by Paul Lederer
‘He gunned down Wes Carroll, Marshal. For no reason at all!’
‘I saw it,’ the porcine Luke Garner chipped in. ‘Everyone here saw it. It was plain murder.’
‘You’re lying!’ the feminine voice said sharply. ‘You two can’t help but lie, can you?’ Cassandra Blythe had removed her yellow straw hat and now she waved it at LaFrance and Garner menacingly. ‘Walt,’ she said to Marshal Bingham, taking the fabric of his shirt in her fingers, ‘the only reason there’s been trouble here is that John has hired on with the Rafter B. Those two will kill anyone who gets in their way! You know that. Yes, Mr LaFrance, I do know that you killed my husband – I can’t prove it, but it’s true! I’m a widow alone in a rough country because of you and Luke Garner.’
‘Now wait a minute,’ LaFrance said roughly. ‘I won’t be accused like this!’
But John Dancer could see that the woman’s words had altered the indifferent mood of the saloon patrons. A scrawny man with pale eyes said from the poker-table, ‘I saw it all, Marshal Bingham. It was … a fair fight. Wes bit off more than he could chew.’
The bartender, forearms crossed on the counter looked up and told the marshal, ‘That’s true, Walt. Wes Carroll challenged the stranger and drew first.’
Bingham slowly lowered his rifle and nodded severely, his eyes fixing on LaFrance and Garner. He said, ‘You two think you have a lot of leverage in this county, but you haven’t near as much as you think. Here’s another point to ponder – there’ll be a grand jury looking into the death of Aaron Blythe. You’re on notice.’
Then, with Cassie still loosely attached to his arm, Bingham spun on his boot heel and walked toward the exit. Dancer was scowling as he slid his Colt from the counter and holstered it. LaFrance offered him a bit of unwanted advice:
‘You’re making a mistake, tall man. You’ve walked into trouble you don’t understand.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ Dancer said, unable to keep the disdain out of his voice.
The bartender was already calling for a cleanup crew and someone to fetch the undertaker when Dancer pushed out through the batwing doors to peer out at the blinding white light off the desert flats. The lingering beer taste in his throat was like bile. A man had died. For no reason at all. John Dancer had lived a brief but violent life, and he had shot men before. That didn’t mean he had to like it. He wanted to get … away. Just away! If there was any such place as away.
Dancer twitched slightly as the door opened behind him on its rusted springs and the shabbily dressed scarecrow of a man with pale eyes stepped out onto the awning-shaded porch. Dancer recognized him from the poker-party and said:
‘Thanks for speaking up in there.’
‘No thanks necessary. My name’s Calvin Hardwick,’ the man said, proffering a scrawny hand.
‘John,’ Dancer replied.
‘I had the idea that you were new to the territory and you had found a job. …’ the narrow man said tentatively.
‘I am. And I think I have one at the Rafter B,’ John answered.
‘Well, sir,’ Calvin said, removing his hat to wipe back his stringy gray hair, ‘I had heard that the Pinetree ranch was hiring for round-up, and so I wandered up this way out of Arizona.’ He laughed drily. ‘It doesn’t seem now that I stand a chance in hell of getting hired over there. I was wondering,’ he continued slowly, ‘if you could maybe put in a word for me at the Rafter B. I dearly need work of some kind.’
‘I don’t run the place,’ Dancer had to tell him. ‘The line bosses are Charley Spikes and Jared Fine … and of course the owner. You just saw her,’ he said, nodding toward the bank building where Cassie and the marshal had gone. ‘I don’t know if they’ll be needing anyone or not. I just arrived yesterday myself ‘
‘But if they do …’ Calvin Hardwick asked hopefully. ‘You’ll put in a word for me, won’t you?’
Dancer said, ‘I’m not sure my word counts for much, Calvin – but sure, I’ll ask the boss.’
The day was so bright it seemed to have gone white. To worsen matters a hot wind had begun to rise in the west, picking up sand and light debris, strewing it across the streets of Potrero. Dancer glanced grimly at the skies; he had seen full-blown sandstorms down on the Texas plains, some so intense that cattle and horses alike smothered. There was a reason for all knowledgeable cowhands wearing bandannas.
The temperature was up into three figures and it was only noon. Pasting himself to the ribbon of shade beneath an awning, Dancer waited for Cassie to reappear from the bank. When she did emerge she seemed no happier or reassured than when she had entered. Behind her Marshal Bingham stood, rifle still in his hands. He touched the brim of his hat to Cassie and said a few indistinguishable words before he sauntered away, giving Dancer the heavy eye.
‘Everything all right?’ John asked as he escorted the young lady back to her surrey through the fitful sandstorm.
‘Oh, the banker says it is,’ Cassie said with weariness, ‘but one worries. There may be complications.’ She offered no more explanation, and Dancer figured it was not his business to inquire further.
Helping her up onto the seat of the surrey, Dancer noticed Calvin Hardwick standing by, his face mournful and as hopeful as a stray hound. ‘Who is that?’ asked Cassie, who had also seen the scarecrow man.
‘Just a man needing work,’ Dancer said, swinging up into Washoe’s saddle.
‘We have no money to take anyone on,’ Cassie answered. ‘Not until – unless – we can drive the herd to Carson City.’
‘I think he’d be pleased to take only room and board, Cassie. He has nowhere to go. And,’ Dancer told her, ‘he was the first one to speak up and get me out of trouble with the law back there.’
Cassie was exhausted; that was obvious. The day was hot; the wind was fitful and swirling, tipping and folding the brim of her yellow straw hat. ‘I already have Foley on as yard help,’ she said with weariness. ‘I can’t see this man as being much range help.’
Dancer considered this. The lady was correct, of course, but Calvin Hardwick had saved him from – at the least – being locked up on this stormy morning. At last he offered:
‘Would you consider taking him on at half-pay, Cassie? The other half to come out of my wages?’
‘You know him that well?’ she asked with sharp interest. Dancer shook his head uncertainly.
‘No. Not at all, but I owe him.’
Cassie hesitated before answering. ‘All right, then, John. On those terms … but let’s get home before the dust storm blows us away!’ She clamped her hand down on her yellow hat, slapped the red roan with the reins and started off toward the Rafter B’s home ranch. Dancer hesitated a moment, grinned and gestured to the sad-eyed Calvin Hardwick.
‘Let’s go, Cal!’ he called. ‘Time to hit the trail.’ With some reluctance, Calvin Hardwick stepped into the saddle of his bay horse and turned its head to follow Dancer out of Potrero. Behind them the doors of the saloon had swung open as the two men in town suits emerged to watch the slow procession. There were no smiles on the faces of LaFrance and Luke Garner.
Dancer gave them little more thought. His main task still was to protect Cassie from any danger along the trail. He briefly told Hardwick what he wanted and sent the somber rider out to watch their left while he rode to the right, still within speaking distance of the widow. After a few miles it became apparent that Cassandra did not feel the urge for conversation that she had shown earlier. Her thoughts were deeply concealed. Dancer could imagine what they must have been, however. What if the Pinetree riders struck at her herd, or worse, at her house? How would she manage the Rafter B with her husband now gone? And, as many a person before her, as she studied the long white land – was any of it really worth it on range that was likely to dry up and blow away? For the Nevada desert was a monument to lost ambitions and broken dreams.
There were three men in the yard when they eventually reached Rafter B. Two of them Dancer did not know. They were both yo
ung hands, of the narrow-built sort common on the range. The third was Jared Fine. The big-shouldered foreman’s eyes watched their approach with dark interest. The two younger cowboys glanced up briefly and then got back to their work, which was exchanging new mounts for their work-weary cowponies.
Calvin Hardwick held back, sitting his bay horse uneasily as Jared Fine crossed the yard to help Cassie down from the surrey. John Dancer swung down from Washoe to join them. He heard Jared ask: ‘How did it go?’
‘Everything seems to be all right,’ the young blonde lady said, dabbing at her brow with her lace-edged handkerchief. ‘I think it. …’
Dancer could read the concern in her eyes now. Jared glanced at him as if he were a minor annoyance. ‘Go on,’ the ranch foreman prodded.
‘There might have to be a title search done,’ Cassie said, spreading her arms in a motion of frustration.
‘Title search!’ Jared’s face darkened, suffused with angry blood. ‘The banker told you that?’
‘There seems to be some doubt about the water rights, Jared.’ She gestured widely, ‘About Aaron’s claim to all of this land.’
‘That’s crazy,’ Jared Fine said coldly. ‘I’ll go talk to the banker. I was here when Aaron staked out his land, filed claim to every inch of this territory from here to the Parnassus Hills. I was here, Cassie! It was all done legal and proper. Aaron was no fool.’
‘I know he wasn’t,’ Cassie said. ‘I know he wasn’t, Jared.’
‘Then how in hell…!’
‘There’s a conflicting claim.’ Cassie now carefully unpinned her yellow straw hat and let the dry wind shift her pale hair across her forehead. She looked exhausted. ‘Some mix-up with the titles. I don’t know,’ she sighed heavily, ‘we may have to go to the capital and hire lawyers to set things right. I can’t afford that now. Not until we have gathered the herd and driven them to Carson City and sold them … if they are our cattle, if this is our water!’ she said. Her voice was strong, but it quavered.
‘Conflicting claim?’ Jared Fine repeated. The big man’s eyes were as angry as Dancer had seen them, yet his voice was now under control. ‘Someone else filed on this land in those days? Someone who may have a legal right to it? Is that what you mean, Cassie? Who?’
‘It can’t be that hard to guess,’ Cassandra Blythe said with cool precision. ‘LaFrance and Garner, of course. And it seems their filing might precede Aaron’s.’
With that she had had enough of the conversation, her worries, and the long hot trail. Without another word she walked away toward the relative coolness of the house, her hat held loosely at her side, her eyes distant. Jared turned to glare at Dancer and for a moment John thought the Rafter B foreman was going to wade into him in lieu of a better target for his anger. Instead, Jared only said:
‘John, I’m getting more and more happy that we hired you on.’ Dancer didn’t immediately grasp the meaning of the words, so he only nodded his response. ‘Who’s that?’ Jared asked, indicating Calvin Hardwick who still hung back, sitting his weary bay horse.
‘He’s with me,’ Dancer answered. ‘Mrs Blythe said she could find work for him.’
‘All right.’ Jared studied the scrawny man dubiously; again Dancer expected the burly foreman to find fault, but he did not. Obviously his thoughts were elsewhere. ‘Get him to work putting the horse and carriage away and tell Foley we’ve a new yard man to help him out. You, John, see that your horse is well rested, well fed this evening. Tomorrow,’ he added, peering across the river toward the white land beyond, ‘I want you ready to ride out with me. I’ll show you the lie of the land and introduce you to the line crews.’
Evening fell early, the dusk purpling the long empty land. Along the river frogs began to chorus and cicadas added their counterpoint. A long-legged cowboy called Dent had ridden in in time to share their supper, then had fallen immediately into an exhausted sleep. Otherwise the bunkhouse was deserted except for Dancer, Foley and Calvin Hardwick.
At first Foley had displayed resentment toward Calvin, saying he ‘didn’t need no help’ doing what he had been doing perfectly well alone up to that time, but after sundown had darkened the rough bunkhouse’s interior and the men had eaten their fill, drunk coffee and cleaned up the dishes, the two older men had settled down into a companionable game of checkers and told each other tales of the old days of which Dancer had no knowledge. He watched them now hunched over the red-and-black game board, chatting with each other like old friends, talking more than concentrating on their checkers, feeling pleased for their sake that he had made the decision to bring Calvin along.
Pleased for their sake, but oddly feeling more alone than he had for a long while, not deeply depressed, but unhappy. A part of that, he knew, was the forced killing of Wes Carroll. He had never wished to return to that sort a life of violence. He had lived it long enough. But there was more to his sadness than that and it was difficult to accept and understand. He watched the two old-timers at their game, sipping coffee and relating old yarns. They had found companionship, someone to talk to and to understand them and their ways. Dancer had never found even such small comfort. Not on the outlaw trail where no man trusted another, not even those he rolled up next to on the ground at night or shared his poor meals with. Such men did not share tales or histories. Their only plans for the future were to survive the next day without being gunned down. Dancer had escaped from that way of life, but he had not escaped its lonely ways.
He filled his tin cup from the half-gallon blue enamel pot on the stove once more and stepped out onto the front porch. The stars were bright, the desert evening still warm and comforting at this hour before the bitter cold of deep night slipped in. From the far desert he heard a coyote howl, echoed in miniature by the excited yipping of three or four pups. The adversarial barn owl he had seen the night before swooped past on broad wings, its shadow cutting a silhouette against the banks of stars in the clear desert sky, on its way to begin its night hunt for voles, fieldmice or any other small creature foolish enough to be abroad. Somewhere nearby its young awaited their owl-breakfast.
The door to the main house opened soundlessly and a wedge of yellow light spread out across the wooden porch and onto the hard-packed earth of the yard. Dancer reflexively backed deeper into the shadows of the bunkhouse awning.
It was Cassie Blythe.
Her pale hair was unpinned, falling nearly to her waist. She wore a rust-red robe which she held around her throat with one hand. Her eyes were searching the eternity between here and never. Her mouth was firm but not bitterly compressed. Dancer had no idea where her thoughts might be, but he imagined that those sad eyes were searching the night for her lost husband, needing his help and comfort in this lonely desert. He remained as motionless as a statue until, after a few minutes, Cassie returned to the house and quietly shut the door, barring it behind her. Then he re-entered the bunkhouse, and without another word to the two old men, rolled up in his blankets to sleep.
Calvin Hardwick, Foley and the young cowboy, Billy Dent were all up before John Dancer rose from his bunk. They watched him as he wiped the sleep from his eyes, stepped into his jeans and walked along the bunkhouse aisle to join them at the stove where warm cornbread sat and black coffee boiled. Beyond the window the sky was pink with the light of the new dawn. The yard dog barked twice at something and then was silent. In the barn impatient horses whickered for their morning feeding.
‘Heard you got Wes Carroll,’ the young cowboy with the broken nose said as Dancer drew a chair up to the puncheon table.
‘What’s that?’ Dancer asked sleepily. Foley placed a tin plate with four squares of buttered cornbread and a cup of morning coffee in front of Dancer and seated himself again.
‘Wes Carroll,’ the young cowhand repeated eagerly. Dent couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Narrow, blue-eyed, a nose that had gotten itself twisted somehow. His shirtsleeves were rolled up as he rested his forearms on the table, hoping for lurid news. Dancer gave Calvin H
Hardwick the cold eye. The only way anyone could have yet learned of the bar-room fight was through Calvin. Dancer wanted none of his former notoriety reborn. He said quietly:
‘There was some trouble. It got out of hand,’ and then proceed to fill his mouth with hot buttered cornbread, leaving the eager young Dent disappointed.
After eating Dancer planted his hat on his head and made his way toward the stable, squinting into the brilliant sunlight. He found Jared Fine and one of the slender cowboys, a man named Tyrone Terrell, leading their own saddled horses out into the yard.
‘I got some business to take care of, John,’ Fine told him. ‘Get Dent to ride out with you and show you around. He looks like he needs a day off anyway.’
‘All right,’ Dancer agreed. ‘What if we should run across some strays?’
‘Hie them back toward the gathered herd if you can, but John,’ the big foreman warned, ‘make sure whose brand they’re wearing. If they happen to be Snake Eye or Double X steers, it’s all right to drove them along. Champion and Weaver are going along with us on the drive – those are their brands, but for God’s sake, don’t push any Pinetree cattle our way. You’ve seen that brand?’
‘I saw it on a couple of their horses, unless they’re wearing a different trail brand.’
‘No, the rest of us are slapping on a trail brand, but Pinetree will be wearing that five-twig mark.’
Dancer reassured the foreman that he understood him, then stepped aside as Jared and Tyrell swung aboard their horses and trailed out. Dent was just arriving, still munching on a slab of cornbread. Dancer repeated what Jared Fine had told him. The young cowhand nodded.
‘That suits me fine. I feel ready to drop after a week of hard and fast roping.’
Within fifteen minutes they were saddled and mounted themselves, Dent riding a little spotted pony that was quick on its feet, built like a cutting horse. On the porch of the big house Dancer caught a glimpse of Cassandra Blythe wearing a blue dress and white apron, hands on her hips, watching them go.
