Powder River

by S. K. Salzer

  “What is it?” she said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “It’s strange. You look very different, but at the same time you’re more like your mother than I’ve ever seen you. It’s your eyes.”

  Talk of her mother made Lorna uncomfortable, so she changed the subject. “So, how does Harry like Cincinnati? Are his studies going well?”

  “I believe so, though he misses Wyoming. He says he feels closed in by all the trees, and the sky isn’t big enough. But he enjoys his classes and the company of people his own age. He’s never had much of that. Neither have you and Cal, for that matter. It’s not right.”

  “Who cares?” Lorna said, tossing her head. “I wouldn’t trade one day in Wyoming for a whole week in Ohio with ‘people my own age.’ How tedious that sounds.” Suddenly her mood dimmed. She sighed and snapped open her fan, scanning the room for Billy. Despite what Odalie had said, she hoped he would show up. He was self-confident and well liked, even by these wealthy landowners. Most of all, Billy Sun did what he wanted to do, even if others did not approve. His boldness was one of the things she most admired about him. She surveyed the crowd with impatience. Her three suitors were hovering nearby. As she raised her hand to call them over, her eyes met those of Tom Horn, watching her with a predatory smile. Apparently in his cups, he started walking unsteadily toward her when, to her relief, he was waylaid by Lord Faucett.

  “Mr. Horn!” Faucett said, pumping his hand. “Good to see you, man! I hear you may be joining our team. Great news, I must say. We could use a man with your particular skills. I’ll certainly make it worth your while. Meantime, how’s it been for you in Denver? Enjoy your time as a Pinkerton?”

  “Hello, Sir Richard,” Tom said, reluctantly pulling his eyes away from Lorna. “I thank you for the recommendation. Your word carries a lot of weight with Mr. McParland. He might not have hired me for a Pinkerton otherwise.”

  Faucett waved his hand dismissively. “No need for that, Horn. You’ve proved yourself time and again. I say, you and Doc Shores did especially good work with those horse thieves down in Arizona. Two of those stallions you recovered were mine, you know. The brigands stole them from a fellow in Colorado just days after I’d paid for them, and a pretty sum it was, too.”

  Horn smiled with a show of modesty. “Well, sir, I’m glad I could help. Me and Doc, we partner up pretty good. Later this month Pinkerton’s sending us up to Oregon on a job—well, me anyhow. I’m not sure about Doc on this one.”

  “Is that right?” Faucett said. “What is the assignment, if I may ask?”

  “I’m sorry, Lord Faucett. I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”

  “No, no, ’course not. Good man.”

  Lorna, discreetly eavesdropping, was shocked. Tom Horn, a Pinkerton? She had pegged him for a criminal, and she fancied herself a good judge of character. Well, she thought, Pinkerton or no, Tom Horn was not to be trusted, she was sure of that.

  Will Stanton asked her for the waltz, and as they glided about the room, Lorna felt Horn watching her. His eyes seemed to throw heat; they were penetrating and very dark, almost black, against his sunburned skin. Some women might find him attractive, Lorna thought, but not she.

  Later that evening, as she danced again with Will, she spotted Horn and Frank Canton deep in conversation with Faucett, Moreton Dudley, and two other men, including Will’s uncle.

  “I wonder what that’s about?” she said, smiling up at Will. “Looks like something important.”

  Will looked at her with adoring eyes. “Oh, it is. I know all about it, but I’m not supposed to talk.”

  “Not even to me?” She moved closer, briefly pressing her body against his. Will folded like a two-dollar suitcase.

  “It’s the rustlers,” he said in a low voice. “Lord Faucett, Sir Dudley, my uncle, and others of the association, they’ve finally had their fill. The law won’t go after them, and when Sheriff Angus actually does arrest someone, the courts won’t convict. It’s been going on long enough.” Will’s eyes glittered as he warmed to his topic. “The cattlemen, men like Lord Faucett and my uncle, they’re the ones who’ve made this territory, and they’re going to put an end to the stealing once and for all.”

  Lorna’s heart raced. “And how will they do that?”

  Will smiled knowingly and nodded toward the cabal in the corner. “Do you see that man talking to Sir Richard, the tall one with the mustache?”

  “Tom Horn?”

  Will nodded. “Tom Horn, Tom Hale, he goes by both names. Anyhow, he and some others, they’ll be brought in to deal with the rustlers. Jack Reshaw and the Lazy L and B boys, Nate Coday, Billy Sun, and that lot, just you wait. They’ll be food for the worms come spring.”

  Odalie

  Billy and Odalie lay together on his narrow bed, under a striped traders’ blanket. Though it was midday, the room was cool and dark. Her head was on his shoulder, and he stroked her unbound hair.

  “You should always wear it this way,” he said. “Loose, down on your shoulders. You should stop pinning it.”

  She laughed. “A woman can’t walk around with wild, blowing hair, like some kind of savage.” Immediately she regretted her choice of words. “That is, it’s not done.”

  “Too bad,” Billy said. Then, after a pause, “How did you get away this time?”

  “I said I needed to exercise my horse. Richard wanted Fred to accompany me, but I said I wanted to be alone. I must head back soon or they’ll start looking for me.”

  “Don’t go.” Billy pushed himself up on one elbow, then leaned down to kiss her on the mouth. “Don’t ever go. Stay with me forever. I want you to.”

  With a sound of impatience she pushed him away, threw off the blanket, and got out of bed. Billy watched her walk to the room’s only chair, where her clothing was draped, and begin to dress, starting with her silk chemise.

  “What is it?” Billy said. “What did I say?”

  She did not answer. Her back was to him, and he could not see her face.

  “Odalie?”

  She buttoned her dress, then sat in the chair to pin up her hair. Billy’s room had no mirror so she did this by touch. He remained in the bed, waiting for an answer.

  “We agreed what this would be when it started,” she said at last, raising her eyes to meet his. “It’s ruined when you talk like that.”

  Billy’s face darkened. “I didn’t know I was violating our treaty.”

  “Well, you were. You should know that.” She leaned down to button her boots, fawn in color and of the softest kid. Billy had noticed their softness when he pulled them off Odalie’s small, well-formed feet. He thought he would have to finish ten horses to afford a pair of boots like that.

  “I’m leaving now,” she said, standing and smoothing her skirt. He leaned down for his pants, but she raised her hand. “No, stay where you are. I’ll let myself out.”

  “Odalie,” he said. “Don’t go away angry. I won’t see you for a while. It’s been good today, don’t spoil it.” He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his eyes. “You said I need a haircut. You were going to cut it for me, remember?”

  “I don’t have time.” She turned to him, and any anger she felt melted away. He looked like a boy, a lovely boy, with his lean, copper body, hairless chest, and remarkable green eyes. She had even grown to like the heathenish bear claw necklace he wore around his neck. She smiled. “Besides, I like it long. It suits you.”

  Odalie did not blame herself for what had happened between them. How could she? Any normal woman in her position would have done the same, but even so she could not let this bit of self-indulgence complicate her life. She did not fear disgrace, but she did fear poverty. Richard, she knew, would not be generous if her secret came out. The time had come to end this with Billy, though she would have liked to continue a bit longer. She crossed the room to sit beside him on the bed.

  “Billy, I care for you, you know I do, but there was never a chance it would be mo
re than this. We discussed it, remember? Besides, I’m older than you. Old enough to be your mother, or close to.”

  He looked injured. “That’s not true. Anyhow, what difference does it make? Our years, that’s not what this is about.”

  “No,” she said, “of course you’re right. It’s not about our ages. I’ll be honest. I could never spend my life with a cowboy, not even you.” She reached out to touch his face. “Surely you realize that. I’m too spoiled, too accustomed to my comforts, and I’d be miserable without them.” She looked around the spare room, with its bed, lone chair, and rickety table. “I’d make you miserable, too.”

  “No—”

  She interrupted. “Of course I would. But there is someone else who cares for you, someone who would make you much happier than I ever could.” She hesitated. Just a short time ago she was counseling Lorna to forget Billy, to choose someone from a higher station in life, but now she thought maybe she had erred. True love was a rare thing, and Lorna loved Billy. With a bit of support from Richard, a generous wedding present perhaps, Billy could get a good start and eventually, with his skills, make a comfortable life for them, maybe not in Wyoming, but somewhere. For a moment, Odalie envied her protégé. Billy was a wonderful lover, by far the best she had ever known, and she had known her share.

  “I’m speaking of Lorna, of course,” she said. “She is a beautiful woman, more beautiful than I ever was, even in my youth. You must know she has feelings for you, Billy. Why not accept them? Many men would, and quite happily, too.”

  Billy sat up and, gingerly, put his feet on the floor. The day before a horse had stepped on him, breaking his big toe, which was bound to its neighbor with a dirty strip of gauze. He picked his jeans up off the floor and stood to step into them. “I know how Lorna feels. I’ve known for a long time. I do not feel the same for her.”

  “Why not? You should have seen her at her debut. She owned the room. No man could look at anyone else, or so I’m told.” She smiled and reached out to take his hand. She and Billy had been together that night, for a dangerous, stolen hour in the loft of the horse barn. They were almost discovered by Fred Jolly, a brush with danger that only made the experience, for her, all the more exhilarating.

  “Lorna is good to look at,” he said. “But her spirit does not speak to me.”

  Odalie raised her eyebrows. “And mine does?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Since the first moment I saw you. You have a good heart, but you hide it. I don’t know why. You are kind, more kind than she is.”

  She shook her head, feeling strangely exposed and embarrassed. “You don’t know me.”

  “I do know you.”

  Billy looked into her eyes, and Odalie turned away, feeling her face go warm. This is ridiculous, she thought. She got up and walked to the window. There was something else she had to say to him.

  “Richard and the association are planning something. I don’t know what exactly, but it involves Frank Canton and that other fellow, Horn. You must know Richard suspects you of rustling—you, Nate, and Jack. You must be careful.”

  “Odalie—”

  She raised her hand. “I don’t know if you steal cattle, and I don’t want to know. Frankly, I don’t care, but Frank Canton’s been coming by the house more than he used to, and he usually has that Horn fellow with him. They meet in Richard’s study with the door closed. Moreton Dudley and David Stanton are part of this, too. I have a bad feeling. I know how angry and cruel Richard is. You and your friends must be careful.”

  Billy’s expression grew serious when Odalie mentioned Canton’s companion. “Tom Horn. The man is a killer. I hear he places a stone under the heads of his victims, like a pillow. His heart is black.”

  Odalie put her hand on Billy’s hairless chest. “Take care of yourself, Billy. You’re a good man, and you matter to me. We won’t be together like this again, but I don’t want to see you get hurt.” She walked out of the cabin, closing the door softly behind her.

  Dixon

  Daniel Dixon sat in the parlor in his favorite chair, holding a new copy of the novel Anna Karenina by his favorite writer, Leo Tolstoy. He’d been looking forward to this moment ever since he read of the book’s English publication in a dog-eared copy of the New York Times. He’d ordered the novel directly from the publisher, Thomas Y. Crowell & Co., and paid with a “check,” a new means of commerce by mail that did not require the posting of actual currency. The book had taken some time to arrive, but finally appeared in the post today. Now all was at the ready; the coal lamp was lit, and he had a sharp knife at hand for cutting the pages along with a glass of red wine on the table. With a sigh of satisfaction, he opened the book, its leather-bound spine cracking in complaint. If this one was anything like War and Peace, Dixon thought, he had a splendid journey ahead.

  He was finishing the first page when someone knocked. With a sigh of disgust, he put down his book and opened the door to find Sheriff Red Angus leaning against the frame. He was bleeding from a cut on his head and cradled one arm awkwardly against his chest.

  “Thank God you’re home, Dixon,” he said. “I’m about all in.”

  Dixon helped Angus to the chair he just vacated. “What happened?”

  “Somebody took a shot at me,” Angus said. “Spooked my horse. I think I broke my arm when I fell.”

  Dixon hoped he was wrong. Broken bones were time consuming, and he planned to spend the evening with his new book. He examined Angus’s head wound first. Like all such injuries, it bled profusely but would not require stitches. A cleaning and a plaster would suffice. Then he turned to the arm, carefully pulling off the sheriff’s jacket. As he loosened his shirt, Dixon noticed an older, well-healed wound, perhaps caused by the graze of a bullet, on Angus’s shoulder. “What’s that?” he said.

  Angus re-covered the scar. “It’s nothing. Just a little accident I had a while back. Didn’t amount to nothing.”

  Dixon noticed the sheriff’s fingers, they were swollen and discolored—a bad sign.

  “How did you fall?” Dixon said. “Which part took the impact?”

  Angus demonstrated with his good arm, extending it palm down toward the floor. “I landed so,” he said. “There was a loud pop.”

  Dixon rolled up the sheriff’s torn sleeve to find the classic bayonet-shaped deformity characteristic of a Colles fracture. “The bones of your wrist are broken,” he said. “I’ll need to set them and splint your arm.” He helped Angus to his feet. Though the summer evening and the house were cool, Angus’s thin, ginger-colored hair lay in wet, sweaty strings across his head.

  They walked through the darkened hallway to Dixon’s surgery in the back of the house. It still smelled of Dixon’s dinner: fresh mountain trout, dredged in cornmeal and fried in olive oil. He opened the surgery door and lit the lamp, then walked to the waist-high exam table in the middle of the room and pushed a low stool in place so the short, stocky sheriff could climb up. After Angus was settled, Dixon unlocked the supply closet and took out splinting materials, gauze, and tape.

  “This will hurt, Red, but it’ll be over in twenty seconds.” In Dixon’s experience, few bones were as painful to set as the radius and ulna. “Are you ready?”

  Angus set his jaw and extended his misshapen arm. “I guess I am.”

  Dixon gripped the sheriff’s lower arm with both hands, placing one just above the breaks and one below, pulling with one hand while pushing with the other. He felt the bones move beneath the skin and heard a small click as they slipped back in place. “There,” he said. “It’s done.”

  Angus’s face was completely drained of blood, so even his lips were white. He kept his eyes firmly closed as Dixon bent his elbow to a ninety-degree angle and wrapped his forearm in white gauze with a sugar-tong splint.

  “You have any idea who the shooter was?” Dixon said when he saw the sheriff’s color returning.

  “I do,” Angus said. “And if it wasn’t him, it was the other or maybe the two of them together.
They are an unholy pair.”

  “You didn’t see anyone then?”

  Angus opened his eyes and looked at Dixon. “No, but I know who it was just the same. I want you to know, too, Doc, but I’m asking you to keep the information to yourself. This thing is going to blow wide open soon enough, and I want to try to contain it as long as I can. People are going to get hurt.”

  Dixon returned the unused supplies to the closet and locked it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what the sheriff was about to tell him.

  “It was Frank Canton,” Angus said. “Him or his scaly friend Tom Horn, one or the other. Canton’s been out for me ever since I announced for sheriff. I know what he’s been saying about me and about my friends, how it’s disgraceful that a man like me should be Johnson County’s top lawman. Well, you know what? I may have made some bad choices in my life—who hasn’t?—but I don’t give a damn what Canton says about me. The good people of Johnson County don’t, either. I’m an honest man and I do the job, not the bidding of the WSGA.”

  Dixon raised his eyebrows. “You think Canton tried to kill you tonight? That’s a serious charge.”

  “That son-of-a-bitch is still doing the dirty work for Faucett and Dudley and them, just like he always has. They’re gunning for me because they know I’m on the side of the nesters and little men. This is public land, goddamn it, they got no right to claim it. It’s all coming to smash now, Dixon, and everyone, you included, will have to pick sides.”

  The desperate winter of 1886–87 had worsened the competition for rangeland, and now the bad blood had boiled to the killing point. Dixon’s first thought was of Billy, who, along with his friends Nate and Jack, the so-called Rustler Elite, was smack in the thick of it. He thought also of Lorna, still living with the Faucetts in The Manor. It was time to bring her home.

  Angus was waiting for some kind of response. “I have no dog in this fight,” Dixon said, realizing as he spoke them how cowardly his words sounded. He felt vaguely ashamed but at the same time, he was angry. After all, he was a fifty-year-old man and he’d seen his share of war and bloodshed and hatred. Wasn’t he entitled to a little peace? “Here,” he said, taking Angus’s coat off the back of a chair, “let me help you with this.”