Holmes on the Range (2 page)

In “The Red-Headed League,” Holmes busts up a gang of desperadoes just about single-handed. But it wasn't the
what
of the story that got under my brother's skin so much as the
how
. Holmes had him this way of digging out facts just by noticing what most people ignore. He could tell where you were born by shaking your hand and what you had for breakfast by how you combed your hair.

“He didn't catch them bank-robbin' snakes with some trick he learned at a university,” Old Red said to me. “He caught ‘em cuz he knows how to
look
at things—look and really see ‘em.”

I guess that would appeal to a fellow like my brother, who had his one year of schooling so long ago it's a wonder he can remember one plus one equals two. He asked me to read that story to him over and over in the months that followed, and not once did I refuse, for read-ing's a skill I wouldn't even have were it not for him. (When I was a child, Gustav and my other brothers and sisters worked extra hours at their chores so at least one of us—me—could get some decent book-learning. I was supposed to hoist the family up into the merchant class, only smallpox and floodwater swept most of us up to heaven before I could do much in the way of hoisting myself.)

The more Old Red heard “The Red-Headed League,” the more he got the idea that he had the makings of a fine detective. As I'm his
younger brother, you might think I'd be inclined to poke a pin into such puffed-up notions. But I'd always figured Gustav was meant for more than roping steers. While he's every bit as undereducated as your average puncher, he's by no stretch underthoughtful. He's prone to long stretches of cogitation and contemplation on matters he barely even knows the words to put a name to, and I've often thought if he'd been born the son of a senator instead of the son of a sodbuster, he would've become a philosopher or a railroad tycoon instead of a dollar-a-day cowhand.

So I tolerated Old Red's fixation on detectiving, even if I couldn't see any practical use for it. As it turned out, there was something else I couldn't see: how much trouble it could get us into.

Not that we were in great shape when that trouble began. The bank in which we'd been saving our trail money had gone belly-up, and we'd drifted to Miles City with nothing left of our nest egg but a few dollars in our pockets and fond memories in our hearts. It was February, so the spring roundups—and the jobs that come with them—were months off. If we were going to get through the winter without selling our saddles and eating our boots, we needed a miracle and we needed one quick.

Now, waiting for a miracle can be a disheartening business. I purchased what solace I could with the two bits Old Red gave me to parcel out each day in the town's saloons. My brother tagged along, though not out of desire for drink or companionship. He wanted to make sure I didn't start a tab anywhere. And he had another reason, too: He was practicing his Holmesifying.

While I shared watery beer and dirty jokes with whatever partners I could rustle up, Old Red sat quietly, casting a cold eye on anyone who came through the door. He was testing himself, trying to make Holmes-style deductions—I wasn't allowed to call them “guesses”—based on a person's appearance. He wasn't bad at it either, though I wouldn't let him forget the time he told me a fellow was a bounty
hunter with a wooden leg. Turned out he was a blacksmith who'd dropped an anvil on his foot.

Old Red did most of his Sherlocking in a dingy little hangout called the Hornet's Nest, which caters to drovers whose luck has taken a turn for the unfortunate. Naturally, that's where we were the day
our
luck went from bad to worse. It was well before noon, and I was still nursing my first beer of the day when Gustav sent an elbow into my ribs and whispered, “Take a look at these fellers.”

I glanced up and saw two big men moving toward the bar. They had no need to shove—they were rough-looking hard cases indeed, and the crowd before them simply parted like the sea before Moses. When they reached the bar, they barked out for whiskey.

“Those two move with confidence,” Old Red said, talking low. “And I'd say they've earned it somehow, cuz they're puttin' a real scare on the boys. They ain't got fancy enough artillery to be gunmen, though. And just look at the wear on those clothes. They're punchers—but not just any punchers. Men in command. A ranch foreman and his straw boss, I'd say.”

I shrugged. “Could be.”

“No ‘could be' about it.” My brother lifted a finger just high enough to point out the larger of the two men, a black-bearded, meat-heavy gent even taller than me. “I'd bet our last buck that's Uly McPherson.”

I knew of the man. He was the foreman of a nearby ranch: the Bar VR. He had himself quite a reputation—not that I'd heard much specific. I'd simply noticed that anytime his name came up, folks were too busy looking over their shoulders and wetting their drawers to keep talking.

“That'd explain why the boys ain't crowdin' him,” I said. “Once he's gone, we'll ask the fellers if you deducted right.”

The two men picked up their whiskeys and washed their tonsils. Then the bigger one slapped a coin on the bar, and they started to mosey
out. But when they reached the doorway, they didn't push through. Instead, they turned to face the room.

“Listen up,” the big one said, not shouting, but with a strong, clear voice that grabbed your ears hard even without a whopping lungful of air behind it. “I'm lookin' to hire hands to work the Bar VR at five dollars a week.”

Old Red had been right: It was Uly McPherson.

He looked more like a small-time nester than the top screw of a big ranch. His battered Stetson had lost so much of its shape it drooped over his head like a saddle, and his clothes were held together with the sloppy patchwork you see on bachelor farmers. His large, round face obviously hadn't felt the touch of a razor in months.

I pegged the fellow with him as his brother, Ambrose. He looked to be a tad older than me, which would put him just north of twenty. Folks around town called him Spider, though I didn't know why. With his puffed-out chest and dark, unblinking eyes, he reminded me more of a rooster. His lean face was smooth-shaven, but otherwise he was as shabby as his brother.

They looked like men who didn't give a shit what other men thought of them, and I felt pity for any drover dumb enough to sign on with their godforsaken outfit.

“I need waddies who can ride, rope, stretch wire, grease a windmill, and take orders without backtalk,” McPherson said. “If you think that's you, line up.”

There was a long, quiet moment while everyone mulled that over. Then a gangly fellow called Tall John Harrington pushed off from his perch and moved to the middle of the room. After that, more men found the courage—or desperation—to do likewise. I turned to Gustav, about to thank God we hadn't sunk so low, only to discover that we
had
.

Old Red was standing up.

“No,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

And that was the end of the debate. Gustav wasn't just my elder brother—he was the only family I had left. I'd been stuck to his bootheel for four years, and while he'd walked us into a few tight spots, he'd always walked us out again.

So I got to my feet, and the two of us joined the cowboys trying to form a line. A few were dizzy with drink despite the early hour, making it bumpy work, but we finally got ourselves into a ragged, slouchy row.

We were a scruffy-looking bunch, but you could form a fine outfit if you put us to the test and chose carefully. Some ranches have tryouts that last days, with dozens of drovers busting broncs and throwing calves until all the spots in the bunkhouse are filled. I figured that's what McPherson had in mind. He'd ask a few questions, see if he recognized any names, then take us to a corral to make out whose riding was as good as his talk.

McPherson sized us up, then walked over to the man at the far-right end of the line.
Here we go
, I thought, as the fellow he was moving toward was Jim Weller, a Negro puncher with a reputation as a top-drawer hand.

McPherson stepped right past him.

“One,” he said, pointing at the man to Weller's left. He moved to the next man. “Two.”

From there he went to three and four and so on in the order you might guess. Gustav was five. I was six. Tall John Harrington was seven—and the last one picked.

“Alright, boys,” McPherson said. “You're hired.”

Or, My Brother Discovers a Cure for Lockjaw

M
cPherson told us when
to show up at the ranch and the trails to take to get there, and then off he and his brother went, leaving behind a shocked silence that hung so heavy on the room it could've smothered a cat.

This was simply not the way a big outfit picked hands. And why hire up now, with snow still on the ground and the spring roundups weeks off? It just didn't figure.

The cowboy to Tall John's left broke the quiet by swiping his hat off his head and throwing it at the floor. “God damn! I'm eight out of seven! Am I the unluckiest son of a bitch ever or am I not?”

Most of the boys busted out with guffaws, but Jim Weller didn't even unpack a smile.

“If anyone's had the silver linin' swiped off his cloud, that'd be me,” he said.

No one had a reply to that, for though the Negro drover was well thought of by those willing to think, not everyone falls into that
category—as McPherson seemed to prove. Conversation that separated the open-minded from the muleheaded was best avoided lest you were fishing for a fight.

It was Old Red, of all people, who put some cheer back in the room. Most days he takes to fun like a duck to fire, or you might say like oil to water. But this day was different.

“Here's a silver linin' for you, Jim,” he said, and he pulled out a ten-dollar note and handed it to me. “You know what to do with this, Brother.”

I stared at him as if he'd just pulled the king of Siam from his pocket.

“You sure?”

“I'm sure.”

I let out a whoop and called for the bartender to pour a beer down every throat in sight. Old Red and I were mighty popular while that ten dollars lasted. Once it ran out, other fellows took to buying rounds, either to toast their good luck or drown their bad.

Somewhere in there a twister hit town, or at least it hit me, for when I awoke the next morning our little hotel room was spinning like a top. Yet when Gustav pulled the sheets off me and barked, “Let's go,” I managed to roll my aching carcass out of bed, haul it downstairs, and drag it atop a horse—but just barely.

“It ain't fair,” I groaned as we rode out of town. “You throw down the last of our money on liquor, and
I'm
the one with the hangover.”

“I appreciate your sacrifice, Brother,” Old Red said, showing me that little smirk of his. “I knew I could count on you to get a rave-up goin', and you did.”

Having a brain pickled in nickel beer, I had to ponder on that a moment before I caught its meaning. Despite the alcohol haze that clouded the previous day, I had dim recollections of my moody, mopey brother laughing it up with the boys in the Hornet's Nest, swapping stories and jokes. . .and gossip about the Bar VR.

“You wanted everybody drunk,” I said. “You wanted everybody
talkin'
.”

Gustav let his smug smile grow a little larger. He'd used me as his liquored-up Judas goat, and it rubbed on me like sandpaper—though I had to admit I'd had plenty of fun.

“So?” I growled. “That firewater smoke anything out?”

Old Red nodded at the open range ahead and kicked his horse up to a canter. I knew what that meant:
Not in town
. I got my mount moving, too, every jouncing jostle shooting a jolt of pain through me. While I waited for Gustav to slow his horse and open his mouth, I got my mind off my suffering—and my irritation with my brother—by chewing over what I already knew of the Bar VR.

Like a lot spreads, it was owned by Englishmen, lords and earls and such in this case. That's why it even had a name that acted uppity: the Cantlemere Ranche. As is the custom, the outfit was more commonly known by its brand, that being a stubby line over the letters
VR
.

A few years back, the Bar VR wasn't much different from any other big ranch. The winter of ‘86–'87 changed that. The Big Die-up it's called, for that was the winter more than a million cows froze solid on the plains. At the time, I was trying to keep our family afloat by clerking in a Kansas granary—a job that let me ride out the blizzards as cozy as kittens in a sweater. Old Red was earning money, too, though he didn't have it so soft: He was fighting frostbite in a Panhandle ranch shack. The snow got so high he saw dead steers in treetops when it melted, and the smell of rotting cow flesh hung on the prairie for a year.