Lauraine Snelling (20 page)

“Do they have a lot of guests here?”

“I believe so. People come on the train from the East to spend summers in the Black Hills, so Mr. Porter caters to them. He provides tours and camping trips into the interior. You should ask Lucas. He could tell you more than I can.”

Cassie watched the proprietor make his way back to their table, stopping to greet people on the way or say something to a waiter, all the while scanning the room to make sure all was in order.

“Sorry for the delay. They will be bringing our meal out shortly. While elk is on our menu for today, I thought you might enjoy something else. I hope I was correct?”

“Everything smells so delicious that we will be pleased with the surprise.” Cassie smiled at him as he took his chair.

“Since I know how long the ride is back to your ranch, I’ll be right up front. May we talk business during the meal, or would you rather wait until after?”

“The sooner the better. I’m excited to hear what you have planned for the shooting match in December.”

“Good. We have sent out invitations to five competitive shooters besides you. Two others have responded in the affirmative. We have three yet to hear from. I thought a field that size might be more exciting. What do you think?”

“This will be a one-day event?”

“Yes. And I have invited all the contestants to stay the night before and the night after here at the hotel at my expense. For this first time of what I hope becomes an annual event, I will use it as a promotion for the hotel, with your name as a draw. This should help you get known more in this western region, and hopefully those who attend will choose to stay here also. We’ll have a special banquet that night, after the match. I’m thinking formal, but I wanted to ask you how you would feel about that.”

A waiter arrived at their table, pushing a white-clothed serving cart that held plates with silver-domed covers, crystal glasses, and a silver woven basket of bread covered with a napkin. If this was a simple meal, what in heaven’s name did “formal” mean?

“I kept this simple, since you haven’t all afternoon to try various courses. Our chef here, Mr. Chamberlain—Henri—is famous for his seven-course suppers and five-course dinners.” Mr. Porter dropped his voice to a murmur. “The man’s name was Hank when he first hired on, but now he insists on Henri.” His voice returned to normal. “By the way, Mrs. Engstrom, he said to tell you that the last elk your son brought in was superb. We are still serving the sausages for breakfast. He’s hoping another will be coming soon.”

While Mr. Porter talked, the waiter lifted off the domes and placed their plates in front of them. He passed the bread basket and then the butter, which was cut into small squares.

Cassie inhaled the aromas that rose from her plate. Slices of some kind of meat, with gravy, mashed potatoes, shredded beets in some kind of sauce, a small shallow bowl of perhaps baked squash, a thick pat of butter melting in the center. The rolls were obviously freshly baked, and a flat dish held several kinds of pickles.

The waiter announced each dish as he placed it. In French. The names he gave the items made no sense to Cassie, but then French had never been a favorite language. Her mother had spoken Norwegian, French, German, and English. Cassie remembered some Norwegian and just a few words of French and German, but her English was proper. She would have had an even better education had her mother lived longer.

“Thank you. Now would you translate?” Mavis gestured to her plate.

“Of course. Pork tenderloin, mashed potatoes, beets in sweet vinegar sauce, baked squash, and fresh rolls. Henri believes that even clear out here in the wilderness, the proper French and German food names are important. I believe taste is even more important. So please, let’s enjoy our meal.”

When they finished their plates, he asked what kind of dessert they would like. “I won’t offer you apple pie; coals to Newcastle, you know. However, if you ever want to come here and bake apple pies, you are more than welcome. We do have custard pie, chocolate cream pie, chocolate mousse with raspberry sauce, or three-layer lemon cream cake. Which would you prefer?”

Cassie chose the mousse and Mavis the three-layer cake. “This way,” Mavis said, “we can share and taste them both.”

Never had mousse been served in the show’s meal tent. Or a three-layer anything, for that matter.

“Do you have any questions regarding the shooting match?” Mr. Porter asked.

“Yes, several. Will you be doing a live bird release?”

“No.”

“Clay pigeons?”

“Yes. We’ll have stationary targets of different types, moving targets, the usual sort of thing. Do you have any suggestions for more?”

“Not for this one. My father and I participated in matches that had some rather creative setups. But that was some time ago, and I’ve not done nearly as many since he died.”

“I have a list to give you with all the times and events on it. I will mail you more as, or if, they change. I also wrote the first three prizes on the list. That too may change.”

“This will not be a winner take all, then?”

“No. I considered that but decided we need to build a reputation of excellence first, which will draw more contestants. Perhaps someday we will have several shooting matches here. One during the summer Wild West Days and others on various occasions. I have a place lined up to hold the shoot indoors if the weather turns bad on us.”

“The show this summer—have you decided on a date yet?”

“Since that will be a community-sponsored event, I am working with the other business leaders in our town to set the date and plan the events. I was hoping we could discuss that further after the match in December and before the gala evening. Or perhaps the day after.”

He turned to Mavis. “Will you and your sons be in attendance? I will need to put your name on the list so we have a place for you. This will also be part of my promotion expenditures, since I am hoping you will all play a part in the summer event.”

“I will talk with them, and Lucas will let you know when he delivers another elk. He is planning for one yet this week.”

“Good, good.”

Cassie now brought up her most important question. “Mr. Porter, I have a further question regarding the Wild West show.”

“Of course.”

“Are you planning to have Indian events? Perhaps invite the local tribe to participate? That became a big draw for the Lockwood and Talbot Wild West Show. We had a mock battle between the bluecoats and the Indians, an Indian attack on a settler’s cabin, and a grouping of teepees that visitors could tour and observe our Indians cooking and making things, some of which were for sale. My friend, John Birdwing, who was titled Chief in our show, might have some good suggestions about this.”

Mr. Porter nodded thoughtfully. “We will take that into consideration, Miss Lockwood. Thank you for the ideas.”

Mavis asked, “Have you ever been to a Wild West show?”

“Yes, many years ago, but I imagine they have changed somewhat through the years. Everything else has.”

Cassie nodded. “Yes, they did and have. We were beginning to notice that rodeos were becoming competition for the Wild West shows, especially out here in the West.”

Mr. Porter was nodding. “We’re considering that. It may be that a combination of the two events might be a way to proceed.”

So this is chocolate mousse.
And the cake was superb as well.

When finally they rose to leave the dining room, Cassie turned to their host. “Thank you for the delicious dinner and the opportunity to shoot in a match again. It is exciting to talk with someone who is so excited about doing something that will benefit not only his own business but his town and region too. Being in on the planning portion of an event is a new experience for me. I’ll do my best to help you succeed.”

“Thank you, Miss Lockwood. And Mrs. Engstrom. As soon as we have definite commitments from others here in town, I will let you know, and we’ll proceed full steam ahead. Keep late June or early July in mind.”

“The fourth of July might be a good time for an event of this type, although I hear that most rodeos are early in the fall, when the summer work is completed.” Mavis nodded as she spoke, obviously thinking hard. “Spring roundup is what led to many of the rodeo events, like bulldogging and calf roping, penning cattle and separating cows from their calves. You might come out to the ranch this spring and watch the weaning and the branding. That will give you more ideas. We have a big barbecue after the work is done, a kind of community celebration. You’re welcome to come and spend the night or nights.”

“You are most generous. I’m looking forward to further discussions.” He waited and waved them off as they mounted their horses and rode away down the street.

Cassie could feel excitement bubbling deep inside her. “This is exciting and scary, and I sure wish my father were here to enjoy it all. He would have been boiling over with ideas.”

“Adam Lockwood was definitely an idea man, and while he wasn’t afraid of hard work, he usually found a way to get someone else to do the labor end. I think he passed that gift on to you.”

“I sure wish you would tell me more about life when he lived here. He never really talked about it, other than dreaming of returning.”

“Someday we will talk more. For right now, let’s set these boys into a lope so we get home before dark.”

The lamps were already lit when they rode into the Bar E and the temperature was dropping. Mavis said good-bye at the barn, and Cassie hightailed it across the valley and up the hill. She had some definite questions about her past, about shows, about what Indians might do in shows. She wanted to ask Chief now, if she could get him in a talkative mood.

I
sn’t she a fine young woman?”

Ransom stared at his brother. “I take it you mean Miss Lockwood, not Betsy Hudson?”

“Now, boys.” Mavis’s mouth went straight as she shook her head.

Ransom raised his eyebrows, letting his mother know he was not going to pursue this. He’d never understood the term
besotted
before he’d witnessed his brother watching Miss Lockwood. Granted, he was supposed to call her Cassie, but for some reason he knew beyond a doubt that he better keep his distance. Most of the young women in the area would go into the flirty giggles when Lucas turned his warm smile on them. But Miss Lockwood seemed unaware—not rude, but unresponsive to his brother’s charms.

“You better do something about the Hudson family before you follow your heart after this one.”

“Leave it to you, Ransom, to hit the nail on the head. When she drove that nail into the post, I could hardly believe my eyes. That was some shooting.”

Ransom snorted under his breath. Like he’d said,
besotted.

As they banked the fires and made their way to bed, he turned his thoughts to the morning. Perhaps this was the day they could finish dragging those hardwood trees down to the sawmill. Beautiful wood had a grace all its own.

Just starting to fall comfortably asleep, Ransom wanted to ignore the barking dog, but the bark said something bad was happening. What could be wrong now?

He slammed his feet into his boots and headed for the front door, grabbing a robe as he left his room. Lucas met him in the hallway.

“You check the back. I’ll get the front.” Stepping out the front door, Ransom searched for the barking dog. With a moonless night like this one, the animal blended into the shadows. But he didn’t stop barking. “Okay, Benny, what is it?” He went down the steps and into the front yard, searching for a skunk, deer, anything out of the ordinary. Benny must be down by the barn; he wasn’t right at the porch as he usually would have been. He slept in a doghouse kept by the front door, with a pile of blankets to keep him warm.

“Don’t shoot. It’s me.” Calling the warning, Lucas came around the end of the house. “Listen! Isn’t that Othello barking now?”

“Get dressed and get the horses. Good thing they’re by the barn.” Within minutes both men were in the saddle, rifles in their scabbards, and racing full tilt across the valley.

“What is it, Othello?” Cassie’s feet hit the floor as she heard her dog slam against the door. “I’m coming.” Shoving her arms into her robe, she crossed to the door and let the dog go tearing out, then grabbed her rifle from the rack by the door. Instead of charging out like her instincts screamed, she stepped out onto the stoop, rifle at the ready, ears straining for sounds of whatever was alerting the dogs, for she could hear the Engstroms’ dog barking down at the ranch house too.

The thunder of horses’ hooves, a spine-chilling shriek, and riders broke into the clearing. “Injun lovers! No Injuns wanted here! Go back where you come from!” Rifle shots and curses rent the air. Riders circled around the cabin.

With no idea how many were there, Cassie clung to the building. She aimed and shot to where the sounds were coming from. Insane laughter, curses, more shots rang out.

Chief and Micah erupted from the wagon. “Where are you, Cassie?”

A low growl from Chief. “Don’t shoot us.”

Cassie could see nothing on this hazy, moonless night. She fired again in the direction of the horses’ hooves and crazy screaming. “Get down!” What was out there? By ear she could tell they had at least two rifles and a .44. Slugs slammed into the wagon and the cabin. She returned fire. Chief fired. In this blackness his failing eyesight was as good as hers. Both he and Micah hit the ground and bellied under the wagon as more bullets thudded into its wood. One shot must have entered the wagon through the open door, for Cassie heard the shattering of glass. What could that be? Something was hit for sure.

The smell of burning kerosene drifted to her. Now what? The riders came around again. More firing.

“Hey, lookee there. Fire!”

“The wagon’s on fire!”

“More riders coming.” Cassie fired in the direction of the latest ringing curse, heard a yelp, and turned her fire at the riders coming in.

“Don’t shoot!” Was that Ransom’s voice?

At that moment she found herself slammed against the logs at her back. Her right arm went slack. Grabbing her rifle with her left hand, she fired off a couple more rounds before the burning made her catch her breath. Was something burning? She turned to look.

“Save the wagon!” Lucas and Ransom shouted again as they skidded their horses to a stop and hit the ground running.

“Chief? Micah?”

“Wagon’s burning!”

She could hear them off to the left, muffled. Where was Runs Like a Deer? Why couldn’t she move her arm? Pushing against the house, she inched herself back up on her feet, her rifle clenched in her left hand.

“Pull it out. Get it away from the cabin!”

The men grabbed the wagon tongue to pull, but nothing happened.

“The wheels are chocked.” Micah ran to one front wheel and pulled away the block while someone else did the others. With arms and shoulders and grunts, they got the wagon moving and pulled it away from the cabin. They kept pulling until twenty feet or more stretched between the cabin and the burning wagon. Someone jumped through the open door to fight the fire inside.

“Get back!”

“Water bucket! More water!”

“Open the long window!” The shouts rang out.

“Runs Like a Deer!” Cassie screamed this time.

“I’m here” came the answer from somewhere outside the cabin.

Othello’s bark now came from down the hill. Was he following the attackers? “Othello!” she screamed. The wagon was fully ablaze now, its light casting a flickering orange glow. The wagon . . . her only home of so many years. The final contact with her mother and father. Tears leaked down her face while a fierce burning started in her arm. Her locket and the papers were still in there.

The four men stood back. A groan came from somewhere beyond the cabin.

“Cassie! Where are you?” Lucas’s voice this time.

“Here, by the cabin.” In the dancing light she looked down to see a dark patch staining her robe. No wonder her hand had quit working. She’d been hit.

Runs Like a Deer knelt beside her. “You’re hurt.”

“I know but not bad, I think.”
Please, Lord, I’ll need this arm for the shoot.
The burning intensified, pierced. Othello plowed to a stop in front of her and whimpered. “Okay boy. Good boy.”

“I think one of them is wounded,” Ransom called.

“How do you know?”

“Othello, go get him.” Chief waved the dog outward again.

Othello whined, his tail low but wagging. He edged closer to Cassie, sniffing her hand. “Go get him, Othello, go.” He did as she told him, but obviously he was reluctant to leave her.

“Ow.” Cassie muffled a scream and jerked away from Runs Like a Deer’s probing fingers.

“Let’s get you into the house.” Lucas put his arm around her waist and half lifted her. “Can we get some light in there?”

“I’ll get the lamp.” Runs Like a Deer lurched to her feet and hurried inside.

“You better go see what Othello has.” Cassie let herself be lifted but groaned when the action moved her arm.

Micah left. Runs Like a Deer helped hold Cassie’s arm to her chest while Lucas tried moving her again. “No, stop.”

“Chief, come help me!” Micah called from the lower edge of the clearing.

Cassie closed her eyes as the world tilted.
I’ve never been shot before. How bad is it? What if I can’t trick ride or shoot again?

“She needs to see a doctor.”

“No, just . . .” But she had no more energy to speak.

“We’ve got to stop the bleeding.”

“Here, wrap this tight around it. Can we get her down to Mor?”

The words and sentences ran together. They were doing things to her arm, mostly intensifying the pain. Then the pain eased a bit. Surely it couldn’t be too serious. She just had to tough it out to get into the cabin. With a man on each side of her, they tried again. Cassie clamped her teeth against the piercing pain that burned all the way down to her fingertips. Never before had she felt such pain. One of them banged against the doorframe, and she bit back a shriek.

“Set me on the chair by the fire.” She remembered her manners belatedly. “Please.”

“The fire’s gone out.”

“I’ll start it. Put her there.” Runs Like a Deer’s voice.

She felt herself lowered to the chair and gratefully leaned against the back of it. When the world stopped spinning, she turned to the ruckus at the door.

“Just knock him out.” Chief sounded furious. “Ain’t good for nothin’ anyway.”

“Is he hurt?” From the disgust in their voices, Cassie perceived they were talking about one of the raiders. “How bad is he hurt?”

“Not bad enough.” Chief and Micah dumped the man on the bench by the door. Thumps and flops told her he missed the bench and landed on the floor.

“Where’s he hit?”

“Grazed his head. Knocked him off the horse. His friends left him behind.”

Ransom raised the lamp to see the man’s face. “Well, that figures! Dooger, you worthless piece of trash, do I need three guesses to figure who started this?”

“Ain’t got nothin’ to say.”

Ransom snorted and stood up. “Good. Just go dump him back outside. Pull his boots off. It’ll slow up his walking. Mighty cold out there tonight. Maybe he’ll be dead by morning. Save Edgar a passel of work.”

Cassie tried to smile. That sure didn’t sound like the man she sort of knew. “Who is it?”

“Crazy Jud Dooger, one of Beckwith’s no-good cohorts. If there’s trouble in Argus, you can pretty much lay it at their doors.”

Lucas squatted in front of her so he could look her in the eye. “Cassie, looks like we stopped the bleeding, but we need to get you to a doctor. You don’t need infection to set in. We can ride in or put you in the back of the wagon. Riding would be faster, but we could put a pile of bedding down in the wagon, where you might be more comfortable.”

She could still smell burning wood. “Our wagon. What about our wagon?”

Lucas wagged his head. “It’s still burning. There’s no way to stop it. Some of the frame is left, and the wheels, but the inside is basically gutted. It was old and dry and went up fast.”

“How do you think it started?”

“Bullet exploded the kerosene lamp and started the fire—burning coal oil spattered all over,” Chief told her. “We couldn’t catch it fast enough. Too much caught too quick.”

She could feel her pulse in her arm, in her whole arm. She should ask them to loosen her bandages a little. “How many of them were there? I think I heard at least two rifles and a pistol.”

Ransom knelt beside Lucas. “Three for sure, maybe four. Guess we’ll have to haul Crazy Jud in too.”

“His horse still out there?” Lucas asked.

“Haven’t seen it. Probably left with the others.”

Cassie still couldn’t believe all this, even with her arm as a constant reminder. “Can we prove who did it?”

“Oh, I have a feeling that when Edgar is done with Dooger here, he’ll know who to arrest. Maybe they won’t get away with it this time.”

“You know . . .” Ransom paused. “From how the dogs were barking, and they didn’t come in the lane, these yahoos knew to go around the fences and come up the west side along the hill. How did they know that? I mean, it’s not like they’ve been out here visiting or helping.”

“What are you thinking, brother?”

“I’m thinking that maybe these three are the rustlers too.”

“Surely Edgar investigated them.” Lucas frowned.

“Can’t say, but . . .”

Runs Like a Deer brought Cassie’s coat and helped her shove her good arm into the sleeve.

She sat erect. “I need to get dressed first.”

Ransom said, “You’re decent. Let’s get going.”

“What about him?” Chief waved a hand toward their crumpled raider.

“Is his head still bleeding?”

“Oozing some.”

“Tie him on a horse, and we’ll take him in too. I’d rather leave him in the barn, but Mor would rip us apart.”