Dusk Along the Niobrara

by John D. Nesbitt

  “Oh. So that’s what they’re doing.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” After a few steps in silence, I thought of something to say. “Do you expect to stay in town long?”

  “I can’t say for sure. You might say I’m looking about. I’ve had experience in the restaurant and café business, and I’m somewhat looking for a place where I can buy or start a business.”

  “Are they expecting you here?”

  “Not at the hotel.”

  I stepped up onto the sidewalk and rested the bag on the boards. “I’ll carry it in. Just getting another grip.”

  At the entrance I let her go first. She opened the door for me, and I hauled her bag to the reception desk and set it down.

  “Anything else I can do?” I asked.

  “Not at the moment. I’d like to give you something for your efforts.” She made a motion of raising her handbag with both hands.

  “Not at all,” I said, taking off my hat again.

  “So gallant of you.” She gave me her hand. “I’ll remember you, young Mr. Montgomery. You’ve been kind.”

  “Thank you.” With nothing else to say, I bowed and left.

  When I returned to the work camp, I saw that Del Bancroft had arrived. He was standing and eating a sandwich made out of a cold biscuit and a piece of beef, and he had a cup of coffee nearby on the tailgate. Boots Larose, who seemed to have taken command in the absence of Dick Ainsworth and the higher-up Borden Crowley, was sending men back to their work. He stopped to visit with Del.

  “Glad to see you made it. They say you’re the man to be in charge of building the catwalk.” Larose wagged his head as he smiled.

  Del smiled in his easy way. “I can give it a try.”

  “We’ll get started when you’re ready. Just tell me what you need.”

  Del took a drink of coffee to wash down the last of his sandwich. “I’m glad to see Mr. Dunbar here. I’d like him to help me.”

  The smile disappeared from Larose’s face, and his head quit moving. In that moment, I had a sense that he was aware that he was speaking with Emma’s father.

  “If that’s what you need, go ahead.”

  “And my young friend Montgomery, as well.”

  “I had him on another job, but if you need him, you can have him.”

  “If you don’t mind. We all know each other, and I think we’ll work well together.”

  In the course of the morning, Dunbar had dug eight four-foot holes, so we were ready to start setting posts. These posts were fourteen feet long, as they had to go into the ground, up six feet to the catwalk, and up above that for the railing. For each post, Del ran strings lengthwise and crosswise to position the post, plumbed it on two sides, and re-plumbed it during the tamping.

  “We want these posts to be true and solid,” he said. “Even at that, we’ve got to make sure we don’t knock anything loose or crooked when we build up above.”

  Even though Del had the process well in hand, Larose and his understudy Mullet showed up every half-hour or so to look things over. Toward the latter part of the afternoon, they lingered and watched for a while. I thought Larose would look for a chance to ingratiate himself with Mr. Bancroft, but he took a different tack.

  He gave me a taunting look and said, “Tell us about that woman you helped when she got off the train.”

  “I don’t know what there is to tell.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “She said it’s Mrs. Deville.”

  “Missus, huh? And traveling alone?”

  I did not think it was my place to speak of her status in public, so I said, “I don’t know everything about her.”

  “What brings her to this town?”

  “I believe she might be looking for a business opportunity.”

  “Ohhh. What kind of a business?”

  “She said she’s had experience in the restaurant and café line.”

  “Oh. I thought it might be something else.”

  I was becoming impatient with him. “Why would you think that?”

  “You seemed to move up right next to her. So I didn’t know what kind of a business.”

  Dunbar spoke. “You shouldn’t talk about things you don’t know anything about.”

  Larose’s eyebrows went up, and his face grew long with mock surprise. “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “I was just wondering.”

  Dunbar’s voice had no play in it. “Yes, and your words are full of innuendo.”

  “That’s a big word for me.”

  “I think you know what it means.”

  Larose’s eyebrows drew into a frown. “Maybe I do.”

  “Then I think you should apologize.”

  “What for?”

  Dunbar’s face tensed. “For what you said, and the way you said it.”

  “Oh, go on. If there was anything out of line, it was in your way of thinking.”

  “We already discussed that.”

  Larose’s eyes flickered to Del Bancroft and back to Dunbar. “You can’t make me eat words that I didn’t say.”

  Dunbar took a step forward so that Larose was an arm’s length away. “You had your chance.”

  Larose smirked. “I heard she was a widow.”

  I stared at him, my eyes wide open. He had already heard some gossip before he started needling me.

  Dunbar said, “What does that have to do with it?”

  “There’s different kinds of widows, you know.”

  Quicker than I had seen him with the boxing gloves, Dunbar stepped forward and landed his right fist on Larose’s jaw. Larose’s hat tumbled away as he took half a step backward and fell to the ground.

  He raised himself onto one elbow and rubbed his jaw with his free hand. He glared at Dunbar and said, “You might live to regret that, mister.”

  “We’ll see,” said Dunbar. “But don’t press your luck with me.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Ainsworth sat with Mullet and Larose on the far side of the campfire that evening. Del Bancroft sat with Dunbar near the chuck wagon, where I took my meal standing up, ready to tend to any task that Dan mentioned. The other workers sat in groups of four or five. I was sure that anyone who had not seen Dunbar punch Larose had heard of it by now, and I was impressed by how well everyone acted as if nothing had happened.

  The tone in camp was calm, and the men did not speak loud even when they had finished eating. I could hear the conversation between Dunbar and Del Bancroft without making an effort.

  Dunbar said, “I understand you drew the plans for this set of pens.”

  “That’s right,” said Del. “When they asked me to contribute my share of the labor, not to mention the cost of the lumber, I said I would work on this project only if we had a set of plans drawn out. So that was my first contribution, the plans themselves.”

  “Good to have.”

  Del smiled as he pointed at me with his thumb. “When I was about this lad’s age, I hired out to help a man build corrals on a ranch he had bought up north on Lance Creek. He had me and another young fellow, plus his father, who was old and gouty and heavyset. The father would move around slow and argue with the son about how to place the posts, maybe an inch or so one way or another, such as for gates he wanted to swing to block an alleyway and then close a pen. The father was right most of the time, but the son was stubborn. I don’t know how many times we had to take out a post and move it an inch or two. Or other times, he would stand and scratch his head, trying to decide how he wanted the gate to swing and how he needed to get the three posts in the right places. At one point I asked him if he had a set of plans, and he pointed to his head and said, ‘Right here.’ I thought, that was a hell of a place for them.”

  Del looked at me, saw that I was following the story, and went on.

  “From then on, any time I ever built anything, I drew a plan or a design first. It’s not hard. Even for these pens, all I needed was a straight-edge ruler, a thirty-sixty-ninety triangle, a pr
otractor, and a compass. Then when you have it on paper, it’s a lot easier figuring your materials—how much lumber, how many hinges and bolts, and so on.”

  “It’s a good skill to have,” said Dunbar. “You learn these things when you’re young, and you never know when they’ll come in handy.”

  Del laughed. “Or you don’t learn them. And you go ahead and build things, anyway. If I hadn’t insisted, or if I hadn’t worked on this project, they could have built these corrals as they went along. ‘Play it by ear,’ they say. Or ‘The cows don’t know the difference.’ And in the end, they don’t.”

  “Still, it’s a satisfaction to do things well.”

  “Oh, yes. And it’s a matter of degrees. Someone who builds a steam engine has to be much more precise than those of us who cut up lumber and nail it together. Then there’s the fellow who builds a pole corral. He overlaps his poles, so he can be casual about his cuts. But he still might like to do a neat job, with all the posts the same height and all the cross-poles level. Needless to say, not everybody cares even about that.”

  Dunbar nodded. “You see all kinds. And it’s not just a matter of who has money and who doesn’t.”

  “That’s true. People who are careless often end up with less money, but people who have money aren’t always neat about the way they do things. By the way, I haven’t seen Crowley. I thought he was in charge here.”

  Dunbar spoke in a lowered voice. “He is. But he seems to make himself scarce.” Dunbar glanced toward the other side of the fire, where the BC hands were engaged in their own conversation. “Even his foreman disappears at times. But they might be working on some other aspect, like the accounts.”

  Del shrugged. “Well, it’s not a steam engine or a battleship. Even with what’s-his-name at third in command, the holes get dug, the posts go in, and the nails get hammered. And in the end, the cows don’t know the difference.”

  In the end, I thought. For all the beef that was shipped, the big gateway led to the end. At one point I had thought it looked like a monument, but there was nothing ornamental. The new set of corrals, in this short period of time before a single plank would be splintered or a post would be knocked crooked, had a practical kind of beauty. But as Ainsworth had said of my post hole, it was not a wedding cake.

  Borden Crowley arrived at the work camp in the morning while the crew was having breakfast. Wisps of smoke rose from the glowing coals, and steam issued from the spout of the big coffeepot hanging on the tripod. Crowley strode to the middle of the scene, and I thought he was going to pour himself a cup of coffee. Instead, he waved his arm at the gateway and hollered, “For God’s sake, take that thing down.”

  Everyone turned to look. During the night, someone had hung a dead badger from the crossbeam and tied off the rope on a corral plank below. I had seen the animal hanging, as I was sure everyone else had, and I imagined it was someone’s idea of a joke. I found it repugnant, but I hadn’t put it there, and I assumed one of the men would take it down after breakfast. Now there was no waiting. Mullet sprang to his feet and hurried over.

  Dan handed an enamel cup to Crowley and lifted the coffeepot from the tripod. “There’s plenty of grub,” he said.

  “I don’t care for any.”

  “Del Bancroft is here.”

  “That’s good. Any problems so far?”

  Dan poured steaming coffee into the cup. “None at all that I know of. You could ask Dick.”

  “I’ll do that.” Crowley turned and walked away.

  Dunbar and I were carrying a fourteen-foot post to be set into position. With post holes and dirt piles in some places and corral posts standing up straight in others, we had something of an obstacle course to navigate. We had to weave around a spot where two men were lowering a corner post into a hole in a place where two alleyways intersected. Ainsworth stood by, giving orders as usual.

  “Hold it straight up, free of the side, or you’ll have to pull it back out and dig out the dirt all over again. There. Now, be careful and don’t push too much dirt in at a time. These all have to be tamped in solid, ’specially the corner posts. Hey, look out, you. Stay clear of the men. One of these big posts falls over on you, it’ll knock your brains out.”

  I thought he was talking to me, until I saw that a kid about sixteen years old had wandered onto the work site. He had blond, wavy hair sticking out below a short-billed cloth cap, and he wore drab work clothes with suspenders. He was carrying a knapsack, and I guessed he was a traveler. I had never seen him before. Catching sight of me at the end of the long post, he gave me a look of recognition, I imagine because I was the only other young person in view. He stood aside and then fell in and walked along with me until Dunbar and I stopped.

  Speaking as if we were comrades, he said, “What’s the chance of me gettin’ hired on here? I’m tryin’ to get to Montana, and I’m out of money.”

  I said, “The boss on this job is a man named Borden Crowley. I don’t see him around very much.”

  Ainsworth spoke from behind us. “We’re not hirin’ anyone, kid. These men are all paid by their bosses. They sent ’em here. It’s a collaboration.”

  The kid paused for a couple of seconds. “Mind if I watch?”

  I thought he might have the idea that if he showed interest, someone might put him on after all.

  Ainsworth gave his hard stare and shook his head. “We don’t need gawkers hangin’ around and gettin’ hurt. You can watch from across the street.” Then, in his usual manner, as if to cut off any further talk, he walked away.

  Dunbar set down his end of the heavy post, and I did the same. Dunbar said, “What’s your name?”

  “Ed.”

  “Goin’ to Montana, eh? What part?”

  “Helena. But I want to go through Thermopolis on the way. See the Hot Springs.”

  “Well, I hope you make it. Here’s this, to help you stay out of trouble.” Dunbar had taken off his gloves and now handed the kid a silver dollar.

  Time seemed to stand still for a couple of seconds. The kid had an uncertain look on his face, perhaps a combination of disbelief and humility. He blinked his eyes a couple of times, brightened, and said, “Thanks, mister. I’ll remember you.” He shook Dunbar’s hand, then mine, though I hadn’t taken off my gloves, and he went on his way.

  I was trudging from the lumber pile, by myself, carrying two planks for cross-members, when Dick Ainsworth stepped in front of me and blocked my way. Up close, I could see the thickening around his head and neck and the creases on his face.

  “What-all did you tell that tramp of a kid?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I heard you mention the boss’s name.”

  “That was all.”

  “I heard you say he wasn’t around much.”

  “I think I said that I didn’t see him very much.”

  “Same thing.” Ainsworth stepped closer, and a small spray of saliva flew out as he spoke. “Listen to me. You got no call talkin’ to strangers about the boss. You got that? And I don’t want to see you standin’ around lolly-gaggin’ when you should be workin’.”

  “I was just—”

  “Don’t talk back to me, or I’ll make your head spin. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” All this time, I had been holding the two heavy planks. My main thought as he walked away was that I didn’t think he dared talk that way to Dunbar.

  I caught drifts of talk as I offered biscuits and poured coffee at noon dinner. Word had gotten around that a stranger had been looking for work and was turned away.

  Borden Crowley had shown up for the meal and was seated on a three-legged camp stool. Mullet, Larose, and Ainsworth sat on the ground in a semicircle facing him.

  Mullet said, “Next chance you git, I hope you hire one of those drifters. Put him to work movin’ the trash pile.”

  At the southeast corner of the shipping pen area, people in town had thrown bottles, cans, twists of wire, useless pots and pans, old shoes, and general refuse for
a period of years. For the past few days, after hearing comments from some of the other workmen, I had wondered who was going to have the task of moving it. My fear, or dread, that Ainsworth would give me the job was becoming stronger.

  Crowley gazed off in the direction of the rubbish heap, where the sunlight glittered on castaway whiskey bottles. “Not a bad idea,” he said. “Some vagabond would be glad to have a job like that.”

  Mullet smiled and nodded at Larose.

  Ainsworth spoke to the boss in a businesslike tone. “There’s money for it, then?”

  “Oh, yeah. We’ve got money for expenses. Everyone put up to begin with, or we couldn’t have a stick of lumber here. The next tramp that comes along, put him on.”

  At dusk that evening, as if in answer to the wishes of Mullet, myself, and no doubt others, a stranger walked into our camp. I do not know that he would have looked better in broad daylight. He did not wear a hat or cap. He had tousled dark brown hair and an unkempt beard. He wore a collarless, two-button work shirt, grimy work jeans, and broken-down shoes. As he came up to the firelight, I saw that he had dark brown eyes, somewhat glazed, with yellow whites. Over his shoulder, he had slung an untidy bedroll tied with quarter-inch hemp twine. His eyes drifted around the fire as he ran the tip of his tongue across his lips. When he spoke, his voice came out rough.

  “Someone said you might have work.”

  Dick Ainsworth fixed his gaze from where he sat on the ground. “Big boss isn’t here, but you can talk to me. Where’d you come from?”

  “Traveled from the country up north on down to Ashton, then over here.”

  Ainsworth looked him up and down. “I hope you’re not afraid of hard work.”

  “Not at all.” As the man spoke, I saw that he had yellow teeth, with a few missing.

  “Well, when you work under me, you don’t pick your job.”

  “Natcherly.”

  “You can start in the morning. Get a good night’s rest. Find a place to roll out your bed. By the way, what’s your name?”

  “Hodel. George Hodel.”

  “We already got one George here. You’ll go by Hodel.”

  “It’s my name.” He glanced around at the men who had plates in their laps. “Any chance of gettin’ a bite to eat?”