A Good Man

by Guy Vanderhaeghe

  And then one day Dunne hears of an exception, a dumb Swede by name of Holstrom.

  “Oh,” says Dunne, “but foreigners is unpredictable.”

  The pimply clerk gives a hoot and says, “Well, he wasn’t no ways unpredictable in the past. He’s given us his custom for two years now and there was a time I wished he’d take it elsewhere. He’d come in every Saturday – and mind you now, he only knows about ten words of English – and he’d point to the shelves and a fellow never knew exactly what he wanted, or how much of it, and you’d reach for a article and he’d shake his head, and point again like a monkey. All the pulling down and putting back, it was more effort than it was worth. Because what he bought, it was all, you know, cheap goods, the very cheapest. Then one day about six, seven months ago he comes in with a list written out in English, and there was items on it he’d never bought before, and his order was about double the quantity, and the quality was pricier. So now he just hands me his order, goes off to the saloon while I fill it. When he’s got a skin full of whiskey he collects his goods, pays cash on the barrelhead, and rides off. And all I got to say, whoever’s drawing up that grocery list for Holstrom is making my life a good deal easier.”

  “Well, that’s a mercy,” says Dunne.

  He resumes prowling the saloons, following a new angle. He’s after Gobbler Johnson’s origins. Dunne has assumed Johnson was an English name, but it could be something else, maybe one of those pickled-herring-eater names. So thoroughness being a point of pride with him, he goes right back at it.

  One night he strikes up a conversation with a man called Tinker who knows Johnson well enough to be able to tell him something about his background. “Now,” says Tinker, ȌGobbler speaks American just as good as you or me, but his mother and father was some variety of Scandihoovian born in the old country, and he can talk that singsong lickety-split. I heard him do it once. Lord, how I laughed.”

  Finally, Dunne understands why nobody has talked. It’s because Holstrom can’t share his secret with anyone, at least in any lingo that can be comprehended by anyone but a hammerhead Swede. And the rest makes sense too; it’s only natural that one Scandihoovian would stick to another like shit to a wool blanket. After that, all that is necessary to do is wait for Saturday to roll round, dawdle about the general store until Holstrom places his order, and then follow the man after he collects his supplies.

  Where Holstrom leads him is to a small, secluded cabin back in the hills. From behind a screen of trees, Dunne watches Gobbler Johnson walk out of his cabin and greet his friend. The two men unpack the mule and carry the groceries into the cabin. He has to wait two hours to learn the last thing he needs to know. When Holstrom finally rides off, it is clear that the two men aren’t sharing the cabin. Back in Helena, Dunne congratulates himself with the best supper that money can buy.

  A month after Harding’s pergola went up in flames, Gobbler has been found, but haste not only makes waste, it frequently makes a mess. So before he makes a move, Dunne spends a quiet Sabbath pondering every danger that may lurk ahead, every mishap that may be waiting to happen.

  Now he stands in a clump of pines thirty yards from Johnson’s cabin. He hobbled his horse a mile back, judging a stealthy approach by foot would be safest. Smoke trickles from the chimney, a flag signalling a warm, cozy berth, and the sight of it is a torment to Dunne. His toes are stinging in his boots; his cheeks and nose are dead to the touch. Still, this is no time for recklessness. He has carefully surveyed the old fellow’s lair. Gobbler couldn’t have situated his hideout better. The cabin is backed into a steep knoll covered in brush and pine that sweep down the slope to surround it on three sides. Its log front blends into the backdrop of timber, rendering it nearly invisible to the passerby. Of more concern is the small window in the front of the cabin that faces him across a patch of upland meadow naked of any cover except for a stand of bulrushes at the edge of a big slough. This is not favourable ground. Even if he were lucky enough to reach the cabin without Gobbler catching sight of him, he would be left with only two choices. Announce himself or burst through the door. Both are risky. It is impossible to predict Gobbler’s state of mind, how edgy he might be. Dunne prefers to endure the bitter cold rather than a hot blast of shotgun pellets.

  He bends over, blows his dripping nose, flicks snot from his fingers. When he glances up, there is Gobbler out on his doorstep, a skinny old man in a long, flapping coat, a bucket in one hand and an axe in the other. He’s bareheaded, which means he doesn’t intend to tarry outside for long. Dunne watches him start down a well-trodden path towards the slough. He doesn’t stir until his quarry is well on his way and has his back turned to him. Then he draws his Schofield, slogs through thigh-deep snowdrifts until he gains the packed footing of the track that Gobbler has gone down. He’s out on the slough, cutting a hole in the ice. Every blow of the axe rings sharply; it sounds as if he is striking metal, and this helps mask the clicking of Dunne’s hobnailed boots on the ice-slick surface of the trail. The old man stoops to dip hispail in the water, and when he straightens up, Dunne is aiming a pistol in his face. Gobbler’s shoulders jerk like a rabbit in the noose of a snare; his fingers go slack on the bail of the bucket. It drops with a clump. His goitre jiggles on his throat as he blinks furiously, the tip of his tongue running circles round his mouth.

  “Easy now,” says Dunne. “Take hold of yourself. Don’t play up foolish.”

  “What you want, mister?”

  “What I want is for you to pick up that axe – by the head, not the handle – and walk it over to me. Do it slow.”

  Gobbler does as he is told, shuffles towards Dunne, the axe handle wagging. Dunne eases the tool out of his hand. The sudden weight of it dangling in his grip drags an idea down out of his brain. It’s a moment before Gobbler’s whine bores through this thought.

  “I say, do you hear me? If you’re the law, I’ll come peaceable. You can take that pistol off me.”

  “I ain’t the law.”

  Gobbler offers a weak smile. “Well, if you got your mind set on collecting a bounty, there ain’t no bounty on me. Choteau County ain’t offered no reward for capturing Gobbler Johnson, no matter what you might have heared. No sir. Be fair warned, there ain’t no profit in it for you to haul me back to Benton.” He continues to jabber away, attempting to drive home his worthlessness. “Everybody knowed that shot I took at that bastard lawyer, it was fired high and wide. Plain as the nose on your face. I could have killed him dead if I wanted. But bloody assassination ain’t in my nature. Just wanted for him to squirt in his drawers. That’s all. That’s the onliest revenge old Gobbler was after, to squeeze a squirt out of Lawyer Tarr.” He kicks the snow with the toe of his boot, as if trying to scuff some response out of Dunne. Pleadingly, he asks, “That seem a crime merits bounty money, mister? Whoever said such a thing was wrong, mister, you been took.”

  “You best lie down in the snow now.”

  “What?”

  “On your back.”

  “Why I got to lie down? What you mean to do?”

  “I mean for you to do as I tell you. Get on your back, right there.” Dunne shows him the axe. “Don’t make me chop you down.”

  “I ain’t agoing to. Not unless you give me a reason for it.”

  “It’s all the same to me,” Dunne says, holding the axe blade up to Gobbler’s face.

  Slowly, the old man sinks down on his haunches, begins to sob.

  “Fall back, Gobbler. Hush now, hush now,” says Dunne.

  The old man’s shoulders sink in the snow. He holds up his hands as if to grasp at th his bllen, purple clouds overhead, to pull them down to cover himself, to hide himself under them. Dunne’s boot comes down hard on his chest. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” Gobbler cries. “Why you treating me this way?”

  “Won’t be but a moment,” says Dunne, pocketing the Schofield. “Quiet yourself, Gobbler. It ain’t doing you no good.” He rotates the axe in his hands until the blunt side is turned forward
, marks a spot on Johnson’s skinny thigh just above the knee. The blade rises high above his head, slashes down.

  A crack of breaking bone. A shrill scream. Birds fling out of the trees, turn into mad whirring specks. The old prospector grunts his agony as if someone is rhythmically pounding his chest with a fist.

  Dunne picks up the bucket, crosses to the hole in the ice, fills the pail with water, and walks back to Gobbler, who has rolled himself over on his stomach and is dragging himself up the path with his elbows, the broken leg flopping crookedly behind him. When Dunne approaches, Gobbler makes a snatch at his trousers, and Dunne recoils, slopping water on his own boots. He douses him with what remains in the bucket, and the shock of it coils Gobbler up like a worm. Plodding back to the slough, Dunne refills the bucket. When he gets back, Gobbler has gone absolutely still. Dunne locates an artery in his neck. A pulse throbs there. He has only fainted.

  He waters the unconscious man like a garden, soaking every spot he missed in the first drenching. Finished, he looks down glumly at his own soggy boots. In weather like this, wet feet are a danger. Dunne puts down the bucket, picks up the axe, and marches to the cabin, where he finds that a good fire has been laid. He adds a few more sticks, adjusts the damper, takes off his socks and boots, and sets them to dry in the oven.

  He’s hungry. Padding around the cabin in his bare feet, he finds a skillet, a slab of bacon, and a can of Van Camp beans. He slices thick strips of meat into the pan and sets it on the stove. When the bacon is nearly done he adds the beans and gives them a few minutes to come to a bubbling simmer.

  Dunne isn’t sure how long it takes for someone to expire from cold, but he estimates it can’t be any longer than it takes footwear to dry or a man to finish his breakfast. He eats without hurry; the room fills with the smell of hot wool and roasting leather. He finishes the last forkful of beans, pulls on his socks and boots; the warmth of them curls his toes with grateful pleasure.

  Outside, he lops a bough from one of the pines near the cabin and strolls down to where the body lies, trailing the branch along behind him. Much to his surprise, he finds Gobbler has recovered consciousness, is stirring fitfully and mumbling like a man on a fever ward. The sparse hairs of his head are stiffened with ice. Gobbler bestirs himself, tries to creep away, but he’s so far gone, so weak he is only capable of twitching and shuddering. These tics make his frozen clothes crackle faintly as if he were a bed of dry leaves some small animal was walking over.

  Dunne sees it is true: a man can turn blue from cold. It is an interesting phenomenon. Gobbler’s lips look as if he has been gulping ink. And those lips are moving, his teeth snapping out a harsh, scolding chatter. It takes a moment for Dunne to realize that the old man is actually trying to say something.

  “How’s that?” prompts Dunne. “What you want?” He watches the old man make a great effort of will. “What are you?” he demands. “What are you?” His eyes are shrinking in their sockets. Maybe freezing isn’t a peaceful death, akin to falling into a dreamless sleep. People have got that wrong.

  Dunne squats down beside him. Gobbler’s question doesn’t make much sense to him, but he gives it thoughtful consideration before trying to answer it. “What am I?” says Dunne. “Well, I guess I’d say my profession is anticipating. That’s my stock and trade. I look out for those who can’t spot danger ahead. Most people can’t put themselves in another man’s feelings, but I can. So I asked myself, if you was treated like Gobbler Johnson was treated by Lawyer Tarr and Harding, what would you do? No question I know what I’d do. I’d visit doom on them. I’d have their guts for gaiters. If God Himself stepped between us He couldn’t turn me from my purpose. It’s only human nature to brood on a wrong – a wrong festers and fills you up with poison. It don’t let go. It don’t give a man no rest, and sooner or later he’s got to lance it, or die of the poison growing in him. And I give you credit where credit is due, Gobbler. You give them fair warning, sent that letter to Lawyer Tarr and burned down that piddling piece of Harding’s property to remind them they weren’t safe. You give them a chance to make amends. But that sort of people don’t pay no mind to the right and wrong of things.”

  Dunne pauses, overcome with a queer feeling. He’s crossed a line. It’s happened to him once or twice before, confusing what really happened with what he was sure would happen. It was you, he reminds himself. And in a flash, he sees himself looking down at Michael Dunne cutting the words out of the Fort Benton Record, out of the books he stole from the school to write a warning to Tarr. It’s difficult work for Michael Dunne’s big hands, setting those tiny words down on the page like a typesetter, manipulating them into place and gumming them down. Such a delicate, finicky job that he can see how the effort of it worriedly hunches up his shoulders.

  And then he is high above Harding’s backyard, seeing Michael Dunne tramping through the snow to the gazebo, watching him laying the tinder and newspaper, watching the match bloom in the darkness, the fire swarming to announce to Harding that he isn’t safe either.

  11 5225 25113231524255 1243353542. 11 121112 1113.

  I am Michael Dunne. I did it.

  “Now you might say,” he whispers to Gobbler, “that you didn’t intend Tarr no harm, that you only wanted to throw a fright into him by shooting into his office. But I don’t believe that’s the truth. You were meaning to kill him dead as Joe Cunt’s dog, but you lost your nerve at the last second. But that don’t mean that was the end of it, because losing your courage only made you brood all the harder. Ain’t that so? Eating away at you until sooner or later you’d have had to come back at Tarr and Harding. Human nature has got to be satisfied. And you see, it was up to me to show those two they was in peril. I anticipated sooner or later you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from taking a crack at them. That’s my gift, reading people. Now I ain’t got much gratitude for it, very little thanks. So I settle for second best – I take money for it. Nobody never gave Michael Dunne nothing; I got to look out for myself. Otherwise, what’d I be?”

  His legs are cramping. He stands to stretch them and when he does, he realizes the solemn quiet that blankets Johnson, a quiet he was deaf to because he has been listening so hard to himself explaining what kind of man he is. Giving Gobbler a nudge with his foot, he feels the weight that accumulates in a lifeless body.

  There is nothing to do but tidy up. Dunne takes the pail and the axe and flings them out on the slough, near the hole in the ice. With the spruce bough, he sweeps away any traces of his own footprints near the body. When he starts back up the trail, a thought comes to him. There must be money, nuggets, or gold dust in Gobbler’s shack. How else did he pay for his supplies? But then Dunne reminds himself to anticipate. Today is Monday. Holstrom will be back sometime this week to collect Johnson’s grocery list. He will find him, assume his friend slipped on the ice, broke his leg, fell into the water, but managed to haul himself this far before he died of exposure. But Holstrom surely knows something about whatever Johnson used to buy his supplies. If it goes missing, Holstrom will wonder who took it. He’ll start speculating. No, this is not the time to be greedy. Leave well enough alone.

  Dunne returns to his task, carefully obliterating the footprints he left in the drifts. On the other side of the thicket where he had hidden, he does the same, working his way back in the direction of his horse. It’s painstaking work, but he takes satisfaction in the care and attention required to erase his presence. Dunne is so intent on his job that when the first flakes of snow flutter down, he looks up in surprise. Above him hovers the dark cloud that Gobbler did his best to clutch. Greenish blue and purple as a bruise, it is leaking snow, faster and faster.

  Dunne tosses the branch aside; it is no longer required, the snow will cover all signs he was ever here.

  He lumbers through the white downfall, thinking of the future. He will need to remain in Helena for a little longer. It will be hard, but it must be done. For the sake of her reputation, he cannot tempt himself by being near
to her. She will understand why he can’t come to her just yet. Mrs. Tarr knows what is proper and what is not. She is the most understanding and knowing woman God ever made.

  SEVENTEEN

  A DREARY END TO F

  ebruary and an equally dismal beginning to March, and Case and McMullen find themselves still penned up in the ranch house most evenings, keeping constant company, and getting on each other’s nerves. With every passing day, Case finds Joe’s habits growing more and more irksome: clipping his moustache over the washbasin and leaving his whiskers in it, stubbing cigars on his dinner plate, and striking up conversations just as they are readying to turn in for the night. There’s no escaping him then, the two of them cheek by jowl in the tiny bedroom, no more than a few feet separating their bunks, the small space brilliantly lit by the lantern on the washstand. Case sits on the edge of his bed yanking off his boots; Joe, naked from the waist up, faces him, his shirt balled up in his hands, wearing a look of rumination, always a warning sign.

  “You know that beeve you and me butchered yesterday?”

  “I am aware of it,” Case says shortly.

  “I was thinking, maybe tomorrow evening we might get ourselves spruced up and take a parcel of that meat to Mrs. Tarr.”

  “No.”

  Joe’s eyebrows arch. “A schoolmarm’s salary don’t go far. She’d be glad of it.”

  “I assure you she would not.”

  “I think she would. Anyway, read your Bible. It says there we ought to be charitable to widows. Words to that effect.”

  “Ada Tarr is the kind of widow who will fling charity back in your face. Depend on it. We’re not taking any meat to her.”