“Oh, he can work all right. Alf’s just teeterin’ some ’cause he’s had a bit too much to drink.” Sensing that his boss was about to express his disapproval, the foreman added quickly: “But he works cheap.”
Moon let it pass. “What about the cowboy in the middle?” The man’s teeth were yellowish, with exaggerated canines. The eyes, shaded by the brim of a tattered black hat, were small, dark—and mean. The man had the look of a starved rodent.
Bushman snickered. “They call him Pogo—’cause he has a kinda possum look about ’im.”
“He running from the law?”
“Not now.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Bushman shook his head. “He’s done his time.”
“Knifed somebody, did he?”
“Oh no. Nothin’ like that.”
“What, then?”
“Pogo, he stole some steers up in Montana.”
Moon looked up at the beamed ceiling, and imagined a blue sky. Where untroubled clouds drifted by. “Pete—I don’t mean to be overly critical. But do you think it’s sound business practice for a rancher to hire a cattle thief?”
“Oh, don’t worry so much. Pogo never steals from his employers.”
“I am relieved to hear this. But I have something to say.”
“I’m listnin’.”
“So far, this is a sorry lot of cowboys.”
Bushman bristled. “With what you’re payin’, you’re damn lucky to get ’em.”
Moon gave the third man the once-over. This one was tall and lean. His honest young face was decorated with a serious-looking handlebar mustache. Moreover, his blue cotton shirt was spotless, his gray trousers pressed, his boots shined. “That one,” the Ute said, “is a bit of a dude. But he looks like a first-rate cowboy.” He glanced uneasily at Bushman. “What particular felonies has he committed?”
“Far as I know, the Kid’s got a clean slate.”
Moon stared at the foreman in disbelief. “Kid?”
Bushman seemed proud of this one. “That there’s the Wyomin’ Kid.”
“Surely you’re joking, Mr. Bushman.”
“That’s just his nickname. The Wyomin’ Kid’s Christian name is Jerome. Jerome Kydmann.”
Moon tried to be hopeful. “Well, being from Wyoming, maybe Jerome knows something about the cattle business.”
“Far as I know, the Kid has never set foot in the Wyomin’ you’re talkin’ about.” Bushman waited for the boss to inquire.
Moon did not ask. He did not want to know.
Bushman told him anyway. “Jerome’s from Wyomin’, Rhode Island.”
Still the Ute held his tongue.
“It’s a little town on Route 95.” Bushman chuckled under greasy whiskers. “Few miles east of Moscow. That’s in Rhode Island too.” His eyes sparkled with merriment. “I looked it up on a road map.”
The Ute exhaled the breath he had been holding. “So what does the Wyoming Kydmann know about cattle?”
Bushman’s face was rosy with Santa-like good humor. “’Bout as much as most kids from Rhode Island. But he claims he’s eager to learn.”
Moon set his jaw and spoke through clenched teeth. “Listen to me, Bushman. I may be willing to take a chance on a tequila-soaked Mexican knife artist. I might even be willing to give Pogo-the-Cattle-Rustler a try after I warn him how I stake cow thieves over anthills and then pour honey on ’em. But I will not pay out hard cash to some tinhorn who don’t know the difference between a Holstein milk cow and a Texas longhorn. And worst of all, calls himself the Wyoming Kid. And that’s that.”
“You’re the boss.”
“So you tell the Kid we can’t use him.”
“Okay. But like I said, he’s eager to learn. Real eager.”
Moon glared at his foreman. “How eager? You intend to exploit this young man—work him to death for bed and beans?”
The foreman looked sinfully prideful. “Better’n that.”
Moon’s tone softened. “What’s better than him working for free?”
“The Wyoming Kid will pay us to work here.”
“You serious?”
“Serious as a bad case of the claps.”
“How much?”
“I told him we could provide a minimum of sixty hours of actual cowboyin’ experience per week—for a tuition of only three hundred dollars a month.”
Moon stood in awe of his crafty foreman.
“Of course, the Kid’s gotta supply his own horse and saddle and such.”
The bony fingers of guilt probed Moon’s conscience. “This Jerome, he…uhh…not too bright?”
“The Wyomin’ Kid’s got hisself one of them Embee-A degrees from Harvard U. But he don’t like the corporate world. Says it’s a soul-killing rat race. So he’s set his mind to learn the cowboyin’ trade.”
“Where would he get the money to pay…ahh…tuition?”
“The Kid’s folks is rich as Shaker eggnog.” The foreman watched his boss hesitate. “Charlie, if we don’t take ’im on, he’ll find a position somewheres else.” Bushman threw up his hands. “But if you think we shouldn’t be takin’ advantage of the poor young fella like this, I’ll go give him the sack right now.”
“Let’s not be hasty.” Moon beamed a beatific smile toward the callow youth, who smiled back under the waxed handlebar mustache. “Maybe we should give this fine young fellow a chance to learn an honest trade.”
Bushman, his victory won and savored, was in a generous mood. “Now if you want to, go on over and shake hands with ’em. But don’t you never get too chummy with the help. First thing you know, they’ll be actin’ like they own the place and you’re workin’ for them.”
“That’s good advice, Pete. From now on I’ll make sure my employees know who’s in charge here. All of them.” He gave Bushman a flinty look that made the foreman’s bloodshot eyes pop.
ECONOMICS 101
By long tradition, all serious business at the Columbine Ranch headquarters was conducted in the kitchen. Charlie Moon sat across the massive oak dining table from his foreman. Pete Bushman’s steel-rimmed spectacles hung low on the bridge of his nose; he was leafing slowly through a green ledger, making sums and subtractions on a yellow pad. And muttering darkly under his whiskers.
The clock on the wall pilfered the minutes one by one.
From time to time, each man helped himself to a sip of black coffee.
While the foreman fussed over the ranch records, Charlie Moon thought his happy thoughts. By the grace of God, here I am—owner of maybe the finest ranch in Colorado. No more police work for me. No more hauling in drunks who puke on my new shirt. No more arresting wife-beaters whose wives kick me in the shins because I’m mistreating their loving husbands. Nosir. All I have to do is tell my foreman what I want done, and Pete’ll see to it. Before long, I’ll be able to sit right by the window in my great big parlor and watch hundreds of purebred Herefords grazing in the valley. In due season, there’ll be calves. And once stock starts going to market, the greenback dollars will start falling all around me like cottonwood leaves in October. And I’ll have all the time I need for fishing. Then he remembered the sweetest blessing of all. Won’t be long till Camilla shows up for a visit. What a grand life.
The policeman-turned-rancher was startled by the sound of gravel caught in a coffee grinder. It was Pete Bushman, clearing his throat. The Ute blinked at his employee.
Bushman nibbled at the pink eraser on the number-two lead pencil. “I may be off a dollar or two here or there. But I got it pretty much figgered out.”
“What’s the bottom line?”
“Well, you want to buy two hundred head of good Hereford stock. But first we need some maintenance on the farm equipment—gotta get some alfalfa planted. Lots of fixin’ up to do. Some of them south fences needs new bob-war. Barn roof is wantin’ some shingles. Corner post in the west corral’s all rotted. Livestock chute needs some weldin’ work. And there’s the pay for the cowboys.” He gri
nned. “Just the two of ’em. And then there’s taxes.”
“Taxes?”
“Property taxes.”
He showed the Ute last year’s bill.
Moon squinted at the paper. “That much?”
“For ranchers, rates per acre aren’t all that high. But then you got an awful lotta acres.”
The owner groaned. “What about the black-ink side of the ledger?”
“Well, that lawyer fella down in Durango allows us a fixed allotment for certain kinds of expenses. We leased out sixteen hundred acres of grassland on the other side of the mountain to that U.S. senator who you got for a neighbor.” Bushman grinned. “And then there’s the three hundred dollars a month from the Wyomin’ Kid.”
“Don’t remind me.” Moon was feeling a twinge of guilt. “After a month or so we’ll cancel his…uh…tuition. Once he’s able to do some useful work, we’ll put him on the payroll.”
“Don’t really matter. Three hundred greenbacks is a drop in the bucket for an outfit this size. ’Specially if you intend to invest in a bunch of purebred beef.”
The Ute leaned forward to stare at Bushman’s scribblings. “So what’s the projected bottom line?”
The foreman scratched his head, pursed his lips, muttered a few choice curses under his breath. “I’d say—give or take a few bucks—we’re lookin’ at forty-five, maybe fifty thousand dollars.”
Moon’s relief showed on his face. “Well, we can’t expect much for the start-up year. Even so, that’s not much of a profit margin for a ranch this size.”
The foreman’s eyes popped. “Profit?”
He didn’t want to ask. But he did. “You’re projecting we’ll lose fifty thousand dollars this year?”
Bushman’s belly shook with laughter. “Only if we work twenty-six hours a day—including Sundays. And if we’re extra lucky. Why, once we get this ranch up an’ runnin’, we’ll be able to lose two or three hundred thousand dollars a year.”
“That’s not funny.”
Bushman shook his grizzled head at the innocent. “You actually figured you’d make serious money raisin’ beeves? Shoot—there ain’t been no decent profit in the beef market for thirty years. Big supermarket chains and hamburger franchises buy beef from places like Argentina. South Africa. Australia. American ranches like this is mostly owned by rich people. And rich people are too smart to fool around with big herds a beef cows.”
Moon’s expression was that of the small boy who has just watched a double scoop of ice cream fall from his cone to the sidewalk. On a very hot day. And a big dog came along and licked it up.
The foreman sensed that his boss needed some encouragement. “You want to make a few dollars, we could raise some rodeo stock. There’s some money in that, if you know what you’re doin’. And we could raise some o’ them sad-looking llamas. And buffalo. We can sell buffs to the Indians. We might even start us a flock o’ them big ostrich birds. There’s even some money in camels. But if we’re eventually goin’ to have a payin’ operation, we need just a little bit of capital to get over the hump.”
“I’m not going to borrow money.”
“I was thinking of something else.”
“I could put you to mending fences. Put the Wyoming Kid in charge of the business end of things.” Moon wore his poker face. “A Harvard MBA would put this operation on a paying basis in no time flat.”
“Don’t get snappy. What I meant was—well—I don’t hardly know how to say it.”
“Just spit it out, Pete.”
“You Injuns are a sensitive lot. You might not like to hear it.”
“I’m always interested in hearing what’s on my foreman’s mind.”
“Well, then I’ll say it right out.” Bushman looked at the ceiling. Scratched at his bushy beard. Licked his lips. Cleared his throat. “Well…you could get yourself a job somewheres.”
Moon had not believed he could be surprised by anything this bewhiskered old grouch had to say.
The foreman continued in a more sympathetic tone. “I realize, bein’ unskilled labor you prob’ly couldn’t earn all that much. But anything you could scrape up would help.”
Moon attempted to stare a hole through the man’s forehead.
“And it’s not like you’re needed around here—all you’d be doin’ is hangin’ around, tellin’ me how to do my job.” Bushman scowled at this imagined outrage. “Me who was cowboyin’ when you was still in diapers.”
“I take it back—I’m not interested in what’s on your mind.”
“Well, that’s all I’ve got to say.” Having made this vow of silence, the foreman proceeded to enumerate a long list of calamities likely to cripple the Columbine. He noticed a vacant look on the boss’s face, and paused. “Hmmpf.”
Charlie Moon was staring at something on the table. A stray grain of barley. The little white seed looked untroubled. Even cheerful.
The foreman cleared his throat. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”
The Ute didn’t look up. “I’m so poor, I can’t even afford to pay attention.”
Bushman slammed the ledger shut, jammed a floppy hat down to his ears. And prepared to depart without so much as a good-bye.
Moon realized that this sad financial picture was not his foreman’s fault. Bushman had merely framed it for him. “How about I fix us a snack?” He slapped the old man between the shoulder blades.
Bushman wheezed, then managed to regain his wind. “My missus won’t like it if I don’t have no appetite for lunch.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to get Dolly peeved at you.”
The foreman glanced at the huge refrigerator. Licked his lips. “What kinda snack did you have in mind?”
“You name it.”
“How about a ham san’wich.”
“Okay. I’ll make you a small one.”
“Well…not too small.”
THE SNACK
The men took their sandwiches onto the front porch and seated themselves in heavy redwood rockers. The ranch house was situated on a prominent knoll. Off to the north and down a long grassy slope was the river. Roaring and crashing over glistening black boulders. To the south, at the near edge of pastureland that stretched for a day’s walk was the lake—a thirty-acre melt of dark green glass. Ten miles away, to the west, blue granite mountains bulged jaggedly through the drifting vapors of late morning. From somewhere below these mists came the shrill call of a hawk.
Moon leaned back. Raised a heavy mug to his lips, took a sip of sweet black coffee. “Now this is the way for a man to live,” he muttered.
Bushman nodded. “It’ll do till a better one comes along.” And Glory is just over the mountains. The foreman took a healthy bite from his sandwich. Between the thick slices of dark rye was a single slice of ham. Three quarters of an inch thick. Smeared with honey mustard.
A large, yellowish hound walked slowly toward the ranch house. Up the steps. Without taking the least notice of the men, the lean animal aimed its long nose toward a sunny spot on the south end of the porch. The dog fell to his belly with a soft whuffing sound. He yawned, exposing an impressive set of teeth. The yawn complete, the hound licked his black lips, lowered his muzzle to the planked floor. Closed his eyes. The very picture of contentment.
Moon took a bite of rye and ham. “That your dog?”
Pete Bushman swallowed a gulp of steaming coffee. “Nope.”
Moon continued to relish his food. This is maybe the best ham sandwich I ever ate. Between bites, the Ute continued the conversation. “Whose dog is he?”
The foreman thought about the question. “Yours.”
Moon shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Bushman took ample time to chew his food. Swallowed it. “Oh, he’s your dog all right.”
The Ute took a long look at the somnolent animal. “Pete, if I had me a really ugly yella hound dog, I’m pretty sure I would know it.”
The foreman thought about going inside to warm up his coffee. Deci
ded it would be better to sit awhile longer. “Sidewinder belongs to the ranch—always has. Now the ranch belongs to you. So he’s your dog.”
Knowing it would be useless to protest this carefully thought out logic, Moon took another tack. Slyly, he asked: “How’d that pitiful old hound get a name like Sidewinder?” Whoever named a dog owned it.
Bushman, sensing the trap, smiled into his coffee cup. You’ll find out soon enough.
Moon turned to look at Bushman. “This sickly looking dog get bit by a rattlesnake?”
Pete Bushman did not reply.
Sidewinder did.
Too late, Moon heard the thumpety-thump of large paws on the redwood planking. He had just managed to turn his head to see the hound take flight when a yellow blur passed over his chair. An instant later, the animal was at the shady end of the porch. Looking back at him.
“Damn!”
“You shouldn’t cuss in front of Sidewinder,” Bushman advised with an old-maidish air. “He is sensitive to bad language.”
The Ute was on his feet, pointing at the yellow dog. “He grabbed my sandwich!”
The dog did not deny this charge. Neither did he attempt to conceal the evidence. Indeed, the brazen culprit had Moon’s snack firmly under one paw, and was busy pulling at the ham.
“Now he’s eating it,” Moon growled.
Sidewinder growled back.
“Funny thing,” Bushman observed. “That dog’ll eat almost anything. I’ve seen him chow down on shriveled-up watermelon rinds. Rotten cucumbers. Lumps of coal. A plastic banana. I’ve even seen him slurp up old engine oil. But that skinny hound won’t eat that there rye bread. He only likes the white kind.”
“Besides snatching a man’s food from his hand, what’s this chowhound good for?”
“Not much. That’s what he does best.”
“You could’ve warned me.”
“I could’ve.” The grizzled foreman chuckled. “But a hardworkin’ man don’t find much entertainment out here.”
Sidewinder choked down the last morsel of pig flesh. And looked hopefully at Moon.
The Ute scowled at the dog. Then at the foreman. “Why didn’t he go for your sandwich?”
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