Powder River (4 page)

Buffalo did not look prosperous, but neither did the Dixon family by the time they finally rolled into town. The journey had taken two days longer than the doctor had expected, and there had been snow the second night out. When they woke in the morning, they found four fluffy white inches on the ground, though the day warmed and it melted quickly. Even so, it turned the road to a muddy gumbo that clung to the iron wheels and the horses' feet and slowed progress to a crawl. They arrived at noon, cold, dirty, and hungry.

Dixon stopped the wagon by the town's largest building, a structure of chinked log construction fronting the muddy main street. A hand-lettered sign saying
OCCIDENTAL HOTEL
hung over the front door. Nearby were a freestanding kitchen and a livery stable. A number of hard-looking men lounged in chairs on the boardwalk, watching the Dixons' arrival with amused curiosity.

Dixon climbed down and handed the reins to Harry. “Make sure the twins stay in the wagon, and keep an eye on those dogs.” He nodded toward a pair of mangy-looking hounds rounding the corner of the kitchen. “Hold tight on the horses.”

The mud was so deep Dixon sank almost to his ankles as he made his way to the boardwalk. He tipped his hat to the watching men and stopped to scrape his boots before entering the lobby. The interior was dark after the bright noontime sun, and it took several seconds for his eyes to adjust. On the far wall was a long counter, with a pale, bespectacled clerk standing behind it. A restaurant occupied one side of the cavernous, barnlike interior and a saloon the other. At the bar stood a tall man, with one foot on the rail. He watched Dixon cross the room and address the clerk.

“I'd like three rooms,” Dixon said. “My family and I need a place to stay until our house is finished.”

“Three rooms?” the clerk said. “Well, I don't know if I can do that. I only got six and four are occupied. I guess I can let you have the two for a time. When will your house be done?”

Dixon smiled. “I hired Jim Kidd and his boys about a month back, but I haven't heard from him for a while. I'll be going out there tomorrow. I'll let you know.”

The tall man put his drink on the bar and crossed the room, his boots loud on the uncarpeted floor.

“So,” he said, “I'm guessing you're the new doctor. Dixon, from Bozeman?”

“Yes, I'm Daniel Dixon. And you are . . . ?”

“Frank Canton.” He offered his hand with a smile, studying Dixon with clear blue eyes. “Welcome to Buffalo, Doctor. You are most welcome. This town needs a good medical man; we have for a while now.”

The clerk smiled for the first time. “So, you're the doctor we been hearing about? Well, you'll have plenty of business here, though maybe not so many bullet holes now that Frank, here, is sheriff. Things have calmed down considerable.”

Canton ran a hand through his straw-colored hair. “Slow down, Milo, I'm not sheriff yet. Election ain't till November.”

“Don't matter, Frank. You been the law around here for the past year and everybody knows it. Nat James and that deputy, Tom Ferrell, they're good at cowboying and not much else. You'll get elected, Frank. Ain't no doubt about that.”

Canton gave Dixon a wink. “I do have an opponent.”

“Ha! Ain't no way some granger's gonna beat out Frank Canton. Ain't no way.”

“Thank you for your confidence, Milo, but I'm sure Dr. Dixon doesn't want to hear about this. As for your place, Doc, I was just out there the other day and Jim and the boys have been working hard, for them anyhow. Your place is nearly done and I think you'll be pleased with it too. I'll ride out there with you tomorrow, if you want. Maybe I can light a fire under Jim, get him to speed things up a little.”

“Thank you. I'd appreciate that.”

“My pleasure.” Canton turned to Milo. “Four rooms occupied, you say?”

Milo nodded.

“Occupied with who?”

“Well,” Milo said, clearly nervous. “There's Fred Jolly and two of Lord Faucett's associates, up from Denver. Then there's Hi Kinch, sleeping off a drunk.”

Canton laughed. “Kinch? Why, there's your solution. Kick him out, clean it up, and give his room to the good doctor and his family. There's your three rooms.”

“I don't know, Frank,” Milo said. “Hi paid for it.”

“So what? Kinch can stay at the jail if he wants. It's not like he ain't been there before.” Canton turned back to Dixon. “I'll be by tomorrow around ten or so. We'll go see how Jim and the Kidd boys are getting along.”

* * *

Dixon and Harry were having breakfast in the restaurant when Canton arrived the following morning.

“I thought my boy Harry might come along, too,” Dixon said. “He's anxious to see his new house.”

“Of course,” Canton said. “Glad to have the lad.” He clapped a warm hand on Harry's shoulder, causing him to drop the buttered biscuit he was lifting to his mouth. “When you folks are done here, come over to the livery. I'll have the horses ready.” Canton had an unusual voice, Harry noticed, deep and resonant, as if coming from a vault. On the way out, Canton stopped to talk to three men having breakfast together, the restaurant's only other customers. They wore fine clothing and polished boots, and Harry thought he and his father looked shabby by comparison.

“Morning, Fred,” Canton said. “Morning, gentlemen. Will you be heading out to The Manor this morning?”

“This afternoon.” The man spoke with a British accent. “First I thought we'd tour the range some. Weather favors it.”

The conversation continued, but Harry could discern only a few words: nesters . . . crowded . . . roundup . . .

“Finish your eggs, son,” Dixon said. “We've got a big day.”

Twenty minutes later, Harry, Dixon, and Canton were riding south out of Buffalo, three abreast on the Big Horn Road, toward the small ranch Dixon had purchased on Clear Creek, midway between the town and Fort McKinney.

“You found yourself a good spot, Doctor,” Canton said, “and you were damn lucky to get it for the price you did.” Dixon was surprised Canton knew what he paid, but in a place small as Buffalo secrets were probably hard to come by. “You plan on running any stock?”

“Maybe a few animals for our own use. Horses, a few head of beef cattle. My medical practice will be my livelihood—if things work out.”

Canton nodded, apparently pleased with Dixon's answer.

“How long have you been in these parts, Mr. Canton?”

“Call me Frank, Doctor, everyone does. I settled here a few years back.”

“What made you leave Texas?”

Canton turned in the saddle, looking at Dixon with surprise. “What makes you think I'm from Texas?”

Dixon sensed he had trod on sensitive ground. “Only the way you talk. I thought I heard some Texas in it.”

Canton smiled. “No. I was born in Virginia. From there we moved to Missouri, then on to Colorado in sixty-eight. Me and Pa raised stock outside of Denver, and after that I bounced around some. Montana, Cheyenne. Didn't put down roots till the stockmen here in Wyoming hired me on as stock detective. That's how I come to know Fred Jolly, that English fellow back at the hotel. His boss, Lord Richard Faucett, also from across the pond, owns Powder River Cattle Company, the biggest outfit in the territory. He's a man you'll want to know.”

Harry, drowsing in the saddle, perked up. “You're a detective?” In his eyes, Canton seemed to sit a little taller in the saddle. He wore a gun holstered below his right hip, and his hands were not red and calloused, like those of a farmer, but elegant with long, slender fingers and clean, squared nails. The hands, Harry thought, of a gunfighter.

Canton winked at him. “Yes sir. It's good work, fine way for a man to earn his living. When you get a little older, you might look into it, son. The cattlemen are always looking for a good man. If not for this sheriff business, I'd still be at it.”

“What does a range detective do?” Harry said.

A light kindled in Canton's pale eyes. “He hunts down waddy scum who build their herds with a long rope and a running iron, and unfortunately there's plenty of those in this country. Thieves.” He spat, as if the thought of them put a bad taste in his mouth. “A range detective keeps the country safe and secure for those it's meant for.”

Dixon knew there was tension in the Powder River country between the large cattlemen, members of the Wyoming Stock Growers Association, and the smaller ranchers. Word of their struggle for the rangeland had drifted north to Bozeman, where it was often discussed in Nelson Story's household. Story sided with the WSGA, and the subject was a rare point of disagreement between him and Dixon. Clearly, Canton was one of those who believed the country was meant for the big augers alone. Dixon understood at once that he would remain in good odor with Canton and his wealthy employers as long as he kept to doctoring. It occurred to him to ask what a range detective did with a “waddy scum” when he caught one. Dixon had heard stories of necktie parties, when the accused was hung by the neck from the nearest stout tree without benefit of trial. He did not put the question.

The men rode the rest of the way without much talking. The sun had been hiding behind the clouds all morning, but now it emerged in full, baking the ground and scenting the air with sage. Harry felt its warmth on his neck and shoulders and began again to relax in the saddle. Sensing this, his rented horse decided to take advantage, lowering her head and kicking out with her rear legs. Harry very nearly lost his seat and surely would have had Canton not grabbed the mare's bridle before she could finish the job. Harry thanked his rescuer with embarrassment.

They crested a rise to find themselves looking down on a lush valley that was beginning to take on its rich fall colors. The aspens lining the water were turning gold, the leaves of the wild plum bushes scarlet red, and the stems of the tall bunchgrass in the meadows bluish purple. Wild clematis dusted the creek banks, like bits of fine white lace. A nearly complete, two-story white frame house stood in the bend of the creek, with two men on its steeply pitched roof hammering shingles in place.

“What do you think, son?” Dixon said, turning to Harry with one of his rare smiles. “Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all?”

Dixon sat upright in his bed, his heart racing. What was that? What woke him? He reached for the pistol on the nightstand and waited until the sound came again; someone was on the porch, pounding on the door. Dixon pulled on his pants and stepped into the hallway. Mrs. MacGill stood on the landing at the top of the stairs, a coal oil lamp in her hand. The night was cold and she wore a shawl around her shoulders. Her face paled when she saw the gun in Dixon's hand.

“Who could it be at this hour?” she said. “It's two o'clock.” Harry and the twins appeared at her side, frightened faces in the yellow lamplight.

“Children, go back to your beds,” Dixon said. “Mrs. MacGill, make sure they do as I say.” The pounding started again. Dixon walked to the front room and looked out the window. A horse he did not recognize, old and swaybacked, was tied to the porch rail. He opened the door to find Carl Schmidt, a boy of about Harry's age, the son of a neighboring rancher. His eyes were wild with fear.

“Dr. Dixon, please come! It's Pa, he's hurt bad!”

“Come in, Carl, get out of the cold,” Dixon stepped to one side so the boy could enter. “Now, tell me what happened. How was your father hurt?” Despite his instructions, the three children and Mrs. MacGill were watching from the top of the stairs.

Carl took a deep breath and struggled to compose himself. “Three men came to the house when Pa was out in the barn. I saw them go in, then I heard yelling and the sound of shots, two shots. After that the men came running out and rode off. When I went out to the barn I found Pa on the ground, bleeding bad. They shot him, here and here.” The boy put one hand on his stomach and the other on his jaw. “Ma's with him but she can't make it stop, so she told me to come for you. Oh, we got to hurry, Doc!”

“All right,” Dixon said. “I'll come straightaway. Mrs. MacGill, please make Carl a cup of tea while I dress and pack my supplies. I won't be long.”

Harry followed his father to his room. “Let me come with you, Pa. I can help.”

Dixon sat on the bed to pull on his boots. His face was worried and gaunt in the flickering lamplight, and, for the first time, Harry thought his father looked old.

“Thank you, Harry, but I need you here to look after the twins and Mrs. MacGill. I don't know how long I'll be gone; it may be a while. I noticed Carl's horse looks done in. Take him to the barn, will you? Rub him down and give him a nosebag. Then put Carl's saddle on one of ours, the bay. Carl can come back for his horse later.” Dixon stood and put a hand on his son's shoulder. “Thank you, Harry. I depend on you.”

Harry nodded, disappointed. He was tired of being treated like a child and eager to start his own life; he was tired of simply taking up space at the edge of his father's. Much as he loved Powder River country, Harry was beginning to sense if he didn't get away soon, he'd end up spending his best years taking care of his brother and sister and Mrs. MacGill. That was not what he had planned.

Glumly, he pulled on his hat and boots and started for the barn. On his way out, he passed the kitchen where Carl sat with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. He was crying; Harry could see that by the way his shoulders shook. Carl must know there was little his father could do for a man with such serious injuries. Harry felt bad for him, but at the same time he almost envied him. Carl could be his own man now, in charge of his own future. It was a hard world, no doubt, but Harry was burning to get out in it, all the same.

When Harry opened the door, a blast of winter wind grabbed it from his hands and blew it back on its hinges against the wall with a bang, loud as a pistol shot. It was beginning to snow.