. As usual, he did not look straight at us. He said, “You’re Foster’s men, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right,” said Dunbar.

  “The two of you can work on post holes until someone says different.” Crowley’s eyes drifted in the direction of the other two men who were waiting. “Dick is in charge of digging the holes and setting the posts. As far as that goes, when I’m not here, he’s in charge of everything. So you do what he says.” Crowley turned and walked away.

  Ainsworth lingered. To the other two men he said, “Start hauling posts.” He came back to Dunbar and me. “Get your tools. Every outfit was to bring a diggin’ bar and shovels. Did you bring yours?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Ainsworth glared at me. “I was talkin’ to him.”

  “Yes, we did,” said Dunbar.

  Ainsworth raised his head to address Dunbar. “As soon as Jim and Archie mark the first holes, get started. They’ll tell you what kind of a post goes in, and that’ll tell you how deep to dig.” He brought his dark blue eyes back to me. “I don’t want to see anyone loafin’. We’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do here, and not much time to do it.”

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to give him the opportunity to talk down to me again. Dunbar and I turned away and walked to the wagon for our tools.

  I had not yet dug a foot down in my first hole when Ainsworth came by.

  “You want to dig those holes straight down and on the spot where they’re marked.”

  I nodded.

  “And if Jim or Archie tells you to move your hole one way or the other, you do it. These posts are eight inches by eight inches, like railroad ties. They need to line up straight, and they need to be the same distance apart. How deep are you digging this one?”

  “Three feet. They said the gateposts go down four feet, and all the others go down three.”

  “The corner posts should be deeper. I’ll have to talk to them.” He made a small spitting sound as if he was getting rid of a speck of tobacco, then made an abrupt turn and marched away.

  Jim and Archie were not so bad to work under. They weren’t the type to tell a person as little as possible. To the contrary, they would stop and chat with each man who was digging. They gave me an idea of how many pens and lanes there would be, and they pointed out where the catwalk would run down the middle, above the pens. Now I understood what the longest posts and timbers were for.

  Jim also told me that Ainsworth did not know all that much about building corrals. His method was to go around and ask questions, gather information, and then come back and give orders as if he had been an expert all along. Jim said he had to tell Ainsworth not to haul all the posts to begin with because they would be in the way of running strings and piling dirt. So before long, four of us were digging holes.

  When we had the first row dug, Ainsworth pulled two men from cutting lumber and put them to setting poles and tamping them in. They ran string to line the posts up straight, sighted in the tops for level, used plumb bobs for the sides, and tamped with an iron bar that had a knob on one end and a flare on the other. It was the first digging bar I had seen that had an end for tamping. I could tell right away that it was better than the tip of a shovel handle, which was all I had ever used.

  When Ainsworth and Crowley were not around, I rather enjoyed being part of the whole project. I became interested once again in seeing how men measured, cut, squared, and fitted lumber. Everything had a logic and a sequence, and accuracy mattered a great deal.

  Activity carried in the air. From where I worked, I could see the men working on the lumber pile. They sawed planks first to square the ends and then to fit for length. Boards thumped and clattered as men restacked the cut lumber. Dunbar dug two four-foot holes for the main gateway, then helped set the two twelve-foot posts. When the posts were tamped in solid, Dunbar moved on to dig more holes while the other two men took turns with a brace and bit. They bored one-inch holes for the bolts that would hang the gate. Then they nailed a ten-foot plank, a full two inches thick, on each side of the overhead span. Archie told me the nails were twenty-penny spikes.

  The gateway stood like a monument by itself, but not for long. By midafternoon, a line of corral posts was tamped solid and ready, and men began hammering planks into place. Jim told me they had to tell Ainsworth not to cut all the corral planks ahead of time but to measure and cut as they went along. That part of the job smoothed out, and the shipping pens made of rough, gleaming lumber began to take shape.

  I did not keep track of how many holes I dug. Rather, I abandoned my mind to the challenge of trying to make each one as close to perfect as I could. Sweat was dripping from my face, and I was shaving the sides of a hole I had already dug for depth, when Dick Ainsworth made one of his visits.

  With no preamble, he said, “You need to go help the cook with the evening meal. He needs firewood. Find a wheelbarrow and haul him enough lumber scraps for tonight and tomorrow morning both.” He made the spitting sound as before.

  “Do you mind if I finish shaping up this hole?”

  “It looks good enough to me. It’s not a wedding cake, you know.”

  I found a wheelbarrow next to a wagon that held gate bolts, metal strap hinges, and kegs of nails. The barrow was an old, all-wooden affair mounted on an iron wheel with rusted spokes and a flat rim. The box had eight-inch slanted sides of cracked, weathered lumber, and I hoped it would hold together for as long as I used it.

  I moved it to the scrap pile where four men were now measuring and cutting lumber. Mullet and Larose were working on a plank with diagonal cuts on each end, which I assumed would work as a brace on a hanging gate. They had the plank lying on a pair of sawhorses. Larose was sitting on the plank to hold it in place while Mullet was wheezing as he pushed and pulled on the saw.

  As I set the wheelbarrow in place, Larose called out.

  “Hey, kid. How do you like being a carpenter?”

  From his jocular tone, I thought he was pretending that he didn’t remember kicking my stirrup a few days earlier, or if he did, that it was all in fun.


  “It’s work,” I answered. “I do my job.”

  “So do I.” He moved his legs, as if he was a little kid on a bench or a swing. “What are you doin’?”

  “Rustling firewood.”

  “That’s good. Helpin’ yer coosie?”

  “People like their food cooked.”

  “I thought they had you diggin’ post holes.”

  “They did.”

  “Well, like Dick says, it all has to get done. Back home when they had a work crew, they’d have a water boy come around with a mule. Water jugs on both sides. ’Course, gradin’ roads, that’s real work, and a crew of men goes through a lot of water.”

  I wondered where “back home” was, but I thought he might be looking for a chance to tell me what color the water boy was, so I didn’t say anything. I began tossing blocks of wood into the wheelbarrow, hoping that the clunking sound would discourage him from going on. But he raised his voice.

  “First job I ever had where I got to sit on my ass.”

  Mullet stopped sawing, so I paused in my wood-gathering. Mullet said, “Probably the first job where you ever got paid.”

  “What do you mean? I’d like to see you do some of the work I’ve done.”

  “I thought those road gangs were all prisoners.”

  “Maybe in your experience. In mine, there’s whiskey and wimmen at the end of the day.”

  “Good luck findin’ ’em both here. Whiskey, yeah, but for women you got to go to Ashton.”

  “Hah,” said Larose. “Wimmen are where you find ’em. You just need to know how to sniff ’em out.”

  I went back to tossing scraps of lumber, and Mullet took up the rasping and wheezing of his work. I positioned myself so I could keep my back on the other two, and when I had a cart-load, I wheeled it away.

  The scraps of pine lumber with fresh cut sides had a pleasant aroma. Once in the fire, they crackled and popped and threw out sparks. They burned hot and fast, and the coals did not last as long as some firewood did, so my pile of a half-dozen wheelbarrow loads dwindled to half its size the first evening. But Dan cooked a big pot of beans, baked about four dozen biscuits, and fried about fifteen pounds of beefsteak.

  After supper, while the other hands lounged around the campfire, Dunbar and I washed the dishes on the tailgate of the wagon. Dusk had drawn in, and the night air was still and dry. We had our backs to the town, which had gone quiet. If the firelight had not reflected on the fresh planks of the corral some thirty yards away, I might have had the illusion that we had pitched our camp in the middle of the vast grassland, far from any town or the muddy trickle of the Niobrara.

  “Not bad work, is it?” said Dunbar.

  “Do you mean washing dishes or digging holes?”

  “Either one.”

  “It’s all work,” I said. “I do find the building part of it interesting. You know, you see so many things that people build themselves, and some of them are crooked and uneven, while others are neat and straight. Sometimes I wonder what it takes.”

  “A desire to do things right, to begin with. Then, I suppose it takes patience, and a certain amount of dexterity. But first of all, I think it has to matter to do things with as much precision as possible. Then it gets ingrained with experience. That’s my thought, anyway. I wish our friend Del Bancroft had been here to set the main gateway. It looks all right, but I think it could have been a little better. I understand he should be here tomorrow, though, so that should be good. Building the catwalk is going to be a little like building a house or a barn. If you say, ‘Oh, that’s good enough’ at one point, it shows up at every step after that, and the error often grows.”

  “Is that how they set the gateway and arch?”

  “Maybe a quarter of an inch out of square, and when they finished pounding in the spikes on the overhead, maybe a little more. But it stands by itself, not like the catwalk, so there’s no real harm done. Just something to notice when you’re up close in the process. Of course, I was working on the dirt detail, so I did what I was told.” Dunbar rubbed at a spoon with his thumb, then dipped it in the dishwater. “Just part of a cowpuncher’s life.”

  Borden Crowley did not show up the next morning. I realized I had not seen him since noontime the day before. Dick Ainsworth gave orders while the men were still eating their fried bacon and potatoes for breakfast. He assigned everyone to the same tasks as the previous day, with the exception that Mullet and Larose were now going to run string lines while Jim and Archie laid out the catwalk. I did not know what that meant for me until Ainsworth walked up to the spot where I stood eating at the tailgate.

  He stood close and tapped me on the chest. His dark blue eyes bore down on me, and his clipped mustache moved before he spoke. “When you finish helping the cook clean up, Boots will show you where to dig the holes.”

  I nodded, releasing myself from his gaze and observing his creased face and his knotted blue neckerchief.

  “The cook won’t need you again till later this afternoon, so you do what Boots tells you.”

  I nodded as before, and he turned away.

  I thought I was going to dig four-foot holes for the catwalk, but Boots put me to digging three-foot holes on one of the long outside rows. Jim and Archie had marked the location of each hole with a stake, and as I was digging, Mullet and Larose came by from time to time with the string line to keep the holes lined up. Meanwhile, Boots had Dunbar digging post holes for the catwalk. I thought Dunbar might have been assigned the deeper holes again because he was taller and stronger. I also sensed that someone might want to keep us apart, and I had a less definite feeling that someone wanted to subject Dunbar to the hardest work. To what purpose, I had no idea, but I knew it would not break Dunbar’s spirit.

  At noonday, he smiled as he fanned his face with his dark hat. I had the impression that he was playing a game with these fellows.

  “Dig deep,” he said. “You never know what you’ll find.”

  “I’ve been hoping to dig up stagecoach loot with every hole, but the most I’ve found is a broken bottle and an old bent spoon.”

  “How about this?” He reached into his trousers pocket and brought out a reddish-brown object. As he showed it to me in his upraised palm, I saw that it was a figurine of a horse, etched out of a smooth piece of rock harder than sandstone. It had dirt encrusted in some of the striations.

  “Did you find that here?”

  “Dug it up this morning.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Take it. I’d like you to have it.”

  “Oh, no. You found it. It’s yours.”

  “Ah, you know me. I move around too much to keep every little thing I find. Take it. You might find something to do with it. Put it on a shelf or give it to someone.”

  Setting aside the question of how much I knew him, I took it in my hand, rubbed my thumb against the hard surface, and put the figurine in my vest pocket.

  Dunbar said, “I expected Mr. Bancroft to be here by now. Maybe he’ll show up this afternoon. I hope so. I’d like to see these posts and timbers as square as they can be.”

  I knew from the day before, as well as from prior experience, that the train stopped in Brome in the middle of the day. I was not surprised, then, when I heard the steam whistle hooting. I continued to eat my beans and biscuits as the train slowed in its approach from the east, passed behind the shipping pens, and came to a stop with a chug-chug-chug and a final hiss.

  The small train station sat on the same side of the street as our corral project and work camp, and a hundred yards west. I did not expect Del Bancroft to step down from the train, as he would ride in from the rangeland in the north, but like anyone else, I was curious to see if anyone stopped off. My interest quickened when a woman in a dark traveling hat and gray linen duster stepped down from the second coach and looked around.

  Dunbar appeared at my side where I stood by the tailgate. “Why don’t you see if that lady needs help with her bag?” he said.

 
With Dick Ainsworth nowhere in sight, I felt free to do as I was asked. I set down my plate and left our camp area while all the other hands sat around and watched.

  The woman turned to me and smiled as I approached her. I smiled in return, and when I drew within twenty feet of where she stood, I took off my hat.

  After a few more paces, and seeing the station agent busy with the mail, I stopped and said, “I would be happy to help you with your bag, if you would like.”

  She smiled. “I would be grateful.” She glanced to her left, and there, as if set by an unseen hand, sat a brown leather Gladstone bag.

  Her bearing was so graceful that I made a half-bow. “Bard Montgomery. At your service.”

  She held out her hand. “My name is Medora Deville. I go by Mrs. Deville.”

  I took her gloved hand and pressed it, then met her eyes. They were dark and shiny, matched with her dark hair, which disappeared beneath the collar of her traveling coat. She had a smooth complexion, not pale, such as I have since associated with people from Mediterranean countries. I thought she had pretty lips as well, and I guessed her age at about thirty.

  “To the hotel?” I asked.

  “If you please.”

  I picked up her bag, which was broad and heavy, and lugged it along. As I headed across the street toward the Phelps Hotel, I felt the eyes of all the workmen watching. I said, “I wouldn’t want to make a mistake. You said Mrs. Deville, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did. For those to whom these things are important, I am a widow. It’s not always the first thing I tell people, but you look young and trustworthy. And sooner or later in a place like this, I have to mention it. To keep the wolves at bay.”

  “I understand.” In truth, I understood but a part of it. “I hope you have an agreeable stay in this town.”

  “Is it your town?”

  “In a way. I work on a ranch a few miles out. Right now, I’m working on a building project with all those other men.” I was sure she had seen them looking at her. “Building a set of corrals.”