Holmes on the Range (14 page)

“I don't get you,” I said to Old Red as we showed Boo our heels. “For days, you've had us tiptoein' around because of some supposed spy. But then you spout off just the kind of talk that got Pinky beat and burned. Don't you think Boo's gonna go straight to the McPhersons once they're back?”

“Nope.”

“You got a reason to say that, or is that just your natural sunny optimism speakin'?”

“I got a reason.” We were almost to the corral by then, and Gustav had to talk fast. “When Boudreaux came out of the cellar, he had a piece of paper in his hand. I saw him stuff it in his pocket—and he saw me see him. So he knows if he blabs on me to Uly,
I'll
blab on
him
about that paper.”

“But that won't help us if you ain't deductin' right,” I pointed out. “If that paper don't mean nothin'—if Boo ain't up to somethin' behind Uly's back—we're cooked.”

We were climbing the railing now, and Old Red paused with his legs slung over into the corral.

“Huh,” he grunted. “I reckon you're right.”

Then he dropped down to the ground, picked up his gloves, and got back to work.

Or, Old Red Sets Out Dishes, and Emily Dishes Out Gossip

B
efore long, Boudreaux took
up his perch out front of the McPhersons' bunkhouse again. He spent the rest of the afternoon there doing an uncanny imitation of a bump on a log. He only unstuck himself from his seat twice: once to head out with us looking for more maggoty cattle, and again to tell us to knock off for the day. Each time he spoke, Anytime gave him a salute—with his middle finger. Beyond following orders, Old Red didn't have any reaction at all, and Boo didn't treat him or me any different from the other boys.

The Duke's expedition returned just as the evening dusk faded into night. Us Hornet's Nesters were eating supper at the time, but we had no choice but to hop up to help—Spider and his men still weren't back from wherever they'd gone that morning, and Boudreaux couldn't very well tend to the buggy and horses alone. For supper we'd been served Tall John's tooth-cracking stab at red-bean pie, so the boys didn't feel too bad about putting down their plates.

Our visitors looked dusty but cheerful as they pulled up in front of
the castle. Brackwell greeted us with a wave of his huge and now not-so-white hat, Lady Clara beamed quietly, and even the Duke had a look of prideful satisfaction upon his flabby face. The one exception was Edwards, who was scowling even worse than usual.

It was obvious all that bump-ass riding had jumbled up the Bostonian's bones. Uly and Boo had to help him down from his horse and practically drag him into the house. I watched them go, wondering what McPherson and the albino would get to talking about once they'd deposited Edwards in his room.

“You there!” the Duke barked, and I was shocked to discover that these words were directed at
me
. I snapped to attention like I was wearing blue.

“Yes, sir?”

“Tell the cook we've returned. The party will be changing for dinner, which we will expect within the hour. We had discussed
canards à la Rouennaise
this morning, but I think not now. A roast of our own Cantlemere beef should do nicely. Yes, very nicely indeed! And tell Emily to set out one of the ports. And cigars! This is most definitely a night for port and cigars, eh, Brackwell? Well, now—did you get all that?”

I most certainly did not. I feared to admit my shortcomings as a manservant to the Duke, however, and I was prepared to simply nod and set off to make a mash of the whole thing. But Old Red spoke up before I could do so.

“Don't fret, Your Grace,” he said, taking me by the elbow and steering me toward the house. “Whatever he don't remember, I'll remember for him.”

We were inside before the old man could raise an eyebrow at my brother's initiative, so I did it for him.

“Are you crazy? Boo's off sayin' who knows what to Uly, and you just go strollin' into the castle like you own the place?”

“I ain't gonna sit on my ass when the time comes to act. While the
Duke and his people are here, we've got us a chance to break this thing.”

“The only thing that's gonna get broke around here is our necks,” I grumbled. “And what difference does it make whether or not them English folks are here? They hadn't even showed up when Perkins got himself ground into powder.”

Old Red shook his head with sad, almost perplexed aggravation, as if he'd just observed me trying to eat soup with the wrong end of the spoon.

“That don't mean it ain't all connected,” he said. “Haven't you wondered about the
timing
of—?”

The doors behind us opened, and the Duke and the rest of his bunch stepped into the foyer.

“That must be Emily back in the kitchen,” Gustav said, cupping a hand to his ear while herding me down the hallway. “Oh, Emily! Emmm-illly!”

As it turned out, Emily
was
in the kitchen. She was harping away at the Swede, who looked as flummoxed by her chatter as we usually looked by his.

“Sir Red!” the maid said when she turned and saw us come in. She smiled and gave me a little curtsy, and I pulled myself together enough to respond with a deep bow.

“My lady.”

She giggled in just the way I wanted.

Making gals laugh has always come easy for me. Maybe it's because I'm not exactly underblessed on good looks. Or maybe it's because I spent so much time around women as a boy. After my father and my brother Conrad died and Gustav hit the trail to make money, it was just me and my mother and my sisters there on the farm for the next couple years—and there wasn't much to laugh about. So I did my best to keep everyone bucked up, and I've kept on clowning ever since.

Old Red, on the other hand, can face down rattlesnakes, rustlers,
and rabid bears without so much as batting an eye, but put him face-to-face with a
female
and he'll practically bat himself blind. He's no more unsightly than the average drover, with piercing blue-gray eyes and a high forehead and a nose and ears that manage to be “prominent” without spilling over into “enormous.” Yet he's always been so bashful around women he could hardly bring himself to shout “Fire!” if a gal's skirts caught flame.

When I introduced him to Emily, she gave him another jokey curt-sey, but the best he could do in reply was swipe off his hat and mumble what sounded like “Peas tomato again tents”—I assume it was “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” I stepped in quick before things could get even more awkward.

“Your Grits is back, and he's hungry. You're supposed to set out pork and cigars before you go upstairs.” I turned to the Swede. “And you're not to worry about whatever you had planned for supper. Just rustle up some steaks.”

“You're to set out
port
, ma'am,” Old Red corrected, still mumbling but managing to make himself heard. “And the Duke said he wanted a roast.”

“A roast, steaks, what's the difference? The man wants beef.” I glanced over Emily at the Swede. “What's the matter? You look like you're about to bust out bawlin'.”

“All day I em vit ducks cooking, and this one”—he shook a bony finger at Emily—”she say, ‘Not goot! Not goot enough for the Duke!' And now I em to broil a roast?”

“You will if you know what's good for you,” Emily replied coolly, all brusque business now. “You don't deny a man like the Duke. He gets what he wants, how he wants it—or you'll pay. So you'd better get to that roast. And lay out oysters, boiled potatoes, custards, and a cherry tart while you're at it.”

“God damn it!” the Swede exploded, cutting loose with the clearest English I'd ever heard leave his lips. “I em only two hands having!”

Emily gave him an unsympathetic shrug. “They'd better be enough then, hadn't they? I don't have time to help you. I have to go upstairs and dress my lady for dinner.”

She started for the door, but an unexpected obstacle appeared in her path—Old Red.

“Looks to me like you and the Swede have your hands full,” he said, his words loud and clear now. “Seein' as we ain't got nothin' to do but head back to the bunkhouse and jawbone with the boys, maybe we could help out.”

“You?” Emily replied with a skeptical grimace. But her frown slowly blossomed into a mischievous grin. “Well, why not? That fat bastard dragged us all the way out here without so much as a single valet—what more could he expect? Ho! Do you know how to set a table, then?”

We knew how to set plates on wood, but that wasn't quite what she was asking. Nevertheless, Old Red got to nodding and grinning, and he cocked an eyebrow at me that said I should do the same. So I did, and Emily gave us another “Ho!” She showed us where the china and silver had been laid out and then left us to it—provided we
didn't
wash our hands before we started.

“That gal sure don't like the Duke,” Old Red mused as I began puzzling over the bowls, plates, cups, saucers, silver, and crystal.

“Tell me why she should. And while you're at it, why don't you tell me what the hell you're up to?”

“Settin' a table,” Gustav said. “Let's do the plates first. Them I understand.”

The big plates took all of ten seconds to lay out around the dining room table. There were smaller plates, too, and after some debate we stacked these atop their larger siblings.

“Well, that wasn't so hard to figure out, was it?” Old Red said, looking pleased. “Now what do you think about them bowls? On top of the plates or off to the side?”

“They wear ‘em on their heads for all I know. Now would you please tell me what we're doin' here?”

“We are waiting,” my brother said, speaking slowly and solemnly, like a preacher reading Scripture from the pulpit, “for opportunity to present itself.”

Rather than explain
what
opportunity, Old Red placed a bowl on top of a plate and leaned back, beaming at the porcelain tower he was building.

“Now what about these spoons?” he said. “In the bowls or beside ‘em?”

I told him exactly where he could stick those spoons, but of course he didn't follow my recommendation. Instead, he started balancing the spoons on top of the bowls. When he was done with that, he crisscrossed the spoons with forks.

Old Red's table-setting sure as hell didn't look right, but I had to admit this much: It did look
interesting
.

Just as he found a home for the last of the saucers—he'd perched them atop a set of crystal goblets—the door behind me opened and I heard Emily bark out a “Ho!”

“If only old Ousby could see this. He'd drop dead on the spot, he would,” the maid said. “It's a good thing the lady wanted to finish dressing herself tonight. . ..”

Emily started around the table, tittering as she undid the work Old Red had put into it. My brother bugged out his eyes at me, and I realized the
opportunity
he'd been awaiting had just presented itself. We were alone with an eager young flirt—and it doesn't take much canoodling to turn flirtation to gossip. And as canoodling with women is more my line than Gustav's, it was up to me to get things rolling.

“So,” I said, favoring Emily with a smile, “who's this Ousby feller you speak of?”

“The gruffest old goat in all England, that's who. He's the head
butler back at Cantlemere. The real Cantlemere, I mean. The Duke's estate in Sussex.”

“How come he ain't out here with the rest of you?”

“Oooooo, he's got the household to run, don't he? And he's hardly got the staff to do it anymore. And anyway, he's too old to be dragging his bones halfway around the world. That's for the likes of poor me.”

“You ain't excited to see America?”

“Excited to see the Columbian Exposition maybe. After all, that's the reason we came over, innit? Or so they tell the servants.”

Emily flashed me an exaggerated wink that seemed to imply the secrets and lies and inherent sneakiness you always had to expect from your employers.

“But now we've missed the opening. And why?” she went on. “So we can come out to Mandana or Montini or whatever you call it and let the savages have a chance at our scalps! Ho! I'll have you know the Duke actually gave me a
gun
before we left Chicago. A little silver thing hardly bigger than a pocket watch. Everyone got one just like it—Lady Clara, Edwards, Brackwell. Old Dickie made a joke of it. ‘In case of Red Indian attack or train robbery,' he said. Oooooo, he thinks he's a regular Oscar Wilde. If only he were. Ho!”

Old Red was getting exactly what he'd wanted—information. There was such a deluge, in fact, I felt myself drowning in it. I grabbed hold of a stray bit of flotsam and tried to ride out the flood.