Read Online The Last Crossing by Guy Vanderhaeghe - Free Book Online
Authors: Guy Vanderhaeghe
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in the sun like a crazy man’s eye.
Go down, Lucy Stoveall.
The horses come crowding to the corral rails, nicker friendly as I pass. I stop dead, wondering if the sound will raise the Kelsos. Then I remember the big Navy Colt is still in the gunny sack. I drag it out. Long as my forearm, the heavy barrel takes a dive for the ground like a dowsing wand. A scorcher breeze peels a mist of dust off the yard, throws it in my teeth. Rusty hammer won’t cock, both thumbs pressing hard and it won’t set. Then it grinds, clicks into place.
I blink, the wheel commences to roll again, I roll with it over ground soapy with tossed wash water, ashes, old bones and hides, empty Van Camp’s bean cans, a rack of charred elk antlers. Shiftless mudsills so lazy they pitch trash on their doorstep.
The soddie door is ajar, listing on leather hinges. I put my eye to the gap, but it’s too dark inside to make out anything. I listen, catch whispery snores. I yank the door, plunge in with a sluice of light, and the wind bangs the door shut behind me. I’m blind in a room thick with a terrible stench.
“Where are you!” I shout.
A bit of sunshine leaks through the dusty window on to pink flesh and I throw up the Colt and fire. My nose fills with smoke, my ears clang. The door flaps open and sunlight blasts back in, shows me what I’ve fired on.
Not one of the Kelsos, but a dead pig. The dirt floor is a jelly of blood and pig shit. The sow’s got a rope hitched to a trotter, and a bib of flies tied to the slash across her throat. Bluebottles swirl up, shimmer and buzz, make the snoring noise I heard at the door. Strange. There’s a piece of paper on the pig’s flank.
Bunks stripped of blankets, shelves bare. A leaky flour sack laying a trail to the doorway. The Kelsos are gone.
I stoop down and see that PITCHER OF DIRTY OLD HOGG BY NAME OF STRAW is scrawled on the paper. When I pick it up, printing on the other side shows through the thin paper. It’s one of the handbills the Englishman’s been covering Fort Benton with. I flip it and read.
REWARD OF A THOUSAND DOLLARS OFFERED
TO ANY PERSON OR PERSONS HAVING KNOWLEDGE OF THE WHEREABOUTS OR THE FATE OF SIMON GAUNT ESQ., LAST SEEN IN THE COMPANY OF THE REVEREND OBADIAH WITHERSPOON IN FORT BENTON ON OR ABOUT THE 19TH OF OCTOBER LAST .
MR. SIMON GAUNT IS 27 YEARS OF AGE, STANDS FIVE-FOOT-NINE, IS A GENTLEMAN OF SLENDER BUILD. HISSPEECH AND DEPORTMENT ARE THOSE OF AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN, HIS FEATURES REGULAR, EYES PALE BLUE, HAIR BLOND.
ANYONE WITH INFORMATION PERTAINING TO THIS MATTER SHOULD MAKE HIMSELF KNOWN TO MR. CHARLES GAUNT AT THE OVERLAND HOTEL, FORT BENTON. HE IS MOST ANXIOUS TO LEARN ANYTHING TOUCHING UPON HIS BROTHER AND ALL THOSE RENDERING INFORMATION AND ASSISTANCE SHALL FIND THEMSELVES GRATEFULLY AND AMPLY REWARDED FOR THEIR TROUBLE .
I crumple the paper in my hand, step back through the doorway. Outside, the wind is groaning and clawing at the grass. Remembering Madge, I want to groan and claw too. After a bit, I look up and see Sheriff Hinckey bouncing a rig towards me across the prairie.
CUSTIS
Justice Daniels has gone to his dinner, Hinckey has gone to collect Mrs. Stoveall, and I’m left to kick my heels in a cell. Daniels wouldn’t pass on word to Aloysius to fetch me my Bible from the Stubhorn saloon. He said, “That don’t fool nobody, Straw. The devil can quote Scripture to his own purpose.”
He banged the door mighty hard going out when I told him I didn’t want to read Scripture, just wipe my ass with the Book of Judges.
Aloysius Donald Dooley will scold me for not being mindful of my situation. Say I’m only digging myself into a deeper hole. But I don’t intend to plead and make myself small for that son-of-a-bitch Daniels. I don’t bend for the likes of him.
Aloysius claims I’m contrary, but that’s because he’s a publican, and it’s a saloon-keeper’s job to be pleasant even if he doesn’t want to. Not that he is all that cheerful.
Go down, Lucy Stoveall.
The horses come crowding to the corral rails, nicker friendly as I pass. I stop dead, wondering if the sound will raise the Kelsos. Then I remember the big Navy Colt is still in the gunny sack. I drag it out. Long as my forearm, the heavy barrel takes a dive for the ground like a dowsing wand. A scorcher breeze peels a mist of dust off the yard, throws it in my teeth. Rusty hammer won’t cock, both thumbs pressing hard and it won’t set. Then it grinds, clicks into place.
I blink, the wheel commences to roll again, I roll with it over ground soapy with tossed wash water, ashes, old bones and hides, empty Van Camp’s bean cans, a rack of charred elk antlers. Shiftless mudsills so lazy they pitch trash on their doorstep.
The soddie door is ajar, listing on leather hinges. I put my eye to the gap, but it’s too dark inside to make out anything. I listen, catch whispery snores. I yank the door, plunge in with a sluice of light, and the wind bangs the door shut behind me. I’m blind in a room thick with a terrible stench.
“Where are you!” I shout.
A bit of sunshine leaks through the dusty window on to pink flesh and I throw up the Colt and fire. My nose fills with smoke, my ears clang. The door flaps open and sunlight blasts back in, shows me what I’ve fired on.
Not one of the Kelsos, but a dead pig. The dirt floor is a jelly of blood and pig shit. The sow’s got a rope hitched to a trotter, and a bib of flies tied to the slash across her throat. Bluebottles swirl up, shimmer and buzz, make the snoring noise I heard at the door. Strange. There’s a piece of paper on the pig’s flank.
Bunks stripped of blankets, shelves bare. A leaky flour sack laying a trail to the doorway. The Kelsos are gone.
I stoop down and see that PITCHER OF DIRTY OLD HOGG BY NAME OF STRAW is scrawled on the paper. When I pick it up, printing on the other side shows through the thin paper. It’s one of the handbills the Englishman’s been covering Fort Benton with. I flip it and read.
REWARD OF A THOUSAND DOLLARS OFFERED
TO ANY PERSON OR PERSONS HAVING KNOWLEDGE OF THE WHEREABOUTS OR THE FATE OF SIMON GAUNT ESQ., LAST SEEN IN THE COMPANY OF THE REVEREND OBADIAH WITHERSPOON IN FORT BENTON ON OR ABOUT THE 19TH OF OCTOBER LAST .
MR. SIMON GAUNT IS 27 YEARS OF AGE, STANDS FIVE-FOOT-NINE, IS A GENTLEMAN OF SLENDER BUILD. HISSPEECH AND DEPORTMENT ARE THOSE OF AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN, HIS FEATURES REGULAR, EYES PALE BLUE, HAIR BLOND.
ANYONE WITH INFORMATION PERTAINING TO THIS MATTER SHOULD MAKE HIMSELF KNOWN TO MR. CHARLES GAUNT AT THE OVERLAND HOTEL, FORT BENTON. HE IS MOST ANXIOUS TO LEARN ANYTHING TOUCHING UPON HIS BROTHER AND ALL THOSE RENDERING INFORMATION AND ASSISTANCE SHALL FIND THEMSELVES GRATEFULLY AND AMPLY REWARDED FOR THEIR TROUBLE .
I crumple the paper in my hand, step back through the doorway. Outside, the wind is groaning and clawing at the grass. Remembering Madge, I want to groan and claw too. After a bit, I look up and see Sheriff Hinckey bouncing a rig towards me across the prairie.
CUSTIS
Justice Daniels has gone to his dinner, Hinckey has gone to collect Mrs. Stoveall, and I’m left to kick my heels in a cell. Daniels wouldn’t pass on word to Aloysius to fetch me my Bible from the Stubhorn saloon. He said, “That don’t fool nobody, Straw. The devil can quote Scripture to his own purpose.”
He banged the door mighty hard going out when I told him I didn’t want to read Scripture, just wipe my ass with the Book of Judges.
Aloysius Donald Dooley will scold me for not being mindful of my situation. Say I’m only digging myself into a deeper hole. But I don’t intend to plead and make myself small for that son-of-a-bitch Daniels. I don’t bend for the likes of him.
Aloysius claims I’m contrary, but that’s because he’s a publican, and it’s a saloon-keeper’s job to be pleasant even if he doesn’t want to. Not that he is all that cheerful.
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