Dakota Kill and the Romantics

by Peter Brandvold

  “Your turn,” he said, drying his arms and face on the towel she had draped over a chair back.

  He sat at the table, feeling good to be sitting down to table again in Dakota. He reached into his shirt pocket for his tobacco pouch and started rolling a smoke. He worked on it thoughtfully and deliberately, lifting his eyes to Jacy as she washed.

  She was a girl no longer, he saw as she removed her heavy wool coat and hat and swept her hair back from her neck with both hands. She was every inch a woman, with all the right curves in all the right places, though genes and hard work had streamlined them some, taken some of the female plump and turned it to muscle.

  Without a trace of modesty, she unbuttoned her blue workshirt and tossed it onto a chair, then rolled up the sleeves of her faded red long johns and bent over the steaming washtub. From his side view, Talbot couldn’t help noticing that she was not wearing any of the underclothing most females used to nip and tuck here and pull and press there.

  Her small, conical breasts pushed invitingly against the thin, wash-worn fabric of the long johns, the pronounced nipples sliding this way and that as she scrubbed her face and behind her ears and neck.

  “That feels good,” she said breathily. Strands of wet, tawny hair stuck to her face. “It’s a long ride to town and back.”

  Talbot stuck the quirley between his lips and struck a phosphor on the underside of the table, lighting up. “Do it often?”

  “’Bout once a month. It’s nice to get away, see something else for a change, and get the pantry stocked, of course.” She glanced at him, did a double take.

  “What are you lookin’ at?”

  It was too late to avert his eyes. He’d been caught. He smiled, flushing and blowing smoke at the ceiling. “You.”

  She was drying her arms. “What about me?”

  “You’ve … grown up, Miss Jacy.”

  “Yes I have, and now I can really give your shins a bruising.” She tossed away the towel and produced a long knife from the counter. Brandishing it, she said, “Why don’t you go out and cut us a couple of nice steaks from that Double X beef—or cut me one and bring yourself a porcupine. You’ll probably find one or two at the trash heap.”

  With a flick of her wrist, she flung the knife through the air. It landed point-first in the table, about six inches from Talbot’s right hand, the handle vibrating for about two seconds after impact.

  Impressed, Talbot pushed himself to his feet as though he’d just discovered a diamondback under the table. “Whatever you say,” he said melodramatically. Sticking his cigarette in the corner of his mouth, he reached for his coat, pulled the knife out of the table, and headed out the door.

  Jacy turned to the sizzling potatoes, smiling.

  Talbot returned several minutes later, hands full of raw, marbled beef, kicking the door closed behind him. “Here’s your grass-fed Double X,” he said dryly.

  “Drop it in the pan. I’ve got the potatoes warming in the oven. Where’s your porcupine?”

  “Plumb got away. I guess I’ll be dining on the Double X this evening. Along with you and the Rinskis. I just hope King Magnusson doesn’t decide to check out your barn. That brand is hanging there, plain as day.”

  Jacy poked the meat around in the skillet and grew serious. “You’re making too big a deal out of this, Mark. King Magnusson started putting his brand on our cattle the day after he moved into that big house of his.”

  “Then you should have brought in stock inspectors and federal marshals, and hauled him in front of the federal magistrate.”

  Jacy shrugged. “Hindsight is twenty-twenty. Besides, you know how these old guys around here feel about the law. Hell, half of ’em are wanted for some penny-ante thing back east, and the other half believe the law belongs to only those who can pay for it. And the only one who can pay for it around here is King Magnusson.”

  Talbot sighed and sat down. Jacy had convinced him of the situation’s complexity. Still, two wrongs didn’t make a right. Stealing from King Magnusson only made the water muddier.

  Just the same, the smell of cooked, seasoned beef wafting up from the range made his mouth water, and he decided to enjoy the meal in spite of his philosophical differences with the cook.

  “How do you like your steak?” she asked him.

  “Bought and paid for, but I’ll settle for well done.”

  * * *

  Jacy filled their plates, and they wolfed down the meat and fried potatoes like true Dakotans. Afterwards, doing his part, Talbot cleared the table and washed the dishes while Jacy sat at the table, watching him while she rolled and smoked a cigarette.

  “Sorry, I know it’s not very lady-like,” she said, indicating the quirley. “Drinkin’ whiskey probably isn’t, either, but would you like a glass to wash down that Double X beef?”

  Talbot shrugged. “I reckon it wouldn’t be polite to make a woman drink alone.”

  When he had dried and put away the dishes, he and Jacy took their glasses of whiskey and retired to the sitting room, where she had started a fire in the big fieldstone hearth.

  Talbot sat in the rocker near the flames, noting the deer and bear heads eyeing him from the walls and remembering that Jacy’s father had been quite the hunter and trapper in his day. Jacy sat on the sofa and removed her moccasins, nudged them near the fire with a stockinged foot.

  “Tell me about Dave,” Talbot said after several minutes of contemplative silence.

  “What about him?”

  Talbot shrugged. “Did he have a girl? Before I left he was taking a shine to Maggie Cross over to Big Draw.”

  Jacy took a drag off her cigarette. “Maggie died, you know.”

  “She did?”

  “You didn’t know that?”

  “No.”

  “Suppose you wouldn’t. It was the milk fever.”

  “Jesus. Had they been close?”

  “Rumor was they were going to marry. I asked him about it, but he wouldn’t say. You know how shy he was about women.”

  Talbot leaned forward in his chair, taking his whiskey in both hands and resting his elbows on his knees. He sighed heavily.

  Jacy continued, “After that he kept himself busy on the ranch. Dug several wells, added another herd he brought up from Kansas City, mixed in some white-faced stock. He had three cowboys workin’ for him when … when he died.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “I hired one. Thornberg took the others.”

  She disappeared into another room and returned with a document, dropping it in his lap on her way back to the sofa. “That’s his will. I found it among his papers. It leaves the ranch to you.”

  Talbot sighed and stared at Dave’s boyish signature at the bottom of the sheet, beside the official seal. “What if I don’t want it?”

  “It’s your home. And it’s some of the best graze on the Bench. No wonder Magnusson went after it first. What I wouldn’t give for one or two of your creeks.”

  “They’re yours.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Why not?”

  “We can be partners. I’ll help you get started again.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “Old time’s sake.”

  Jacy finished her whiskey and set the empty glass on the lamp table beside the sofa. She went into the kitchen and returned with the bottle, then refilled Talbot’s glass. She straightened, holding the bottle by its neck. “I had a crush on you once. Did you know that?”

  He looked up at her.

  “But you never paid attention to me after you started taking Rona Paski to dances.”

  He shook his head, surprised. “I didn’t know that.”

  She smiled. “Then you went away.”

  Jacy took the bottle and sat down. She refilled her glass and set the bottle on the table. “I was just a kid to you, I reckon.”

  “Well, you were a kid,” he said defensively.

  There was a long silence. They each sat drinking and thinking, list
ening to the fire crack and the wind howl under the eaves. Talbot had the feeling again of having been left behind. The plan had been simple: Go home and help Dave on the ranch. Get hitched, build his own place, raise a few kids …

  He worked his mind back around to the moment, toying with the idea of taking over the ranch. He had the money; he could feel it in the homemade pockets around his waist.

  “How many head are you running?” he asked Jacy.

  She was lounging with her head about a foot below the top of the sofa’s back. She looked tired and her hair fell carelessly to her shoulders. She’d crossed her ankles on the stool before her.

  “Close to a thousand,” she said. “I had a good increase last year. I’m hopin’ for an even better one this year. I only keep Gordon on during the winter, but I have about four men on my rolls during the spring and summer. Want another drink?”

  They each had another. He tossed his back and looked up. She was still sitting there in the same way, but now tears were rolling down her cheeks.

  “Jacy, you’re crying,” he said.

  She smiled through her tears. “I’m just drunk.”

  “What are you crying about?”

  “I don’t know. I just get to feeling loco in the winter with nothing to do but feed cows and stare at the clouds.” She sniffed. Her voice sounded far away. “And I don’t know if I can keep this place … if I can stand against old Magnusson.”

  “You will,” he assured her.

  “Oh, I know—I’m just drunk.”

  “Why don’t you go to bed?”

  “I think I will.”

  Deliberately, she uncrossed her ankles and set her feet on the floor. She tried to push herself up but fell back down. “Or … maybe I won’t.”

  “I’ll help,” Talbot said.

  Smiling, she threw up a hand. He clutched it and pulled her to her feet. Feeling how unsteady she was, he bent down, picked her up in his arms, and carried her down a short, dark hall. She was light, and she felt good in his arms, her loose hair brushing his forearm and wrist. She smelled musky but feminine.

  “Which is your room?” he asked her.

  “That one.”

  He pushed the door open with his boot and laid her on the iron bed. She pulled the quilt back and crawled clumsily beneath it. Talbot walked to the door.

  “Good night, Jacy.”

  “You can sleep here.… This is the only bed in the house.”

  “What about your father’s?”

  “It’s buried under tack; you’ll never find it.” She patted the quilt beside her. “Come on. I won’t bite.”

  He stood in the doorway, watching her. His breath came short, and he couldn’t help feeling aroused. It had been a long time since he’d slept with a woman, with or without sex. His last lover had been Pilar, three years ago. He knew he should grab a quilt and lie on the couch, but he couldn’t make himself do it. He wanted to lie next to Jacy.

  So he removed his shirt, money belt, and jeans and lay on the bed.

  She turned to face him, snuggled up against his chest.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a man to keep me warm,” she said drowsily, getting comfortable against him.

  He kissed her ear, ran his hand down her thigh.

  She looked up suddenly. “What’s that?”

  “Sorry … I, uh … seem—”

  “I’m not a loose woman, Mr. Talbot,” she said haughtily. “Here, I’ll take care of it.”

  She thrust her hand through the front opening in his long johns, grabbed his member, and squeezed, slowly pressing it down.

  “There—how’s that?” she asked.

  He gave his head a quick shake and smiled against the pain. “Yeah … yeah, that should … do it,” he said with a sigh.

  “Good.”

  Then she wedged her head against his chest and went to sleep.

  CHAPTER 12

  SPERNIG’S ROADHOUSE SAT in a horseshoe of the Little Missouri River, along a well-traveled freight road snaking across the broken prairie between Mandan and Glendive, Montana.

  The roadhouse sat in a hollow between low buttes. Doubling as a dance hall, it was a long, barnlike building constructed of milled lumber and boasting a redbrick chimney poking through its shingled roof. A corral flanked the building on the left, and a long hitch rack paralleled its front porch.

  In spite of the cold weather, or because of it, Spernig’s was hopping tonight. The corral was nearly filled with saddled horses, and two spring wagons and a buckboard were tied to the hitch rack. Dull yellow light spilled from the windows, and the sound of laughter, shuffling feet, and broken piano music penetrated the still, cold night.

  Inside, Gordon Jenkins sat at a table nearest the piano. His big hand was wrapped around the handle of a soapy beer mug and his attention was glued to the woman playing the piano—or trying to play, as the others saw it. No one but Gordon could understand why the woman had been hired, for she could play no better than a gifted cowhand, and her half-assed renditions of “Little Brown Jug” and “The Flying Trapeze” were raucous at best.

  But night after night, Gordon listened and watched as though he were being personally serenaded by harp-wielding cherubs. And tonight was no different.

  Now as the woman finished a ponderous “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen,” letting the final notes fade with a dramatic flair, lifting her pudgy nose to the rafters, Gordon rose to his feet. He brought his sun-darkened paws together slowly at first, issuing reports like those from a heavy Sharps rifle, then more quickly as he gained momentum. The woman turned her round face to him and smiled.

  Gordon returned the smile with a wet-eyed one of his own, then turned his head to glance about the room. The other men and Spernig’s two soiled doves were not clapping. They weren’t even looking the piano player’s way.

  Gordon’s expression turned so dark that the others seemed to sense its heat before they saw it. Gradually, one pair of hands at a time, the room filled with applause. One of the soiled doves even removed the cigar from her mouth and gave an obligatory whistle before going back to her card game.

  It was enough to satisfy Gordon, who smiled broadly and held up his beer as the lady at the piano beamed and flushed, dropping her eyes demurely.

  As the applause died and everyone returned to their jokes and their card games, Gordon pulled a chair out from his table, and the woman made her way to it. She was dressed in a shiny green gown with puffed sleeves and feathered felt hat. Gordon loved the way her full bosom bubbled up out of her corset like giant scoops of vanilla ice cream.

  “That was some fine playin’, Doreen, some mighty fine playin’. Yessirree, doggie—can you play that thing!”

  “Well, thank you, Gordon.”

  “No—thank you, Doreen. You know, after listenin’ to you of a night, I’ll hear one of those tunes all the next day while I’m goin’ about my chores—just like you was playin’ a little piano inside my head.”

  Doreen Sanderson laughed gaily, red lips parting and blue eyes flashing. Gordon didn’t know how old she was—he guessed she was somewhere around forty-five or fifty—but he thought her the best-looking thing for the years as you’d find in Dakota in the wintertime, and her a widow with full-grown children to boot!

  “Really?” she said, beaming.

  “Would I lie to you?”

  “Well, no, I guess you probably wouldn’t, Gordon.”

  “Here, have a seat. I’ll order you a drink.”

  She frowned and pursed her lips, hesitating. “Oh, Gordon—you know, I’m awfully tired, and Mr. Norton wants me to start inventory early in the morning, before the doors open.” She only moonlighted as a piano player, working full-time as a clerk and bookkeeper in Big Draw. “I’m awfully sorry, but I think I’m going to head back to town.”

  Gordon’s face fell. “So early?”

  She smiled painfully and touched his hand. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Well, I’ll drive the buggy around.”r />
  “Oh, you don’t need to see me home. It’s early yet. You stay and have fun.”

  Gordon shook his head, reaching for his coat, which he’d thrown over a chair. “Wouldn’t think of it. It’s a dark, cold night out there. It’d take a pretty small man to send a lady off alone.”

  “Oh, Gordon…”

  He gave her a look of mock severity. “Now, Doreen, don’t argue with me. You get bundled up while I go out and get the buggy.”

  Five minutes later, Gordon pulled the Deere & Weber Company two-seater around the front of the roadhouse, and tied his roan gelding on behind. Doreen stepped through the door in a wash of yellow light and a wave of laughter.

  She wore a long wool coat, fur hat, and fur gloves. She clutched a round box, in which she’d placed her feathered hat for the journey home.

  “Easy now, these steps are slippery,” Gordon said as he mounted the porch and began guiding her down.

  “Oh, Gordon, how you do dote on me!”

  “Well, some women just call for dotin’.”

  “If only my dear dead Charlie could hear that!” she said with a throaty laugh.

  When they were situated in the buggy and Gordon had thrown a buffalo robe over Doreen’s legs, he flicked the reins against the harnessed sorrel’s back, and they moved off down the trail leading south along the frozen river. Buttes lofted on their right, white with snow in the frosty darkness. The riverbed pushed up on the left side of the trail, thick with brush and dotted here and there with isolated willows and box elders.

  Owls cooed and small night critters moved in the brush—raccoons, no doubt. Occasional wolves howled. When one such howl rose so loudly from a nearby knoll that Doreen’s eardrums rattled, she slid close to Gordon and gave a shiver.

  “Oh, I just hate it when they do that!”

  “They do tend to get brave out here,” Gordon allowed. “But don’t you worry none. I’ve lived in the Territory for fifty years, and I’ve never once heard of a wolf attacking people. Besides, I’ve got this here”—he lifted the carbine he’d stood between his left knee and the buggy’s fender—“and a Winchester Sixty-six is about as good a luck charm as you’ll find.” He grinned.