by Erin Lindsey
Little Wolf called out a greeting, and a woman’s head poked out of one of the tents. She froze when she saw us. Surprise quickly gave way to anger, and she said something sharp in their language, but Little Wolf just laughed. “Always fierce. Just like our mother. This is my sister, White Robes. She is the one who can tell you more about the horse thieves. Sister, this is … uh…” He looked at me apologetically.
“Rose. And this is my partner, Thomas. We’re detectives, and we’re trying to find out what’s happening to the livestock in this area. Your brother thought you might be able to help.”
White Robes emerged from the tent, but her expression didn’t soften. “My brother speaks for himself. He does not speak for me.”
“No one speaks for you, Sister. Not even your husband.”
“Especially not me,” said Red Calf, and the hunters all laughed.
White Robes pretended to glare at them, but I could see she was wrestling with a smile. Little Wolf’s easy humor seemed to have a disarming effect on everyone around him, for which I was grateful.
“Are you from the government?” White Robes took in my unconventional attire with a bemused expression. She herself wore a calico dress, moccasins, and a no-nonsense look that reminded me a little of Clara.
“Not from the government, no. We’ve been hired by a local rancher, a Mr. Theodore Roosevelt.”
“A rancher.” Her tone frosted over again.
“I know that name,” Little Wolf said. “He was one of the hunters we took to the clearing, to show them the carcasses. High Back Bear said he was an important man among the whites at Medora.”
“That’s him. He believes there’s some sort of monstrous predator lurking in these hills.”
“Does he truly?” White Robes narrowed her eyes. “Or is that just a story he wanted you to tell us?”
“He believes it,” I said firmly. “And I believe him.”
“Then you believe in monsters also?”
I hesitated. We’d only just met these people, and I knew nothing of their ways. How would they react to talk of elementals and fae? “I don’t know about monsters,” I said carefully, “but I do think there are things out there beyond our understanding.”
“Like God?”
Little Wolf gave an incredulous laugh. “They have not even hitched their horses and already you are talking about God.” He took my reins and gave them to Red Calf. “Please, sit. We will eat something. After, we can smoke a little and talk about God.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Thomas said, handing over Gideon’s reins. “Though we’d rather discuss what happened to your horses, if you don’t mind.”
“Sit.” Little Wolf herded us to the fire. “Eat. Then we will talk.” We arranged ourselves on the blankets, and he gave us each a chunk of fried bread, along with a small crock of what looked like berry preserves. “Wajapi,” he said in answer to my curious glance. “Chokecherries. Like the bread and jam they gave us at school, only better.”
It was better, sweet and wonderfully tart; paired with the fried bread, it was like eating a jelly-filled doughnut. “I wish we could get this at the hotel,” I said. “It’s the best thing I’ve eaten since we got here.”
“White Robes is a good cook,” Little Wolf said. “It’s the only reason we let her come along.” He ducked expertly as a slug of wajapi sailed over his head, flung from the tip of White Robes’s knife.
“They bring me along because I know where the game will be, and because I am a better tracker than any of them.”
“That’s only because you spent all your time alone in the woods when we were children.”
“How else would I have any peace? I had a noisy baby brother.”
“He is still noisy,” Red Calf said, and they all laughed.
“And I still seek peace in the woods. It gives me a good eye for the land.” Her smile faded. “Which is how I know our horses were taken by men and not monsters.”
“Perhaps we might start at the beginning,” Thomas said. “Little Wolf mentioned that the first disappearance was last year. Do you recall when, exactly?”
“In the Moon of Ripening Berries.” She glanced at her brother. “July?”
“June,” he corrected.
“We had been here only a short time before the thieves found us. It was our own fault. We were careless. The horses were allowed to graze too far from camp, with only a boy to watch them. He fell asleep, and…” She made a frustrated gesture.
“Where were you exactly? Can you show me?” Thomas spread his map out on the blanket.
“Here.” Little Wolf tapped a finger on the map. “By this creek, where the hills meet the prairie.”
“There is a wagon trail there,” White Robes said, warming to her tale. “It runs all the way to Deadwood, so it is well traveled. We should have known better than to camp so close to it. And we were too many. Fourteen of us, and more than twenty horses. We brought too much attention to ourselves.”
Glancing around the camp, I saw only three tents.
White Robes followed my gaze. “There were more of us last week. The rest decided to leave.”
“Why?” I asked, though I had a feeling I knew the answer.
“They think this land is cursed,” Little Wolf said.
White Robes snorted softly. “If it is cursed, it is the same curse as everywhere.”
I had a feeling I knew what she meant by that, too.
“This has become a place of death,” Little Wolf said. “There is no meat, only bones. What we have managed to gather”—he gestured at the drying rack—“is barely enough to feed us, let alone our families. And now we hear rumors that men are being killed as well. Some of us believe this talk of curses and demons. Others think white men are to blame. Either way, there is nothing for us here, so our hunters went south. The four of us stayed behind to learn the truth.”
“I know the truth,” White Robes said. “Someone is trying to frighten us away from this place. We will find out who, and we will have justice.”
“You believe the tracks are meant for you?” Thomas asked. “To persuade you to leave?”
Little Wolf looked uncertain, but White Robes was firm. “Not only the tracks. Someone is slaughtering the game so that we cannot hunt. And they are stealing our horses.”
“They are stealing. Not they were.” Thomas took in the grim expressions around the fire. “I take it there’s been another incident?”
White Robes nodded. “A few days ago. They came in the night, as before. Near the Deadwood trail, as before.”
“And you’re certain it was thieves and not—”
“I’m certain. Last year, we found many signs that white men were to blame. The ends of their cigarettes. The tracks from their horseshoes. But this time I did not need to look for signs in the dirt. This time, I saw them with my own eyes.”
I sat up a little straighter. At last, we had an actual witness. “What exactly did you see? Any detail you remember could be helpful.”
“I was asleep, but they woke me with their coughing. I went outside and saw three men on horseback. They were leading two of our packhorses away.”
“Did you get a look at their faces?” I asked.
She shook her head. “But one of them had a beard, so I knew they were whites. And they were cowards. When I shouted for them to stop, they ran like deer. I grabbed the nearest horse and chased them through the trees, but it was dark, and my horse tripped and fell. By the time our hunters caught up, it was too late. The thieves were gone, and it was too dark to follow.”
“We had to shoot that horse,” Little Wolf said.
“I’m so sorry.” I couldn’t help glancing at Luna, feeling a pang. “I know what horses mean to your people.”
“No,” Little Wolf said, “you don’t.”
Another uncomfortable silence. “We will have justice,” White Robes said again. “The ranchers will pay for what they have done.”
“You’re convinced it was the ranchers,
then?” Thomas asked.
“Who else?” Red Calf put in. “They blame us for the loss of their cows. They blame us for setting fires. Some of them even blame us for the winter, as if we could call magic down upon them.”
“I care nothing for their reasons,” White Robes said. “I know it was ranchers because I saw the marks.”
Thomas leaned forward eagerly. “What marks are those?”
“The kind they burn into their animals.” She patted her haunch. “It was dark, but the moon was good. I could still see the white scars on their horses.”
“What did they look like?” Thomas asked.
White Robes picked up a stick and rubbed it in ash from the fire. “One horse had a mark like this.” She drew a horseshoe, curled up a little at the edges. “And the other two were like this.” Using the tip of her stick, she drew a bullet-shaped cluster of dots, a little like a drawing of a raspberry.
Thomas took out his notebook and copied them down. “The idea of a tit-for-tat theft is plausible, I grant you. But what do you make of the other evidence you’ve found? The animal carcasses and the tracks?”
“We told you,” Red Calf said. “The tracks are false. There is no such animal.”
White Robes took up her stick again. “Here, it is a cougar.” She traced the outline of a paw. “But here, it is a bear.” She added a toe, and extended the claw marks out several inches. “That is the front foot. The back is even more foolish.” Another paw print, this one with faint lines between the toes. “This is … what? A giant beaver?”
Red Calf and Two Horses laughed. Little Wolf, though, looked thoughtful. “Tracks can be faked, it’s true. But we have also seen droppings, and scratching on trees. The carcasses we found had no meat left on them. Even the bones had been cracked open for the marrow. Why would the ranchers do this? Not only to horses, but to all sorts of creatures? This is what I can’t understand.”
White Robes sighed impatiently, as if they’d had this conversation many times before. “Why do they do anything? They kill everything they see. They can’t help themselves.”
“Their own cows?” He made a skeptical face.
“Tell me,” Thomas said, “are there stories associated with this area that feature unusual creatures? Myths, folklore, that sort of thing? You mentioned demons, and one of the ranchers we spoke to said something about a serpent.”
“Unk Cekula?” White Robes shrugged. “A myth, as you have said. One of many tales the old ones tell to children.”
“Is it possible it’s more than that?” Thomas’s gaze took in the others. “Do any of you believe there might be some truth to these tales?”
Little Wolf’s expression grew thoughtful again. “There are many different ways to believe. Many kinds of truth. Some say we make our bows from the ash tree because it protects us from evil. Others say it is just good, strong wood.”
My hand drifted reflexively to the hairpin at the nape of my neck. Ash wood. Could it be a coincidence?
“Either way,” Little Wolf went on, “I will make my bow from ash, because that is the way it is done. The way it has always been done. We have always told stories of Unk Cekula, of Iktomi and Wakinyan. They are a part of who I am. I believe them, in my way.”
“And the ranchers want to use that against you,” White Robes said. “They want us away from this place forever, and they will use whatever tricks they can to frighten you. It is a lie, Brother. But soon everyone will know the truth.”
“It sounds like you have a plan,” I said.
“We do.” She didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask her to. White Robes didn’t completely trust us, and why should she? We were strangers, and we’d been hired by a rancher. Even leaving aside all the history between our peoples, she had reason enough to be cautious.
“We will catch these horse thieves,” Little Wolf said. “But there are questions that still need answering. Something tore our horses apart and ate their meat. I would like to know what.”
“We’ll certainly do our best to find out,” Thomas said.
“As will we. If you need to find us, we will be near the Deadwood trail.”
Thomas nodded. “In the meantime, do take care. The rumors you’ve heard are true. Whatever is killing these animals is also killing men. This area may not be safe.”
“Thank you for the warning,” White Robes said. “But whatever comes, we are ready.”
CHAPTER 9
SCAVENGERS—OF PINSTRIPES AND PIG-STICKERS—THE FIVE POINTS VARIATION
It was past dark by the time we reined in outside Granger’s Saloon, and I crawled off Luna’s back with the supple grace of a ninety-year-old. Ten hours in the saddle was not a thing to be undertaken lightly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so stiff in my life.”
“It is rather humbling, isn’t it?” Thomas rolled out his shoulders. “Even these enormous Western saddles can only do so much. One gets used to it, presumably, but for now…”
For now it felt as if my backside had been paddled by an overzealous schoolmarm. “Do you suppose we could stand at the bar to eat?”
“Capital idea.”
It was a Friday night, so I expected things to be a little more lively, but I was completely unprepared for the wall of noise and cigar smoke that greeted us inside. I hardly recognized the place, and not just because my eyes were watering. Nearly every seat in the joint was taken, and much of the standing room too. A card game was going on in one corner, dice in another. Stargazers in heavy rouge and faded frocks plied their trade at the bar, while just a few feet away, a pasty fellow in a pinstriped suit conducted another kind of business, handing a pen and paper to a resigned-looking cowboy sitting across from him.
“It’s as busy as the Bowery in here,” I said incredulously. “Something must have happened.”
“Perhaps the barkeep can enlighten us.”
We haggled our way between the tables, trying our best to ignore the eyes following us. Even in this crowd, Thomas and I stood out. “Get a look at this dude,” someone slurred, waving a half-empty bottle in Thomas’s direction.
“Never mind the dude. Get a look at the filly! Why the trousers, darlin’?”
“Careful. She’s liable to stick a gun in your face.”
“I know where I’d like to stick my gun.”
Thomas’s stride faltered, but I touched his arm. “Leave it,” I murmured.
The drunks continued their heckling, but it was drowned out soon enough by the rowdy laughter coming from the bar. The mob of treasure hunters had only grown since last night, leaving little room for anyone else. Thomas and I wedged ourselves in as best we could. The stench in those close quarters was almost overwhelming, a miasma of unwashed bodies and sour whiskey breath. All that hard riding to be back in time for supper, and I’d about lost my appetite.
We ordered anyway, and Thomas slid a few extra bills across the bar. “Much obliged,” the saloonkeeper said, managing to sound both grateful and wary. “To what do I owe the generosity?”
Thomas blinked, the very picture of New York naïveté. “Are gratuities not customary in these parts? Forgive me, sir. I’m afraid I’m quite out of my element.”
I had to hand it to Thomas: he slipped into character flawlessly. The saloonkeeper relaxed. “You’re that photographer, ain’t you?”
“Thomas Wiltshire.” He extended a hand. “And this is my colleague, Miss Gallagher.”
“Lee Granger.” They shook. “Don’t get many gratuities in here, that’s for sure. Especially with so many folks fallen on hard times.”
“You have a full house tonight, at least,” I said.
“True enough. Guess I oughta be thankful.” He didn’t look thankful, eying his patrons without much enthusiasm.
“Not locals, I take it?” Thomas asked.
“Some of ’em. It’s payday for most of the cowboys around here, so that always means a busy night. The rest is newcomers. Stage come up from Deadwood this afternoon, so we got us a fresh crop of vultures.”
Thomas tilted his head with interest. “Vultures?”
Granger lowered his voice, leaning against the bar conspiratorially. “Seems like all we get around here these days is scavengers. First it was the bone pickers, gathering up the skeletons of all them cows and selling ’em to the fertilizer companies. After that came the treasure hunters. Now we got this pinstriped pecker from Bismarck”—he nodded toward the pasty fellow I’d noticed earlier—“buying our land on the cheap. Vultures.”
Our host was chatty. Good. Chatty barkeeps were always useful.
Wide-eyed easterner seemed like the right approach here, so I affected a nervous glance at the treasure hunters down the bar. “They seem like a rough lot,” I said in a worried undertone. “Though I suppose you’d have to be in their line of work. It must be awfully dangerous, mustn’t it, if they keep disappearing like that?”
“Disappearing, or cutting each other’s throats?” The saloonkeeper lifted an eyebrow meaningfully.
“Is that what’s going on?”
He shrugged. “Can’t say for sure, but a hundred thousand is an awful sight of money, and most of these rambling types would sell their own mother for a nickel. I reckon each and every one of ’em sleeps with one eye open and a gun under his pillow. ’Specially now, with everybody so worked up over this cabin.”
“Cabin?” Thomas and I exchanged a look.
“You ain’t heard? That’s what brought most of this rabble to town. Local trapper come across it the other day, just south of Painted Canyon. Some shack they’re saying Ben Upton used while he was out on the trail.” He started to say more, but someone caught his attention down the bar. “Keep your shirt on, Willy. I see you. ’Scuse me, folks.”
I waited until Granger was out of earshot before turning back to Thomas. “Sounds like we’d better get a look at that cabin, ideally before this lot descends on it and ruins any evidence.”
“Agreed, though if these fellows are as cutthroat as our host makes them out to be, we’d do well to be careful.”