Nodding, Ellen balled her fingers into her hands.
“Mr. Blake, ma’am, you know, my new boss at the Post, he thought maybe . . . maybe you’d like to sit with Missus Dimsdale.” Then he seemed to hear Montana’s shrieks for the first time. “Ummm . . . well . . . if it’s not . . . ummm . . .”
Relief swept through her, but the same feeling also troubled her. “Yes, of course. As soon as this little tigress calms down. Patrick, can you find Missus Martin, see if Grace can sit with Montana? I don’t know how long I shall be away.”
“I’ll find her, ma’am.”
“When did he pass?”
“Around two-thirty this morn. Mr. Blake’s getting something in today’s paper. Won’t be much. And the paper will be late. Funeral’s tomorrow. Masons are planning something special.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll find Missus Martin.” He put his hat on. “It’s a blessing, really, ma’am. He won’t suffer no more.”
“I know, Patrick.” She smiled faintly. The printer left, the door closed, and Ellen leaned against it, drowning out Montana’s wails.
It was a blessing. Consumption was a curse. Professor Thomas J. Dimsdale finally found peace. Ellen breathed in deeply, exhaled, brushed away a tear, then shivered. For a moment, she feared Walsh would say that Seth Beckstead was dead.
* * *
“I never got to see a beaver.” Tears welled in José Sibrian’s eyes.
Smiling faintly, José Pablo Tsoyio jutted his jaw toward the distant mountains. “When you have healed,” he said quietly in Spanish, “I will show you a beaver.” He brought his right hand to his lips and extended the first two fingers, wiggling them. “Their teeth will bring a smile to your lips. And their tails make a beautiful noise.” He placed the wet rag over the wrangler’s forehead and drew back the blanket covering Sibrian’s arm. Nodding, he returned the blanket and started to rise.
“How does it look?” Fear showed in Sibrian’s eyes.
“You are a lucky young man, José.” Tsoyio chuckled. “I have known many men, and some women, four horses, and more dogs than I can count in Texas that have been bitten by rattlesnakes. All, except a few dogs and one horse, a mare, old, too, have lived. You are not a dog or an old mare, but you, my young friend, are the first I have met to have found a rattlesnake in the Dakota Territory. There are not as many here as back in our homeland. Was he hard to find, José?”
Sibrian tried to laugh.
“I will bring you some tea. Can you eat?”
The wrangler’s head shook.
“Tea is better for you than food.” José Pablo Tsoyio walked away, ignoring Luke Beckner, who looked up as Tsoyio passed.
“How’s he doing?” Beckner asked quietly.
Tsoyio did not stop, did not answer.
* * *
Residents from the Fourteen Mile City filled the new cemetery, and more trailed all the way back into Virginia City, bundled up against the cold, Free and Accepted Masons looking resplendent, army veterans in their uniforms, women, children—some whom Dimsdale had taught, others who never knew him—every minister, hundreds more than even read the Montana Post.
Three-thirty in the September afternoon felt like dawn in February, but the weather did not stop the band from blowing on cold, brass instruments. Strangers crowded together, the nearness keeping them warm, listening as Justice Hosmer, a brother of Montana Lodge No. 2, read the resolutions: “. . . with dignity to himself, and with profit to his brethren. Favored alike by nature and culture, with a well-disciplined mind and a ripe scholarship, he was a wise counselor, an intelligent lecturer, and a most affable and genial companion. In friendship . . .”
Two other Masons steadied Dimsdale’s sobbing widow. The priest and other ministers bowed their heads. Henry Blake, the Post’s new editor, who realized he could never replace the professor, scribbled notes. And Ellen Story kept looking down the hillside, into Virginia City.
* * *
“You and your damned God.” Story reached for the worn Bible Luke Beckner clutched, but the cowboy jerked it back, holding it tightly against his chest. “I should have asked the damned Jew to pray.”
“I did pray,” Connor Lehman said, and Story turned away from the cowhand, took one step, and stared at the wagon boss. “Sometimes God’s answer is no,” Lehman spoke respectfully.
“Believe what you want,” Story said. He looked down at the blanket covering the body of José Sibrian. His head rose, he searched faces, all solemn, mostly bowed, though Story figured half of those were in mourning, the other half just scared to death of catching Story’s glare. “Peña,” he barked, and when the Mexican looked up, Story ordered: “You’re wrangler. I know, but you’re better with horses than anyone else. Boone, move up to point. Melean, you’re across from Stubbings here at swing. Ward, that means you’re up to flank. That means the rest of you on drag are shorthanded. Don’t make a mistake.”
Another look at the draped corpse.
“Bring me a shovel,” Story said.
“Jake,” Lehman said. “Bring a pick and three shovels. We’ll—”
“One shovel,” Story said. “I’ll dig the grave. Then you can say whatever you want over the kid.”
“Con permiso, I shall get stones to cover his grave, patrón,” José Pablo Tsoyio said.
“You can’t,” John Catlin whispered.
“¿Qué?”
“He’s right,” Story said. “Peña, you’ll have to drive the remuda over him.” He nodded to the east. “Make it harder for any Indians to desecrate . . .” After spitting, Story raised his head. “I’m still waiting on that damned shovel.”
* * *
Brother Hosmer concluded the Masons’ resolutions, and the Baptist minister stepped forward, taking over for the Catholic, announcing he would lead everyone in prayer. Before bowing her head, Ellen Story looked down the hill, at every building draped with black crepe, at the men on the boardwalks staring up the hillside. Ellen dabbed her eyes. She wondered if Seth Beckstead were among them watching below.
* * *
“It’s not your fault.”
Story turned from the Dry Fork to find Constance Beckett, still dressed in men’s duds, at the top of the embankment. “I never said it was my fault,” Story said.
“You’re not as hard as you think you are,” Constance said.
“I’m hard enough.” He nodded toward the circle of wagons. “If you’re not going to pray over the kid’s grave, hitch your team. We’re pulling out as soon as they finish.” He looked west. “Got a few hours of daylight.”
“People die every day,” she said.
Story kept staring at the blue mountains, so far away.
“I never thanked you,” she said.
His reply came instantly. “Don’t. I don’t want your thanks. Just do your job.”
She let out a mirthless laugh and started toward the grave of poor, unlucky José Sibrian. “What kind of woman would marry you?” she said.
“A good one,” she heard him answer after a long while. That stopped her, and she glanced over at him, still looking toward the mountains, and he let out a mirthless laugh. “If you can believe that.”
Again, she started to leave, but he called her name, and once more, she looked at him. This time he stared at her.
“Put Hobo in the back of your wagon. Don’t let him walk. We have three, maybe four, damned hard days ahead of us.”
* * *
Ellen walked to Nettie Dimsdale, took her hand into her own, squeezed it, leaned forward, and kissed the widow’s cheek. She thanked all the preachers, and the Masons, and the director of the band.
Justice Hosmer asked if she needed him to escort her to her home, but she smiled kindly and shook her head.
She walked with the throng down the hill, no longer wondering if Seth Beckstead were on the streets. She looked east, biting her lower lip, trying to stop any tears from forming, praying to God to keep her husband alive.
* * *
Luke Beckner prayed. Some men crossed themselves. Fabian Peña, Kelvin Melean, and three teamsters knelt. José Pablo Tsoyio reached down, picked up a handful of sand, and dropped it onto the covered body.
“We ought to sing,” Dalton Combs said. “Before we cover him up.”
“We ain’t exactly harmonic angels,” George Overholt said.
“And that hard-ass is eager to move,” McPherson said.
“Anybody got any suggestions as to what we ought to sing?” Beckner asked.
Molly McDonald heard herself laugh, but when she looked at the grave, she frowned, pulled the tobacco out of her mouth, and she stepped to the grave’s edge. “I remember this one, boys,” she said, and began.
What a friend we have in Jesus,
All our sins and griefs to bear.
What a privilege to carry
Everything to God in prayer.
She made it through the third verse before stopping, knowing she had loused up a few words, and realizing she couldn’t remember anything past “Blessed Savior” of the final verse. When she lifted her head, she jammed the hat on her head, saw the faces of cowboys and teamsters, and she cackled before starting for the wagons.
“That ain’t nothing, boys,” she said. “You should’ve heard me back when I could hit them high C notes.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Since nobody could see him, Story took a long time dismounting, then stretched his back before Jameson Hannah rode up on his worn-out bay. “Bed the herd down here,” Story ordered. “Have Lehman keep the wagons in a circle, the oxen on the inside.”
Moonbeams sneaked through the clouds, illuminating the dry bed of Antelope Creek.
“Your longhorns are thirsty,” Hannah said.
Story nodded at the dry sand. “They’ll be thirsty till we hit the Powder.”
Traces jingled and the wheels squeaked as José Pablo Tsoyio’s wagon pulled into view, stopping at the edge of the dry creek bed.
“Coffee for supper,” Story said. “The men’ll have to eat hardtack and jerky, but fill them up for breakfast. We move at first light.”
He walked down the sandy creek bed, trying to get the blood flowing in his legs again, not letting anyone see how much he hurt. His horse was worn out, too, and when he figured no one could see or hear him, he groaned, bent over, and massaged the backs of his thighs, flinching at the touch.
Twenty miles. Even after covering a few miles the day before, today had been brutal. The calendar might have read autumn—Story wasn’t entirely sure about the date—but the weather still felt like summer. When he finally straightened, he wiped his eyes, feeling the grit on his face. The horse snorted, and Story rubbed its neck.
Wagons, cattle, horses, and riders arrived at the camp, bringing with them moans, curses, sighs, and, once they learned they would get just a few hours of sleep—unless they happened to be assigned night-herd or sentry duties—and push on at daybreak, the grumbles and oaths grew louder. The last person they would want to see was Nelson Story, so he grabbed the horn, tried for the stirrup, missed, tried again, and finally lifted himself back into the seat.
The gelding’s head hung, until Story lifted the reins. “I know.” He patted the dun’s neck again. “But we aren’t done yet.”
He found Fabian Peña first, decided against changing horses.
“¿Hay agua aquí?” the wrangler asked.
“No water,” Story replied. His Spanish kept improving. If he didn’t watch out, people might start mistaking him for a Texan, answering a Mexican’s question, spoken in Spanish, in English.
“We might find some pools tomorrow—today, I mean—on the trail. But don’t count on it.” He hooked his thumb toward the glow of the campfire. “Get some coffee. Then stay with the horses. I’ll make sure Lehman sends some guards.”
His next stop came when he met up with the two nighthawks, Boone and McWilliams, told them they wouldn’t get any sleep this night, and rode to the wagons, where Lehman ordered the drivers to grease the axles, grain the oxen, then get their coffee and hit their bedrolls.
“What about water?” McPherson asked.
Story answered before Lehman. “Maybe tomorrow. But don’t count on it.” He told Lehman, “I want two sentries with the horses.”
“We didn’t see any sign of Indians all day or all night,” George Overholt snapped.
Story turned to the bullwhacker. “Well, George, since you’ve got such damned good eyesight, and since you’re familiar with our horses from riding along with them the past few days, I guess you’ll be right for guard duty. Pick his partner, Lehman.”
Overholt’s face flushed, but he turned to his wagon and pulled out the Remington, put his thumb on the hammer, and let his malevolent eyes tell Story what he thought.
“You want to use it, make your play,” Story said.
“I ain’t that pissed off.” Overholt moved toward the horse herd, calling back, “Just yet.”
Lehman turned to the teamsters. “Go with him, Collins,” he said. “You know the horses, too. I’ll send somebody with some coffee in an hour or two.” As the bullwhacker grabbed his rifle and walked away, the wagon boss walked to Story’s side, looked up, and said in a quiet but firm tone: “Push anything hard, it breaks. Including men.”
“They’re well paid.”
The smile did not match Lehman’s eyes. “They haven’t been paid yet.”
“They knew the terms. Payment at end of trail. Virginia City.” Lehman’s head kept shaking, and Story leaned low. “If we don’t get there, nobody gets paid. Including you.”
He rode back to the cook, climbed out of the saddle, and saw most of the cowhands guzzling down coffee. Stubbings rode in after scouting the back trail, but before he could swing out of the saddle, Story called out, “Not yet.”
Lehman had given him an idea, not that it would prove to the men that Story did have something resembling a heart. “Take some coffee to McWilliams and Boone. They’ll be watching the herd while you boys get some sleep.”
Stubbings looked at Combs, and the cook, then back at Story. “There’s a small coffeepot in the wagon. Fill it up.” He spoke as if explaining this to a child. “Bring two cups with you—three, if you’d like to be sociable and drink with them. And try not to spill any on your horse.” He turned to the others. “Drink down your supper quickly and get as much sleep as you can. We move out in four hours.”
Finally, he eased the dun toward the remuda.
* * *
The pounding never ceased, grew louder, until Seth Beckstead rolled over, pressed his hands against both ears, and screamed—and still someone hammered until the door gave way, and someone jerked Beckstead off the floor.
“Doc . . .” The breath stank of whiskey. “Doc . . . you gotta help. My two girls . . . they’s sick.”
He felt like laughing. What damned fool would come to “Doc Forty-Rod”—the moniker anointed him in the Fourteen Mile City—at this time of . . . ? His eyes opened, darted past the walking whiskey vat, to find blackness.
“Get someone else,” Beckstead managed. He and Sparhan had hung their shingle in a one-room hut that was more lean-to than home, but the owner had run off to Helena, like so many others, and while the logs didn’t keep out most of the wind, a man could walk to Iverson’s Saloon—if he had money, which Beckstead did not.
“Please, Doc.” He coughed, and Beckstead again caught the scent of alcohol. He had been sleeping on the floor here for . . . it didn’t matter. What mattered was he hadn’t had a drink in more than a day, and this man smelled like John Barleycorn, perhaps he had some, and if not, he would have to pay for a doctor’s visit.
“Where do you live?”
“Corner of Fremont and Broadway.”
Damn. Couldn’t it be closer? That was a haul. Rough hands lifted Beckstead off the floor. When he stood, he brought his arms up hard, knocking his captor aside. “Unhand me, sir,” Beckstead said, surprised to find himself standing without
support. “I shall be with you directly. Let me find my bag.”
The man staggered to the door, coughing, spitting onto the dark street. Fumbling, Beckstead found his hat, Doc Sparhan’s bag, grabbed a stethoscope, some pills and balms, let the wave of nausea pass, and tried to smile. “Lead the way, sir.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
A hand squeezed his shoulder, and Story’s eyes flashed open. His left arm swung up, knocked the hand away, while Story palmed the Colt on his lap with his right hand. He cursed himself for falling asleep, heard a sharp gasp, then, “It’s me.”
He did not recognize the voice until she repeated the words, and in the moonlight, he saw her sprawling on the sandy creek bed. By then Story had come to his knees, his thumb cocking the .36. He cursed again, lowered the hammer, shoved the revolver back into the holster.
A hundred yards off, the cook prepared breakfast, though from the moon’s position, they had an hour, maybe more, before the men would be roused. Turning, he stepped toward Constance Beckett and held out his right hand. “Take it,” he told her. When she did, he pulled her up, and waited.
“You were dreaming,” she said after brushing off her trousers. “Sounded like a nightmare.”
“It wasn’t. You shouldn’t be out here.”
“Nature’s call.”
“Oh.” He turned around, studied the graying sky. “It’d be better to stay closer to camp.”
“For you,” she said.
He made himself look at her and almost smiled. “I see your point.”
“I heard you when I was walking back.” She shrugged, then laughed. “I don’t think I’ll be going back to sleep. Maybe I’ll see if José has coffee ready. Want some?”
He tried to say no, but a yeah came out.
A few minutes later, he took the steaming mug from her hand, thanked her, and stood in the predawn darkness like an oaf.
“What was the dream?” she asked.
He studied the steam of the coffee. “Same. I’m burying a dog. Digging a grave.”
A Thousand Texas Longhorns Page 34