Holmes on the Range by Steve Hockensmith Page A

taking out my anger on whatever rocks I could get my boot toe under, I saw Swivel-Eye and the Swede coming from the cookshack, their arms piled high with kitchen gear.
    â€œYou fellers goin’ to a bar-b-q?” I called out.
    The Swede answered in his usual gibberish, which Swivel-Eye quickly translated into regular English.
    â€œWe’re headed to the big house. Spider told the Swede to get set up there for some fancy cookin’.”
    I stopped dead in my tracks. “Who’s gonna cook for us then?”
    â€œTalla Yon!” the Swede said.
    Swivel-Eye didn’t need to decode that for me. I knew who the Swede was talking about. And I knew what that meant for my stomach: hard times. Putting Tall John in charge of a skillet made about as much sense as putting an Eskimo in charge of a cattle drive.
    I found our new pot-rustler in the barn. It looked like Tall Johnhad fared better shirking work than I had, for he’d barely begun putting away the saddles, bridles, harnesses, and whatnot. We got to it together. By the time we’d finished with the horses, Old Red and the rest of the fence crew came rolling in on the wire wagon.
    I’m sure my brother was overjoyed to discover that Swivel-Eye and Tall John hadn’t sunk me in a bog hole. Yet when he saw me he simply said, “How’d it go?” so casual you might’ve thought he was making chitchat with a hand coming back from the outhouse.
    â€œYou ain’t gonna believe it, Gustav!”
    â€œThe owners are here!” Tall John cut in.
    Being one who’s reluctant to give up the stage when there’s a tale to be told, I cut right back in, trotting out the detail that was sure to be greeted with even greater amazement.
    â€œAnd they brought women!”
    There was little variation in the responses, most of the boys opting for either “What?” or “Holy shit!” Old Red being Old Red, he stuck with silence.
    For once there were fellows fighting to help with the end-of-theday chores, as the boys didn’t want to leave the barn until they’d heard everything. Naturally, I held a few choice details in reserve for some later time when my audience would be reduced to one. Just when that time might come was unclear, as hot gossip is strong glue, and it looked like nothing was going to break apart the Hornet’s Nest bunch until these new developments had been totally talked out.
    I only got one moment alone with my brother. It was later that night in the bunkhouse, and the boys were deep in debate. Half of them hadn’t laid eyes on our guests, yet they’d already broken into two camps: the ones who favored the delicate, raven-haired maturity of Lady Clara and those who found themselves stirred more by the bawdy, blond girlishness of the maid, Emily. Old Red didn’t weigh in himself, except to say that pining for either woman made as much sense as trying to can sunshine. Then he got up and drifted to the doorway, puffingon his pipe. After throwing in a few more words on the lady’s behalf, I ambled after him.
    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.
    â€œJust 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