Powder River
Page 23
“Odalie,” he said, “whatever Richard was when you married him, he’s something different now. He’s a killer—I even question his sanity. You must have the same fears. For whatever reason, the only thing he wants now is to destroy me. Your presence here won’t dissuade him. It’ll only make him angrier.”
Odalie turned back to the window, pushing aside the curtain. “How many men are behind that thing, do you think?”
“Fifteen or twenty,” Dixon said, “and things will start happening soon. There’s a root cellar off the kitchen; it’s big enough for you and Lorna, and it’s not directly below the house. If they intend to burn us out, you’ll be safe in there. Come, I’ll show you.” He moved to take her hand, but Odalie backed away.
“I’m not leaving you,” Odalie said.
“Neither am I,” Lorna said. She and Hardy stood together in the doorway. “We won’t hide in some hole—we’ll stay and help you fight them.”
“Dixon,” Hardy said. “Do you really believe they mean to harm the women? Don’t you think—” Before he could finish Odalie darted across the room and flung open the door. Dixon ran after her, but she was already off the porch and running into the yard. “Richard!” she yelled. “Richard, don’t do this. Leave these people alone!”
The devil came to a halt as the men waited to see what Faucett would do. After a brief hesitation, he applied the spurs and charged down the hill, flying by the devil and his men. When he reached his wife he jumped to the ground and came to her in two long strides, his riding crop in his hand. His red face was contorted with rage.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he said. “I thought you were in Denver.”
“You must not harm these people—they’ve done nothing to you. It isn’t right!”
In a flash, Faucett lashed out with his crop, striking his wife across the face. She fell to the ground, covering her head with her arm. “Whore!” he screamed. “You filthy cheating whore! I should have left you in that New Orleans hovel where I found you!” He raised his arm, but Dixon was on him before he could hit her again, striking Faucett in his soft, fleshy mouth. The Englishman fell to the ground and grabbed for his sidearm. Too late, he realized he was not wearing his pistols and his rifle was still in its scabbard on the saddle. Dixon ran to the Thoroughbred and pulled the rifle from its sheath, training it on Faucett who remained on the ground.
“Canton!” Faucett screamed as Dixon helped Odalie to her feet. Her face bled profusely from a laceration on her left cheek. “Shoot this man!” Faucett yelled. “For God’s sake, what are you waiting for?”
Frank Canton stepped from behind the go-devil, his six-gun in his hand. He came toward them, keeping his eyes on Dixon. “Do it!” Faucett cried, bloody spittle flying from his mouth. “Do it now!” He clambered to his feet.
Canton kept coming forward until he and Dixon were only feet apart. Faucett looked from Canton to Dixon. “Damn you to hell, Canton—if you won’t do it, I will!” He ran to his horse and the pistols concealed in his saddlebags. Coolly and without a word, Canton turned from Dixon and fired, hitting Faucett squarely between the shoulder blades. The running man took three more steps, then pitched forward onto his face.
“Anyone else?” Canton said, looking at the startled faces of the men who’d been watching from the cover of the go-devil. “If not, get on your horses and go home. This thing is over. It should never have started.”
Slowly, in some cases reluctantly, the would-be invaders melted away, leaving Faucett’s body facedown in the dirt. Only Tom Horn and Canton remained. They did not interfere when Dixon lifted Odalie in his arms and carried her into the house.
* * *
She sat on the examination table. The wound on her face continued to bleed, saturating the front of her suit jacket. She covered it with her hand.
“Let me see,” Dixon said.
“No,” Odalie said, turning her head. “Don’t look at me.”
“I can help,” he said softly. “Let me see.”
She dropped her hand and Dixon saw the cut was deep, clear to the bone. He would suture it carefully, using the smallest stitches he was capable of, but even so she would be badly scarred.
“My face is ruined,” she said. “It’s all I have, all I’ve ever had, and now that’s gone, too.”
Billy Sun
The day of the funerals was the warmest of the young spring. Buffalo’s cemetery was filled to overflowing with the families of Hi Kinch, Nestor Lopez, and Pat Comstock, but most of the people had come to honor Billy Sun. Cowboys from the Lazy L and B, every member of the Northern Wyoming Farmers’ and Stockgrowers’ Association, and men who rode with him in roundups came in their Sunday clothes to pay their respects.
Dixon stood between Odalie, her face still bandaged, and Lorna. Though he had not known Billy Sun, Rob Hardy came from Olympus for the service. He was never far from Lorna’s side, and when she wept, he offered his handkerchief.
The bodies were in pine boxes beside the empty graves. Brother James White delivered the sermon, reading from a Bible whose pages blew in the warm April wind. After, he spoke in a soaring voice.
“These men gave their lives for you, the people of Buffalo and Johnson County. They sacrificed themselves so that you, the humble and hardworking homesteaders of this great land, could build your houses and raise your children and graze your livestock and cultivate your fields in freedom, without fear of a feudal oppressor. Now the world knows that this land belongs to all of us, not just a wealthy and privileged few. These four men died to hold back the tyrants who would take it from you.”
Some in the crowd turned angry eyes on Odalie, who pretended not to notice. Dixon held her hand.
“Had these men not fought as bravely as they did, who knows how many of us might have been massacred before our president dispatched the United States Army to put the invaders in jail, where they remain to this day awaiting justice? How many of you women would be widows, how many of your children fatherless? We will never know the answers to these questions, but we do know this: each and every one of us owes Hi Kinch, Nestor Lopez, and young Pat Comstock, who had not yet seen his twentieth year, a high debt of gratitude.
“But now I want to talk about Billy Sun, a man who had one foot in the world of the red Indian and one foot in the white man’s world and a solid place in neither. His Indian kinsmen are gone, and the white people never fully accepted him. Oh, yes, you’re here today, but before your congratulate yourself, admit you sometimes looked down on him, considered him less than yourself, because of his aboriginal blood. Would you have welcomed Billy Sun as a suitor for your daughter, or a business partner for your son? I think not.”
White’s voice grew louder.
“Yes, you hired him to break your green horses, but would you have welcomed Billy Sun into your home for Sunday dinner? No! You would not, but he gave his life for you anyway, not asking for reward or recognition or a place at your table. He did this because he was a brave man, an honest man, and a man worthy of your deepest respect.”
White nodded and the gravediggers silently lowered the bodies into the ground. White threw a handful of red soil onto each coffin, with the words “dust to dust, ashes to ashes.”
“Now, as we stand at these graves I ask each one of you to look into your own heart. Are you honest? Are you kind and respectful to those who love you? Are you brave enough to risk ruin, pain, and, yes, even death, to defend what you believe in, as these men did? Look into your heart and ask yourself, Am I as good a man as Billy Sun?” White bowed his head.
“Let us pray.”
After the service, as the mourners melted away, Dixon and Odalie stood alone at his grave. Dixon reached into his coat pocket and pulled out Billy’s bear claw necklace and a folded piece of paper, stained with blood. “Sheriff Angus gave these to me because the letter mentions Cal. Billy wrote it in the line shack. I think he’d want you to have it, and the necklace, too.”
Odalie read the blockish printed le
tters, written in pencil. There was a woman I loved from the first time I saw her and I love her still. She might someday see letter, and if she does, she will know. Her eyes burned with tears as she refolded the letter and put it, along with the necklace, in her bag. He was too good for me. After a few minutes of silence, she cleared her throat. “What’s happening with Canton and the others?” she said. “Will they truly face justice?”
Dixon laughed bitterly. “No. The president called out the army mostly to protect them from us, the good people of Johnson County. I suppose there will be some kind of trial, but it will be only for show. They won’t face any real punishment.”
“What about Tom Horn? Was he taken with the others?”
“No. No one seems to know where he is, but he’ll turn up again. Men like him always do. But what about you, Odalie? Where will you go?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, back to New Orleans maybe. I still have some family there. The Manor I’ll leave to the county. Perhaps they can find a good use for it.”
They started walking to the wagon, where Lorna and Hardy were waiting. “Those two have grown close,” Dixon said. “I’d be happy to welcome Rob to the family if it comes to that, and I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“He is a fine man.”
“There’s someone else I’d like to welcome to the family, if she’ll have me.”
Odalie’s heart quickened. “And who would that be?” she said.
Dixon put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to him. “I think you know.”
She touched the bandage on her face. “You pity me. I will be ugly and disfigured and you feel responsible for some reason. Well, you needn’t. I’ll get Richard’s money, or some of it. I’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry.”
“I love you, Odalie,” he said. “I have for some time. Would you be happy as a physician’s wife? We’ll never be rich, but we can do good things together. Maybe we can be the kind of people Billy Sun thought we were.”
Only then did the tears come. They ran down Odalie’s face, wetting the bandage on her cheek and burning the healing wound below it. Dixon tasted their saltiness on her lips when he kissed her.
“What do you think?” he said. “Can we do it?”
She smiled up at him. “We can try.”
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Copyright © 2016 Susan Salzer
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ISBN: 978-0-7860-3629-5
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