Holmes on the Range (21 page)

Before Old Red could do that wondering out loud, there came the tinkle of a small bell from inside the house, and Emily stiffened up like she'd heard a bear growl behind her.

“I have to go,” she said, somehow managing to look both annoyed and relieved at the same time. She turned and scurried inside to wipe marmalade from the Duke's whiskers or chew Edwards's eggs for him or whatever it is maids do for folks at breakfast time.

Old Red went all daydreamy again the second the door shut, and he spent the next few moments staring at an invisible speck of nothing that seemed to hover a few inches beyond the tip of his nose. By this point, I knew better than to ask what he was thinking—one more warning against theorizing and
theoretically
I was going to rip off his mustache and sprinkle it over his head like pepper.

So I just stood there, not saying a word. To help the time pass, I began whistling “Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie.”

Old Red blinked like a fellow coming out of a spell cast by a tent-show mesmerist.

“Can't a man stand here and
think
a moment?”

“Can't a man stand here and
whistle
?” I replied.

Old Red growled and stepped around me. “Mr. Holmes gets Dr. Watson, and what do I get?” he mumbled as he stomped away. “A god-damn canary.”

“Hey,” I said as I hustled along after him. “Where you goin' now?”

There was no need for Gustav to answer, for he reached his destination in less than a dozen strides.

“Stay out here and keep watch,” he said as he pulled open the double doors to the storm cellar and hurried down the steps, disappearing
into the dingy gloom. “If you so much as
smell
a McPherson, call out quick.”

He didn't have to explain why he wanted me on lookout. We had reason enough to fear Uly and Spider when we were out in the open. If they were to get us cornered in the cellar, we'd never make it back into the sunshine.

“See anything?” I called down into the dark.

“Just spiderwebs and dirt,” Old Red replied.

A small, orange light flickered to life—my brother firing up a lucifer.

“Hel-lo,” he said. “Somebody got here before us.”

“How can you tell?”

“Footprints, for one thing. And there's a nice, square depression here in the dirt.”

The glow of the match went out, and Gustav stepped from the shadows and climbed out of the cellar.

“Somebody had a box tucked away down there—a heavy one,” he said as he shut the doors behind him. “But it's gone now.”

“A box of papers, maybe?” I said, thinking of the sheet of paper Old Red had seen Boo take from the cellar the day before.

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
.

Or, We Separate the Men from the Hornet's Nest Boys

A
s 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 cookshack?”

“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.