As my brother didn’t rebuke me for theorizing, I figured he was thinking the same thing.
“Come on,” he said, moving off around the house. He stopped when he reached the southwestern corner, poking his head around and peering at the corral and bunkhouses.
“Any sign of the McPhersons?” I asked as I came up behind him.
Gustav shook his head and got on the move again. He was headed toward the corral, where the Hornet’s Nesters were doctoring more cows.
We were headed out into the open, and I didn’t like it.
“Uly and Spider are gonna spot us for sure.”
“We’ll attend to them when the time comes,” Old Red said.
I didn’t say so, but I couldn’t help thinking that time he spoke of was coming mighty quick—and it was a lot more likely the McPhersons would be attending to us.
Twenty-one
FRIENDS AND FOES
Or, We Separate the Men from the Hornet’s Nest Boys
As we walked toward the corral, I saw that Tall John and Crazymouth were the lucky hands that day. They were the ones on horseback, leaving Anytime and Swivel-Eye to smear oil and acid on the latest batch of maggots.
So it was only natural that Anytime and Swivel-Eye should look about as pleased as a fellow who’s fallen face-first into a dung heap. And yet they looked even more disgusted when they glanced up and saw us.
“Well, ain’t this a surprise,” Anytime said. “Big Red and Old Red comin’ round when there’s real work to be done. I thought they’d still be off playin’ Sheerluck Jones or Morecock Bones or whatever the hell that feller’s called.”
“Sherlock ‘olmes,” Crazymouth said.
Anytime nodded. “That’s the one. Holmes. I’d forgotten all about that dandified fraud till Old Red here started puttin’ on airs.”
Tall John rode toward us as we came in through the gate. “Maybe we oughta stop callin’ him Old Red and start callin’ him Old Holmes.”
“Or Little Sherlock,” Anytime suggested.
“Or the Sherlock Kid,” Tall John shot back, fighting giggles.
“Yeah, that’s it—the Sherlock Kid,” Anytime snorted. “Fastest Brain in the West.”
“If you’re lookin’ for fancy new ways to goldbrick!” Tall John said, his tittering turning to outright guffaws.
Swivel-Eye and Crazymouth watched silently, neither joining in the hilarity nor taking issue with it.
Gustav didn’t have much of a reaction, either. In fact, he didn’t so much as blink. Before that day, such mockery could’ve shriveled him up like a prune. But being a genuine consulting detective—at least for the moment—seemed to make insults irrelevant. They wouldn’t help him crack his mystery, so they just slid off his ears like water over an otter’s ass.
I wasn’t immune to all the japing and jeering, however. But the air of purposeful calm that surrounded my brother seemed to reach out and wrap itself around me, and I managed to resist the temptation to grab Tall John and Anytime by the neck and play their heads like maracas.
“Is that what you think?” Old Red said, turning to Crazymouth. “Sherlock Holmes is a fraud, and I’m a goldbricker?”
The English drover ambled his mount closer, looking first at Old Red, then at Anytime and Tall John, then back at Old Red.
“No,” he finally said. “I gave Blighty the dodge five years ago, and you wouldn’t find ‘olmes in the fish-and-chips then. But you’d hear of ‘im if you knew the wrong people. I ‘ad friends in low places in them days, and more than one ended up in gaol thanks to that geezer. So he ain’t any kind of fraud, I can vouch you that.”
Crazymouth tipped back his hat and squinted at Old Red for a moment before continuing.
“As for you, you ain’t lazy. Crazy maybe, but not lazy. If you want to stick your neck in the gander, mate. . .well, I’ll wish you a drake, that’s all.”
Gustav turned his gaze on Swivel-Eye. “What do you think?”
Swivel-Eye nodded at Crazymouth. “What he said.”
Of course, none of us understood half of what had come off Crazymouth’s tongue. But the sentiment was clear enough. He wasn’t against us, but he wasn’t exactly with us, either.
Old Red took all this in with the air of rueful disappointment he had honed to perfection on me.
“Alright, fellers. I see how they lay,” he said. “All the same, I need your help. Nothin’ bold, mind you. I’ve just got questions I need answered. But I wouldn’t feel right askin’ without first hoppin’ off something I’ve been sittin’ on.”
“And what would that be?” Anytime sneered.
“That Tall John’s been spyin’ on us for the McPhersons.”
For a few seconds, every man there was frozen stiff as a stamp iron. Tall John broke the silence with a razzing laugh.
“Looks like you were right, Crazymouth! He’s lost his damn mind!”
“How ‘bout we let the boys decide on that?” Old Red replied, unruffled. “I have a feelin’ they’ve been thinkin’ along the same lines. Not that you were a spy, mind you, but that someone was. That was clear enough after what happened to Pinky. There wasn’t nobody at the table that mornin’ but Hornet’s Nest boys. So how’d our conversation make its way back to Uly and Spider? And how’d they know Pinky’d nipped some hooch when they hadn’t laid eyes on us that day?”
“The Swede was there,” Swivel-Eye said, and from the way he jumped in it was clear he had indeed been cogitating on Pinky’s misfortune.
“That he was,” Gustav said. “But chew on this: What kind of spy would the Swede make? I’ve known four-year-old Comanches with a better grip on English. In fact, I think that’s the only reason Uly hired the man. His ears don’t pick up the lingo good enough to eavesdrop, and his mouth don’t speak it well enough to gossip. And don’t tell me it’s an act. He’s about as suited to be a spy as he is a dance-hall gal. Which brings us back to Tall John.”
“Now listen, you—” Tall John growled, but that didn’t slow my brother.
“After what happened to Pinky, I knew someone from our doghouse had been whisperin’ in Uly’s ear. But I didn’t get the list of suspects whittled down till Uly sent Big Red to ride bog a few days back. You see, my brother and I started doin’ a little eyeballin’ around here even before Boudreaux turned up dead. You know why. There’s some-thin’ about this ranch more crooked than a broken-back rattlesnake. I think Uly was startin’ to catch on to us—and he wanted to find out what we’d dug up and who we’d done the diggin’ with. And you all know my brother’s as windy as a Texas tornado.”
“Hey,” I said, but Old Red was the one with the wind behind him now, and he wasn’t ready to stop blowing.
“So when Big Red got sent off with Swivel-Eye and Tall John, I figured one or the other was gonna try to coax some talk out of him. And that’s exactly what happened. Ain’t that right, Swivel-Eye?”
“That’s what happened alright,” the drover said, giving Tall John one of the twisty-eyed stares he was named for.
“That don’t prove a damn thing!” Tall John protested, but though he was the one on horseback it was Gustav who rode right over him.
“Later that day, after the Duke and them others showed up, my brother tried to make himself at home in the house,” Old Red said. “But within minutes, Spider came chargin’ in to herd him out. Now how’d he know Big Red was even there? Only Tall John, Swivel-Eye, and maybe the Swede had any idea where he was.”
“See there!” Tall John cut in. “The Swede!”
“Alright then,” Gustav said, nodding at Tall John agreeably. “Back to the Swede. I’d say he’s a right fine cook, as ranch coosies go. It’s a cryin’ shame all them lords and ladies had to steal him away from us. And who does Uly put in his place? A feller who doesn’t know his salt from his pepper. Y’all have had Tall John’s cookin’. We’re gonna have to soak our tongues in turpentine for a year just to get the taste of it out of our mouths. So tell me—why would Uly leave him in charge of the co
okshack?”
“You tell us,” Anytime said, and though he didn’t sound any friendlier now, he at least waited to hear my brother’s reply.
“Well, you know privacy’s a hard thing to come by around here. You can hardly cop a squat without at least two fellers ribbin’ you about the smell. But once he started rollin’ biscuits, Tall John had plenty of time alone. Why, twice a day he’d leave us to our chores so he could come back to the cookshack. And who’s to say Uly or Spider couldn’t meet him there? Before that, Tall John probably had to do all kinds of sneakin’ to talk to the McPhersons. But with him in the kitchen and us workin’ cows, there’d be no need for sneakin’ at all.”
Being unaccustomed to such lengthy speechifying, Old Red had to pause here for a breath, giving Tall John another chance to get a say in.
“Bullshit!” he blurted out so loud it sent his horse into a nervous shuffle beneath him. “You ain’t got nothin’ but probablys and maybes and who’s-to-says.”
“Well,” Gustav said, sounding as cool and quiet as Tall John was loud and lathered, “there is one more thing.”
Usually my brother lets such statements float for a moment for the purpose of drawing me into featherheaded guesses. But Anytime cut through that so quick for once I actually appreciated the man’s natural-born spite.
“Spit it out then, why don’t you?”
Old Red nodded. “Boudreaux was a Negro.”
This observation came so completely out of nowhere the first “Huh?” that followed was from my own lips. Tall John broke into a flimsy grin, no doubt thinking my brother was about to prove himself as loco as Hungry Bob Tracy.
“Now think back, fellers,” Old Red said. “All the way back to the first day the Hornet’s Nest boys came together in Miles City. Think back and ask yourselves, ‘Why ain’t Jim Weller here?’ ”
I hadn’t given the Negro drover a second’s consideration since the day Uly passed him over in the Hornet’s Nest. By the time we ran into Boudreaux at the VR, I’d already forgotten Weller’s lack of luck landing a job, being more concerned with my own lack of luck with the job I’d landed. I can only assume the same was true for the other fellows, for no one ever bothered to ask why McPherson should blackball one Negro but make another a top hand. No one but my brother, that is.
“We all pushed and shoved our way into a line, you’ll recall, and Uly counted off seven men from his left to his right,” Old Red said. “But he skipped over Weller, a top-rail puncher and one of the best bronc busters in Montana. That don’t make any sense unless the VR don’t hire Negroes. But it does. So there must’ve been another reason to pass over Weller. And you can see it plain as day if you just move on down that line with Uly. His plan was to count off seven fellers for jobs at the VR, and that’s just what he did. He didn’t give a shit who got hired as long as one particular man was among ‘em—the seventh and last man hired. The man who’d let himself get jostled around to the eighth place in line. Tall John Harrington.”
As the boys listened to my brother roll out his deductions, their expressions began to change, heating up to a bubbling boil like coffee on the fire. The only exception was Tall John himself, who seemed to shrink under the heat of his bunkmates’ glares. By the time Old Red wrapped up, Tall John didn’t look any bigger than a prairie dog.
“Now look here, boys,” he began.
That’s as far as he got. Some fellows are born with huevos so large they could bluff their way out of hell itself. Tall John was not such a man. A fox with a mouthful of chicken feathers could hardly have looked more guilty.
“You best clear out, Harrington,” Swivel-Eye said.
“But—”
“Go on!” Anytime snarled, taking a step toward Tall John. “There’s the gate. Get yourself through it or I’m gonna pull you down off that horse and shove your head so far up your ass you’ll be wearin’ your breakfast for a hat.”
Whether Anytime could make good on this threat was something Tall John chose not to test. He wheeled his mount, keeping his eyes on the former compadres who were now staring arrows at his heart, and managed to lean down and get the gate open without dismounting. Once he was out of the corral, he spurred his pinto to a gallop.
“Yeah, that’s it—ride!” Anytime shouted after him. “And don’t come back alone, if you know what’s good for you!”
Being a man for whom hurling abuse comes as natural as growing hair, Anytime wasn’t satisfied to stop there. He launched some spit, a couple cow patties, and a long string of profanities at the fleeing traitor’s backside. As we watched Anytime run out his conniption, I got the feeling he hadn’t had so much fun in months.
The same could have been said of my brother. His face beamed prideful pleasure, with a heap of relief piled on for good measure. He’d obviously been sitting on his suspicions about Tall John for a good reason: He didn’t trust himself to be right.
But right he was, and that had me looking pretty relieved myself just then. Gustav had cooked up a deduction worthy of Sherlock Holmes, and for the first time I entertained the notion that the McPhersons might have as much to worry about as we did. And apparently I wasn’t the only one to think so.
“Alright, Old Red,” Swivel-Eye said as Anytime’s cursing wound down to a raspy mumble. “You said somethin’ a minute ago about havin’ questions. Well, go and ask ‘em. I’ll provide what answers I can.”
“I’ll do the same,” Crazymouth said.
“Me, too,” Anytime added as he walked back toward us.
“Thanks, fellers,” Old Red said. “I’ve got the same request for all of you. Tell me everything you remember about last night—everything—from the moment we put the lamp out to the time the sun came up.”
“You mean like how many times I stepped out to take a piss?” Anytime asked.
He was joshing, but Old Red didn’t treat it like a joke. “Exactly. That’s just the kind of data I’m lookin’ for.”
“Data?” Anytime asked.
“Facts,” I translated. “Information.”
“Well, why the hell didn’t he say so?” Anytime said.
Answering that question would’ve dragged us into another conversation entirely, so I did my part to herd things along by sharing my memories of the night—which didn’t amount to much more than sleeping, more sleeping, and finally waking up, with the sound of a distant gunshot mixed in there somewhere. Crazymouth’s account was much the same, though phrased with more color. But Swivel-Eye stirred the pot when he threw in his recollections: He heard the shot, too—and he managed to notice the time, more or less. It was just before dawn, he said. Anytime backed him up, saying the sound of gunfire woke him and he didn’t grab more than another hour of sleep before it was time to roll out for the day.
I turned to Old Red. “Didn’t Emily—?”
“That’s right,” my brother said, cutting me off.
“Didn’t Emily what?” Anytime asked.
“She said she heard the shot, too,” Gustav replied, still playing it cagey.
Only I knew what my brother wasn’t adding. Emily had put a very different time on that gunshot: after midnight, perhaps one o’clock. It can take sound a while to travel from one place to another, of course, but I had my doubts that even the laziest echo would need all of three hours to mosey from the castle to the bunkhouse.
“None of you took a look around when you heard the shot?” Old Red said, hustling things along before anyone could ask him another question.
“All I saw was the insides of me eyelids,” Crazymouth said.
“Same for me,” Swivel-Eye added. “I just rolled over and went back to sleep.”
“I looked,” said Anytime.
My brother’s eyebrows shot up so fast it’s a wonder they didn’t hit the brim of his hat. “What did you see?”
“The bunk above mine—I was on my back.”
“You didn’t peek to see if anyone was missin’?”
“Why would anyone be. . .?”
Anytime’s gaze turned granite-hard as his words slowed to a stop. Beside him, Swivel-Eye and Crazymouth took on the same look of surprised suspicion. They were realizing that they’d all assumed wrong—as had I.
We’d figured Old Red wasn’t trying to pin down who killed Boudreaux. He was just trying to work out when, where, and why the McPhersons did it.
But my brother had more suspects than Uly and Spider. He wasn’t counting anybody out—including the Hornet’s Nesters.
“How about before the shot?” my brother said, his voice a touch softer now. He knew he was putting his bootheel down on his bunkmates’ toes. “Y’all notice any comings and goings?”
Crazymouth just shrugged and shook his head, his mouth sealed tight. Swivel-Eye stayed silent, too—though his googly eyes had something to say, shooting a glance over at Anytime.
“I went outside to piss,” Anytime spat. “What of it?”
“Did you go to the privy?” Old Red asked.
“Why would I do that? I let ‘er fly right outside the bunkhouse.”
“Did you see anyone else while you were out there?”
“Come to think of it, I did. Caught a glimpse of the Swede. He was headed for the privy.”
Gustav chewed on that a moment, looking either intrigued or skeptical—or both. Maybe Anytime really had seen the Swede. Or maybe he was just trying to dodge my brother’s rope by pushing someone else in its path.
“And this was before the gunshot?” Old Red asked.
“That’s right,” Anytime said. “Just before daybreak.”
“Just before daybreak,” Gustav repeated, giving his head a slight shake. He shot me a glance, and I nodded, letting him know I felt just as flummoxed as he did.
We were walking the mystery through pretty much as Holmes would, far as I could tell, yet we weren’t getting closer to the solution—we were getting further away. Not only did we not know who killed Boudreaux, we couldn’t even be sure where and when they did the deed, not to mention why. The only thing we really did know was the how of it, thanks to the bullet hole in Boo’s head.
Holmes on the Range Page 15
