CHAPTER 16
Gossip
BORED people talk. About anything. To anyone. A reason is not required. They’re bored; that is the reason. In the average stagecoach rider, this quirk of human nature bubbles forth. The longer the ride, the more true it becomes. It’s as though there is a secret mathematical formula that converts rotation of wheel to froth of conversational bubble. Eventually the froth ratio overwhelms verbal reticence and meaningless chatter is the result.
Lynch knew all about this. He did not think about, but he did know about it and often replied upon it. His own stage had arrived in the afternoon, and his connection was not due to roll in until after breakfast. He had sat on a bench in the sun when the first stage disgorged its froth of humanity. Out they came, talking and gabbling. A few folks from the waystation climbed aboard the newly emptied stage, also gabbling away with ‘May I help you, ma’am?’ and “Oh, my valise. Where’s my valise?’ — and then they were off in a jingle of harness and clop of hooves.
A lull occurred for an hour or two wherein Lynch amused himself by reading a newspaper he had annexed from a passenger too distracted by an argument over crop prices and shipping costs too notice. He finished the last page as the next stage rolled up. The contraption’s wheels stopped. Lynch pretended to continue reading, letting the newspaper conceal his assessment of the new arrivals as they stepped down.
A farmer, a traveling salesman, a middle-aged woman enroute to a sister, a mail-order bride all roses and songbirds and clearly in over her head, two cowboys debating who had roped what calf, when and how fast and who had been left babysitting said cows whilst the other waltzed with a girl. Out they all came, skirts and bags, boots and chatter.
“I’d have just upped an’ shot him,” one of the cowboys remarked, some minutes later as he washed up for supper.
“You’re so full of— pardon me ma’am’— horse apples. You can’t hardly hit the inside of a barn,” his saddle partner replied.
“Somebody went an’ plugged you, you wouldn’t hear me standin’ around talkin’ about it.”
“You still on about that? Who says that kid’s done nothin’?”
“Who else would it be?”
“Let’s see,” said the saddle pal, halting is own ablutions to tick the possibilities off on his wet fingers, “a whole ranch was burned, that means an owner, prob’ly a ramrod, a cook, two or three hands, maybe as much as five or six, not to mention womenfolk—”
“I never heard no talk of womenfolk.”
“Even so, don’t you think it’s just possible any one of them other folks might have some kin that’d take notice?”
“Maybe none of them other folks had kin to hand,” the cowboy rallied. He poked his friend on the chest in a supercilious manner. “You ever think of that?”
“Sure,” said the saddle pal, comfortably. “You ever thought about how big this here country is? How’s one person s’posed to get word to every right thinkin’ gent west of the Mississippi? Hmm? What’s he gonna do? Stick a note on every beef, buffalo or chipmunk going his way? Can’t be done.”
“He’s done it, I tell you.”
“Aw!” the saddle partner grunted, and waved dismissively before resuming his washing.
“Prove me wrong,” his friend challenged.
“You don’t wmt pmmmhh.”
The cowboy snatched at the hand towel. “What?”
“I said you don’t want proof,” his friend repeated. And then the leather wearing, dust coated cowhand batted his eyelashes. “You want romance.”
His efforts earned him a whack on the shoulder.
“You do,” he laughed. “You want perfect endings. You want the underdog to save the day an’ kiss the pretty girl. It’s those dime novels you been readin’. They’re turning your brain to moosh.”
“I’ll turn you to moosh,” the cowboy threatened, elbowing up to the washbasin. He splashed and rinsed and dried, and then came back for another round. “What about that barber?”
“What barber?”
“The one at the last waystation. He said that kid’s out to stop that Tarlston gent in his tracks.”
“How’d he know?”
“He’s got ears, doesn’t he? He knows.”
“Made it up, more like. Look, if this kid exists—”
“He does.”
“—then where is he? We’ve been travellin’ this here road top to bottom. How is it we don’t know one single person who’s met him? I mean really met him.”
“’Aw, he ain’t around here no more. Don’t you remember? The barber said he’s out near the Black. Near some crossing or other.”
“Yeah, an’ the gent afore that said Willow Creek. C’mon, let’s eat.”
The Black was a river winding through the Rocky Mountains to the west. Willow Creek was commonly held to be the last hold out on civilization as it was known in the east. Never the twain would meet.
Lynch waited until the two men went inside. Then he snuck a peek at an article tucked on the third page of his newspaper. Skimming down, he found the name ‘Tarlston’. So, someone really was looking to discredit the man. Lynch didn’t know where or how, but there might be some use in the knowledge. He tucked the gem away with the other bits and pieces he picked up and went in for supper.