“Son-of-a-bitch,” she hissed, leaping to the door. She eased past the jamb, but Keyes was beyond contemplating an ambush. He was fleeing madly, his boots pounding the stairs as he made his way to the ground floor. Rose reached the upper landing just in time to see him ram through the batwing doors to the street beyond. She started to go after him, then stopped when she recognized the futility of trying to overtake someone so completely consumed with flight. Her shoulders sagged. “Son-of-a-bitch,” she repeated, but slower this time, with resignation.
In the main room, the saloon’s patrons were staring at her in a combination of stunned silence and morbid fascination. Some were half hiding behind tables or the bar or other customers. The games of chance—faro and roulette—were forgotten, the chuck-a-luck cage stilled. At the near end of the bar the drunken cowboys were gazing upward like round-eyed puppies halted in the middle of their play. No one spoke or moved. Then a murmur like a soughing breeze stirred somewhere near the bar and spread rapidly. A voice rose above it, awed: “God damn!”
With a whoop, the bartender shouted: “There she is, boys, the genuine article. Rose of Yellowstone, right here in the Yellow Rose Saloon!”
At the rear of the room, someone started to applaud. A couple of men tittered nervously. Then Rose lifted the Smith & Wesson and pointed it at the clapper. He stopped, the color draining from his face. Silence once again settled over the room. To the applauder—a bearded miner in a red-checked vest—Rose said: “I want you to go down to the Piñon Livery and tell ’em to saddle my horse. It’s the sorrel stallion that was just brought in. You reckon you can handle that?”
The man swallowed loud enough that even Rose heard him, then quickly bobbed his head.
“Git,” she said, and he hurried out the door. Looking at the bartender, Rose said: “You’d best come upstairs.”
Nodding mutely, he followed her up to room Number Two. A fair-size contingent of gawkers crowded his heels.
The stranger lay where he’d fallen. Sliding a toe under his shoulder, Rose rolled him onto his back. She recognized him as one of the men who’d accompanied Howard Ostermann on his visit to the A-Bar-E last winter.
“Know him?” she asked the pale-faced bartender.
“His name’s Jared White. He worked for ….” He shut up.
“I know who he worked for,” Rose said flatly. She stepped over him, into the room, but the bartender remained at the door.
“Christ,” he croaked, looking at the dead hooker.
She lay in a fetal position, her cheek resting in a pool of her own blood. She was older than Rose had at first thought—maybe thirty or thirty-five. Her stockings were askew, worn thin at the knees and toes and heels, the red stripes bleeding into the white from too many washings.
With her gaze on the dead prostitute, caught innocently in the crossfire of Ostermann’s range war, Rose said: “Who is she?”
The bartender shook his head. “Nobody. She wasn’t nobody.”
“No,” Rose said tautly. “She was somebody, dammit. To someone, she was somebody. What the hell’s the matter with people that they think some count and others don’t?”
The bartender shrugged uncomfortably, and Rose realized he didn’t understand the question. Not the way she meant it. “Her name’s Sally Mayfield,” he said. “That’s all I know. She’s only been here a couple weeks.”
“Well, it don’t matter how long she was here,” Rose said. She pulled Shorty’s buckskin poke from her jacket pocket and withdrew all the cash she had—nearly $11—and shoved it into the barkeep’s hand. “I want you to see that she gets a proper burial, and I mean done right. You don’t, and I’ll come lookin’ for you.”
“Sure,” he said. “I can do that.”
“Put up a good marker, too. Oak or hickory, with her name and all the right dates. I don’t want some cheap pine cross that’s gonna fall apart in a couple of years.”
“All right.”
She gave him a menacing look. “I ain’t dead,” she reminded him.
The statement seemed to confuse him. “Ah … huh?”
“Downstairs a while ago, you said you had a deal with a dead woman, but I ain’t dead.”
“No,” he agreed, “you aren’t.”
Nodding toward the money sitting in his hand, she said: “I’ll be back to check on Sally’s grave.” Then she shoved past him, into the hall.
The gawkers moved respectfully out of her way, several of them flattening themselves against the wall. Rose headed for the stairs, reloading as she went. As the empties fell willy-nilly across the hall runner, she was aware of a flurry of movement behind her as men scrambled for the spent cartridges—souvenirs to display on their mantles or store away in empty cigar boxes.
Downstairs, Rose retrieved her gear from behind the bar, then walked outside where the miner in the red-checked vest was waiting with the sorrel. He licked nervously at his lips as Rose came down the steps, his eyes darting involuntarily to the twisted lump that was Dutch Weinhart, lying in the street amid shards of broken glass. He said: “I … ah … didn’t know whether you wanted me to bring the horse here or leave it, or ….”
She brushed past him without comment and tied her saddlebags and bedroll in place. After resheathing her rifle, she stepped into the saddle and reined away, heeling the horse into a trot.
She passed the local law on her way out of town, a burly man wearing a shiny badge, prominently displayed. He was heading for the Yellow Rose Saloon at a brisk pace, carrying a double-barreled shotgun under one arm. Although he scowled as she jogged past, he didn’t slow down or call for her to stop.
Five minutes later, she was free of town, urging the sorrel into a canter. Ahead lay the Judith Mountains. Her plan was to skirt them on the east as she made her way in as straight a line as possible to Ostermann’s Crooked Bar-O-Bar, and her long-delayed confrontation with the Flying Egg’s pompous owner.
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Rose pushed hard until nightfall, even though it took a lot out of both her and the stallion. Dismounting beside a narrow, treeless creek, she pulled the saddle from the horse’s back and picketed him downstream. Then she came back and unrolled her blankets and crawled inside. As tired as she was, sleep refused her. She’d been exhausted long before reaching Piñon, worn ragged by the drawn-out chase, the poor diet, the sporadic rest. But Manning was dead now. The incentive that had fueled her long pursuit was depleted. With it, suddenly, had gone both energy and will. She was not just tired, she felt physically ill, as if she might throw up or pass out if she didn’t stop soon.
What made her exhaustion even worse was the knowledge that the battle wasn’t over, not yet. As tired as she was, as sickened as she’d become of the whole ordeal, she understood all too well that even though her mission was completed, the war still raged. It would continue until either Howard Ostermann had his way—legal title to the A-Bar-E—or until one or the other of them was dead.
Even as Rose considered the many gains Ostermann’s death would afford not just her, but so many others, she knew any reprieve would be short-lived. Joe Bean had assured her of that. Ostermann might be her personal nemesis, but he was still just one of many, a bit player in a production that spanned the Northwest.
In the meantime, the law would soon be after her for the killings of Manning and Weinhart and the Flying Egg gunman, and in all probability, someone would tag the death of Sally Mayfield on her as well.
Had it not been for Ostermann and the Yellowstone Basin Cattlemen’s Association’s undesirables list, Rose might have stayed and taken her chances with a jury trial. But she knew the influence of the territory’s ranch owners was woven throughout the local judicial system. Her odds for a fair trial would be slim, this close to the Flying Egg. No, she’d have to run now. She’d have to quit this land she loved so dearly and never return. She supposed she’d known that the day she offer
ed her property to Herman Sutherland.
Rose felt better the next morning, though still somewhat draggy. But she was afraid to linger, even for breakfast. Saddling up, she forged ahead.
The strain of the journey was beginning to tell on the sorrel. His eyes were sunken, his flanks gaunt. As Rose took stock of the big stallion’s condition, she knew she’d made the right choice when she left Albert behind. There was no way the aging roan could have withstood the rigors of the past two weeks.
She continued south in easy stages, stopping often to rest and allow the sorrel to graze. She watched her back trail all that first day but saw no sign of pursuit. Entering her second day out of Piñon, she began to relax.
It was late that same day that she topped a high, rocky ridge and discovered the Flying Egg headquarters sprawled below her like a miniature city. Whoaing, she let her gaze sweep the maze of corrals and outbuildings. The main house, surrounded by a broad yard and flower gardens, was set apart from the rest of the spread by a couple of hundred yards of open range.
Seen from this vantage point, her view unobstructed by the cottonwoods along the Musselshell that had shielded much of the ranch on her first visit, Rose found the size of the place even more intimidating than she remembered. The longer she looked, the angrier she became. It didn’t seem right that someone who already had so much should be able to cause the harm Ostermann had, yet remain so distanced from the consequences of his greed. She’d met the man only once, on a cold winter’s day almost eight months before, and had spoken with him for barely fifteen minutes, yet he’d taken away friends, cost her the land she loved, the territory she considered home. Could she turn the other cheek to that. She’d killed Garcia and Manning for what they’d done to Nora. Did Howard Ostermann merit any less?
“What about it?” Rose asked the sorrel. “Does this jasper deserve any better than Manning?”
The stallion’s ears were perked forward, nostrils distended as he studied the array of barns and sheds, the paddocks where groomed and grain-fed horses with pedigreed bloodlines stood listlessly in the summer’s heat. The kennels behind the house reminded Rose of the mastiffs she’d seen on her first visit, and she pulled the Sharps and laid it across the pommel of her saddle. Giving the sorrel a tap with the side of her stirrups, she said: “No opinion, huh. Well, let’s go say howdy, anyway.”
Rose approached the corrals and outbuildings first, figuring whoever was about would be hard at work, but, as she drew closer, she began to detect an emptiness to the place, an air of desertion. She assumed a lot of the hands would be out looking after the shorthorns Ostermann had had shipped in to replenish his range, but she expected a few waddies to be around. No outfit the size of the Crooked Bar-O-Bar could afford to leave its buildings unattended for long. There were always corrals to mend, roofs to patch, penned livestock that needed feed and water.
And in the case of the Flying Egg, there was the polo field and the lawn surrounding the main house to irrigate and mow.
Pulling up in front of the bunkhouse, Rose raised a call that no one answered. Riding over to a nearby barn, she peered inside without dismounting. “This is feelin’ a mite shuddersome,” she confided to the sorrel, but the stallion’s attention was riveted on a large lot near the river where a band of yearlings ran.
She reined toward the main house, where a thread of smoke curled above the dark slate roof of a summer kitchen. Although she kept a wary eye peeled for the mastiffs, and cocked the Sharps as an added precaution, she saw no sign of the huge, slick-coated beasts.
Circling to the rear of the house, she grew even more puzzled when she realized the kennels where Ostermann had kept his hounds were empty, the pine-framed wire gates left carelessly open. Looking around, she began to notice other signs of neglect, as well. Weeds peeked out from among the flowers in the beds fronting the verandah, and the rose bushes and waist-high topiaries of leafed wildlife—grizzly bear and bison and mountain goat—drooped in the high plains heat.
She pulled up in front of the small summer kitchen behind the main house just as a middle-aged Indian woman exited the building. The woman paused when she saw Rose, but no flicker of emotion crossed her face. She stood silently in front of the kitchen door in a simple cotton dress, her hands dusted with flour, her dark eyes patient, waiting.
“Howdy,” Rose said.
There was no reply.
“I’m lookin’ for Ostermann.” A pause. “Howard Ostermann, your boss.” After another brief silence, she said: “You savvy English?”
The woman stood as if carved from stone. Rose was trying to frame the question in sign when a screen door creaked open on the rear porch of the main house and a lanky blond man stepped into full view, a toothpick canted jauntily from the corner of his mouth. Before the door could slap shut, two others had appeared.
“God damn,” Rose said huskily, sliding her finger around the trigger of the still-cocked Sharps.
“Hello, Rose,” Frank Caldwell said with a familiar smirk.
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“She isn’t very talkative,” Caldwell continued, advancing to the edge of the porch. Casting a sidelong glance at the Indian woman, he added: “She is handy, though, in more ways than one.”
Making no effort to disguise her feelings, Rose said: “I’d kind of gotten used to not thinkin’ about you, Frank. Now here you are, poppin’ up again like a bad smell.”
Caldwell put his hand on the brass buckle of his gun belt, subtly drawing attention to the twin Colts holstered there. Although Rose didn’t at first recognize the skinny, roughly dressed fellow on his left, the one on his right was Ted Keyes. Meeting Keyes’s sullen stare, Rose grinned boldly. “Don’t I know you?” she mocked. “Turn around, so’s I can see your back.”
Keyes flushed, glowering.
Chuckling, Caldwell said: “Now, Rose, quit picking on the boy.”
The statement seemed so out of character that not only did Keyes look surprised by it, but it brought a guffaw from the gunman on Caldwell’s left. Rose glanced at him, her gaze lingering.
“Dammit, Frank,” Keyes growled.
But Caldwell’s smile had vanished. “If you’d done your part in Piñon, this mess would be finished by now.”
“That ain’t true,” Keyes objected, but Rose could hear the defeat in his voice.
Her gaze went back to the third gunman, as if drawn there. Then it came to her, and she laughed. “Well, I’ll be damned … little Bud.”
“That was a long time ago,” the slim gunman replied coolly. “I won’t be surrendering my pistol today.”
“I saw your old pard over in Glendive a while back. Axel Carrington. He’s doin’ real well for himself, which is more than I can say for you, if you’re ridin’ for Frank Caldwell.”
“I don’t give a hoot what that potbellied nose-picker’s doing,” Bud replied. He moved his hand back to touch the grips of a nickeled revolver. “I don’t give a damn what you think, either.”
“Was that you pesterin’ my pap last spring, lookin’ for Muggy’s gold?” she asked. Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll bet it was you who tried to dig up Muggy’s grave last year, too, wasn’t it?”
Although Bud refused a reply, Rose figured the look on his face was answer enough. Grimly she turned to Caldwell. “Where’s Ostermann?”
“What’s your business with him?”
“Personal,” she replied, a trace of sarcasm coming into her voice.
“Sure it is, but I’m curious. Did you come to kill him?”
From Caldwell’s question, Rose knew her answer wouldn’t matter. “He ain’t here, is he?”
“Is that why you came?” Caldwell persisted. “To kill Howard Ostermann?”
She was quiet a moment, thinking. Then she shook her head. “I don’t know, Frank, and that’s the God’s honest truth. I know I wanted to look him in the eye one last time, let h
im know that I knew who he was, what he was. I wanted him to know that I saw him the way he sees himself, late at night when he’s alone with his thoughts, and that, despite what he tells himself, maybe even what his friends tell him, the world still sees him for what he is. I reckon that ain’t much for me to crow about, but it looks like that’s all I’m gonna get.”
Caldwell laughed. “I wish he was here. It was always fun to watch his face when someone called his bluff.”
“Where’d he go?”
Still grinning, Caldwell said: “He’s on his way back to England.”
“What!”
“He’s calling it an extended vacation, but he took his best polo horses and all his hunting dogs. He nearly gutted the house of his favorite trinkets, too. My guess is that Montana has seen the last of Howard Ostermann, and that the Egg will be taken over by some English corporation that’ll send a prissy little bookkeeper out to run the place from an office.”
Rose leaned back in her saddle. Of all the scenarios that had run through her mind on the ride down from Piñon, none had included the possibility that Ostermann might cut his pin and run.
“Then it’s over?” she asked, hardly daring to believe that it might be, that with Ostermann gone, things could return to normal.
“No,” Caldwell said, the old, hard edge returning to his voice. “Not for you. It’ll never be over for you. Not in Montana. If Ostermann doesn’t want your property, then that prissy little bookkeeper will.”
“The sons-a-bitches,” Rose said softly, bitterly.
“There’s something else,” Caldwell said. “Something you need to understand. I have to eliminate you now. Not for Ostermann, but for myself. People are saying I can’t do it, that Rose of Yellowstone is too much of a match for Frank Caldwell. They’re laying wagers against me in Billings and Miles City at two to one odds. If I don’t disprove those nay-sayers, if you don’t disappear, I’ll be finished on the northern ranges.”
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