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  DUSK ALONG THE NIOBRARA

  DUSK ALONG THE NIOBRARA

  JOHN D. NESBITT

  FIVE STAR

  A part of Gale, a Cengage Company

  Copyright © 2019 by John D. Nesbitt

  Five Star Publishing, a part of Gale, a Cengage Company

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  The publisher bears no responsibility for the quality of information provided through author or third-party Web sites and does not have any control over, nor assume any responsibility for, information contained in these sites. Providing these sites should not be construed as an endorsement or approval by the publisher of these organizations or of the positions they may take on various issues.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Nesbitt, John D., author.

  Title: Dusk along the Niobrara / John D. Nesbitt.

  Description: First Edition. | Farmington Hills, Mich. : Five Star, a part of Gale, Cengage Learning, 2019.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018044044 (print) | LCCN 2018045917 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432858315 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432858308 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432858292 (hardcover)

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-5831-5

  Subjects: LCSH: Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | Ranchers— Fiction. | GSAFD: Western stories. | Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3564.E76 (ebook) | LCC PS3564.E76 D88 2019 (print) | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018044044

  First Edition. First Printing: June 2019

  This title is available as an e-book.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-5831-5

  Find us on Facebook—https://www.facebook.com/FiveStarCengage

  Visit our website—http://www.gale.cengage.com/fivestar/

  Contact Five Star Publishing at [email protected]

  Printed in the United States of America

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  For Cooper

  But there is hope: you have yet to hear the shepherd.

  —Choragos

  CHAPTER ONE

  The man named Dunbar came to the upper Niobrara country in the hottest part of summer, when the prairie grass had turned dry and thin. On a scorching afternoon when the air had grown heavy, I had come to a rest on a low ridge, hoping to catch a breeze for my horse and me, when a rider appeared out of the north. He was riding a light-colored horse and leading another that had dark markings and that at a distance appeared to be a packhorse. I waited as the man rode closer, but he and his horses did not grow very fast in my view.

  By that point in my life—I was nineteen at the time—I already knew that the grasslands could deceive the eye. A distant point often turned out to be more distant than a person thought, and the land in between had more dips and swells than he would have expected. Cattle came into view on short notice, and antelope seemed to materialize out of the waves of grass. Objects also disappeared, as the oncoming rider did now.

  I was left to ponder the landscape. The country beyond the point where I had seen him, bare and pale, stretched across in a low line of hills, east to west. I knew that beyond those hills, some ten miles or more, the Hat Creek Breaks rose higher, like a small range of mountains with pine trees and springs. But I could not see them. The intervening hills, formless in the haze and shimmering heat, blocked them from view.

  When the traveler appeared again, closer, I could see that he was a tall man with a dark hat. He was riding a blue roan and leading a buckskin.

  I waited for several minutes more. As the horses came within a hundred yards, I could hear them breathing. Their hooves thudded on the dry ground. Saddle leather squeaked. Tiny bits of dry grass rose with the dust from the horses’ feet. Not wanting to stare at the man, I waited to let my gaze fall on him.

  He wore a high-crowned hat that did not cast much of a shadow at the moment. He had dark hair, dark brows, dark eyes, and a bushy mustache. He wore a sand-colored canvas shirt with two chest pockets and a full row of buttons—not a common work shirt, but not out of place for a range rider. As he took a full breath, I saw that he had broad shoulders and a high chest. I guessed him to be in his middle thirties.

  He brought the horses to a stop, touched his hat brim with a gloved hand, and said, “Good afternoon.”

  “The same to you,” I said.

  “Town of Brome is over that way, I imagine.” He motioned with his hand in the direction behind me.

  “That’s right.”

  “Good to be up on a high spot and get my bearings.” His voice had a friendly tone. “And those are the Rawhide Buttes, aren’t they?” He motioned with his hat in the direction past my left shoulder.

  I shifted in the saddle and saw the dark outline of Rawhide Mountain, some fifteen miles to the south and west, with the lesser buttes stretching north from it. “Yes, sir.”

  He took off his light leather gloves as he moved the blue roan close to me. He held out his hand and said, “My name’s Dunbar.”

  “Pleased to meet you. My name’s Bard Montgomery.” We shook.

  “Bard.”

  “Yes. It was my mother’s family’s name.”

  “Oh.”

  “It also means an old-fashioned poet. White-bearded type.”

  “I’m familiar with the term. A singer of heroic deeds and great tragedies.”

  I appreciated the cheerful spirit in his voice. “That’s what I’ve understood,” I said. I let my eyes drift over him. He had a rope tied to his saddle, in cowhand fashion, and he wore a dark-handled revolver.

  “Lookin’ for work,” he said.

  “Ranch work?”

  “It’s what I’m best at.”

  “There’s not much else around here. Jobs in town get taken up pretty fast.”

  “That’s all right. I don’t shine much at weighin’ out beans or deliverin’ coal.”

  I took a broad view of the rangeland, treeless for miles in every direction. “I don’t know if anyone’s hiring right now. We’re in between spring and fall roundup, of course.”

  “That’s what I figured. It doesn’t cost anything to ask, though.”

  I shrugged. “Not with me.” I cast a glance over his packhorse. I like buckskins, and from what I could see of this one, he was a good-looking horse. I said, “I’m about ready to head back to the ranch where I work. If you want, you can ride along with me for a ways until I turn off.”

  “Don’t mind if I do. What’s the name of the outfit where you work?” He pulled on his gloves as he clucked to the horses and got them moving.

  “Foster,” I said, evening my reins as my horse began to walk. “Lou Foster. Has a small ranch in comparison to some, but he’s good to work for.”

  “That’s all you need. As far as work goes, anyway.”

  We rode on for a little ways with the only sounds coming from horse hooves on dry ground, an occasional snuffle, and the creak of saddles. The heat bore down, and sweat poured out of me.

  At length Dunbar said, “What do you think your boss would say about a fella stayin’ over?”

  “Happens often enough,” I said.

  “Always inclined to do a little work in return.”

  I tipped my head to try to shade out the sun where it had moved. “There’s always work to be done.”

  Quietness settled in again, with only the sound of the horses as we made our way across
the vast, open grassland.

  Dunbar and I rode into the ranch yard from the west. The door of the bunkhouse opened, and Dan, the white-haired cook, stepped outside carrying a tin pail. He stopped at a young elm tree about six feet tall, and he poured the contents of the pail into the earthen bowl around the tree. Straightening up, he raised his free hand and waved to us. We waved back and rode on toward the ranch house.

  I dismounted and called out, “Yoodle-ooh!”

  The front door opened, and Lou hobbled out onto the small porch. He had a crutch under his right arm, as had been his habit for a few weeks. “What say?” he called out.

  “We’ve got company, Lou, if it’s all right. This is Mr. Dunbar, and he’d like to put up for the night.” I turned and saw that Dunbar had dismounted.

  Lou’s eyes traveled over the stranger and his two horses. “Should be okeh. Passin’ through or lookin’ for work?”

  “Work would suit me, if there is any.” Dunbar took off his gloves and smiled.

  “Well, put your horses up. We’ll have grub in a little while.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Your name again?”

  “Dunbar.”

  “I like to be sure. I’m Lou Foster.”

  “A pleasure to meet you.”

  Lou made his way into the bunkhouse a little after we did. He hung his hat on a peg and shifted around on his crutch. Dunbar, his dark hair shining where his hat had been, stood up and stepped forward to shake the boss’s hand. I stood up as well.

  When they had shaken hands and Lou had rested his right armpit onto his crutch, he said, “Don’t mind me. I’m not that crippled. I don’t know what’s wrong with this leg, but it hasn’t been worth a damn for a while now. It’s like a deep ache. I hope to get over it, but I can’t count on it. Reminds me of an old horse I had, walked sideways in the hind end and dragged one foot. Came out of it a couple of times with better feed, but the last time, he didn’t.”

  Dunbar smiled. “You’re not that old.”

  “I’m fifty-one, for whatever that’s worth. Not young, but not old. I hope.”

  Up until that moment, I did not know how old Lou was, but I would have guessed him at about fifty. He had creases on his weathered face, and gray was showing in his hair. He shaved about once a week, so he had stubble with a cast of gray as well. He had clear brown eyes, not filmy with age. He was not tall, and he was lean like a cattleman who had spent many long days in the saddle and had missed some meals.

  Dunbar said, “Is the pain in the muscles or in a joint?”

  “It’s high on the leg here, right by the joint.”

  “I’ve heard of people having a cold settle into their joints, like a rheumatism.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me. I landed on this hip one time when I got thrown from a horse.”

  “I’ve also heard of people getting it from sleeping on the cold ground. I knew of one fellow who could barely walk at all, until he discovered he could walk backwards. That’s how he got better. Took him a while.”

  “That sounds like me. I’ve gone backwards half my life.”

  Dunbar smiled. “Reminds me of a riddle,” he said. “About the creature that goes on four feet in the morning, two feet in the middle of the day, and three feet in the evening.” After a pause, he added, “Man, of course. Crawls on four feet in the morning, leans on a cane in the evening of his life.”

  “Well, I hope I’m not at that stage for good. Tapping the ground with a stick.” Lou’s eyebrows raised as if a thought passed through. “But sit down.”

  Lou sat in his chair at the end of the table, and Dunbar and I took our seats as before, opposite one another.

  Dan came out of the kitchen carrying a steaming pot with both hands. For being an older man with dull white hair, pale blue eyes, and a pale complexion, he got around well enough, without any limps or hitches. He set the pot in the middle of the table.

  “Beef stew. Hot biscuits comin’ up.”

  We dug into our meal, and before long, Dan joined us. No one spoke, and the two tin plates of biscuits disappeared. When everyone had finished, Dunbar rose from his seat.

  “If you show me to the dishpan, I can get started,” he said.

  Dan raised his pale blue eyes. “It’s in the kitchen, but we wash the dishes at the other end of this table. More room.”

  “I’ll fetch it.”

  When Dunbar returned with the enamel dishpan, he said, “This is a nice one. Good-sized, too.”

  Dan gave a single nod. “It doesn’t go out with the wagon. I’ve got an old dented tin one that goes with the camp outfit.”

  “That’s good.”

  “And we usually have two more fellas at the table, so you picked a good time to volunteer. It’s a good trick of George to take his turn when there’s only two or three of us here. Bob, he finds it a good time to go to the little shack outside.”

  Dunbar glanced at the other end of the bunkhouse, where the cots were located. I imagined he had already counted how many had bedding. He did not seem to miss much.

  He went to the kitchen and returned with the kettle that Dan used to heat water. Wisps of steam were rising from the surface.

  “Use half for washing, and save half for rinsing,” said Dan.

  Dunbar nodded.

  Lou rolled a cigarette and lit it. When Dunbar had his sleeves turned up and his hands in the water, the boss spoke.

  “What kind of work are you looking for, Dunbar?”

  “Right now, I’m employed at pearl-diving, but I do other kinds of ranch work as well.”

  “How are you at building corrals?”

  “Planks or poles?”

  “Planks. And square posts.”

  Dunbar rattled the silverware in the bottom of the pan. “Most cowhands I’ve met consider themselves pretty good carpenters. Which they may or may not be. But I know that building corrals entails a lot more than swingin’ a hammer.” He leveled his eyes at the boss. “Diggin’ holes. Tampin’ ’em in.”

  “Ha-ha. So you don’t jump at it.”

  “Work’s work. If that’s what needs to be done, I’m willing to work at it. Do you plan to build them right here?”

  I peered at the boss. This was the first I had heard of building any more corrals.

  “No.” Lou puffed out a small cloud of smoke. “It’s a set of shipping pens. In town. By the railroad.”

  “I’ve got the idea.”

  “We’d like to have ’em ready for when we finish fall roundup, which means we have to have ’em done before we go out with the wagon. Each outfit is supposed to contribute some men. I’d be one of the workers, but for my leg. I thought I was going to have to split up Bob and George, or send this fellow who works for me part of the time, but maybe I could send you and Bard and Dan. What do you think? Your hands aren’t gettin’ too soft washing dishes, are they?”

  “Not yet. I haven’t been doing it every day. When does the corral job start?”

  “As soon as the lumber arrives. I can keep you busy in the meanwhile.”

  “You can count me in.”

  The boss was reaching to tip his ash in a sardine can when galloping hoofbeats made him flinch. He flicked his hand, and the ash landed in the can. He frowned and said, “Who’s that?”

  The drumming of hooves stopped, and the bunkhouse door burst open. Bob Crenshaw and George Olney charged in.

  The boss was still frowning. “What’s wrong? You boys were supposed to sleep out and swing back tomorrow.”

  George spoke. “I know. But Bill Pearson’s been killed. Shot.”

  The boss sat straight up. “The hell. When?”

  “Earlier today, it looks like.”

  “Where?”

  “On his own land, over by those chalky buttes.”

  I placed the area in my mind—northeast of the Foster ranch a few miles, where the land began to break up before it crossed into Nebraska.

  The boss nodded. “Did you find him?”

  Bob
answered. “No. His wife did. She’s all tore up about it.”

  “I’m sure she would be.” The boss spoke to Dunbar. “That’s the fellow I mentioned. Works for me from time to time.” He returned to Bob and George. “I’ll send someone over there tomorrow. You boys might as well stay here tonight. Put your horses away and get somethin’ to eat. Don’t waste time or you’ll have to wash your dishes yourself. By the way, this is Dunbar.”

  Bob and George nodded and walked out, their bootheels thumping and their spurs jingling.

  “This is no good,” said the boss, taking up his cigarette again. “A poor man, barely makin’ it to begin with. And now this. I pity his poor wife.”

  Dunbar and I set out the next morning for Bill Pearson’s homestead. The sun had been shining red in the haze when I first went outside at sunrise, but it had climbed and turned pale by the time we left the ranch. Our route took us northeast across the grassland, again with no tree in sight. On a larger scale, this part of the country slopes downward as it stretches east from the Rocky Mountains to the flatter prairies of Kansas, Nebraska, and Iowa, but on our ride that morning, we made a gradual climb toward the chalky buttes and broken plains. Beneath the hazy sky, I had a sense of being on the eastern edge of Wyoming north of the Niobrara. I also had an awareness of carrying, in my inside vest pocket, an envelope containing gold coins that accounted for the last of Bill Pearson’s wages.

  I had dropped by the homestead a couple of times before, so I knew where it was. The shanty looked the same as always as it came into view—weathered lumber on the sides, and rough wood shingles on the pyramid roof. The front door was open, and darkness showed inside. Half a dozen molting white chickens pecked in the bare yard. We slowed our horses as we approached the house.

  A feeling of dread ran through my upper body. I knew who Mrs. Pearson was, that her name was Georgiana, and that she and her husband had raised five kids who had gone their separate ways. But I did not know the experience of going to a dead man’s house and trying to comfort his widow.

  We drew rein a few yards from the house. Dust rose up around our horses’ knees as we dismounted. I felt a tightness in my throat.