“We want to be careful,” I said. “They might be trying to bait you.”
His dark mustache was firm, and his eyes were hard as flint. “I know.”
Half a dozen men were still sitting on the grass or leaning on one elbow as we marched into camp. Boots Larose had his back to us as he stood talking to Dick Ainsworth, both of them less than a foot away from Borden Crowley’s elbow as he carved at the meat on his plate. Mullet stood on the other side of Crowley, as if he was waiting for orders.
Dunbar stopped, and his voice had a challenging tone as he called out, “Larose, I’ve got somethin’ to say to you.”
Larose looked over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t give me your back. Turn around and look at me like a man.”
Larose drew back with his left foot, made a slow rotation, and came into position with his right hand near the yellow handle of his six-gun. With his left hand, he tossed the snipe of a cigarette onto the grass near his foot. “What do you need?”
“The wrangler told me you tried to put a rope on my horse.”
Larose stretched his face downward in his insolent way. “Which horse was that?”
“You know damn well which one. The blue roan.”
“Ah. That one. I didn’t know whose it was.”
“You know whose it is, and you know damn well not to touch another man’s horse without his permission.”
Larose raised his chin. “I thought it was an extra horse in the cavvy, didn’t belong to anyone’s string in particular.”
“That’s a preposterous thing to say.”
Larose shrugged. “Call it what you want.”
Dunbar took a breath. I could see he was trying to keep himself calm, but he was not going to let the offense go. He said, “I’ll call it a lie.”
Time stood still. Mullet stood gaping with his mouth open. Crowley stared straight ahead, his hand poised with his knife stuck into the remaining piece of meat. Ainsworth’s dark blue eyes were fixed on Dunbar, but he had not stepped into the clear. He and Larose and Crowley were bunched up. Larose’s face had fallen at Dunbar’s words, and now he had to say or do something.
He took in a breath, tipped his head, and said, “What are you goin’ to do about it?”
“I don’t have to do anything,” said Dunbar. “But if you want to step up and take a swipe at me, give it a try.” Dunbar motioned with his head. “Or, if you want to go for your gun, you can try that. One thing I know. When a man knows he’s in the right, he’s got a better chance of comin’ out on top.” Dunbar’s dark eyes moved to Crowley and Ainsworth, then back to Larose. “And when a man knows the truth is against him, he doesn’t have enough in him.”
Ainsworth spoke up. “You talk too much.”
Dunbar waved his left hand. “Save that for your own men. You can’t control what the rest of the world says, even though you’d like to.”
No one spoke further. Mullet had closed his mouth and seemed still to be waiting for orders. Larose stepped on his cigarette butt, and Crowley returned to cutting his meat. Ainsworth was practicing his hard stare, but it did not have any effect as Dunbar and I headed back to the herd to pick out our horses for the afternoon’s work.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
With the main gate of the shipping pens wide open, we ran half of the horse herd, some fifty head, in first. The beef herd followed. Fall roundup was ending in a swift manner, as Del Bancroft had predicted. It was not hard to move a band of horses as long as a man on horseback stayed out in front, and a herd of shipping steers moved faster than a mixed herd of cows, calves, steers, and heifers.
Delivering the beef herd to the new shipping pens was a big event for the small town of Brome. Merchants and townsfolk lined the main street as if they were waiting for a Fourth of July parade. Others had come into town for the event. Lou Foster, clean-shaven and in clean clothes, leaned on his crutch and raised his head to watch the animals go by. Dunbar and I waved to him as we took up the rear of the herd of steers. When the big gate closed behind the last steer, Lou came hobbling up to us. We dismounted and shook hands with him.
Dunbar said, “They’re sortin’ the cattle into pens accordin’ to the brands.”
“Sure,” said Lou. “I’m anxious to know how many head I’ve got, but I realize it’ll take a little while to secure a count.” In a lowered voice he asked, “Everything go all right? Any trouble?”
“Nothing to speak of,” said Dunbar. “A couple of Crowley’s men like to be difficult, but nothing came of it.”
I thought Dunbar’s comment was something of an understatement. I had spent many long moments in the past two weeks wondering if Larose and Ainsworth had intended to set him up but couldn’t quite follow through when the moment came. When nothing else happened from one day to the next, I wondered if they were waiting for a second opportunity.
“That’s good.” Lou shifted on his crutch. “I’m going to watch the men sort the cattle. I want to see what kind of shape the steers are in.”
“Pretty good, overall.” Dunbar moved his head to one side and another, as if he was keeping a lookout as he made easy conversation.
As Lou moved away, Dunbar turned to me. “I’ll hold your horse if you’d like.” He motioned with his head toward the hotel.
I followed the gesture, and my pulse jumped. Emma was standing next to her mother in front of the hotel. I handed Dunbar my reins and hurried over.
I was not surprised to see her, for a few men on the crew had written letters when we had a definite date for arriving with the herd. Del Bancroft had put a letter into the white canvas bag, and Dunbar had put in something as well, though I couldn’t tell if it was one letter or two, he did it so discreetly.
When I reached the other side of the street, I took off my hat to say good afternoon to Emma and her mother. Mrs. Bancroft nodded but kept her eyes on the shipping pens where the bustling and thumping and men’s voices rose on the air. I made a sweeping motion with my hat and gave a half-bow to Emma, and she laughed.
“I’m glad to see you made it back safe,” she said.
“And I’m glad to see you.” I reached forward and touched her hand as she held it toward me, but the presence of her mother caused me to withdraw my hand after a couple of seconds. “I can’t stay long,” I said. “I have to get back to work.”
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll see you later.”
I winked. “I’ll keep an eye out for you.”
As I turned to walk back to the corrals, I almost ran into a thin, nondescript fellow.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“It’s all right. I was told that you might be able to help me find Mr. Dunbar.” His voice had a quaver to it.
I took a second to observe him with more attention. He was not very tall and wore a low hat, so I had to peer. He had stringy, dirty blond hair and furtive blue eyes. I would have guessed him to be about thirty years old. I thought he had a hollow expression on his face and a nervous demeanor in general, as his hands did not keep still.
“I can take you to him,” I said. “Where did you come from?”
Still in his shaky voice, he said, “I came in on the westbound train. Got here at about noon.”
“Today?”
“Yeh. I came with Mrs. Deville.”
I stopped before I even started walking. I looked at this slip of a man with bony shoulders and stringy hair, and I had an urge to ask him how in the world he came about traveling with Mrs. Deville. But I held my tongue and thought better.
“Is she in the hotel?” I asked.
“Yes. She’s in one room, and I’m in another.”
I would have expected him to be sleeping in the stable, but I treated his statement as if it were as normal as sunshine. I said, “That’s good. Let’s go find Mr. Dunbar. He’s over by the corrals.” I led the way, and the newcomer followed at about half a pace behind me.
Dunbar was standing on the other side of the two horses he was holding. As he came
into view, I said, “That’s him, in the dark hat.”
“Oh, yeah,” said the man.
“Do you know him?”
“We met before.”
I slowed down and let the stranger walk past me. If he knew Dunbar, he didn’t need an introduction. And if he came to talk to Dunbar, he didn’t need me listening in.
They spoke for a couple of minutes, each of them nodding by turns. Their voices rose in a tone of conclusion, and the small man walked away in the direction of the hotel.
I joined Dunbar and took the reins to the horse I had been riding, a shiny sorrel. I said, “I hope he’s not looking for work. Half of us are going to be out of a job by this time tomorrow, and I don’t know if there would be anything for him.”
“He’s all right,” said Dunbar.
I did not dare say anything about Mrs. Deville, but I was hoping to catch sight of her.
“Shall we put our horses away?” I asked.
“I suppose. We ought to help these other fellows sort the cattle.” Dunbar scratched his ear. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you put the horses away, and I’ll be back in time to go help sort.” He handed me the reins to the brown horse he had been riding.
“I can do that,” I said. I thought some kind of fat was in the fire, and I needed to be on the lookout so I didn’t foul things up.
With some men on the ground working gates and other men on horseback moving the cattle, we finished the sorting in late afternoon. Dust hung in the air, as did the smell of manure. Steers bellowed, and hooves thumped against corral planks. Del Bancroft and Borden Crowley stood on the catwalk, looking over the distribution of cattle in the pens. Lou Foster stood by the main gate, leaning on his crutch. Three other owners of small outfits were out in the pens. Dunbar and I stood near Lou, waiting for the crew to gather. This would be a time to say goodbye to men we had worked with, for some of them would be paid off today.
Crowley came down from the catwalk and joined up with his foreman, Dick Ainsworth. The two of them stood a few yards away from Lou Foster. Del Bancroft took another stroll down the catwalk and back, then came down the steps and joined the group.
Hired hands began to gather, and the other three owners stepped out through the gate. The group of six owners made a small arc facing the crowd of hired men. People from town approached and stood nearby in groups of twos and threes, some of them exchanging words with some of the cowhands. Other townspeople, like Otto Trent and Carl Granger, seemed to have come to be part of a public event. I had the sense that the crowd expected someone to make a speech, but no one made a move.
Del Bancroft looked to either side, and receiving nothing but shrugs and small shakes of the head from the other owners, he stepped forward. “I thought maybe someone was going to say something, but to tell you the truth, we hadn’t planned anything. But for my part, I can say I’m very pleased to see this set of corrals here and the cattle in the pens.” He paused. “I guess that’s about all I have to say. Does anyone else—”
Dunbar stepped away from the crowd and spoke in a clear voice. “While we’re all here, I wouldn’t mind making a small presentation. Won’t take but a couple of minutes.” He waved in the direction of the hotel.
The crowd turned to see Mrs. Deville beginning to cross the street with a heavier, slow-moving person at her side. I recognized Verona and her walking stick.
Borden Crowley spoke out. “Oh, come on, now. We don’t have time to waste. The day’s slipping away.”
Dunbar dismissed him with a wave. “This won’t take long.”
Verona and Mrs. Deville made quite a pair as they approached us—Verona in her work clothes, leaning on a stick that had been cut from the wild, and Mrs. Deville, in a black jacket, a white blouse, and a long black wool skirt.
“Thanks for coming,” said Dunbar when they came to a stop.
Mrs. Deville smiled and moved back a step.
Verona moved her lips in a way that toothless people do, though I knew she had teeth. She did not speak.
Del Bancroft said, “If you don’t mind, we do need to move along. Could you state your business? Some of these men are waiting to be paid, and some of them are waiting to be let go for the day.”
In a voice that she seemed to be trying to keep steady, Verona said, “Mr. Dunbar invited me.”
Borden Crowley’s eyes narrowed as they moved from Verona to Dunbar. I thought I saw a strange flicker of recognition, and then his face went expressionless, as I had seen it before.
Dunbar gave Verona a faint smile and said, “A little while back, you told me a story about something that happened many years ago. I’d like you to tell that story again now.”
A murmur went through the crowd. I looked around to keep track of Boots Larose, and I saw him standing behind Dick Ainsworth and Borden Crowley.
Ainsworth spoke out. “For God’s sake, let’s get back to business.”
Dunbar nodded to Verona. “Go ahead.”
Verona cleared her throat, coughed, and spoke. “It was about fifteen years ago. One day I was out at Alex Garrison’s place, along about evening, and a kid came by on foot. He was scared to death. He said he had been working in a sheepherders’ camp up on Old Woman Creek, and a stranger rode into their camp. At night. The stranger said he had come to kill sheep, but he didn’t seem to have the nerve, and the sheepherder made fun of him. So the stranger flew into a fit, came down from his horse, and clubbed the sheepherder to death.”
Verona paused with her tongue stuck to the bottom of her upper lip.
Dunbar said, “And then what happened?”
“This kid that was the camp tender, he said he was so struck with fear that he didn’t know what to do. He tried to run, but the stranger chased him down. He said the stranger had run out of steam and couldn’t look at him straight. Then the stranger pulled himself together and told the kid that if he didn’t leave the country and never come back, he would have him hunted down and killed. So the kid took off across country, traveling by night and hiding by day, and that’s how he came by Alex’s place. He was tired, hungry, and scared for his life.”
“And did he say what the stranger looked like?”
Verona flattened her lips together again and said, “Yes, he did.”
“Can you tell us what he said?”
She held her gray eyes on Dunbar. “Yes. He said the man was tall, well-dressed, and had light-colored hair.”
“And what did you think of that?”
“It reminded me of someone. After the kid had something to eat and took off—it bein’ dark then—Alex told me it reminded him of the same man.”
“And what next?”
“A week or so later, Alex told me that this man we were reminded of started acting fishy, as if he knew the kid had stopped by and spilled his guts. Time went by, and when this man was gone for the winter, Alex turned up dead.”
I caught a glimpse of Dick Ainsworth. He was looking at Borden Crowley as if he had just learned something about him, but I did not detect any expression of disapproval.
Dunbar spoke again. “Could you tell us who it was that Alex Garrison said was acting suspicious? Did he say his name?”
“Yes. It was that man there. Mr. Crowley.”
A murmur louder than before ran through the crowd. Borden Crowley raised his hand in a gesture to ask for silence.
“I find this offensive. Very unfair. This is nothing more than hearsay.”
Dunbar held him with his eyes. “Perhaps you’d like to hear it from the kid himself.” He nodded to Mrs. Deville. She withdrew from Verona’s side and headed for the hotel.
Crowley raised his voice. “Oh, this is nonsense! There isn’t any such kid. This is all someone’s dream.”
Dunbar remained calm. “The story does not sound made up. I believe there’s an old crime on record, an unsolved murder of a sheepherder up on Old Woman Creek, at about that time.”
“Bah. Even if it happened, I wasn’t there. Who’s to say I was?”
Crowley startled me by pointing straight at me. His voice exploded as he said, “It sure as hell isn’t this kid here. The kid in her story would have to be thirty years old now.”
“Pretty close,” said Dunbar. He turned and waved, and Mrs. Deville stepped forward from the overhang in front of the hotel. At her side walked the thin, nervous man I had seen earlier. The gathered crowd made way for them and then moved closer to those of us in front. Verona moved back a couple of steps as she stared at the newcomer.
Mrs. Deville brought the man to stand next to Dunbar. Crowley’s eyes had narrowed, and Ainsworth was studying the newcomer.
Dunbar said “Can you tell us your name?”
The thin man blubbered, as if he was having a hard time making himself speak.
Dunbar patted him on the shoulder. “Calm down. No one’s going to do anything to you. We’ll try again. Can you tell us your name?”
The man wet his lips, swallowed, coughed, and said, “Jimmy Delf.”
The crowd was quiet. The air had begun to cool as the sun slipped in the west, and I felt a chill.
“Enough of this,” said Crowley. With Ainsworth at his side, he stepped forward and gave a hard look at Mrs. Deville. “Why are you doing this?” he asked. “Why are you taking up with this old bulldog”—he pointed with his elbow at Verona—“and this puling ship rat?” He motioned with his chin at Jimmy Delf.
Mrs. Deville flinched and made a frown. She said, “I don’t participate in this kind of conversation.”
Boots Larose pushed forward, between Crowley and Ainsworth, and said, “Well, aren’t you a puss?”
I thought, this was it. They were trying to throw Dunbar off track, and if possible set him up. It was as if they were trying again what they couldn’t pull together that day on roundup.
I felt a wave of dread as Larose stepped closer and grabbed Mrs. Deville’s wrist.
She pulled away, and Dunbar’s voice was curt.
“Don’t touch her.”
Ainsworth and Crowley each stepped aside. Larose squared off, planting his tall dark boots and dangling his hand near the yellow handle of his revolver.
Dusk Along the Niobrara Page 17