Holmes on the Range

by Steve Hockensmith

  The men didn’t bother explaining their amusement.

  “Nervous, my boy?” the Duke said to Edwards. “You’re falling behind again.”

  “Falling behind? Whatever are you two up to?”

  We all turned toward the doorway, finding there a vision of loveliness so breathtaking it could’ve stepped straight from the canvas of some master painter. It was Lady Clara, of course, entering the parlor in a white evening gown so dazzling yet demure a rough-tongued son of a farmer like myself couldn’t describe it without despoiling it.

  And it wasn’t just her beauty or the elegance of her attire that made her the very picture of feminine perfection. A shallow man might point to the faint lines around her mouth or the slight shadows beneath her eyes or the stray strand of gray in her ample dark hair and say that time had tarnished the lady’s charms. Yet with age had come a poise that runs deeper than mere looks, and she carried herself with a combination of delicacy and strength, grace and steel, that elevates a woman from pretty or even beautiful to ideal.

  The two gentlemen sat up straight in their seats, Edwards paying for it with another jolt of pain that curled his face into a wince. The Duke suddenly became curious about his cigar, inspecting it with the same air of innocence adopted by little boys trying to hide mischief from the schoolmarm.

  “We’ve just been settling a debate,” His Grace said.

  Lady Clara arched an elegant eyebrow. “And a wager, as well, I expect.”

  “Nothing wrong with making things a little more sporting.”

  “That depends on how sporting,” the lady replied coolly.

  “Just a trifle. Five dollars a point—eh, Edwards?”

  Edwards backed up the old man’s lie with a quick nod and a feeble smile.

  “Surely you can’t begrudge me that,” the Duke went on. “Not after seeing. . .”

  He suddenly remembered us peons, and he washed away whatever he was about to say with a gulp from his glass.

  “. . . what we saw today,” he finished after giving his lips a wet smack.

  Lady Clara didn’t speak or move or even change the expression on her face, yet a chill descended upon her so icy cold I could feel my toes go frostbit. Edwards, on the other hand, was sweating worse than a preacher in a whorehouse, his gaze darting back and forth from the lady to her father. He obviously wished to please each, but smooching two sets of backsides can be a tough feat indeed if the people they’re attached to are going toe-to-toe.

  My brother, meanwhile, was watching all this like it was a night at the theater, his red-faced humiliation replaced by open fascination. If he could’ve pulled up a chair and opened a bag of peanuts, he would’ve.

  “So, what is this debate of yours?” Lady Clara asked.

  The Duke squirmed his fleshy behind around in his chair, leaving it to Edwards to explain.

  “His Grace and I had been comparing the relative merits of hired help in Europe and America—or their relative demerits, to be more precise.”

  The smirk Edwards unfurled at his own play on words went limp quick—Lady Clara was not amused. As Edwards forged on, he finally had the decency to look embarrassed.

  “I felt that American workers lack the requisite mental . . . well . . .” He shot a glare at Gustav and myself, apparently unhappy with us for placing him in this awkward situation. “That one can’t find common Americans with . . .ummm. . .that English servants would be superior in certain—”

  Oh, just spit it out, you stuck-up son of a bitch, I wanted to say. You think we’re dumb, but the old man thinks Emily’s dumber.

  “Yes, yes, she understands,” the Duke interrupted, to Edwards’s very apparent relief. “I think we’ve settled the matter—wouldn’t you say, Edwards?”

  It was easy for the old man to call an end to the game—he was fifty bucks ahead. But Edwards didn’t argue. He just nodded and said, “Oh, yes. Most definitively.”

  “You may go,” the Duke said, and from his sharp tone it was clear who he was speaking to, though he didn’t trouble himself to look at us as he said it.

  Emily curtsied and scurried toward the dining room, while Old Red headed for the door to the foyer. I followed him, pleased that we’d be passing close to Lady Clara on our way out.

  Perhaps it was for her benefit that I paused in the doorway. Perhaps it was for my brother—or Amlingmeyer family honor. Whatever the reason, it was a whim that hit me so fast I was acting on it before I could stop myself.

  “In case you’re still wonderin’,” I said as I swiveled around to face Edwards and the Duke, “the queen of England is just plain Victoria. Her kin are the Hanovers, not the ‘Reginas.’ There ain’t no king. The lady’s husband—Albert was his name—he died years ago. Most likely their son Edward’ll take over the family business when his mama passes on. And if there’s anything else you need to know, why, just come out to the bunkhouse and ask me. I’ll set you straight.”

  I topped it all off with a wink.

  The men stared at me, slack-jawed, and I turned to go before they could get those jaws working. On my way out, I gave the lady a nod and a polite “Good evenin’, ma’am.”

  Old Red was waiting for me in the foyer.

  “Jee-zus Christ,” he snapped. “Must you be so goddamn—”

  Whether I’d been goddamn stupid or goddamn reckless or goddamn foolish I didn’t discover, for the next words stuck in my brother’s throat as he caught sight of something behind me.

  “I sincerely beg your pardon, Miss St. Simon,” he said, blushing.

  Lady Clara had followed me. She acknowledged Gustav’s words with a slight bow of her head.

  “I believe I owe an apology to you. My father can be. . .”

  As she searched for the proper word, a look came over her face that suggested the phrase a big, fat asshole might actually escape her lips. But good manners prevailed, of course.

  “. . . ungracious,” she said.

  Old Red gave her a shy little shrug.

  “Don’t trouble yourself over it, ma’am,” he managed to mumble.

  Unlike my brother, I’ll seize any opportunity to bandy words with a comely woman, and I couldn’t resist now.

  “But your concern is most deeply appreciated, my lady,” I threw in, placing both hands over my heart. It made me feel like a character out of Ivanhoe. If I could’ve gotten away with it, I would’ve planted a kiss on the back of her dainty hand.

  Lady Clara graced me with a smile that instantly became the highlight of my life up to that point.

  “You certainly took the gentlemen by surprise,” she said. “Are all ‘cow-boys’ so well versed in England’s affairs of state?”

  I let loose with a not particularly modest chuckle. “Oh, hardly. I’m a special case. My mother pushed a book in my hands every chance she got. And before takin’ up with cattle, I clerked in a granary for a spell, which gives a feller plenty of free time for newspapers and magazines and other edifications.” I shot what I thought was a sly glance at my brother. “But even the drovers without as much learnin’ as myself can surprise you. They might look like a drawer of dull blades, but there’s usually a sharp one mixed in there somewhere.”

  “I’ll remember that,” the lady said, looking both amused and remarkably sincere, as if I’d offered advice she actually planned to follow.

  Footsteps echoed down from above, and we turned to see Brackwell descending the staircase, done up in dark tails and tie like Edwards and the Duke. Though his clothes probably cost as much as I’ve earned my entire life, it still draped over the young man’s lanky form like a sheet thrown over the back of a chair. Oddly enough, the only outfit I’d seen the kid wear that truly fit were his crazy circus cowboy duds.

  “Well,” Lady Clara said to us, “good night, gentlemen.”

  Gustav and I offered goodnights in return, and the lady moved off to the foot of the stairs to meet Brackwell. We threw a couple of hello/good-bye nods up at him ourselves, then we left.

  “D
id you hear that?” I said as we headed toward the bunkhouse. “ ‘Gentlemen’ she called us.”

  Old Red rolled his eyes. “We walk out of there with a regular banquet to chew on, and you pick out that measly little crumb?”

  “Oh, no—it ain’t no crumb. Anything from the lady’s lips is sweetest sugar to me.”

  “While most of what comes from yours is steamin’ horseshit.”

  “Awww, you’re just jealous cuz she obviously fancies me over you.”

  Gustav went from eyeball rolling to head shaking. “Better get it through your head, Brother—people like that don’t ‘fancy’ people like us.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Emily said somethin’ about the lady bein’ ‘a commoner’s leftovers.’ What do you think that means?”

  “You really want to know what I think?”

  “Yes, I really want to know.”

  “Alright. I think”—Gustav took in a deep breath and let it out slowly—”it is a capital mistake to theorize before you—”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  We were almost to the bunkhouse by now. Tall John and Swivel-Eye stood in the doorway gabbing over cigarettes, so I had to keep my next words low.

  “And you say I’m full of horseshit.”

  Once we got inside, I quickly fell into conversation with the boys about the day’s happenings, giving them a heavily expurgated account of our adventures in the castle. Predictably, they were most interested in the food and the women. Gustav retired to his bunk, lying there stiff as a board, his hands folded over his stomach. This was the position he sometimes assumed when he had vigorous cogitating to do, and I was happy to leave him to it. I didn’t bother with a “Good night” when I climbed into my own bunk an hour later.

  Sleep didn’t come quickly. I kept thinking about that “banquet” of facts Old Red had spoken of. What we’d heard in the castle didn’t seem like any banquet to me—it was more like the stale bread and scraps of gristle dive saloons lay out for their “free lunch.”

  So the Duke couldn’t resist a good wager—or a bad one. So the lady had some kind of scandal behind her and felt a bit frosty toward her father. So Edwards was a social climber and Brackwell was the “black sheep” from a noble flock. It was good enough gossip, I suppose, but how any of it tied in with Perkins’s death was beyond me.

  Thinking of Perkins reminded me of my brother’s little chat with Boudreaux earlier in the day—and the possibility that Boo had already repeated every word of it to Uly. That line of thought didn’t exactly put me in a relaxed, restful state of mind, so I herded my brain along to a far greener pasture.

  I finally drifted off to sleep thinking of Lady Clara, of course, dreaming myself into the center of a whole new scandal for her. But somewhere in the night, my mind took a less pleasant turn, and my dreams were spiced with the sound of gunfire.

  The noise of it rang so loud and so real it popped my eyes open. I stirred, awakened just enough to be aware of dim light and snoring men.

  Soon enough I settled into slumber again, certain it had been nothing more than a nightmare.

  Seventeen

  THE PRIVY

  Or, Something About the Outhouse Doesn’t Quite Smell Right

  As the boys began rolling from their bunks the next morning, Tall John announced that Buffalo Bill had returned. Young Brackwell was out near the corral, once again duded up like a cross between a Texas cowboy and a Denver pimp. He was attempting to master the use of a throwing rope by hurling one hungry loop after another at a fence post.

  If that post had been a bull, the critter would’ve had little to worry about. Brackwell’s throws were eating dust six feet away at their closest, coming down so limp and lifeless the man may as well have been tossing dead snakes instead of good hemp.

  The boys drifted to the doorway to take a look—and one of them kept right on going out to the corral.

  This was, of course, my brother.

  As tempted as they might have been to guy poor Brackwell again, the rest of the Hornet’s Nest bunch chose not to follow. Spider was back, him and his gang having returned to headquarters just as we’d been turning in the night before. But Old Red was tossing caution to the wind, and after a few antsy moments I decided I should be out there caution-tossing with him.

  “What are you doin’ now?” I asked when I’d caught up to him. “If the wrong person sees us—”

  “I’m just goin’ to have an innocent little chat with Mr. Brackwell,” Old Red replied, his pace slacking off not one whit. “It’s plain to see the kid’s taken an interest in droverin’. I’m sure he’d appreciate a few pointers that don’t come from a dime novel.”

  “Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop tryin’ to get us killed.”

  “I’m not tryin’ to get us killed. I’m tryin’ to unmask a murderer.”

  “ ‘Unmask a murderer’? Christ, Gustav—do you hear yourself? You’re the one livin’ in a dime novel.”

  That finally jerked my brother to a stop.

  “I know this ain’t no dime novel. It’s real—and a real man is dead. And the only way we’re gonna find out why is if we get closer to them folks in the castle.”

  “What the hell do they have to do with it?”

  My brother squinted at me as if trying to figure out why such a featherlight thing as my head doesn’t go drifting off my shoulders with the slightest breeze.

  “Has Mr. Holmes taught you nothin’? It’s plain enough if you apply a second’s thought to it.”

  Old Red gave me a few seconds to apply that thought, but I still didn’t have any idea what he was jabbering about.

  “When the Duke showed up, he and McPherson made out like this was a surprise inspection,” he finally said. “But Perkins knew it was comin’—knew it for months. Why do you think we put so much time into fixin’ up HQ? Why do you think we got hired at all? It’s a show for the stockholders. And Uly must’ve known about it, too. Didn’t you notice how he got himself washed and shaved and done up in new duds before the Duke arrived? And once you get to chewin’ on all that, don’t it strike you as a powerful coincidence that Perkins died when he did—just days before the Duke and them others got here?”

  Old Red’s explanation made sense—and left me more confused than ever. Tucked away inside his answer were at least a dozen more questions begging to be asked. But before I could unpack even one, my brother was moving again.

  “You’re never gonna catch him like that!” he called out to Brack-well. “Them fence posts can be mighty wily. You’d be better off just shootin’ the son of a gun.”

  Brackwell turned and gave my brother a bashful grin. The young Englishman had picked up a touch of color in his travels in the West, but he didn’t show it now. He was as pale white as the fine linen the folks in the castle slept on. Under his eyes were bags so large you could pour oats in them and strap them to a horse’s muzzle.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” he said, his words dribbling out slow and unsteady. “I’m certainly not having any luck with this lariat.”

  “Well, maybe my brother and I can change your luck. If you’re interested, we could learn you how to make that rope dance.”

  Brackwell gave a nod that instantly turned into a grimace, and I knew then what was ailing him. He was suffering from a condition the German farmers back in Kansas call a katzenjammer. To you and me, that’s a hangover.

  “Alright then,” Old Red said, holding out his hand. Brackwell handed him the rope. “First thing you gotta do when you’re building a loop is shake out the noose like so.”

  The next five minutes were taken up with nothing but rope talk, all of it kept to a low volume so as not to box poor Brackwell’s tender ears. Gustav did most of the speaking, having me whir and dab with the rope so he could stand back and point out what I was doing right and (by his account) wrong. Brackwell turned out to be a fine pupil, for when he got a chance to throw again he looked pretty good—even if his aim was still off by at least three feet.


  “Not bad. Now that you know the ropes, as they say, all you need is practice,” Old Red said. “Of course, it’s a whole other kettle to rope a steer from a horse at full gallop. And the kidney beans you and Edwards seat yourselves upon wouldn’t do at all. There ain’t no hold to them puny things. I’m surprised you can even stand up straight after ridin’ through all the rough country we got south of here.”

  “Oh, the ground we covered wasn’t so horribly bad. It was grassland mostly—nothing more rugged than a few hills.” Brackwell’s thin, pale lips curled into a wobbly grin. “I’d wager I was more comfortable on my saddle than old Dickie and poor Clara in that rickety carriage.”

  “I don’t know if Mr. Edwards would agree with you on that,” Gustav said, chuckling. “Looked to me like he won’t be in a saddle for quite a spell. I hope you ain’t plannin’ on another outin’ today.”

  “Oh, no. We saw what we n—” Brackwell’s grin went stiff. “Today we shall be otherwise engaged.”

  “Well, I’m sure Mr. Edwards will be pleased to hear it,” Gustav joshed, putting on like he didn’t notice the change in Brackwell’s tone. “Now, why don’t you have a go at that post again. Only this time, I want you to try somethin’ different. You ain’t gonna toss rope like a cowboy unless you can move like one. Loosen up! Let your shoulders droop a bit. Put a little bend in your knees. And don’t jerk the rope out there. It ain’t a harpoon. It’s rope, good and limber, like you oughta be. Sling it out there nice and smooth.”

  Brackwell tried to do as Old Red instructed, loosening and drooping and bending until he’d assumed the doubled-up hunch of a ninety-year-old squaw.

  “Tougher than it sounds, ain’t it?” I said.

  Brackwell nodded. “It goes against everything I’ve been taught.”

  “You been taught to walk around stiff as a damn totem pole?” my brother asked.

  “Oh, absolutely. Even when. . .one doesn’t feel one’s best. Where I come from, that’s called good breeding.”

  Gustav made a face like a child with a mouthful of week-old buttermilk. “Breedin’s for cattle. A man picks his own path.”