Dusk Along the Niobrara

by John D. Nesbitt

  “Sure. The kid there’ll fix you up.”

  When the man stood close with his plate, I saw the broken veins on his face and smelled whiskey on his breath. I never begrudged a man a meal, and furthermore, I reminded myself that every man had to make his way through life, even if some men didn’t have the best way of doing it.

  I had to shake the hell out of Hodel to wake him in the morning, even though camp was milling all around. He had eaten three plates of beef and beans the night before, and I supposed he was making up for missed meals and lost sleep, not to mention sleeping off any prolonged effects of whiskey.

  All he had for breakfast was biscuits, which he worked around in his mouth, and coffee, which he drank one cup after another until Ainsworth told him it was time to go to work.

  With the old wheelbarrow, a pitchfork, and a square-nosed shovel, he undertook the rubbish pile. I had some sympathy for him, and I wasn’t sure that I wouldn’t be joining him at some point, anyway, so I kept an eye on him from time to time. By midmorning his face was shining with sweat. I wished I had a hat to lend him, but I didn’t. He labored on, taking a trip to the water keg every half hour, and when he came to eat at midday, his face was flushed and his shirt was soaked with sweat.

  Mullet seemed to feel sorry for him as well. “How are you getting along?” he asked.

  “Nothin’ to complain about.”

  “I know what you mean. Doesn’t ever do me any good.”

  Hodel put on a feed as he had done the night before and drank about a half-gallon of water. Without a word, he crawled under the shade of the wagon and went to sleep.

  When it was time to go back to work, Ainsworth told me to wake up the new fellow. I crawled under the wagon and gave Hodel a shake. He awoke with a start, wide-eyed.

  “What?” he said.

  “Dinner time’s over. Back to work.”

  Hodel looked around him and said, “Oh. That’s it.”

  He worked through the first three hours of the afternoon, though he seemed to pick and stab at the rubbish pile with less energy, and he made several trips to the water keg. Then, at about four o’clock, I lost track of him.

  Ainsworth disappeared for a period of time as well, but I do not think they went to the same place. When they both showed up at suppertime, they did not pay any attention to one another. I guessed that Hodel had seen Ainsworth slip away and then did the same himself, but I told myself it didn’t matter. For my part, I hoped Hodel didn’t get fired before he moved all the trash.

  I was minding the platters of fried beef as the men passed by and served themselves. Ainsworth ignored me and, it seemed to me, held his breath when he was near me. Hodel kept to himself at the end of the line, but when he came to where I stood, he looked at me with a relaxed expression and smiled.

  “This is the best part of the day,” he said.

  I could have smelled the beer on his breath from a yard away. “Always a good time for me,” I answered.

  “I’ll tell you, I thought stacking hay in the loft of a barn was the hottest, sweatiest work I ever did. And it might be. But today was a real hugger-mugger.”

  I interpreted him to mean it was a muggy day, so I said, “I do believe the humidity builds up a little in the latter part of the summer, on some days at least.”

  He winced as he shook his head. “Oh, the heat reflects off all them bottles and cans. Made the sweat just pour out of me.”

  “I know what you mean. It glances off this corral lumber more than a fella would think, too.”

  He relaxed his eyes on me. They seemed more glazed than before. “You know what I mean. That’s more than some of these other sons of bitches care to do.”

  I forced a brief smile, and he moved on.

  I wished he had taken a seat apart from the others, as he had done before, but I thought the beer might have made him more sociable. I was sure it made him talkative. He sat near the BC group of Mullet, Larose, and Ainsworth. At least Crowley himself had not joined the crew for supper. I would have cringed more if the big boss had been seated on his camp stool.

  Ainsworth shifted to give a shoulder to Hodel, but the movement did not seem to have much effect.

  Hodel’s voice was gravelly when he raised it. “This is quite a town you’ve got here,” he said.

  The silence seemed to go down the ladder until Mullet said, “We get along.”

  “So I heard.”

  Ainsworth flared his nostrils and rubbed his finger across the bottom of his nose.

  Hodel spoke again as he chewed a piece of meat back and forth with the teeth he had. “Some kind of town. You’ve got a poor working man killed, and no one does a thing about it.”

  “Not sure what you mean,” said Mullet.

  “I heard his name was Pearson.”

  “Oh, that. It’s been reported to the law, and I b’lieve they’re workin’ on it.”

  “Not much, from what I heard.”

  Larose set his knife on his plate with a clack. “Sounds like you might’ve drunk too much pissy whiskey when you disappeared this afternoon.”

  Ainsworth’s eyebrows went up, and the hard look came to his face. “Is that right?”

  “You don’t like what you hear.” Hodel wagged his head as he looked down to cut another piece of meat.

  Ainsworth shifted so that he could level his gaze on Hodel. “I don’t like a man slippin’ away and drinkin’ on the job.”

  “Hah. Look who’s talkin’. I saw where you went.”

  “I had a meeting. I wasn’t sneakin’ away. No wonder someone like you can’t hold down a job.”

  Hodel didn’t answer as he went back to his meal. I wondered if he was trying not to get fired or if he was thinking of what to say next. Either way, I felt a relief at the moment. The other men resumed eating, and I saw a chance to serve a plate for myself.

  Mullet finished his meal and pushed himself to his feet. He carried his plate and utensils to the wreck pan and tossed them in. On his way back to his group, he paused next to Hodel. In a good-natured tone he said, “I heard you tell the kid you had a job stackin’ hay. Where was that?”

  “Up on Old Woman Creek. That’s north of here, on the way to Newcastle.”

  “I know where it is.”

  Hodel did not look up from cutting a bite of beef.

  Mullet, still lingering, said, “Did you work the whole season?”

  “Two days of that is season enough for me.”

  I was forming a picture of that area myself, east of Lance Creek, which Del Bancroft had mentioned, and south of the Cheyenne River, when movement at the edge of the camp drew my attention. Borden Crowley, dressed in a hat and suit of dull silverish-gray, walked into the firelight.

  He cleared his throat and said, “I hope it’s not too late for whatever’s in the pot.”

  “Not at all,” said Dan as he rose from the box he was sitting on. “Eat your supper, Bard. I’ll tend to him.”

  Mullet walked out of the light and headed toward the BC wagon. A minute later, he returned with the three-legged stool with a leather seat. He put it in place, and when the boss was settled, Dan brought him a plate of fried beef and potatoes.

  Crowley cut at a piece of meat. “Everything all right? No problems?”

  “Nothing to speak of,” said Ainsworth.

  Hodel had his elbows out as he cut his last piece of beef. He took in a long, sniffing breath, cleared his throat, and said, “Oh, we had things to speak of.”

  Crowley flicked a glance. “You’re the new man, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right. Name’s Hodel.”

  The boss did not answer.

  “In charge of the trash heap.” Hodel cleared his throat again. “We were talking about what kind of a town this is.”

  “Not a big item for conversation, I’d think.”

  Hodel did not take what I was sure was a hint. He spoke again in his rough voice. “We were talking about a man who was killed, and how people don’t seem to care to do
anything about it.”

  “I believe it’s in the hands of the law.”

  “I heard that. And I also heard this place has a reputation for lettin’ men get away with things of that sort.”

  Crowley paused with his knife and fork. “You speak in the plural. Do you think one incident gives you the right to speak as if it was a trend?”

  “Hah. Maybe you weren’t around when they hung the horse trader. From what I hear, it happened fifteen years ago, and that story hasn’t gone away.”

  “You speak as if you know something about it. If you did, you’d know they didn’t hang him. That was just a rumor. Shows you how people talk when they don’t know.”

  Hodel chewed as he spoke. “Don’t be so sure there’s not someone who does know. For every man that gets shot in the back or lynched, there might be someone hidin’ in the brush gettin’ a look at the ones that done it. Like up in Johnson County, just for an example. A smart person keeps his mouth shut, but sooner or later, someone’s likely to hear a peep.”

  Crowley had not yet taken a bite. He sat in a slumped and brooding posture as he took in a long breath and exhaled. I was surprised to hear him speak this much, and I was surprised to see him give his full attention to Hodel.

  “You sound as if you’ve heard a few stories yourself.”

  Hodel gave a wide-eyed, glassy stare. “I’d bet I’ve heard as many as you and your little foreman put together.”

  I could see Ainsworth bristle, but he kept still and said nothing.

  Crowley raised his chin as he looked down on the man. “It seems to me you’ve had something to drink. Maybe you should go back to that.”

  “Not yet. I need to earn another day’s pay.”

  Crowley handed his plate to Larose and pushed himself up from his seat. “Not here.” Taller than average when others were standing, he loomed above the company as he took self-assured steps toward Hodel. He reached into his pocket, took out a silver dollar, and dropped it onto the man’s plate. “That’s for your day’s work. Now get out.”

  After Hodel had rolled his blankets and Crowley had eaten his grub and gone, some of the hands muttered about a man getting fired for speaking his mind. Others said it was for drinking on the job.

  Ainsworth raised his voice and said, “You might as well argue about the chicken and the egg. If he hadn’t got drunk, he wouldn’t have shot off his mouth. But he wouldn’t have done either if he wasn’t the type of man he is. Just low class, that’s all.”

  Dunbar joined me at the tailgate to help with the dishes. In a low voice, he said, “Too bad the chap couldn’t make another day’s wages, but I’m afraid he’s the type that burns his bridges as he goes along.”

  “Where do you think he is now?”

  “I’d guess he’s in a saloon, maundering in his cups. I’d like to say I wish he had better sense, but I don’t know what else you could expect. And as for going there on any single occasion, I’ve been in those places myself. So I try not to throw stones.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  As I stood at the bar in The Missouri Primrose and gazed at the painting of the lady lying on the couch, I was surprised to see a detail I had not remembered. In addition to lounging on one elbow with her tawny tresses covering some parts of her upper body and a gossamer scarf draped over her hip and waist area, she held a white flower dangling from her free hand. Now that I saw the flower and registered it, I realized I had seen the original many times, quite often on hillsides, in that cloudy, moist time of year that passes for spring in Wyoming.

  Other than the flower, which had been easy to forget, nothing in the painting suggested a specific time or place. Like other paintings I have seen since then, it was raised in a lofty never-never land, above the hanging cloud of tobacco smoke, above the jingle of spurs, the clomp of boots, the chatter of voices, and the occasional slap of a leather dice cup.

  The Saturday night crowd consisted of men from our building crew, working men from town, and ranch hands who rode in from the country. The atmosphere, as I felt it, had a general tone of relaxation, freedom from care or worry. Later on, men might whoop and holler in exuberance or raise their voices in anger, but the night was young. It seemed innocent and honest, a time to “drive dull cares away,” as the song went. Beneath the surface, however, a memory nagged at me. I recalled George Hodel from the night before, tossing out remarks about malice and injustice for the benefit of anyone who would listen. I hoped and hoped he would not walk through the door tonight.

  I drank from my glass of beer, mindful not to gulp it down too fast. It had a good taste after a week of sun and dust—and antagonism, I admitted. The ill will had worn on me, and I was glad to be away from it for a while.

  Dunbar and Del Bancroft had fallen into a conversation next to me. I do believe they could have talked about building a wooden ark or a palace of ice. Second in rank to my fear that George Hodel might show up was a worry that someone would see me standing by myself and would try to engage me in a conversation. I would rather be left alone, to think about Emma or to brood about Dick Ainsworth and Boots Larose and the question of whether Alex Garrison ever stole a horse.

  After half an hour of rumination and most of my glass of beer, I saw a full glass set in front of me.

  “This man,” said the bartender, pointing at Del Bancroft.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You bet.” Del smiled as he scratched his full head of hair. During the week he had worn a cloth cap, which I thought would be better than a hat when a man was working close to lumber, but he did not wear it to the saloon. I thought he seemed at ease, perhaps detached from the friction that was so evident between Crowley’s men and Dunbar and myself.

  Del went back to his conversation with Dunbar, and I realized I had been hearing someone tune a fiddle. Now the tentative notes of another instrument sounded. Looking around, past the tables and up against the opposite wall, I saw two musicians getting ready to play.

  The fiddle player was tall and lean and gray-haired with a drooping mustache. The mandolin player was of medium height, light-haired, and clean-shaven. They looked as if they could have come from Ohio or Illinois, as they wore white shirts, brown vests and neckties, and brown derby hats. The word “minstrels” came to my mind.

  They started off with a lively tune that identified itself as “Little Brown Jug.” Before long, half the patrons were singing along. Next in the musicians’ delivery was “The Little Old Log Cabin in the Lane,” followed by “In the Baggage Coach Ahead,” which I think I heard that evening for the first time but have heard many times since. After half a dozen numbers in this vein, including a couple of cowboy songs about lost love and heartache, it became apparent that this duo specialized in the sorrowful kind of music that was so popular. I had the illusion that these two men could be interchanged with any other pair who was playing that night in Chicago, Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, or Baltimore.

  Then came an unexpected moment. The fiddle player held his bow as if to hold the audience’s attention, and in a clear voice he said, “And now, if you don’t mind, we’ll play you something original. Mac and I wrote this song between us. It’s called ‘Traveler in the Snow,’ and it goes like this.”

  With a light touch of the fiddle, blended with the clear, sad notes of the mandolin, they sang.

  Well we found her one cold Sunday morning

  In the alley where hollyhocks grow.

  ’Neath the dead leaves and husks of last summer’s stalks

  Lay the woman who died in the snow.

  She was wrapped in a coat and a blanket,

  But the night had gone twenty below.

  How she came to be there, to die all alone,

  Was something we never would know.

  For they come and they go on the train cars,

  And they drop off in towns like our own.

  They might stay for a day, and find nothing here,

  Then they drift on to places unknown.

  Oh, her face
it was pale but not wrinkled,

  Though her hair was beginning to gray.

  And a necklace of gold, with a small garnet stone,

  Cast a shine on a clear winter day.

  For a moment, no more, she resembled

  A person I’d known long ago.

  Then the fancy passed on, and I saw as before

  Just a woman who died in the snow.

  Just a woman who died and was buried

  At a stop on her journey alone.

  Though we knew not her name, we laid her to rest

  With her necklace and small garnet stone.

  Oh, they come and they go on the train cars

  And they drop off in towns like our own.

  They might stay for a day, and find nothing here,

  Then they drift on to places unknown.

  I joined in the applause, and I saw that Del Bancroft and Dunbar had been listening as well. Although the song fit right in with the rest of the minstrels’ repertoire of sad and wistful tunes, it indeed offered something original that night in a town that was but a speck in the Wyoming grassland.

  As Dunbar and I walked back to camp later that evening, Del Bancroft having taken leave earlier, I felt relaxed from the five or six glasses of beer I had drunk, and I felt relieved that nothing had disrupted the tranquility of the evening. The melody of a song ran through my mind, and I placed it.

  I said, “You have an interest in songs. What did you think of the one they sang about the woman who died in the snow?”

  “Oh, it was a maudlin piece all right, but not doing any harm. It’s like a great many songs you’ll hear in taverns and such places, cities and towns alike.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Sad and sentimental, but with good reason. Go to a graveyard, read fifty or a hundred gravestones, and see if you don’t get to feeling a little sad yourself. Infants, young mothers—”

  “But the woman in the song was gray.”

  “Oh, yes, but the larger idea is that there’s a great deal of sadness in life, people dying at all ages, and these songs touch upon it in various ways.”