Powder River (17 page)

Without another word to Jack or Billy, Sara walked into the house and slammed the door.

Billy filled his cheeks with air, then exhaled loudly. “Jesus, Joseph and Mary!” Though not a Christian, Billy swore like one. “I don't know what set her off like that. Davey was low after that business with the milk this morning, so I took him out to a honey tree I found. We brought some back.” He pointed to the tin bucket hanging from Heck's saddle horn.

“Don't fault yourself, Billy,” Jack said. “It was coming anyhow. I ain't never hit a woman before, but damn, I do not countenance the way she beats on that boy. Things will be different now. Will you stay for supper?”

“No,” Billy said quickly. “I've got to get back. I'll leave the honey by the door. You and Davey can have it on hot buttered biscuits tonight, if she ain't too mad to make 'em.”

Jack looked to the house. “Oh, she'll make 'em. Like I said, things are going to be different around here, for all of us.”

Dixon, Lorna, and Odalie sat in the front room of the Faucetts' sprawling mansion. The Big Horn Mountains filled the floor-to-ceiling windows that opened onto a covered deck that encircled The Manor. The mountains' snowy crests appeared bright against the dark clouds behind them. The sun cast a stormy light.

Lorna wore a petulant expression as Chang poured tea. “I don't see why I have to go,” she said, “especially since we were just about to leave for New Orleans. I've been learning so much, Pa—just ask Odalie about how my French is coming. Don't make me come home!”

“It's true, you know,” Odalie said. “Your daughter is a very apt pupil, and we were planning a trip. My husband won't be able to come with us. Richard is much caught up in his business just now, and I don't like traveling alone.”

Dixon cleared his throat. Part of him would be happy to leave his difficult daughter with Odalie, but if trouble was coming—and he thought it was—the Faucetts would be in the eye of the storm. Lorna's place was not with them. Also, it was high time his daughter learned to make herself useful, time she thought of someone other than herself for a change. Since the sudden death of Mrs. MacGill—he had returned from the Faucetts' party that evening to be met by a wild-eyed Cal, who described finding her dead in her bed—he and Cal had all they could do to keep the household functioning. “Thank you, Lady Faucett,” he said, “for all you've done, but it's best that Lorna come home. We miss her and, frankly, we need her help. I will hire another housekeeper, but it'll take a while to find one.”

Lorna rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath.

“Yes, of course you're right,” Odalie said. “I'm afraid I've been selfish with your daughter's time. You need to be with your family now, Lorna. After all, your nanny has passed. Or . . .” Her eyes brightened and she extended a slender hand toward Dixon. “Perhaps there is another way. Why don't you and your family come with us to New Orleans? I haven't told Lorna about this yet, but I've arranged a side trip to Grand Isle, a lovely place on the Gulf where Richard and I often spend the summers. It's so restful there, with the sun and the ocean breezes. It would do you a world of good, and your children, too.”

Lorna jumped to her feet and clapped her hands. “Yes, Pa, it's perfect—you know it is. Please say you'll come!” She turned to Odalie, urging her to continue.

Odalie nodded. “Doctor, you once told me you haven't been to New Orleans since the war. Well, as I said then, it's changed a great deal since then, and not for the better, I'm afraid, but there are still places along the Vieux Carre where you can find the old magic.” She smiled. “You just have to know where to look.”

Dixon had no doubt Odalie could find magic wherever she was. She seemed to create it, with just her presence. Still, he would not give in. Dixon shook his head apologetically. “Thank you, but my family and I can't go on taking advantage of your hospitality. Lorna must come home.”

Lorna stamped her foot. “No! I'm going to Grand Isle with Odalie and that's all there is to it.”

“Lorna,” Odalie said sharply, “that's no way for a young woman to speak to her father. Say you're sorry at once.”

“I won't. He doesn't care about me, he never has. He wishes Cal and I had never been born. He blames us for our mother's death. There, you see? He doesn't deny it.”

Dixon sat stunned, as if nailed to the chair. He had never admitted such a thing, not even to himself, but his parental responsibility was the same, regardless. “I'll be back tomorrow, Lady Faucett,” he said, “with the wagon for her things. Again, thank you for all you have done.”

“You can save yourself the trip,” Lorna said with a toss of her head. “I won't be leaving with you.”

Odalie leaped from her chair and, before Lorna could anticipate what was about to happen, slapped her hard across the mouth. The girl's eyes filled with tears and she ran from the room.

“I hope I haven't made you angry, Doctor,” Odalie said, “but that's how a woman deals with a disobedient child where I come from. If her mother were here, I believe she would approve. Lorna will be ready tomorrow when you arrive.”

Most years Jack Reshaw was sorry to see the cold weather set in, but not this year. He and his partners had worked hard, building the Lazy L and B's herd from two hundred to four hundred head over the course of the summer. Now he was ready to kick back and enjoy the holidays with his new family. Sara was still high spirited, but she no longer raised her hand to Davey. And the boy seemed happier, less timid, and more willing to spend time with his stepfather.

The fall roundup had been contentious, with Lord Faucett and other members of the WSGA accusing Jack and his men of splotching brands and claiming mavericks in violation of the 1884 law. Jack countered these charges in a letter, written with Sara's help, to the
Buffalo Bulletin.

Small ranchers were emboldened by Jack's letter. The newly formed Northern Wyoming Farmers' and Stockgrowers' Association, which included women among its members, enthusiastically endorsed the early start date and appointed Billy Sun roundup foreman.

The WSGA was unexpectedly muted in its response. In a reply to Jack's letter, written by Richard Faucett, the association noted that only the state livestock commission (whose members belonged to the WSGA) had the legal authority to start and conduct roundups. Jack's move, Faucett alleged, was nothing more than an attempt to steal all the mavericks on the range before the legitimate owners could claim them.
“Rest assured
,” Faucett wrote,
“the association's lawyer will ensure that this obvious attempt at thievery will be dealt with promptly and appropriately.”

* * *

Jack and Sara lay in bed, her head on his shoulder. It was a cold night in late November and both were tired. Jack had spent the day shoeing horses, while his wife did the heavy laundry—britches and blankets—working long hours in the hard autumn sun.

“I'll be taking the wagon into Buffalo tomorrow,” Jack said, stroking her hair. “Make a list of the things you need. I'll be gone a couple days.” He enjoyed his trips to Buffalo this time of year, when folks from all over Powder River country came to town to buy supplies for the winter, transact business, and catch up on the latest news. Best of all, court was in session in late November and early December and the judicial goings-on were always a rich form of entertainment.

“Who knows?” Jack said. “If you stay sweet, could be a little surprise in the wagon for you when I come back.” He kissed the top of her head. Things had been good since that trouble the day of the honey tree. “I saw a toy drum in Raylan's last time I was in town. If it's still there I thought I'd buy it for Davey.”

Sara raised her head to look at him. “A toy drum? Jack, Davey's too old for that. I've been thinking you should get him a gun and start showing him how to use it. It's time he learned.”

“Honey, he ain't but seven and barely that. He's not ready for a gun.”

“Pappa got my brother a gun when he was six and nothing bad came of it. In fact, Luther was the best shot in five counties.”

“Well, it's a personal thing. Could be some boys are ready at six, but most are not. Davey isn't.”

Jack felt Sara stiffen. Sensing an argument on the horizon, he gave in. “All right, all right.” He pressed her head back down on his chest and resumed stroking her hair. “I'll look into it.”

He left after breakfast, but progress was slow. Recent rains had turned the road into a sticky red gumbo, and his team could manage no better than a slow walk. Several times the iron wheels sank nearly to the axle and Jack had to climb down and push. Though the trip to Buffalo was only twenty-three miles, it was dark by the time he finally made town. After stabling his horses and the wagon, he walked to the Occidental Hotel. He was drinking beer in the bar, when Orley “Ranger” Jones came in. Jones was building a cabin for himself and his wife-to-be on the Red Fork, a few miles downstream from Jack's place.

“Hello, neighbor,” Jack said. “Take a seat.” He called to the bartender for a bottle of sarsaparilla, as Ranger Jones never took a drink. “I haven't seen you in some time. What brings you to town?”

Ranger folded his long, rangy body into the chair and put his hat on the table. Like most cowboys and men who lived in the saddle, his forehead was whiter than the rest of his face. “The house brings me. I'm here for floorboards and windows. The house, she's really coming along. I'll be finished by Christmas, easy. Come by and take a look.”

Jack smiled. “I'll come by when it's done. Otherwise you'll have me shingling the roof or laying floors.” Jack liked Ranger. The young man had come to Wyoming Territory from Nebraska in 1887 and quickly made a name for himself as a reliable cowhand and top-notch bronc-buster, second only to Billy Sun. Like Jack, he had run afoul of the big ranchers when he stopped riding for the EK brand and announced plans to start his own place. Also like Jack, Ranger had been blackballed by the WSGA. He and Fred Jolly had a special dislike for each other.

“So when are you and your lady tying the knot?” Jack said.

“We're waiting till spring,” Ranger said, eyeing a comely young woman entering the restaurant with her beau. “That's how Susanna wants it.”

Jack smiled and sipped his beer. He could tell his young friend a thing or two about marriage, starting with what happens when a fellow looks at another woman, but he'd let Ranger learn these things on his own. “It's always best to let a woman have things the way she likes them,” Jack said.

“The hell,” Ranger said.

“It's not that bad,” Jack said. “Though you might have to remind her who wears the pants every once in a while.” But Ranger was not listening. His eyes were on two men who had just entered the saloon. One was dapperly dressed in a fine woolen overcoat and bowler, and the other was a cowboy with a bald head and sloping shoulders. Fred Jolly and Albertus Ringo walked up to the bar.

“Son of a bitch,” Ranger said, pushing back his chair. “Fred Jolly is a gaudy liar and I'm of a mind to tell him so.”

“Hold off,” Jack said, holding Ranger's arm. “Let's have our drinks in peace. It's been a long day.”

Reluctantly, Ranger settled back in his seat. “Well, maybe this ain't the time. But that human skunk is going around town calling me a rustler—and you, too, come to that. You, me, Nate, Billy Sun, he says Faucett's lawyer is going to get all of us arrested and thrown in jail. Haven't you got wind of this?”

Jack shrugged. “It's just talk, Jolly flapping his lips. I'm not afraid of Faucett or his lawyer; Nate and Billy aren't, either. Nothing's going to happen tonight anyhow, so settle down.” But by now Jolly and Ringo, each with a glass of whiskey were coming their way. Ringo had acquired a limp.

“Well, well, look who it is,” Jolly said with a smile, nodding his head. “Good evening, Jack, Ranger. I say, d'you mind if we join you?”

“We mind,” Ranger said, “but why would highfalutin gentlemen like yourselves want to sit with a couple of low-down rustlers like us anyhow? Ain't that what you been saying about us, Jack and me? That we're nothing but no-account range bums and rustlers? Ain't that what you been telling everybody, Jolly?”

Jolly chuckled and waved his hand, as if shooing a fly. He and Ringo pulled out chairs and sat down. “I don't recall anything like that, Mr. Jones, but, I grant you, there has been a good deal of”—he searched for a word—“unpleasantness around here lately. That ill-advised letter of yours in the
Bulletin
, Mr. Reshaw, that was the cause of it. Emotions are high; there is strong feeling. People will be hurt before it's all over, but you fellows don't have to be among them.” He turned in his chair so he was facing Jack. “In fact, you could save yourself and your friends much pain, Mr. Reshaw, and very simply, too.”

Jacked sipped his beer. Jolly was delivering a message from Faucett. He wouldn't talk so boldly otherwise. “And just how would I do that?” he said. “This unpleasantness, as you call it, it's been going on a long time. I don't see any simple fix, nothing that involves me anyhow.”

“Please, don't be so modest, Mr. Reshaw. Why, you and your friends are squarely in the middle of our local drama. You put yourself there with your letter writing, but you could undo the damage by dissolving your little association, the Northern Wyoming Stockgrowers or whatever you call it, and stopping this talk of an early roundup. It's not going to happen anyway, and everybody knows it. The law is against you and your sort—remember, Wyoming is a state now. A civilized country. You and your friends must stop your rabble-rousing or you'll find yourself making brooms in Laramie.” Jack understood this to be a reference to convict labor in the Territorial prison. “Throw in with us, Reshaw. You, Nate Coday, and Billy Sun—even you, Mr. Jones. Join us and all will be forgiven.”

“Forgiven?” Now Jack's blood was up. “Why the hell would I need forgiveness from the likes of you? You or Faucett, that mollycoddle you toady for? I wouldn't ride with your outfit if you promised me one hundred thousand dollars and every goddamn cow in Wyoming. Join you? What kind of man do you think I am?”

Jolly sipped his whiskey, wiped his mustache with a thumb and forefinger. “I think we've established the kind of man you are, Mr. Reshaw. I'm offering you a chance to improve yourself. Think of your family. You have a wife and child now, don't you? A stepson? You wouldn't want them to suffer, would you?”

Jack jumped to his feet with balled fists. Now it was Ranger's turn to hold him back.

“You shit,” Jack said. “Don't you threaten my family.”

Jolly yawned. “Oh, sit down. This bellicosity is becoming tiresome.”

Jack shook off Ranger's grip and stood in front of Jolly, who remained seated. “Stand up,” he said.

“I won't,” Jolly said. “I shall sit and finish my drink, and I suggest you do the same.”

“Jolly, even if I was snake enough to take you up on your offer, the Northern Wyoming Stockgrowers don't take orders from me anyhow. It speaks for the little man, the hardworking farmer and rancher who's out there every day, breaking his back to make a home for his family. Faucett and them, they don't give a damn about the people of Johnson County; all they want is money in their pockets, more big houses, and fancier clothes for their fat wives. Paugh! You and your bug-eyed pal get out of here. I'm sick of looking at you.”

“That's quite a speech, Jack,” Jolly said quietly. “We'll go, but in the meantime, think about my offer. Lord Faucett is trying to do you a favor.” As he spoke, Ranger saw Ringo reaching for his gun under the table. Ranger grabbed the cowboy's arm and the two scuffled, knocking over their chairs and spilling onto the floor. The bartender took his shotgun from behind the bar and held it across his arm, waiting as Jack separated the fighters.

“All right,” he said. “This won't do any good.” Jack took Ranger's hand and pulled him to his feet as Jolly did the same for Ringo, who struggled with his right leg. Only then did Jack remember Billy Sun's near-death experience, when someone killed his horse and left Billy afoot in bitter cold.

“Say, Ringo, how'd you get that hitch in your step?” he said. “Wasn't there last fall during roundup. Maybe you got tagged doing some dry-gulching last winter, eh?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Ringo glared at Jack with bulging, bloodshot eyes.

* * *

Jack was walking to the bank in the morning when Ranger passed him on his way out of town, his wagon weighed down with floorboards and window frames. Ranger reined in his team and waved him over. Jack had just had his boots shined and wasn't keen to wade out into the muddy street, but Ranger wouldn't call him if it wasn't important.

A yellow puppy with a pink nose sat beside Ranger on the bench. “Who's your new friend?” Jack said. He put out his hand and the pup bit down on a finger.

“I call her Josie. I got her from George Munkres this morning when I bought the lumber. He said I need company when I'm out there working, and I guess he's right. Gets pretty lonely sometimes.” Ranger gave the pup's ear a gentle tug. “The bitch had nine pups, so George has more if you're interested.”

Jack shook his head. “That why you called me out here?”

“No.” Ranger looked up and down the street. When he spoke, it was in a lowered voice. “It's something I heard this morning, over to Munkres's store. The Allen brothers were there, them and Jimmy Anable. Jimmy got to talking about a list, a kill list, he called it. He says we're on it, me and you. I came straightaway to the hotel to tell you, but you were out. Just luck I saw you now.” He pointed at a shotgun laying at his feet. “I bought it this morning, just in case. You best make sure you're well heeled before heading home.”