Holmes on the Range (39 page)

“And how exactly do you figure that?”

“Well, as the man once said, ‘The grand thing is to be able to reason backward.' Now that we know who the bad actors were, it's easy as pie to piece together.”

Gustav's eyelids fluttered. His words started to slur and his shoulders sag, but he forged on.

“Horne showed up after Boudreaux was killed. Remember, Lady Clara said she was up waitin' for him, and we found tracks from two horses outside—one for Boudreaux, one for the lady's caller. Clara and Horne did their best to clean up the office, but they couldn't be expected to get rid of a body, bein' respectable murderers not accustomed to heavy liftin'. And Boudreaux had his mount waitin' outside. Somebody had to unsaddle that pony and get her back to pasture. That would've been work for hands—and Horne and the lady sure as hell weren't going to fetch
us
. So they set Uly and Spider to it. I figure that's who threw that beat-up old hideout gun in the outhouse with Boudreaux, too. Clara's derringer. . .would have been. . . recognized. . .”

Old Red's strength finally gave out, and he sank back into his pillows, his eyes beginning to close. I thought maybe he was passing out, but his eyes popped open again and he hit me with a question of his own.

“So,” he said, peeking down at the bloody dressings wrapped around his waist, “what the hell happened, anyway?”

I filled him in on all the deaths and departures, and he listened silently, drifting to the edge of unconsciousness once or twice before I could finish the telling of it. When I was done, he just nodded and said, “Alright then. It's over.”

“That's right. It's over,” I replied. “Thanks to you. You make a damn fine detective, Brother—as good as ol' Holmes himself.”

“Well, I. . .don't know about . . .”

His words trailed off as he sank back into slumber—with a smile on his face.

He was awake again within the hour asking if I could bring him his pipe and read him a story. There could be no doubt after that. Old Red was back.

His strength returned slowly, but within a week he was on his feet again, and within two he was ready to ride. I didn't have much to occupy myself once my bed-sitting duties were done, so I spent the remainder of those days in the office hunched over the desk at which the Duke had died. The Sussex Land and Cattle Company no longer had any use for the pen and ink and paper I found there, so I commandeered it all for my own little enterprise.

Before we left to head back to Miles City, I read out what I'd written to my brother. It took several hours to do it, but he didn't say a word all that time. He just nodded here and there and grimaced here and there and even grinned once or twice. But when I reached the ending, all I got was a shrug.

“Well, I suppose that tells it fair enough,” he said. “It's mighty heavy on words though, ain't it?”

This response didn't do much to build my confidence in myself as a writer. Yet still I'm clinging to the hope that all these
words
of mine will meet with a more enthusiastic reception elsewhere.

After all, my brother set out to make himself another Sherlock Holmes, and he succeeded—so much so that he now plans to search out the nearest Pinkerton office and offer his services. So why then can't
I be another John Watson? As I see it, I've got less of a leap to make than Old Red, for I was putting in practice as a tale-teller years before he got it in his head to be a detective.

When the time comes for us to leave the Bar VR, I'll do so with a big bundle of scribble-scrawled paper wrapped up in my war bag. Gustav keeps joking that I'll never make it back to Miles with so many trees strapped to my horse, but I've let these rare jests of his pass without reply. I'll be packing that bag tight with something new—a real dream for myself—and wherever my brother and I might ride to next, I know I can carry that with me without it weighing a thing.

The author wishes to thank:

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle—for inspiration.

Elyse Cheney, super-genius (and agent)—for tenacity and good advice.

Ben Sevier, super-genius (and editor)—for enthusiasm and insight and
excellent
taste in books.

Steve Boldt, Stephanie Hanson, Mary Dell, Matt Springer, Mike Wiltrout, Cecily Hunt, Steve Bayer, Ron Hockensmith—for seeing what I couldn't.

Janet Hutchings, Linda Landrigan, Gina McIntyre, Gene Wolfe—for priceless encouragement and the timely opening of doors.

The fine folks of the alt.old-west discussion group—for putting up with stupid questions.

The Sonoma County Library—for books, books,
books
!

Alyssa and Mark Nickell—for open hearts and an open door.

John Harrington, Marcie Galick, Linda Manning, Joyce Tischler, Bob and Nancy Ortmann, Charles Best (1570–1627)—for
miscellaneous
.

Mom and Dad—for making so much possible.

Kate—for love pats and oo-mas.

Mar—for everything.