Powder River (22 page)

Dixon had moved Nate's body from the floor to his operating stand. He had been dead for hours and rigor mortis had begun, his neck and jaw stiffening in unnatural positions. Nate had died from a crushing blow to the back of his head. The killing instrument, an iron doorstop, had been found beside him on the floor, with bits of hair and brain matter adhering to its surface. Dixon struggled to make sense of it. Who had done this? And where was Cal?

An examination of his son's room showed Cal had left with packed bags. Dixon stood by his son's unmade bed and surveyed the room's contents: a table with a stack of books, including some of his father's medical texts, a sketchbook with a charcoal drawing of Lorna on the top page, a deck of well-handled playing cards. Under the bed he found a cigar box containing a dusty doll with a head of painted bone and limbs of twisted leather. Though he had not seen it for years, Dixon recognized the thing. Biwi made it for the children when they were very small. Why had Cal saved it, and why was it hidden? Dixon took the doll from the box and examined it more closely. It wore a garment of faded fabric cut from one of Rose's dresses. The sight of that fabric, a pattern of tiny yellow flowers against a blue background, kindled such powerful memories Dixon's hand shook.

“What does it mean, Pa?” Lorna's voice startled him. He had been so lost in the past he had not heard her enter. “Did Cal do that to Nate?” she said.

Dixon shook his head, unable to speak. His world had gone sideways, he could make no sense of Nate's death and Cal's disappearance. Lorna stepped close and put her hand on his arm, a gesture of tenderness her father did not expect from her.

“I don't know what's happening, Pa,” she said, “but I'm sorry for it. I'm sorry for you, me, Cal, Billy—all of us. I'm scared.”

Moved, Dixon covered her hand with his. Perhaps there was a heart under his daughter's shrewish exterior after all. “Is there anything you can tell me, Lorna?” he said. “Anything at all?”

She shook her head. “Cal hardly talks to me anymore. I never know what he's thinking; I don't know what's important to him.” She looked at the doll in her father's hand. “I haven't seen that in years. Where did you find it?”

Dixon pointed to the cigar box on the table. “In that box, under the bed.”

“Whatever made him dig that old thing out?” Even as she spoke, Lorna thought she knew the answer. Cal was saying good-bye to the things of his youth, the things he used to love. She turned and hurried from his room to hers, knowing what she would find there. On her bed was a letter. She tore it open.

The letter trembled in Lorna's hand. Cal took Faucett's money to kill their father? Yes, she and Cal had drifted apart, but could it really be possible she knew her own brother so little? He was the person with whom she had shared her childhood and, before that, their mother's womb. She sank to her bed, sick with grief. How could a life that held so much joy and promise at its onset come to so little? She mourned her poor lost brother, but at the same time, even as she wept, she was grateful to him. Her father still lived. And so did Billy Sun.

“Get up, Nestor.” Billy nudged the sleeping man on the floor with his foot. How could a man who'd been stone-cold sober the night before sleep so heavily? “Dammit, Nestor, get up and get your gun.” Billy returned to the window and peered out, carefully keeping to one side and holding his rifle close to his body. They were in the stand of trees down by the creek. Billy couldn't make them out, but he saw one flash and then another as the rising sun reflected off an object, a gun barrel maybe or a pair of eyeglasses.

“What is it?” Lopez was fully awake now, sitting in his blankets. “What's going on?”

“Pat's shot.” Billy spoke without turning from the window. “Kinch went to the creek and he ain't come back. Somebody's down there by the water; I can't make them out.”

Lopez jumped up and grabbed his rifle, joining Billy on the other side of the window. His eyes bulged at the sight of Pat's body, lying faceup on the bloody snow. “Poor Pat,” he said. “
Probrecito
. He was just a kid.”

“He didn't deserve to die that way.”

Lopez shook his head. “He wasn't smart but he was
un hombre, sabes
? A good one to ride with. Should we go for his gun?” Pat's rifle lay beside him in the snow.

Billy shook his head. “Don't try it. Whoever's down there has a good eye.”

They waited in the bright early morning sun, eyes trained on the dark stand of cottonwoods. They were quiet until Lopez audibly broke wind. “Jesus, Nestor,” Billy said, “if you're—”

A bullet crashed through the window, hitting Lopez in the jaw and showering both men with glass and bits of shattered teeth. Lopez screamed and fell to the floor, twisting in pain while Billy flattened himself against the wall next to the broken window. At first, he saw nothing. Then a man he did not recognize stepped from the trees, holding a rifle. Lopez's shrieks were loud enough for all to hear.

“Billy Sun!” the man called. “Come out now before anyone else gets hurt. You've already lost two men; you don't want anything to happen to old man Kinch here, do you?”

Billy raised his rifle to his shoulder and positioned the barrel so the stranger was squarely in his sights. His shot went wide, hitting a tree to the man's left. He turned and dived back into the woods.

“Nestor?” Billy left the window and kneeled by his friend. Lopez held his right hand to his jaw while bright red blood dripped from his fingers and onto the floor. Lopez's frightened eyes told Billy all he needed to know.

“I'm sorry, Nestor, but can you still handle a gun?” Billy said. “Can you shoot if they come through that door?”

Lopez managed an animal sound. Billy picked up the fallen man's rifle and put it in his hands. “Do what you can,” he said, and Lopez nodded.

Billy returned to the window. The day would be a warm one. Already the snow was beginning to melt. Billy's eyes were in constant motion, moving from the barn to the creek and the scrubby hill behind it. He needed to know how many men were concealed in the trees and if there were others in another location. The barn troubled him. Billy knew that's where he would hide if he were stalking the house. After about twenty minutes his vigilance was rewarded. The barn door opened slightly to allow a yellow arc of urine.

“Damn, Nestor, they're in the barn, too.” When he got no response he turned to find his friend dead on the floor. Nestor's hand had fallen to reveal his ruined face, with its shattered jawbone and broken, blood-covered teeth. Billy turned away. Russ and the boys were his only hope. According to Kinch, they were expected on Friday, still more than a day away. Could he hold out that long?

If she lived to be as old as Methuselah, Odalie knew she would never forget the misery of that long ride to Buffalo. The snow that had melted during the day froze again at night, making the road icy and treacherous. Several times the horses lost their footing and nearly fell, once the buggy slid sideways and almost went down a steep hill, taking horses, buggy and passengers with it. But bad as that was, the cold was worse. In addition to two coats, Odalie wrapped a thick woolen horse blanket around her legs and another over her head and shoulders like an Indian squaw, but even so the cold penetrated to take root deep in her stomach and in her bones. Never in all her years had Odalie known such cold. She marveled at the strength and fortitude of her intrepid escort. Rob Hardy drove all night without complaint, only stopping to rest and nourish the horses.

“I am so grateful to you, Rob,” she said. “Whatever would I have done had I not met you? My God, what would have happened to me at the hands of that horrible Stubbs?” She shuddered. “It takes all the fly out of me just to think of it.”

“I would've blamed myself,” he said. “After all, I sent you there. Like I said, Stubbs has taken a hard turn, but then plenty of folks around here have done that. The winter of eighty-six changed things, including people.”

“Yes. That's when things started to go wrong.”

Hardy gave her a sideways glance. “Wrong? For people like you? For the rich and mighty Lord Richard Faucett and his wife? Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”

Odalie felt a prick of alarm. “How do you know me? I didn't sign the telegram. I don't believe I gave you my name.”

“No?”

“No. Have we met before? I think I would have remembered.”

“Yes, we did meet once but very briefly.” He spoke without looking at her. “I recognized you at once, but I wouldn't expect you to remember me. It was years ago, and I was just one of your husband's cowpunchers when Anna's husband died. I had to go back to Olympus, to take care of her and her family.” He turned to Odalie and smiled, his teeth white in the darkness. “But I remember you quite well, Lady Faucett.” His smile faded. “And your husband, too.”

Odalie heard the change in his voice. “Did Richard mistreat you in some way?”

“No, I wouldn't say that. To tell you the truth, I don't think he ever noticed me. I was just one of his riders. I had more truck with the skunk, Jolly. He cheated us every chance he got, even refused to pay me for two weeks I was due. No, I have no love for that man.”

“That makes two of us,” Odalie said.

“I'm curious, what does your husband have planned exactly? What is Frank Canton's involvement?”

Odalie hesitated, turning her face to the craggy mountains showing black against the starry sky. How much should she say? She wanted to save Daniel and Billy, but beyond that she had no plan. Vile though he was, did she really want to consign Richard to the black maw of frontier justice? Even if the law did not prosecute him—as seemed likely, given Sheriff Angus's timidity and Richard's connections—would he be safe from the mob? Again, she glanced at her escort. Richard had misused him. Did Rob represent the mob? No, he was unlike the average unwashed, unschooled sodbuster, a creature she believed fully as capable as Richard of savagery. And Odalie had to think of herself. Without Richard, and his money, where would she be? She trusted Rob, but she had to tread carefully.

“I'm not sure exactly,” she said. “I overheard bits of Richard's conversations. I know he was assembling an army; they planned to storm the courthouse and seize the weapons there, but after that, I don't know. I'm afraid they mean to harm good people, people who are my friends. I can't let that happen.”

Rob kept his eyes on the snowy road. He was quiet for a long time, and Odalie thought he meant to let the matter drop. Then he said, “I think your husband and Frank Canton and the WSGA stockmen plan to do a lot of killing, and there's no one in Johnson County who can stop them.”

Odalie shivered and burrowed deeper in her blankets. Rob was right, but she did not want to say so. She did not want to admit that a man she had given so many years of her life to, the best years, she feared, was a murderous animal. Unbidden, a memory of her girlhood home in New Orleans came to her, so strongly she felt a lump form in her throat.
Oh
,
what I wouldn't give to be sitting in the warm, sweet-smelling kitchen, sipping a hot mug of chicory coffee with milk and sugar, and eating from a plate of fresh, powdered-sugar beignets. How sad that young people take their moments of happiness and security for granted. If only I could have known how rare and precious they were at the time!

Rob shook her from her reverie. “We've got company.” He pointed to a solitary rider on the road, approaching from the north. “Who'd be out in this cold, at this time of night?”

“He may well be thinking the same of us,” Odalie said.

The horseman stopped, and she saw the moonlight reflect off the field glasses he raised to his eyes. After a pause, he urged his horse forward. She recognized something about the way he sat a saddle, tall and straight as a rifle barrel. “I believe I know this man,” she said in a low voice, pulling the blanket up over her head and shoulders. “Please, Rob, do not reveal my identity.”

They met in the road. Rob reined in his team.

“Hello, friends,” the rider said with a broad smile. “What brings you out on this cold night?”

“My wife is ill,” Rob said. “She needs a doctor. I'm taking her to Buffalo.”

“Buffalo? What's wrong with her?” The rider moved closer, guiding his horse toward Odalie's side of the buggy.

“Female trouble,” Rob said. “She's in a family way.”

Odalie turned her head from the rider's curious gaze. She could almost feel the heat of his black eyes on her, trying to penetrate the woolen blanket.

The horseman laughed. “Why, if I didn't know better I'd think this fine lady was none other than Lady Odalie Faucett. But, now, that couldn't be, could it, friend? I mean, you just said she was your wife.”

Odalie threw off her hood and raised her head. “Hello, Mr. Horn.”

Tom Horn's smile widened. “Well, I'll be. So it
is
you after all. Now, why would this young fellow lie to me? Did you tell him to do that?”

“What do you want?” she said.

He shook his head in exaggerated puzzlement. “Why, I just don't understand. I mean, ain't you supposed to be in Denver? Sir Richard says you are. He told me himself. He said his man, Jolly, took you to the station.”

Odalie's heart was thudding like a bat in a barrel. “Once again, Mr. Horn. What do you want?”

“Well, ma'am, your friend here says you're going to Buffalo. If that's so, I believe I best come along to make sure you get there all right. I'm sure this fellow is fine, but I wouldn't want you to meet up with any troublemakers.”

Odalie withdrew a pistol, a Merwin and Hulbert five-shot, double-action revolver with a birds-head grip, from the folds of her blankets and pointed it at Horn. Her hand, she was pleased to notice, was steady. “The only troublemaker here is you,” she said. “Rob, get down and take Mr. Horn's long gun.”

Horn's smile faded. Even in the darkness, she could sense him coiling, like a snake preparing to strike. “You can't do much damage with that little lady gun,” he said.

“Are you sure of that, Mr. Horn?” Odalie said. “I won't miss at this range, and I've got five opportunities. I wouldn't risk it if I were you.” As she spoke Rob pulled Horn's rifle from its scabbard and pointed it at him.

“Throw down your pistol, Mr. Horn,” she said. “Throw it to the ground or I will shoot you.”

“You wouldn't.”

She smiled brightly. “I've never liked you, Mr. Horn, or your great friend Frank Canton, either. You are sycophants and vermin, the pair of you, and I would enjoy shooting you. Canton, too, if it comes to that.”

Rob stepped forward, holding the rifle only feet away from Horn's belly. After a brief hesitation, Horn unholstered his revolver and tossed it to the ground where Rob recovered it.

“Now, climb down off your horse,” Odalie said.

“Wait just a minute,” Horn said. For the first time Odalie heard fear in his voice. “You can't mean to leave me out here without my horse. I'll freeze.”

“I said get down.”

“I won't.” Horn folded his long arms across his chest. “Go ahead and shoot me, lady. Shoot an unarmed man. I will not surrender my horse.”

Odalie fired her pistol, sending a bullet whistling past Horn's ear. He quickly dismounted, handing the ribbons to Rob who tied them to a ring-bolt on the back of the buggy. Horn watched with narrowed eyes as Rob climbed back onto the bench and took up the reins, slapping them on the horses' backs. Throughout all this, Odalie never took her eyes, or her gun, off Horn.

“Lady, you are the devil,” he said as the horses lunged forward. “I knew it. I saw what you were all along. You'll be sorry you didn't kill me!”

And that, Odalie thought as Horn grew small in the dark and distance, may be the one true thing Tom Horn said tonight.