Powder River (12 page)

“Well, you're right about one thing,” Nate said. “What we're doing is dangerous. I've gotten used to your red Injun face. I'd be sad to see anything happen to it.”

Billy grinned in the darkness. “That's real white of you,” he said.

Billy wore nearly every piece of clothing he owned, but even so he was chilled to the bone. Around noon the sun broke through the gray ceiling of clouds, and though it lessened the cold, the glare reflecting off the snow scorched his eyes. Billy blacked his high Indian cheekbones with soot from a lamp chimney, but still he was blinded. Sugarfoot suffered, too. The ice that had formed when the melted snow refroze cut the animal's legs when he broke through the crust. Billy wrapped them in strips of torn-up burlap feed sacks, but even so his horse left a bloody trail in the snow.

“Damn beeves,” Billy said as he and Sugarfoot fought their way toward one of the herd's favorite gullies. If he found any alive, he would drive them to a more sheltered place, maybe the south side of a mountain, where he would shovel through four feet of snow with the hope he would uncover enough grass to keep the starving animals alive for one more day. Often as not there was none, the range having been grazed or burned bare during the long, scorching summer. Cattle were stupid, but Billy was soft on four-leggeds of all kinds and he hurt for them. He had never seen suffering on such a scale. One poor steer he found wandering on four bloody stumps. His hoofs, Billy reckoned, must have frozen and broken off. He put the animal out of its misery, then cut off and packed as much meat as he could carry and left the rest for the wolves. They were the only creatures getting fat in Powder River country that winter.

He raised his face to the sun. It was about two o'clock, and Billy was getting hungry. He was dreaming about a hot plate of elk stew with onions, carrots, and potatoes and a steaming mug of sweet Arbuckle's coffee when he heard the crack of a rifle shot as Sugarfoot's muzzle exploded in a spray of blood and teeth. The horse screamed and rose on his rear legs, blindly churning the air with his feet. Billy fought to keep his seat, at the same time scanning the treeless, snow-covered hills for the shooter. A second shot struck Sugarfoot in the head and he dropped, first onto his knees and then, with a groan, rolled over onto his side. Billy barely had time to jump free.

A third shot plunged into Sugarfoot's belly. Billy threw himself down on the snowy ground behind the horse's body and again searched the horizon. This time he saw him, a black shape on the line where the white of the ground met the blue dome of sky. “Damn you,” Billy said. “Damn you to hell.” He was lucky Sugarfoot had not fallen on his rifle. Billy slid the .38 Winchester from its sheath, levered in a shell, braced the barrel on the saddle, and squeezed off a shot. The black shape disappeared.

Billy waited. Had he killed the son of a bitch? Billy didn't know, but he would. He would find the cowardly horse-killing devil and put him through. He'd do it if it was his last act in this world. Billy's throat was thick, and he felt a rotten sickness in the pit of his stomach as he stroked Sugarfoot's muscular neck. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

The shooter did not reappear. Billy got to his feet and started walking, rifle fully cocked, toward the place where he had been, hoping to find a corpse. He kept a sharp eye out; the killer could have doubled back and gotten behind him. Could have, but Billy didn't think so. When he reached the base of the rise where the shooter had been, Billy stopped and listened. Hearing nothing, he began the climb, holding the rifle before him. Just before reaching the crest, he dropped into a crouch and moved forward crab-like, close to the ground. At the top, he saw blood in the snow where the assassin had lain in ambush. Billy smiled. Good, he had hit him. Farther down, he found the place where the coward had left his horse and deep tracks marking their departure.

The snow was starting again. Billy looked to the southeast, toward Jack's place a good fifteen miles distant. It was getting on to three o'clock. There was a pair of snowshoes hanging from his saddle, but even so there was no way he'd make the ranch before dark.

He retraced his steps to Sugarfoot's body and kneeled beside him, trying not to look at his destroyed face. He placed his hand on the horse's neck and closed his eyes, speaking to the animal's risen spirit. “You were a brave and loyal friend,” he said. “We came together at a time when I doubted myself as a man. I could not find my place, not in the Indian world and not in the white man's world, but you showed me a path to follow. You showed me that I was worthy of trust. You never failed me, you never disappointed me. You were my true friend. Thank you.” Billy tasted his own salty tears. He had not wept since the day Rose was taken.

He went through his saddlebags, discarding everything he would not need but keeping two waxed paper–wrapped biscuits, each split in half and dipped in bacon grease with a thick slab of bacon in the middle, two cans of peaches, and an extra pair of socks. Even though it weighed a good thirty pounds, he would take the saddle, too. It was too valuable to leave behind. Before getting under way, Billy unsheathed his knife and cut long strands from the horse's black mane and tail and put them in the saddlebags. Later he would weave a lariat of the horsehair so Sugarfoot would be with him always.

He started walking, with a heart heavy but blood warmed by hate. He entertained himself with thoughts of how he would put the killer through; his relatives the Mountain Crows had been creative in this regard. He had grown up with stories of tortures the women inflicted on Sioux captives the men brought back to the village, and he took pleasure in remembering them now; fingers and toes removed one by one, hot coals dropped in ears . . .

The snow stopped after about an hour. It was at least two feet deep on the ground and in places much deeper. Billy trudged forward, awkward in his snowshoes and sheepskin coat but glad of them, glad also he had thought to stuff his boots with newspaper. It was a good thing too he brought his rifle, something he did not usually do when tending cattle, because a long gun interfered with access to his lariat. He only thought to bring it this time because of the danger he and Nate had spoken of the night before. Billy raised his eyes to the sky, thanking his protector in the Spirit World for looking out for him. If only the protector had done the same for Sugarfoot.

It was about four o'clock and the cold was cruel, at least twenty below. For the first time that day, Billy felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. He was young and strong, but far from home. How would he survive the night? “Keep moving,” he said aloud. “To stop, to sleep, is to die.”

He walked steadily for hours but the snow was deep, and even with the snowshoes he did not make good progress. Thirst plagued him, but he had foolishly allowed the water in his canteen to freeze. Even now, though he carried it inside his coat, it remained solid. He felt it bumping against him with each step, heavy as a blow. From time to time he bent to take a mouthful of snow, and though this slaked his thirst it made him colder. He ate the bacon biscuits without pausing, though these, too, were frozen and he was forced to hold each bite in his mouth until it softened enough to chew. Despite their iciness, the greasy biscuits were delicious, perhaps the most delicious food he had ever eaten, though the saltiness of the bacon increased his thirst.

The time came when he could no longer carry the saddle, and he acknowledged he had been foolish to try. He told himself he could come back for it later, maybe it wouldn't be too damaged, but now all he could think about was getting closer to the round-bellied stove that threw good heat. He turned a circle in the moonlight, trying to find a protected place to hide the saddle, or at least a landmark so he would know where to look later. Finding nothing in the rolling mounds of sparkling white, he dropped it where he stood. That saddle cost him forty dollars, more than a month's pay. It was the first thing he bought when he started earning real wages. Nelson Story himself helped him choose it. Abandoning the saddle felt like defeat.

Before midnight Billy noticed a wolf following him, about fifty yards behind. He turned to challenge the animal, and though the wolf stopped as well, he made no move to run. Clearly, he saw in Billy no menace, only meat on the hoof. Billy walked on, followed by his gray, yellow-eyed companion.

When he came to the creek, and the skeletal cottonwoods that lined it, Billy knew he was fewer than five miles from the ranch, but it might as well be five hundred. His feet were numb, despite the newspaper and thick woolen socks. He wore a wool scarf over his hat and tied under his chin to cover his ears, but even so they were frozen, so cold they had stopped hurting a long time ago. As a boy in the Crow village, Billy and the other children had been fascinated and repelled by an old warrior who, as a young man, had been wounded on a horse-stealing raid against the Sioux and had lain in the snow for hours until his friends found him and carried him to safety. The warrior kept his fingers and toes but his frozen ears had rotted off, leaving red, angry mounds of misshapen flesh on either side of his head. Billy put his mittened hands over his ears and sent a plea to his protector in the world behind this one.
Please, do not take my ears.

Without realizing it, Billy had stopped walking and stood swaying like a solitary tree about to fall. He caught himself just in time and looked over his shoulder at the wolf, inching closer. Billy forced himself to keep moving.
Maybe I should make for the trees, try to make a shelter, a wickiup, with downed branches. Maybe I could make a fire.

Even as he considered, he knew any branches he could find would be wet, covered in snow; still he had no choice but to try. Otherwise he would freeze. He started down the slope toward the frozen creek. Gradually, he became aware of a sound, barely audible above the crunch of his shoes on the snow and the ringing of his ears. What was it? He hesitated, searching the dark stand of trees ahead. Was something—or someone—in there? Someone, like him, seeking shelter from the cold and, if so, friend or foe? He pulled his rifle from its canvas sheath and raised it to his shoulder.

“Billy!” He froze. Was his mind playing tricks or did someone actually call his name? No, it was real—the wolf heard it, too. He turned his head toward the sound, which came again. “Billy!”

A man on horseback came toward him, leading a second horse. Billy laughed with relief as the wolf, with one last, hungry look in Billy's direction, loped away.

“I'm disappointed in you, Billy,” Nate said with a grin. “I thought you redskins were better at this type of thing.”

Billy struggled to speak, his frozen mouth could barely form words. “Someone shot Sugarfoot. He got away, but I wounded him.” He walked to the second horse and, after removing his snowshoes, tried to mount, but his foot was so leaden he could not lift it to the stirrup. Nate dismounted and vaulted Billy into the saddle.

“Can you ride?” Nate said. Billy nodded.

“We'll get you home and thaw you out. Then you can tell me what happened.”

Now that he knew he was going to survive, Billy's thoughts returned to revenge, He would ask Dr. Dixon if anyone had come seeking treatment for a bullet wound. And when Billy found him, he would give him another.

She sat at her dressing table, still in her chemise, brushing her hair. Downstairs she heard the guests arriving, all of them lumpen, uninteresting people she would not bother to say hello to if she were in New York or New Orleans. The people of Wyoming Territory had no understanding of style, of glamour, and she had yet to meet anyone, male or female, with a sense of humor. She'd almost given up looking. She sighed and dropped her brush. Things weren't a complete loss, she thought. Some of the men, at least, were good to look at.

Richard would be wondering where she was; Odalie knew she should be dressed, already downstairs greeting the arrivals at her husband's side, but she was in no hurry. After all, she'd be putting up with them until the wee hours. These cow merchants never knew when it was time to go home.

She leaned forward to examine her face more closely in the mirror. Were those freckles? God, they were. Soon she'd look like an Irish washerwoman or one of those high yellow girls who wove baskets in the French market. With a sound of disgust, she walked to the window where she concealed herself behind the white gauzy curtains to watch the scene below. Men in high hats and bowler hats escorted women in silks and brocades, some in pearls and diamonds that glittered in the lamplight. Odalie felt a wave of sadness wash over her. She had not bargained for this desolation, this crushing tedium, when she married Lord Richard Faucett four years ago, though her mother had tried to warn her. “He might have money, my dear, but he is not an interesting man. Think about the boys you've grown up with, the Landreneu brothers, Felix Robinett, Wyatt—think about Wyatt, Odalie! How could you be happy with Richard Faucett when you've had the love of a man like that?”

Her mother had been wise to mention Wyatt Tarwater, a childhood friend who had grown into a beautiful man, tall and athletic, with unruly brown hair that was forever falling into his eyes, full, pillowy lips and a wonderful, knowing smile. Yes, she loved him—indeed, he had been her first lover and she could not have hoped for better, in every regard—but the Tarwater family had fallen on hard times after the war, and Wyatt, charming though he was, would never be the kind of man to put his shoulder to the wheel. Much as she loved him, she had refused his offer of marriage. A life of genteel poverty was not in the cards for her—or so she thought. Had she made a mistake? She still pictured him in her mind's eye every time she was with Richard. With her eyes closed, it was still Wyatt's face she saw, his voice she heard. That is, until recently. There was another man who had something of Wyatt about him. Now it was sometimes his face she saw when she performed her wifely duty.

As she turned from the window she saw Daniel Dixon walking up to the house. She smiled, pleasantly surprised; she had not expected to see him this evening, but who was on his arm? A small, slender woman with blond—almost white—hair, simply but charmingly dressed in a pale yellow silk with a modest décolletage. Odalie smiled. This evening might not be a total bore after all, she thought.

She went to her wardrobe, putting aside the tasteful but sedate dress of London smoke she had chosen and selecting instead a low-cut gown of Nile-green silk that showed her slim figure to advantage.
I don't know who you are, my little darling, but tonight we'll show you how a grown woman does it.

* * *

By the time she was dressed, the party, was in full swing. Richard had hired musicians—strings and woodwinds but no brass—from Fort McKinney who played nicely from the gallery. Arnaud, who had been working for days, had outdone himself. On the sideboard were oysters packed on ice, Columbia River salmon au buerre, and an arrangement of cheeses and cold meats. Once the guests were seated, they would be served their choice of consommé aux champignon or chicken gumbo, followed by roast loin of beef, an entrée of fricandeau of veal with vegetable glace, and, to finish, Richard's favorite, an English plum pudding with hard sauce. Throughout the evening, wines and champagne would flow freely.

When Odalie floated down the stairs, the revelers fell quiet. Well, she said to herself, the Nile-green must have been a good choice after all. At the last minute, she had decided on the emerald necklace Richard had given her for Christmas. It was an expensive, overly decorative bauble she rarely wore, but it went well with the green silk. She was annoyed to see Frank Canton hurrying to the foot of the stairs to offer his arm, smiling up at her like an itinerant quacksalver. As she placed her hand on his sleeve, Odalie caught sight of Canton's wife, Anna, across the room, flushing an unbecoming red. She saw jealousy in the woman's eyes and wished she could tell her not to worry.
I wouldn't have your cruel beast of a husband if he were king of England.

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Odalie said. “I'm so glad you and Mrs. Canton could join us this evening. I think after the winter we've been having we're all due a bit of celebration. Don't you agree?”

“Indeed, I do, Lady Faucett, though I'm afraid it may be premature. Your husband and the other cattlemen won't know whether celebration is in order until spring comes for real and they know how their herds fared. The roundup won't tell the whole story, scattered as they are. We may not know until summer. For some, I expect the losses will prove ruinous.”

Odalie rolled her eyes. “How dreary,” she said. “Let's talk of happier things tonight.”

“I agree,” Canton said. “And in that vein, may I say you look especially lovely this evening? You are the most beautiful woman in the room.”

“I suppose you mean to be kind, Sheriff, but a man should not say a thing like that if his wife is in the room as well. It's disrespectful.”

Canton smiled and said, “I am an honest man, for better or worse. I have often suffered for it.”

“Have you? I rather think your wife will suffer for it, too.” She took her hand from his arm. Poor Anna, she thought, she has tethered herself to an ass and, if Odalie's suspicions were correct, an immoral man. Though she did not concern herself with her husband's business, she knew Canton did the WSGA's bidding, no matter what its members asked, as long as the pay was right. And they paid him very handsomely indeed.

She searched the crowded room for Dixon and his mysterious blond companion and found them talking to William Angus, a Buffalo bar owner and businessman better known as Red. Canton followed her eyes and, spotting Angus, laughed with derision.

“There he is, mayor of Laurel Avenue,” he said, referring to the street where Buffalo's taverns and brothels were located. “Red Angus, cattle thief, pimp, and gambler, friend to whores, thieves, and cutthroats—and now I hear he plans to seek the Democratic nomination for sheriff next year. Ha, that's rich!” Unsure of Odalie's politics, Canton paused, giving her a chance to respond. When she said nothing, he continued, reassured. “Frankly, I'm surprised you and Lord Faucett would have a man like that in your home. He is not a person of your quality.”

Odalie decided to make Canton squirm. “Yes, I did know Mr. Angus is considering a run for office, and I think he would make a fine sheriff. He's smart, well liked, and, far as I know, beholden to no one. If he made some mistakes in his past, well, so what? Who hasn't?” She turned to look Canton directly in the eye. “I certainly have—haven't you?”

Canton loosened his shirt collar with a forefinger. Sometimes he got the feeling Odalie Faucett knew things about him no one in Wyoming Territory knew, not even his wife. But no, it was impossible. How could she know his birth name was not Frank Canton but Joe Horner, that in his Texas youth he had robbed banks, stolen livestock, and served time in the state penitentiary in Huntsville, from which he escaped in August 1879? Did she know of the men he had killed? No, there was no way she could, but still, a certain light in her eyes troubled him.

“Sheriff, who is that with Dr. Dixon? I don't believe I've seen her before.”

Canton was relieved by the change of topic. “That's his daughter, Lorna. She and her twin brother must be sixteen or seventeen by now. Their mother died when they were born.”

“Oh?” Odalie knew the doctor had a son attending medical school in Cincinnati, but she did not know about the twins. “She's a very pretty thing, isn't she? Such remarkable coloring. Come, I want you to introduce me.”

Years had passed since the unpleasant encounter he and Tom had had with Billy and the twins on the road to Buffalo. Their paths rarely crossed since, and Canton hoped she had forgotten, but when Lorna saw him crossing the room with Lady Faucett on his arm, he knew that she had not. After making the requested introduction, Canton offered his excuses, and Angus soon followed.

“So nice to meet you, Lorna,” Odalie said, admiring, with more than a pang of jealousy, the girl's youthful beauty. It was rare indeed to find hair so fair paired with an olive complexion and eyes that shade of blue. “I understand you have a brother, a twin? Is he here this evening also?”

“No, ma'am,” Lorna said. “Cal doesn't like parties. He's at home with Mrs. MacGill and his books.”

“Mrs. MacGill?”

“Our housekeeper,” Dixon said.

“I see. And do you like books, too, Lorna?”

“No.” The girl regarded Odalie with a bold frankness that was disconcerting, as if to say,
“Don't bother with dull female chatter. I won't go along.”

Dixon broke in. “Lorna, would you ask Chang to pour Lady Faucett a glass of punch?” Lorna obeyed, with a small, secret smile, leaving Dixon and Odalie alone.

“You look well,” he said. “It would seem your . . . problem . . . has resolved.”

Odalie colored. “Mercifully, it happened naturally, as you said it might. I suppose the goddess of motherhood found me unfit to join her ranks—and rightly so.”

“You may feel differently one day.”

Odalie felt herself grow warm. “How patronizing. Please, don't presume to know me better than I know myself.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you.”

Dixon looked uncomfortable and Odalie immediately regretted speaking so harshly. When would she learn to control her tongue? “No, I'm the one who should apologize. I was rude. I was happy to see you here tonight, and this is not the conversation I was hoping to have with you. Let's speak of something else—your daughter, for instance. She's quite lovely. What does she do?”

He sighed and looked at Lorna across the room. “Not much, and that's the problem. She has no interest in schooling, as you heard, unlike her brothers. My older son, Harry, is training for a career in medicine and my younger son, Caleb, may do the same. I had hoped Lorna might be a schoolteacher one day, but I no longer see that in the cards. Oh, she's very bright, no mistake about that, but she doesn't have the temperament for teaching. Frankly, I don't know what Lorna has the temperament for.”

“And why not medicine for her, too? It would be more interesting than teaching surely. You say she's bright. A woman can be a fine surgeon, equal to a man. Or do you—with your patronizing attitude toward us—doubt it?” She smiled to show him she was teasing.

“No, not at all. I've known some skilled female physicians, but I don't believe Lorna has the dedication and scientific curiosity she would need to succeed in that field. Not only that, but she'd have to go East for training, to Philadelphia, unless other medical schools are now accepting women, and she wouldn't want that, either. She loves the west, has no need to live in the States. Nor would she be equipped socially. I'm afraid I've not done her justice in that regard.”

They watched Lorna return, carefully carrying a glass of ruby red punch. Odalie said, “Yes, I'm sure it's hard for a father to raise a daughter alone, without the benefit of female companionship and instruction.” A thought came to her. “Why don't you let Lorna stay with us for a time, with Richard and me? Does the poor girl ever have any female company other than your housekeeper, Mrs.—I forget her name? No, I didn't think so. I could teach Lorna the things a lovely young lady should know. She would be my protégé. We would travel, see the world. I would like that, truly I would. I believe she has great potential.”

Dixon was surprised. “I thought you had no maternal instinct. Why would you want to saddle yourself with a child who is not even your own?”

“She is not a child, Dr. Dixon. She is a young woman who needs to be given an opportunity to make the most of herself, to enjoy the fine things in life. Not that you could not provide that, of course,” she added quickly. “But Richard and I are in a unique position to help, if you will allow us to.”

Dixon was reluctant, though he could see the idea had merit. He did not understand his strange daughter, and he had no idea what to do with her. “Thank you, Lady Faucett,” he said. “I'll discuss it with her. Of course, I would pay for her room and board.”

Odalie shrugged her shapely shoulders. “If that's important to you, but I assure you it isn't necessary. Richard and I have more money than we know what to do with.”

That may be true now, Dixon thought as Lorna arrived with Odalie's drink.
But your husband's financial picture could change dramatically in a few months, once winter's toll is fully known.
The newspapers predicted light losses, of no more than five percent, but Dixon was convinced the damage would be much greater, in the neighborhood of seventy-five to eighty percent, if not higher. Overstocking, the lack of forage and feed, and winter's fury may have spelled disaster for the Wyoming cattlemen and their open-range system.

Later, as he and Lorna climbed into the buggy, Dixon noticed Frank Canton and another man, tall and wearing a Mexican-style hat, deep in conversation by the stables. Lorna saw them, too.