Stranger in Thunder Basin (Leisure Historical Fiction)

by John D. Nesbitt

  The heifer jerked around and fought, so Ed held the gray horse in place until the heifer stopped and planted its feet. Rider and animal were still in a standoff when Cooley came riding up.

  “Go ahead and take ’er back to the ranch,” he said. “George knows what to do with it.” He spit out a stream of tobacco juice. “I need to git back and help with that new bunch of men.” He kicked his horse and took off on a lope.

  Ed was left out in the middle of the big country with someone else’s heifer on his rope. He thought it would have been a good way for Cooley to set him up, but he was pretty sure he was not that important to anyone on the King Diamond Ranch—not yet anyway. Meanwhile, he needed to get this heifer back to the yard before some wandering fool like himself came along.

  Within a few days, Bridge and Cooley had pulled together a roundup outfit. Pat ran the chuck wagon just as he ran the kitchen, and the dull-eyed fellow who had helped sort beans became the night wrangler and cook’s helper. The man or boy who had that job got the least sleep of anyone, so Tim, as he was called, went in a haze from one day to the next. The others seemed to clear up and get around all right, with the exception of one man who couldn’t keep food down. After a few days he rolled his blankets, and a new man took his place.

  The new hand went by the name of Hardy, and he was a talkative sort who asked questions and made comments like a village gossip. One day he and Ed rode out together, and as soon as they were out of earshot of the camp, he started his line of chatter. From what he understood, Ramsey got all these men through someone he knew in Cheyenne, who picked ’em up off the street. Ramsey paid ’em cheap, worked ’em hard, and rarely had one back for two years in a row.

  “Why do you think that is?” he asked, turning to Ed and looking him straight in the face.

  “I don’t know. This is only the second place I’ve worked on.”

  “What did you do before that?”

  “I was a farm boy.”

  “Do you think you’ll be back next year?”

  “I have no idea. I’m just gettin’ started on this one.”

  Hardy pursed his lips and then tossed out another question. “What do you know about this fella, Mort Ramsey?”

  “Just his name and where he lives.”

  “Isn’t that it? When it comes right down to it, what do you really know about anyone? What you see and some of what he tells you, but you just don’t know which part. Isn’t that right?”

  “Seems like it.”

  In a few days, Hardy rolled his blankets and was gone as well. Ed mentioned to Pat that they were going to miss all the friendly talk.

  “He’s off eatin’ at another chuck wagon by now. His type keeps busy.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah. No one else got fired here, so I’d guess he didn’t find out anything.”

  “Is that what he was up to?”

  “Pinkerton man, or somethin’ just like it. They come in to find out if anyone’s doin’ anything against the company. Smell ’em a mile away.”

  Chapter Eight

  The interior of the Rimfire Saloon felt like a dusky sanctuary, walled off from the world at large, after the long ride into town. With spring roundup finished, the crew of the King Diamond Ranch had three days off, so Ed had fallen in with six of the other hands to follow Bridge and Cooley on the hot, dusty trail. With his horse in the stable, Ed felt relaxed, cut loose from responsibilities, as he sat with the rest of the boys at the two tables pulled together.

  Bridge was being his usual restrained self, not very festive, while Cooley had assumed the role of leader. He had the ebullient air of being at home in his element, and he seemed to have groomed himself for the event. Before leaving the bunk house, he had shaved his jowly face and had put on a clean shirt with buttons all the way down the front. Ed noticed that his fingernails were also trimmed and clean. With his large hat at a jaunty angle, he reigned over this little part of the barroom, wagging his head as he called for drinks and laughing at his own witticisms.

  “No, sir, I never have been drunk. Not that I can remember. Har, har, har.” Or, “When they ask me if I make good money, I say, sure, it’s good, just not enough of it.” Humor about drink and money had the inevitable companion. “I said, sure I’ll go to the room with you, honey, but let’s get one thing straight between us.”

  Time flowed on. Once when the door opened, Ed saw that night had fallen outside. A few more men had drifted in. Some were standing at the bar, while others had taken a couple of separate tables. Sounds rose and fell in the sea of voices. Ed had finished his first glass of whiskey and was trying to stretch out the second, but he knew it was good form to buy a round, so he did. Now he had two drinks in front of him. The place was hazy with tobacco smoke and lamplight. Two of the King Diamond punchers drifted off, so Cooley got everyone around one table.

  From time to time someone would lean into the company of the King Diamond table and make a sociable comment. Smiles would go around the table, including a thin one from Bridge, and Cooley would answer. One man seemed to take it too far, as Cooley rose to his feet with a backward scrape of his chair and grabbed the man’s shirtfront. Ed did not hear the original comment, but Cooley’s gravelly voice carried loud and clear above the din.

  “Men get killed for sayin’ things like that.”

  The other man tried to shrink back as he turned his head aside. He was a soft-looking man of about thirty with clean clothes and hat and a yellow neckerchief, and Ed thought he recognized him as a windmill salesman.

  “I’m sorry,” said the man, still cowering and no doubt expecting to be hit or slapped.

  “That’s not enough.”

  “I said I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry’s not enough.”

  The man eyes were wavering and searching. “What else do you want?”

  “Take it back.”

  The man’s eyes held still. “I’m sorry. I take it back. I didn’t mean it. It was just in fun.”

  “That kind of talk isn’t funny.”

  “I know that now. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” Cooley relaxed his grip on the man’s ironed shirt. “Go away. Count yourself lucky.”

  The man disappeared, and Cooley sat down, shaking his head.

  “What did he say?” Ed asked the puncher on his right, whose name was Al.

  “Something about horse thieves. He thought he was just joshin’.”

  Ed drew back into himself. He was going to have to be careful. Cooley could blow up at anything, but there was Bridge to look out for as well. He didn’t call much attention to himself, sitting there with his lips stretched over his teeth and the corners of his mouth showing. Ed closed his eyes, then opened them. He told himself again he was going to have to be careful, keep his mouth shut, and fit in.

  After a while another man emerged from the haze. He stood by Cooley’s chair, slapping him on the shoulder and yuk-yukking. The man seemed out of place to Ed, and yet he didn’t. His eyes traveled around the table and stopped.

  “Well, who have we got here?” he sang out. “Hello, Ed.”

  “Hello, Jeff.”

  “Doin’ any good?”

  Ed half closed his eyes as he nodded. “All right.”

  Jeff, with his right hand still on Cooley’s shoulder, waved toward Ed with his left. “This young fella worked under me last year,” he said. “Bound to make a good hand. I didn’t know he was workin’ for youall.”

  “He’s good,” said Cooley. “We got a bunch.”

  “Need ’em all, I bet. Have a good calf crop?”

  “Damn good. And yourself?”

  “Oh, yeah. I just wish I had a couple more good men, but we do with what we’ve got.”

  “Have to.” Cooley looked around the table. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Just one.” Jeff tipped his hat back. “Better yet, let me buy a round.” He made a circular motion with his finger.

  Ed put his hand over his two drinks. “No more for me, than
ks. I’ve got plenty.”

  “Ha ha,” said Jeff. “I forgot, Ed doesn’t like to have fun. But that’s all right. That’s why you don’t have any trouble with him. Isn’t that right, Ed?”

  “I guess so.”

  Jeff stood by the table until the drinks came and he paid for them. “I’ll see you a little later on,” he said, patting Cooley on the shoulder again. “I’ve got to look after my own bunch.”

  “Thanks for the drinks,” said Cooley.

  “My pleasure.” Jeff smiled around the table as the others thanked him. He nodded at Bridge, who barely returned the gesture, and then he left.

  Cooley looked in Ed’s direction and called across the table. “I didn’t know you knew Jeff. Why does he say you don’t like to have fun?”

  “He couldn’t get me to play dominoes.”

  “Is that all? Did he usually win?”

  “Probably his share of the time. I don’t remember. I didn’t pay much attention.”

  “We’re havin’ fun now, though, aren’t we?”

  “Oh, yeah. You damn right.” Ed held up his glass in salute, then took a drink.

  Time buzzed on. Ed lapsed into himself again, and he realized he hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast. That was why the whiskey was going to his head. He must have had four or five by now. He sure couldn’t go to Mrs. Porter’s like this, but he wished he could order something to eat somewhere. He asked Al, the puncher next to him, what he thought, and Al said they were all going to the parlor.

  “What parlor?”

  “The one with girls. Herm says he’ll show us the place.”

  “Can we get somethin’ to eat there?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll ask.” Al raised his voice and said, “Herm, he wants to know if he can get some-thin’ to eat where we’re goin’.”

  “Sure. He can order anything there. Come on, finish your drinks, fellas, and we’ll go spread some legs.” Cooley drank down the last of his own glass and stood. “Come on, Ed. We’ll show you what some fun is.”

  Ed tossed off the rest of his drink and stood as well. He felt woozy when he got to his feet, but he steadied himself and looked around at the group. Bridge had gone off somewhere, and the other two punchers hadn’t come back. That made six—Cooley, the four remaining King Diamond punchers, and Ed. With Cooley in the lead, they all clomped out of the saloon and into the night. Ed reminded himself what town he was in, then kept track of the way as Cooley took them past the livery stable to the corner, a block north, and then a block and a half west. After a little commotion at the front door of a building, they all went in.

  Ed found himself in a good-sized front room with three divans, a small upright piano, and a bar against the back wall. Women were mingling with the new patrons. Ed counted. There was a tall man behind the bar serving drinks, a madam sitting on a high stool at the end of the bar, and three women talking in loud voices to the men.

  Cooley appeared in front of him. “Five dollars.”

  “What?”

  “Give me five dollars.”

  “What for?”

  “It’s five dollars each. All you can drink and all you can hump for three hours.”

  Ed felt his head drifting as he leaned forward and straightened up.

  “We’re all going into the other room. These three girls and us. They’re gonna do it all. If you’ve got it in you, you can do all three. That and the liquor, all for the same money.”

  Ed took a deep breath and held his head up. “I wanted to get somethin’ to eat.”

  “Order it from in there. Now c’mon, give me the five dollars.”

  After a little fumbling, Ed found the right coin and gave it to him. Someone handed him a drink.

  The next room had only one lamp, turned down low, and people were moving around. Al was leaned against the wall, standing on one foot and pulling the boot off the other. The door opened, and light spilled in from the other room. Ed could see two beds with brass railings, with bodies on both, and then the tall man came in with a thin mattress and flopped it on the floor. He closed the door on the way out, and then Cooley came in and left it open.

  One of the women stood in front of Ed. He could see her light-colored hair and eyes, her narrow nose, and her mouth that looked like a dark pit when she talked.

  “Are you going to go first, sweetie?” She rubbed the front of his pants.

  “I wanted to get something to eat. I’m hungry.”

  “In here?”

  “They told me I could order something.”

  “Not here, honey. We order everything from the café, and it closed a couple of hours ago.”

  “Then I need to sit down.”

  “There’s a chair over there. Be careful you don’t fall.”

  He found the chair, a stuffed armchair, and he settled into it. Someone put a drink in his hand, but he didn’t know if it was his or someone else’s for him to hold. He thought maybe he drank the other one.

  He heard rustling, shifting of bodies, heavy breathing, a man’s cough, and low voices.

  “Don’t do that,” said a woman with a nasal voice.

  A slapping sound of a man’s hand on flesh. A man’s voice. “Is that you, Bill?”

  “I wondered who that was.”

  “Didn’t mean to interrupt you. Keep at it.”

  Then the woman’s voice again, from another place. “I said don’t do that.”

  With great effort, Ed set the drink on the floor. He leaned back and closed his eyes, and then someone was shaking his shoulder.

  “Go take your turn, Ed.”

  He wasn’t sure whose voice it was, but he answered, “Not yet.”

  “Where’s my drink?”

  “I set it on the floor.”

  The woman with the nasal voice spoke again. “Oh, it’s you.”

  Cooley’s gravelly voice answered. “Who’d you think it was, Grover Cleveland?”

  “Not when I felt the size of you.” She gave a lewd laugh.

  The man at his elbow spoke again. Ed couldn’t remember who it was, but he thought it was Al. The man said, “Come on, Ed. Go take your turn. I’ll sit in the chair.”

  Ed shook his head. “Not right now.”

  The man moved away.

  The door opened, light fell on a tangle of bare legs, and the door closed. Ed relaxed his eyes.

  Someone was shaking him by the shoulder, and he woke up. He heard Cooley’s voice. “Here, have a drink.”

  From deep down, Ed remembered he was supposed to be having fun, fitting in with the gang. “Thanks,” he said.

  “And when you’re done with the girls, pour some of this down the eye of your peter. It’ll kill all the germs.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Ed woke up in the gray light. A horse had just snuffled. Opening his eyes, he saw the reddish hind legs of a sorrel. He gave a sideways glance toward his cheekbone and saw that he was sleeping in straw. He had made it back to the livery stable.

  He was glad to know it. He realized he had just come up out of a dream. Cooley had been there, in a stovepipe hat and a long black coat, waving a black walking stick to lead on a throng of demonlike men, also dressed in black. They were all down in a maze of dungeons, clambering over rocks and going around pillars. Ed had been running from them, hiding in nooks and then running again, never making enough progress. In his dream he knew the way to the surface world but couldn’t get there. He kept stopping like a fool.

  He heaved out a long, slow breath. It was good to know that it had been just a dream, although he still felt paralyzed. He didn’t know how much whiskey he had drunk, but it had been way too much, and he wasn’t used to it. Now it flowed in his veins like a toxin. He felt rotten, and he wished he could lie flat on the hard dirt floor of the stable and let the earth draw the poison out of him.

  Ed woke again. In spite of how miserable he felt, he knew he couldn’t stay huddled in the straw but was going to have to go out into the world. He couldn’t go to the boardin
g house until he got straightened out, but he needed to eat. He thought of the café, which was about a block away, and he hoped he could get a meal there without running into any of the crew from last night.

  Much to his relief, he didn’t know anyone in the café. He sat at a small corner table, where he ate a full meal of steak and fried potatoes, washed down with four cups of coffee. As he stepped out onto the street, he felt much better than he did when he went in, but he still had a dull, detached feeling that he was stumbling along half outside himself.

  He was starting to sweat, and he took it as a good sign that his boiler was going to work. Although he felt restless and could have walked five miles even in his boots, he thought he needed to hole up for a while. Of the places he could think of, Tyrel Flood’s seemed like a good choice.

  After knocking on the door and going in as commanded, he found the old man seated at the kitchen table. Tyrel had a knife stuck upright in the tabletop, and the last remnants of a hambone, including a few scraps of rind, lay on a crockery platter.

  “How goes it with the young wanderer?” The brown eyes were quick if not bright.

  “All right, I suppose. Could be better.”

  “Bad luck?”

  Ed shook his head. “No, just bad judgment.”

  “Ha-ha!” The old man’s narrow teeth showed. “It’s happened before.” His voice changed as he said, “Hey, you get out of there.” He rapped his knuckles on the skull of the brown-and-yellow cat, which had climbed up on the other chair and was pushing its nose at the ham scraps. “That’s goin’ into a pot of beans. Go catch a mouse.”

  The cat settled back on the chair, squinting its eyes in what looked like a frown. The old man tipped the back of the chair so that the cat slid off.

  “Here, sit down, and tell me about your great misfortune.”

  Ed sank into the chair and let out a weary breath. “Got drunk last night.”