Powder River (14 page)

Tom's face was black and so swollen he was scarcely recognizable as a human being. His neck was grotesquely stretched so that his feet, small for a big man, almost touched the ground. The rope cut deep into the rotting flesh, and Tom's eyeballs protruded obscenely from their sockets. German Tom had died hard and slow. Billy didn't like the man, but even so it was hard to picture him ending that way, twisting in the desperate throes of asphyxiation, while his killers watched. And they did watch. Billy found the place where they sat their horses, side by side. One had enjoyed a smoke as Tom twisted; there was the burned end of a cigarette on the ground by the feet of the barefoot horse.

It started to rain. Fat drops fell like tiny bombs, leaving perfect craters in the dusty soil. Heck was jumpy and wanting to quit the place and Billy didn't blame him; he felt the same. He cut Tom down and stretched his decaying body on the ground, but he would not bury him. He didn't owe him that.

“Don't worry, boy,” he said to Heck as he settled in the saddle. “This ain't our trouble and I will not make it so.” But even as he spoke the words, Billy knew the trouble would come to him and all of Johnson County, and it was just getting started.

 

Lorna sat at the dressing table while Odalie stood behind her, brushing her hair. Music played below, mingled with the murmur of voices. Their eyes met in the mirror.

“Always remember,” Odalie said, “the moment you walk through the door, you are the most beautiful woman in the room. No man will look at anyone else, only you.”

“What if you're in the room?” Lorna said. “Who will they look at then?”

Odalie laughed. “Sugar, I guess we'll have to wait until I'm feeling better and then we'll see, won't we? But it won't be tonight. Tonight is all yours.” She put down the brush and braided Lorna's shining hair into a long coil, twisted it into a simple chignon, and pinned it in place. She was careful to leave a few tendrils loose, to curl about Lorna's face and soften her features. “There,” she said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Lorna, I can truly say you are an absolute vision, an angel descended from heaven. The dress is perfect, mauve suits you, my darling; it brightens your complexion and highlights your eyes. Pinch your cheeks so.” She demonstrated and Lorna did the same, bringing a becoming pinkness to her skin. “Do this from time to time throughout the evening, when no one's looking, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Now,” Odalie continued, “for your jewels.” She opened the dresser's top drawer and took out a large enameled box, pale green in color and decorated with cabochons of garnet and turquoise. Lorna's eyes widened as Odalie lifted the lid and withdrew a rope of lustrous pearls, all perfectly round and of a generous size. The strand was long enough to twice encircle the girl's slender neck, its clasp an opened rose of solid gold with a brilliant diamond in the center.

“So beautiful,” Lorna whispered, touching them. The pearls were smooth and cool against her olive skin, silvery in their luster. “Are they real?”

Odalie laughed. “What do you think, honey? Of course they're real. But if you want proof, rub them across your teeth. Feel that grittiness? Imitations are smooth. You can always tell the difference.” After fastening the necklace around Lorna's neck, Odalie reached again into the enamel treasure box and selected a pair of diamond and pearl earbobs, which she held to Lorna's ears. “Perfect. These, too.”

Lorna slipped the thin gold wires through the tiny holes in the lobes of her ears—Odalie had pierced them with a sewing needle, after first numbing the skin with ice—then stood to regard herself in the mirror. She smiled at her reflection. Was this sophisticated woman looking back at her really Lorna Dixon? It was all so wonderful: the brocade dress of mauve silk, the gleaming pearls, the way Odalie had slightly darkened Lorna's eyebrows with a kohl pencil to make her pale eyes more dramatic, the Parisian scent she dabbed behind her ears and on the underside of her wrists—who could believe that such simple things could change skinny Lorna Dixon with the scabby knees to the woman in the mirror?
Oh, if only Billy could see me now.
Her cheeks colored without pinching.

Odalie smiled to see the pride and excitement in the girl's face. “Are you happy, Lorna? Are you excited for your debut?”

“Oh, yes!” Lorna turned to the older woman and threw her arms around her in an impulsive embrace. “Thank you for this, Odalie, for all of it. I'm so very grateful, but I don't understand why you've done this for me. Why did you?”

Odalie, still in her dressing gown, returned the girl's embrace. “Why, I told you, honey, I saw potential in you. I couldn't sit back and watch such a lovely young woman go to waste in this . . . this,” she waved her hand, “this desert. And I must say, I was right. Everyone will be astonished when they see you tonight—I'm just sorry I won't be there to see your father's face.” She laughed. “Oh, how I would love that. Won't he be surprised?” She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It's time to go down. Have a good time, sugar, enjoy yourself, but remember to be careful with the punch. Chang makes it strong. I've hold him a hundred times and he won't listen because Richard likes it that way. You may have one glass, but one glass only. Nothing—well, almost nothing—is more ruinous to a woman's reputation than drunkenness.”

Lorna nodded. “I won't drink any punch. I don't need it.” She kissed Odalie lightly on the cheek and walked to the door, then turned. “Is there any chance Billy will be here? All the ranchers think well of him; he's finished their horses.”

“Billy Sun? Goodness, no. Why would you think so?”

Lorna dropped her eyes. “I was just wondering. . . I haven't seen him for a long time, that's all.”

Odalie stepped close to Lorna and took her hands. “Sugar, forget him. Haven't you been listening to what I've been telling you about Peter Dudley, or Lord Stanton's son, Robert, and his cousin, Will? They are educated young men with property and, yes, money, and they will be here tonight. You will dazzle them!” She squeezed Lorna's hands. “You would have a brilliant future with any one of those fellows, and if you don't like one of them there's plenty more where they come from! Not in Wyoming, maybe, but in New York, New Orleans, London, the real world! Forget you ever knew Billy Sun. He's goodlooking, I grant you that, and a fine horseman. I doubt any of those boys I mentioned could even come close to him on that score—but, sugar, he's a cowboy and an Indian to boot! No, the world is your oyster now, Lorna. You are a beautiful young woman, and there is no more powerful creature in God's great world. It's a gift from Mother Nature, her little joke—why, a beautiful woman can turn the strongest, most important man into a complete fool if she wants to—but it's a power that fades quickly, no matter how one tries to preserve it. So, take advantage of this gift you have and use it! Do not sell yourself short. No cowboys, sugar. No Billy Sun.” She released Lorna's hands and gave her a gentle push. “Now go downstairs. I need my rest. I'm going to take a sleeping powder, but I'll want to hear all about your great triumph in the morning.”

* * *

The evening unfolded just as Odalie said it would. Peter Dudley and the Stanton cousins, three handsome young men—Will Stanton, especially—followed Lorna around like puppies, and even their fathers pursued her with hungry eyes as she moved about the room. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the sideboard and was pleased with her reflection, especially the way Odalie's diamond earbobs sparkled in the candlelight.

When her father arrived, Lorna laughed aloud at the astonishment on his face.

“How beautiful you are,” Dixon said, bending to kiss his daughter on the cheek. “I hardly recognized you. It's amazing, really. You look like a different person.”

Lorna laughed. “I'm not. Odalie has taught me how to dress, how to do my hair, but I'm still Lorna. Where is Cal? I was hoping to see both of you tonight.”

“He's home with Mrs. MacGill. She hasn't been feeling well. I'm getting worried about her. She keeps getting weaker and weaker, and I can't figure out what's wrong. But enough of that. How was London?”

“All right,” Lorna said. “I'm glad to have seen it, but the city was filthy, the streets, the air, all of it. Two weeks were quite enough. I loved the ocean crossing though. I wasn't sick once, not for a moment, not even during a storm. The voyage was my favorite part of the trip.”

Dixon smiled. “Your mother was the same. When we went overseas I spent two days in the cabin, hanging over a bowl and wishing I was dead, but Rose loved every minute of it.” He drifted a moment, remembering her hair blowing in the sea air and the bronze kiss of the sun on the bridge of her nose and cheekbones. “We visited London in sixty-nine—did I ever tell you that?—and Scotland, too. We spent hours wandering the medieval streets of Edinburgh's Old Town.” He paused, regarding his daughter with an odd expression.

“What is it?” she said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“It's strange. You look very different, but at the same time you're more like your mother than I've ever seen you. It's your eyes.”

Talk of her mother made Lorna uncomfortable, so she changed the subject. “So, how does Harry like Cincinnati? Are his studies going well?”

“I believe so, though he misses Wyoming. He says he feels closed in by all the trees, and the sky isn't big enough. But he enjoys his classes and the company of people his own age. He's never had much of that. Neither have you and Cal, for that matter. It's not right.”

“Who cares?” Lorna said, tossing her head. “I wouldn't trade one day in Wyoming for a whole week in Ohio with ‘people my own age.' How tedious that sounds.” Suddenly her mood dimmed. She sighed and snapped open her fan, scanning the room for Billy. Despite what Odalie had said, she hoped he would show up. He was self-confident and well liked, even by these wealthy landowners. Most of all, Billy Sun did what he wanted to do, even if others did not approve. His boldness was one of the things she most admired about him. She surveyed the crowd with impatience. Her three suitors were hovering nearby. As she raised her hand to call them over, her eyes met those of Tom Horn, watching her with a predatory smile. Apparently in his cups, he started walking unsteadily toward her when, to her relief, he was waylaid by Lord Faucett.

“Mr. Horn!” Faucett said, pumping his hand. “Good to see you, man! I hear you may be joining our team. Great news, I must say. We could use a man with your particular skills. I'll certainly make it worth your while. Meantime, how's it been for you in Denver? Enjoy your time as a Pinkerton?”

“Hello, Sir Richard,” Tom said, reluctantly pulling his eyes away from Lorna. “I thank you for the recommendation. Your word carries a lot of weight with Mr. McParland. He might not have hired me for a Pinkerton otherwise.”

Faucett waved his hand dismissively. “No need for that, Horn. You've proved yourself time and again. I say, you and Doc Shores did especially good work with those horse thieves down in Arizona. Two of those stallions you recovered were mine, you know. The brigands stole them from a fellow in Colorado just days after I'd paid for them, and a pretty sum it was, too.”

Horn smiled with a show of modesty. “Well, sir, I'm glad I could help. Me and Doc, we partner up pretty good. Later this month Pinkerton's sending us up to Oregon on a job—well, me anyhow. I'm not sure about Doc on this one.”

“Is that right?” Faucett said. “What is the assignment, if I may ask?”

“I'm sorry, Lord Faucett. I'm not at liberty to discuss it.”

“No, no, 'course not. Good man.”

Lorna, discreetly eavesdropping, was shocked. Tom Horn, a Pinkerton? She had pegged him for a criminal, and she fancied herself a good judge of character. Well, she thought, Pinkerton or no, Tom Horn was not to be trusted, she was sure of that.

Will Stanton asked her for the waltz, and as they glided about the room, Lorna felt Horn watching her. His eyes seemed to throw heat; they were penetrating and very dark, almost black, against his sunburned skin. Some women might find him attractive, Lorna thought, but not she.

Later that evening, as she danced again with Will, she spotted Horn and Frank Canton deep in conversation with Faucett, Moreton Dudley, and two other men, including Will's uncle.

“I wonder what that's about?” she said, smiling up at Will. “Looks like something important.”

Will looked at her with adoring eyes. “Oh, it is. I know all about it, but I'm not supposed to talk.”

“Not even to me?” She moved closer, briefly pressing her body against his. Will folded like a two-dollar suitcase.

“It's the rustlers,” he said in a low voice. “Lord Faucett, Sir Dudley, my uncle, and others of the association, they've finally had their fill. The law won't go after them, and when Sheriff Angus actually does arrest someone, the courts won't convict. It's been going on long enough.” Will's eyes glittered as he warmed to his topic. “The cattlemen, men like Lord Faucett and my uncle, they're the ones who've made this territory, and they're going to put an end to the stealing once and for all.”

Lorna's heart raced. “And how will they do that?”

Will smiled knowingly and nodded toward the cabal in the corner. “Do you see that man talking to Sir Richard, the tall one with the mustache?”

“Tom Horn?”

Will nodded. “Tom Horn, Tom Hale, he goes by both names. Anyhow, he and some others, they'll be brought in to deal with the rustlers. Jack Reshaw and the Lazy L and B boys, Nate Coday, Billy Sun, and that lot, just you wait. They'll be food for the worms come spring.”