Powder River (24 page)

He sat on his tall black Thoroughbred, smoking his pipe and squinting in the noonday sun. Despite his regal appearance, Faucett was frustrated. For almost thirty-six hours he'd been staring at a harmless-looking white frame house that had turned out to be an impregnable, miniature fortress with a gunman at every door and window. They should have burned it down a day ago; instead, here they sat, paralyzed. Each time they tried to advance on the house, defenders drove them back with well-aimed shots. Two of his men, Texans, had been hit, and one was seriously injured. Faucett was angry, hungry, and cold. Despite the sun, a sharp April wind penetrated his overcoat of fine Irish frieze like whey through cheesecloth. Again, the Englishman was reminded that no amount of money or the fine goods it purchased could guarantee comfort in this harsh land.

“What shall we do, sir?” Jolly said. “How much longer shall we wait?”

“Shut up, man. I'm trying to think.”

Tom Horn, seemingly impervious to cold, lay on his back in the sun with his hat covering his face. The hat concealed a smile. Horn did not like Faucett and enjoyed watching the fat Limey twist. This expedition had turned out to be a disaster of the first water, just like he, Horn, had tried to tell Faucett it would be, but the great lord wouldn't listen. The thing had been wrong from the get-go, starting with Faucett's decision to break his army up into separate “raiding parties.” It only diminished the force's impact and left the men confused and fragmented. Who knew what was happening and where? Had Canton's group taken Billy Sun and the Lazy L and B boys? No one knew. Also, as Horn had cautioned, the people of Buffalo had not welcomed Faucett's invaders as saviors, neither had they retreated to their homes like scared animals taking to their holes. No, the citizens were massing in the streets and mounting a stout defense. Even the miserly Tom Raylan had thrown open the doors of his mercantile, offering guns, ammunition, blankets, and bacon to any man willing to fight the WSGA invaders.

Not only that, but folks they were counting on, men who'd promised to lend manpower and muscle, had shown the white feather at the last minute and backed out. Could be they'd even thrown in with the rustlers. Horn wouldn't be surprised. Yes, he'd tried to warn him, but Faucett knew better, so let him stew in it for a while. Next time, he'll know Tom Horn was a man worth listening to.

“Uh, Lord Faucett?” Albertus Ringo said.

“What do you want, Ringo?”

“We could build a go-devil. Thataway we could get at 'em without getting shot up ourselves.”

“A what?” Faucett said.

“Go-devil. We could cut down them trees, use the lumber and a couple hay bales to build up one of the Studebakers, then shelter behind it when we roll it toward the house. An ark of safety.”

Faucett made a sound of disdain. “That's ridiculous.”

“Not so fast,” Horn said, rising from the ground. “It might work, and it's sure worth a try. We're not getting anywhere like it is.”

Faucett looked from the house to the Studebaker, then back to the house. “Oh, hell, go ahead and build your ark-devil or whatever you call it. Just get me close enough to do what I came for. If I can't get Billy Sun, at least I can watch Daniel Dixon die.”

* * *

From the house, Dixon and the others watched Faucett's men chop, hammer, and wire logs to the gears of a wagon until the sides were six feet high. Platforms fixed to the wagon's sides held hay bales for extra coverage. Within twenty-four hours they had built a sort of moveable breastworks that was big enough to provide cover for all twenty of Faucett's men. At noon, as the men were finishing, Frank Canton and the two Texans rode up on lathered horses. The Texans dismounted and made for the chow tent while Canton went directly to Faucett, drowsing on a camp chair before a warm fire.

“Well?” Faucett rousing as Canton dismounted. “What happened? Did you bring me that damn half-breed?”

Canton upended and drained his canteen. He'd give twenty dollars for four fingers of whiskey. “I had to finish him. He might have got away otherwise. Bill Sun, he was a brave man. In the end, it seemed a shame to kill him.”

“Please, spare me your recriminations, Canton. He was a renegade and a thief of the first water. He got what he deserved.”

“Cal Dixon is dead, too,” Canton said. “Sun took him out.”

Faucett shrugged his narrow shoulders. “If he'd done what I paid him to do, we could have avoided this nonsense.” He waved his hand toward the white house. “I shouldn't have used him. He was weak, and I knew it.”

Canton turned his head to spit. His mouth tasted of bile and dirt and his clothes smelled of smoke. “Yeah, that was a mistake. I don't know many men who could kill their own father. I don't think I'd want to know a man like that.”

Ringo approached to say the go-devil was finished. After a brief inspection, Faucett ordered it forward. The men put their shoulders to it, and it began to move, inching slowly over the bumpy ground.

Faucett looked on with a smile. “By God, this just might work. In an hour or so we'll be in range.”

“What's your plan?” Canton said.

Faucett walked to a tarpaulin-covered box, away from the fire. He threw back the canvas and pulled out a stick of dynamite.

“Dynamite?” Canton shook his head. “Faucett, you don't want to do that. Hell, there's probably women in that house. That daughter of Dixon's, Lorna, she's probably in there. You'll blow her to bits.”

“I don't care about that, Mr. Canton. Anyone in that house is an associate of Dixon's, and therefore my enemy. Yours, too, I should think.”

Canton raised his hands, palms out. “I signed on for killing rustlers and thieves, not women.” Canton wasn't sure Dixon deserved this, and he'd been thinking of the three men caught in the line shack with Bill Sun—Kinch and the kid, Comstock, and the Mexican—he wasn't convinced they deserved to die, either. Their only crime was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong company.

“No, I'm not for it,” Canton said. “This ain't right.”

“Sheriff, these things are never simple. I should think you knew that.” Carefully, Faucett returned the stick of dynamite to the box and mounted his horse. “But cheer up, soon you'll have your money. Perhaps that will soothe your conscience.” Faucett turned his horse and kicked him into a trot. Tom Horn joined Canton, and together they watched Faucett ascend the hill to monitor the devil's progress.

“You know, Horn, I'm sorry I got us into this,” Canton said. “There's no honor in it.”

“Yeah, things haven't turned out so good,” Horn said, “and now I think Lord Richard's in for a nasty little surprise himself. Lady Odalie's in that house. I saw her myself at the upstairs window, and you know what?” He grinned at Canton. “She's a damn fine shot.”

Dixon sat at the front window, watching the contraption roll toward them. It was coming slowly, but it was coming and there was no way to stop it. A knot of fear tightened in his stomach. He trained his field glasses on the lone horseman on top of the hill. Faucett. Dixon wished he hadn't sold the needle gun a buffalo hunter had given him years ago as payment for setting a broken arm. With that weapon's great power and range, he could easily pick Faucett out of his saddle, even at this distance.

Odalie came down the stairs, still wearing the blue traveling suit she had worn for days, even though it was stained with road dirt and perspiration. As the day warmed, she had unbuttoned the top buttons of her jacket and kept it so, revealing the lace of her chemise.

Dixon heard her enter the room but he could not look at her. He did not want to see the exhaustion on her face, or the emotion he knew he would also find there. Bad things happened to women who loved him. First, his wife, Laura, and their infant daughter. Then Rose. Now, he feared the same fate was about to befall his daughter, Lorna, and this woman, Odalie. He vowed to save them, no matter the cost.

“Daniel,” she said, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Let me talk to Richard. He doesn't know I'm here. Let me go out there and talk to him.”

“No,” he said. “It's out of the question. Those men are killers. They don't care who gets hurt.” Days before Dixon had asked Sigge Alquist to deliver a letter to Colonel Smith at Fort McKinney, informing him of the threat to the people of Johnson County and Buffalo asking him to send troops. He had no way of knowing if the message had been received, or how the colonel would respond if it were.

“Daniel,” Odalie said. “Look at me.”

At last he complied. He had never seen her in a dirty dress, and her hair was half down, but she was beautiful. Again, he noticed the silvery skin below her eyes that so reminded him of Rose. He found it difficult to speak.

“If I appeal to Richard, if I promise to go with him, I think he'll leave you and Lorna alone. It will give him an out, a chance to save face in front of his men. He doesn't want this, not really. Let me try.”

“Odalie, I don't believe that, but suppose you're right,” Dixon said. “What happens then? Do you really think you and Faucett can return to The Manor and carry on as before? After everything that's happened?”

Odalie took his hands. “I don't know. I can't think that far ahead. I'm just thinking about right now, about how to stop him!”

Dixon had never admired her more than he did at that moment. She was a brave woman, and far from stupid. She had to know Lord Richard Faucett would have special plans indeed for the woman who had betrayed and made a fool of him. He was not about to let her sacrifice herself for him.

“Odalie,” he said, “whatever Richard was when you married him, he's something different now. He's a killer—I even question his sanity. You must have the same fears. For whatever reason, the only thing he wants now is to destroy me. Your presence here won't dissuade him. It'll only make him angrier.”

Odalie turned back to the window, pushing aside the curtain. “How many men are behind that thing, do you think?”

“Fifteen or twenty,” Dixon said, “and things will start happening soon. There's a root cellar off the kitchen; it's big enough for you and Lorna, and it's not directly below the house. If they intend to burn us out, you'll be safe in there. Come, I'll show you.” He moved to take her hand, but Odalie backed away.

“I'm not leaving you,” Odalie said.

“Neither am I,” Lorna said. She and Hardy stood together in the doorway. “We won't hide in some hole—we'll stay and help you fight them.”

“Dixon,” Hardy said. “Do you really believe they mean to harm the women? Don't you think—” Before he could finish Odalie darted across the room and flung open the door. Dixon ran after her, but she was already off the porch and running into the yard. “Richard!” she yelled. “Richard, don't do this. Leave these people alone!”

The devil came to a halt as the men waited to see what Faucett would do. After a brief hesitation, he applied the spurs and charged down the hill, flying by the devil and his men. When he reached his wife he jumped to the ground and came to her in two long strides, his riding crop in his hand. His red face was contorted with rage.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he said. “I thought you were in Denver.”

“You must not harm these people—they've done nothing to you. It isn't right!”

In a flash, Faucett lashed out with his crop, striking his wife across the face. She fell to the ground, covering her head with her arm. “Whore!” he screamed. “You filthy cheating whore! I should have left you in that New Orleans hovel where I found you!” He raised his arm, but Dixon was on him before he could hit her again, striking Faucett in his soft, fleshy mouth. The Englishman fell to the ground and grabbed for his sidearm. Too late, he realized he was not wearing his pistols and his rifle was still in its scabbard on the saddle. Dixon ran to the Thoroughbred and pulled the rifle from its sheath, training it on Faucett who remained on the ground.

“Canton!” Faucett screamed as Dixon helped Odalie to her feet. Her face bled profusely from a laceration on her left cheek. “Shoot this man!” Faucett yelled. “For God's sake, what are you waiting for?”

Frank Canton stepped from behind the go-devil, his six-gun in his hand. He came toward them, keeping his eyes on Dixon. “Do it!” Faucett cried, bloody spittle flying from his mouth. “Do it now!” He clambered to his feet.

Canton kept coming forward until he and Dixon were only feet apart. Faucett looked from Canton to Dixon. “Damn you to hell, Canton—if you won't do it, I will!” He ran to his horse and the pistols concealed in his saddlebags. Coolly and without a word, Canton turned from Dixon and fired, hitting Faucett squarely between the shoulder blades. The running man took three more steps, then pitched forward onto his face.

“Anyone else?” Canton said, looking at the startled faces of the men who'd been watching from the cover of the go-devil. “If not, get on your horses and go home. This thing is over. It should never have started.”

Slowly, in some cases reluctantly, the would-be invaders melted away, leaving Faucett's body facedown in the dirt. Only Tom Horn and Canton remained. They did not interfere when Dixon lifted Odalie in his arms and carried her into the house.

* * *

She sat on the examination table. The wound on her face continued to bleed, saturating the front of her suit jacket. She covered it with her hand.

“Let me see,” Dixon said.

“No,” Odalie said, turning her head. “Don't look at me.”

“I can help,” he said softly. “Let me see.”

She dropped her hand and Dixon saw the cut was deep, clear to the bone. He would suture it carefully, using the smallest stitches he was capable of, but even so she would be badly scarred.

“My face is ruined,” she said. “It's all I have, all I've ever had, and now that's gone, too.”