Stranger in Thunder Basin (Leisure Historical Fiction)

by John D. Nesbitt

  “Oh, let’s keep it calm,” Homer said. “It’s just a game. Who cares what you call ‘em? I called it a mule because that’s what the Mexicans call it. Mula. They call it other things, too. The fat lady from Mahuarichi.”

  Jory laughed. “I never heard that one.”

  Jeff clacked a tile on the table. “Go ahead and play, Jory. It’s your turn.”

  The game went on, and talk drifted from one topic to another. It came around to boxing. Jory said there had been a kid there the year before who liked to practice with the gloves.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Reuben. “He was good at it, too. Good to watch. Those gloves are still around, aren’t they?”

  “Sure.” Jory looked up from the table. “How about you, Jeff? Did you ever go in for that?”

  Jeff shook his head. “Not where I come from. They fight for real there.”

  Reuben piped up. “Arkansas, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  Jory turned away from the table. “How about you, Ed? You ever practice with the gloves?”

  “Nah.”

  “Like to try?”

  “Not really.”

  “It’s all just in fun, you know.”

  “Maybe it is, but I don’t see any fun in it.”

  Jory shrugged. “That’s all right.”

  Jeff came back into the conversation. “Ed doesn’t like to have fun.”

  Homer frowned at his domino tiles. “Different people’s got different ideas about what’s fun.”

  Jeff had his head raised in a challenging posture. “From what I’ve seen, Ed doesn’t like to have fun.”

  Ed could feel resentment welling up, but he just said, “That’s for me to worry about.”

  “Doesn’t like to play cribbage, play poker, play dominoes. ‘Don’t see any fun in it.’ That’s a moper. Sit and sulk.”

  “Maybe I’ve got things to think about.”

  “Ed the thinker. I hadn’t seen that before.”

  “Oh, go easy,” said Homer.

  “Yeah,” Reuben chimed in. “Leave him alone. Maybe he’s got a little girl somewhere.”

  “Hah. Mopers like that, if they think they’ve got a girl to moon over, it’s usually some cheap little jane that spread her legs for ‘em for a dollar.”

  Ed came off his bunk and stood in his stocking feet. He could feel his blood boiling, and he had a sense of everyone, including the McLaughlin brothers in the background, waiting to see what he was going to do.

  “Jeff,” he said, “you’ve got a big mouth.”

  “Aw, you rile too easy.”

  “You smart off too much. That’s what the problem is.” Ed had his fists clenched and caught himself from taking a step forward.

  Jeff stood, scraping his chair back. He had a hard, menacing look on his face. “Look here, kid. You might be as strong as the village blacksmith, but you’ve got a lot to learn.”

  “And who’s gonna teach it to me?”

  “Don’t push too hard to find out.”

  Homer and Jory had stood up by now. “Now look here, both of you,” said Homer. “I may not be able to whip either of you, but I’ll tell you one thing. One rule on this place is there’s no fightin’. The boss finds out there’s been a fight, and both of you are gone, no questions asked. And it’s just as well. No good comes of it.”

  Jeff leaned his bulk forward. “We can settle this ourselves,” he said. “Without the gloves, out back.”

  Homer shook his head. “Make no mistake. If there’s a fight, I’ll tell the boss myself. I can’t fire someone, but it’s my job to tell the boss so he can.”

  Jory walked over to Ed and patted him on the shoulder. “Let it go, Ed. Don’t get all worked up.”

  “I don’t like someone talkin’ that way.” “Neither do I, but I can let it pass. You, though, you’re like a steam engine. You let things build up. You’re natural for blowups.”

  Ed laughed. “Me? I’m the one who wants to ride tame horses.”

  “Oh, that’s different,” Jory said with a smile. “I see some fun in that.”

  Ed was walking the speckled horse past the Tompkins house when the little boy called out to him.

  “Hey, puncher!”

  Ed stopped and faced the kid, who for once didn’t have anything in his hands. Whenever Ed had seen him before, he had been playing with the puppy, dangling a cat against his chest, or swinging a stick. Now the kid just squinted at the puncher.

  “You want to see me climb this tree?” The boy pointed at a slender cottonwood about eight feet tall.

  As soon as the branches forked, which was about three feet up, the tree didn’t look like much for climbing, but Ed imagined it seemed huge to this little kid. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Watch me climb it. I’m going to go to the tippytippy-top.”

  Ed cast a dubious glance at the thin branches. “Why don’t you ask your ma?”

  “I’m going to climb it.”

  Ed didn’t like the prospect, but he didn’t want to put a hand on the boss’s kid, so he just stood there and said, “I don’t know if you should.”

  The boy was quicker than Ed expected. He marched over to the tree, reached up to the forked branches, pulled himself up, got his feet under him, and grabbed the spindly center branch above his head. As he gave a pull, the branch bent over to his right, and he spilled nearly headfirst out of the tree. He hit the ground with a loud thump, and he came up right away, red-faced and screaming bloody murder.

  The child’s mother came running out in her apron. “Joey! Joey!” she cried. “What happened?” She knelt and took the crying boy to her chest and shoulder, where she patted his back and looked across him at the hired man. “What happened?” she asked again.

  “Well, it all went so fast. I was walkin’ by with this horse, and the boy said he was going to climb this tree. I told him he should ask you, but next thing I knew, he shinnied right up and fell out.”

  “Oh, Joey,” she said, laying her cheek against the child’s head. “You could hurt yourself.” She raised her eyes to Ed again.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “He just—”

  “Don’t worry. I know you didn’t do anything. He was just trying to show off for you.”

  She took the child into the house, and Ed went on his way with the speckled horse. As he thought of the incident, two things impressed him. For one, he hadn’t felt very sorry at all, and the kid’s cries had been only noise to him. For another, he could not remember a woman ever holding him like that—not Mrs. Dawes and not in the time before Pa-Pa fell in the snow that day.

  In spite of the slow, cold rain that had been falling for two days, the bunk house had a cheery atmosphere. A fire blazed in the open-mouthed cast-iron stove, and a good stack of dry firewood sat in the corner. The smell of fried beefsteak hung in the room. The McLaughlin brothers had their stocking feet up on empty chairs and were picking their teeth. Jory Stoner was standing near the kitchen door, where he had a ring tied to a nail on the door frame, and from the ring he worked moving backward, braiding three long strings of leather into a cord. Homer, clean shaven and with his hair combed, sat on the other side of the stove drinking a cup of coffee. Ed sat back a few feet so as not to point his six-gun at anyone as he oiled it.

  Up and down the room, draped on empty chairs and across cots, wool and leather articles lay out to dry—gloves, chaps, holsters, scabbards. Five pairs of boots, each pair where its owner found a space, were pointed toward the stove.

  Reuben came out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee and pulled up a chair for himself. “I wonder if Jeff got wet,” he said.

  Homer blew steam from his coffee cup. “Oh, I imagine.”

  Reuben made a small spitting sound, as if he were getting rid of a fleck of tobacco or a grain of coffee. “Impatient sort. Money must burn a hole in his pocket.”

  “Summer wages,” said Homer.

  “Sure, the season’s over, but he could have waited out the weather like these
other fellas are doin’. What’s the hurry?” Reuben took up the poker and flipped a stick into the middle of the fire. “Grub’s free.”

  Jory turned from his work and smiled. “He wants to get a bunch of cold water down the back of his neck, I say go ahead and let him do it.”

  “I suppose.” Reuben gave a small rap with the poker on the cast-iron mouth of the stove. “What are you braidin’, anyway?”

  “Leather.”

  “I can see that, but what for?”

  “Just practicin’.”

  Homer spoke again. “Jory’s gonna find a princess whose hair reaches the back of her knees, and he’s gonna spend the winter braidin’ it.”

  Jory raised his eyebrows as he flashed his smile. “I might.”

  The room went quiet for a few minutes until Reuben set his coffee cup on the floor, rose from his seat, and went to the back door. He coughed and cleared his throat, then opened the door and spit outside.

  The sound of soft, falling rain came in through the open door, along with a draft of cold air. Reuben closed the door. “Still comin’ down,” he said. “I’m glad I’m not out in it.”

  “Good time of year,” Homer said. “Slow rain, soaks in good. Not too long after it clears out, we’ll have a good frost and kill off the bugs. Horses like it.”

  Reuben sat down and put his hands to the fire. Looking over at the McLaughlin brothers, he said, “I bet you boys are glad you don’t have to sleep out in this weather.”

  “We’ve done it,” said Bill.

  “Oh, yeah, I have, too, but that doesn’t mean I like it. What do you think, Jack? Have they got all the apples picked back home?’

  The other McLaughlin, who was even less talkative than his brother, said, “They ought to.”

  Reuben strained to pick up his coffee cup, then wheezed out a long breath. “I’ll tell ya, Homer, this time of year puts me in mind of a song you did last year. You know the one I’m talkin’ about, don’t you?”

  “The one about Lonesome Jim?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. I imagine you still know it, don’t you?”

  “Oh, I guess so.”

  “Well, some of these boys haven’t heard it, and I’d like to hear it again.”

  Homer looked around at Ed and then at the McLaughlins. “I don’t have a mandolin or guitar or anything, so it’s not much of a song. But I can do it if you don’t mind.”

  “Go ahead,” said Jory. “Most of the songs we hear are that way anyway.”

  Ed nodded. “Sure. Let’s hear it.”

  Homer looked at the McLaughlins, who said, “Oh, yeah, oh, yeah,” like an echo.

  The chair squeaked as Homer pushed it back and stood up. He blinked a couple of times, and the pale blue eyes had a faraway look until they came back to the little group in the bunk house.

  “I made this up a few years back,” he began. “Whenever I sing it, someone wants to know if it’s a ‘true story,’ so I’ll just say it’s as true as any of the others I might tell you.” Then in a clear, steady voice he sang.

  Sometimes he rides in on a sorrel,

  Sometimes he shows up on a bay.

  He drifts from one ranch to another

  In wintertime when there’s no pay.

  He does any chore that the ranch cook

  Or foreman will ask him to do—

  Sort beans, fetch the water and firewood,

  Or cut up some spuds for the stew.

  He keeps to his bunk in the evening,

  You won’t hear him brag or complain,

  Till one morning his bedroll has vanished,

  And he’s off on the grub line again.

  To folks who don’t know him he’s a drifter

  Who goes here and there on a whim,

  But out on the range we don’t judge him,

  This fella we call Lonesome Jim.

  Come springtime he rides for an outfit

  And works for a dollar a day,

  Rides outlaws and ropes like a top hand

  And never has too much to say.

  Then roundup is done, and this loner

  Gets off of his stake rope a while,

  Cuts loose like a wolf on a full moon,

  Sings Mexican songs with a smile.

  He tells of the woman who left him,

  And a woman who died in the snow—

  And he hopes he can find him another

  Who’ll stay for the end of the show.

  To folks who don’t know him he’s sorry,

  A drunk from his spurs to his brim,

  But out on the range we don’t judge him,

  This fella we call Lonesome Jim.

  He drinks himself broke in November

  Then lays up to get himself dry,

  Goes back on the grub line for winter

  With hopes that his hopes will not die.

  We know him without ever knowing him,

  We’ve seen it in others as well,

  A man with a weakness that sometimes

  He cannot control or dispel.

  There’s plenty of others who have it,

  A weakness we’re hard put to name—

  It’s not just for women or whiskey,

  But it lives in the blood all the same.

  To folks who don’t know him he’s a pity,

  He’ll never get straight or fit in,

  But out on the range we don’t judge him,

  This fella we call Lonesome Jim.

  No, out on the range we don’t judge him,

  We wish all the best luck to him—

  For our own stories aren’t all that different

  From this fella we call Lonesome Jim.

  A round of applause came from the little bunk house audience, and Homer sat down.

  Ed had finished oiling his six-shooter and took more interest now. “Do you have many songs like that?” he asked.

  “Oh, a few. I haven’t made up a new one for a while.”

  “Good time of year comin’ up for it,” Reuben said. “Probably so. Maybe I’ll make up one about Jory and the long-haired princess. Something with a happy ending.”

  Ed appreciated his coat and gloves as he walked down the dim street. Homer had been right. When the gray weather cleared out, a cold spell came in. On his way to town, Ed had noticed the chokecherry leaves turning red, the cottonwoods turning yellow. As soon as the sun went down, the air turned chilly, and he was glad to have a room where he could leave his gear and come back later to sleep.

  He shivered, not just from the cold but from the anticipation of what he thought he might do. He had heard of this place when he worked at the blacksmith shop, but he had never dared to go there. Now he was putting himself up to it.

  Down the street two blocks, he turned right on a street that was no better lit. In the middle of that block, he came to a building that stood by itself. Faint light showed behind the curtains of the only ground-floor window, and the front door was of solid wood. Still shivering, Ed took quick steps up onto the porch and knocked on the door. He could hear indistinct voices within, and thinking his knock might not have been loud enough, he took off his glove and tried again.

  The door opened a hand’s breadth, and a woman’s eyes looked out. “What do you want?”

  “I’ve heard there’s girls here.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “I just came in from a ranch, but I used to live here in town.”

  The woman opened the door and let him in. As he walked past her into the low-lit parlor, he saw that she was a busty woman, older, and in a full dress.

  “You want to meet girls?” she said. “I have the best, as you can see for yourself.” With her arm she directed his attention to a divan where three women sat, all smiling.

  He gave the madam a questioning look.

  “Go ahead, talk to them. Decide which one you like best, and ask her.”

  His heart was thumping, and he didn’t know if he could speak. He took a deep breath as he looked at the firs
t one, who had mouse-colored hair and a muddy complexion. His eyes roved and settled on the middle woman, older than he had in mind but soft and smiling, with straw-colored hair and blue eyes.

  “What’s your name?” he asked. His mouth was dry, and he was glad to find the words.

  “Amelia. What’s yours?”

  “Ed.”

  She stood and gave him her hand, and her low-cut dress offered him an inspiring view of her bosom. The desire welled up in him.

  “You look like a gentleman, Ed. Would you like to go to the room?”

  It was too quick to go back, even if he had wanted to. “Sure,” he said, his mouth still dry.

  She led him by the hand past the third woman, whom he did not even see, and down a hallway. She stopped at a door, turned the brass knob, led him into a room lit by one candle, and closed the door. As she raised both hands and opened his coat collar, she said, “I need the two dollars first.”

  “Oh, all right. I didn’t know.” He dug into his pocket.

  “That’s fine.” She took the two silver dollars and set them on top of a high dresser. Then she went back to fiddling with his coat, undoing the top button. “Tell me what you like, Ed.”

  “Well, you know—”

  “You like what all the boys like. I know.” She moved down to the next button.

  “Actually, this is the first time I ever—”

  Her voice was soft as she slipped her hand inside his coat and rubbed his shirt. “That’s all right, honey. Everyone has to have a first time.”

  “I’m afraid I’m goin’ to do something wrong.”

  “Oh, no. Don’t be afraid. You can’t do anything wrong in here. Not with me. I know what’s just right for a nice boy like you.”

  Back in his rented room, the lamplight seemed bright by comparison. As he reviewed the various parts of the interlude, he was satisfied. It was all done now, in another place, but it was real. Now he was on his own, here in Glenrose where he had started. As he looked over his gear, he thought he had made good use of his summer wages—a used saddle but a good one, a rope tied on to the right side, a rifle and scabbard on the left, a gunbelt looped on the saddle horn, and a pair of spurs hanging by their straps. It was a good feeling to have everything together. He could go from here. He figured he had enough to buy a horse—that, and pay his own way for a while as he went on to the next thing he had in mind.