by S. K. Salzer
Dixon nodded. Trabing was a rough ranch and way station on the Bozeman Road at the Crazy Woman Creek crossing. The spot had been notorious for Indian attacks in the 1860s, when Dixon and Rose first passed that way. He thought of her, and how she would have loved this palatial home. Rose had never had much herself, but that didn’t stop her from appreciating, without jealousy, the fine things in life.
“Well,” Faucett continued, “Trabing and his clientele were astonished when we staggered in. At first, they didn’t believe our story, they thought we must be fugitives from the law or some such, but when Hargreaves and I went out the next day for poor Dick—we’d been forced to leave him behind in a deserted shack, you see—and brought him back on a travois, thin as a skeleton and barely alive, they finally believed us. We may be the only white men ever to have made that terrible journey in winter. Hargreaves believes it, and I rather suspect he’s right.”
Dixon nodded, remembering his own, hellishly cold rescue ride from Fort Phil Kearny to Horseshoe Station in December of 1866. He and Portugee Phillips, a civilian employee of the post quartermaster, had left the night of the massacre, traveling at night and hiding in bushes and ravines during the day. The first sixty-fives miles to Fort Reno had been the worst. Many times Dixon thought the subzero temperatures would kill him if the Indians didn’t. The army had paid each man three hundred dollars for his efforts.
“Did your brother recover?” he asked Faucett.
“Yes, matter of fact, he did. Old Dick was tougher than I thought. He chose to remain here in Wyoming when I returned to New York for the winter. When I came back in the spring, he’d already started building this place, already ordered furnishings and fittings from Chicago. That summer I bought my first herd, from a rancher on the Sweetwater. Now I have thirty-nine thousand animals, including horses, all bearing my brand. I don’t mind telling you, Dixon, my range runs from the headwaters of the Powder River south to Teapot Rock divide. That’s ninety miles north and south, and east thirty miles from the Big Horns. Soon, I’ll have two more ranches, one on Crazy Woman Creek and another on Tongue River. I’ll need a good man on each to help run my outfit, an intelligent man, one who already knows something of the cattle business. You did some work for Nelson Story up north, didn’t you, Dixon? How’d you like to come work for me?”
Faucett gestured to Chang, who refilled their glasses. Dixon had begun to suspect Faucett was working up to such an offer, though he had no intention of accepting. Story was a good man and a friend, and Dixon had been happy in Paradise Valley, but he’d had his fill of working for another man, of spending his time and energy looking after someone else’s interests. He was ready to be his own boss. Beyond that, the isolation of ranch life was hard on children. The twins especially needed school and civilizing.
“Money is no object,” Faucett said, misinterpreting Dixon’s hesitation. “I need a man I can trust, and one who can start immediately. Name your price.”
Before Dixon could answer, they were interrupted by a woman’s voice from the curving stairway.
“Oh, do be quiet, Richard,” she said. “Our guest isn’t interested in becoming another one of your cow servants. Leave the poor man alone.”
The two men got to their feet as she entered the room. The woman was tall, taller than her husband, and striking, with pale hair worn in a gleaming chignon and skin that was white and unblemished. She wore a silk brocade dress, cut low in the European fashion, of an ivory color that accentuated her cool, bloodless beauty. Unlike her husband, Lady Faucett was not English. In her speech, Dixon heard the languorous lilt of the American South.
“My darling,” Faucett said, “come meet our neighbor, Daniel Dixon, the physician. I’ve no intention of making him one of my cow servants, as you say. I want him to join me as a kind of partner. Dr. Dixon, may I introduce my wife, Odalie?”
When she offered her hand, Dixon, because of her exoticness, was not sure whether to clasp it or raise it to his lips. He chose the latter. As their eyes met, he felt a shock of recognition, a stirring he had not experienced in years. He knew these eyes; they were large and blue, rimmed with long dark lashes. What moved him most was not the beauty of those eyes but the delicate, dewy skin below them, faintly blue or maybe silver, that made them so remarkable. Rose’s eyes.
“So nice to meet you at last, Doctor,” she said. Dixon saw surprise and amusement on her lovely face, and he realized he was still holding her hand.
“The pleasure is mine, Lady Faucett,” he said, finally releasing her hand.
* * *
The meal began with chicken gumbo soup, served with a crusty, French-style bread, followed by a broiled leg of lamb bathed in an oyster sauce made rich with sweet butter and cream. After this, a fricassee of veal, served with mashed potatoes and asparagus points, and, to finish, English plum pudding with brandy sauce. Chang served the food, cleared the plates, and kept the wine flowing throughout.
“Lady Faucett, I do believe that was the best meal I’ve ever had,” Dixon said without exaggeration. As a young man growing up in Lexington, Kentucky, and later as a physician-in-training in Cincinnati, he had patronized the finest restaurants those sophisticated cities had to offer, but nothing to compare with this. “Where did you find such a cook?”
Odalie smiled happily, revealing dimples in both cheeks. “Arnaud—he is a treasure, isn’t he? I discovered him last year on a journey home. I poached him from a Mississippi steamer. I’m worried though; I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep him. We pay him handsomely, God knows, but one of those railroad tycoons in Denver will woo him away soon, I fear. It’s already been attempted.”
“I’m not surprised,” Dixon said. “And where is home?”
“New Orleans. Do you know it?”
“Yes, though I haven’t been there since before the war. I remember it as a lovely but strange city, like being in another country.” In fact, though it would be impolite to say so, Dixon had been happy to leave the place. He and his traveling companion had made the mistake of visiting in summer, and his friend, a fellow medical student, had fallen ill with yellow fever and very nearly died. When Dixon thought of New Orleans, he saw jaundiced skin, yellow eyes, and pools of bloody vomit.
Odalie’s smile faded at his mention of the war. “Yes, well, it’s all quite different now,” she said bitterly, “thanks to the Yankee beast Butler, a vile pig.” Her eyes clouded as the specter of General Benjamin F. Butler entered the candlelit room.
Lord Faucett cleared his throat. “Yes, well . . .” He searched for a change of topic. “I am by no means expert in these matters, but I like to think I have a keen ear for language. Are you, Dr. Dixon, by any chance a child of Dixie, like my wife?”
Dixon smiled. “I grew up in Lexington, Kentucky, though I haven’t been back to the Bluegrass Country for many years. I hope you won’t hold it against me, Lady Faucett, but I fought with the Union during the late war. My family and I disagreed on the subject of slavery, and it caused a rupture that has yet to heal. Someday, I hope to change this, but so far, I have not found an opening.”
Odalie sighed, abandoning her previous gaiety. “Yes, a story that’s all-too-common, I’m afraid. No, Doctor, I don’t fault you for your wartime allegiance. What’s done is done, though I do hope you can heal the rift. Family is so important.”
She smiled sadly at him and, again, Dixon felt a throb of powerful emotion. Other than the eerie similarity about the eyes, Odalie Faucett did not resemble Rose in any way. Still, in some strange way, Dixon felt his departed wife’s presence in the room. He had almost forgotten how much he loved her, until this lovely woman reminded him.
Billy Sun
When Dixon returned to his house on Sunday morning, Mrs. MacGill ran out to meet him, breathless and disheveled.
“They’re gone,” she said. “They’ve run off, Caleb and Lorna.”
“Run off?” he said, sliding to the ground. “Why? When? How long have they been gone?”
“O
h, Doctor, I don’t know,” she said, twisting her apron in her work-roughened hands. “I haven’t seen them since last night. They went out to do their chores, like always, but when I got up this morning they were gone. They took the pony and the blankets off their beds.”
Dixon looked north, toward the snow-covered mountains. Though the February afternoon was uncharacteristically warm, the weather was preparing to turn. Dark clouds were moving toward them, like crouching bears. “Where’s Harry?”
“In town,” Mrs. MacGill said, “staying with the Donahues. Remember?”
Dixon nodded absently. He’d forgotten Harry was spending the week in town with a friend’s family, and now he was sorry he’d agreed to it. He could use his help.
“I think I know where they’re headed,” Dixon said, “and I have to go after them now, before the snow comes. Is there anything else you can tell me? Did something happen to upset them?”
Mrs. MacGill put her hand to her white head; her topknot had loosened and was listing to one side. “Well, I scolded ’em, I did. I told them to muck out the horses’ stalls, and when they were done there to fill the barrels in the kitchen and upstairs. Cal would’ve done it—and Lorna’s share, too—but she commenced to complaining and so he started in. So I switched ’em, the both, on the backside. But I didn’t expect the two to take off. I’ve switched ’em before.”
Dixon frowned. He did not hit his children and did not want anyone else to strike them, either. “I thought we had an understanding about that,” he said.
“Yes, Doctor, but they need discipline! Lorna won’t make old bones without someone to take her in hand. She’ll find trouble, and sure enough. Save her and you’ll save the boy, too, the way she owns him. Anyhow, like I said, I don’t think ’twas the switchin’ made ’em take off.”
Dixon did not argue. What Mrs. MacGill said was true, the twelve-year-old twins were out of control and it was his fault. He hadn’t given them a father’s love or a father’s attention. Sometimes he could barely even look at them. Even though he knew, in his rational, physician’s mind, that Caleb and Lorna were not responsible for Rose’s death, he had not been able to make his heart believe it, too.
“Please pack some food, Mrs. MacGill. I hope to be back with them tonight, but give us enough for two days, just in case.”
* * *
Dixon left at two o’clock, riding his mare, Alice, a long-legged sorrel with a flax mane and tail, and leading a mule with the food and a tent. The day’s sunny warmth held for the first few hours, and he had no trouble following the pony’s tracks. As he suspected, Lorna and Caleb were going north, probably to the Crow village. Even now, more than a year after leaving Paradise Valley, the twins were more Indian than white. Unlike Harry, neither had any interest in schooling—it was all he could do to get them to wear shoes.
After about three hours, the wind acquired a sting and the first few flakes of the snow that had been threatening all day began to fall. Dixon turned up the collar of his sheepskin coat and hunched his shoulders, hoping he would not regret his decision to travel alone. Mrs. MacGill had tried to talk him into riding to Buffalo to enlist Sheriff Canton’s help, but Dixon refused. “There’s no time,” he said, “not if I’m going to catch up with them tonight.” Guilt and fear drove him to take speedy action, but now he was forced to admit another pair of eyes would have been useful, especially if they were in for a heavy snow.
The sky was going red, and the valleys ahead were bathed in violet shadow. The snow was coming faster and the pony’s tracks were becoming harder to see. Dixon’s mind drifted back, sixteen years, to the first time he’d traveled this stretch of the Bozeman Road. It was late summer, and he rode with the three-man team of Montgomery Van Valzah, the barrel-chested civilian who carried the locked mailbag between forts Laramie and Phil Kearny, with stops at Fort Reno and Bridger’s Ferry. This was still Sioux country then, and the sixty-five-mile journey from Fort Reno to Phil Kearny was a perilous one, but all of Red Cloud’s painted warriors could not have stopped him, for Rose was at Fort Phil Kearny and nothing would keep him away.
Even in the bright sunlight, the fort’s blackened skeleton held the power to chill him. Now, as he neared it again, Dixon found himself growing uneasy about confronting the ruins in the winter moonlight. Would ghosts of the slaughtered soldiers stand sentry in the ruined blockhouses? Would spectral voices echo through the gutted barracks and the quartermaster’s yard? A shiver ran through him, and not only because of the cold wind that blew down his collar.
It was fully dark now and the snow was thick and blowing. Though he could no longer see the pony’s tracks, Dixon had no choice but to press on. The twins would follow the old Bozeman Road, he was confident of that. With any luck, Jesse, the over-burdened pony, would tire and the children would be forced to find a place to stop for the night. Had they brought bedrolls suitable for the weather? He thought so; Cal and Lorna were wild, but they weren’t stupid. No one had ever said that of them. They would build a fire if they could, though it would be difficult in this weather even for a seasoned outdoorsman.
Dixon raised his eyes to the inky sky, trying to gauge the time. He reckoned it was getting on toward eight o’clock. The snow was letting up, but the wind was not. After one especially savage blast, Alice turned her head and gave him the side eye, as if to say, Do you have any idea what you’re doing?
They crested a ridge and Dixon found himself looking down on the remains of Fort Phil Kearny. Though he’d been anticipating the sight, and the eerie stillness of the frozen Piney Creek Valley, his nerve endings tingled as Alice daintily picked her way down the steep trail, followed by the mule. Every part of Dixon’s soul rebelled. He did not want to return to this haunted place. He sensed a malevolent presence waiting, yet he knew he had to press on. His children might be sheltering there.
The ice groaned under Alice’s feet as they crossed the frozen Little Piney. They rode through the collapsed water gates and over the blackened ground that used to be the quartermaster’s yard. Dixon looked to the right, at the remains of the stables and the teamsters’ quarters. He saw the charred remnants of the slag pile, where young Private Rooney chopped off a thumb while splitting firewood, and the listing clothesline that held the bed sheets that comically entangled Colonel Carrington one windy day as he scolded a soldier for a minor uniform violation. Some cabins still stood along laundresses’ row, though they were roofless. They would provide little protection from the elements, but a child might seek shelter there. Dixon dismounted and checked each one, without result.
He climbed the slope from the quartermaster’s yard and into the fort proper, leading Alice and the mule along the red gravel path that ran between officers’ row and the parade lawn. How many times had he and Rose trod these iron-red stones? He stopped before the hulk that once was her cabin, and then their cabin, the place where he first kissed her, where they first made love. His throat tightened, and he closed his eyes. They thought they had long lives ahead of them, a joyful future together, but this was a lie, just another of God’s cruel jokes.
Alice nickered and nudged him with her nose. He turned to see a shadow moving toward him through the snow. He saw the dark shape only briefly before it vanished behind a blowing curtain of white. Dixon closed his eyes and looked again. Nothing . . . then, yes! It was closer now, bulky and slow moving. Alice saw the apparition also; she remained motionless, ears forward, tail blowing between her legs. Dixon was surprised by the horse’s calmness; generally, she was quick to sense and react to the presence of an intruder. Gradually, above the keening of the wind, Dixon heard a voice calling. The words were not intelligible until the man—for it was a man and not a ghost—drew nearer.
“Doctor! I’ve got them, Cal and Lorna. They’re safe.”
Dixon peered into the snow, shielding his eyes with his hand. “Who is it? I can’t see you.”
“Billy Sun.” He came closer until Dixon could make out his features. Years had passed since he’d la
st seen the half-breed, and he was virtually swallowed by the soldier’s buffalo coat and red woolen scarf he wore, but there was no mistaking those pale green eyes. He turned and waved a wolf-hide mitten toward a crumbling structure Dixon recognized as the remains of the bakery, the post’s only stone structure. “They’re in there,” he said. “I got a fire going.”
Dixon felt a rush of relief and gratitude. “Thank God,” he said. “Thank you, Billy. Thank you.”
“They were in a bad way when I found them,” Billy said. “Cold and hungry but they’re good now.”
They started walking toward the bakery. “Where did you find them?” Dixon said.
“North of here, about half a mile, on the old Fort Smith Road. Their pony died and they were trying to make a shelter out of blankets and rocks. They weren’t having luck, or with a fire, either, because of the wind. It was a good thing I came along when I did.”
As they neared the stone walls, Dixon smelled a wood fire and saw its warm glow flickering through an open window. Before they arrived, he put out an arm to stop Billy. “Where were they going? Back to your village?”
Billy hesitated, looking at his feet. He wore tall moccasins, like his gloves, made of wolf skin with the fur on the inside. Dixon, whose own feet felt like blocks of blue ice inside his square-toed leather boots, would have given one hundred dollars for a pair like them. “Yes, they were going to the village,” Billy said.
“The surgeon at Fort McKinney told me there is sickness there. Is it true?”
“Yes. Many of the people have died and many more are sick. Biwi fell ill.”
“Do the children know of Biwi’s illness? Could that be why they were going there, to see her?”