John D. Nesbitt
Stranger in Thunder Basin
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2009 by John D. Nesbitt
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by AmazonEncore
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13:9781477837146
ISBN-10:1477837140
For Dave McCabe
Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
This title was previously published by Dorchester Publishing; this version has been reproduced from the Dorchester book archive files.
Chapter One
From the beginning there rose a memory ancient as blood.
The long, cold wind had quit blowing, but the sun was still shut out. Under a gray sky, the dunes of snow lay hard packed—domed and smooth on the wind-ward side, ridged and sculpted on the leeward. The boy could walk up on top of a drift and, it seemed to him, stand in the sky. When Pa-Pa stood on the next drift over, he looked taller than ever.
All morning, Pa-Pa dug walkways from the cabin, first to the out house and then to the barn. Pa-Pa worked with a steady motion, carving out snow and tossing it to one side or the other. Orly the dog watched, looked up at Eddie. Pa-Pa was quiet, no sound but the slice of the shovel and the thump of the snow when it landed. At one point on the way to the barn, the passageway was higher than Eddie’s cap.
Pa-Pa worked on. When he cleared the door of the barn, Eddie and the dog followed him inside. The air was as thin and cold as outside. The horses whoofed and snuffled. Pa-Pa gave them grain from a burlap sack, hard pale sliding seeds that he called oats.
Pa-Pa carried the round-headed shovel and the square one. Eddiewalked beside him, and Orly trotted ahead. A big drift lay across the road. Pa-Pa said he was going to have to clear it out before they could go anywhere. He started digging, first with the square shovel and then with the round one. He began on the right and worked across, then went to his right again and cut deeper into the drift, carving out slabs of solid white cake. As loose snow gathered at his feet, he scooped it up and tossed it as well.
Now with his shovel he held a big square piece in front of Eddie’s eyes. It was cleaner than lard, cleaner than the whitest ice cream. Then he tossed it, and it fell apart when it landed.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I throw it all to the right side here.”
Eddie looked at him without saying anything.
“Well, I don’t want the wind to blow it back in. If I throw it to the left and a big wind comes, all the loose and crumbly stuff’ll fill in, and I’ll have to come back tomorrow and do the same thing.”
He stabbed the shovel in the snowbank and took a deep breath, then opened and closed his hands. The creased leather gloves looked like part of him, as did the canvas coat and the sweat-lined hat. Pa-Pa, solid and tall against a gray sky, his weathered face like deer hide, his silvery hair flowing to cover his ears and touch his collar. He took another breath and went back to work.
Eddie rolled in the loose snow, tumbling with Orly and teasing him. Above, the gray sky went everywhere, and Eddie could not tell where the sky ended and the world began. Here below, his coat was a dull black, and his mittens, itchy as the coat, were dark gray. Orly was black and white, but the white was almost yellow compared with the snow.
“Here,” came Pa-Pa’s voice. “Stand up. You’re gettin’ too much snow on you.”
Eddie felt himself being pulled up in the scratchy coat. Pa-Pa took off the stocking cap, shook it out, then pressed it back over Eddie’s ears. With his leather gloves, he brushed the dry snow off the boy’s coat, turning him one way and the other. Eddie felt snow melting on the back of his neck, then a relaxing of the coat.
“I wonder who this is.” Pa-Pa’s hands let go.
Across the top of the snowdrift Eddie could see a man on a horse—a dark, narrow shape against the bleak background. Pa-Pa held the shovel at rest and watched the rider come closer. Sound carried as the horse’s hooves rose from the snow and punched in again.
The stranger came to a stop on the other side of the drift. Both horse and rider loomed dark. Wisps of steam floated from the animal’s nose and mouth. The horse’s body carried a dull color between black and dark brown. A lighter brown showed along the edges of the nose, the forehead, and the ears, while the mane and tail ran to pure black. The rider wore a flat-brimmed, flat-crowned black hat, dull with old dust. He had a narrow face with a long, thin nose; a pair of beady, close-set eyes; and thin lips. The lower part of his face, tapered, lay in shadow like stubble, and a dark neckerchief covered his throat. He wore a scratchy-looking coat the color of a burned-out fire log.
Pa-Pa’s voice came out in the cold air. “What can I do for you?”
The thin lips moved. “I’m lookin’ for Jake Bishop.”
“That’s me.”
The stranger cast his beady glance at Eddie, then back at Pa-Pa. “Need to talk to you. Just you and me.”
“The kid’s no harm.”
“Little pitchers have big ears.”
“I said he’s no harm. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
The stranger came off his horse, slow and stifflike. When he turned around, he had his coat unbuttoned and his gloves in his left hand. “I’ve got a message. Not for the ears of little boys.” With his right hand he touched the hem of his coat.
Pa-Pa turned to look at Eddie. “Here, sonny,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket and bringing out a piece of pale, hard candy. “Take this, and go get me the hatchet I use to split kindling.”
Eddie looked up into his face and saw nothing to understand.
“Here, take it, and go get me the hatchet.”
Eddie put the candy into his mouth, tasting the peppermint as he knew he would.
“Go, now. Take the dog.” Pa-Pa turned him around and gave him a push.
Eddie followed the footprints they had made coming out from the cabin. Even Pa-Pa’s tracks had not sunk in very deep, the snow was so hard. Orly pranced along, leaving no tracks at all. The cabin was getting closer.
A loud, cracking sound came from behind and made him jump. It was a gunshot, just like Pa-Pa made.
Orly had broken into a run and now stopped to turn around. Eddie was frozen, half pivoting, not sure whether to run to the cabin or look back. Everything was quiet now. He knew it had been the sound of a gun, but Pa-Pa wasn’t wearing his, not when he worked with a shovel.
Eddie turned. The dark stranger was climbing onto his horse, then reining it around and riding away with flecks of snow kicking up. Where was Pa-Pa?
Eddie ran forward until the bottom of the snow-drift came into view. Then he saw Pa-Pa lying where he had shoveled out the snow. Eddie stopped. His heart was beating stronger than he had eve
r known, and a cold, prickly feeling ran through his scalp, face, neck, and shoulders.
He walked forward. He had a strange sensation, one he had never felt before. Something big had happened, like a crack in the sky or the edge of the earth falling off. But the sky was still there, gray stretching out forever, and so was the earth, white in every direction and a dark speck in the distance.
Closer now, he saw Pa-Pa lying in the snow where he had dug and trampled. The dun-colored hat had fallen a few feet away, and his full head of silvery hair lay still against the white snow. His eyes were closed, and his weathered face had relaxed. His right hand lay across his chest, while his left, also gloved, seemed to reach for the shovel that had fallen beside him.
All the world was still, and Pa-Pa stillest of all. Then Eddie saw a stain of red seeping through the canvas coat where it touched the snow and stained the crystals. He felt tears come to his eyes as his throat swelled.
He tried to swallow, and he realized the candy was still in his mouth. He took a deep breath and tried to hold himself from getting dizzy. Then he let go, and the tears fell. With the dog at his side, also silent, Eddie looked at this person who was so familiar to him. He knew Pa-Pa would not finish digging out the snow, or have to come back tomorrow, or ever speak, or build a fire, or saddle a horse again. Nothing would be the same.
Eddie looked off into the cold distance. The speck had disappeared, but the boy knew it had all happened for real. A man had come and done this, a man who looked like a coiled black bullwhip. Eddie thought hard and brought up a picture of the man as he stepped down from his horse and turned around. The face came to him now—a shadowy face with close-set eyes, a thin nose and lips, and a narrow chin. He would know that face if he ever saw it again.
Chapter Two
Ed felt the heat of the glowing coals as he stepped toward the forge. He could feel it through the leather gauntlets and apron, but he knew the real heat, dry and searing, when it spread across his face. Wincing, he stuck the tongs into the red-orange center, plucked out the strap of metal, and took it to the anvil. With his hand sledge he pounded and pounded until the metal looked flat. Still holding the tongs, he lifted the piece and turned it, sighted along the edge, and thought it looked all right except for a small lift at the end. He turned the piece over, set it on the anvil, and pounded it again. Then he stepped back, leaving it to cool on its own.
Metal was always coming in bent and needed to be straightened. Strap hinges like this one, wagon braces, rods, pry bars, channel iron, angle iron, flat iron. Emerson kept the lighter work for himself—branding irons, fireplace pokers, roasting spits, grill-work. It seemed as if he didn’t want Ed to know how to do anything but the most common work. When he turned out something like a poker or a meat hook, he gave it to Ed to put a point on it. Ed would take his place at the grindstone, work the treadle, and watch the sparks fly.
All winter long, whenever the day-to-day jobs were caught up, Ed sharpened blades from mowing machines and threshers. In winter the door was closed, holding in the smell of hot, smoky metal along with the warmth. Even with the door closed, the thump of the treadle and the screech of iron on coarse stone did not shut out the stamp and boom of the steam-powered rock crusher two blocks down, which ran twelve hours a day, six days out of seven.
Now the door was open. The sun was moving back north, and most of the snow had melted. Ed could look out through the doorway and see some of the life of the town, such as it was. Today he kept an eye out, wondering if he would see the girl again, but he did not stray from his work. He went back to the forge, pumped the bellows, and stuck in the second hinge.
When time for noon dinner came, Emerson hit the triangle. It was something he took pleasure in, not only to let the help know they had permission to stop and eat but to bring out a heavy ringing sound from a piece of equipment he was proud of. It was a large, thick triangle, a foot long on each side, made from an old crowbar. It hung on a chain from a rafter. Whenever someone new came into the shop and remarked about it, Emerson liked to tell its story. A man who had worked for him several years back had traveled through the hard-rock mining country in the high Sierra, in California. He had seen a triangle like this at the mouth of a mine, and one day when he came across a crowbar long enough, he made a triangle just like it. He left it as a gift to Emerson. Whenever Ed looked at it, he was impressed by the neatness of the work, the evenness of the angles, and he wondered at the heat and force it would take to bend that bar until the flanged tip came around to rest within an inch of the crook. There seemed to be mystery to it as well, with the claw of the crook pointing like an ancient symbol into the empty space of the triangle.
He took dinner at the boarding house as always, eating yesterday’s bread and today’s hot stew. He did not see the girl, though she had said the evening before that she was staying two days. Among the boarders the talk ran to weather, a plague of grasshoppers in Kansas, a big ditch project farther south, and a man from Nebraska who was wanted for embezzlement. Ed finished his dinner and went out to loaf on the front porch, where the chug of the rock crusher carried on the air.
About an hour into the afternoon, Emerson finished shoeing a coach horse and told Ed to lead it out for him. It was a large chestnut gelding, sleek with good feed and glossy in the spring afternoon. Emerson stood in the shade of the doorway and watched the horse’s feet as Ed walked the animal out into the street, around in a semicircle, and back to the shop door.
“Take him around again,” said Emerson, his chin lifted.
Ed took another turn, his hand on the lead rope under the horse’s chin, his leather apron rumpling as he marched, bareheaded, in the sunlight. Just before he turned toward the shop, he saw the girl. He waved, and she waved back. Then he led the horse to Emerson, who nodded.
The girl came to supper after most of the boarders had eaten. She was with the same woman as the night before, a middle-aged woman who spoke little and looked like business. Mrs. Willis, who ran the boarding house, called them “ladies,” but it was evident that she and the other woman knew each other as equals who cooked, washed, and scrubbed. The women had the same plain appearance, with no jewelry or face powder or lipstick, no bangles or shawls or bright colors. If Mrs. Willis had sat down and the woman had stood up to ladle the soup, Ed would not have been surprised.
The girl, on the other hand, was a fresher flower. From where he sat ten feet away, Ed admired her dark hair and eyes and her red lips. She wore a plain smock of bluish gray, but it did not conceal the pert bosom of a young woman. Even if she was going to stay but one night more, he yearned to know her.
He dawdled with the last of his potatoes, took time to drink his coffee, until he and the two females were the last ones at the table. Mrs. Willis had cleared the other plates, so he moved down to an empty place across from the girl. The woman, who was sitting on the girl’s left, cast him a sideways glance but kept to herself.
“Excuse me,” he said, looking straight at the girl, “I don’t mean to be forward, but I sat across from you last night. You might remember. We talked a little.”
A pleasant expression flickered as she gave a light smile and said, “Oh, yes.”
“You said you were going to be here just one more night.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I thought it would be—just terrible—if I didn’t get to say hello again.”
Her dark eyes settled on him. “That’s nice of you.”
“Of course, I don’t even know your name.”
She smiled and gave a slight shake of the head. “And I don’t know yours.”
“Oh. It’s Edward. Edward Dawes.”
“I see. Are you from here in Glenrose?”
“Right now. But not originally.” Silence hung, so he spoke again. “I grew up in Silver Springs, down south from here, for the first few years at least. I lived with my, um, grandfather, and then he—died.” This was always the hard part. He had not yet found a smooth way to get through it.
She frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
He shrugged and said, “Well, it can’t be changed.”
“And your parents?”
“I don’t know them.” Now it was easier. “I was adopted by a man named Dawes, and like a lot of people, he took me in so he could get free work out of me. He had a farm down on the Platte, not too far from Nebraska, so I grew up doin’ all that kind of work. But when I got old enough, I came here. I work in the blacksmith shop, you know.”
“I thought that was you.”
He let out a breath. He felt relaxed now. “I don’t mean to talk so much, but you asked.”
“Oh, you barely said anything.”
“Well, in a way there’s not much to tell. But in others, there’s a lot. You know.” Ed felt a glow of warmth in his face.
“Oh, yes.”
Ed cast a glance at the older woman, who was buttering a slice of bread and acting as if she hadn’t heard a word. From the first moment the night before, he had assumed the woman was not this girl’s mother, but he didn’t know where to begin asking the girl about herself. Feeling clumsy, he said, “How about yourself? I mean, if I never got to see you again, at least I’d like to know your name.”
“It’s Ravenna,” she said. “Ravenna Owens.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
“Thank you.”
He waited, but she didn’t say anything more. He felt that time was slipping away, so he took a stab. “Which way are you traveling?” he asked.
“West.”
“Oh, I see.” Then after a pause, “Do you like it here?”
“I don’t know yet.” She touched her napkin to her lips. “You see, I’m not from here.”
“Oh.”
“I’m like you.” She let her dark eyes meet his. “I’m an orphan, too. I was adopted out of an orphanage in Lincoln by a family that had a farm down by Crete. That’s in Nebraska, too.”
“I’ve heard of it.”
Stranger in Thunder Basin (Leisure Historical Fiction) Page 1
