I drifted downstairs, seeing no one else about. A desk clerk – a different man from the night before, slept, tilted back in a wooden chair behind the counter. Beyond the batwing doors I could smell coffee boiling in the restaurant. I walked through to seat myself. There was only one other customer – a lonesome, weary-looking man who might have been a buffalo hunter or mountain man driven down from the high reaches by the snow. He looked up at me with red eyes, nodded and returned his gaze to his coffee mug which he was cupping with both hands for its warmth.
A bright-eyed, sassy-looking girl appeared from the kitchen with a handful of silverware, glanced at me, put the silverware down and wiped her hands on her short apron.
‘What’ll you have?’ she asked brightly.
‘What’s the cook got up? I’ll take anything that you can bring me soon.’
‘He’s ready to go with anything,’ she said. ‘Ham’s sliced, hotcake batter’s mixed, griddles hot and we got eggs.’
‘Some of each,’ I told her, ‘and coffee.’
‘You got it,’ she said. I wondered how anyone could be so perky at this hour, but she was. She scribbled something down on her pad and started away, but I stopped her before she could leave.
‘Do you happen to know a man named Ben Comfrey?’ I asked, and I described him briefly as she shook her head doubtfully.
‘’Fraid not,’ she said. Someone’s voice – the cook’s, I supposed, called out from the kitchen.
‘Myrtle!’
‘Shut up,’ she said under her breath, looking that way. To me, she said, ‘I don’t know the man, sorry, mister,’ and scurried away again.
Two men in heavy sheepskin coats entered, looked around and stamped to a corner table. I looked away from them, not knowing if there might not be a star hidden beneath those coats. When I looked back the older man with the tangled gray-streaked hair, the one I had taken for a buffalo hunter, was standing next to my table.
‘Mind if I sit down?’ he asked. His hands, I noticed, were trembling. They were big-veined and gnarled. His red eyes had a deep sadness in them. I shrugged and he slid a chair out from the table. Myrtle had returned with a pot of coffee and she looked at him and then at me. I made a small gesture to indicate that it was all right. If I read the man across from me correctly he had no money for breakfast and perhaps none even to pay for the coffee he had been nursing so carefully.
‘You want anything to eat?’ I offered, and we called Myrtle back. After ordering, he cleared his throat drily and said, ‘I heard you asking about Ben Comfrey.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Yes, I do! One of the biggest-hearted men I’ve met. Last winter he let me hole up in his haybarn for three months. Never asked me for anything but a bit of handy work. My name’s Pez. Pez Traylor,’ he said, offering me his hand. ‘I was trapping in the high country. Beaver.’ He shook his head. ‘They seem mainly to be trapped out now, though. It’s a shame.
‘But I came down with a fair take, not wanting to winter up there. First thing I know I got robbed on the trail by three men. Two Crow warriors and a white man. They took my skins and left me there with nothing, not even my mule. By the time I reached Billings I was near froze, half starved.
‘Ben Comfrey, he heard my hard luck story and let me stay with him. A man with a big heart.’
‘He was,’ I agreed.
‘You know Ben, then.…’ He hesitated. ‘Wait, what do you mean he was?’
‘He and I went timbering for the railroad. He got killed,’ I had to tell him.
‘Killed.…’ The old man’s face showed concern followed by bewilderment and then anger. ‘Someone murdered him?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Well, damn!’ His hands clenched. I had the idea that the trapper had been hoping to winter up once more at Ben’s farm. His head shifted slightly with what might have been despair. We removed our arms from the table as Myrtle set our plates down then scurried away to start teasing and flirting with the men in the sheepskin coats whom she seemed to know well.
‘That’s going to be hell on his wife.’ Pez looked at me more deeply. ‘Is that what you came here for, to tell her that Ben’s dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t envy you that task. I always hate that task.’
I didn’t say a word about the money I had for her. In general it’s better not to talk about money with someone you don’t know, especially when he looks like someone who could use a little of it himself. I liked Pez, thought he was probably sincere, hopefully honest – but you just never knew.
He fell to eating with ravenous appetite and I wasn’t far behind him. When we were down to coffee and empty platters, I said, ‘You can tell me where Ben’s place is, then?’
‘Sure. I’ll draw you a little map though it ain’t hard to find.’ He considered silently and then added, ‘Do you want me to ride out there with you?’
‘No, it’s better that I do it alone,’ I answered, without giving my reasons.
‘I understand.’ After a minute’s reflection, he added, ‘I guess that’s it for me, then. Truth is,’ he told me with a sad smile that revealed broken teeth, ‘I was kinda hoping to stay there again this winter. Truth is – and I hate to admit it – I’m too old for trapping, too old for the snow and the high mountain struggle.’
I didn’t answer, just gave a commiserating nod. Pez said, ‘This knocks the chocks from under my wheels. Can’t expect a widow to take me in and feed me for free.’
‘No,’ I was forced to agree.
‘Well,’ he said with false brightness, ‘maybe I can find some handyman work around town.’ His eyes weren’t touched by this surge of optimism. It seemed a long shot, but I offered one idea.
‘Why don’t you talk to the people at the hotel, Pez? They just might have an opening for someone who can patch a split-shingle roof.’
‘Think so?’
‘Something I heard,’ I shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know for sure. Anyway, it’s worth a try.’
‘Yes, it’s that. You know, I didn’t get your name,’ he said.
‘Ryan. Just Ryan.’
We shook hands again and he rose. ‘Well, I thank you for the suggestion, and thank you again for the meal. Let me draw you a little map here of how to find old Ben’s place,’ he said, setting about it with a stubby pencil and a scrap of paper. ‘I don’t envy you your task, Ryan,’ he said once more with a shake of his head. ‘I surely do not.’
I was unhappy with my lot as well, but I had come a long way and gone through much to do what had to be done. After settling up my bills all around, I started the black down the trail in the grimly brilliant light of the new morning. There was still a hint of violet and of rose in the eastern sky, but the sunlight was brilliant off the snow and I tugged down my hat and squinted my eyes as I rode on.
The homestead Ben Comfrey had been so proud of wasn’t much to see. Low sod house and flimsy barn. I saw a few cattle dotted here and there about the place foraging for something to nibble at and two horses in a pole corral around back. The cottonwood trees were sparse and gray in the cold daylight. The high sun showed me an acre or so where wheat had been planted. The crop looked withered and mostly flattened, bent by the wind and snow of the past week.
A single leafless elm stood beside the narrow front porch of the house, and a yellow hound came out to meet me as I approached the soddy, waggling its tail, its belly low to the ground, unsure how to approach me.
It hadn’t been much of a place in the best of times, now it looked ready to crumble and fade back into the prairie. But Ben had spoken glowingly of it. A man’s home, a man’s woman is always the most beautiful to him. I swung down from the black and tied it loosely to the hitch rail.
I removed my hat, wiped back my hair and stood watching the house uncertainly. All was quiet. I began to step up on to the sagging porch when I saw the door open a few inches, hesitantly, shyly.
‘Who are you?’ a woman’s voice asked, her voice q
uavering.
‘Is this the Comfrey place?’
‘Who are you? Who wants to know?’
‘I was a friend of Ben’s. I have some of his things.’
There was a long, heavy silence and then I heard the woman say, ‘I knew he was dead. I knew it. He promised he’d be back before the first snow fell. And he never came.’
The door opened fully and a small woman with dark gold hair emerged. She wore a shawl and she kept it against her with crossed arms. It was the woman I had seen in the picture, no doubt of it, but she was no slip of a girl now, but a mature, handsome female. She stepped nearer to me, looking down at my face. The wind twisted a loose strand of hair across her eyes. She brushed it away wearily.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Ryan. I worked with Ben out at the Yellow Tongue.’
She continued to eye me skeptically. ‘How did you find the place?’
‘A man named Pez told me how to find it.’
She nodded to herself and looked briefly skyward. Her eyes were a deep green, something I could not have guessed from the daguerreotype of her. The light wind gusted a little. A hawk screeched from somewhere above us, and she broke her silence.
‘You may as well come in,’ she said, with a woman’s infinite sadness. She was not crying; I guessed she had already shed her tears when the crops began to wither and Ben had not arrived as he had promised.
I untied my saddle-bags, shouldered them and followed her into the low-ceilinged house. It was small and dark. Only two high, narrow windows illuminated the soddy. The packed earth floor had been swept, though, and on the mantel over the stone fireplace were three pieces of pewter and two good porcelain statuettes. I smelled coffee and cornpone. That had been her breakfast, I supposed.
‘Sit down,’ she said, waving a hand limply toward the table and four chairs that dominated the room. ‘I’ll heat the coffee.’
‘Thank you.’ I sat, placed my hat on the chair beside me and opened my saddle-bags, withdrawing the daguerreotype, and Ben’s paybook. I sat in silence as she prodded the embers in her iron stove to life and placed the half-gallon blue coffeepot on, using her apron as a hotpad. She was trim and carried herself erectly, I noticed. A proud woman. When she turned to face me I was struck again by the deep green of her eyes. It was sad to see that they had no life in them. Her hard life had removed any sparkle they might once have held.
‘You said that you have some of Ben’s things.’
‘Not much.’ He hadn’t had much. ‘There’s this,’ I said, sliding the picture of her and the young boy across the table. She picked it up and examined it, the corner of her mouth lifting in a hint of a smile. Her eyes grew reminiscent.
‘Was I ever that young?’ she said to herself. The coffee began to boil and she returned to the stove to fill two white ceramic cups and brought them to the table, seating herself opposite me.
‘This is what Ben wanted you to have most,’ I said, and I counted out his wages in gold. ‘And I brought his paybook along so that you can see that it’s an accurate accounting.’
She ignored my last words and the blue paybook I placed in front of her. In a sort of angry wonder she looked at the small stack of coins I had given her. Bright gold and silver. I knew she hadn’t seen that much for a long time, but she didn’t seem happy.
‘Is this what a man’s life is worth?’ she said in a muted voice, and now I did see moisture in her eyes. I looked away and took a sip of the strong hot coffee as she dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron. I had no answer to make.
‘Ben was trying to do his best,’ I said, meeting her gaze with my own. ‘A man does what he can.’ She remained silent. ‘He was proud of you, this place, his son. He must have shown me that picture a hundred times.’
She shook her head. ‘That’s not Ben’s son. He’s my brother, Bobby.’
‘Oh?’
‘My father never came back from the war. Cholera took my mother. I was only sixteen when I met Ben Comfrey. He took Bobby and me both in. Ben and I didn’t … couldn’t.’ Her eyes flickered and grew more intense. ‘What happened to Ben, Ryan?’
‘He was murdered.’
‘Murdered? But who would want to kill Ben?’
I hadn’t heard the door open behind me, but now from the doorway came the accusing words, ‘He killed Ben, Sis. Don’t you see it? This is the man who killed Ben.’
EIGHT
I slowly shifted my eyes without moving my hands. Standing in the open doorway was a boy of fourteen or so. On the floor where he had dropped them were two dead rabbits. In his hands was a double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun aimed carelessly at me.
‘What are you talking about, Bobby?’ Comfrey’s wife asked, her eyes going to mine and then back to her brother’s. ‘Ryan just rode all the way from Yellow Tongue to bring Ben’s pay to us.’
‘And where did he get Ben’s pay from?’ the kid demanded. I didn’t like the set of his full mouth nor the glint in his brownish-green eyes. ‘Ask yourself that? Then ask yourself another question: why is he carrying Ben’s pistol in his holster? It’s Ben’s,’ he told her sharply, as she tried to look. ‘I’d know it anywhere. He loved that pistol.’
The woman looked to me questioningly. I answered the unspoken question: ‘Ben and I got into a fight with some men. He was shot and killed. I took his gun to bring to you. Later I lost my own revolver so I’ve been carrying his ever since. If you like, I’ll give it to you now.’
‘Don’t you be reaching for that gun!’ the kid, Bobby, ordered, and I placed my hand back on the table very carefully.
‘You must be wrong, Bobby,’ the woman objected.
‘I’m not wrong,’ he said. There was nervousness in his voice, but he was resolute as well. ‘And who says that’s all the money Ben earned. There might be more, a lot more.’
‘There’s his paybook,’ I said calmly. ‘You can examine it.’
‘I intend to. Sis, maybe he isn’t a crook. Maybe he’s just a killer. Maybe he and Ben scrapped and he killed Ben. Maybe his conscience got to bothering him and so he decided to bring that money here. I don’t know for sure, but I don’t like him being here. I say we tell him to mount up and ride. Right now!’
The woman was a long time answering. She looked again at the picture she had placed on the table before her and then gave her head a small shake.
‘No, Bobby.’
‘Nina!’ Bobby’s voice shook. He was angry, but I thought he also did not like being thwarted now that he was man of the house.
‘I said “no”, Bobby. We don’t throw guests out at gunpoint. This man has ridden a long way to bring Ben’s pay to us, and we need it sorely. We will not repay kindness with rudeness. He at least deserves our thanks and a chance to rest.’ The boy stood stock-still, his mouth was slightly open. His eyes shifted from me to Nina and back. His sister said, ‘Now get outside and skin those rabbits if you want them for our dinner.’
Sullenly he snatched up the rabbits and went out, throwing one last poisonous glance my way.
‘I didn’t come here to cause trouble,’ I said. ‘I can leave as soon as stay. There’s no need for my presence to cause friction.’ I had half-risen from my chair when she stopped me.
‘No, Ryan. It’s not just you, but Bobby has to learn the proper way to do things. You are a guest; our guests are to be treated with kindness.’
I sipped again at my coffee. It had grown cool in the meantime. I glanced toward the open door, seeing the bright snow surrounding scant patches of grass. I could see a corner of the wheat field with its wilted growth. Nina followed my eyes.
‘I tried to reap as much as I could, but it wasn’t much good even then, and the job was too much for me.’ She looked at the palms of her hands and smiled distantly. ‘It wouldn’t have been enough to save us anyway, and the hay won’t last the horses through winter, let alone the cattle. Those I shall have to sell off.’
‘You’ll have food at least, and come spring—�
�
She interrupted me. ‘We won’t be here come spring. I was willing to try holding out as long as Ben was here. Now … he’s not coming back, is he?’
‘What are you going to do?’ I asked.
‘There’s a woman in town who owns a hair-dressing salon. She’s getting older and needs help. There’s a small apartment above the salon, large enough for Bobby and me.’ She gave a small shrug. ‘We can make out all right there. It’s a desperate plan we’ve discussed already, hoping we would never have to do it. That everything would be somehow be all right once Ben returned.’
Her expression was downcast. All hope of saving the farm seemed to be gone; I could see that. I could offer no advice. ‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ I said, for something to say. I glanced toward the door again. ‘How does Bobby feel about the idea?’
‘He hates it!’ Nina said. ‘He’s a country boy. He likes to hunt and fish. He likes working in the open with no boss around watching over his shoulder. He always thought he would live on this ranch the rest of his life. That we would build it up, do all the things Ben had in mind. Build a real wood house—’ Her voice broke off and again I saw a dampness in her eyes, tears she would not allow herself to shed.
She was young; I had to remind myself of that. She would be twenty-four years old now by my reckoning. Awful young to have your dreams disappear and have to give yourself up to an existence of drudgery.
She sighed audibly, rose and took our cups to the counter. ‘Ben was the only father Bobby has ever known,’ she said, keeping her back to me. ‘I don’t know if he really believes you had anything to do with Ben’s death, but the news was a terrible shock to him, I’m sure.’
‘If I thought I could say anything to help. …’
‘You can’t. Don’t try.’ She stood facing away from me for another little while. I rose, putting my hat on. Nina untied her apron, folded it and offered me another of her meager smiles. ‘Would you like to look around the place a little? See what Ben meant to do to improve the ranch?’
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