Dusk Along the Niobrara

by John D. Nesbitt

  “Thirty cents,” she said.

  Dunbar had a silver dollar ready. He laid it on the bar and moved it toward her. “We might have a second one,” he said. “No hurry with the change.”

  I thought I saw a small wink, and the woman brightened in response.

  “Take your time,” she said. “No need to gulp and run like some of these punchers do.”

  “My friend is in no hurry, and I am even less so.” With his left hand, Dunbar took off his hat with a small flourishing sweep and said, “J.R. Dunbar, ma’am, and at your service.”

  I took off my hat as well. “Bard Montgomery.”

  “You’re quite the pair of gentlemen,” said the landlady. “My name is Mary Weldon.”

  “A pleasure and a privilege,” said Dunbar.

  “Thank you.”

  Dunbar raised his glass, touched it to mine, and drank.

  I took a drink from my glass. The beer was cool, not cold but refreshing all the same. Trying to think of something to say, I offered, “It’s a pleasure to know your establishment. First time we’ve been in here.”

  Mary Weldon spoke. “This is a quiet place. Not much hubbub. But it’s decent, and it’s honest. Of course, I’m not saying that others aren’t.”

  “Of course,” said Dunbar.

  I was lingering on her words, or rather her voice. I thought she sounded somewhat weary, as if she might have been through some trials in her life and was glad to have settled in a place that she could say was decent and honest. I imagined The Bower as her version of coming west to seek a new lease on life, a garden of opportunity.

  In a tone that sounded like routine courtesy, she said, “Do you boys work on a ranch around here?”

  Dunbar tipped his head toward me.

  I said, “We work for Lou Foster, out east and a little north of here.”

  She nodded, and I did not have the impression that she knew of Lou or any of his hired hands. That seemed normal, for not only had I not been in her place before, but I had not heard Bob or George mention it.

  No one spoke for a moment. Dunbar seemed to be taking note of his surroundings. When his attention came to me, I said, “Ask her about the song.”

  He made a light frown, as if he didn’t know what I was referring to.

  “What song?” asked Mary Weldon.

  Illumination showed on Dunbar’s face. “I think he means a song I mentioned the other day. Actually, two different songs, or pieces of them. I heard them when I first came through this country several years ago, and I’ve never heard them since. And with each of them, I heard only a part. One song is about the Niobrara River, which isn’t much of a watercourse here but becomes more of a river as it flows through Nebraska. It occurs to me that the song might have come upstream and thinned out like the river itself, and if I wanted to recover the whole thing, I might have to travel halfway across Nebraska to a place like Valentine.”

  “I don’t know that part of the country.” She gave a faint smile.

  “It’s been a while since I was there.”

  “And the other song?”

  “I heard only a stanza. It was about a fella who wanted his girl to meet him by the churchyard and leave her little sister at home.”

  “Sort of a ditty, then,” she said.

  “Not the kind that sailors sing. As I recall, it had more of a sad note to it.”

  “Oh, there are lots of songs like that. Sad and dreary. Like the one about the miller’s daughter, who waits for years by the millstream for the man to come back, and he never does.”

  “Wonderful sorrow,” said Dunbar.

  “Sing it,” I said.

  “The song about the miller’s daughter? I don’t know the words.”

  “No, the one about the churchyard.”

  “Oh, I don’t—”

  “You can’t say you don’t know it. You sang it the other day. That is, the one stanza.”

  “Sing it,” said Mary.

  Dunbar stared at his glass. “I’ve got to see if it’ll come around.”

  Mary’s eyes were shining. “Oh, come on. Just one stanza. Brighten things up with a little sorrow.”

  “Very well.” Dunbar took a drink of beer, straightened his shoulders, and sang the stanza as before.

  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.

  “Well, that was nice,” said Mary. “Too bad you don’t know the whole thing. I can’t say I’ve heard it before, but I can’t say I haven’t. I’ve heard all sorts of things, from songs with fifty verses to fragments like that one, not to mention pieces of one song mixed with snips of another.”

  Dunbar smiled. “How long have you had this place?”

  “Two years, going on three.” She seemed to reflect for a couple of seconds. “How long ago did you hear that song?”

  “Oh, quite a while. Almost fifteen years.”

  “You must have been a mere lad.”

  Dunbar suppressed a smile. “I could barely reach my chin to the top of the bar.”

  She laughed. “You boys have a lot of stories.” To me she said, “You don’t talk much.”

  “I’m just a mere lad. Still learning.”

  “To talk?”

  “In places like this.”

  She laughed again. “You’re doing well. Men who talk the most in places like this are the ones who make trouble or end up in trouble.”

  Dunbar put his hand over his mouth.

  She said, “You know I don’t mean you. I’m referring to the ones who talk long and loud. There’s no harm in talking, if it’s just regular conversation. That’s what people come in here for.”

  I thought it might have been a good opportunity for Dunbar to bring up the subject of Bill Pearson, but he said nothing.

  Mary spoke again. “I’ll leave you gents to your conversation. I’ve got a couple of things to look after.”

  She reached under the bar and took out a clean white cloth, then turned her back to us and began polishing glasses from the shelf in back. She glanced at the mirror every minute or so.

  Dunbar finished his glass of beer, glanced my way, and made a motion with his head that I interpreted as meaning he was ready to go. I drained my glass and stood up straight.

  Mary turned away from the mirror. “Another?”

  Dunbar rested both hands on the bar. “Not today, thanks.”

  She made a small frown. “There’s nothing wrong, I hope.”

  “Oh, no. We’ve got a long ride, and if I drink too much, I might get woozy.”

  “Just a minute, then.” She reached for the silver dollar.

  “Please keep the change,” he said.

  Her eyebrows went up. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, indeed. And fear not. We’ll be back.”

  “I hope you will.”

  “We’ll look forward to it.” He lifted his hat and made a small nod.

  I touched my hat brim and followed him to the door.

  As we paused outside on the path, the glare of the afternoon made me squint and blink. When my vision cleared, I saw two men riding away on sorrel horses. As they turned onto the main street, I recognized the riders as Boots Larose and Dick Ainsworth.

  “Those two get around,” I said. I recalled the kick from earlier in the day and was glad I didn’t feel any more pain from it.

  “I’d say. I saw two fellas sitting on the bench here, and I thought that was who it was. I couldn’t see much through the border of the window.”

  As we moved toward our horses, I said, “Is that why you didn’t stay for a second glass of beer or ask about Bill Pearson?”

  He caught my eye and gave a brief smile. “It was why I was so shy about singing the song. I knew they’d already heard it.”

  We tightened our cinches, led our horses out, and mounted up. I said, “I thought the lady might have given you stage fright.”
/>   “She’s all right.”

  “Oh, yes. I didn’t mean otherwise.”

  “Nothing wrong with running an alehouse.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “I thought she was very . . . courteous.”

  “Indeed. Maybe a bit sad as well. Like the miller’s daughter in the song, who looks in the stream and sees that her hair is streaked with gray.”

  “I don’t know it.”

  “Just a song.”

  We rode on for a minute until I spoke again. “I thought you might have found her interesting.”

  “The alewife? Oh, I might, if things were different.”

  After another minute, I said, “Do you mean if she was in a different station in life?”

  “No, I meant something else.”

  I realized that I was teasing him in a way that he did not tease me, and for a moment I felt unappreciative. To make amends, I said, “By the way, thanks for the drink.”

  “You’re welcome. Sorry we didn’t stay for two, but those other jaspers took some of the pleasure out of it.” He shook his reins. “There’ll be another time.”

  We rode on, with the only sounds coming from the horse hooves and the saddle leather. The air cooled as shadows stretched out from the lowly sagebrush. I fell into thoughts about Emma, drifted, and came back to the moment. I realized I was hearing a new sound. Dunbar was whistling a song, and I guessed it was the one about the miller’s daughter.

  As we hung our hats on pegs in the bunkhouse and washed up for supper, Dan was clanging around in the kitchen. I could smell fried salt pork, and my appetite quickened. I recalled that we had not eaten anything since our late breakfast.

  Dan set the crockery jar of silverware on the table. “You boys go out tomcattin’, but you make it back in time for the dinner bell. I’d bet Bob and George are still sittin’ in the saloon.”

  “I have no idea,” said Dunbar. “We happened to pass through town, but I didn’t think to check.”

  “No matter.”

  “I did have a chance to visit with Del Bancroft earlier, though.”

  “Well, you fellas git around.”

  “Not like some.”

  “And what does Del have to say?”

  “I asked him about Alex Garrison. He said he didn’t think the man was the type to steal horses or be in cahoots with someone who did. Nor did he squabble with his neighbors.”

  Dan nodded. “You seem to be takin’ interest in that old business.”

  “I mention it because what Del says seems to confirm what you said earlier.”

  “It does.”

  “And I take interest in it because it might have something to do with what happened to Bill Pearson.”

  Dan gave Dunbar an appraising look. “Are you some kind of an investigator?”

  “I’m a cowpuncher.”

  Dan had a noncommittal expression as he said, “That’s good.” After a couple of seconds, he said, “Del Bancroft is all right. If he tells you something, it’s on the square.” Dan cast a glance my way. “I’m sure you’ve had a good recommendation from Bard as well.”

  Dunbar shrugged. “Bard doesn’t say much. Says he’s still learning.”

  “Maybe he is. What did you learn today, Bard?”

  I had to clear my throat and think fast. “One thing I’ve noticed is that Mr. Bancroft doesn’t have any trees planted around his buildings.”

  Dan said, “Could be they don’t grow well there. Or maybe he has to be careful with his water.”

  “This is a nice tree you’re taking care of outside here,” said Dunbar.

  “It’s coming along.” Dan rested his eyes on me. “They say every man should plant at least one tree in his life. They also say it’s a good man who plants a tree when he’s old and doesn’t worry about whether he’ll ever sit in its shade.”

  “That’s a good thought,” said Dunbar.

  “Hell, I’ve known old people who didn’t want to plant a fruit tree because they didn’t think they’d live to eat anything from it.” Dan shook his head. “If I thought apples would grow here, I’d plant a couple of them. Not worry about whether I’d ever get to eat any.”

  Dunbar said, “They grow farther north, but you need the right variety and the right location.”

  “They might put on fruit in town. But I don’t think they would do well out in this windblown, frost-bitten country. I’ve seen apple trees that grow but never produce any apples.”

  I had a fleeting thought of the last place I had visited in town. In my imagination, The Bower was more than an alehouse. It had a garden out back, where people relaxed in the cool shade of fruit trees and grape vines as soft talk and gentle music mixed with the bubbling of a fountain.

  Dunbar and I went outside in the cool evening and sat with our chairs tipped back against the bunkhouse. Bob and George had ridden in at dusk, in time for a late supper. They sat at the table with Lou, who had joined us a little late and was now smoking a cigarette.

  I had the odd sensation, which I had had before, of having heard my name spoken out loud and having thought that it sounded strange. I had known fellows with first names such as Ode, Dade, and Juve, and I wondered if they ever had such a sensation. Then again, I had had the same experience with a plain word such as lunch or book. If I played it over and over in my ear, without reference to anything else, it began to sound strange or foreign. Now as I sat with my chair tipped against the bunkhouse, I couldn’t keep the word that was my own name from running through my head, as if it referred to something unrelated to me. Other words crowded in: card, lard, fard. I was sure I had read the word fard somewhere. And canard. My brain was beginning to whirl, as if I was thinking backwards in circles and was in danger of losing my bearings. I needed to break the spell.

  I set my chair down on all four legs and said, “What about those heroic deeds you mentioned the other day?”

  “Not sure what you might be referring to.”

  “You said those old poets sang about heroic deeds.”

  “Oh, yes. I believe I mentioned great tragedies as well.”

  “Yes, you did. Right now, I’m wondering what kinds of deeds.”

  Dunbar raised his eyebrows. “Regular stuff. Going to battle with sword and spear and shield. Facing the enemy. Or slaying monsters. Dying a noble death.”

  “I see.” I took up the other half of the topic. “How about the tragedies?”

  Dunbar drew in an audible, sniffing breath. “Well, it takes a special kind of story to be a tragedy. It’s got to be more than just dying, like in a shipwreck. People write poems and songs about great misfortunes, but they’re not tragedies in the purer sense unless someone makes a mistake and brings it upon himself. Otherwise, it’s not that different from a caterwaulin’ tale of a cowpuncher dying in a stampede.” Dunbar rubbed his nose. “Then there’s other kinds of catastrophes, like anarchists bombing a building. Nothing heroic about dying that way, and really not much tragedy. More treachery than anything else. And injustice.”

  “Then what makes the tragedy?”

  Dunbar paused, as if organizing his thoughts. “A person coming to grief, partly because of his own error in judgment. And there’s got to be something at stake, something bigger than himself. He can’t just fall into a glacier. But if he’s doing something bigger, like defending his country, and he knows he shouldn’t cross the glacier, but he gets taunted into it—that’s more like it.”

  I was enjoying the line of discussion. “How about dying for a woman?”

  “Could be. Again, the circumstances have to be right. You know, the story has to be shaped right. If he goes into a burning barn, saves her, but dies in the process, maybe he’s heroic, but it’s not tragic.”

  “What happened to Bill Pearson isn’t tragedy, then.”

  “No. It’s injustice.”

  “And Alex Garrison.”

  “Probably the same, but we are yet to know.”

  “I guess I need another example.”

  “Of trage
dy? Well, I don’t have a ready idea about how to convert the fellow in the burning barn into a tragedy, so I’ll go to one of the original stories. An ancient king of Greece wants to find out the truth at any cost, to solve an old murder and do away with a plague on the city. Turns out that without knowing it, he was the guilty one. He had killed his own father, who he thought was a stranger, and had married his mother, not knowing who she was. Total misery for everyone at the end.” Dunbar’s voice had a cheery tone. “Of course, that’s the Greek view. Don’t try to beat prophecies or defy the will of the Gods, and don’t think you’re going to be happy.”

  “Sounds rather gloomy to me.”

  “Oh, it is. In a wonderful way. But it seems as if I’m being a bad influence on you again. Much better to muse about good horses and pretty girls, eh?”

  “I imagine, but don’t you think we’re supposed to know about the dark and terrible things, not take the easy way?”

  “Oh, yes, all that, and suffer, too.”

  He sounded so pleased at voicing these ideas that I couldn’t help feeling uplifted as well. At the same time, in the back of my mind, I couldn’t forget about Boots Larose kicking my stirrup. If he had done no more than that, I might have thought of it as an act of petty jealousy and bullying. But when I put it together with his keeping company with Dick Ainsworth and the two of them spying on us later on, I wondered if there was more to be known. As Dunbar would say, it was not tragedy, but it might be treachery.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lou Foster leaned on his crutch and smoked a cigarette while Dunbar and I took turns grinding the coffee and double-bagging it.

  “No sense haulin’ beans and flour and salt and sugar into town when you can buy it there,” he said. “But once you start working on the corrals, you might not have time to grind coffee.”

  “Twenty men to cook for,” said Dan. “That’s as much as a roundup crew.”

  “We’ve got only so much time. Or I should say, all of you do. The good thing is that your work camp stays in one place, and you don’t have to pick up and move every day or two.”