Incident at Blue Nose Creek by John D. Nesbitt

RHODES FOUND THE RANCH at Blue Nose Creek, where the cottonwood trees were turning yellow, and the grass had gone pale and dry. At a bend in the stream, three white canvas tents shimmered beneath a blue sky. Up the slope a hundred yards, the ranch yard sat silent as smoke threaded from a stovepipe in the bunkhouse roof. Rhodes nudged his horse that way.

The bunkhouse door opened, and a man in a drab hat and work clothes stepped outside. “What do you want?”

Rhodes dismounted. “I’d like to talk to the person in charge.”

“That’s me. I’m the foreman.”

“Pleased to meet you. My name’s Bob Rhodes. I was wondering if I could put up for a day or two. My horse could use a rest. I’d be glad to work for my keep.”

The foreman’s eyes traveled over Rhodes and his horse. “I suppose so. We’ve got other company that takes supper with us. Group of surveyors. They’re camped down there.”

“I saw the tents.”

“The cook could use the help. I’ll tell him. You can put your horse in the corral.”

AFTER SUPPER, WITH THE dishes cleaned and put away, Rhodes looked for a seat. Two ranch hands were playing cribbage at the middle of the long table. At the end close to the sheet-iron stove, three of the surveyors and their camp tender were playing a game of pinochle. The fourth surveyor, whose name Rhodes had caught as Chambers, sat apart facing the stove.

The man was above average height and sat straight in his chair. He had brown hair, beginning to grey at the temples, and a trimmed mustache. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles as he read a newspaper and smoked a straight-stem pipe. His corduroy trousers were tucked into his long brown boots, and his dust-colored canvas field coat was closed above the waist with rounded leather buttons.

Rhodes said, “You fellas must get to see a lot of good country.”

One of the pinochle players said, “Some of it.”

“Where-all have you been?”

“Various places in Colorado before we came here.”

Chambers gave a sideways glance. “Why do you care?”

“Oh, I travel around, work here and there. I like to learn about the country.” When no one spoke, he turned to the pinochle player and said, “How long have you fellas been workin’ together?”

“A while.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pester you. I know you’re more interested in the queen of spades and the jack of diamonds right now.”

No one answered. Chambers set down his paper, produced a steel-handled penknife, and opened it. He scraped the bowl of his pipe with the short blade.

Rhodes said, “I’m on my way to Montana. I’ve got a job waiting for me that should carry me through the winter.”

The camp tender said, “Gets cold up there.”

Rhodes smiled. “That’s the good of it. I’ll be cuttin’ wood.” He cast a casual glance at Chambers as the surveyor kept his blue-grey eyes on the blade. The man had strong-looking hands. Rhodes gave a quick review of the places where saloon girls had turned up dead—Colorado Springs, Longmont, Fort Morgan. The name and the description matched, and the surveyor with the trimmed mustache and firm facial muscles did nothing to make Rhodes think otherwise.

RHODES STOOD OUTSIDE THE faint glow of light that came through the wall of the tent. He heard the voices of the surveyors and their tender, but because of the placement of the lantern, he could not see their shadows. They were making small talk, and passing around a bottle. Rhodes listened for Chambers, expecting to hear the man make a comment about the chap who asked too many questions in the bunkhouse, but he could not pick out the man’s voice.

Rhodes shifted his attention to his surroundings. A faint gurgle came from the creek. He thought he heard the sound of a night bird leaving a branch, but as he looked up and around in the light of the half-moon, he saw nothing. He felt for his pistol in the cross-draw holster beneath his jacket, and he moved his left foot to be sure of the knife he carried in his boot.

He frowned. He did not know if he had heard the flap of a wing or some other—

A jolt of fear ran through him to his heels as a cord tightened on his throat and pulled him back. His hat tumbled away. He squirmed and dropped, breaking the man’s hold, but Chambers closed in on him, got his arms around him, and slammed him to the ground. He landed on his back. He smelled a trace of whiskey as Chambers sat on his chest, knees athwart, and settled the strong hands on his throat.

This is the way he does it.

Rhodes thrashed, felt for his pistol, and could not find it. Desperate, as light flashed behind his eyelids, he bucked and heaved. Chambers tipped to one side, and Rhodes twisted his shoulder enough to reach the knife in its scabbard in his boot.

He brought the knife up flat along his leg, between them, until he bucked again and was able to move the blade upward. He held the handle tight, and as Chambers lunged to force his weight down, Rhodes drove the blade home.

The hands relaxed on his throat as a long, guttering breath spent itself, and Chambers slumped.

Rhodes’s hand was wet and sticky, dark in the moonlight, as he pushed the dying man away. He rolled over onto his knees and lifted his head. The other men had come out of the tent and stood near in the moonlight.

“What’s going on?”

“What happened here?”

“Why did you do that?”

Rhodes stood up. “I’m an investigator. I’ll tell you the story... as soon as I can catch my breath.”

—JOHN D. NESBITT lives in the plains country of Wyoming, where he teaches English and Spanish at Eastern Wyoming College. He writes western, contemporary, mystery, and retro/noir fiction as well as nonfiction and poetry. John has won many awards for his work, including three awards from the Wyoming State Historical Society (for fiction), five Will Rogers Medallions, one Western Fictioneers Peacemaker, four Western Writers of America Spur awards, and two Spur Finalist awards. His recent books include Great Lonesome, a novel, and Dangerous Trails, a collection of short stories. Find out more about John and his writing at www.johndnesbitt.com.