Powder River

by S. K. Salzer

  As she turned from the window she saw Daniel Dixon walking up to the house. She smiled, pleasantly surprised; she had not expected to see him this evening, but who was on his arm? A small, slender woman with blond—almost white—hair, simply but charmingly dressed in a pale yellow silk with a modest décolletage. Odalie smiled. This evening might not be a total bore after all, she thought.

  She went to her wardrobe, putting aside the tasteful but sedate dress of London smoke she had chosen and selecting instead a low-cut gown of Nile-green silk that showed her slim figure to advantage. I don’t know who you are, my little darling, but tonight we’ll show you how a grown woman does it.

  * * *

  By the time she was dressed, the party, was in full swing. Richard had hired musicians—strings and woodwinds but no brass—from Fort McKinney who played nicely from the gallery. Arnaud, who had been working for days, had outdone himself. On the sideboard were oysters packed on ice, Columbia River salmon au buerre, and an arrangement of cheeses and cold meats. Once the guests were seated, they would be served their choice of consommé aux champignon or chicken gumbo, followed by roast loin of beef, an entrée of fricandeau of veal with vegetable glace, and, to finish, Richard’s favorite, an English plum pudding with hard sauce. Throughout the evening, wines and champagne would flow freely.

  When Odalie floated down the stairs, the revelers fell quiet. Well, she said to herself, the Nile-green must have been a good choice after all. At the last minute, she had decided on the emerald necklace Richard had given her for Christmas. It was an expensive, overly decorative bauble she rarely wore, but it went well with the green silk. She was annoyed to see Frank Canton hurrying to the foot of the stairs to offer his arm, smiling up at her like an itinerant quacksalver. As she placed her hand on his sleeve, Odalie caught sight of Canton’s wife, Anna, across the room, flushing an unbecoming red. She saw jealousy in the woman’s eyes and wished she could tell her not to worry. I wouldn’t have your cruel beast of a husband if he were king of England.

  “Thank you, Sheriff,” Odalie said. “I’m so glad you and Mrs. Canton could join us this evening. I think after the winter we’ve been having we’re all due a bit of celebration. Don’t you agree?”

  “Indeed, I do, Lady Faucett, though I’m afraid it may be premature. Your husband and the other cattlemen won’t know whether celebration is in order until spring comes for real and they know how their herds fared. The roundup won’t tell the whole story, scattered as they are. We may not know until summer. For some, I expect the losses will prove ruinous.”

  Odalie rolled her eyes. “How dreary,” she said. “Let’s talk of happier things tonight.”

  “I agree,” Canton said. “And in that vein, may I say you look especially lovely this evening? You are the most beautiful woman in the room.”

  “I suppose you mean to be kind, Sheriff, but a man should not say a thing like that if his wife is in the room as well. It’s disrespectful.”

  Canton smiled and said, “I am an honest man, for better or worse. I have often suffered for it.”

  “Have you? I rather think your wife will suffer for it, too.” She took her hand from his arm. Poor Anna, she thought, she has tethered herself to an ass and, if Odalie’s suspicions were correct, an immoral man. Though she did not concern herself with her husband’s business, she knew Canton did the WSGA’s bidding, no matter what its members asked, as long as the pay was right. And they paid him very handsomely indeed.

  She searched the crowded room for Dixon and his mysterious blond companion and found them talking to William Angus, a Buffalo bar owner and businessman better known as Red. Canton followed her eyes and, spotting Angus, laughed with derision.

  “There he is, mayor of Laurel Avenue,” he said, referring to the street where Buffalo’s taverns and brothels were located. “Red Angus, cattle thief, pimp, and gambler, friend to whores, thieves, and cutthroats—and now I hear he plans to seek the Democratic nomination for sheriff next year. Ha, that’s rich!” Unsure of Odalie’s politics, Canton paused, giving her a chance to respond. When she said nothing, he continued, reassured. “Frankly, I’m surprised you and Lord Faucett would have a man like that in your home. He is not a person of your quality.”

  Odalie decided to make Canton squirm. “Yes, I did know Mr. Angus is considering a run for office, and I think he would make a fine sheriff. He’s smart, well liked, and, far as I know, beholden to no one. If he made some mistakes in his past, well, so what? Who hasn’t?” She turned to look Canton directly in the eye. “I certainly have—haven’t you?”

  Canton loosened his shirt collar with a forefinger. Sometimes he got the feeling Odalie Faucett knew things about him no one in Wyoming Territory knew, not even his wife. But no, it was impossible. How could she know his birth name was not Frank Canton but Joe Horner, that in his Texas youth he had robbed banks, stolen livestock, and served time in the state penitentiary in Huntsville, from which he escaped in August 1879? Did she know of the men he had killed? No, there was no way she could, but still, a certain light in her eyes troubled him.

  “Sheriff, who is that with Dr. Dixon? I don’t believe I’ve seen her before.”

  Canton was relieved by the change of topic. “That’s his daughter, Lorna. She and her twin brother must be sixteen or seventeen by now. Their mother died when they were born.”

  “Oh?” Odalie knew the doctor had a son attending medical school in Cincinnati, but she did not know about the twins. “She’s a very pretty thing, isn’t she? Such remarkable coloring. Come, I want you to introduce me.”

  Years had passed since the unpleasant encounter he and Tom had had with Billy and the twins on the road to Buffalo. Their paths rarely crossed since, and Canton hoped she had forgotten, but when Lorna saw him crossing the room with Lady Faucett on his arm, he knew that she had not. After making the requested introduction, Canton offered his excuses, and Angus soon followed.

  “So nice to meet you, Lorna,” Odalie said, admiring, with more than a pang of jealousy, the girl’s youthful beauty. It was rare indeed to find hair so fair paired with an olive complexion and eyes that shade of blue. “I understand you have a brother, a twin? Is he here this evening also?”

  “No, ma’am,” Lorna said. “Cal doesn’t like parties. He’s at home with Mrs. MacGill and his books.”

  “Mrs. MacGill?”

  “Our housekeeper,” Dixon said.

  “I see. And do you like books, too, Lorna?”

  “No.” The girl regarded Odalie with a bold frankness that was disconcerting, as if to say, “Don’t bother with dull female chatter. I won’t go along.”

  Dixon broke in. “Lorna, would you ask Chang to pour Lady Faucett a glass of punch?” Lorna obeyed, with a small, secret smile, leaving Dixon and Odalie alone.

  “You look well,” he said. “It would seem your . . . problem . . . has resolved.”

  Odalie colored. “Mercifully, it happened naturally, as you said it might. I suppose the goddess of motherhood found me unfit to join her ranks—and rightly so.”

  “You may feel differently one day.”

  Odalie felt herself grow warm. “How patronizing. Please, don’t presume to know me better than I know myself.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  Dixon looked uncomfortable and Odalie immediately regretted speaking so harshly. When would she learn to control her tongue? “No, I’m the one who should apologize. I was rude. I was happy to see you here tonight, and this is not the conversation I was hoping to have with you. Let’s speak of something else—your daughter, for instance. She’s quite lovely. What does she do?”

  He sighed and looked at Lorna across the room. “Not much, and that’s the problem. She has no interest in schooling, as you heard, unlike her brothers. My older son, Harry, is training for a career in medicine and my younger son, Caleb, may do the same. I had hoped Lorna might be a schoolteacher one day, but I no longer see that in the cards. Oh, she’s very bright, no mista
ke about that, but she doesn’t have the temperament for teaching. Frankly, I don’t know what Lorna has the temperament for.”

  “And why not medicine for her, too? It would be more interesting than teaching surely. You say she’s bright. A woman can be a fine surgeon, equal to a man. Or do you—with your patronizing attitude toward us—doubt it?” She smiled to show him she was teasing.

  “No, not at all. I’ve known some skilled female physicians, but I don’t believe Lorna has the dedication and scientific curiosity she would need to succeed in that field. Not only that, but she’d have to go East for training, to Philadelphia, unless other medical schools are now accepting women, and she wouldn’t want that, either. She loves the west, has no need to live in the States. Nor would she be equipped socially. I’m afraid I’ve not done her justice in that regard.”

  They watched Lorna return, carefully carrying a glass of ruby red punch. Odalie said, “Yes, I’m sure it’s hard for a father to raise a daughter alone, without the benefit of female companionship and instruction.” A thought came to her. “Why don’t you let Lorna stay with us for a time, with Richard and me? Does the poor girl ever have any female company other than your housekeeper, Mrs.—I forget her name? No, I didn’t think so. I could teach Lorna the things a lovely young lady should know. She would be my protégé. We would travel, see the world. I would like that, truly I would. I believe she has great potential.”

  Dixon was surprised. “I thought you had no maternal instinct. Why would you want to saddle yourself with a child who is not even your own?”

  “She is not a child, Dr. Dixon. She is a young woman who needs to be given an opportunity to make the most of herself, to enjoy the fine things in life. Not that you could not provide that, of course,” she added quickly. “But Richard and I are in a unique position to help, if you will allow us to.”

  Dixon was reluctant, though he could see the idea had merit. He did not understand his strange daughter, and he had no idea what to do with her. “Thank you, Lady Faucett,” he said. “I’ll discuss it with her. Of course, I would pay for her room and board.”

  Odalie shrugged her shapely shoulders. “If that’s important to you, but I assure you it isn’t necessary. Richard and I have more money than we know what to do with.”

  That may be true now, Dixon thought as Lorna arrived with Odalie’s drink. But your husband’s financial picture could change dramatically in a few months, once winter’s toll is fully known. The newspapers predicted light losses, of no more than five percent, but Dixon was convinced the damage would be much greater, in the neighborhood of seventy-five to eighty percent, if not higher. Overstocking, the lack of forage and feed, and winter’s fury may have spelled disaster for the Wyoming cattlemen and their open-range system.

  Later, as he and Lorna climbed into the buggy, Dixon noticed Frank Canton and another man, tall and wearing a Mexican-style hat, deep in conversation by the stables. Lorna saw them, too.

  “I hate him,” she said. “That man with Sheriff Canton. I hate them both.”

  “You know him?” Dixon was surprised. “How?”

  “Cal and me and Billy met them on the road to Buffalo that day, you know, when you went to the village.”

  “You didn’t tell me. Did something happen?”

  Lorna shrugged. “They were mean to Billy. The one in the hat especially, treated him bad on account of he’s Indian. I miss Billy, Pa. I do. I wish he could come work for us again. We haven’t seen him for so long.”

  In fact, Dixon had seen Billy only a few weeks before. He had come to Dixon’s Buffalo office to ask if he had recently treated anyone for a gunshot wound. Dixon told him he had not.

  “The man with Canton,” he said. “Did you catch his name?”

  “The sheriff called him Tom.”

  Dixon slapped the reins down on the horse’s back and started the buggy. The night was cold and Lorna wrapped herself in her dark cloak, pulling the hood over her shining hair. Canton and Tom stopped talking as they passed, and Tom raised his hat.

  “Good evening, Miss Lorna,” he said with his wide smile, his lips red under his full mustache. “It’s nice to see you again. I declare, you just keep on get getting’ prettier and prettier.”

  “Keep going, Pa,” she said. “Keep going.”

  But Dixon reined in. “And who might you be, sir, to address my daughter in such a familiar fashion? Do we know you?”

  He stepped forward and lifted his wide-brimmed hat. “The name’s Horn, Dr. Dixon. Tom Horn, at your service.”

  Billy Sun

  I may not see a hundred

  Before I cross the Styx,

  But coal or ember, I’ll remember

  Eighteen Eighty-six.

  The stiff heaps in the coulee,

  The dead eyes in the camp,

  And the wind about, blowing fortunes out,

  As a woman blows out a lamp

  —Author unknown

  * * *

  A merciful chinook finally blew down from the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains, arriving well behind schedule and hard on the heels of the last blizzard of that cruel season. The people were grateful, now that the worst of the winter was over, but at the same time they knew the retreat of the ice and snow would reveal the true horror of that terrible time, which would be long remembered as the Winter of Death.

  With mighty groans and shudders, the great rivers began to break up, the Rosebud, the Yellowstone, the Tongue and Powder, the Big Horn and Cheyenne, the Little Missouri, overflowing their banks and sending giant cakes of ice crashing and grinding downstream, leaving wreckage in their wake. Valleys and gulches that had been bone-dry the summer before now filled with rushing water that carried the corpses of countless cattle, tumbling and rolling over one another along with downed trees and other debris in the muddy, churning flood. Hapless ranchers and cowboys stood by to watch the deadly flow while the air throbbed with the water’s endless roar.

  Though the extent of the devastation would never be fully known, it was immediately obvious the large ranchers had lost the most. Richard Faucett lost at least fifty percent of his stock and Moreton Dudley, eighty percent. Early in the roundup, a grim-faced Faucett surprised his men by occasionally riding with them, his face lengthening as they discovered piles of rotting corpses in the creek bottoms, gullies, and the other low places that had offered the miserable creatures false promise of shelter from the iron wind. The air stank of death.

  The worst carnage was suffered by the unacclimated steers that were driven up from the south in the fall and dumped, already bony, onto the range. A Texas company that released fifty-five hundred head in August found only one hundred animals, barely alive, in the spring. The owners did not bother to claim them.

  Though none emerged unscathed, the smaller operations, such as Jack Reshaw’s, lost less. Their cowboys were better able to manage the herds, moving them to sheltered places in the foothills where they could uncover enough grass to keep them alive and, if not, feeding hay—if they had it. In another cruel twist of fate, a legion of ravenous grasshoppers had descended on the range late in the fall, consuming all uncut hay.

  The spring roundup was a bleak affair. In the Upper Powder region alone, the number of wagons dropped from twenty-seven, the fleet at the height of the beef bonanza, to only four. Grasslands that once supported ten thousand animals now accommodated only a few hundred. Cowboys would ride for hours, to find only a few bony steers, scarcely able to walk.

  One by one that summer, many of the biggest companies started closing out. Horace Plunkett shut down his outfit and returned to his native Ireland. Britisher T. W. Peters sold his interest in the Bar C, and his countrymen Alston, Winn, and Windsor departed also. The Wyoming Stock Growers Association saw its membership plummet as the cattle market bottomed out, partly because of the poor quality of the surviving stock and partly because of an oversupply as the owners liquidated their holdings.

  Those who chose to stick it out, including Faucett a
nd Dudley, were more determined than ever to succeed, though they could no longer enforce their ownership of the public rangelands. An era of ill will followed the Winter of Death. The few remaining cattle barons faced stiff competition for graze lands and water rights from scrappy homesteaders and small ranchers who flocked to the territory as the European lords departed. Faucett and Dudley repeatedly accused these “nesters” of theft, of marking mavericks that “by rights” should be theirs, blotching or otherwise altering brands and, worst of all, stealing horses. Juries, however, refused to indict the accused, men like themselves trying to scratch out a living in a beautiful but hostile land. Jurors were sympathetic to the so-called thieves, hardworking cowboys like Jack Reshaw, who had been blackballed by the association during the bonanza years.

  Indeed, newcomers to Powder River country found a champion in Reshaw, who was boisterous, full of fight, and a natural politician. He wrote funny, literate letters to the newspapers, skewering the big ranchers and praising the “little man.” In 1888, he took on four partners, giving each man a one-fifth interest in his Lazy L and B outfit. Billy Sun and Nate Coday did not buy in, though they remained tight with Reshaw and his boys, or the “Rustler Elite” as Faucett and his associates called them. Though they never filed on a homestead, Nate and Billy set up an operation on the headwaters of the Middle Fork, in a protected valley shielded by trees and brush on the north and red sandstone walls on the southwest. There was only one way into the valley, and it was along this narrow trail that Nate and Billy built their cabin, a rough, two-room pine-log affair set up on foundation stones buried in the earth to keep out the restless Wyoming wind. It was barely big enough for two built-in bunks and a stove, but, because of Billy’s horse work, Nate was alone there most of the time. He managed their growing cattle herd of about two hundred head.