Stranger in Thunder Basin (Leisure Historical Fiction)

by John D. Nesbitt

  Bridge had his usual restrained air about him, more noncommittal than nonchalant, and if anything he seemed more tense. Pat was standing in a slouch at the end of the table, glancing over his shoulder at the two skillets sizzling on the stove.

  The puncher sitting at the end of the table, across from Bridge, asked if anything was new. Bridge did not answer but merely moved his head half an inch up and an inch to the side, as if trying to get a better view through the haze.

  Pat answered, “Herm’s horse is in the corral, and his saddle is in the barn. But he’s nowhere around, least nowhere to be seen at this hour. Come daylight, maybe you’ll find him passed out on the other side of the harness shed. Bridge says there’s no point in gettin’ worried.”

  All three punchers, Ed included, looked at Bridge. He waited a few seconds, as if to emphasize the importance of his opinion, and then he spoke.

  “Me ‘n’ Herm’s got an agreement. I don’t worry about him, and he don’t worry about me.”

  The first puncher glanced at the foreman’s hat and said, “You’ve been down to the barn already this mornin’ then.”

  “Yeh.” Bridge took a pull off of his thin cigarette and added to the sparse cloud around him. In spite of the gentlemanly agreement with Herm, it was apparent that he had some concern and was trying not to show it. The dark, close-set eyes were restless, and they seemed time and again to return to the front door. The expectation was so convincing that Ed, too, in a detached way, expected Cooley to come through the door.

  Pat went to the stove and came back with a pot of coffee, which he set on the table. He went back to the stove to tend to the crackling skillets. The man at the end of the table poured four cups of coffee, serving Bridge first. The smell of the coffee mixed with the drifting aroma of fried bacon, and the atmosphere in the bunk house began to seem normal.

  “Smells like grub,” said another hired hand as he took a seat on Bridge’s left.

  “Comin’ up,” Pat said over his shoulder. “Grab a cup and don’t burn your tongue.”

  During breakfast, Ed caught a couple more glimpses of Bridge. The man’s face lay in shadow, the upper half shaded by the hat brim and the lower half darkened by a day or two of stubble. The black neckerchief and leather vest looked ageless as ever, and in their flat tone and texture they complemented the tense, expressionless face and the beady eyes that seemed not to take in anything in particular.

  After the meal and another brooding cigarette, Bridge stood up. “We’ll all go back and cut hay,” he said. “I’ll be down at the barn.” His roving eyes rested on Ed. “That means you, too.”

  Ed cleared his throat. “I don’t know if you’ve talked to Mort, but he said he wanted me to do some cleaning up.”

  Bridge frowned. “What kind?”

  “Burn a bunch of papers and some old broken chairs, and I think he wanted me to haul away some rubbish.”

  After a quick, impatient breath, the foreman’s chest settled. “He told you that?”

  “Last night. He said he had a new bride comin’ in, and he wanted to get things cleaned up.”

  “Oh, that.” Bridge gave a slight toss of the head.

  “Well, if you want, I can put it off till later and go along with the rest of you. You could leave him a note. I don’t suppose he’s up yet.”

  “I don’t leave notes.”

  “Sorry. I’m just tryin’ to do what I’m told. When he hired me, he said to do what ever you told me to, unless he told me different. I’m just not sure where I am.”

  “You’re irritatin’ me, that’s what. I’m tryin’ to get some work done.”

  For once, Ed was able to play the silent game with Bridge, who was usually the master of it.

  “Oh, to hell with it,” said the foreman. “You stay here, help Pat with the dishes and all, and when it’s good daylight you can hitch up the horses and bring the wagon around. You can do that, can’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah. I’ve hitched ’em before, remember.” Bridge did not answer. He looked at Pat, nodded, and walked out of the bunk house.

  Pat did not make any small talk as the two of them cleaned up after breakfast. When the task was done and the cook sat down to smoke a cigarette, Ed put on his hat and went down to the barn.

  The sun had come up by the time he had the horses hitched and the wagon pulled out into the yard. He wanted to get started loading the rubbish right away so he could put off burning the papers and doing what ever that job entailed. Also, he had a good idea of where he wanted to dump the rubbish.

  He went into the barn for a pitchfork and a shovel. Cooley’s saddle was where Ed had left it, and everything else seemed calm and in order.

  Out in the sunlit morning again, he drove the wagon around the far end of the bunk house and then back toward the heap. He squeezed the wagon between the corner of the bunk house and the pile of trash, where he would be able to toss everything up and to his right. Then he set the brake, climbed down, and went to work.

  If it had just been bottles and cans, wire, and old boots, he wouldn’t have struggled much. But mixed in with the loose items were layered masses of old,half-rotted material—pasteboard,newspapers,a folded throw rug, crumpled gunny sacks, and an old tick mattress. Some of the garbage was so unwieldy it slipped off the shovel, while some pieces stuck on the pitchfork tines and had to be scraped off.

  The sun warmed his back, and he sweated from the forehead as well as under his shirt. Pat came out the back door twice, stood in the shade of the building, and then went in without saying anything.

  All this time, Ed expected Ramsey to appear and give his appraisal. At another level, he expected Bridge to ride up behind him.

  At last he had the whole pile into the wagon, with the most unhealthy, decomposed matter piled on top of the load. As he was setting the tools inside the tailgate, Ramsey came around from the front of the ranch house.

  He was wearing his cattleman’s hat and a matching jacket, as if he was on his way to a Stockgrowers Association meeting. His dress for the day also included his vest, silver watch chain, inlaid gunbelt, and ivory-handled revolver. In spite of his groomed appearance and the freshness of the morning, however, his veined face looked as turgid as before.

  Reaching into the inside pocket of the jacket, he brought out an ox blood leather case. His diamond ring sparkled as he opened the case and took out a tailor-made cigarette, then struck a match and lit it. As he blew away the smoke, he fixed his hard blue eyes on the hired man.

  “I wanted you to burn that other stuff first,” he said. “Then you could haul the ashes away, too.”

  “Bridge told me to go ahead and do this. But those ashes won’t be any trouble. I can either bury ’em or scatter ’em.”

  Ramsey looked around the yard as he took another drag on his tailor-made. “Everyone else is gone?”

  Ed felt a prickly sensation, but he tried to keep his voice light and cheery. “Except Pat, of course. And there’s a couple of punchers that haven’t come back from town yet. I wouldn’t be surprised if they come trailin’ in any time now.”

  “Went on a drunk, probably. Wonder why they can’t hold down a job.”

  Ed walked around the far side of the wagon and pulled himself up to the driver’s seat. “Well, these horses have been standin’ here a while, so I think I’d better let ’em step out. I won’t be long, though, and we’ll get that stuff burned.”

  “You know where you’re goin’?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Ed turned down the corners of his mouth and nodded. “Out to the north. I’ve got a coulee in mind.” He glanced at the heap. “It’ll be good and out of sight.”

  Ramsey’s eyes traveled over the load and rested on Ed. “Well, if I don’t see you when you get back, come and knock on the door.”

  “I will.” Ed released the brake, untied the reins and separated them, and wheeled out of the space between the two buildings. In another minute he was driving on the road leading from the ranch yard, and now that he was out in
the open he felt better. He made himself not look back as the horses took on the gradual climb on the trail north.

  Not quite at the top of the rise, the road curved around toward the east, passing through the tall brush where Cooley had come into view the afternoon before. Ed turned the team to the northwest, across the unmarked grassland. He thought he would like to get this rubbish into the crevice as soon as possible, but he was in no hurry to get back to the ranch house.

  The wagon lurched and bounced as it rolled across the uneven ground, and Ed looked back every couple of minutes to see that he wasn’t spilling any of the load. The last time he turned around, he saw an image that put a jolt through his whole upper body. Bridge was riding his way on a black horse.

  Ed tried to calm himself and still his shaking hands. No need to stop, he told himself, and certainly no point in going faster. His heart kept thumping, but he did not turn his head until Bridge came riding up on his left.

  “You just now headin’ out with this?” Bridge’s voice was calm and level but loud enough to carry over the creaking and jostling of the wagon.

  Ed pulled the horses to a stop. “I went ahead and helped Pat like you told me. Then I had to hitch up by myself. After that I had to load all this mess. All kinds of rotten junk fallin’ apart on me.” Ed peered over the front of the wagon between the two horses. “On top of that, this thing’s jerkin’ and joltin’ like it’s gonna come apart underneath.”

  “Might be the linchpin.” Bridge had stopped his horse and sat with his left hand on the saddle horn and his right hanging loose, not far from the black handle of his pistol. He was not wearing his riding gloves. The sun at his back put his face in shade, so that the rider with his black hat, neckerchief, and vest and the horse with its black coat had the appearance of a large silhouette.

  “I heard of one of those that broke, and the horses took off. The wagon tipped over and broke the man’s neck.”

  “You hear a lot.”

  Bridge did not seem to have improved his humor since early morning, but Ed proceeded as he had done with Ramsey, trying to stay light and casual. Putting on a smile, he looked at the foreman and said, “Did you come to help me unload?”

  “Not quite.”

  Ed shrugged and waited for Bridge to speak again.

  “I came out to see what you’re doin’.” Bridge’s voice came in measured syllables. “And to see if you know anything about Herm.”

  “Not as much as you do.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I haven’t known him that long.”

  “You know what I mean—whether you know anything about when he came in or where he is.”

  “That’s what I meant, too. You know him a lot better, so I’d think you’d have a better idea of what he’s up to.”

  Bridge’s chest went up and down as he took a breath through his nose. “Pat said you were out for a long while yesterday just before dark and maybe you saw him come in.”

  “I was talkin’ to Mort, or more like listenin’ to him.”

  “Well, I’m just goin’ on what Pat said. You might have seen Herm come in.”

  Ed shook his head. “You said he wasn’t in yet when you-all came in at dark.”

  “I didn’t see where he had.”

  “Well, I don’t know. I was inside by then.”

  Bridge took a few seconds to answer. “When you get done with this, I want you to help find him.”

  Ed widened his eyes. “I wouldn’t know where to look. You don’t think he slept in the big house, do you?”

  An expression of impatience crossed Bridge’s face. “You act pretty stupid, you know, and sometimes I wonder if you know more than you let on.”

  “Well, it does seem that some people, not least of ’em you and Herm, treat me like I’m dumber than I am. But as for when he came in or where he is now, you can search me.”

  Bridge gave him a close look, then glanced at the load of rubbish “Go get rid of this, and don’t waste any time.”

  “All right.” Ed took up the reins but did not shake them. “By the way, how much do you know about these linchpins and king bolts?” He looked down past his feet as before.

  “No more than the next fella, I guess. Just take it slow.” Then, as if he didn’t like what he had just said, he asked, “Is it all worn and loose?”

  “I don’t know. From what I can see, it doesn’t look bad, but when we get goin’, it shakes like hell. I don’t want it to come apart on me. If it looks all right to you, though, I’ll flog these horses.”

  Bridge gave a heave of impatience, and as he swung down from the black horse he said, “You’re as bad as the rest of ’em. Let me take a look.”

  Ed climbed down from the wagon and stood aside, taking the reins as the foreman handed them to him. With his right hand on the frame of the wagon, Bridge leaned forward.

  “I can’t see anything wrong with it. Are you sure—?”

  His words were cut short when Ed stuck a pistol barrel into the back of the black vest and clicked the hammer.

  Ed, having dropped the reins, reached across with his left hand to pull out the man’s pistol. Then stepping back with both guns trained on Bridge’s middle, he said, “Now turn around, and don’t try anything. Either of these guns could blow a big hole in you.”

  Bridge did as he was told. He threw a hard, narrow look at Ed and said, “I don’t know what you think you’re up to.”

  Ed clicked the revolver in his left hand. “It’s my turn to ask questions.”

  The man in black raised his chin. “You’re over-reachin’ yourself here, kid, and you’re goin’ to be sorry.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “Tell me what you think you’re up to then.”

  “I’ll tell you what I want to tell you.”

  “Give me that gun and quit foolin’ around. I don’t like someone pointin’ a gun at me.”

  Ed shook his head. “You don’t tell me. I tell you.” Bridge gave his hardest look. “I thought some-thin’ was fishy when Herm didn’t show up. Where is he?”

  “We’re not talkin’ about Herm Cooley right now. And we might not get around to it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Could mean a few things.”

  “Kid, you’re goin’ to be in deeper than you think if you don’t quit foolin’ around. I’m startin’ to lose my patience.”

  Ed waved his right pistol. “Call me kid all you want, but you’re goin’ to answer my questions.”

  Bridge kept up with his hard look and moved his head from side to side.

  “About Jake Bishop.”

  Bridge’s face lost all its tenseness, and then the searching look came back into the close-set eyes. “Who are you?”

  “Let’s just say it’s my turn to be the stranger who comes to call.”

  Now came a frown and a wince as Bridge tried to make him out. “You’re the little kid.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “By God, I’ve should’ve taken care of you, too. I thought of it.”

  “Back to the question. I want to know why you killed Jake Bishop.”

  “You’ll be a long time findin’ out.”

  Ed raised his eyebrows. “I can be impatient, too, Bridge. Don’t take anything for granted.”

  “Pah.”

  “I’m going to give you another chance to answer. Why did you kill Jake Bishop?”

  “Oh, piss on you.”

  “Was it something you had against him, or did someone else send you? Just doin’ your job?”

  Bridge’s voice came in measured syllables again. “A puky little kid. And it comes to this.”

  “Don’t think I’m afraid to pull the trigger, Bridge.”

  “You wouldn’t talk about it if you weren’t—” Bridge lunged forward, his left arm across and palm outward, as if it would stop a bullet.

  Ed pulled the trigger, and the shot went in below Bridge’s arm and through the buttoned leather vest, next to the
top buttonhole.

  Bridge fell backward and was spun sideways by the wagon as the team of horses bolted. The saddle horse squealed and took off in a pounding run to the west.

  Ed took careful steps toward the body squirming on the ground. He put away his own pistol and shifted the black-handled Colt to his right hand. The wounded man writhed like a snake, and Ed recalled the common saying that a dead snake would twist and turn until sundown. Not this one. He lined up the sights on the spot between the two eyes, which were closed now, and he said, “This is for Jake Bishop.”

  The eyes opened, the snake eyes of the ancient assassin, and then they went blank as the body went still. There was no need for a second shot.

  Ed’s mouth was dry and his hands were shaking as he looked up and around. No one was in sight, but he was glad he hadn’t had to fire a second shot. To someone listening, two shots were a lot easier to place than one was.

  For a moment as he stood in the silence, Ed fought down the panicky feeling that everything had fallen apart. He knew he had to pick up the pieces, but first he had to pull himself together. First of that was to get his wind back. He walked around in a ten-foot circle, bringing his head up and taking deep breaths, stopping to bend over and put his hands on his knees, then walking again, from time to time looking over at the slumped body. All right, he told himself, it wasn’t going to be as hard as yesterday, but this one was bloodier and he couldn’t be wrestling with it. It was just a dead body, and he needed to get rid of it. He wasn’t that far from the spot where he had stashed the first one. He could drag this one the whole way, dump it in, and throw the load of rubbish on top of both. That was a plan.

  But he couldn’t steady himself. This was the biggest thing he had ever done. Enormous. A cold, calculating killer like Bridge, a man who feared no one and was sure he would always come out on top—and Ed had taken him by surprise and made him pay. That was big, too big to think of now. He had to get rid of the body. Focus on that. Unload the wagon, drive back to the barn, and get the hell away from the King Diamond Ranch. In no way was he going to go down into Ramsey’s cellar now. He was done with this place, done with this snake of a killer—no, he wasn’t done with anything yet. He needed to catch that black horse, then each thing in its turn.