“You ain’t eating,” Nora observed.
“I reckon I ain’t,” Rose replied apologetically, lowering her fork. “It’s good, but it’s sittin’ kinda rocky on top of all that whiskey and beer I drunk today.”
“There’s probably some roast beef in the icebox.”
“No,” Rose said quickly, the thought of that much grease causing her stomach to flop like a beached fish. “Maybe I ought to sleep it off, if I ain’t puttin’ you out?”
“Honey, nobody puts me out unless I want to be. I’ve got a big bed and I’ve shared it before. Listen, Collins likes to shoot off his mouth, but tonight the joke’s on him. I got ten dollars out of the deal and you get to sleep in a warm bed, which I’d have let you share, anyway. Hell, even Alice wouldn’t turn a woman out on a night like tonight.”
Rose began to feel better almost immediately. That damn’ Wiley, she thought.
“Come on,” Nora said, standing and whisking away the cake. She popped what was left in her mouth, then rinsed the utensils in a basin of cold water sitting on the counter. “Let’s go,” she said, after hanging up the towel. “I already invited you once. I won’t do it again.”
Chapter
8
Wiley and Shorty were drinking coffee at the kitchen table when Rose came downstairs the next morning. Shorty had a cat-ate-the-canary grin on his freshly shaved face, but Wiley just looked surly, his jaw whiskered, eyes bloodshot. At the stove, a stout-framed black woman in a starched black dress and white apron and mob cap was rustling breakfast. The smell of frying meat and eggs and the buttery aroma of flapjack batter filled the air.
“Best you sit,” Callie said when she saw Rose. “Breakfast’ll be ready in a jiffy.”
Hitching self-consciously at her gun belt, Rose took a seat opposite Wiley. Callie slid a cup of coffee in front of her, then went back to the stove.
“Ye’d best fix Rose a double helpin’, Callie,” Wiley said. “She probably worked up an appetite last night.”
“I fix everyone that sits at my table a good breakfast,” Callie replied in a no-nonsense voice.
“All I be sayin’ ….”
“You just drink your coffee,” Callie interrupted. “I’ll look after my guests.”
Wiley snorted but lifted his mug.
“Hello, Rose,” Shorty said, winking.
She couldn’t help a smile. “Hey, Shorty. Why ain’t you breakfastin’ with that widow woman?”
“She was still asleep when I left. Besides, we’ve got some decisions to make, the three of us.”
“Rose ain’t no part of this,” Wiley grumbled.
“Sure she is,” Shorty replied, stirring sugar into his coffee.
Wiley’s head came up. “Are ye callin’ the shots now, Shorty. Ramroddin’ the outfit like a regular damn’ cattle baron?”
“There ain’t no outfit, Wiley. There’s just you and me and Rose, and we’ve already decided she can come. Ain’t no call to cut her loose just because you’re mad.”
Callie set plates of steak and eggs and flapjacks on the table in front of Wiley and Shorty, then brought a third platter for Rose. “Those eggs’ll get cold quick,” she said, before turning back to her stove.
“This looks mighty good, Callie,” Shorty said, reaching for his fork. Rose could barely eyeball her plate without her stomach roiling. Wiley, she noticed, was having similar difficulties, although he tried to mask it by glaring at Shorty. Chewing a mouthful of egg, Shorty chuckled at his partner’s discomfort. “Dig in, Wiley,” he said. “It won’t bite.”
“Awaggh,” Wiley gagged, pushing his plate back. “Callie, I need some hair of the dog. Ye got any whiskey?”
“So happens I do,” the black woman replied. She brought a bottle down from the cupboard and splashed an inch or so into Wiley’s coffee, then gave Rose an inquiring look.
“I reckon I’ll ride it out plain,” Rose said gamely, taking an experimental bite of flapjack.
“Best that way,” Callie opined, recorking the bottle. “Whiskey in the morning just postpones a headache into the afternoon.”
“Huh,” Wiley grunted. “Look who’s giving advice on hangovers.”
“I bet she’s seen a few in her lifetime, ain’t that right, Callie?” Shorty teased.
“You just mind your ’jacks, Shorty Tibbs,” Callie replied starchily. “I recollect more than once I’ve heard you behind the house, snorting like a gaggy ol’ bull to hang onto your breakfast." Although she sounded perturbed, Rose noticed she was smiling when she turned away.
They went outside after breakfast, where Wiley and Shorty lit cigarettes. The sun was just coming up, its rays sparkling off the frosty grass. The clouds had moved on during the night and the worst of the wind had settled down, but it was cold. In just her faded old shirt and canvas trousers, Rose immediately began to shiver. “What is it you boys had in mind?” she asked. “Because if it’s gonna take long to tell, I ain’t likely to last.”
Wiley looked at Shorty. “It’s your call,” he said brusquely.
“She’s in.”
“Then by God, you can outfit her,” Wiley snarled. He stalked off toward town, kicking savagely at the clumps of grass and sage that stood in his path.
“What’s rilin’ him?” Rose asked through chattering teeth.
“Aw, he’s just hung over. Come on, let’s get you a coat before you bust a tooth with all that clacking.”
They took off through the sage for Main Street and the central part of town. Despite his stumpy legs, Shorty had a quick gait, and Rose had to work at it to keep up.
Although the hour was early, there were quite a few people about—shopkeepers opening up their businesses, a squad of troopers from Fort Keogh trotting past on matching bay horses made frisky by the chilly air. At the old Diamond R corral, a bull-train pulling three big blue freight wagons was just getting under way, the popping of the bullwhacker’s whip cracking like pistol shots above the rattle of chains and the creak of running gears.
Overhead, the telephone lines that criss-crossed the street glistened like silver-quilled ropes. Rose kept glancing at the wires as she hurried after Shorty. She’d heard Miles City had put in a slew of them after the original line was strung from the telegraph office in town to the Fort Keogh commander’s office, a good two miles away, but she’d never seen an honest-to-God telephone in her life. Although she could hardly comprehend how they might work, she suddenly had a hankering to try one.
“Shorty,” she said, “you ever talk into one of them telephone machines?”
He gave her a quizzical look. “I can’t say that I have. Why?”
“I want to.”
“You want to what?”
“You know, dang it. Let’s go find one and talk in it.”
Grinning, he said: “Who do you have to talk to. Besides, they’re hard on your ears.”
“You said you’ve never talked into one.”
“I ain’t, but I’ve seen Bob Hubbell, down at Broadwater’s, talking on his. He always scrunches up his face like he’s in pain.”
“Shoot, once wouldn’t hurt. I reckon if they was all that hard on a body, Bob Hubbell would just walk across town to deliver his messages.”
“Which is what a smart man should do in the first place,” Shorty countered. They came to Broadwater and Hubbell’s, and Shorty stopped in a patch of sunlight that was out of the wind. “We ain’t got time, anyway,” he added, starting a cigarette.
“Why. What’s the rush all of a sudden. I thought we was gonna hang and rattle a spell.”
“Not with Joe Bean poking around. Hell, I’ll bet half the waddies in the Silver Star last night are having their breakfast in Dakota Territory this morning.”
“Because of Joe?”
Shorty gave her a searching look. “You know what he does, don’t you?”
Ro
se tried to piece together her conversation with Joe from the night before. “I reckon he’s a range detective,” she said uncertainly. “I think that’s what he told me. But shoot, Joe’s always been a good ol’ boy, Shorty.” Vaguely she recalled the anger and hurt she’d felt toward him last night, but those feelings were hard to hang onto in the bright light of a new day. When she saw him in her mind now, she saw him as he’d been years ago, fresh from the East and just learning the buffalo trade from her pap, all thumbs at times, but eager to learn.
It was clear from his expression that Shorty didn’t share her opinion. “Those days are gone, as far as Bean is concerned. If you ever see him on the prairie, you’ll have two choices. One is to bushwhack the bastard, the other is to crawl into a hole and hope he doesn’t see you.”
“Joe?”
“Joe Bean,” Shorty returned flatly, lighting his cigarette. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go put an outfit together.”
“What for. You ain’t never said.”
“Well, I guess I ain’t. Wolfing, Rose. I talked to Bob Hubbell about it last night, and he’s willing to outfit us on credit. Said he’d take all the pelts we brought him.”
Rose’s spirits, heightened earlier by the prospect of talking on a telephone, suddenly collapsed. “I ain’t never considered myself a wolfer, Shorty.”
“Aw, a wolfer’s reputation ain’t no worse than a buffalo hunter’s. It’ll give us a job for the winter, and keep us away from Joe Bean and his boys.”
Rose wasn’t sure she agreed, but she felt caught as snugly as if she had her butt in a bear trap, nearly broke and without even a coat or a decent bedroll. Her options would be few if she refused Shorty’s offer.
“It won’t be so bad, and we can start running horses again in the spring if Bean ain’t around. Come on,” he said, heading for the door.
Defeated and disheartened, Rose followed.
Shorty and Bob Hubbell wasted no time getting down to business. Shorty bought the whole outfit on credit—warm clothes and grub to last the winter, traps and poison, even a case of skinning knives.
Rose got a horse-hide coat with the hair on, a seal-skin trooper’s cap with flaps that folded down over her ears to tie under her chin, and two pairs of winter moccasins to wear over her boots. The moccasins were made of thick buffalo leather with the hair turned in—the last they had, according to the clerk helping her. She also got a couple of pairs of wool trousers, some socks, shirts, long underwear, and several pairs of gloves. She purchased an inexpensive toiletry set—hand mirror, brush, comb—plus a toothbrush and two pounds of baking soda for her teeth. She got a cartridge belt to hold the big .44-90 brass for her Sharps, and four more boxes of shells. She tried to get a buffalo robe for sleeping, but they were out of those. She settled for a sougan, instead—four heavy wool blankets wrapped inside a tarp to keep out the dampness.
She felt bad about putting her personal gear on Shorty’s account—it came close to $75 altogether—but figured she could pay him off easy with a good season.
Shorty also bought four sawbuck pack saddles and all the rigging for the extra horses they’d brought with them from Two-Hats’s. When Rose reminded him that one of those ponies belonged to Jimmy Frakes, and by rights should be returned to Jimmy’s daddy, Shorty grabbed her roughly by the elbow and hauled her out of the clerk’s hearing.
“You let me ’n’ Wiley worry about the horses and supplies, all right?”
“I … I didn’t mean anything,” she stammered. “I just thought maybe you’d forgot.”
“Nobody forgets,” he said, giving her a shake. Then his grip relaxed and he let her go. “Maybe that’s the trouble. Nobody forgets.”
“What do you mean?”
He shook his head. “Go out back and see if Wiley’s showed up. If he ain’t, keep an eye peeled for him.”
“Sure,” Rose said, rubbing her arm.
“And keep an eye open for Joe Bean, too.”
Rose went outside, taking her new coat with her. The breeze had picked up again, but she felt comfortable inside the black-haired coat. She was pulling on her gloves when she spotted Wiley across the street, waiting in the alley behind Charley Brown’s saloon. He had the extra horses with him, bunched up on short leads. Sticking her hands in the pockets of her coat, she sauntered across the street as casually as possible.
“By God, it took ye long enough,” Wiley grumbled as she came up. “What’s Shorty doin’ in there, buyin’ out the whole damn’ store?”
“He’s just gettin’ an outfit together,” she replied, noticing how Wiley still looked pretty green around the gills.
“He’d just better not forget the whiskey. A man doesn’t mind a week or two without a drink, but I’ll be damned if I’ll sit out the whole winter dry.”
“He bought two gallons.”
Wiley looked strangely relieved at her reply. “Good,” he said. “Good.”
Rose swung onto Albert and accepted the lead ropes to two of the extra horses, then they jogged across the street and down another alley to the loading dock behind Broadwater’s. Shorty was waiting for them there with a steel-wheeled truck piled high with supplies.
While the two wranglers sorted everything into different panniers, Rose fit the pack saddles to the horses, adjusting cinches and cruppers and breast bands until she was satisfied they were right. Although Wiley and Shorty both seemed edgy today, she was determined that neither would find fault with her packing skills.
It took a couple of hours to line everything out. When they were finished, sweat was rolling freely down Rose’s face, and Wiley’s, too.
“’Tis the damn’ whiskey,” Wiley had gasped at one point, “but this’ll soak it outta me. I’ll be good as new in no time.” Then he’d walked over to lean against the cool bricks of Broadwater’s back wall and heaved his morning coffee into the weeds.
Rose fared a little better, but still felt clammy and nauseated by the time they climbed into their saddles. She’d removed her coat earlier and tied it behind the cantle, but figured she’d be putting it on again soon enough.
Shorty guided his horse alongside. “Ready?” he asked.
“I am, but I ain’t sure about him.” She nodded toward Wiley, gulping air and clutching his saddle horn.
Shorty laughed. “He’ll feel better when we get started. So will you. We’ll stop early for a noon meal, and that’ll help.”
He reined away with one of the pack horses in tow, then hauled up abruptly about halfway down the alley, swearing. Wiley dropped the lead rope to his own pack horse and quickly rode up beside Shorty. Rose flanked Shorty on his right, but kept a grip on the two pack horses in her string.
Joe Bean blocked their exit. He stood in the center of the alley with a double-barreled shotgun butted to his hip. Two other men stood with him. One was tall and skinny and held a sturdy Marlin lever-action gun across his chest; the other was about Joe’s height, but fleshier, and, like Joe, he was toting a shotgun that he held in both hands. All three wore suits and range coats, with cartridge belts visible at their waists.
“’Morning,” Joe said pleasantly.
“What do you want?” Shorty returned.
“You’re an ambitious-looking bunch this morning. Mind telling me where you’re heading with all those pack horses?”
“None of ye damn’ business,” Wiley growled.
A smile feathered across Joe’s face. “Why, bless me if that isn’t Wiley Collins. I thought at first it was a sack of flour.” His smile broadened. “Are you feeling all right, friend Collins? You’re looking peaked.”
“I’m fit enough to plow through you and yer boys if ye don’t get outta me way,” Wiley replied.
The tall man beside Joe guffawed, but Joe’s expression turned somber as he regarded Rose. “You’ve chosen a dangerous path, Rose,” he said. “It saddens me to see you here today.”
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“We’re mindin’ our own business, Joe. Ain’t no reason you can’t do the same.”
“Men like Collins and Tibbs are my business. They understand the eventual consequences of their deeds. I’m not sure you do. I’d urge you to give up these reckless habits, Rose, and settle down to gainful employment. Or a husband. Can you cook?”
“Not so good. Besides, I gave Shorty my word.”
“No one would think less of you if you changed your mind. Such is a woman’s prerogative, they say.”
“I reckon I’d think less of me,” she said.
“Maybe she don’t trust ye, Bean,” Wiley interjected. “’Course, she knows ye better’n I do.”
“If you were a gentleman, Collins, you wouldn’t allow her to become involved in this,” Joe replied. “You would force her out now, before it becomes too late.”
“I ain’t a gentleman, and I ain’t likely to become one anytime soon. Now, are ye sniffin’ for trouble, Joseph, or are ye gonna get outta our way?”
Joe looked at Shorty. “Is that your position as well, Tibbs?”
“She’s a grown-up girl. She doesn’t need the likes of you or me making her decisions for her.”
Joe’s expression relaxed, allowing that fleeting smile to cross his face once more. Glancing at Wiley, he said: “No, I’m not seeking confrontation today, Collins. I just wanted to wish you boys a safe journey … whichever direction you take. And you as well, Rose. Think about what I’ve said today. It’s not too late to remove yourself from the path of destruction.”
“I reckon I’ll track this path for a spell yet,” she said stiffly, then heeled Albert into movement. Joe and his compadres stepped aside as she rode past, the short one tipping his hat politely.
Wiley and Shorty followed her onto the street, where Wiley kicked his horse into a sudden lope, heading for the ferry. Shorty jogged his mount alongside Albert, saying: “You still figure Joe Bean’s a good ol’ boy, Rose?”
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