by Erin Lindsey
I stared at him. “You just knew that off the top of your head?”
He laughed. “Hardly. Did you not notice my reading materials on the train?”
“Which ones? You were practically swimming in books the whole time.”
“Fair enough. In any case, I waded through two full volumes on prehistoric creatures. There were a number of interesting specimens, though nothing quite this intriguing.”
Intriguing wasn’t the word I’d use. “We need to take this information to John Ward. And the Lakota too.”
“Agreed. Let’s see how far we can get before nightfall.”
He’d just started to fold the map away when a sudden gust of wind tore through the ravine, startling the horses and whisking the hat clean off my head. Shielding my face with my arm, I looked up. “Er, Thomas? I don’t think we need to worry about nightfall.”
The wind had changed direction sometime in the last hour or so, and the storm I’d seen in the distance was nearly on top of us. It looked even more menacing now, iron-gray and billowing, its underbelly flashing with lightning.
“That’s going to be on us in a trice.” Thomas sprang to his feet. “We need to get those tents up as fast as we can.”
I hurried to untie my canvas roll, but I’d never assembled a tent in my life. “Please tell me you know what you’re doing.”
“Not a clue.”
“You didn’t ask?”
He shot an annoyed look across his saddle. “I didn’t imagine we’d be in quite such a hurry.”
The wind picked up. Fat drops of rain started to hit the dust. I glanced despairingly at Ben Upton’s sketchbook. It would be ruined in a downpour. Then there was Thomas’s map, and Mr. Tesla’s luck detector … “There’s no time,” I said, dragging the saddlebags off Luna’s rump. “We’ve got to get these things under cover. I’ll use my tent like a blanket. You do what you can with yours.” Unrolling the canvas, I stuffed everything I could underneath and tucked the corners under our saddles. Then I tried to help Thomas.
The special branch of the Pinkerton Detective Agency has a rigorous training program. It includes riding, shooting, fighting, poisons, disguises, and even ballroom dancing. It does not, however, include basic outdoor skills, a fact that was grimly in evidence that day in the Dakota Badlands. Thomas and I fumbled and floundered our way through the business, so that by the time we’d finally hammered the last peg in place, we were so thoroughly soaked that our teeth were chattering. We had a single dry blanket and not a stick of firewood. The two of us barely even fit inside the tent; we had to curl into little balls with our arms over our knees, and even then, our heads brushed the canvas.
We huddled there a moment, shivering. Thomas and I looked at each other—and burst out laughing.
“What a sorry pair we are.” He dropped his head between his knees, raking his fingers through his dark hair. It was extra wavy in the damp, which I thought looked very well on him. For that matter, the shirt plastered to his body looked very well on him too.
He caught me staring, so I said, “Your lips are blue.”
“So are yours. And you’re shaking like a leaf. I think we’d better get under this blanket before we make ourselves ill.”
We shifted around awkwardly. Draping the blanket over our shoulders didn’t offer much warmth, so we lay down on our sides. Thomas wrapped his arm around my waist and gathered me close, and we tucked ourselves in like a pair of spoons in a silver cloth. He was shaking just as badly as I, but after a moment or two we both settled, and I could feel my fingertips again. Sadly, there was nothing to be done about Gideon and Luna; the poor animals just bowed their heads, turned their rumps to the wind, and resigned themselves to being soaked.
Meanwhile, a magnificent drama unfolded all around us. Lightning forked between the hills, searing white against the black belly of sky. Thunder shook the valley. The rain was coming down so hard that it made a thunder of its own, drumming against the canvas above our heads. Even the nervous stirring of the horses was eerily beautiful, their forms blurred and wraith-like in the downpour. “It’s incredible,” I said, my voice all but lost in the din.
“Yet another way in which this place is wild.” Thomas’s smooth tenor was honey in my ear; his breath lifted the hairs at the nape of my neck. “The weather shifted so suddenly.”
“I noticed the clouds earlier, but they seemed to be moving away from us. I should have said something.”
“And I should have included rain slickers among our supplies.” I felt him shrug. “We’re here now. And … it’s not so unpleasant, is it?”
“No.” I burrowed in a little deeper. We were pressed so close now that I could feel the watch in his breast pocket; I fancied I could even feel it ticking, like a soft heartbeat against my back.
The storm continued to rage, all violence and raw power. It was exhilarating, even a little frightening. Lying here like this, curled up together, felt deliciously forbidden. Yet there was something familiar about it too, and the longer we lay there, the more a sense of déjà vu came over me.
“Thomas?”
“Mmm?”
“Last night, after you gave me the saltwater. Did you stay with me?”
“For a little while.”
I almost left it at that. Did I really need to know the rest? What if I ruined this perfect moment? Already, the storm was waning, retreating as quickly as it had come upon us. The lightning had withdrawn into the clouds, and the rain slackened. All too soon, it would be over.
But I had to ask. “Did you stay with me … like this?”
A long pause. Thunder rumbled in the distance. More than once, I felt him start to answer, only to falter. Finally, he said, “Not exactly like this. But yes, I held you. I wanted you to feel safe.” Another pause. “Was it wrong of me?”
I rolled over. Pale eyes searched mine, as if trying to read my thoughts. I’d never seen him so unsure of himself, and it was strangely thrilling.
He reached for me, his fingertips brushing my hairline. “Was it wrong of me, Rose?”
“Does it feel wrong?”
And then he was cradling my head, his mouth seeking mine, and I sighed into him, surrendering to the longing that had tugged at me for so long. His kiss was gentle at first, soft and searching, but it grew deeper as our limbs twined around one another, and when I threaded my fingers through that thick, damp hair, it brought him rolling onto me in a rush.
Reader, I almost came undone.
My hand found its way under his shirt. I’m not sure which of us was more surprised. The muscles of his back knotted, and I half expected him to pull away; instead I felt gooseflesh break out along his skin, and his kiss grew harder. Suddenly I had a fistful of buttons, and I blush to think what I might have done next if he hadn’t broken off suddenly. He hovered there a moment, breathing hard, and then he rolled as far away as he could without knocking the tent down.
“I think,” he said breathlessly, “I had better get that other tent up, don’t you?”
To this day, I wonder what he would have done if I’d said no. If I’d tested the limits of his restraint, and my own. But even then, in the heat of the moment, I knew it would be a mistake. So I just watched as he clambered out of the tent, missing his warmth already and wondering how on earth we were going to pretend this never happened.
At least it had stopped raining.
* * *
We made an early start of it, riding into Medora at a little after ten o’clock on Sunday morning. We hadn’t discussed last night’s … incident. Already, it felt strangely distant, like a dream, or something I’d read in a scandalous novel. That was probably for the best. We needed to stay focused on the task at hand. The creature was less than five miles from Medora, stalking the banks of rivers and streams. People’s homes lined those same waterways. Men fished in them. Women drew water for laundry and livestock. Children played in them, swimming and catching frogs. We had to find that thing before it killed again. Ben Upton and the Winte
r of the Blue Snow would just have to wait. As for Thomas and Rose … that was probably best left alone entirely.
“I hope there’s a message from John Ward waiting for us,” I said as we hitched up outside the hotel. Otherwise, we’d have to hire a tracker, and who knew how long that would take—assuming we could even find anyone willing to take on the task.
Thomas didn’t answer, too busy squinting at something over my shoulder. Turning, I found a trio of riders heading toward us at a jog. They rode three abreast, and the man in the middle didn’t seem to be holding on to his reins. It took me a moment to process what I was looking at, and even longer to accept it. The man in the middle was a prisoner, and though we’d only just met, I considered him a friend, or at least an ally.
Two Horses sat rigid in the saddle, arms bound in front of him. If he recognized Thomas and me, he gave no sign, staring straight ahead as the three of them trotted past.
Exchanging a grim look, Thomas and I followed.
The riders hitched up outside the jailhouse. Already, they were drawing a crowd; townsfolk clustered on the boardwalk, looking on with approving nods and even a few jeers.
“Softly, now,” Thomas warned in an undertone. “These people are desperate for someone to blame for their troubles. Things could unravel quickly.”
I did my best to heed that advice, but the smug look on the faces of Two Horses’s captors made my blood boil. As if they expected the town to throw them a hero’s parade. “Stand back, ma’am,” one of them said self-importantly as we approached. “Indian’s dangerous.”
“He most certainly is not. His name is Two Horses, and he’s a friend of ours.”
The rider gave Thomas a wry look, as if to say, Get your woman in line. Two Horses, meanwhile, didn’t acknowledge my presence, or anybody else’s; he sat perfectly still, his expression blank. “Don’t seem like he knows you,” the other man said.
“He doesn’t speak English.” He seemed to understand it well enough, from what I’d seen, but these men didn’t need to know that. “What have you done with the others?”
“You mean the rest of his band? We ain’t found ’em yet.”
I breathed a little easier. The other three were safe, at least.
“On what grounds are you holding him?” Thomas asked in his poshest lawyer voice.
“He’s wanted for cattle rustling,” the first man said.
“Wanted by whom?”
“Gus Reid.”
“I’m acquainted with Mr. Reid,” Thomas said, “and to the best of my knowledge, he doesn’t wield any judicial authority.”
“This here’s a citizen’s arrest.”
“Based on what evidence?”
“What in hell is going on out here?” A heavy tread sounded on the boardwalk, and a man stepped out of the jailhouse, donning his hat as he squinted in the morning light. He wore a badge, though he didn’t really need it; it was obvious from the way he carried himself—lazily domineering, with just a hint of latent menace—that this was Hell Roaring Bill Jones, sheriff of Billings County.
“Morning, Bill,” said the first man.
“Jed.” The sheriff took in the scene with a sour expression. He was a striking fellow, with arresting blue eyes, heavy brows, and a drooping mustache. He might even have been handsome were he not in dire need of a wash; as it was, he looked like the sort of rough who’d start a saloon brawl purely for the fun of it. “You wanna tell me why I got an Indian on my porch?” The accent was Irish, the tone tinder-dry.
“This here’s one of the Sioux been rustling Mr. Reid’s stock.”
“I was just inquiring how the gentleman supports this contention,” Thomas said.
The sheriff gave him a cold look. “Do I know you?”
“I beg your pardon. Thomas Wiltshire, and this is my assistant, Miss Gallagher. We’re acquainted with this fellow. His name is Two Horses, and I can assure you—”
“I can assure you I ain’t interested in the say-so of some dude been in town all of twelve seconds.” Then, to Reid’s men: “I’ll take your Indian, for now. But the tenderfoot ain’t wrong. You need some kind of evidence if you want me to keep him.”
“Keep him?” Jed snorted. “Cattle rustling’s a hanging offense, Bill.”
I felt sick to my stomach. What kind of barbarians would hang a man over some cows?
“It’s a hanging offense if and when a judge says it is,” the sheriff replied. “I don’t wanna see you or any of the rest of you Cougar Ranch boys outside my office with torches, you hear?”
Jed scowled. “Fine, then. We’ll get a judge to sign off on it.”
“You do that. Meantime…” Jones jerked his head, and Two Horses was pulled down from his horse and bundled off to the jailhouse.
Thomas started to say something, but the sheriff stayed him with a gesture. “Unless you got evidence of your own, I don’t wanna hear it.”
“And if we obtain such evidence?”
“Do as you like. But if you mean to set this boy free, you’d best hurry. Might be they decide to let him go, but I wouldn’t count on it. Judges round here don’t take a whole lotta convincing when it comes to Indians.” Glancing back at the jailhouse, he said, “I’d give it … oh, three days. A week at the outside.”
“And then?” My voice trembled with anger.
“And then it’s over,” said Sheriff Jones. “One way or the other.”
CHAPTER 13
NATURAL LAW—THE BUCKSHOT OUTFIT—HIDE AND HAIR
“We have to do something,” I said as we walked away.
“And so we shall.” Thomas’s features were grave but composed. “We’re going to find that animal and put a bullet in it, and if we have to have it stuffed and presented to the good sheriff with a bow around its neck, then that’s what we’ll do. This doesn’t change our plans, Rose. It merely adds urgency.”
He’s right, I thought. Righteous outrage wasn’t going to do Two Horses any good. We needed to think rationally about this. “Should we try to find Little Wolf and White Robes? Tell them what’s happened?”
“My guess is they already know. Either way, if we ride out now, we risk leading Reid’s men straight to them.”
“What about Mr. Roosevelt? Maybe he can use his influence to help Two Horses.”
“Good idea. He’ll want an update in any case. We can wire him now, along with Burrows.”
We split up, Thomas heading to the Western Union office while I got the horses fed and watered. After that, I made my way to the hotel, tension gnawing at me with every step. It didn’t help that the whole town was on edge after yesterday’s attack. Locals gathered on the boardwalk, talking in hushed tones; more than a few carried rifles or shotguns. Tempers were sour, too. The pair of cowboys loitering outside the hotel eyed me suspiciously as I passed, not even bothering to excuse themselves when one of them coughed all over me. Inside, meanwhile, I found the hotel owner arguing with the pasty pinstriped fellow from Bismarck.
“Mister, I don’t wanna have to tell you again. It ain’t for sale.”
“I think you’ll find my offer more than generous.”
“I think you’ll find my boot in your ass if you don’t git.” The owner gestured at the door, and the pasty fellow retreated, stalking past me in chilly silence.
I cleared my throat awkwardly. “Good morning. Have any messages arrived for us?”
“Matter of fact.”
The owner pushed a folded piece of paper across the desk. There was an envelope too, and I was delighted to recognize Clara’s handwriting. But her letter would have to wait.
“That there’s from John Ward,” the hotel owner said as I unfolded the note. “But it’s me wrote it down for him, being he ain’t lettered.”
My gaze ran over the messy script. The scribe was barely lettered himself, but the meaning came through clearly enough, and it was exactly what we’d been hoping for: an invitation to join Mr. Ward on the hunt, with a rough description of his expected location. “When did he le
ave this?”
“Yesterday, just after dawn.”
I looked up in dismay. “Why didn’t you give it to us yesterday morning?”
“Tried to, but you all rushed out while I was dealing with breakfast.”
Damn. I hurried out into the street, making for the livery at a jog. He’s got a full day’s head start, and our horses are exhausted … I suppose I made something of a sight—a woman in men’s clothing jogging down main street, dodging horse manure as she went—and some of the locals heckled me from the boardwalk. I barely noticed, too preoccupied to pay them any attention.
Which was unfortunate, because one of them was paying very close attention to me.
* * *
We found John Ward resting in the shade near the river, not far from where we’d met Little Wolf two days before. He sprang to his feet the moment he spotted us, flicking the remains of a cigarette into his campfire and scraping dirt over the embers with his boot. “Thought to be seeing you folks yesterday. Figured you might need the smoke to find me.”
“Apologies for the delay,” Thomas said. “I’m afraid we ran into some difficulty. You’ve not been back to town since yesterday, I presume?”
“Been working my way down the river from where the Wilson boy got took. Why, something up?”
We told him about Two Horses, but he didn’t seem all that surprised.
“I was afraid something like that might happen. When Mr. Reid starts gnawing on a bone, he ain’t one to let it go.” He sighed and shook his head. “Man’s stubborn as a mule.”
And about as bright. Aloud, I said, “That’s not all. A man was killed at Custer Creek yesterday, near where it meets the road to Deadwood.”
John cursed quietly. “Anybody see it?”
“Not that we know of.” I explained what we’d found, how the creature had dragged horse and rider off into the bushes.
He nodded. “That’s how it does. Likes to go off and find itself someplace quiet to eat. It’s got its favorite spots, too. Usually, when I come across a kill, there’s two or three kinds of bones in it.”