He rode past the spot where he had crossed trails with Jory and Homer a few days earlier, and then he came to the Barrow. Past the large earth mound, the road ran north to the place where Jory and Homer worked. After his time in Litch and Thunder Basin, his stay at the Tompkins Ranch seemed like an earlier life, much further back in time than a year ago. Yet he could still picture the massive butte that rose behind the ranch headquarters, the two young cottonwoods growing out of the bank of a man-made pond, the swirling black mane of the horse that bucked him off, and Homer singing “Lonesome Jim” in the bunk-house.
Ed stopped to gaze at the road running north. In spite of the fond memories, the Tompkins Ranch had had its portion of unpleasantness in the presence of Jeff. But he was no longer there, and even when he was, the ranch was probably as good a place as a working man could hope for. Ed wondered if roads like that were closed to him forever now, after the trouble in Thunder Basin. He would begin to know when he returned to Litch in a couple of days or so. Meanwhile, he had business ahead. Looking between his horse’s ears again, he touched a spur to the buckskin’s flank and kept riding east.
He passed through Glenrose in the afternoon, when the heat of the sun went through the back of his shirt. The sound of the steam-driven rock crusher pulsed in the hot air. He passed Emerson’s blacksmith shop, which stood with the door open but no one visible. Ed recalled his many days in that enclosure—the heat of the forge, the weight of the leather apron, the clumsiness of the heavy gloves. The shower of sparks, the smell of hot metal, the clang of iron on iron.
He looked to the other side and down a cross street, where he remembered a night when he went by himself to a place of dim lights. He recalled the name Amelia. She had been a kind woman, gentle, and she had known what was good for a boy who needed to know about those things. That incident also had a place in his past.
The long shadows were reaching across the ground to the east when Ed rode into the town of Ashton. He calculated that he had ridden more than fifty miles and had been in the saddle for twelve hours, plus rest stops. He had not pushed the horse too hard, but it had been a long day and the animal could use a rest.
Although Ashton was something of a crossroads town, with the east-west road running on into Nebraska and beyond, its main thoroughfare ran north and south, as it lay along the old Cheyenne-to-Deadwood stage route. Ed knew that riders from Thunder Basin could come to this town if they rode east twenty or thirty miles and then south another forty or so, but the men at the King Diamond Ranch didn’t talk much about the place. Furthermore, the two riders who would know that trail were in a ravine together—unless they had been discovered by now.
Ed found a stable two blocks south on the main street. He put up his horse, stowed his gear, and arranged to spend the night. Now on foot, he walked downtown to find something to eat. In a café on the west side of the street, he ate the evening plate special, which consisted of roast beef, mashed potatoes, and gravy. The heavy-boned, deep-eyed woman who took his order said there was rhubarb pie as well. Rhubarb was one thing that grew here, she said. People had apple trees, but it wasn’t one year out of three that they got enough apples to make a pie. Ed took her up on the offer and had a slab of pie with green rhubarb filling—sour and not the red he expected, but pie all the same.
After supper he strolled up the main street a couple of blocks, crossed over, and walked down the other side. He passed a set of batwing doors, where he caught the smell of whiskey and heard the tinkling of a piano and the easy tones of a couple of men’s voices. He walked on. Ahead of him, a man stepped up onto the sidewalk. The man wore spurs with large, clinking rowels, the kind that were as big as silver dollars and might have been filed out of a pair. The man blocked the sidewalk, smoothing his mustache as he looked at himself in a shop window, and then at the last second he stepped aside to let Ed go by.
Night was falling by the time Ed returned to the stable. For people in the saloons, it was early; for people on the rangeland, it was time for bed. Ed imagined the ranches around here were like any others—most of them calm, orderly places where men like Jory and Homer lay down without having to bolt the door or put a pistol beneath the pillow. Then his thoughts traveled to the Kind Diamond Ranch, which might be as roiled up as an anthill that someone had carved at with a shovel. Ed recalled his dream about Cooley and his legion of demons, and now he pictured Ramsey trying to whip his nondescript ranch hands into a frenzy like his own.
All that in its place. Ed was sure he would have to face some of it when he got back. For the present, he needed to get what rest he could, and on the morrow he would find out what kind of a person Leah Corrigan was.
In the morning he lingered over a breakfast of hot-cakes and coffee. From his seat by the window, he waited as life began to stir in front of the other businesses along the street. A storekeeper, a pharmacist, a dentist, a lawyer, a jeweler—each in turn opened his door. Those on the east side who had shades raised them. The storekeeper swept the sidewalk in front of his store and set out a barrel of long-handled tools with shovel, rake, and hoe heads standing cheek by jowl with mops and brooms. The dentist stood in front of his door and took out his watch every two or three minutes to look at it. The jeweler set his merchandise in the window, no doubt after it had spent the night in a safe.
When the waitress with the deep-set eyes slowed down as she passed his table, Ed stopped her. Speaking in a soft voice, he said, “Excuse me, but I was wondering if you could help me find someone I came to this town to see.”
“I might be able to,” she said. “Who is it?”
“A person I’ve never met. Her name is Leah Corrigan.”
The waitress gave him a close look, and not seeming to find an illumination, said, “She lives in the upstairs of Mr. Jensen’s house.”
“I see. And he is—”
“He’s a lawyer. He has his office in the front part of his house right down this same street a couple of blocks and on your right. A white house with black trim. You’ll see his sign.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m obliged.”
“Don’t mention it. Anyone could tell you the same.” Ed finished his coffee. After leaving a nickel and a dime for a tip, he paid for his meal at the cashbox and walked out onto the sidewalk.
Two blocks down, she said. He had walked right past the house both times when he went from the stable to the downtown area.
As he approached it now, with his eyes open, he saw a house like several others along the west side of the street. It was a two-story frame house, painted white, with a roofed porch. The eaves and window frames were painted black, as was the door frame as it came into view. A sign attached to the wall between the front door and the window on the right had clear lettering, thanks to its being sheltered and probably touched up once a year. The top line read WM. D. JENSEN, and the second line, in smaller letters, read ATTORNEY AT LAW.
Ed walked up onto the porch and made the brass knocker sound twice. After a minute, he rapped it three more times.
A man opened the door and, giving the visitor a quick look of appraisal, said, “Yes, sir?” He was a neatly dressed man, in a suit and vest and tie, clean shaven except for a trimmed gray mustache, and well barbered with a head of gray hair thinning on top. He was a little below average height, but he had the air of looking down on others regardless of their own stature, especially if they had the cut of a range rider. Ed took him for the man of the premises.
“Are you Mr. Jensen?”
The man gave a slight nod and steadied his blue-gray eyes on Ed. “Yes, I am. How might I help you today?”
“I’m looking for a woman named Leah Corrigan. I understand she lives here.”
The man stiffened as he took in a short, measured breath and rested his left hand on the door frame. Ed saw now that he had a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, which he held by his right side and held out by one stem. In his slight shift in position, Mr. Jensen seemed to be guarding the door. He raised his chin as he spo
ke.
“I’m sure you won’t mind my asking what your business might be with Mrs. Corrigan.”
Ed faltered for words that he thought would be adequate. “Well, I’d like to ask a couple of questions about some things that are—well, of personal interest to me. Let me say, personal importance.”
Mr. Jensen looked him over again. “Would you mind telling me your name?”
“Not at all. It’s Edward Dawes.”
The name seemed to mean nothing to the attorney. “Very well, Mr. Dawes. Let me put it this way, and you’ll understand I mean nothing personal. But I meet a great many people—mostly men and mostly older than you—who have a personal interest in other people’s personal lives. You understand, I don’t shoe horses or sell brooms. Mrs. Corrigan not only lives in proximity, but she also entrusts me to protect her interests, such as they are.”
“I understand.”
“And if you were to be a little more forthcoming about the nature of your interest, I might more easily form an opinion about the advisability of Mrs. Corrigan listening to you. By the way, where are you from?”
“I came over from Litch.”
“Hot weather for traveling.”
“Yes, it is.”
The blue-gray eyes narrowed in on him. “And what do you want to talk to her about?”
“Well, I understand that at one time she was married to a man who now has a ranch in Thunder Basin.”
“That’s an unfortunate truth. But it was many years ago, and Mrs. Corrigan has long been free of any legal obligations there.”
“No doubt for the best. And I don’t want to ask her about anything she might have had to do with him. I’m interested in something he might have done. I’ve asked a couple of other people, and they have referred me to her. At least the last one did.”
“His name? Or hers, as it might be.”
“His. A man named Cam Shepard. I have no idea if she knows him or has ever heard of him.”
“Nor do I. Wait here.” Mr. Jensen closed the door, and Ed heard footsteps leading away.
Several minutes passed, and Ed began to feel the trickle of sweat as he stood in the sunlight. The shade from the roof of the porch reached only to the top of the windows. At least the dentist who had been looking at his watch had shade to stand in.
The door opened, and Mr. Jensen appeared. “Come in,” he said. “Have a seat and wait.” He showed Ed into a small waiting room with four straight-backed oak chairs, then crossed the room and opened a door, which he left open as he passed through.
Beyond the doorway, Ed could see bookshelves and the front of a varnished desk. He assumed the lawyer left the door open in order to hear the front door as well as to overhear anything that went on in the waiting area.
Ed sat in the room for a good ten minutes, hearing the occasional rustle of paper or clearing of the throat. At last he heard a door open from within, and his pulse quickened as he heard a woman’s voice answered by Mr. Jensen’s. A few seconds later, a woman came through the doorway. She wore a light blue dress with white cuffs, puffed sleeves and shoulders, and a straight, three-button collar that was closed. Ed stood up with his hat in his hand.
His first impression of her was that she was an unlikely match for Mort Ramsey. Ed would guess her age as forty-five, a good five years younger than the ex-husband. She was of medium height for a woman, with a high bosom, full lips, and a waist that was no longer trim. She had dark blonde hair and hazel eyes, somewhere between gray and green. Her face was tan and a little weathered, and her hair seemed naturally brushed back, as if she was not a stranger to the sun and wind. Her eyes had a faraway cast to them, like the eyes of a person who had kept a lookout from a hilltop or a seaside cliff, and he sensed at once that her face would be hard to read. Overall, however, it was more an air she had about her than anything physical that made her seem so unrelated to the man of Thunder Basin.
“I’m Mrs. Corrigan,” she said, keeping her hands together in front of her waist. “Please sit down.” She moved toward a chair about four feet from his.
“Thank you.” When they were seated, he said, “My name is Edward Dawes, and I’ve come over from Litch. I’d like to thank you for talking to me.” Then, remembering Mr. Jensen’s choice of words, he said, “Or at least listening to me.”
She flicked her eyebrows. “As you can imagine, I don’t speak very freely with strangers from off the street. But Mr. Jensen said you were sent by Cam Shepard. I have a faint memory of him, but I remember him as an honest sort. He’s well, I hope.”
“Not as well as some. He’s fallen into poor health, I’m afraid.”
Her eyes did not show much expression as she said, “I’m sorry to hear that.” She adjusted her hands in her lap and said, “But that’s not what you came to talk about.”
“No, it isn’t. As Mr. Jensen probably told you, I came to ask about something that you might know about—something that might have happened when you were with—um, when you were married to—”
“Mort Ramsey.”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I’m not sure how much to—”
“Oh, I can choke out his name without having a seizure.” An impassive expression, beyond bitterness, seemed to have settled upon her face.
“Anyway, there was something that happened about fifteen, sixteen years ago, something crooked, and I’m wondering if he might have had a hand in it.”
“If it’s crooked, he might well have. If you know him at all, you won’t be surprised at my saying that.”
Ed shook his head. “I’m not surprised.”
“But as for details, or my opinion of what ever it was, I would prefer not to go into it. That man has no claim on me, and I have no interest in him, his affairs, or anything that others might have against him.” Her earlier impression had hardened into something like a stone wall.
“I’m sorry you’re so set against talkin’ about it,” he said. “It wasn’t just any old crooked deal.”
She held him with her grayish green eyes, and he was sure she had an inkling of what he wanted to ask about, but he could see they were at a deadlock. But she did grant him another exchange.
“I fought long and hard to get myself disentangled from that man. It wasn’t easy. But now that I’ve got him and everything that pertains to him shut out of my life, I want to keep it that way. I’m afraid, then, that I don’t have much more to say.”
“I can appreciate that, ma’am. And I’m sorry if I said anything to make you uncomfortable.” He rose with his hat in his hand. “Thank you for hearing me out, and I wish you all the best.”
Her eyes glanced up at him. “I wish the same to you.”
He gave her a bow of the head and turned away, feeling her eyes upon him as he walked out the door. The sun nearly blinded him until he put on his hat, and as he walked down the steps he realized he was back out on the street much sooner than he expected.
Heaving a long sigh as he stood alone, he thought he would make the best of his visit to this town anyway. He walked back to the two-block area where most of the businesses were located, and he found the jeweler’s across from the café.
The proprietor rubbed his hands together and looked forward with a smile as Ed came through the door and tinkled the bell.
“Yes, sir.”
“I think I’d like to get something special.”
“Oh, indeed. We specialize in that. For yourself or someone else?”
“Someone else. A lady.”
The proprietor’s eyes went up. “Very good, very good. Young lady? Older lady?”
“Young lady.” Ed smiled. “Something to surprise her.”
The jeweler pursed his lips. “Are you, shall we say, approaching an understanding with the young lady?”
Ed drew his brows together. “Not quite.”
“I see. Maybe something more like a tender friendship, perhaps with hopes.”
Ed thought of the kiss when Ravenna gave him the lock of hair. “That’s probably close.”
“Well, then, let us think of a stone. Do you have in mind a brooch, or a set of earrings, or perhaps a ring?”
Ed’s eyes lit on a deep red object in the glass showcase. “What’s this?”
“That’s a ring, of course. A garnet. Set in gold. A beautiful gift for any young lady. And over here we have—”
“I like this one.”
“The garnet.”
“Yes. Can I see it?”
“Of course.” The jeweler reached down into the case, took out the ring, and set it on top of the glass. “I don’t suppose you have her finger size.”
“Well, no.” Ed picked up the ring and looked it over. He thought it was the perfect color. “I think I’ll take it.”
“Are you sure? We have other—”
“I know what I want when I see it.”
The shop keep er nodded. “Of course. Now back to the finger size. What’s she like? Big? Little?”
“I think she’s average size.”
“Are her hands smaller than yours?”
“Oh, I’d say so.”
“Well, here’s how to do it, and we can always refit this later. If it goes on your little finger, it will probably fit on her ring finger, unless she’s a big girl, or she puts on weight—”
“Like I said, she’s average.”
“That’s fine. And see? It goes onto your finger just right.”
“I’ll take it then.”
“Perfect. And like I said, we can resize it later if need be.”
“She lives a ways off.”
“Oh, they can size it anywhere. Wrap it for you?”
“Sure. And what’s the cost today?” Ed reached into his pocket.
“Oh, that ring is usually priced at twenty-two dollars, but in the interests of young love, I’ll bring it down to twenty. It’s a beautiful gift. I’m sure she’ll love it.”
Chapter Thirteen
As he walked from the jewelry shop to the stable, Ed kept to the east side of the street, not only for the shade but also to avoid passing the front door of Wm. D. Jensen, Attorney at Law. From the moment he had walked out that door, Ed had been pushing away an empty, sinking feeling that he had achieved very little after coming so far.
Stranger in Thunder Basin (Leisure Historical Fiction) Page 16