by Erin Lindsey
“Indeed, we defer entirely to your expertise.”
“Well, in that case … I been running cattle all my life, and I seen my share of rustling. It don’t usually involve killing. Slaughtering is a whole lotta work. Transport too. It just ain’t practical. Better to move ’em on the hoof.”
“Unless they wanted the meat for themselves,” I pointed out. “Maybe they were just hungry.”
“Plenty of hungry mouths around here, no doubt. But that much meat? And what about them horses the Sioux lost? You’d have to be pretty desperate to eat that.”
“Your boss figured the dead horses were just for show,” I said. “To throw the ranchers off the scent.”
Mr. Ward shook his head but otherwise held his peace.
“Does he have any evidence to support that claim?” Thomas asked.
Another pause. I was getting the idea that John Ward was a cautious sort, at least around strangers. “Gets to a point where a man just needs someone to blame,” he said finally.
“And he’s decided to blame the Sioux,” I said.
“No more ’n they’ve decided to blame him.”
My eyebrows went up. “You’ve spoken to them?”
“Couple of ’em, anyhow. There’s this group I keep running into out on the trail. Hunting party, led by a young fella called Little Wolf. They’re real insistent that it’s ranchers stealing their horses, and the rest is nothing but tricks.”
Well, that made about as much sense as the reverse. Which was to say, none at all.
“By all accounts, cattle are being butchered by the hundreds,” Thomas said. “The ranchers would hardly jeopardize their own livelihoods for some elaborate ruse. Especially now, after the winter has left them so vulnerable. Surely the Sioux can see that?”
“My thinking is, there’s a whole lotta things the white man does that don’t make sense to them, and they don’t put nothing past him no more. Begging your pardon.”
Thomas sighed. “Understandable, perhaps, but it does make things difficult. It’s hard to find common ground where there is no trust.”
“No trust around here, that’s for sure. Just a whole lotta bad blood.”
“So it would seem. Though it sounds as though you and this Little Wolf, at least, have managed to maintain a dialogue. Do you think he would be willing to speak with us?”
Mr. Ward’s gaze shifted between Thomas and me, and I could see the wheels turning in his head. What did a photographer and his assistant want with a Sioux hunting party?
“I suppose you’re hoping to take their photographs, Mr. Wiltshire?” I prompted.
“Indeed. A photograph of Sioux hunters ought to be of interest to any number of magazines and newspapers.”
It would probably be a whole lot less interesting to the Sioux. How would they react to a pair of white strangers asking questions? The idea made me more than a little nervous, and Mr. Ward’s reply did nothing to ease my mind.
“Not sure this is the best time to be asking them for favors.”
“Perhaps not,” Thomas said, “but we have little choice. We’re under a great deal of pressure, you see.”
The ranch hand didn’t look convinced, but he was too polite to argue. “Well, if you’re set on it. Little Wolf speaks good English, and his sister too. Can’t promise they’ll talk to you, but I expect you’ll be all right so long as you mind your p’s and q’s. I can show you on a map.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Mr. Ward, you’ve been tremendously helpful.” Thomas extended a hand, and they shook. “And now, back to transport. Miss Gallagher is also in need of a horse.”
John Ward cocked his head. “Follow me. I got just the pony for you, ma’am.”
* * *
Her name was Luna, and I was in love.
I hardly noticed the countryside on the way back to Medora. Barely listened to Thomas chatting with Mr. Morrison. I was too busy murmuring sweet nothings to my very own horse, a statuesque saddlebred that had briefly belonged to Mr. Reid’s daughter. She was a palomino, Mr. Ward had explained, which meant she had a gold coat and a flaxen mane and tail. Tall and graceful, she was every inch as lovely as Thomas’s stallion, but it was her manner that had stolen my heart: mild and curious, with attentive ears and soulful eyes that seemed to understand everything around her.
“You seem quite taken with her,” Thomas observed as we reined in outside the hotel. Mr. Morrison had gone his own way at a crossroads a few miles outside of town, heading back to Maltese Cross.
“She’s perfect. I could stay in this saddle all day.” But of course that wasn’t quite true, as I learned a moment later when I hopped down and a jolt of pain ran up my side.
“Stiff?”
“Sidesaddle is murder on the back.” Not to mention the knees, the neck, and just about everything else. Yet another way in which women were forced to endure discomfort in order to protect their modesty. I hadn’t noticed it much during my Newport training, but I’d only been in the saddle for an hour or so at a stretch. “I’m going to be a human pretzel by the time we’re done here.”
“Have you considered trousers?”
I blinked in astonishment. Not at the idea of wearing trousers—I’d thought about it plenty of times—but that it would be Thomas Wiltshire, the very model of starchy English propriety, who suggested it. “You wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen with a woman in trousers?”
He laughed. “Why should I be? Look around, Rose.” He gestured at the street in all its makeshift, manure-lined glory. “I daresay you won’t offend anyone’s delicate sensibilities. Besides, we have a job to do, and it makes little sense for you to be inhibited out of deference to some arbitrary social convention.”
Well, when he put it that way. “Where would I get them?”
“Trousers?” He looked me up and down. “You might manage with a pair of mine, actually.”
That brought a furious blush to my cheeks. I could only imagine what Mr. Burrows would say. A dozen jokes about getting into my partner’s trousers flitted through my mind—which of course just made me blush harder.
Thomas pretended not to notice, loosening the cinch around his horse’s middle. “I’m ravenous. Shall we find ourselves some supper?”
I wrinkled my nose, recalling our so-called breakfast that morning. “Please tell me the hotel isn’t our only option.”
“I believe cold oatmeal represents the limit of the hotel’s culinary ambitions. According to Mr. Morrison, the only real restaurant left in town is Granger’s Saloon.” Thomas gestured down the street. “Let’s see what’s on offer, shall we? We’ll get the horses settled afterward.”
I’d never set foot in a real Wild West saloon, and I expected to find a raucous barroom full of gamblers and gunslingers. As it turned out, though, Granger’s was pretty tame, even by New York standards. The joints I was used to had names like One-Eyed Johnny’s and Tub of Blood. They were unruly affairs, thrumming with noise and the threat of violence. The only thing thrumming in this place was the flies. Fewer than half the tables were occupied. An elk head hung crookedly on the wall, as if nobody could be bothered to straighten it, and the piano in the corner sported a generous layer of dust. The patrons looked dusty too, beaten down and exhausted, hunched over their drinks as if their sorrows didn’t even have the decency to be properly drowned.
One group, at least, seemed to be enjoying themselves. A rabble of about half a dozen rough-looking men clustered around the bar, drinking and swapping tales at a volume that suggested they’d been at it for a while.
“Treasure hunters, I’d wager,” Thomas said in an undertone. “Roosevelt mentioned that a number of them were still in town. I wonder if any more of their colleagues have gone missing.”
If so, they didn’t seem too worried about it, judging from the collection of empty whiskey bottles on the bar. “Should we try talking to them?”
“Once they’ve sobered up, perhaps. For now, I’d like to go over what we heard at the ranch while it’s still fr
esh in our minds.”
We chose a quiet table in the corner and ordered supper, a greasy stew with potatoes and root vegetables that looked like the sort of thing Mam used to make when we had no money. Still, at least it was hot and filling.
“So,” I said. “What do we think about the creature? Real or not?”
“Too soon to say. Mr. Ward certainly seemed convinced, but it does strike me as odd that he would have such difficulty following its trail. He claims to be a proficient tracker, after all.”
“Maybe he’s not as skilled as he thinks.”
“In which case, can we rely upon his judgment either way?”
A good point. Something didn’t add up there. “What if you and Mr. Wang were right about it being an elemental? Could that explain it?”
Thomas made a skeptical sound. “We know so little of them, it’s hard to be sure, but I’d be surprised if their tracks resembled those of a cougar or any other known animal. If the creature does exist, I’d be more inclined to favor the idea we discussed before, of a predator thought to be extinct.”
“Like a saber-toothed tiger?”
“For example. We saw for ourselves how much wild country is still out there. It’s not so outlandish to imagine that a handful of zoological relics could have survived beyond the gaze of science. It might even explain some of the creatures that appear in the local folklore.”
“A serpent demon?” I arched an eyebrow.
“Very well, perhaps not that one. But I’ve seen too much in my career to dismiss anything out of hand. Hopefully, we’ll learn more from this hunting party.”
The reminder of our plan for tomorrow brought a flutter of nervousness to my belly. “Thomas, are you sure it’s a good idea to drop in on a Sioux hunting party unannounced?”
“If they have evidence that can assist our investigation, I don’t see that we have much choice. We’ll just have to be on our guard, and make sure we don’t give them any cause for alarm.”
“But won’t we be armed?”
“Most assuredly. It would be the height of imprudence to strike out in these parts without taking proper precautions, especially if there’s a man-eating predator on the loose. But we’ll keep our weapons holstered and our hands in plain sight. Which reminds me…” Reaching into his satchel, he produced a revolver and set it on the table. “I bought this earlier today, when I picked up the shotgun.”
“A Colt?”
“Forty-one caliber. They call it the Lightning. More powerful than my old Webley, and it weighs substantially less than the Peacemaker, which I thought would suit you.”
That was a polite way of saying I was rubbish with the .45. I’d nearly killed a man with a Peacemaker once, and not on purpose. Though in my defense, that was before I’d been trained in the proper use of a firearm.
I hefted the Lightning experimentally. It was well balanced, and handsome in the bargain, with engraved blued steel and a pearl handle. Even so … “I don’t suppose this is going to be much help against a saber-toothed tiger.”
He smiled. “Probably not. I intended it primarily as a deterrent for the local ruffians.” Thomas’s gaze shifted meaningfully to the nearest occupied table, where a greasy fellow sat with his back to the wall, watching us.
It wasn’t a casual gaze. Whoever he was, he wanted us to know he was looking. And he also wanted us to know he was armed, having placed a big bowie knife on the table, where we’d be sure to see it. He had a pair of six-shooters strapped to his waist too, grips facing out for a cross-draw. Only a certain kind of man carried his guns like that. The message was clear: I’ve got my eye on you, and you don’t want to cross me.
Maybe Granger’s Saloon was a little more Wild West than I’d thought.
If Thomas was worried, he didn’t let on. “For the wildlife, prehistoric or otherwise, we have the shotgun, and I also picked up the latest Winchester repeating rifle, which you’re welcome to.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “Trousers and Colts and Winchester rifles. At this rate, I’m going to look more like Annie Oakley than a photographer’s assistant.”
“I very much look forward to seeing that,” Thomas said, and the glint in his eye was better than a shot of whiskey.
It was around then I decided I liked Medora.
We got back to the hotel just after nightfall. The corridor was dimly lit, and I stumbled a little on the crooked steps. Thomas put a hand on the small of my back to steady me, and he didn’t take it away until we’d reached the top of the stairs. It was more than a little familiar, and I expected the usual polite apology, at least, but he didn’t even seem to realize he’d done it. He looked perfectly relaxed—more so than I could ever recall seeing him. “This place seems to agree with you,” I said, a little bemusedly.
“It does, rather.”
“I’d have thought it a little rough around the edges for someone like you.”
“Someone like me?” He arched a playful eyebrow. “Dare I ask?”
I felt myself blushing. “I just mean … It’s very different from Fifth Avenue, that’s all.”
“That’s what I like about it.” His glance drifted over the rustic hallway, with its peeling wallpaper and poorly fitted doors. “The constraints of formal society feel very far away indeed. It’s refreshing. Liberating, even. Out here…” His pale gaze fell to mine. “Out here, one is whoever he wishes to be, isn’t he?”
And who is that, Thomas?
I knew better than to ask. Glimpses into the inner sanctum of Thomas Wiltshire were few and fleeting, and offered only when you weren’t looking for them. Try to barge your way through, and he would shut you out faster than you could blink.
Instead, I just smiled and said, “I like it here too.”
We bade each other good night and retired to our respective rooms. I say respective, but we might as well have shared one for all the privacy they afforded. The wall between us was so thin and shabbily built that the lamplight from Thomas’s room leaked into mine; I could see his shadow moving across it, feel the floorboards creaking under his weight.
I slipped into my nightgown and put out the lamp. Then I turned—and yelped as a figure moved in the shadows.
“Who’s there?” I demanded, backing toward the nightstand where I’d left the Colt. “How did you get in here?”
He stepped out of the shadows, revealing a middle-aged man with a mustache. He was well over six feet, with the rugged physique of an outdoorsman. For a moment I took him for one of the roughs from the saloon. Then I looked into his eyes, and a searing chill knifed through my ribs.
I knew that sensation, though it had been a long time. You never forget how it feels when you’re about to die.
I didn’t bother with the gun. It wouldn’t do me any good. “Thomas!” I pounded the wall between us, fighting down a sickening wave of fear. “Ghost!”
CHAPTER 7
A GHOULISH GIFT—PERSONAE NON GRATAE—BEWARE OF SHALLOW WATERS
I’d never seen a ghost before, and I was completely unprepared for how terrifying it would be. You’d think one spirit of the dead was the same as another, but you’d be wrong. Shades—the sort of dead people I was used to—were incredibly dangerous, capable of killing at a touch. But at least that was a threat I understood, one I’d faced before and knew how to fight. Ghosts, on the other hand, used madness and suggestion to overcome their victims. Theirs were weapons of the mind. How did you fight that? Already, I could feel it: a skittering along the surface of my brain, as if a hundred spiders made of frost had been set loose inside my skull. My hands flew to my scalp, scratching furiously, but of course it made no difference. The spiders were inside, crawling, crawling …
Do something.
But what? My mind was a terrible blank. The prickling turned to probing, icy fingers prodding and grasping as if testing my brain for ripeness. I whimpered, clutching at my head. Get out get out get out …
“Rose.” Thomas’s voice sounded from the other side of my door, tense but c
alm. “Don’t panic. You’ve trained for this.”
Training. Remember your training. I drew a breath, forcing myself to think rationally. Avoid looking at the ghost. If it tries to speak to you, hum or talk to yourself.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I backed into the nightstand and fumbled about for my hairpin, the one with the jade rose. It was enchanted and made of ash wood; if necessary, I could use it to banish the ghost back to the otherworld, though that would only buy me a few moments. Ghosts were just projections, so banishing them did about as much good as dropping a pebble through a reflection in the water. The image would disperse, but it would only take a few seconds to resolve itself. Even so, I felt a little steadier with the hairpin in my hand.
“Your door is locked.” Thomas again. “Can you find the key? I’d rather not have to kick it in.”
“Just a minute.” My voice sounded thin and warbling, a humiliating contrast to the cool, measured tones coming from the far side of the door. Calm down, I scolded myself. Just keep your wits about you and you’ll be fine. The tendrils of frost still brushed against my brain, but there’d been no whispering so far, no visions of any kind. I was in command of my faculties. Mostly.
I found my key and backed toward the door, keeping my hairpin pointed in the vague direction of the ghost. My fingers groped about for the lock, and a moment later Thomas rushed in. “Where is it?”
I opened my eyes. Thomas stood like a shield before me, ash walking stick at the ready. But there was nothing to protect me from. The corner where the ghost had been was only shadow.
“Gone.” I sagged back into the wall in relief. “You must’ve scared him off.”
“Are you all right?”
“I think so.” My knees felt a little wobbly, so I sank down onto the bed. “Did I wake the entire hotel?”
Thomas peeked out into the hallway. “All clear,” he said, closing the door. “Are you sure you’re well? You’re…” He glanced at me before looking away hurriedly. “You’re terribly pale.”