Dusk Along the Niobrara Read online

  “We came with a message from Lou Foster,” I said. “Is your boss around?”

  “He should be here in a while. He’s out with the foreman. You might as well come in for a spell, give your horses a rest.”

  I glanced at Dunbar, who gave a mild shrug. “I suppose so,” he said.

  Once inside, we found ourselves at a long table with benches on either side.

  “Have a seat,” said the cook. “I’m workin’ on the noon meal. You ought to plan to stay for it.”

  “We might,” I said.

  Dunbar and I took seats across from one another at the end of the table. Dunbar took off his hat and set it next to him, and I did the same.

  Before long, the room brightened as the door opened. Two men walked in. I recognized them as Fred Mullet and Boots Larose. They hung their hats and came to stand near us.

  Mullet had straight, light brown hair and a sparse mustache of similar color. He wore a loose-fitting gray shirt and a sagging brown vest. He had his mouth open and his eyebrows raised.

  “Hullo, kid. Seen them horses outside, and I thought it might be you.”

  I stood up, shook hands, and introduced him to Dunbar.

  Larose stepped forward and said, “Birdy-birdy.”

  I took that to be his nickname for me. “Top of the day, Boots,” I said. I shook his hand and introduced him to Dunbar as well.

  After they shook hands, Larose put his thumbs in his belt and stood back. He had dark blond hair with a mustache and chin beard to match. He wore a yellow bandana, a tan shirt and vest, and denim trousers. His brown holster and yellow-handled six-gun hung on his hip as usual. He curled his lip and said, “Well, what’s new?”

  “Not much. Came to deliver a letter.”

  “Must be a big one. Takes two to carry it.” He smiled. He had ears that stuck out, a prominent nose, and yellow teeth. His fingers had stubby ends, but he had a lean build with slender legs. He wore long, dark brown boots with mule-ear tabs, and he kept his trousers tucked in. His boots were dusty at the moment, and although he usually kept them shined, he had a general filmy quality about him whenever I saw him.

  I said, “The boss sent Dunbar along so he could get to know the country.”

  “That’s one thing about the boss. He’s always the boss, and the rest of us is just nee-groes.”

  Dunbar’s face tensed for a moment. Neither of us said anything.

  Larose did not have trouble filling the empty space. “Are you lookin’ forward to spendin’ a while in town?”

  “I haven’t thought much about it,” I said, though I assumed he meant the corral project.

  Mullet chimed in. “You might think more of it once you’re there. Though the last I heard, you still have to go to Ashton to find you-know-what.”

  I was saved from having to answer or ignore him. The door opened, and a man I did not know stepped inside. He was below average height and wore a close-fitting, dusty black hat with a narrow brim and a creased crown. He had a clipped mustache, brown like his hair. He had dark blue eyes that fell on me right away.

  Mullet said, “These two fellas ride for Lou Foster.”

  I saw that he was speaking to a second man as well. Borden Crowley had stepped in behind the shorter man.

  Mullet continued. “This here’s Dick Ainsworth. He’s the foreman. And you know the boss. At least you do, kid.”

  I shook hands with Ainsworth and Crowley. Dunbar, standing, reached across the table and did the same. Ainsworth bore down on Dunbar as he did with me, but Crowley’s brown eyes did not settle on us as he went through the motions of shaking hands.

  Ainsworth moved his dark blue eyes toward me as he said, “What brings you boys here?”

  I drew the envelope out of my vest. “Lou Foster has a message for Mr. Crowley.” I reached past Ainsworth and handed his boss the letter.

  Crowley took the envelope with an uninterested expression and tucked it into his jacket pocket. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll get to it right away.”

  As he took off his hat, I renewed my impression of him. He was taller than average, with a self-assured air. He had a full head of hair that was a mixture of mousy light brown and a dull gray. It had a waxy sheen to it, as it lay flat where his hat had been. His hair was trimmed, and he was clean-shaven as always. He hung his hat on a peg and said over his shoulder, “Let’s all sit down. There’s more coming in.”

  Crowley sat at the far end of the table, withdrawn into himself, it seemed. Ainsworth sat in the middle, while Mullet and Larose sat closer to Dunbar and me. I had not seen a washbasin, and no one else took the trouble to wash up, so I imagined they saved that ceremony for the evening. Meanwhile, the aroma of fried beef drifted on the air.

  The cook set a stack of plates in front of me, so I passed them down, one by one. Next came a crockery vase of knives, forks, and spoons, so I sent it along as well.

  More men came in, and by the time the cook had two platters of meat on the table, I counted sixteen of us sitting on the benches. Fried potatoes came next, followed by eight tin plates of biscuits.

  The meal proceeded with very little talk. The click and clack of knives and forks predominated, with an occasional request to pass the biscuits or the salt.

  When the meal was over and the men sat drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes and pipes, Mullet spoke up.

  “Well, Dunbar, how do you like this country? Have you been here before?”

  “I like it fine, and I have been here before.”

  Everyone at our end of the table, including myself, paid attention.

  “About fifteen years ago, when I was first out seeing the country.”

  “How do you find it now?”

  “Much the same, though I believe I see more windmills now.”

  Boots Larose said, “You probably do.”

  Dunbar gave him a brief nod and returned to Mullet. “It’s a good part of the country to come back to, and I’m glad I’m here.” Dunbar paused. “One thing I remember from before is a song I heard. I remember just a snatch of it, but I’ve always been curious to hear the whole thing again.”

  “How does it go?”

  “Oh, it’s not much.”

  “Come on.”

  “I don’t want to hurt anyone’s ears.”

  “Oh, come on, now. Sing it. Maybe someone knows it.”

  Dunbar moved his mustache up and down. “Maybe I will. Like I say, it’s just a little bit.” With that, he sang in a tolerable voice.

  Meet me tonight in the moonlight,

  Leave your little sister at home.

  Meet me out back of the churchyard,

  Don’t leave me to wait all alone.

  “Sounds familiar,” said Mullet. “Seems to me I might have heard it. In a saloon. Most probably in a saloon.”

  “What does it matter?” said Ainsworth, frowning.

  With his hat off, gray flecking appeared in his hair and beard, and he had a more visible thickening around the head and neck, the type that comes with age. His neck was also made to look shorter because of a knotted blue neckerchief. He wore a collarless dark blue shirt and a dark brown vest, with the yellow drawstring of his tobacco sack hanging from his vest pocket.

  Mullet had a simple smile on his face. “It’s interestin’ to me.”

  Dunbar said, “It is to me, too. I’ve taken an interest in songs. You might say I’m a collector. Some people collect insects. Others collect arrowheads. I go for songs that are not well known. Like this one.”

  He sang again, in a voice that was not painful to the ear.

  Where the Niobrara wanders

  On its journey to the sea,

  My mind drifts back in memory

  To thoughts of you and me,

  When the silver dew of springtime

  Lay light upon the land,

  And love was free and open

  ’Tween a woman and a man.

  He said, “I’d like to know more about it, including who wrote it.”

 
Ainsworth shot out a stream of smoke. “I don’t know how much any of it matters, including who wrote what. For my part, all those songs are the same, caterwaulin’ about someone who died of a broken heart or a broken neck.”

  I wondered if dying from a broken neck, in his terms, meant being thrown from a horse or being hanged. But I was used to being treated as a kid, so I let the conversation go back and forth in front of me.

  Ainsworth had lifted his chin and now regarded Dunbar with what seemed like a disputatious air. At the same time, I was sure that Borden Crowley had heard some of the conversation, though he seemed to take no interest in Dunbar.

  “Well,” said Dunbar. “Here’s part of what’s got my curiosity. This second one I sang, about the Niobrara, I wonder if it’s borrowed. I wouldn’t say stolen. Just borrowed. It sounds like another song I once heard.” He paused, but before anyone else spoke, he went on. “You see, I think I might like to make up a song myself someday, and I would want to be careful not to steal someone else’s words or ideas.”

  “Good luck,” said Ainsworth. “None of it is very original. Furthermore, any muggins can do it. He doesn’t even have to know how to sing or how to play an instrument.”

  “That’s in my favor,” said Dunbar. “Reminds me of the fella who asked his bunkhouse pals if they had any requests for him to sing. One of ’em said, ‘Over the hills and far away.’ ”

  Ainsworth held his mouth firm.

  Mullet was undaunted. With his voice rising, he said, “What is it that you want to know? I’ve been here since the days of the Cheyenne-to-Deadwood stage.”

  “I’d like to know more about these songs,” said Dunbar. “Especially the second one, and who wrote it. What year did you come here?”

  “In ’84.”

  “I believe I heard these songs when I first came through here in ’82. Fourteen years ago, almost fifteen.”

  “Could be,” said Mullet. “That second one, I don’t remember ever hearing it at all.” He shifted in his seat and directed his voice to the other end of the table. “Say, boss, you were here in ’82, weren’t you?”

  “Of course I was. What of it?”

  “This fellow wants to know about a song he heard back then. Heard it here.”

  Crowley shook his head. “I don’t know anything about any songs.”

  “No one does,” said Ainsworth. “Why don’t you just forget it?”

  Mullet returned to Dunbar. “I know someone you can ask. He was here back then. He remembers everything he’s ever seen or heard. You’ll prob’ly meet him, anyway, if we go to work buildin’ them krells. His name’s Del Bancroft.”

  I flinched, but I didn’t think anyone noticed.

  “Thanks,” said Dunbar. “Doesn’t cost anything to ask.”

  “And no harm,” said Mullet.

  Ainsworth snuffed out his cigarette and swung his leg over the bench. Several of the other men followed suit, and the company began to break up. Dunbar stood up as well and turned to say thanks to the cook. When his back was turned, I felt a touch at my elbow. I was still seated, so I had to look up into the face of Borden Crowley. As before, his brown eyes did not quite settle on me. He stood close, so he did not have to speak loud.

  “Tell your boss I’ll send him a message back. When I get a chance.”

  “Very well,” I said. Because of his closeness and my perspective, I had a close-up view of his gold watch chain, shining against the background of his silver-gray vest and jacket. A second later, he was gone.

  His manner struck me as abrupt and evasive. I do not think it would have seemed any less normal if he had told me straight that he did not want someone like me to carry a message of his.

  My impression lasted but a moment. Dunbar and I put on our hats and walked out into the bright sunlight. We watered our horses as the BC riders saddled fresh mounts for the afternoon’s work.

  When we were a half-mile out on our ride, Dunbar said, “Lou was right about one thing. The grub’s good.”

  “I wish I could say something similar about our host. I’ve known him to talk down to the likes of us, but this time he all but snubbed us.”

  Dunbar laughed. “I don’t think he would like to hear me saying this, but I thought he made himself pretty clear, in spite of his efforts not to.”

  Whatever Borden Crowley wanted to convey in his message did not take him long, for Boots Larose showed up at our bunkhouse that same evening while I was washing my hands and face before supper.

  Lou Foster was already seated at the table, so Larose strode over to him and handed the envelope with a bit of a flourish.

  “Thanks,” said the boss. “Supper’s on the way. Go ahead and get cleaned up.”

  Larose hung his hat and stood behind Dunbar, who was behind me. “Just a little message,” he said. “Took only one of us to carry it.”

  I stepped aside to dry off and let Dunbar move forward. “Did you see any snakes on the way over?” I asked.

  “Nah. Last one I saw, I shot his head off.” He patted his holster.

  Dunbar straightened up and took the towel from me, but he did not move away from the basin. He dried his face and mustache, then smiled and said, “I don’t know how true this is, but I heard a story about a fella in Texas, I believe. He killed a snake by stompin’ on it, but it bit through the sole of his boot, and he died. His brother inherited his boots, and the first day he wore ’em, he died, too.”

  Larose said, “I think that’s just an old wise tell.”

  I was sure I heard him correctly. Dunbar’s eyebrows tensed with a curious expression, and he stepped aside to let Larose move up to the basin. “I don’t believe half the stories I hear about snakes, anyway. I believe yours, of course.”

  Larose made quick work, washing only his hands. He turned and took the towel. “How about wakin’ up in the mornin’ and findin’ a rattlesnake coiled up in your fryin’ pan? You’d better believe that one, because I’ve seen it.”

  Dan’s voice carried from the end of the table, where he was setting a stack of plates. “That’s why you should turn your skillet upside down.”

  “I do that, too. This was in someone else’s camp.”

  As the boss smoked his cigarette after supper, he said, “You might as well stay over, Boots. You don’t want to ride back in the dark. Have your horse step in a hole.”

  Larose had pushed away from the table and sat with a long boot hiked up onto his knee. He had spilled a few grains of tobacco while rolling his cigarette, and he brushed them onto the floor. “Might do that. Thanks.” He struck a match and lit his smoke.

  “That’s good,” said George. “We have enough for a little contest.”

  Bob said, “Don’t listen to him, Boots.”

  Larose blew smoke through his nostrils. “What contest?”

  “Boxing,” said George. “We’ve got two pair of boxing gloves, and we haven’t used them all season.”

  Larose spit a fleck of tobacco at the floor. “Who are you tryin’ to get me to fight?”

  “This isn’t fightin’. This is sport.”

  “I don’t want to beat up this kid.”

  “No, we leave him out of it.”

  Bob said, “You can leave me out of it, too.”

  “No, no,” said George. “There’s four of us. We draw straws. The two short straws go first, and the two long straws go second. Then the two winners go at it.”

  Larose said, “I need to put my horse away.”

  “Well, hurry up. We’ve still got daylight.” George spoke to Dunbar. “You’re game, aren’t you?”

  “It’s just a sport, isn’t it?”

  “Sure.”

  “All right. Count me in.”

  Larose sniffed. “What’s the prize?”

  “Each fellow can put up, let’s say, four bits. Sweeten the pot.”

  The boss said, “I’ll add four bits. How about you, Dan?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Everyone looked at me. “Sure,” I said. �
�I will, too.”

  Larose said, “I don’t have any money on me.”

  “That’s all right,” said George. “We’ve still got three dollars. That’s two days’ wages and then some.”

  “Let me finish my cigarette.”

  Dan pulled two straws out of his broom, and we made two short ones and two long ones. I held the straws while the four contestants drew. Bob and Dunbar drew short, and George and Larose drew long.

  “Hurry up and put your horse away,” said George. “I’ll get out the gloves.”

  The sun had set and dusk had not yet drawn in when Larose returned from the barn. I noticed that he was not wearing his gun belt. No one from our outfit was wearing a hat. Bob and Dunbar had their gloves on and were standing outside the bunkhouse. Dan and the boss were seated in chairs against the building.

  Bob had an uneasy look on his face as he asked, “What are the rules?”

  George said, “Fight fair. Go until someone gets knocked down or has had enough.”

  Bob took a deep breath and stepped around to face Dunbar. He held up his gloves and peered over them.

  Dunbar held his gloves at chest level. He led with his left foot and jabbed with his left hand. When Bob moved back, Dunbar moved in with a right and did not hit him very hard.

  Bob dropped to the ground on his right side and held up a glove as if he expected to be hit again.

  “That’s enough,” said George. “See? No one gets hurt.” He helped Bob to his feet, took his gloves, and handed them to Larose. Dunbar handed the other pair to George.

  When George had his gloves on, he put his elbows forward and curled the gloves back toward his nose. He began to prance, and I could see that he thought of this whole contest as a show.

  Larose, who had taken off his hat and set it aside, put his gloves up in similar fashion and began to hop around, clumping his boots on the hard ground. He seemed to be in the spirit for a show as well.

  The two of them bounced back and forth, feinting, until George landed a blow. Larose’s head shook, and his hair seemed to stand out straight. He came back flat-footed, no longer dancing, and held his gloves at waist level. He circled to his right and then to his left. George was moving his head from side to side, as if he was looking for an opening. Larose was watching his opponent’s gloves but was keeping an eye on his feet as well. I saw why. As soon as George crossed one foot over the other, Larose moved in and clobbered him.