Stranger in Thunder Basin (Leisure Historical Fiction)

by John D. Nesbitt

  As he traveled north, he thought of what kind of an impression he would make. He was riding a rented horse and saddle, and he didn’t have a rifle, pistol, or rope. He wasn’t a greenhorn in a derby hat and city suit, but he didn’t look like a range rider, either, and that was what he decided he wanted to be. In his way of thinking, it would be the best way to get onto the King Diamond Ranch.

  He turned his gaze outward, observing the landscape he rode through. It was like much of what he had seen in the last few days—hilly grassland with low sagebrush and prickly pear cactus, open range with cattle in small bunches.

  The land seemed to make a gradual rise, though it was hard to tell when he went up one hillside and down the other. When he came to a rise and looked around, however, he could see farther to the south than to the north. It was a peaceful country, with the song of the meadowlarks tinkling, the touch of a breeze on his face, and the smell of sage.

  Onward he rode. The sun warmed his back and made the sorrel’s neck shine. Little heat waves danced in the distance. He came to a low ridge that ran east and west and had pine trees growing along the flank. There he rested in the shade of one of the larger pines, sitting on a rock with his hat in one hand and the reins in the other.

  After a long moment, he realized he was staring at an anthill, a domed structure about four feet across and a foot and a half high, a patchwork of twigs and grass and pine needle fragments. About two hundred yards away, he saw another, and off in the opposite direction, he saw another. These were different from the ones he had seen in Thunder Basin, which were lower and straight sloped, like a broad cone or the thin breast of a young girl. They had consisted of rock granules, mostly dark but other shades as well and had four feet of bare earth all the way around. Here, the shaggy domes rose out of the grass and sagebrush.

  Past the pine ridge, the country rolled away a little flatter than before. The horse kept picking up his feet and moving along at a fast walk, tossing his head once in a while but giving no trouble. The land seemed to rise again, and when the sun was a couple of hours past the meridian, Ed came to a rise and stopped. The horse could use a breather, and Ed wanted a moment to take in the landscape.

  A broad, rich-looking grassland stretched away and leveled out for a couple of miles all the way around. The grass seemed a deeper green, and it rippled in the slight breeze. Off to the left, a ridge of low buttes formed a natural boundary, as did a chalky-looking row of bluffs to the right. Straight ahead, a massive butte rose as the backdrop for a set of ranch buildings. Ed had come to know that a large landmark such as this one was often much farther away than it looked, and from the size of the buildings, he guessed he was between two and three miles from the ranch.

  His eyes returned to the butte. The dark trees that terraced the upper half of it were small as well. The very top of the formation, which slanted downward from left to right, was bare and jagged. Then came the trees, tessellated, and in the lower half as the base sloped out, the grass grew as dark as on the surrounding plain.

  The sorrel horse must have had a good idea that the day’s travel was coming to an end, for he made short work of the last stretch of trail. As Ed approached the ranch headquarters, on the right sat a two-story house, all of lumber and painted white. Across the hard-packed yard from it squatted a long, low, weathered structure that had apparently been built in two sections. As each half had a stovepipe sticking out of the roof, Ed took this building to be the bunk-house and kitchen. Straight ahead, with the butte still a half mile in the background, rose a barn with a gambrel roof and hayloft. A set of corrals reached out on each side of the barn, while farther back on the left, a grove of cottonwoods showed their bright, rustling leaves. A barking dog appeared at the doorway of the barn, followed by a man in the hat and clothes of a ranch hand.

  The man stepped out into the light and waited as Ed rode past the ranch house and dismounted. Leading the horse, he went forward, glad to be getting his feet back on the ground after the last couple of hours in the saddle.

  “How-do,” called out the cowpuncher, in a voice that was not young.

  “Afternoon. Is this the Tompkins Ranch?”

  “Sure is.” The man set his hat back above his forehead, showing a ridge of dark hair that lightened to gray as it faded at his temples.

  “Jory told me that if I was ever out this way I should drop in, so I did.”

  “That’s fine,” said the older man. “He’s out tryin’ to break his neck, but he should be back pretty soon.” He looked at the sorrel, then at Ed, with pale blue eyes that seemed as if they had been washed out by years of sunlight. “I’d guess you’ll stay over.”

  “If it’s all right.”

  “Of course.” The man glanced again at the horse. “Let’s put him away.” He went to turn, then stopped, pivoted, and put out his hand. “By the way, I’m Homer. No sense bein’ a stranger.” Friendly creases came to his face as he smiled.

  As they shook, Ed smiled and nodded. “I’m Edward Dawes. Just call me Ed.”

  “Good enough.” Homer led the way into the barn, where he gave the horse a scoop of oats as Ed went about unsaddling. When he lifted the saddle and blankets clear, Homer showed him a rack where he could put the gear.

  Hoofbeats sounded as a horse came into the yard at a trot. The dog got up from the floor where it had been watching Ed. It went to the doorway but did not bark. Ed followed.

  He watched as Jory Stoner swung down from a tall roan and, reins in hand, loosened the rear and then the front cinch. Jory was all cowboy, from his spurs to his broad-brimmed hat.

  “That’s a big horse,” Ed called out.

  Jory looked around, and his face broke into a smile. “What do you know? I didn’t expect to see you this soon.”

  “Oh, I took some time off.”

  “Go to see the girl in Litch?”

  “Just barely.”

  “Did you meet Homer?”

  “He helped me put my horse away.”

  “That’s good.” Jory led the big roan forward, stopped at the hitching rail, and held out the reins. “Here,” he said. “I’ll unsaddle him out here. He’s still a little green.” He turned to the horse and patted the dappled neck, then unbuckled the cinches in the same order as he had loosened them before. Patting the horse on the rump, he walked around to the other side, where he lifted the leather rear cinch and the woven front cinch and draped them across the saddle. Then he came back to the left side, and as the tall horse stood trembling, he slid the saddle, pad, and blanket from the animal’s back. Jory let out a sigh of relief, and still leaning backward, he carried the gear into the barn. He came back with a brush, and with one hand on the horse he gave it a brushing. By the time he was done, the animal had relaxed. Jory handed the brush to Ed and took the reins. “I’ll put him away, and then we’ll see if Homer needs anything.”

  After the boys had pitched hay and washed up at the pump, they went to the bunk house. Homer, who had gone ahead, had a fire going in the cookstove. His hat hung on the wall, and his hair was combed.

  “When it’s just me and Jory,” he said, “I wrangle the spuds and biscuits. When the boss puts on a few more hands, he gets a cook.”

  “Does the boss live in the other house?”

  “That’s right. Him and his wife and his kids.” Homer rapped the poker on one of the removable plates of the stovetop, and it settled into place. “He’s all right. This is a good outfit. Say, you’d best bring in your gear if you’re goin’ to spend the night.”

  After a supper of fried bacon and potatoes, Jory washed the dishes while Homer rolled a cigarette and smoked it. Ed noticed that what ever the older man did, he did not move fast, but his hands were sure.

  Tipping his ash in a sardine can, Homer raised his eyebrows. “So, have you been out to see the country?”

  “A little bit of it.”

  “He’s from Glenrose,” Jory said over his shoulder. “Knows a girl in Litch.”

  Homer gave a wry smile. “T
hat must be a better place than here then.”

  “In some ways maybe.”

  Jory spoke again. “This is the boy who fixed the hobbles for me.”

  “Oh, then you work in the blacksmith shop.”

  “Not right now. Well, I could go back, I guess, but I’m thinkin’ of tryin’ something else.”

  Jory flashed his smile. “In Litch?”

  “That’s not my idea.” Ed hesitated, then went ahead. “What I’d like to do is learn how to do this kind of work.”

  “Punchin’ cows?” Homer stopped with the cigarette halfway to his lips.

  “That’s right. The kind of work you fellas do.”

  Homer took a drag and blew out the smoke. “What the hell you want to do somethin’ like that for?”

  “So I can get a job wherever I go.”

  “Blacksmithin’ is a better trade, really, and it pays through the winter. But I ‘magine you want to ride fast horses and not be tied down all the time. Drift when you want.”

  Jory spoke up again. “Maybe he wants to be closer to Litch.”

  “That might be part of it.”

  Homer raised his eyebrows again. “Do you have an outfit in mind to go to work for, over that way?”

  “Not yet.” Ed shifted in his seat. “I was wonderin’ if there was any possibility of my gettin’ on here.”

  “Here?” said Jory.

  “Well, if it’s not too far out of the question. I might be new to cowpunchin’, but I’ve been around horses, especially at the blacksmith shop, and what ever else I know about ironwork can’t hurt.”

  Jory laughed. “ ’Less you get caught with a runnin’ iron.”

  “No,” said Homer, “you don’t want to be carryin’ one of them under your saddle skirts.”

  “Be sure I won’t. Besides, I grew up doin’ all kinds of farmwork as well. I’m no stranger to an ax or a shovel. ’Course, it’s this other stuff I want to get handy at.”

  “Well, if you wanta be a cah-boy,” Homer said, with a bit of a drawl, “there’s worse places to learn. I can teach you to keep from trippin’ over your spurs, and Jory can teach you to git back up when you fall off a horse. But you’ll have to ask the boss.”

  In the morning, Ed saddled up and went out with Jory to bring in a string of horses. They rode toward the east end of the high butte, where the horses grazed in a fenced-in pasture. In the middle of the pasture, with nothing but grassland all around, two cottonwood trees about twelve feet high grew out of the bermed side of a man-made pond. Light from the rising sun tinged the green leaves with gold, and the refracted light sparkled on the surface of the pond. Beyond the trees, the bell on the lead horse tinkled. For a moment the world seemed like a peaceful, benevolent place until the shapes of two dark horses, one standing beyond and at a right angle to the other, looked like a horse and rider. The illusion lasted but a second, but it brought to mind a word that Ed had already run through his head a hundred times. Bridge.

  “Hep, hep,” said Jory, putting his horse into a trot. “Let’s get ’em goin’.”

  Ed gave his horse a nudge as well, and within a couple of seconds the other eight horses all had their heads raised and turned like a herd of deer.

  “Just follow us,” Jory called out as his horse moved into a lope. He rode toward the loose horses, then veered around to his left, making a half circle, and headed back to the ranch. He had picked up the lead horse, a big-chested bay, along with a short-eared sorrel that stayed close, and the rest of the string fell in. Jory rode ahead at a gallop, and the drumming of horse hooves sounded like soft thunder as the eight horses floated behind and raised a low cloud of dust. The magic of the morning had returned, and Ed’s heart was light as he loped his horse behind the others.

  The boss was sitting at the table when the boys got back to the bunk house for breakfast. He stood up and gave Ed a quick looking over as he held out his hand and introduced himself.

  “Cal Tompkins.”

  “Edward Dawes.”

  “Sit down and have your breakfast. Homer was just telling me about his life among the sheepherders.”

  “Damn short story,” Homer said.

  The boss sat down at his side of the table, and the two boys sat opposite him. From the first moment, Ed formed a favorable impression of Cal Tompkins. The man was clean shaven and clear eyed, with a healthy complexion. He wore a brown leather vest over a clean gray work shirt; his worn leather gloves lay on the crown of a dove-colored hat, which sat on the table next to him. A canvas jacket hung on the back of a chair to the man’s left.

  Homer set a plate of flapjacks on the table. “Hope these aren’t too cold.”

  “Couldn’t be,” said Jory, smiling. “Not if you made ’em today.” He reached his plate near and flipped three of the six onto it.

  “Dig in,” Homer said. “I’ve got enough batter for a couple more. There’s molasses.”

  Ed served himself and waited for the jar of dark stuff.

  Cal Tompkins spoke up. “Homer says you want to see if you can make a hand.”

  Ed met the man’s steady eye. “That’s right.”

  “Says you know a little bit.”

  “I grew up doin’ farmwork, so I’ve been around animals. And I’ve worked in a blacksmith shop.”

  “Do you know how to shoe horses?”

  “A little bit, but I’m not an expert.”

  Tompkins laughed. “That’s pretty good. Some fellas when they want a job will say, ‘Oh, sure,’ and then leave you with a lame horse. What else?”

  “Like I told Homer, I’m not afraid to work with an ax or a shovel or a pitchfork.”

  “That’s all right, too. Do you have a saddle?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You can use one of these. There’s plenty.”

  Ed’s pulse was picking up. “That would be swell.”

  Tompkins nodded. “We can give it a try then. Can you start in a week?”

  “I can start sooner. Just as soon as I can get to town and back.”

  “Well, the season—that is, the pay period—starts on the twenty-fifth. If you want to come sooner to get your feet wet, that would be all right. By the way, how do you think you’ll get here?”

  “I haven’t thought about that yet, but I’ll get here. I’ll walk if I have to.”

  Tompkins laughed again. “You don’t have to do that. Jory can go in with you, take an extra horse. There’s a couple things he can pick up for me while he’s at it. By the way, have you ever been in jail?”

  Ed frowned. “No, why?”

  “I need someone to tell Jory what it’s like.”

  Jory handed Ed the molasses. “You’ll learn to know when he’s kiddin’. Every time I go to town, he warns me about gettin’ thrown in jail.”

  The boss smiled. “You boys have a good time, but don’t stay more than one night. You know how Homer worries.”

  Homer set two coffee cups on the table. “Ever since my life among the missionaries.”

  With the coils in his left hand and the loop in his right, Ed swung his rope three times and made his toss. With his feet on the ground and the stump only ten feet away, he thought it should be easier, but the hondo, or eye of the loop, slapped against the edge of the stump and bounced aside. Ed pulled in the rope and shook out another loop. With his hands lowered, he took a deliberate breath and exhaled. In a few days he was going to be on a moving horse, throwing at moving cattle, so he had better learn to throw the loop while it was still easy.

  Later that day, he saddled the horse he had ridden back from town. With the rope tied onto the right side, he headed out to the pasture northwest of the corrals. The horse kept at a steady walk and did not flinch when Ed took down the rope and started swinging a loop. Here came a little sagebrush, about the size of a calf’s head. Not this one. Too close in. Ed looked down at it as he rode by. When the next one came up, he threw his loop and missed. The horse kept walking and was well past the bush when Ed pulled up the curled end of his
rope.

  He built another loop, then another, and a half dozen more until he settled one around a bush that looked like all the others. Satisfied, he gave a pull to his slack, then tried to shake it out again. The loop stayed the same, snug around the bush. He shook again, and the horse kept walking. He could think of only one thing—trying to get the rope loose—but it wasn’t getting any better, and the rope was warming his hands as it slid through. When it paid out all the way, it fell to the ground, and he realized he could have stopped the horse at any point and dismounted, which was what he was going to have to do anyway. He huffed a short breath and reined the horse around. No one had seen him drop the rope, so that was good, and at least he had made a catch.

  More than fifty horses milled in the big corral, kicking up dust. Jory and Homer had brought in the horse herd, and as Jory explained, each man was in charge of his own string. He would begin by getting to know them, combing out each one and getting the horse used to the halter again. Then came the bridle and saddle.

  “Some’ll eat pie out of your hand,” Jory said, “and some’ll toss you in the rocks and cactus just for the pure fun of it.”

  After a few tries, Ed began to get the hang of roping out horses. It wasn’t like tossing down at a stump or sagebrush. He had to throw high and try to guess where the horse was going to turn its head. Some, of course, he could walk up to, but others liked to play the game every time.

  His favorite was a little bay, reddish brown with a coarse black mane and tail. Jory said the horse had been called Punkin before, but Ed could name him what ever he wanted. Punkin was good enough.

  Ed knew he couldn’t get too sweet on this one, though, because he was going to have to ride each one when its turn came. He didn’t trust the white one with black flecks. It tried to reach around to bite him when he tightened the cinch, which wasn’t much trouble when he had the horse snubbed close, but when he led him out and went to give it another pull, he had to keep a lookout.

  “Don’t let him do that,” said Jory.

  “How do I keep him from it?”

  “Punch him.”