by R. R. Irvine
Sorenson stepped back. “How does that feel?”
Traveler clenched his fist. “Better.”
The doctor stepped to the sink to wash his hands. “The Broadbents are one of our original pioneer families. The father, Owen, and his wife, Helen, God rest her, had four children, including Mahlon. His two brothers are good men, but my advice is to keep clear of them for a while.”
“You mentioned your father earlier,” Traveler said. “Was he connected with the hospital?”
“Only as a patient. He wouldn’t be alive today if it weren’t for my mother’s nursing.”
“He sounds like a man to talk to.”
The doctor dried his hands and returned to his desk. “If anybody knows about the war days, it’s my father. Usually, he won’t talk about them, but he’s agreed to see you and your father.”
“How does he know we’re here?”
Sorenson smiled. “When the sheriff called me, I called Ernie. God knows who he called. One thing you can count on, everyone will know you on sight before the day’s over. By the way, my father asked me to invite you to dinner.”
26
THE SMELL of roast lamb was in the air as Traveler and his father got out of the car. Ernie Sorenson’s house was a turn-of-the century bungalow with alfalfa fields on three sides. The veranda, running across the entire front, was cluttered with wicker rocking chairs, a glider-swing, and a nest of TV trays showing rings where sweating glasses had once stood.
Sorenson—gray-haired, sun-wrinkled, somewhere in his seventies—opened the screen door and stepped out on the porch to meet them.
“Welcome,” he said, shaking hands and smiling. “The leg of lamb needs another fifteen minutes, so why don’t we sit here for a while and enjoy the evening.” He spoke with a faint accent.
“Are you German?” Martin asked.
“I never could get it out of my voice,” Sorenson answered, taking the swing for himself, “much as I tried.”
Traveler and Martin settled into rockers.
“Were you a prisoner of war?” Martin said.
“I thought you knew. I was one of the wounded when that guard started shooting.”
Using his legs, he rocked the swing. “It was a stomach wound. They didn’t give me much of a chance, but my nurse knew better. She’s my wife now, Ruth Sorenson. I took her name when we married. Ernst Vogel died in that hospital, I told her, and was reborn as Ernie Sorenson. She’s still nursing, too, out on a midwife call right now.”
He sighed, smiling at his own memory. “After I left this country, I kept studying English and writing her. I kept it up until I was able to return in 1951. I’d have been back sooner, but we were sent to England for a couple of years to help rebuild what our planes had destroyed. By the time I returned, I was twenty-six and Ruth . . . well, she was an old maid by Utah standards. That’s why we were in a hurry to have our son, Parley. He’s named for one of the early Mormon apostles, you know.”
He paused to stare at them. “I assume we’re all Saints here.”
Traveler shook his head.
“You wouldn’t have a cigarette, then, would you?”
“Sorry.”
“Ruth doesn’t mind if I cadge one occasionally as long as I don’t keep them in the house. Thinking about the old days makes me want a smoke. A soldier smokes every chance he gets. Take a break, take a smoke. Survive a battle and light up. The worst part of being captured was running out of smokes. That was 1944 in France for me, and the best thing that ever happened. Of course, I didn’t realize until I went back to Germany in 1947 and saw the devastation. After that, Utah seemed like heaven.”
He took a deep breath and expelled it out as if blowing smoke. “Look out there at the fields and the cottonwoods and the mountains. There’s no place prettier. And this house. It’s been in my wife’s family for four generations. A man like me couldn’t live this well in Germany.”
Sorenson stared west toward the Fishlake Mountains.
“What I wouldn’t give for some Utah Dust. That’s what we called the Bull Durham we got in camp.”
He leaned back, folded his arms, and closed his eyes.
“Where were you when the prisoners died in Cowdery Junction?” Traveler said.
“Still in the hospital, thank God. They told us we wouldn’t be repatriated if we talked about it, though that was obviously a bluff, since none of us knew a damned thing. What I heard, I got secondhand from Ruth.”
His eyes opened; he raised his head and sniffed the air. “I’d say we’ve got five more minutes before that roast starts to burn. Let’s move into the kitchen.”
They followed him through a small living room filled with pine furniture and handmade rag rugs, down a narrow hallway, and into a steamy kitchen where the heavy smell of lamb reminded Traveler of Sunday dinners from his boyhood. The Kelvinator stove was like his mother’s; so was the Hoosier cabinet and pie safe built into the wall. Even the worn linoleum looked familiar.
Sorenson opened the oven door, adding to the room’s heady aroma, and peeked inside. “All I’ve got to do is mash the potatoes.”
Martin and Traveler volunteered to help, but Sorenson seated them in a breakfast nook, already set with paper napkins and silverware, and insisted on serving the meal himself.
After saying grace, he continued to speak between mouthfuls. “I remember my wife saying it was strange about those casualties from Cowdery Junction. They seemed to get better at first, then suddenly they were gone. Word around the hospital was that they’d been poisoned by someone who’d lost loved ones in the war.”
He tilted his head to one side. “I knew the dead men by sight if nothing else. We’d been together in Cowdery Junction before I was loaned out to another farmer.”
“Do you remember their names?” Traveler said.
Sorenson shook his head.
“What about Karl Falke?”
“Sorry.”
Traveler held out the prisoner of war photo that had been taken when Falke was first processed at Fort Douglas.
“Yes. He was with me for a while. I always thought he was one of the six who died.”
“Not according to Major Stiles,” Traveler said.
“Him, I remember. He walked around like a ramrod. We all thought he’d have made a good Prussian.”
“Can you tell us anything about Falke?” Martin asked.
“Not really. We weren’t tentmates or anything like that. Like I said, I thought he was among the dead who’d been working at the old Broadbent farm.”
27
IT WAS dark by the time Traveler and his father drove away from the Sorenson house. Martin was behind the wheel, heading south on the Cowdery Junction turnoff, when flashing red lights appeared behind them.
Traveler twisted around in the passenger’s seat, prompting a twinge from his shoulder. “He’s got his high beams on, but I think it’s the sheriff.”
Martin pulled onto the gravel shoulder and left the motor running. Traveler opened the glove box but didn’t take out the .45.
The cruiser parked behind them. Its headlights went off, but its flasher kept turning. Sheriff Woodruff approached on the passenger’s side and slipped into the back seat when Traveler unlocked the door.
“Too bad you didn’t get the chance to meet Ernie Sorenson’s wife,” the sheriff said. “She delivered the Hickman’s a baby boy an hour ago.”
Moving gingerly, Traveler closed the glove box.
The sheriff grunted. “I thought I ought to warn you that Cowdery Junction isn’t big enough to have its own sheriff. When the need arises, they call me in. By then, of course, it’s usually too late except for cleaning up the mess.”
“Don’t worry about us,” Martin said.
“The Broadbents are a big family. They own one of the biggest farms in this part of the state.” Woodruff grabbed the back of the front seat and pulled himself forward until Traveler could smell his peppermint breath. “I don’t figure the two Broadbent boys would have muc
h of a chance against a man like you. They’re young enough yet, late-life arrivals but just farm boys when it comes right down to it. Then again, there’s the daughter, Laverla, to reckon with. If it comes to a fight, her husband will side with Hubert and Lowell.”
“What do you want from us?” Traveler said.
“Word about you two has already reached Cowdery Junction by now. Nobody’s going to put you up for the night.”
“It won’t be the first time we’ve slept in the Jeep,” Martin said. “We’ve got sleeping bags in the back.”
“I’ve already called ahead and gotten you a room at the Cowdery Cottages.” He opened the back door and stepped out, only to lean his head back inside the car immediately. “You keep that forty-five locked in the glove box. Otherwise, you’ll answer to me.”
******
Ten minutes later, the Jeep’s headlights picked out Cowdery Junction’s city-limit sign, population 1,445. A hundred yards beyond the marker, the narrow two-lane asphalt was blocked by a pair of pickup trucks, heavy-duty American models with oversize tires.
“Christ,” Martin said. “I’m willing to bet you that sheriff knew about this all along.”
The Jeep stopped fifty feet short of the trucks, close enough to see the gun racks in their rear windows. A pump shotgun leaned against the front bumper of each one.
The two men standing next to the shotguns were wearing jeans, flannel shirts, and cowboy boots. They looked to be in their thirties and as heavy-duty as their trucks.
Martin banged his palm against the steering wheel. “Do we get out or make a run for it?”
“There’s a ditch on either side of the road.”
“I could back up?”
“They’d already be shooting if they meant to kill us,” Traveler said. “You cover me from here while I get out and see what they want.”
“At least you’re faster on your feet than I am.”
Traveler handed over the .45. “And you’re a better shot.”
“I’m getting too old for this.” Martin cocked the pistol.
Traveler took a deep breath and eased out of the Cherokee, holding his hands well away from his body.
“Are you Moroni Traveler?” one of the men shouted.
Nodding, Traveler took a couple of steps toward the right-hand ditch.
“They said you were a big bastard and that we couldn’t miss you.”
“I take it you’re Hubert and Lowell Broadbent?”
The brothers exchanged quick confirming glances.
“Are we going to keep yelling?” Traveler asked.
“Start walking. We’ll meet you halfway.”
Traveler didn’t move until he was certain they weren’t bringing along their shotguns. By the time they met in the middle of the narrow road, all three were squinting against opposing headlights.
“I’m Hubert,” the taller man said. He was several inches shorter than Traveler, five-ten at the most.
Lowell was five-eight and heavier, about 175.
“The police tell us Mahlon’s death wasn’t your fault,” Hubert went on.
“I didn’t know him,” Traveler said.
“Then why would he try to run you down?”
“You tell me.”
Lowell shook his head. “Dad damn near collapsed when he got the news.”
“Dad says he’s never heard of you,” Hubert said. “Neither have we.”
“Maybe your brother was after someone else,” Traveler said, not believing it.
“Mahlon didn’t have any enemies,” Lowell said. “None worth killing anyway.”
“And you?” Traveler asked.
“We just wanted to get a look at you.”
“So we’ll recognize you next time,” Hubert added.
“You didn’t have to come armed for that.”
“Our friends told us you didn’t look like a man who’d listen otherwise. Seeing you, I don’t understand Mahlon. He wasn’t one to take chances. He never did anything without thinking it through.”
Lowell nodded. “Our father’s in Salt Lake right now making the funeral arrangements himself, so he can ride home with Mahlon. He’s a frail old man. If anything happens to him because of this, we intend to hold you responsible.”
“We’re looking for a German prisoner who disappeared at the end of World War Two,” Traveler said. “It had nothing to do with you.”
Behind him, Traveler heard the Jeep’s door open. He risked a glance. Martin was standing on the asphalt, his hands empty. The .45 was probably tucked against the small of his back.
“You don’t look like father and son,” Hubert said.
“I shrank with age,” Martin called out to him.
Hubert started to smile then caught himself. He looked at his brother, who nodded. They both began backing up. When they reached their trucks, Lowell said, “Is it okay if we get our shotguns?”
“Just be careful,” Martin said. “We don’t want any more accidents.”
One at a time, they picked up the guns by the barrel and gingerly stowed them inside their trucks before driving away.
Martin drew the .45 when they were out of sight. “They could have gotten themselves killed, or us.”
“They’re all bluff.”
“Sure. Just like their big brother.”
28
SALINA ROAD turned into Main Street as soon as it reached town. The Cowdery Cottages were a block east, on the corner of Brigham Street and Box Elder Avenue. The motel itself, a line of four stucco cubes, was half hidden behind a combination office and Flying A gas station now dispensing an independent brand of fuel. The station and cottages appeared to have been built as a unit, in the streamlined styling of 1930 art moderne, with glass-block walls, porthole windows, curved corners, and metal trim.
Traveler and his father were given the first cottage in line, the only one with a porch light. Traveler spent a restless night, listening to his father snore and waiting for the dawn. At first light, he bathed, flushing half a dozen shower spiders down the drain in the process. By the time Martin took his turn in the bathroom, Traveler had picked up a crude map of Cowdery Junction from the motel’s office, explored the immediate neighborhood, and selected the Parowan Cafe for breakfast.
When they reached it, Martin hesitated out front, staring at the street sign and shaking his head. “We’re standing on Broadbent Avenue, for Christ’s sake.”
“Are you hungry or not?”
Shrugging, Martin led the way inside. One of the locals moved over a stool so Traveler and his father could sit together at the counter.
“Our Saturday special is blueberry pancakes,” the waitress said.
The small cafe, now standing room only, smelled of pancakes, coffee, and cigarettes, though no one appeared to be smoking.
“We make our own blueberry syrup,” she added.
“Sold,” Martin said.
The local who’d changed stools said, “You must be the ones the Broadbents are talking about.”
Martin said, “They have to be important people to have a street named after them.”
“There was a time.”
The next local along the counter spoke up. “Old dogs can still bite if you cross them.”
“The farm’s only half the size it was,” the first local put in.
“So is everything else around here.”
The local on the other side of Martin leaned forward far enough to look Traveler in the face. “I hear Mahlon Broadbent got himself killed trying to run someone down in Salt Lake. Would that be you?”
“The man was a stranger to me,” Traveler answered.
“Mahlon was a deep one, that’s for sure, and a hothead. You never did know what he was thinking. His father’s the same way.”
Two platters stacked high with pancakes and whipped butter arrived, along with a pitcher of hot blueberry syrup.
Traveler spread the butter, added syrup, and asked, “Which way to the Broadbent farm?”
Both locals t
urned on their stools. One said, “Just follow Broadbent Avenue south until it takes a turn and runs out.”
******
The main farmhouse, two stories of bleak metamorphic stone, dated from the 1860s, as did its near neighbor, a half-size replica. The larger house had a twentieth-century add-on front porch, with frilly cornices and railings made of lathe-turned spindles.
A hearse was parked in the gravel driveway. Half a dozen cars lined one side of Broadbent Avenue; a deep irrigation ditch ran along the other side, leaving only a single lane for the Jeep.
Martin had only one place to park, behind the hearse. Except for a parcel of fallow land directly across from the two houses, carefully cultivated fields flanked Broadbent Avenue as far as Traveler could see.
“My guess is,” Martin said, expelling a long breath, “the closest mortuary is in Salina, so they’re having a home viewing. We should come back later.”
He was about to back up when a pickup truck parked behind the Jeep. A woman carrying a covered casserole dish got out and waved.
Sighing, Traveler eased his arm out of Doc Sorenson’s sling and opened the car door.
“You go on in,” she called to him. “I have to drop some food off for the widow next door.”
Traveler watched her disappear into the smaller farmhouse.
“Let’s get it over with,” Martin said, starting up the stone walk.
Through the screen door, Traveler counted a dozen people all talking at once. He knocked but no one seemed to hear him. He was about to try again when a small girl appeared behind the screen. She sucked a thumb and stared at them.
“May we come in?” Martin asked her.
She nodded and ran off.
Traveler went first, ducking through the pioneer doorway, and was immediately confronted by a frail-looking man in a loose-fitting black suit.
“I’m Owen Broadbent,” he said. “I don’t have to ask who you are.”
His sons, Lowell and Hubert, were watching from across the room. Traveler glimpsed a coffin standing on draped sawhorses in the next room.
“We’re all family here,” Broadbent said. “My sons and their wives, my daughter and her husband, my grandchildren, and Mahlon’s widow.” He sounded more sad than angry. “We all live on the farm. Mahlon next door, his right as my oldest, my other sons on Ellsworth Road on our southern boundary. The moment you crossed Mantua Creek a ways back, you were on Broadbent land. At this point, even Broadbent Avenue is private property.”
