‘I hate like hell to fence land,’ Lennox said gloomily. ‘It shouldn’t have to be fenced. And not because of some damned railroad cutting across my property.’ His tone changed. ‘The wife’s at home,’ he said, pointing a stubby finger toward the house where a faint curlicue of smoke could be seen rising from the chimney of the log house. He sighed. ‘I guess we’d better go down and see how much trouble I’m in this time.’
We started our ponies down the snowy bluff. The sky continued to hold clear and it might even have been a few degrees warmer. If the storm held off for another few days, I thought, we should be able to get the fencing done, especially if the frozen earth began to thaw.
We rode at a walk into the yard where patches of untrammeled snow remained. Beneath a huge oak tree Lennox halted his roan and told me, ‘You go on over to the bunkhouse. Old Billy should be around somewhere; he’ll fix you up.’ He sighed heavily and added, ‘Me, I’ve got to go in and catch hell from the wife – I don’t want anyone to watch that.’
I nodded and turned my black horse toward the bunkhouse. I thought I saw the front door of the house open a few inches, but nothing was said as Art Lennox swung down, tilted his hat back and started up heavily into the porch.
The horses in the corral lifted incurious heads to watch as I rode past and tied the black to the hitching rail. I walked to the bunkhouse door, listened, and heard nothing. Unsummoned, I pulled the latchstring and let myself into the vacant, musty interior of the building, saddle-bags across my shoulder.
As my eyes adjusted, I saw a stove in the corner with a big black iron kettle and a big blue enamel coffee pot on it. There were three roughly constructed bunk beds with tick mattresses and leather webbing for support. Six men, I figured would be even more than Art Lennox needed at the busiest of times, but then, like all small ranchers, he must have had hopes of growing. There was a puncheon table with a deck of cards on it and three chairs scattered around.
‘We got beef stew. It’s still warm, or should be,’ a squeaky voice said. ‘If you want it hot, you build up the fire.’
The voice, I saw, came from what I had taken to be a roll of spare blankets resting on one of the bunks. Now the man stretched narrow arms and rose, walking toward me, peering at my face, his hands on his hips.
‘You ain’t Jarvis.’
‘No.’
‘Jarvis usually brings the boss home.’ The man I took to be Old Billy walked to the pot and stirred it with a wooden spoon, tasting it. ‘It’s still warm, like I said. If you don’t like beef stew, that’s too bad. That’s what I made. And I’m the one who has to carve the meat and tote the onions and potatoes, the carrots up from the root cellar. I get no help.’
‘Beef stew sounds just fine,’ I said.
‘It better, it’s all we got,’ the garrulous old man said. He hobbled to one of the wooden chairs and seated himself carefully as if he might break. His shoulders were hunched and his hands gnarled. I guessed he had arthritis and this cold weather couldn’t be helping any.
‘What happened to Jarvis?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t know him. I’m new here.’
‘Jarvis always stops to play cards with me. And old Jarvis, he knows how to soften up Art’s old lady so she don’t tear into him. She says she’s going to cut his ears off one day, and she just might do it!’
‘What’s their trouble?’ I asked. I had found a tin plate and was spooning some of the thick stew on to it.
‘Trouble!’ The old man laughed without humor. I could see into the toothless hollow of his mouth. ‘You seen it, didn’t you? Art, he glums around here swearing and complaining about all the work he’s got to do to keep the place together – then, instead of doing it, he rides off to town and starts sucking on a whiskey bottle.’
‘I could see that a woman wouldn’t like it much,’ I said. I had found a spoon and, wiping it off on my shirt-tail, I proceeded to eat. Billy watched me with narrowed eyes, waiting for me to make a remark about his cooking, perhaps, but I had no complaints to make. It was just good honest beef stew in dark gravy, and since there didn’t seem to be a shortage, I ate my share and then some.
After I had eaten and gotten my horse settled out at the corral to make new friends, I started out with Art Lennox toward the fence line sitting on the bench seat of his wagon. In the bed of the wagon were two spools of barbed wire and fifty or so split cedar posts. I wore a torn hat Billy had dug up from the collection of gear left behind by transient cowhands, rabbit skin-lined black leather gloves and my long leather coat.
Art didn’t say much at all. His wife must have given his ears a good burning. He was morose, silent and probably still somewhat hung over. Now and then he would mutter something that I took to be addressed to the absent Mrs Lennox, but I paid no attention. There’s no easier way for a man to get himself in trouble than by butting into domestic squabbles.
I needed no more trouble than I already had.
‘I would have brought Billy with you, but he’d probably just slow you down,’ Art apologized.
‘I’ll make do,’ I answered. He glanced at me from the corner of his eye as the two horses pulling the wagon dipped down into a shallow wash and drew us up to the other side. There I could see the twin silver rails of the railroad running along a low rise.
‘Did they pay you for the right of way?’ I asked Art.
‘They weren’t required to,’ he said bitterly. ‘The state declared imminent domain. All for the public good, you know. Damn, I’ve still got twenty acres on the far side of the rails I can’t even use for anything.’
Then he fell silent and, as he halted the wagon, he showed me what I was to do. There was about 150 yards of fencing to be thrown up here parallel to the tracks. The cedar posts had to be set at thirty foot intervals, cross-braced at the corners with the ends of the wire wrapped around boulders to anchor them. I could do it all right. I had fenced before, but as I told him and had to admit, I was only average at the work.
‘Can you manage it in ten days?’ Lennox asked, studying the layout. His arms were akimbo, the wind shifting his thinning dark hair. He had removed his hat to mop his brow after the briefest of exertions. He and I had unloaded a dozen or so posts and a spool of wire. The remainder would remain aboard the wagon, making it easier to move later on. The unhitched horses stood twitching their tails, tugging at the frozen yellow grass.
‘On my own?’ I asked with some surprise.
‘I’ve got the rest of the ranch to run,’ he said unhappily. I wondered why he didn’t have at least one sturdy handyman around to help with things, but I said only, ‘I’ll give it my best, Art.’
‘That’s all I can ask. I got to have it done before the trains start running. They’d kill any roaming steer.’
‘I understand that,’ I answered. ‘What about this man Jarvis to help if I start to fall behind?’ The ground was still frozen down a way and the fencing itself wouldn’t take half the time of the digging.
‘Jarvis don’t work worth a damn,’ Lennox said, and there was no reply I could make to that.
‘I do, Art,’ I promised. ‘You’ll get your ten dollars’ worth from me – now, then, if you’ll let me have that digging bar?’
He sort of half-smiled and nodded gratefully. I walked to the creekline and began the first post-hole as Lennox, walking, led the team of horses back toward his ranch house where now a pretty plume of smoke rose from the chimney, promising warmth and the comforts of home. I hoped he could make it up with his wife and enjoy her comfort and the fruits of his own years of labor. I worked on through the morning, opening the frozen ground with the bite of my digging bar. From time to time, I stopped to unbend my back and look skyward. To the north all was holding clear. There was a pair of eagles winging high against the azure dome of the sky and a raven who had taken an interest in me sat on a snowy hummock and croaked at me from time to time, tilting his head from side to side. I paused and looked up the railroad line, wondering if they were close to gettin
g that Yellow Tongue Gorge trestle finished, or if the weather had held them back.
Wondering how long it would be before Alton McCallister arrived back in town on his private railroad car.
I thought to myself that a normal man would just have taken off and headed toward Oregon again, forgetting the railroad baron and that $74.50 I was owed. But now and then I could also recall how Ben Comfrey and I had talked at night and what he had said about his wife and kid and his tiny farm, loving them and hoping for a good future. I could see the faces of the young woman and the boy looking out at me from that stained sepia picture and thought of them waiting at home for Father to return. I thought of McCallister drinking his champagne and of his fancy women and I knew that I would stick it out to the bitter end.
The raven flapped his wings without taking to the air and gave a mocking croak.
Well, maybe the bird was right. Maybe I was some kind of fool.
The sun began to float westward and not long after four o’clock the long shadows stretched out and began to merge and pool. Darkness would settle in soon. Art Lennox hadn’t returned to check up on me, nor to bring a lunch. I straightened up, peering toward the ranch house, but I saw no sign of horses coming toward me.
The day had gone well enough. I had put down fourteen posts, tamped the ground firmly around them. The work had passed quickly. Now I was starting to grow cold, the perspiration beneath my coat chilling as I quit my exertions. The raven had left after an hour or so, growing tired of watching this inexplicable man-labor. I had seen a young mule deer along the creek earlier, but when it lifted its eyes and caught sight of me, it had bounded away. So it had been a lonesome but not unpleasant day. Now with the sky coloring and the temperature beginning to fall, it was time for it to end.
I placed my digging bar atop the cedar logs and started walking back toward the ranch. I hated leaving tools out in the weather; my father had drummed it into the heads of all of us boys that wood warps and splinters and those splinters are going to end up in your own hands. Iron rusts quickly, as well, but I didn’t care for the idea of toting the bar back over my shoulder. With a touch of irritation I decided that if Art couldn’t be bothered to bring me lunch or provide a ride back, I didn’t much care if his tools rusted.
By the time I reached the ranch, the stars were out in cold silvery progression across a black, black sky. There was a light in the bunkhouse window and one in the main house. I was trudging past Art’s yard, wondering if I should pay him a visit when the door opened a crack and then widened and a woman wearing a lime-green robe, her hair pinned up, stepped out on to the porch.
Art’s wife was younger than I would have thought, her hair reddish-brown in the backglow of light from the fireplace within. She clutched the robe to her breast and raised a hand to me. I stopped and turned in that direction without going toward her.
She didn’t say a word. Just stood there looking at me. I couldn’t read her eyes in the shadows, so I don’t know what message they might have been concealing.
‘Is Art in there?’ I asked. I still hadn’t figured out if I was going to tell him off or not, but I did want to make a couple of points clear.
‘No,’ the woman said hesitantly. ‘No, he isn’t.’ Then she backed into the house, still clutching her robe in front. The door closed silently and I was left staring at the dark house.
Shrugging, I stamped to the bunkhouse where Old Billy sat playing solitaire. He glanced up from his card game to tell me, ‘Stew’s on. It’s good and hot tonight.’
I winged my hat toward my bunk and filled my plate. I sat down opposite Billy and asked him, ‘Have you seen Art?’ ‘He went to town.’
‘Supplies?’
‘His own kind,’ Billy said, placing a red eight on a black nine.
‘Good God,’ I exclaimed. ‘You don’t mean to tell me that he goes into town to drink whiskey every night!’
Billy raised rheumy eyes and shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘Sometimes only three nights a week. It depends on how long his money holds out.’
‘It’s a wonder he has any.’
‘It doesn’t cost much to get drunk. It costs a lot to stay drunk,’ Billy said cryptically. I had the feeling he meant more than he was saying, but it didn’t matter to me. I had a plate of warm food and a bunk to sleep on. What did it matter to me what Art Lennox did to waste his life away? I had put in a day’s work. I could endure nine more of them while I paid off my debt and waited for McCallister’s return.
I had just finished that thought and the plate of stew, when I heard a knock on the bunkhouse door. It was a fluttering little knock like a bird beating its wings against it. Old Billy got up to answer it as I swiveled around in my chair curiously.
The door opened to reveal Mrs Lennox standing there, her face impatient yet somehow meek. She had changed her robe for a dark dress with red velvet collar and cuffs. Her reddish hair was pinned up and there was a touch of rouge on her cheeks. The dying sun to the west showed her off to remarkable advantage. Her voice was little breathless.
‘Oh, Billy,’ I heard her say, ‘the fireplace in the house is smoking badly. I think something in the chimney has caught fire. There could be an owl’s nest up there, or maybe it’s just build-up, because it hasn’t been swept for nearly a year. …’ Her words rushed forth, a woman frightened. Old Billy just stood nodding, his shoulders bent. The woman went on, ‘With this weather coming in, I have to have a fire. And if the house goes up!’
‘I wouldn’t know what to do about it,’ Billy told her and she looked my way.
‘Of course Art’s gone when I need him. Henry Jarvis usually does these things, but he must be off trying to bring Art home again,’ she said, with a long-suffering sigh.
She looked at me more intently now and asked, ‘You’re the new man, aren’t you? Ryan? Could you please at least take a look at it?’
‘I’d be happy to,’ I answered, and she gave me a brief grateful smile and disappeared into the night. Old Billy was watching me as I put my hat back on and buttoned up my coat.
‘That’s a good-looking horse you got,’ he commented laconically. I didn’t get his meaning. He added, ‘It’s a quiet night, you could ride a long way on a horse like that.’
‘I could,’ I agreed, my eyes narrowing at the old man’s words. ‘But I owe Art Lennox some work, and I need to stay around. What’s going on here, Billy?’
‘I don’t know,’ he grumped. ‘You’d have to ask Jarvis, I suppose.’
I shrugged at the enigma as he returned to his cards, and stepped out into the clear cold night to trudge toward the main house. Looking up, I saw no unusual burn or sparks issuing from the chimney, but maybe by now, if it had been something ordinary, like a big bird’s nest, or more likely a little pitch flare, it had cleared itself out. Maybe the woman was simply uneasy with her husband away, afraid of fire – I couldn’t blame her for that. I would at least take a look and try to reassure her.
She let me into the lighted front room. The firelight danced through her hair. She was a fine-looking woman, I thought, probably feeling alone out on the prairie and neglected by her husband. I took off my hat and crossed the plank floor to the fireplace, noticing the heavy Spanish-style furniture and the Indian blanket hung on the wall.
‘Mrs Lennox …’
‘You can call me Veronica,’ she said. ‘If you’re going to work here, we should be friends.’ She went on, ‘Usually Jarvis takes care of these things.’ Then she said in a halting yet husky voice, ‘… when Art’s away, I mean.’
‘The fire’s pretty hot still,’ I told her, crouching down in front of the hearth. ‘There’s no way of telling if it needs cleaning. From what I could see outside, the chimney’s clear and there’s no smoke in here.’ Nor did I smell any. What I could smell now was the scent of jasmine soap and another, deeper indefinable scent as the lady bent over my shoulder to peer into the low-burning logs. I rose and turned toward her.
‘Don’t go,’ she said, putting a hand
on my shoulder. It was a nice hand, smooth with tapered fingers. There was firelight in her eyes now and I shook my head.
‘I can’t do anything about your problem, Mrs Lennox. You better wait until the cool morning. Wait for Jarvis. He seems to know what to do.’
Then, settling my hat again I walked swiftly across the floor and went out on to the porch. I could swear that I heard her whisper a word I’d never heard a woman use before.
‘That didn’t take long,’ Old Billy said, looking up at me from his cards as I went into the bunkhouse.
‘There wasn’t anything wrong that I could fix.’
Billy didn’t respond for a minute. He placed a black six on the seven of hearts and muttered, ‘Remember what I said about your horse, Ryan.’
Lying on my bunk I did remember and I gave it some thought. I also remembered Art Lennox and what I owed him, Alton McCallister and what he owed me. I would stay where I was for the time being. I could risk nine more days.
Or so I thought.
SIX
Morning dawned clear and cold. Billy had been up before me firing up the stove to make pancakes, and so the bunkhouse was warm. Nevertheless we both kept our blankets wrapped around us as we ate and drank some strong coffee.
I walked outside, stretched and looked to the northern skies. It would hold clear for that day at least. I was tired of walking so I fetched my black horse from the corral and put his blanket and saddle on. He didn’t mind on this morning. Standing out in the corral on the previous bitter night wasn’t the same as sleeping in Givens’s warm stable. He was glad to be moving, recirculating his blood and stretching his muscles. I found a patch of grass near where I hoped to be by noon, kicked away some snow to give him the idea of how to find more, and got back to fencing.
The sun rode higher in the sky as the hours passed, but although it promised warmth, it never quite touched my back. But I was working and my own muscles were warm with blood as I dug through the frost to the clean dark earth beneath and set my posts. Now and then I would look toward the house, wondering when Art would get back from another of his benders, but I saw no sign of movement. The same deer looked at me from near the creek and danced away again; the same raven – I guessed – watched me from the hummock, making hoarse comments. The black horse, unconcerned, nibbled at the sparse tufts of grass, seldom lifting his head. It was a lonesome day, I suppose, but I liked it. I liked the thunk and bite of steel from my digging bar against the cold earth and the occasional setting of new posts. I was even looking forward to the time when I had finished that and could begin to string new taut wire. I don’t mind working when I can see the point in it; I don’t mind being alone if that’s what is needed.
The Drifter's Revenge Page 5