Jimmy Delf left the same day. He stopped by to see us while we were pitching hay to the cattle in the pens.
“I’m leaving on the train in a little while,” he said. He still looked worried, but his face was not as ghostly as before.
“The eastbound?” I asked.
“Uh-huh.” His eyes shifted to Dunbar. “I want to thank you for what you did. This thing has been hangin’ over me for fifteen years. I’ve always been lookin’ over my shoulder to see if someone caught up with me. Runnin’ off and leavin’ Lunn like I did, I never felt right. I can’t help thinkin’ he’ll rest easier in his grave now.”
“I hope so,” said Dunbar.
“You made the son of a bitch pay for what he did.”
“It wasn’t my intention to do it all myself, but what’s done is done.”
“Well, I’ll remember you for it.” He put out his hand, which still had a tremble. He shook with Dunbar and then with me.
I said, “So long, Jimmy. Thanks for coming here.”
“I had to. I was scared to death, but I had to.”
Dunbar said, “You did well, Jimmy. Good luck to you.”
Jimmy turned and walked away, a thin and lonely and not very powerful man, but a person who had ventured to tell the truth when the time came. I imagined he was not going back to a very prosperous life, but at least he would not have to look over his shoulder all the time.
I thought Mrs. Deville would leave on the same train as Jimmy Delf, but she didn’t. To my surprise, she left on the westbound train the next day at noon. Dunbar and I had stayed over to help load the steers into the stock cars. George and Bob and one of the men from Hat Creek were going to ride in the caboose to Omaha. At every stop they would have to go along the cars with poles and roust the animals to their feet. I had heard it was a mucky job, but these three fellows were cheerful about the prospect. The eastbound stock train would not roll in until later in the afternoon, but the boys already had their bags packed at midday and had bought cigars. They sat around camp, idle and fidgeting.
When the whistle of the westbound sounded a couple of miles out, Dunbar left the camp and crossed the street toward the hotel. A couple of minutes later, he emerged with Mrs. Deville at his side. She was dressed as she had been the first time I saw her, in a dark traveling hat, a gray linen duster, and gray gloves. Dunbar carried her brown Gladstone bag.
The train chugged and hissed to a stop. A porter jumped down from the second passenger car and placed a step on the ground. Dunbar handed the lady up into the car, where she turned on the first step and paused to smile at him. He took off his dark hat and swept it in front of him as he bowed. Mrs. Deville’s teeth showed in a larger smile, and she disappeared from my sight. Dunbar stood by, hat at his side, as the porter took the bag and set it, along with the portable step, in the entry to the passenger car. He pulled himself up and in as the train began to move. A minute later, the train let out a whistle as it picked up steam and rolled away to the west.
Dunbar and I returned to the ranch late that afternoon, after we had loaded the steers. I thought he would at least spend the night, but he had a purposeful air about him as he packed his few things in the bunkhouse and fitted out the buckskin packhorse. As he worked, I heard him whistling the tune of the song about the woman who died in the snow.
He had left the blue roan saddled, so he was ready to go in a short while. He led the two horses into the yard and stopped. He had not yet put on his gloves after the detailed work of buckling straps and tying knots, and I saw the dark spot in his palm when he reached forward to shake.
“My best to you, Bard. I wish you good luck.”
“And the same to you. I thought you might stay longer.”
“It’s a good thought, but I’ve got things to do.”
“Well, we’ve had a good time, when we weren’t having to deal with these undesirable things. I enjoyed our conversations.”
“So did I. Always a good time.”
I looked at the ground, then up at him. “I don’t want to sound like I’m echoing Del Bancroft, but I have a question.”
He laughed. “Does that mean three?”
“I think just one. And I hope you don’t mind. It’s about Mrs. Deville.”
He smiled. “I’m sure you wouldn’t ask anything ungallant. Go ahead.”
“I had the impression that you knew her from before.”
“I never said I didn’t.”
“Then why do you leave her, or let her leave you? She’s such a beautiful woman.”
“Ah, that’s a young man’s question. Not that I’m old, in years at least. But I’ll answer it. Like I’ve said, I’ve got work to do. And it’s getting later in the year.”
“Do you think you’ll see her again?”
“There’s nothing that says I can’t. No fate or prophecy that I’m aware of. And that’s three questions, after all.”
To me, it was one question that had three parts, but I took his comment in good humor. “Very well,” I said. “Thank you for all you’ve done. If Lunn Woodfill can sleep easier in his grave, maybe Alex Garrison can, too.” I felt that he had kept his word with Mrs. Pearson, but I could not bring myself to mention Bill Pearson, George Hodel, or Mary Weldon, for in truth, I did not think enough justice had been served, though there was nothing more to be done.
He must have had a similar thought. “I wish I could have done more,” he said.
We shook again, and he moved his horses into position. Holding the lead rope out of the way, he pulled himself into the saddle with one hand, reined the blue roan around, and moved forward. He raised his dark hat in farewell and said, “So long.”
He rode out of the yard and headed north, the two horses stepping along at a brisk pace. Evening was drawing in, and within a few minutes, I could see only hazy shapes. I imagined Mrs. Deville, several hours farther down the railroad line, looking out the window upon a similar darkening landscape. When I focused again in Dunbar’s direction, the shapes of him and his horses had been absorbed in the dusk.
I knew that the railroad veered north and northwest when it met the other line coming up from Cheyenne. Moistness came to my eyes as I thought of the sacrifice Dunbar was making, even if it was not permanent. I hoped he and Mrs. Deville would meet again, but then I told myself that it was none of my business, and I made myself think no more about that aspect for the time being.
I never heard of or from Dunbar again, and he never came by to see how Del Bancroft turned out the restored stagecoach. From time to time I can’t help wondering whether he met up with Mrs. Deville. On a lesser note, I sometimes wonder if he ever made up a song of his own, as he had said on a day that now seems distant and innocent, though I know he was working even then.
After he left, those of us in the Niobrara country went about our lives. To me it seemed as if our area had been purged of a disease that we had not been much aware of. So we went on to face the continuing facts of our lives—snow and ice in the winter, heat and grasshoppers in the summer, wind at all seasons, death and illness as they came.
Lou Foster made it through the following winter and began to improve when the warm weather came around again. He recovered enough to get around without a crutch, but he still walks with a limp and uses a step or block to help himself onto a horse. Bob Crenshaw stayed in the East, but George Olney returned the next season and now works year-round at the ranch. He brings the horse around for Lou Foster, and he makes sure the boss does not step on ice.
Dan the cook, meanwhile, still works at the ranch, though his steps are slower now. He still waters the elm tree outside the bunkhouse. It has grown tall and bushy, and Dan sits in its shade on summer afternoons.
Verona still works for Luke Hayward, though I hear that she does not get around very well at all. When I think of her, I remember the courage she had to stand up to Borden Crowley, and I hope she is living out her days in peace as she leans on her stick amidst the pens of animals and the strange call of the peacock.
Fred Mullet went on to work for the Converse Cattle Company and the 77 Ranch, and he has become well known for the stories he tells about ancient crimes on Old Woman Creek and south of the Hat Creek Breaks. The last time I saw him, he was starting to show gray around the temples. He spoke of cowpunching as if it were a curse, and he said that as soon as the 77 could do without him, he was going to find a woman and settle down.
The Bower remained closed for a couple of years until Matthew Fenster, the proprietor of the mercantile, bought the building and rented it out to a man who runs a saddle shop and does hat repair.
The BC ranch passed into the hands of an investment company, which tried to run it as a ranch from a distance but ended up selling it off in the separate deeded parts that Borden Crowley had amassed.
With the help of Del Bancroft, I bought the parcel that had belonged to Alex Garrison. Emma and I have built a cabin there, and we have planted a few trees. We water them with good clear water from Blue Wolf Spring, here in the midst of a vast and often dry garden of grass.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John D. Nesbitt lives in the plains country of Wyoming, where he teaches English and Spanish at Eastern Wyoming College. He writes western, contemporary, mystery, and retro/noir fiction as well as nonfiction and poetry. John has won many awards for his work, including two awards from the Wyoming State Historical Society (for fiction), two awards from Wyoming Writers for encouragement of other writers and service to the organization, two Wyoming Arts Council literary fellowships (one for fiction, one for nonfiction), two Will Rogers Medallion Awards (one for western poetry, one for fiction), and three Spur awards from Western Writers of America. His most recent books are Death in Cantera and Destiny at Dry Camp, frontier mysteries with Five Star.
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Dusk Along the Niobrara Page 19