Or, Old Red Is Reunited with One Partner and Loses Sight of Another
Spider, Boudreaux, and the Swede returned from Miles City the next afternoon. Though Spider and the albino were hardly a welcome sight, we were mighty pleased to see our biscuit rustler. While the Swede was gone, Uly had Tall John doing the cooking, even though the man couldn’t so much as pop corn without scorching it black. On top of that, most of us Hornet’s Nesters had put in special wink-anda-handshake orders with the Swede in the hopes of getting around the VR’s “company store”—aka Uly, who charged prices for tobacco, rolling paper, chewing wax, and other necessities that would’ve gotten a cowtown shopkeeper lynched.
Unfortunately, the second I laid eyes on the Swede, I knew the company store wouldn’t be losing my business. The old cook had a sheepish look about him, and as soon as he was free of Spider and Boudreaux he began handing out money and apologies.
“I em sewry, boyce. Spiter vas over my shoulder all de time looking.”
The only fellow who got a smile instead of a refund was my brother.
“Ahhhh, Old Red! I have what you ask fur, I tink.”
The Swede had brought back a pile of newspapers, which we would soon put to use as reading material, kindling, wallpaper, and asswipe. Buried at the bottom of the stack were three magazines, and when the Swede pulled them out I knew exactly how I’d be spending the next few evenings.
They were copies of Harper’s Weekly, the “Journal of Civilization”—and, much more important as far as my brother was concerned, the journal of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
The magazine had begun printing accounts of Holmes’s cases in January. Prior to that, Gustav had run across but two Holmes tales: “The Red-Headed League” and “A Study in Scarlet.” Thanks to Harper’s, he acquired several more. These weren’t tattooed on my eyeballs to the same extent as the first two, for Old Red had stopped pestering me for repeat readings once we were bunked at the VR. I knew his reason, though he never spoke it.
Cowboys can be uncommonly open-minded on many a surprising subject, but there is one upon which their minds snap shut like a steel-jawed bear trap: They hate an “uppity” man. For one of their number to grudgingly admire a gentleman like Sherlock Holmes might be tolerated. To aspire to become him would invite scorn of the most venomous variety. So Old Red had kept his detective stories—and his dreams—out of sight.
But I knew the temptation of three new Holmes cases would be too much to resist. And sure enough that night in the bunkhouse Gustav handed me one of his treasures and said, “If you feel up to it, Brother, I’d sure enjoy a little oratory.”
Now I’m not one for holding grudges. They usually slip through my fingers within a day or so. I’m especially apt to let them wriggle free if they involve my brother, as I’ve had years to accustom myself to his cussedness, just as he’s had more than enough time to get used to whatever flaws I might allegedly possess.
But I was still stewing on what Spider had done to Pinky—and what we hadn’t done to stop him. So while I always feel obligated to read when Gustav requests it, that doesn’t mean I can’t roast him over the fire a bit before I do so.
“Why, sure,” I said. “This here Harper’s has got a story on that World’s Columbian Exposition they’re plannin’ in Chicago. Gonna be like ten state fairs and a hundred carnivals rolled up in one. And you’d never guess how much concrete they’re shippin’ in to build the exhibit halls and such. This article just goes on and on about it. It should only take an hour or so to get through.”
Hats, boots, and curses came flying my way, while Old Red suffered in stone-faced silence.
“Well, my goodness! If you fellers don’t have strong opinions about literature!” I said. “This next story looks like it’s about a stolen race-horse, so I don’t suppose you’d want to hear that. Now here’s an article about the Idaho Populist Party. How about if I—”
As I expected, there were cries of “Whoa there!” and “Back up!”
There are two things cowboys can talk on all day long: horses and gambling. Combine them into one story—and throw in the appeal of crime to boot—and you’ll have any puncher downright hypnotized. So naturally the boys were anxious to hear that racehorse tale. . .which just happened to be “Silver Blaze” by Sherlock Holmes’s pal John Watson.
The story had much to grab the ears of my audience. There was that stolen Thoroughbred, a death, a crooked bookmaker, and even Gypsies. Yet while keeping the Hornet’s Nesters happily diverted, all this was but trimming as far as my brother was concerned. The meat of the matter was how Holmes found that missing horse. As I read certain passages, I slowed my pace and glanced at Old Red, certain that he’d be doing his best to commit these words to memory:
“The difficulty is to detach the framework of fact—of absolute undeniable fact—from the embellishments of theorists. . ..
“I follow my own methods and tell as much or as little as I choose. That is the advantage of being unofficial. . ..
“See the value of imagination. . ..We imagined what might have happened, acted upon the supposition, and find ourselves justified.”
When I was finished, Gustav stretched out on his bunk looking like a man who’s stuffed himself full of duck and pudding on Christmas Day. The rest of the boys seemed pleased enough, though the story lacked the perils and bloodshed they consider essential to truly rousing tale-telling. Still, the next night I was able to talk them into hearing two more Holmes cases: “The Stock-Broker’s Clerk” and “The ‘Gloria Scott.’ ”
Though these stories struck me as skimpy on the instructive deductions my brother craved, Old Red had no complaints. In fact, he had little to say on anything at all, acting so distracted in the days that followed that the other hands began ragging him for his “sleepwalking.”
Unlike Gustav, the rest of the Hornet’s Nesters were in uncommonly high spirits just then. We were almost done branding the calves McPherson’s men had brought up from the distant pastures that had so far been barred to us, and the boys hoped we’d soon be out on horseback pushing cattle ourselves.
No sooner was the last calf running back to mama than Uly came to the pen to lay out exactly what our new chores would be. I almost didn’t recognize him at first, for he’d finally scraped off his dark thicket of beard and given his face and hands a splash of water. If he ever decided to change his raggedy britches and put on a clean shirt, he’d practically look respectable.
But one thing about Uly hadn’t changed: He wasn’t a man to waste time on niceties.
“McCoy, Dury, Amlingmeyer,” he barked, pointing at Anytime, Crazymouth, and Old Red. “Take the fence wagon south and mend the wire wherever it needs it till you get five miles out. The rest of you I want ridin’ bog north along the creek. That gully washer a few days back might’ve left some new sinkholes. You see any cattle in ‘em, you get ‘em right out. No dawdlin’ now—hop to it.”
I was so pleased to be getting out of the corral and horsing myself, the full meaning of Uly’s words didn’t hit me straight off. I turned to fetch my riding gear and then stopped dead in my tracks, my mouth slowly falling open and just dangling there, slack with surprise.
For the first time since we’d been at the VR, I realized, Old Red and I were being busted apart.