“Hey, Old Red,” Swivel-Eye said. “Why’d you ask him that?”
“With that accent of his I couldn’t tell where he was from,” my brother replied. “And I figured it was my right to know exactly what kind of asshole I was takin’ orders from.”
That got the boys laughing, and Brackwell actually joined in. Old Red gave the Englishman a hearty slap on the back, which was like seeing a cat ride a horse—you just wouldn’t think it was in its nature.
“Come on, pardner,” Gustav said to Brackwell. “Let’s pick you out a pony.”
And with that they headed for the corral, the two of them looking so chummy they may as well have been walking arm in arm.
The boys were thunderstruck to find this new Old Red in their midst, and when he was out of earshot they asked me what he’d eaten that morning to get himself so spiced up. I just shrugged and said whatever it was, I wished he’d eat it more often.
By the time we pulled the buggy around to the house, my brother was already there with Brackwell. They were throwing what looked like leather mittens on the back of a couple horses. Upon closer inspection, those mittens were revealed to be saddles of the type we punchers call postage stamps.
Whereas a cowboy saddle’s got good stiff wood under the leather, the moneyed classes do their riding on little more than a doily. I hoped for Brackwell’s sake that our visitors were heading out for a quick pleasure ride—covering real ground with nothing under you but a quarter inch of cushion would kink up your back so bad you’d end up rubbing your nose on your knee. I was about to say as much when Uly came riding in behind us.
“You sure you wouldn’t rather take one of our wagons, Mr. Brack-well?” he asked.
“Absolutely. I’m looking forward to trying one of your fine Western horses.”
Young Brackwell and Old Red exchanged a look that said they’d just been talking on that very subject. Their ease with each other wasn’t lost on Uly.
“Well, I hope you enjoy the ride,” he said to Brackwell, sweet as sugar. Then he turned toward Gustav and the rest of us, and the sugar turned to salt. “Finish with them saddles and get to your own. There’s cows in the west pasture with screwworms. I want ‘em doctored before we’re back.”
We swallowed our moans and groans, though this assignment was about as stinky as ranch skunkwork could get. Uly obviously wanted us away from the Duke’s lot, and it seemed best to accommodate him before he handed us some even nastier chore—like cleaning out the privy with our tongues.
We were still gathering up our riding gear when the parade passed us by. Uly led the way, while Edwards and Brackwell (still in his fancy “cow-boy” duds) rode close behind, bouncing up and down off their little saddles like a couple of Mexican jumping beans. The Duke and Lady Clara clattered after them in the surrey. The old man was again wearing his puttees and pith helmet, and he would’ve looked like a little boy playing soldier if not for his bushy side-whiskers and two-hundred-plus pounds of girth.
It was a peculiar party indeed, and I couldn’t resist throwing a whisper at my brother despite the danger that our spy was nearby.
“Brackwell tell you where they’re goin’?”
“Nope,” Old Red replied. “He didn’t need to.”
“What do you mean?”
“Take a gander to the southeast and you’ll see.”
I did as he said.
In previous days we’d seen huge swirls of dust due south where McPherson’s men had been bringing up more cattle. Today there was a new cloud, a distant pillar that streaked the sky brown far to the southeast, deep in the VR territory us Hornet’s Nesters were forbidden to enter.
Somewhere out there, something was on the move.
Fourteen
BOUDRE AUX
Or, The Albino Shows His True Colors
By noon, we’d rounded up the most pathetic little herd you could ever lay eyes on. More than a hundred cows were milling about in a pen adjoining the main corral, and every one was afester with screwworm maggots.
We drew straws to see who’d stay on horseback and push cows over for their dose of medicine. Anytime and Tall John won, which made them the luckiest sons of bitches in Montana that day. The rest of us would have to do the hands-on nursing. And when you get your hands on screwworms, they get their little teeth in you.
Screwworm flies won’t make a distinction between dead meat and live as long as they can get at it, and fresh brands and castration wounds are the perfect nursery for their young. A man might look at a brand and get the impression it was laid on with whitewash until he got close enough to see that it was moving—the “paint” being hundreds of squirming maggots. The only way to keep the poor cow from going crazy with pain is to smear a handful of axle grease and carbolic acid over the raw flesh. And if you let any of those little screwworm bastards wriggle inside your glove while you’re at it, you’ll find your hand’s become a hatchery.
Even doing the job in teams—with me and Old Red on one cow while Swivel-Eye and Crazymouth doctored another—it was going to take hours to send all those maggots to meet their maker. And though Spider and his boys were up to who-knew-what who-knew-where while Uly was off with the Duke’s bunch, we wouldn’t have the luxury of lollygagging. Somebody had been left behind to keep a yellow-white eye on us.
Boudreaux was about a hundred feet from the corral, leaning back in a chair propped up outside the McPherson gang’s bunkhouse. His legs were splayed out, his hands were folded on his chest, and his battered Stetson had been pushed down over his face. But we knew the albino wasn’t out there taking a siesta. We were nursemaiding cows, and he was nursemaiding us.
“Boo sure landed himself the cushiest chore to be had today,” Swivel-Eye said, using one of the nicer nicknames the Hornet’s Nesters had for Boudreaux.
“Lazy, goddamn Spook,” Anytime grumbled, using one of the meanest. “If he’s gotta spy on us, least he could do is make himself useful while he’s at it.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” I threw back, talking over the top of a calf I was slathering with black goo. “You’re on horseback. I bet you wouldn’t be so anxious to help out if you had to dip your delicate little fingers in this.” I held up my muck-covered gloves, and dozens of tiny white squiggles wriggled in the sunlight.
Anytime brought his horse ambling toward me.
“You stickin’ up for that bleached-ass nigger?” he said.
“I’m just sayin’ you—”
“Anytime, get back to the shoot,” Old Red butted in. “You got cattle to mind over there.”
Anytime gave us his best glare—which was pretty damn good—then jerked his reins to the left and trotted away.
“Try not to rile him up, would you?” Gustav said.
“He riles himself up. You know how he is about Boo.”
My brother nodded. “I know.”
Anytime’s hatred for Boudreaux was kindled our first day on the VR and had smoldered ever since. The albino’s skin might have been fish-belly-white, but all Anytime saw was Nubian black. He didn’t miss a chance to call the albino Spook or Ghost or Whitey to his face. Yet he never got any satisfaction for his trouble. Boudreaux had grown even more unreachably distant after Perkins’s death and Pinky’s branding. Before, he’d floated above us like a cloud. After all that, he was as far away as the moon.
“That,” my brother had whispered as Boudreaux drifted silently by one day, “is a man stewin’ on somethin’.”
If so, it was a slow simmer indeed—or the man was exceptionally good at doing his boiling under the surface. I stole a glance at him now through the fence rails and saw him rise up off his chair. He was too far away to have heard my exchange with Anytime word for word, but it was entirely possible the phrase bleached-ass nigger had reached his ears. For a moment, I thought he was coming over to give Anytime the asswhupping he’d been asking for all these weeks. Instead, he strolled off toward the outhouse.
I turned back to the calf Old Red and I were worki
ng on, but before I could lay my glove on her again, my brother was letting her loose.
“This critter’s done,” he announced to Anytime and Crazymouth. “Hold off on the next one—I gotta drop a pie.” I felt his boot toe prod my ankle. “And you do, too,” he added under his breath.
Naturally, Anytime got to fussing when the two of us went over the rail and headed for the privy, but he hushed up when he saw that Boudreaux was gone. The Hornet’s Nesters had been handed an opportunity to loaf, and within seconds every one of them was rolling a cigarette and hunting for shade. I was more than a little annoyed that I was missing my chance to do the same.
“I know you’ve got a lot of faith in Mr. Holmes’s methods,” I said as we hustled away from the corral, “but I don’t think you can solve any mysteries by listenin’ to Boo cop a squat.”
Gustav gave me the sort of look that makes you think something unpleasant’s dangling from your nose. Then he pointed ahead of us, and I saw that the albino had breezed right by the outhouse, headed for the back of the castle. We stopped at the jakes and watched him.
“Get inside,” Old Red said.
“What?”
“We can’t both stand here starin’. You go into the privy. I’ll make like I’m waitin’.”
“Is that why you brought me along? So I could sit in the shithouse while you spy?”
“Get inside.”
“Alright, alright.”
I stepped into the outhouse and slammed the door. As was its habit when jostled, the latch fell on its own, locking the door tight.
“Christ, Gustav,” I said, pushing my face up against the crescent-shaped ventilation hole. “The smell in here could smother a skunk.”
“Light yourself a smoke,” my brother suggested.
I pulled out my tobacco and rolling papers, but it was too dark to put them to use. Half my makings would end up in the dirt—or somewhere worse. I sighed and leaned close to the vent hole again.
“What’s Boo doin’, anyway?”
“He went down into the storm cellar.”
“The storm cellar? What would he be doin’ down there?”
“ ‘It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence. . ..’”
“Yeah, yeah. It biases the goddamn judgment. Right. So I’m supposed to just stand here till Boo comes out of the cellar?”
“Not necessarily,” Gustav said. “You could take yourself a seat.”
“Oh. A joke. Pardon me if I don’t laugh. If I so much as breathe in here, I’ll pass out.”
“Don’t worry—he won’t be long.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“There’s a spy amongst the Hornet’s Nesters, remember? Boudreaux probably knows it—which means he’ll try to finish up quick.” Old Red glanced over his shoulder. “The boys can’t see the cellar doors from the corral, but he can’t be sure they’ll stay over there long.”
“Hold on. Why would Boo worry about the spy. . .unless he was puttin’ somethin’ over on the McPhersons himself?”
“Maybe he is. I don’t mean to theorize, but he did wait till Uly and Spider were gone to. . .hold on. He’s comin’ out. And hel-lo. Would you look at that?”
“Look at what? All I can see from in here are flies and a crazy-ass cowboy who thinks he’s—”
Before I could finish, Gustav gave the door three quick kicks. “Hurry up in there!” he shouted. “I’m fit to bust!”
It wasn’t a very dignified part my brother had dragged me along to play, but I knew when the time had come to play it.
“Go and bust then!” I shouted back loud, for Boo’s benefit. “I’ve got a hell of a lot more bricks to stack in here yet!”
“Hey, Boudreaux!” Old Red called out. “You got a second?”
Soon I heard footsteps getting closer, and I slinked away from the ventilation hole, huffing out a grunt to cover the sound of my movement.
“I swear I’ll never. . .touch Tall John’s cookin’. . . again,” I moaned.
“I told him those beans were trouble, but the boy just don’t listen,” Old Red said, apparently to Boudreaux.
“What do you want?” the albino rumbled, his low voice as mumbly as ever.
“Oh, I’m just curious about our guests,” Gustav replied casually. “Do you know where they set off to this mornin’?”
“I do.”
There was no sound for a long moment but tree branches creaking in a gust of wind. Old Red finally broke the silence with a wry chuckle.
“Alright, you don’t have to tell me.”
“That’s right—I don’t,” Boudreaux said. “If you were meant to know where they were, you’d be there yourself.”
“Oh? Then how come you ain’t there?”
“Things to do here.”
“So I saw.”
My brother chuckled again. Boudreaux didn’t join in, and I certainly didn’t see what was funny. In fact, I felt about ten seconds from a dead faint. The stench in that little pine box was starting to fog my brain like the fumes from an opium den.
“Look, Boudreaux—I like you,” Old Red said, sounding uncommonly chummy. “You ain’t dumb. You got your own view on things, I can tell. So why’s a feller like you workin’ for the McPhersons? You’re one of their top hands, so you must’ve been with ‘em a couple years, at least. How could you stick with those bastards so long?”
Rough fabric rustled—the sound of a shrug. “It wasn’t so bad.”
“Wasn’t?” Old Red shot back, pouncing on the word like a bobcat on a hare. “So things have changed? Maybe in ways you don’t like?”
“A man looks out for himself. What’s ‘like’ got to do with it?”
For the first time, I heard emotion in the albino’s slurred words—irritation, or perhaps fear, or perhaps both.
“ ‘Like’ can mean a lot—to the right kinda feller,” Gustav said. “For instance, you didn’t seem to like it when Spider was puttin’ a brand to Pinky Harris.”
“A man looks out for himself,” Boudreaux repeated.
“So is that what happened to Perkins?” Old Red asked, prodding hard now. “Somebody was just ‘lookin’ out for himself’?”
They say every man’s got his limits—and my brother had just pushed Boo up against his.
“Get back to work!” Boudreaux snapped, his words strong and clear for once.
“But I gotta use the—” Gustav began.
“No, you don’t.”
Knuckles rapped hard on the outhouse door.
“You, too,” Boudreaux said. “Get outta there.”
I pushed up the latch, staggered outside, and put my hands on my knees, sucking in deep lungfuls of sweet, fresh air.
“Just. . .let me. . .collect my wits,” I gasped.
“That shouldn’t take long,” Old Red said. “Ain’t much to collect.”
“Hey—”
“As long as we’re waitin’, I got one more question—”
“I’d start mindin’ my own damn business if I was you,” Boudreaux said. “Now get.” His voice had returned to its usual husky murmur, but the way his hand wrapped around his .45 spoke a lot louder.
My brother and I scurried toward the corral—where, I could now see, the Hornet’s Nesters were lined up watching the show. They were giggling and guffawing, obviously assuming we’d just been chewed out for goldbricking.
“I don’t get you,” I said to Old Red as we showed Boo our heels. “For days, you’ve had us tiptoein’ around because of some supposed spy. But then you spout off just the kind of talk that got Pinky beat and burned. Don’t you think Boo’s gonna go straight to the McPhersons once they’re back?”
“Nope.”
“You got a reason to say that, or is that just your natural sunny optimism speakin’?”
“I got a reason.” We were almost to the corral by then, and Gustav had to talk fast. “When Boudreaux came out of the cellar, he had a piece of paper in his hand. I saw him stuff it in his pocket—and he
saw me see him. So he knows if he blabs on me to Uly, I’ll blab on him about that paper.”
“But that won’t help us if you ain’t deductin’ right,” I pointed out. “If that paper don’t mean nothin’—if Boo ain’t up to somethin’ behind Uly’s back—we’re cooked.”
We were climbing the railing now, and Old Red paused with his legs slung over into the corral.
“Huh,” he grunted. “I reckon you’re right.”
Then he dropped down to the ground, picked up his gloves, and got back to work.
Fifteen
THE TABLE
Or, Old Red Sets Out Dishes, and Emily Dishes Out Gossip
Before long, Boudreaux took up his perch out front of the McPhersons’ bunkhouse again. He spent the rest of the afternoon there doing an uncanny imitation of a bump on a log. He only unstuck himself from his seat twice: once to head out with us looking for more maggoty cattle, and again to tell us to knock off for the day. Each time he spoke, Anytime gave him a salute—with his middle finger. Beyond following orders, Old Red didn’t have any reaction at all, and Boo didn’t treat him or me any different from the other boys.
The Duke’s expedition returned just as the evening dusk faded into night. Us Hornet’s Nesters were eating supper at the time, but we had no choice but to hop up to help—Spider and his men still weren’t back from wherever they’d gone that morning, and Boudreaux couldn’t very well tend to the buggy and horses alone. For supper we’d been served Tall John’s tooth-cracking stab at red-bean pie, so the boys didn’t feel too bad about putting down their plates.
Our visitors looked dusty but cheerful as they pulled up in front of the castle. Brackwell greeted us with a wave of his huge and now not-so-white hat, Lady Clara beamed quietly, and even the Duke had a look of prideful satisfaction upon his flabby face. The one exception was Edwards, who was scowling even worse than usual.
It was obvious all that bump-ass riding had jumbled up the Bostonian’s bones. Uly and Boo had to help him down from his horse and practically drag him into the house. I watched them go, wondering what McPherson and the albino would get to talking about once they’d deposited Edwards in his room.
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