He knew they had seen him, though, and even if there had been cover for him to duck into, doing so would make him look suspicious. As it was, he was just someone with meat on the ground.
Staying off the road and a foot or so below it on the slope, he turned the buckskin toward town, pulled the deer into plain view, and dismounted. First he checked over the rigging on his horse, and then, in no hurry, he took his spurs from the saddlebag and buckled them on, first the left and then the right. When he was still bent over, he heard the riders approaching.
They had put their horses into a lope, and the hooves were drumming. Closer now, then even, then past him they rode, with leather creaking and bits jingling. Ed stood up, close to the left shoulder of the buckskin. He saw enough of Bridge to confirm what he already knew, and he caught only the hind view of the blocky man in the large hat. That was fine with Ed. He would get a good look at both of these jaspers, more than once, as time went on. He pulled the glove onto his left hand and then, before pulling on the right glove, he flicked his middle fingernail against the stock of the rifle.
Even though it was a slow drag, Ed made it back to town with the deer before dark. After skinning and quartering it, he hung the meat on Mrs. Porter’s back porch. The hide was pretty well worn, but he cut out the antlers and hung them on a rafter near the quarters of meat.
After supper, he decided it would be a good night to visit the Rimfire Saloon. A few patrons were standing along the bar when he walked in, so he took a place next to a fur hunter he had met a week or so earlier. Ferguson, or Ferg as he liked to be called, took an interest in Ed’s story about the deer. He asked for details about where Ed had left the gut pile.
“That’ll bring in coyotes,” he said. “I bet we could go out there in the mornin’ and get one or two.”
“Probably could.”
“Are you interested? I could set up a tripod, and you could pick ’em off at two, three hundred yards.”
“Then you sell the pelts?”
“That’s the idea. But to tell you the truth, I don’t make that much on the hides. A little bit. I’m more in it for the shootin’.”
“You like that part.”
“Oh, yeah. You would, too. You get a good setup, say a dead cow or this gut pile of yours, and they come right in. And there’s sportsmen that’ll pay good money to do it.” Ferg’s eyes lit up. “I’m learnin’ how to call ’em. That’s when it really gets good. They come right at you, and you shoot ’em close.”
Ed didn’t have anything to say.
“These on the gut pile, though, they’ll be longer range. But it’s still good sport, seein’ how good a shot you can make, and watchin’ that dog toss in the air when you hit ’em good.” Ferg seemed to be waiting for an answer, and not getting one, he spoke again. “So what do you think? You wanta go out in the morning?”
Ed shook his head. “I don’t think so. I can see how you like it, but I just don’t see the fun in it for me.”
Ferg nodded. “That’s all right. But you can think about it, and if you want to try it later on, let me know.”
All the time he was talking with Ferg, Ed kept an eye out along the length of the bar. A little over halfway down, he saw the two men he had encountered earlier on the trail. As soon as he finished the conversation with Ferg, Ed shifted his position to get a better look at the other two.
Bridge did not seem to have changed a speck in the passage of several years. If the flat-brimmed, flat-crowned black hat was the not the same one as before, it was identical. Likewise appeared the dark overcoat, the black neckerchief, and the narrow black leather vest. Even more impressive to Ed were the facial features—the long, thin nose; the dark, beady, close-set eyes; and the thin lips—which had a timeless quality about them, as if the man had come into being at the age of thirty-five or forty and would stay there until he went out.
At the moment he smoked a narrow, tight cigarette, which stuck out of the corner of his thin mouth like a toothpick and bobbed up and down as he talked. The man did not smile, nor did he raise his voice or move his hands about, except now, when with thumb and forefinger he pinched the cigarette from the crook of his mouth and dropped it on the floor, followed by a faint twist of the body.
On the far side of Bridge, to his left, stood the other man Ed had seen that afternoon. He was half a head taller than Bridge and built on a bigger scale. He had a large hat and a broad vest, all in proportion to his meaty face and thick lips. Louder as well, he had a gravelly voice that carried even when the words didn’t. Whereas Bridge stood up straight and did not touch the bar, this man leaned with his left hand on the polished wood. From time to time, he pushed back and spat toward the floor, where a spittoon would be.
Ed moved aside to let another man shoulder in and order a drink. Bridge and his partner went out of view. Ed stood in that arrangement for a couple of minutes, not liking the other man so close at his left elbow. He shifted again, then picked up his drink and stepped back from the bar.
Now he had a full view, and he only needed to form a few quick impressions without making himself too obvious. He took in Bridge’s black holster and gunbelt with the dark-handled butt of a pistol sticking up. The other man had a deep-stained brown gunbelt and a six-gun with a walnut handle. Both men also wore their spurs.
As he let his gaze drift back up toward the bar, Ed saw something that took him by surprise. Bridge’s partner had turned to speak to the man on his left, a broad-backed man in a sack coat who tipped back his hat and showed himself to be none other than Jeff, the puncher from Arkansas who had names for all the dominoes.
In no hurry to be recognized by Jeff or to be remembered by the other two, Ed moved back to an empty spot at the bar. He toyed with his drink a while longer, then tossed down the last of it and went home for the night.
Ravenna watched as Ed cut away a chunk of venison from the hanging hindquarter.
“It’s generous of you to share your deer meat with Mr. Flood,” she said.
“I figure there’s enough to go around.” The meat was firm and cold but not yet frozen, and as he hefted the piece and laid it on the brown paper, he guessed it to weigh about five pounds. “This should keep all right for a couple of days, make him and his cat both happy. I suppose it’s been a while since he’s been able to go out and get one for himself.”
Ravenna nodded in approval at the clean cut of meat. “It’s good to be able to do something like this, isn’t it?”
“Do you mean to have the game available, or to have the ability to go after it?”
“Both, I guess, but I was thinking more of the latter. Some men, even out here where we don’t have all the comforts, wouldn’t want to get their hands soiled.”
“I know what you mean. Finicky. But that’s not a problem here. None of this bothers you, does it?”
“Oh, no. I don’t care for killing chickens, because it’s so messy, but as far as the idea, or the blood itself—no, I could do it if I had to.”
“That’s good.” Ed folded the paper and wrapped the package. “You know, the Indian women have to do all the butcherin’ when the men bring it in from the hunt.”
Ravenna smiled. “I know, and they slaughter the puppies themselves. I don’t know if I would go that far, swinging a stone hatchet.”
“We’ll hope we don’t have to.” He lifted the package and let it settle in his hand. “Well, I think I’ll take this to him now. Um, this knife is Mrs. Porter’s. I’ll leave it in the kitchen on the way.”
The old man was sitting in his armchair and drinking coffee when he hollered for Ed to come in. “Well,” he called out at the sight of the package, “what have you got there?”
“I found a deer yesterday when I didn’t have anything better to do, and I thought I’d bring you some of it.”
“Well, good for you.” The old man looked around. “Just set it on the table here. Go get yourself a cup of coffee if you want. It’s a little too early in the day to be drinkin’ the stronger st
uff. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” Ed went to the kitchen, found the coffeepot on the stove, and poured himself a cup. Back in the living room, he took a seat by the window as before. The room was chilly, so he did not take off his hat and coat. He noticed that Tyrel was wrapped up in his overcoat and cap as well.
“What did you bring me, some tough old hocks?”
“No, I brought a piece of hindquarter. You can slice it into steaks, or do what ever you want with it.”
“Fry it in bacon grease, that’s what. If I can keep Grimalkin here from getting to it first.” He poked with his stick at the cat, which had come slinking into the room and now held its head up at the edge of the table. “Get away, now.” Tyrel rested the stick against his leg again. “What else?”
“Not much.”
“Glad to know you got out and did somethin’. Hate to think of a brave young fella like yourself fritterin’ away his time in a boarding house, even if there is good scenery.” He waved his hand and said in an aside, “Cam told me.” Then in his normal tone he asked, “Been to the saloon lately?”
“Went for a little while last night.”
“I can’t afford to go there very often, but I like to keep my hand in. Not that anyone cares or would miss me if I dried up and blew away.” Tyrel leaned forward and set his empty cup on the table. “Who was there?”
“I talked a little while with Ferguson, the fur hunter. He offered to take me out to shoot coyotes, but I didn’t take him up on it.”
“Bah. Probably didn’t miss much. Any time you get around those things, you end up with fleas or lice. Just dirty.”
Ed found it noteworthy that someone as unkempt as Tyrel would make a disparaging comment about hygiene, but he imagined the old man had a sense of dignity in spite of his scruffy exterior.
After a few seconds, Tyrel spoke again. “They smell, too, these trappers do. I think it’s hard to get that smell off. Hey, there.” He nudged the cat with his stick. “I knew a coon hunter that had his cat flesh out his hides for him. Probably a good cat, but I bet he took to smellin’ rank, too.”
“Might have. Sometimes you get a whiff of Ferguson.”
Tyrel brought out his pipe and rapped it upside down in his palm, then flicked the debris on the floor. He blew through the stem, poked his little finger in the bowl, rapped again, and frowned. Then he leaned back and reached into his trousers pocket, from which he took a small clasp knife with a white handle like whalebone. He opened the blade and started scraping the bowl of the pipe.
Now it was Ed’s turn to break the silence. “Saw a couple of other fellas in there last night, too.”
“Oh?”
“That fella named Bridge. That’s his name, isn’t it?”
“Ol’ Snake Eyes? Yeah.”
“And he had another fella with him. Larger, heavier sort.”
“That would be Cooley. They ride together.”
“That fits. I saw ’em ride into town, and later I saw ’em in the saloon.”
“Yeah, Bridge used to be more of a lone wolf, but since Cooley’s been workin’ there, you often see the two of ’em.”
“How long’s that been?”
“Oh, I don’t know. A few years at least. Since Cam worked there, I’d say.”
Ed put away the information and moved to the next bit. “Then I saw another fella I knew. Name of Jeff, comes from Arkansas. He worked at the same place I did last season.”
“With Homer.”
“Yep. He took off the minute he drew his wages, and this is the first time I’ve seen him since. He seemed to be striking up a conversation with this one you call Cooley. Maybe he knows him. Always has a smart rattle of talk.”
Tyrel shook his head. “Doesn’t sound familiar, but there’s a lot of ’em come and go. Well, like you, as far as that goes.”
Ed shrugged. “He didn’t come into town with them, so I’d guess he was just makin’ friends.”
“Some friends. But that’s up to him. Me, I stay clear of ’em.”
Ravenna stood by as Ed separated the dark, lean meat from the bone. He had finished the first hindquarter and was working on the second, his left hand bloody and his right hand wielding the kitchen knife.
“What’s got you frowning?” she asked.
“Just somethin’ I was thinkin’ about.”
“You look serious.”
“I suppose I am.” He let his eyes meet hers, and he felt as before—that the two of them shared a view on things that did not have to be parsed out in full detail. He spoke in a lower voice. “You remember a while back when I told you I thought I knew the person who had done a bad thing?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I saw that person again yesterday.”
She took in a slow breath. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I saw him twice, in the company of his saddle pard. No mistake about who he is or who he works for.”
“They’re here?”
Still in a lower voice, he said, “They come into town from a place out in Thunder Basin.” He drew his eyebrows together and lowered his voice even further. “Have you ever heard anything about the King Diamond Ranch or a couple of men named Bridge and Cooley?”
Ravenna shook her head.
“Well, consider it as if I didn’t mention it. But what I need to do, when the good weather comes, is get to know more about these fellas. I don’t know if the man who did this thing was actin’ on his own or if he was doin’ it for someone else. That means I have to find out if the owner of the ranch ever knew the man who, um, it happened to.”
“Pa-Pa.”
Her utterance was like magic, as if she had merged her being with his. Their eyes met in perfect understanding, and the lips that had spoken those two syllables were beautiful beyond everything. With his hands raised and apart so he would not touch her with his work, he leaned toward her and met her lips with his.
Chapter Seven
As Ed rode north to Thunder Basin, he felt the assurance that came with being well equipped. The buckskin had wintered well and now stepped out at a brisk pace. The saddle rode easy. Ed had oiled it so it was soft to the touch, and he had tipped it upside down and powdered the cracks to take out some of the squeaks. The rifle at his left knee and the rope at his right gave him a feeling of readiness, as did the six-gun riding on his hip.
The sun felt warm on his back, just as it had when he came this way a year earlier. The snow had melted, and green was coming up into the grassland again. The songs of the meadowlarks and the black-and-white birds resonated in the clear air, not yet dry from the morning dew.
The horse’s hooves kept up a steady rhythm of tlock-tlock, tlock-tlock. Ed stayed balanced with the movement of the buckskin, feeling in harmony with the animal, drawing the slack on the reins every two or three minutes to keep the harmony neat.
He rode easy, not pushing the horse. As before, he had the sense of going into a vast interior country, a land unto itself, a long ride in from any of the main- traveled roads. In the core of that country were two men—as he pictured them, two worms in an apple. One he knew by sight and hated by heart, while the other was yet a faceless figure that moved in dim light. Ed was determined to get a better look at Mort Ramsey, learn what he could, and decide from there. As for Bridge, Ed had assumed long ago what he would do to that man if the right chance came around. He would just have to do it clean. Meanwhile, as long as he did not tip his hand, he was in no hurry.
In late afternoon, he came to the valley of the dead cottonwoods. It looked unchanged from the year before—first the orange hills to the east with the lone dead pine on the ridge, then the tops of the bare trees visible for a mile as they reached out of the creek bottom, and then the lifeless colony of prairie-dog holes with dead tumbleweeds for wreaths. Ed watered his horse and made his camp in the peace of evening.
In the morning, he hit the trail early, moving through broken country and coming to the gateway of the King Diamond Ranch before the
sun had risen very high. He paused a moment to take stock of himself and all his gear, to remember each thing in its place. An image of Ravenna passed through his mind, and he felt the strength of her encouragement. He squared his shoulders and sat up straight. Raising his head, he cast his view outward, sweeping the hazy buttes that lay at a day’s ride in every direction. Then he gathered his reins, touched his spurs to the buckskin, and followed the trail as it wound through horse-high brush toward the headquarters of the ranch.
The trail kept to higher ground, curving to the north and coming around south to the ranch buildings. A quarter-mile before he reached the headquarters, Ed paused to observe the layout, which from this angle looked a little different than it did from the main road. Situated on a bench above a drainage or bowl, the buildings lay along a curve, following the contour of the land. A rider approaching, then, could see the front of each building, just as, Ed imagined, a person in front of any of those buildings could see company when it came calling.
First in line lay a plain structure of weathered lumber. It had all the appearances of a bunk house, with a hitch rack, a front door, a stovepipe, and an out house. After the bunk house, there loomed a taller, broader building made of logs. As with the gateway, Ed imagined the logs had been hauled a long distance, and he could see that a great deal of labor had gone into the construction of the lodgelike ranch house. Instead of having a plain gabled roof with two straight runs, the house had an asymmetrical distribution of gables and dormer windows. On the main level, a covered porch with slender log railings stretched across the front of the house, with thick plank steps leading up to it.
Beyond the oddly matched living quarters, which Ed guessed had been built by two separate owners, stood a plain, normal-looking barn that had its doors closed. On the other side of the barn sat a lower building that looked like a wagon or equipment shed. The dry, hard-packed ranch yard widened out at the far end, so there was plenty of room to turn around a wagon. Beyond that area, a set of corrals marked the end of the yard and reached back behind the wagon shed and around to the barn. From the looks of it, unless a person were on foot or on horse back, there was one way in and one way out of this place.
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