Dusk Along the Niobrara

by John D. Nesbitt

  “Well, I liked the song all right, but some of them take it too far, don’t they?”

  Dunbar laughed. “It’s a matter of taste, I think. Something that’s syrupy and sentimental to one person is profound and moving to another. And some people just like misery.”

  “For entertainment.”

  “Or indulgence. Not long ago I heard a song for the first time that was horrendous to me. And here were the others in the tavern, singing right along like believers.”

  “What was it called?”

  “Something like ‘A Picture from Life’s Other Side.’ That was in the refrain. Dreadful song. By comparison, it makes the song about the woman in the snow seem like stoic philosophy.” After a few seconds he said, “Also, it was hard for me to drive the melody away. It was like ‘Green Grow the Lilacs.’ You hear someone sing that song, and you can’t get the tune out of your head for days.”

  “That’s the way it is with this song. I can still hear it.”

  “Now that you mention it, I can, too.”

  I awoke in the gray of morning inside the pyramid-shaped tent that Dunbar and I shared at the work camp. This Sunday being a day off, Dan did not sound the call before daybreak. As I lay in my blankets, I heard the muttering of voices from the direction of the campfire. I imagined Dunbar was out there, too, for he was not in the tent.

  As I stepped out through the flap, I caught the smell of woodsmoke. Dan was mixing pancake batter in a large tin pan, and he had not lit a lantern. The camp had a subdued aura about it, as only three other men sat around the fire, and they kept their voices low.

  I asked Dan if he had seen Dunbar, and he said he hadn’t. I imagined Dunbar must have gotten up early and gone on some kind of an errand. I washed my face at the washbasin and asked Dan if he needed any help. He told me he could use me later, so I poured a cup of coffee and sat by myself near the fire.

  Before long, Dan had hotcakes coming off the two cast-iron skillets. The day was brightening, and men came to the fireside in ones and twos. I had not yet decided what I was going to do for the day, so I kept to my own thoughts and ate pancakes as they came to me.

  The sun rose higher while I washed dishes. Some of the workmen meandered toward town, and in a little while two of them came back with surprised expressions on their faces. They spoke in turns.

  “They found a dead body in the alley behind the mercantile.”

  “It’s that drunk that worked here. Hodel.”

  “The hell,” said Dan. “Do they know how he died?”

  “He’s got no blood on him. Can’t see where he’s been shot or stabbed.”

  “They say he probably sweated too much and then drank too much to make up for it.”

  Dan frowned. “That was Friday when he sweated so much. And he left here with a bellyful of grub.”

  “It’s what they say.”

  “They say a lot of things.” Dan glanced around. “I wonder where Dunbar is. You didn’t see him, did you?”

  “Not at all.”

  For a moment I had a terrible feeling that Dunbar might have something to do with Hodel’s dying, that I didn’t know Dunbar at all. Then I told myself to be rational, not to make any assumptions until I had evidence.

  I said, “I’ll go look for him as soon as I finish with the dishes.”

  Dan rubbed his hands on his apron. “Go ahead. I’ll finish these.”

  “I won’t be long.” I washed and rinsed the rest of the dishes, and Dan wiped them. When we were done, I dried my hands and took off.

  The town didn’t have many places for me to look, and even fewer on Sunday morning. I took a peek at the railroad station, which was locked up and empty. I crossed the street to the Phelps Hotel.

  There I found Dunbar, freshly shaved, sitting across the breakfast table from Mrs. Deville. She looked quite pretty in a white blouse, embroidered brown jacket, and matching skirt. Her dark hair hung loose to her shoulders but was held in place above her forehead with a slender diadem. Her eyes sparkled as she smiled at me.

  Dunbar turned and said, “What, ho, my friend. What brings you here? Have you had breakfast? You know Mrs. Deville, don’t you?”

  I almost felt impatient with him. “Yes, I do,” I said. “And I had breakfast. I’m sorry to interrupt yours, but I came with some bad news.”

  The humor vanished from his face. “What is it?”

  I glanced at Mrs. Deville.

  Dunbar said, “If it’s private—”

  “Not so much, I don’t think. Excuse me if it’s out of place, but they found George Hodel in the alleyway. He’s not alive anymore.”

  “That’s bad.” Dunbar picked up his napkin from his lap, then set it down. “I think I need a couple of minutes.”

  “I’ll wait outside.”

  I left him there and went out to sit on the bench near the front door. A dozen thoughts ran through my mind. The idea of Hodel lying dead did not make sense. At least it did not sink in all at once. I was relieved to know that Dunbar was not connected. His reaction told me that much. Also, his being spruced up helped me understand where he had been. I guessed that he had gone to the hotel early, ordered a bath, and shaved himself while he was at it. In addition to all of this, I had the surprise of seeing that he knew Mrs. Deville. Thinking back, I realized what I had sensed right away when I saw them together—that they knew each other, that they had some level of confidentiality or intimacy. On its own, it seemed harmless, almost a good joke on Boots Larose and any wolves that needed to be kept at bay. In a broader context, the cozy scene jarred with my awareness of the unwashed George Hodel lying dead in the alley.

  Dunbar stepped outside and put on his hat. “Which way?”

  I motioned toward the west. “This way. They said he was in back of the mercantile.”

  We walked along the sidewalk with the morning sun slanting in on our left. I told Dunbar about the prevailing theory that Hodel had sweated too much and then drunk himself to death. Dunbar raised his eyebrows and sniffed.

  We crossed the side street, walked past The Missouri Primrose, and came to the mercantile. The door was locked.

  “We should have gone around to the alley to begin with,” I said.

  We walked back the way we came, arrived at the corner, and turned left. Across the side street, The Bower appeared to be closed, which would be normal on Sunday morning.

  We turned left at the alley. Up ahead, a small group had gathered at the back door of the mercantile. We walked past a stand of hollyhocks blooming dark pink at the top of the stalks, now in late summer. I recalled the song from the night before.

  The back door of the mercantile was open, and a smaller group of people stood inside. We pushed our way through the crowd outside, excusing ourselves. I exchanged a wordless glance with Otto Trent and Carl Granger.

  Inside the storeroom, as some people looked on with curiosity and others had reverent expressions on their faces, George Hodel lay on a table with his arms folded on his chest. He looked as I had seen him last, except his eyes were closed. I told myself again not to jump to conclusions, but I was quite convinced that he had not brought about his own death.

  It’s not fair, I thought.

  “Who’s taking care of him?” Dunbar asked.

  A neatly dressed man whose name I did not remember said, “We brought him in here to get him out of the alley. The barber’s out of town until tomorrow.” The man gave Dunbar a close look. “You’re not related, are you?”

  “We knew him,” said Dunbar. “He worked with us for a day on the corral project.”

  “That’s what they say, that he worked there.”

  “Day before yesterday,” Dunbar continued. “I wonder what he did for twenty-four hours or more.”

  The man raised his eyebrows. “I imagine he spent most of that time drinking up his wages.”

  “He had a dollar. At ten cents a glass, that’s not enough to kill a man.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never tried to drink that much.�
��

  Dunbar cast a glance over the corpse and raised his eyes to the well-dressed man. “And you are—?”

  The man raised his chin. “Matthew Fenster. I’m the proprietor here.”

  Dunbar surprised me by taking a friendly tack. “Well, it’s a decent thing you’re doing for this man.”

  “I don’t know what else I could do.”

  “He’s not able to thank you, so I’ll say it on his behalf.”

  Fenster shrugged.

  For no reason I can explain, except that I felt the need to say it, I said, “Every man has a life. Every person, really.”

  Fenster seemed relieved to be talking to me. “That’s right, son. I think there’s something like that in Corinthians.”

  The sun was climbing toward the high spot as we walked down the alley the way we came. When we arrived at the side street, I saw that the front door of The Bower was open. The head of a broom flicked out and then back into the shadow.

  Dunbar motioned with his hand without pointing. “Now there’s a person who might know something. Shall we drop in?”

  “We’re in no hurry otherwise,” I said.

  Mary Weldon appeared in the doorway as we walked across the street. She waited, broom in hand, until we reached the footpath in front of her establishment. She wore a white apron over a gray dress, and her light brown hair was pinned up.

  “Good morning,” she said. “I don’t think it’s past noon yet.”

  “How do you do?” Dunbar took off his hat, and I did the same.

  “Well enough, considering,” she said. “I suppose you’ve heard the news that’s been running up and down the alley.”

  “We just came from there. Did you know the deceased?”

  The woman did not show any emotion. “Not very much.”

  Dunbar made a slight wave with his hat in my direction. “We did. He worked with us for the better part of a day. We’re working on the shipping pens, you know.”

  “He said he worked there.”

  Dunbar glanced toward the main street. “It’s a bit awkward, standing out here and talking about this sort of thing.”

  “I’m not open for business right now.”

  Dunbar shrugged. “We weren’t expecting to order a dram. Just exchange a few words, if there’s some way we can do right by Mr. Hodel.”

  She relaxed her defenses. Glancing at the main street and then past us toward the alley, she said, “Come on in.”

  She closed the door behind us and led the way into the dark tavern. At the far end of the bar, she lit a lamp and took her position behind the polished surface. The place was quiet, and it gave me a funereal feeling to realize that I might be standing where the late patron downed his drink.

  “Mr. Hodel was talkative,” said Dunbar, in a low voice that sounded both respectful and cautious.

  “That he was.” The woman’s bluish-gray eyes moved from Dunbar to me and back to him.

  “I suppose if he was in here very long, he went on about a few things.”

  “He did. He was in here yesterday afternoon and evening, as well as a couple of hours the afternoon before. He had a capacity for drink.”

  Dunbar nodded. “And he seemed to have some favorite topics, at least in the short while that he visited with us.”

  Mary Weldon’s eyebrows raised half an inch and relaxed.

  “Perhaps he touched upon one or two of them in here.”

  The landlady tipped her head as if to say, “Perhaps,” but she let Dunbar take the lead.

  “He seemed fond of talking about a recent killing, and I don’t know but what he might have come upon that topic in here.”

  “He might have. That first afternoon, there were a couple of other customers in here, and he took interest in their stories.”

  “And I imagine they might have mentioned an incident from several years back, about an old horse trader who was killed.”

  “Oh, yes. That story comes up now and again, and they chewed it over as well.”

  Dunbar drew a breath. “Mr. Hodel seemed to enjoy suggesting that there might have been witnesses to one crime or another.”

  Mary Weldon shook her head. “I don’t remember that. People talk on and on in here, and I don’t interrupt as long as it stays decent. I don’t recall anyone talking about witnesses, but someone may have passed a remark. I don’t know.”

  “I see. Well, there’s no telling.” Dunbar took me in with a glance and returned to the landlady. “I say, it must be past twelve by now.”

  “I believe it is.”

  “What would you think of a glass of refreshment for my young friend and me?”

  She shrugged. “I usually don’t open until a little later on Sunday, but there’s no law against it. Same as before?”

  “It was agreeable last time. And you, Bard?”

  “Fine with me,” I said.

  The woman poured two tall glasses of beer and set them before us.

  Dunbar laid a silver dollar on the counter. “For future indemnity.”

  She glanced at the coin but did not touch it. “You could be a lawyer.”

  “I’m a cowpuncher.” Dunbar put his dark hat on his head and set it back.

  The woman gave a wry smile, and I thought I could feel her womanly presence a little more than when we first came in.

  Dunbar took a sip of beer and set down his glass. “Just as good as before,” he said.

  Mary Weldon nodded.

  “But you know we didn’t come in here just to drink.”

  “I guessed that.”

  “Not to beat around the bush, but Bill Pearson’s widow told me he used to come in here on occasions as well.”

  The lady winced. “If you mean there’s a tendency for men who come in here to end up dead, I’ll have to question it.”

  Dunbar shook his head. “Not at all. I’m interested in Bill Pearson by himself at the moment. He was a customer, wasn’t he?”

  She gave a mild shrug of concession. “He came in from time to time to have a dram, as you call it.”

  “An honest sort, I assume?”

  “I never had a reason to think otherwise.”

  Dunbar touched his glass but did not take a drink. Meeting Mary Weldon’s eyes, he said, “Bill’s wife told us that he might have been worried on account of his having seen a man who had been in the neighborhood when Alex Garrison, the old horse trader, was killed.”

  “He may have been.”

  “Did he ever say anything to that effect when he was in here?” Dunbar took a drink.

  “You mean gab with the other customers?” She shook her head.

  “How about to you?”

  The woman hesitated, as if she was uncertain how to answer. “Bill was an honest man, like you said. But he kept things close. If he ever said anything of that nature to me, it was confidential. In my business, I hear of lot of things both public and private. I don’t repeat things that men confide in me.”

  “Even if it’s for a greater good?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  Dunbar nodded, as if in thought. After a moment he said, “I don’t mean to be too forward. I’m sorry if I seem that way. I’ll put things more clearly for the moment. When George Hodel was holding forth in our work camp about these two killings, he didn’t come out and say that they had any connection. But it could have been taken that way.”

  “Well, I don’t recall him putting things in those terms.”

  “And he wouldn’t be led to make that connection by comments that he heard in here?”

  “Not by anything I said, that’s for certain. And I don’t remember anyone else relating the two in the way that you mean.” She folded her arms across her apron.

  Dunbar took another drink. “It’s too bad.”

  “In what way?”

  “That we can’t know more.”

  “I don’t mean to be contrary, but people get punished for knowing too much.”

  “Or seeming to.”

  She ti
pped her head. “I’ve probably said more than I needed to already.”

  “It’s safe with us,” said Dunbar.

  I felt that our conversation was nearing its end, so I took a full swallow of beer. I did not realize how dry my mouth had become, and the drink set well with me.

  Mary Weldon took a short breath. “You seem to have a great deal of curiosity for a cowpuncher.”

  “I told Mrs. Pearson that if there was something I could do, I would do it.”

  The landlady held her pose with her arms folded. Her face did not show much expression.

  Dunbar finished his beer and set the empty glass on the bar. I took another drink from mine.

  “I’d just as soon you not pay me for today,” said the woman. “You overpaid me last time by quite a bit.”

  I thought she was regarding Dunbar’s money as payment for sharing information, and I rather admired her for it.

  Dunbar smiled. “The future indemnity I spoke of was for beer to take with us. Could we have three bottles?”

  She gave a light frown. “Well, I suppose so. It’s not cold.”

  “I’m sure we’ll enjoy it.”

  “As you wish.” From a lower cabinet in back of the bar she took out three dark bottles. From beneath the bar she took a length of brown paper that looked as if it had been used before, and she wrapped the three bottles as a merchant might wrap groceries for the saddlebags.

  During this time, I finished my beer in two more drinks.

  She handed the package to Dunbar and said, “I would appreciate it if you bring back the bottles.”

  “I will.”

  Outside, I squinted in the glare of the sun. We walked to the main street and turned left, then paused before crossing the street toward the work camp.

  With no one close by, Dunbar said, “This thing that happened to Hodel is no good.”

  “Doesn’t seem like it.”

  “You know, it’s all good and fine to make light talk in our moments of leisure. Chat about maudlin songs, heroic deeds, ancient tragedies, and people falling into glaciers. You can be detached and philosophical, and you know you’ll get back to business later. That’s where we are now.”

  We stepped into the street and headed across. I observed Dunbar cradling the package wrapped in wrinkled brown paper as he gazed off in the distance. I recalled the image of George Hodel lying on the table, and my mind circled back to the question of why Dunbar had ordered three bottles of beer.