by S. K. Salzer
Dixon was annoyed. “Billy doesn’t work for me anymore. In fact, we hardly see him. And not that it’s any of your business, Sheriff, but there’s nothing going on between him and Lorna. She’s known him all her life. He’s like a brother.”
Canton shrugged. “Maybe so, but I don’t think that would make a difference, if it was up to her.”
Dixon got to his feet, fighting an overpowering urge to punch Canton in his drink-flushed face. “You talk too much, Canton,” he said, putting on his coat. “You should be more careful about what you say.”
“Take your coat off and sit down, Doctor. Don’t get your pants in a bunch. I didn’t mean any disrespect. Lots of girls around here are sweet on Sun. Like I said, he’s a good-looking boy and the best horseman in the Territory. Everybody says so.”
“Good night, Frank.” Dixon started for the door.
“Just tell him what I said, all right?” When Dixon did not stop, Canton raised his voice. “Tell Bill Sun to keep away from Jack Reshaw and Nate Coday. Tell him I said so—for his own good.”
* * *
Dixon decided to stop by the small office he kept in Buffalo, a single room above Raylan’s Dry Goods, before heading home. He kept hours in town only one day a week, Saturday, and often arrived to find he had let supplies of linen bandages, plasters, and other materials run low. Canton’s words echoed in his head as he walked along the boardwalk, eyes down, lost in thought. Of course Lorna was infatuated with Billy, this had been true as long as Dixon could remember, but that’s all it was, a girlish adoration that would pass when she found her first real boyfriend. When would that happen? She was almost sixteen years old; most girls her age had already had a boyfriend by now, hadn’t they? A friend from school or a neighbor? But Lorna didn’t seem interested in other young people her age, and neither did Cal for that matter. They seemed satisfied with each other’s company, as they had when they were young and spoke that gibberish to each other. Did they still do that, when they were alone? Dixon shook his head. If only Rose had lived . . .
He fished the key from his pocket as he climbed the stairs. As he inserted the key, he felt a pricking on the back of his neck. He turned to find a woman in a dark, hooded cape standing behind him.
“I followed you,” she said. “I’ve been hoping to catch you alone.”
There was no mistaking the voice. “Lady Faucett?”
“Please open the door, Dr. Dixon. Hurry, before someone sees me.”
The landing was dark and he had trouble with the lock. Finally the tumbler turned and she swept by him as he pushed open the door. Dixon followed her inside. Other than the pale gray light from the lone window, the room was dark. Dixon heard her sigh as he walked to his desk and lit the coal oil lamp he kept there. As he replaced the glass chimney, Odalie flew across the room and pulled down the paper shade. She removed her hood but kept her back to him and did not speak. When at last she turned, he was alarmed by her appearance. Her face was pale and there were shadows below her eyes, half moons of purple.
“Are you ill?” he said. “Please, sit.” He took her arm and guided her to a chair. “Can I get you some water?”
She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m sorry to ambush you like this, you must find it odd.”
“Not at all. If there’s something I can do, I’m happy to help.”
Odalie looked down at her hands and pulled off her gloves. “This is difficult. I don’t know how to begin.”
“Take your time, Lady Faucett. Remember, I’m a physician, there’s nothing I haven’t heard.”
She smiled at him with gratitude. “Please, call me Odalie. Yes, I’m sure it would be difficult to shock you.” She took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I do have a problem, you see, and there is no one else I could turn to. No one I trust, at any rate.”
She hesitated, twisting her gloves in her hands. Dixon suspected he knew what she wanted to tell him and thought he would make it easier.
“Are you with child?” he said.
“Yes.” She responded immediately, clearly relieved to be unburdened of her secret. “How did you know?”
“It was just a guess.” But in fact he had detected faint brown spots on her forehead, splotches on her otherwise creamy skin that had not been present when he saw her last. These spots, known as chloasma, were a sure sign of pregnancy, though more common in women with darker skin. When she removed her gloves he had also noticed a distinct redness on the palms of her hands. This was another sign, though usually not seen until twelve weeks’ gestation. “But why is this a problem, Odalie?” he said.
She got to her feet and began pacing. “Because my husband is an odious little man and I do not want his child. In fact, I have absolutely no desire to be a mother at all.” She stopped and looked him directly in the eye, smiling slightly. “There, have I succeeded in shocking you?”
He returned her smile. “Well, I admit I’m a little surprised to hear your opinion of Lord Faucett. Having seen you together, I wouldn’t have guessed it. It must make your marriage difficult.”
“And that’s all that surprises you?”
Dixon sensed he was entering a minefield. He had never met a woman like this one, and he was uncertain how to proceed. “I know some women feel . . .” he searched for the right word, “apprehensive about pregnancy. It’s understandable and there’s no shame in it. I’ve known many women who believe they don’t want children, who fear childbirth, but when their baby comes they feel quite different.”
She laughed shortly. “You disappoint me, Dr. Dixon. I do not fear childbirth, and I assure you I will not become a crooning idiot when I hold my new baby in my arms.” She resumed pacing.
“May I ask why you dislike your husband so intensely? Does he mistreat you?”
“Would you consider boring someone to death mistreatment?”
“Without a doubt. In fact, it may be legal grounds for murder.”
She laughed again, this time genuinely. “So we agree.”
“Really, Odalie, why have you come to me? Do you want me to deliver the child? I’ll be happy to do that, of course, though I can also recommend several local women who are capable.”
She made a sound of impatience. “No, Dr. Dixon, I do not want your help delivering the child. I told you, I do not want it. I want you to help me. I cannot have this baby—I will not have it.”
Dixon was hoping she would not ask this of him. Though he was sympathetic, motherhood was an overwhelming responsibility, and the burden of caring for a child—even a much wanted one—fell heavily on a woman, she asked of him something he could not do.
“Do I disgust you?” she said.
“No, that’s not what I feel. I’m sorry you find yourself in this painful situation. I’d like to say I understand, though I realize only another woman can fully appreciate what you’re going through. But I cannot do what you ask. I’m sorry.”
Her blue eyes sparkled with anger. “Oh, I see. It would violate your sanctimonious, self-righteous principles? Is that it?”
“Something like that, I guess. The truth is I couldn’t live with myself. I already find that hard enough, I don’t need to add to the weight.”
Odalie returned to the chair and sat, covering her face with her hands. At first, Dixon thought she was crying, but when she looked up at him her eyes were dry.
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “I shouldn’t have said that. Of course, I understand your position. I guess I expected it.”
“Odalie, you don’t need to apologize to me. How far along are you?”
“About ten weeks.”
He thought she was probably further along, judging by the signs he observed, but he did not share this. Instead he said, “It’s still early. Pregnancies at this stage often end spontaneously, as I’m sure you know.”
Dixon wanted to comfort her somehow, to take her in his arms, but could not. There was nothing he could do to ease her burden. “You must feel very alone,” he said.
She
stood and covered her fair hair with her hood. “I shouldn’t have bothered you,” she said. “I’ve got to go, Fred Jolly is waiting for me at the Occidental. I told him I was going to Raylan’s to look at fabric with Etheline. He’ll be half in his cups when I get there; he won’t notice when I come back empty-handed. If he does, I’ll make something up.” She laughed without humor. “Fred’s very loyal to my husband. He makes up in devotion what he lacks in intelligence.” She pulled on her gloves and walked to the door.
“Let me walk you to the hotel,” Dixon said.
“No, it’s better you don’t.”
He reached for the knob but did not open the door. “It’s none of my business,” he said, “but does your husband know about your condition?”
Her pale face, surrounded by her black cloak, appeared to be suspended in the darkness. “No, nor will he.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’ve heard about an Indian woman who deals in such matters. I—or rather, someone who works for me—will make inquiries.”
“Please be careful, Odalie. What you are contemplating can be dangerous. Things can go wrong.”
“Don’t worry, Dr. Dixon. I wouldn’t want you to distress yourself on my account.” She brushed past him, leaving a faint scent of jasmine, and descended quickly to the street, her tread light on the stairs.
Billy Sun
The fall roundup of 1886 was a harvest of disappointment, following a summer of extreme heat and drought. It was the same throughout the Territory, on lands watered by the Powder, the Belle Fourche, the Little Missouri. The spring grass burned away, and there was very little forage, while more cattle than ever were released upon the range. One single company drove thirty-two thousand steers up from southern states and turned them loose to fend for themselves. The cattle began to starve.
The overstocking, combined with the lack of rain, turned the rich Wyoming soil into a dry powder that was fine and choking as talc. The winds were hot, blowing mostly from the south that summer, instead of from the northwest and west as usual. The cowboys tied handkerchiefs over their faces to keep the dust and dirt out of their mouths and noses, and Raylan’s Dry Goods sold out of its supply of sun goggles within two weeks. There were many prairie fires. Streams that normally ran year-round dried up, and the water that remained stood in small, stagnant pools that were so alkaline the animals would not drink. The summer’s only bumper crop was one of poisonous weeds, which the desperate cattle ate and died. The survivors collected in the fall roundup were ribby and exhausted.
Cowboys working the roundup were stressed and buggy, too. If an owner didn’t make money, neither would his men. Billy worked for Faucett that summer, though he was often away as area ranchers sought him out to break their green horses. At first, Lord Faucett was proud of his buster and let Billy keep his earnings, but he grew less charitable as Billy’s reputation grew. By the end of the summer, Faucett was demanding one-fifth of Billy’s pay. Billy understood Lord Faucett didn’t need the money, that it was just Faucett’s way of making sure Billy did not forgot who he worked for. Billy didn’t mind; he’d rather spend his time working with horses than roping a terrified, bawling calf and dragging it to the branding fire. Their screams and rolling eyes disturbed him.
He was happiest on those afternoons when, if the sun wasn’t too hot, Lady Odalie would walk down to the corral from the big house and stand in the shade of her parasol watching Billy finish a green four-year-old. She didn’t say much, but she didn’t have to. Odalie admired Billy’s skill, and he saw that in her eyes. Sometimes Billy thought she was like a wild horse herself, not fully tamed but stuck in a cage.
Nate Coday had moved to a larger ranch, the EK, where he was promptly appointed wagon boss. He and Billy saw little of each other that summer until the fall roundup when the cowboys came together in the evenings for eating, singing, and card playing. The EK’s cook, Marcus Maupin, a barrel-chested Texan with a headful of wiry red hair and hands the size of hams, was generally regarded as the best cook in the Big Horn basin. His pies, cobblers, and doughnuts were the stuff of legend. On the last night of the roundup, Coday invited Billy to join the EK’s grubline and Billy happily accepted. On that special night, Maupin served up his famous apple pie with walnuts and raisins, which he baked in tins carefully stacked in a Dutch oven strategically placed just off the fire. The scent of apples and cinnamon filled the crisp night air as Billy joined the line of men, waiting with bowls in hand for their hot pie served with a dipper of cream. The cowboy behind Billy bumped him hard in the back with his bowl.
“What you think you’re doing, chief?”
Billy turned to see a man of about his height but heavier, with sloped, powerful-looking shoulders and a bald, bullet-shaped head. “You don’t ride with us, you don’t get none of coosie’s pie. The EK don’t serve Injuns.” He glared at Billy with bloodshot, protruding eyes and yanked on Billy’s grizzly claw necklace, but the leather cord held fast.
“Shut up, Ringo.” This came from Nate, eating his pie on an oilcloth beside the fire. “Billy’s here because I asked him.” Nate called to the cook in a loud voice. “Marcus, serve my friend, Billy Sun, a piece of pie and make sure it’s bigger than Ringo’s.”
Billy stepped forward and held out his bowl, conscious of Ringo’s heavy breathing behind him. The cook gave him a thick slab and poured a dipper of thick, yellow cream over it. Billy took his bowl to sit cross-legged on the ground beside Nate, who handed him an opened can of condensed milk to lighten his coffee. Billy forgot about Ringo until his bowl was empty. When he looked up, he saw the cowboy glaring at him from across the fire. Ringo’s greasy head shone in the firelight like a polished knob.
“Some people around here have forgot what you red niggers did to our people when we first come out here,” he said. “Nate, I guess you’re one of them, but me, I ain’t. You Injuns killed my kin, and it weren’t that long ago.” The men sitting around the fire fell quiet, so the only sounds were the pop of the fire and the bawling of cattle.
“Ringo, I am your wagon boss and I am telling you to shut your gob hole,” Nate said. “Anyhow, Billy’s people were Crow. They never did harm to you or your kin.”
Ringo kept his eyes on Billy. “Crow, Sioux, Cheyenne, it don’t matter.” His top lip curled back in a smile that showed yellow teeth and blood-red gums. “Injuns are all the same. They all smell the same, too.” He threw back his head and made a show of sniffing the air. “You boys smell that? Phew, it’s enough to make a man puke.”
“That’s just your breath blowing back in your face, Ringo,” one of the cowboys said.
“I don’t want to fight you,” Billy said, putting down his bowl, “but I will if I have to.”
“Haw haw!” Ringo laughed, looking around the campfire. “Did you all hear that? Chief, here, is ready to fight me.” He turned to Billy. “You’re a tough one, aren’t you, chief? A real hard case.”
“No. I said I would if I had to.”
“Leave him alone why don’t you, Ringo?” one of the cowboys said. “He’s not bothering anybody.” Others murmured their agreement.
“It’s sad, that’s what it is,” Ringo said, getting to his feet, “and a good thing the old-timers aren’t here to see it. Hell, has everybody forgot what them stinking redskins did to Fetterman and his boys, not far from this very place?” He looked at the circle of faces in the firelight and, when no one responded, shook his head and stormed off, muttering to himself.
“I’m sorry for that ugly galoot,” Nate said. “I didn’t know his feelings—it never came up before—but it doesn’t matter. Nobody cares what Albertus Ringo thinks anyhow.”
Billy nodded. Albertus Ringo. It was a hard name to forget.
* * *
Four inches of snow fell on the first day of November, but the sun stayed warm and it melted fast as it fell. Usually there’d been a sticking snow by this time of year, and some of the townfolk started to hope the Territory might be spared the hard, pun
ishing winter old-timers prophesied. But then the storms started coming, one after another, heavy snowfalls accompanied by a bone-breaking cold. Hurricane winds blew day after day, from sunup to sundown, for fifty-four days. Fences and outbuildings were leveled; haystacks disappeared. Stages were unable to pass through snowdrifts six feet high and had to turn back. Trains were blown from the tracks or frozen in place.
The rivers and streams froze solid and cattle were driven mad by thirst. The cattle herds drifted toward the larger rivers, where they would always find air holes no matter how thick the ice, but while the leaders drank the followers closed in from behind, pushing the animals into the rapidly flowing water where they were swept away to drown under the ice. In a desperate attempt to escape the snow and wind, cattle by the thousands wandered onto the railroad tracks where snowplows had cleared a pathway, delaying trains for hours and sometimes driving passengers from their cars to drive the animals from the tracks. Starving cattle invaded towns, eating garbage when they could find it, tarpaper from the sides of buildings, straw and grain from the manure of horses. People complained of being unable to sleep at night because of the moans of the invading herds. Many animals died in the streets or in yards.
Cowboys tried to save their employers’ suffering cattle, but it was futile as trying to empty the ocean with a teaspoon. They worked to keep the animals out of the valleys and draws, where the snow was deepest and they would die. Instead they drove them up into the hills, where occasionally the wind would expose a green patch of grass, or around to the south side of a mountain where they might find shelter from the scouring wind.
Billy left Faucett’s employ to pass the winter with Nate Coday and Jack Reshaw on Reshaw’s Red Fork ranch. Their job was less difficult than the cowboys working for larger outfits, but it was a struggle nonetheless, and Reshaw worried that even with his friends’ help—Billy and Nate worked for no pay but a roof over their heads and food in their bellies—he would lose most of his herd. In the evenings, they retreated to the house, a three-room cabin made of logs of hewn pine. It had an earthen floor and, in the main room, a round-bodied, cast iron stove that had a surface to cook on and threw good heat, more than a fireplace. Billy worried that the stove would get too hot and start a fire, roasting them in their sleep. He solved this by hammering flat a bunch of food cans and covering the walls nearest the stove in tin.