Holmes on the Range (12 page)

It was dark by then, and we could see squares of light shining from the big house. One of those squares was the window to Perkins's office.

“Just when we thought things couldn't get more cockeyed around here,” I said, “all of a sudden we've got lords and ladies in the castle. I'll bet even your Mr. Holmes wouldn't have seen
that
comin'.”

Old Red shook his head. “I ain't so sure about that. Now that the Duke and them others are here, certain things make a lot more sense.”

Before my brother could spell out what exactly those “certain things” were, the boys started yelling for me to come back—Swivel-Eye and Tall John were having a tough time describing the women's clothes, and they needed my help. The rest of the night was eaten up by such talk, and the fellows wouldn't let me go to sleep until I'd described those gals' every hair, tooth, and dimple ten times over. When I finally hauled myself up into my bunk, my jaw was throbbing from overwork.

As the other hands settled in for the night, I tried to make use of the quiet and dark that settled over the bunkhouse to focus my thoughts. I meant to puzzle out the meaning behind Old Red's remark, but that
focus
I was aiming for kept straying elsewhere—onto Lady Clara. I'd worked so hard to construct her image for the boys, it was now burned into my brain like a brand. After a while, I stopped fooling myself. The only thinking I was going to do just then was about her. I affixed my mind to the lady's likeness in my last waking moments, hoping she would do me the kindness of visiting me in my dreams.

Whether she did or she didn't I don't know, since I can never recall what I've been dreaming if I'm startled awake. And that's exactly what happened the next morning.

Just after dawn, I was jolted from my slumber by the sound of gunfire.

Or, The VR Gains a Hand More Fit for Kid Gloves

T
all John's bunk was
closest to the door, so he had his head poked outside before the gunshot's echo had even died away.

“Who or what in the hell is that?” he said.

In a flash, five more bodies were pressed up against the doorway. What we saw outside was straight out of Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show.

By the nearest corral was the most prettified cowboy I'd ever laid eyes on. His knee-high boots were sky blue with white stars. Tucked neatly into the boot tops was a pair of fringed buckskin trousers around which was slung at the waist a jet-black two-gun holster. Above that the man wore a buckskin pullover with an eagle done in red and blue beads across the back. Around his neck was a red silk bandanna and on his head a tall-domed ten-gallon hat so pure white it looked like a snowcap atop some distant, rainbow-streaked mountain.

And in his hand was a shiny silver peacemaker, smoke still slithering from the barrel. There seemed to be nothing around for the fellow to be shooting, and after a moment it became clear that's exactly what
his target was—nothing. He held up the gun and stared at it, in apparent surprise that such doodads would make loud noises and emit fire and fumes and nuggets of lead.

As the man's profile came into view, Tall John, Swivel-Eye, and myself chuckled in chorus.

“I'll be damned,” I said. “That's Young Brackwell.”

“He's gussied up more than a twenty-dollar whore,” Anytime said.

“What kind of stock you think a hand like that would work?” Tall John asked. “Poodles?”

“I'd like to see his saddle,” Swivel-Eye added. “I bet it's purple velvet stuffed with swan feathers.”

“Too bloody right,” Crazymouth threw in, “ ‘e's a Christmas caboose served as bangers and mash, and no one what knows ‘is bum from his ooh-me-little-thumb is apt to be fooled by it.”

A silence followed while we tried to dig the meaning out of this remark. But the man who spoke next didn't offer a translation or yet another funny aimed at Brackwell.

“Strange that Uly and his boys ain't takin' note of this,” my brother said. He was looking at the McPhersons' bunkhouse, the doorway of which was surprisingly free of giggling cowboys.

“I don't think they're around,” Swivel-Eye said. “I heard ‘em up and about extra early. Sounded like the whole gaggle pulled out half an hour ago.”

Old Red cocked an eyebrow at me, the meaning of which I didn't grasp until he hopped into his britches, walked out of the bunkhouse, and headed for Brackwell.

When the cat's away
. . ., he'd been saying.

I sighed and set off after him, dressing myself on the run. Once it had been Gustav's job to keep me out of trouble. Now it looked like the boot was on the other foot—except it didn't fit me very well. At least this particular morning I'd have help, for every other hand followed along behind me, no doubt anxious to get a closer look at our clown-cowboy.

You don't have to be a Blackfoot scout to hear a herd of half-asleep punchers stumbling up on you, and Brackwell turned toward us when we were still a good many yards away, his slender face going as red as any Blackfoot's at the sight of us.

“Good morning,” he said with a sheepish nod.

“Takin' a little target practice, were you?” Old Red asked.

“Well. . .why, yes. Yes, I. . .yes.”

“Those are some mighty fine sidearms you got there.” Gustav held out his right hand. “May I?”

The gangly young aristocrat's expression changed from embarrassed to wary.

“Of course,” he said, slowly handing over the gun he'd been holding.

The Hornet's Nesters stirred with anticipation, no doubt imagining some gratifying humiliation Gustav was about to visit upon this silk-and-satin cowboy. But that just showed how little they'd come to know my brother. Though the trading of petty indignities is a much beloved pastime amongst drovers, he took little pleasure from such sport himself—unless perhaps it was
me
who was getting the ribbing.

Gustav inspected the gun—a gleaming silver-plated Colt .44-40 with a mother-of-pearl grip.

“Very nice.”

He popped the cylinder open and inspected the cartridges inside.

“Loaded it with six bullets, did you?” Old Red shook his head. “That takes guts. I never keep more than five in my iron. I'm always worried I'm gonna catch the hammer on somethin' and send a shot flyin' out Lord knows where. So I keep the chamber under the hammer empty. Some other fellers are known to do likewise.”

“Some other fellers” would be every man with a lick of gun sense in his head, but Old Red didn't say so. He was taking care to gentle-break our duded-up guest.

He closed the cylinder, spun the Colt around, and handed it back grip first.

“Yes, I can see how that might have its advantages,” Brackwell said. “Perhaps I should think about loading my revolvers as you do.”

Gustav shrugged. “They're your guns.”

Having by now figured out that Gustav meant to help Brackwell save face, not rub his face in the dirt, the other Hornet's Nesters took matters into their own hands. Despite the Englishman's buckskin and beads, he had an air of fragility about him, and rowdy cowboys are drawn to such vulnerability like wolves to a lame cow.

“If you want to play it truly careful,” Swivel-Eye said, “maybe you oughta leave out the bullets altogether.”

“Or the guns,” Tall John added.

“Awwww, don't listen to them,” Anytime said. “I think you need even
more
guns. You could probably fit five or six on that belt of yours.”

“No, Tall John hit it on the bunk. The guv ‘ere don't need any hot-cross at all,” Crazymouth said. “That gear of ‘is would blind any geezer what tries to shoot ‘im.”

I could've added some brilliant, biting witticism of my own here, of course, but the Englishman struck me as a decent enough fellow, despite his foolish choices in matters of fashion. On top of that, I didn't want to bring Old Red's wrath down upon me. For whatever reason, my brother was taking the young man under his wing, and he spun on the boys looking as ruffled up as a gamecock in the ring. Before he could speak, however, something behind us caught his eye, and he held his tongue.

We looked over our shoulders to see Edwards marching toward us. He was again attired in tweed, with a cap and brightly shined shoes and a pince-nez flashing sunlight in our eyes. Though well-tailored, the outfit couldn't conceal the thick lumpiness of the man's body. He dressed himself like caviar, but beneath the tweed he was pure potato.

“What's happening here? What was that noise?” he asked, aiming his questions at Brackwell.

The Hornet's Nesters tomfoolery had turned the Englishman kind
of wilty, but the closer Edwards got, the more he straightened up. By the time Edwards came to a stop in front of him, Brackwell had added four inches to his height.

“Just a little target practice. These fine lads were sharing their insights on the use of firearms.”

“You've no time to be socializing with the help,” Edwards replied, sounding like a not-so-loving father talking to a feebleminded stepchild. “Now run along and change out of that ludicrous costume before His Grace and Lady Clara see you.” A snort of disgust erupted from his big spud nose. “You know, I never understood why your family would send
you
as their representative—until now. If you've harbored a secret desire to be a ‘cow-boy,' you should have said so sooner. I can have McPherson hire you on. You won't earn as much as from your allowance, but hopefully you'll find a way to make yourself useful at last.”

Brackwell's face went crimson with barely restrained rage—or shame. Before he could make any reply, Edwards turned and addressed us hands.

“Bring the buggy and two good riding horses around to the house. Emily will bring out our saddles.”

He began to walk away, leaving Brackwell glaring after him impotently.

“Hey, Edwards!” Old Red shouted.

The man whipped his stout frame around looking ready to spit. He obviously wasn't used to hearing “the help” hollering at him.

“Are you American or British?” Old Red asked.

Edwards simply glowered for a moment, obviously weighing whether to answer.

“I'm from Boston,” he finally said.

“Oh?” Gustav rubbed his chin, his left eyebrow arched up high. “You know, I'm not sure if that really answers my question.”

“I expect to see those horses in five minutes,” Edwards growled, then he turned and stomped toward the castle.

“Hey, Old Red,” Swivel-Eye said. “Why'd you ask him that?”

“With that accent of his I couldn't tell where he was from,” my brother replied. “And I figured it was my right to know exactly what kind of asshole I was takin' orders from.”

That got the boys laughing, and Brackwell actually joined in. Old Red gave the Englishman a hearty slap on the back, which was like seeing a cat ride a horse—you just wouldn't think it was in its nature.

“Come on, pardner,” Gustav said to Brackwell. “Let's pick you out a pony.”

And with that they headed for the corral, the two of them looking so chummy they may as well have been walking arm in arm.

The boys were thunderstruck to find this new Old Red in their midst, and when he was out of earshot they asked me what he'd eaten that morning to get himself so spiced up. I just shrugged and said whatever it was, I wished he'd eat it more often.

By the time we pulled the buggy around to the house, my brother was already there with Brackwell. They were throwing what looked like leather mittens on the back of a couple horses. Upon closer inspection, those mittens were revealed to be saddles of the type we punchers call postage stamps.

Whereas a cowboy saddle's got good stiff wood under the leather, the moneyed classes do their riding on little more than a doily. I hoped for Brackwell's sake that our visitors were heading out for a quick pleasure ride—covering real ground with nothing under you but a quarter inch of cushion would kink up your back so bad you'd end up rubbing your nose on your knee. I was about to say as much when Uly came riding in behind us.

“You sure you wouldn't rather take one of our wagons, Mr. Brack-well?” he asked.

“Absolutely. I'm looking forward to trying one of your fine Western horses.”

Young Brackwell and Old Red exchanged a look that said they'd just been talking on that very subject. Their ease with each other wasn't lost on Uly.

“Well, I hope you enjoy the ride,” he said to Brackwell, sweet as sugar. Then he turned toward Gustav and the rest of us, and the sugar turned to salt. “Finish with them saddles and get to your own. There's cows in the west pasture with screwworms. I want ‘em doctored before we're back.”

We swallowed our moans and groans, though this assignment was about as stinky as ranch skunkwork could get. Uly obviously wanted us away from the Duke's lot, and it seemed best to accommodate him before he handed us some even nastier chore—like cleaning out the privy with our tongues.