Powder River (9 page)

Billy arrived at The Manor the next day at exactly five o'clock wearing a clean white shirt and store-bought pants so stiff they rubbed raw places on his knees and between his thighs. The fabric of one leg brushed against the other as he walked, sounding like a wooden block going up and down a washboard. Two cowboys cleaning their tack in front of the bunkhouse stopped to watch—and listen—as Billy looped Sugarfoot's reins loosely around the rail and approached the big house. They grinned at each other as he climbed the porch steps, his boots loud on the green-painted floorboards, and lifted the knocker, a shining brass ring through the mouth of a lion. A full minute passed before an Indian woman in a calico dress and apron opened the double doors of heavy, imported oak.

She did not greet him but looked him over from head to toe. Billy smiled, surprised to see a fellow Indian in this fine place, but the woman did not smile back. He removed his hat and raised a hand to smooth his pomaded hair, neatly parted just left of center.

“Billy Sun to see Mr. and Mrs. Faucett,” he said.

The corners of the Indian's woman mouth turned down. “Lord and Lady Faucett expect you?”

“They do. I was invited by Mrs.—by Lady Faucett.”

“You wait.” She closed the door in his face.

Billy stood for another four minutes, hat in hand, eye to eye with the brass lion and starting to hate the thing. Once he turned to look at the two grinning cowboys, suspecting their good humor was at his expense. Billy shifted his weight from foot to foot, turning his hat, wondering if he had been forgotten. He was about to knock again when the door opened and, instead of the Indian woman, or Lady Faucett, he found himself looking at Fred Jolly, the buggy driver from the previous afternoon. The Englishman appeared as disappointed to see Billy as Billy was to see him.

“Follow me to the bunkhouse,” Fred said, brushing by him and descending the steps. “I'll show you your quarters. You're a fortunate fellow, Sun. I was done with roundup hiring, I had no intention of adding another man.”

Billy turned back to the house. “That's it? I'm hired? I thought I was supposed to meet with Lady Faucett and her husband.”

Jolly shook his head. “She spoke to his Lordship for you, that's all you need to know. Your business is with me now, Sun. Lord Faucett has instructed me to offer you a position. In addition to the horse work, he insisted on giving you a place in the spring roundup. Your wages will be the same as the others'—that amount, plus seven dollars for each horse you break—or whatever you Indians call it.”

Any disappointment Billy felt evaporated. Seven bones a head? He couldn't believe his ears. The going rate was five and often less.

As they neared the squat, unpainted frame bunkhouse, the two cowboys stopped oiling their tack. Jolly greeted them with a brisk nod of his head. “Nate, Jack, this is a new man, Billy Sun. I am your foreman, Jack Reshaw is your wagon boss.” A stocky young man in his mid-twenties stepped forward and offered his hand. He had clear, blue-gray eyes, a steely grip, and a friendly smile.

“Good to have you, Billy,” Jack said. “I hear good things.”

“And this,” Jolly indicated the second man, “is Nate Coday. He'll show you where to put your gear. Good luck to you, Sun.” Before leaving the yard, Jolly stopped and turned back. “Work hard and stay out of trouble.” His eyes cut to Coday. “Don't make Lady Faucett sorry she spoke for you.”

Coday made an obscene gesture to Jolly's back, then offered Billy his hand. Coday was taller than Reshaw and a bit younger, but with an equally strong handshake. “Lady Odalie herself spoke up for you?” he said with a low whistle. “How the hell does a red Injun like you manage a thing like that?”

Billy pulled free his hand.

“Leave him be, Nate,” Reshaw said. “Sun has special talents, or so I hear. I suspect he'll earn his pay. Come on inside, Billy. I'll show you where to put your gear.” Reshaw looked over Billy's shoulder. “Where is it?”

Billy gestured toward Sugarfoot, standing patiently at the rail. All his professional belongings—spurs, quirt, lariat, and the short bits of grass ropes he used for hobbling—were in his bedroll and saddlebags.

“That's it?” Reshaw raised his eyebrows.

“Most of it. I got clothes back at the Dixon place but nothing that won't fit in a suitcase.”

Reshaw said, “Before you go for those, come on down to the corral. Me and Nate cut a horse out for you. We want to see what you got before the boys get back.”

“You want me to finish a horse right now?” He looked down at his stiff new pants.

“Why not?” Reshaw said. “We got a gelding yonder.” He nodded his head toward the round, pole corral where a single horse nosed one of his companions in the neighboring enclosure. He was big for a wild horse, at least fifteen hands, the product of interbreeding between Spanish mustangs and stray U.S. Cavalry animals, with thick, muscular shoulders and hindquarters. He was a bay, with a white star and coronets on three legs. He looked like he had plenty of fight.

Billy shrugged. “I'll need a blanket and a working saddle.”

“We got those.”

Billy cursed himself as he retrieved his gear from his saddlebags. He should have expected this. Now he'd have to finish a horse in pants that felt like they were made of iron. This would interfere with his use of his legs, his ability to feel the animal beneath him.

The bay eyed him warily as he entered the corral, then started trotting around its circumference, breaking into a run as Billy took the coil of rope from his shoulder. Reshaw and Coday perched on a rail, watching Billy rope the gelding around the neck on the first throw and snub him to a post in the middle of the corral. The bay's eyes showed some white, and Billy talked to him in a low voice, hoping he wouldn't have to throw him to get a bridle on. If he could get close, Billy would try to introduce himself by breathing in the horse's nose, getting him familiar with his scent, but Billy doubted the bay was going to cooperate.

But he surprised him. Though he pulled back and braced his feet as Billy came near, the wild horse was unprepared for the strangling effect of a snubbing lariat and didn't fight the bridle. For the same reason, Billy was able to cross-hobble him with the soft grass ropes. If he'd had more time, Billy would have tied an old pair of pants around the horse's belly, giving him a chance to get used to the sensation before he threw on a saddle, but that wouldn't happen today. The bay's eyes rolled when Billy came at him with the blanket and saddle, but he remained straight-legged and stiff when Billy threw them on and tightened the cinch. It wasn't until Billy freed him from the snubbing post that the bay showed what he was holding. Despite the hobbles, he fought like a tiger, hopping around the corral and dragging Billy like he was one of Lorna's rag dolls. Billy was vaguely aware of hoots and hollers coming from the pole bench where Reshaw and Coday had been joined by a third man, but he didn't take his eyes off the horse for an instant. The furious bay pulled Billy around for the better part of an hour when he suddenly stopped and hung his head, seemingly spent.

Billy approached him cautiously, sensing the animal still had some left. “What's this?” Billy smiled, his teeth white in his dirty face. “You think you can trick me?” The horse watched him with an eye that was wary but still bright. Billy reached out and grabbed the bronc's ear, giving it a hard twist. This distracted him long enough for Billy to swing aboard.

This was Billy's favorite part of horse work; it was an art form, as much as quillwork or beading or a white man's picture-making with paint and brush. One of the secrets to keeping your seat came in knowing how much rein to give; too little and you go over the head, too much and you come off the other end. Billy liked to start off with the reins two fists' distance from the front of the saddle.

He'd learned to keep his feet high, so the stirrups were at or above the horse's shoulders, so when the bronc came down on his front legs, with his rear legs up high in the air, Billy was almost standing. He used his spurs and his quirt when he had to, because it was necessary to teach the animal that bucking and spinning would bring pain, but Billy took no joy in hurting a horse and seldom drew blood. Keep your seat in the saddle, your hips moving in time with the animal between your legs, and let him know you're not fooling and you're not going anywhere. In a way, Billy thought, gentling a horse was sort of like being with a woman. Certainly, there was beauty in both, beauty and feeling. It was a thing a person was born to. You could teach a boy to ride, but you could not teach him how to find the beauty and joy in it. You either felt it or you didn't.

Finally the bay had truly had enough. He came to a shuddering stop and hung his head, breathing hard. Billy always felt a breath of sadness when this moment came. The horse was defeated and he knew it. His days of roaming the rangeland, running free and unencumbered with the wind at his back, were over. Billy leaned forward and stroked the bay's sweating neck.

Other cowboys had returned while Billy was fighting the horse, and by the time it was over a crowd had gathered around the corral. One man took the bay's reins and led him to the enclosure that held the
remuda
. Coday and Reshaw came to Billy in the center of the ring.

“Welcome, Billy Sun,” Coday said, slapping Billy's shoulder. “I picked that bay 'cause he looked the meanest, and you broke him in no time. Hell, you made it look easy.”

“It's never easy.” Billy wiped his cracked lips with the back of his hand. His mouth tasted of dirt, and his new clothes were filthy.

“That was good work.” This was the third man, the one who'd first joined Nate and Jack on the rail. “How'd you learn to ride like that?”

“I just did.” Billy disliked the question, one he heard often. Usually the person asking it seemed to think horsemanship was a talent that came with Indian blood.

The fellow smiled and offered his hand. “Tom Waggoner,” he said with a thick German accent. He appeared to be about thirty, older than Nate and Jack, with long, greasy hair hanging below his hat and a dark complexion. Billy didn't like the look of him. His eyes were flat and lifeless, like black buttons, and his hands were sweaty. Billy resisted the impulse to wipe his palm on his pants leg after they shook.

“You take contract work, Billy Sun? I got me some mustangs need breaking. I'll pay five dollars a head.” Behind Waggoner, Jack Reshaw was shaking his head.

“I've got all the work here I can handle,” Billy said. “But thanks for the offer.”

Waggoner smiled and half turned his head, as if he suspected Reshaw's silent signal. “Suit yourself,” he said. “But let me know when things change—and they will.”

Though weeks had passed, Dixon had been unable to put the experience at the Crow village out of his mind. The old woman was Biwi, but she had not looked as he remembered and her voice had been different, too. And though he didn't think of it at the time, it was odd that she had spoken to him in English. When he knew her, she had no language other than Crow and relied on Billy to translate. She could have learned English in the years since last he saw her, though he thought this unlikely.

It would be easier to put the episode aside if not for her warning. Lorna was unusual, unlike any child he had ever known and certainly nothing like her brothers. Of the three, Dixon was closest to Harry, and he had been very pleased when his older son announced he wanted a career in medicine. Already, Dixon was writing the necessary letters, laying the groundwork for a training position in the East, either Philadelphia or Cincinnati where Dixon had attended medical school. Bookish and curious, Harry's personality was suited to a life of intellectual inquiry and a home in the city. Dixon had been aware of this for some time. Caleb was a quiet boy, small for his age and so retiring his father felt he hardly knew him. His sister dwarfed him, and had done since they shared the womb. Though both were small at birth, born weeks before their time, Lorna was healthier and stronger, her color more vibrant and her cries more lusty. It was as if she had overpowered Cal since conception and taken the lion's share of placental nutrients for herself. Dixon had been struck by this from the first moment he saw them. Though crushed by Rose's death, and—to his shame—repelled by the infants who took her from him, his detached, medically trained brain could not fail to notice the difference in the two newborns. Indeed, he initially doubted the boy would survive. That he did was due solely to Biwi.

Indeed, Lorna eclipsed both her brothers in strength of personality. Despite her youth, she dominated a room the instant she entered, even without speaking a word. With her white-blond hair, olive skin, and pale, penetrating eyes, she was lovely to look at and elegant beyond her years in her movements. Harry and Cal adored her, and she them, though there was never any doubt who held the whip hand. Only one man commanded her respect and admiration, and that man was Billy Sun. The Indian boy had intrigued her since she was just a toddler, and this fascination had only deepened as she grew. Dixon had thought it merely a girlish infatuation, and Billy himself appeared indifferent, treating her as he would any other child.

Could Lorna be capable of harming Billy, or anyone? Dixon did not believe it, but try as he might, he could not dismiss Biwi's spectral warning. Even if he had been dreaming, which he doubted, her words had had an impact. They forced him to confront a reality he wanted to avoid. His children, the twins especially, needed more from him. Despite his proclamation that he feared no one, Cal showed signs of effeminacy. He needed a father's love and guidance, and Dixon resolved to give it to him. He had been a poor parent, and he was ashamed. If nothing else came of his ill-fated visit to the Crow village, his investment in his children would change.

It was a warm spring evening and Dixon, returning to Buffalo from Fort McKinney, had been riding for more than an hour, lost in thought. Unnoticed by him, daylight had been replaced by a red twilight. He saw the lights of Buffalo twinkling in the distance. Again, his heart swelled with love for this beautiful country. No place in America matched Wyoming Territory for the purity of its air, the spaciousness of its skies, its natural majesty. He was fortunate to live here, fortunate to be raising three healthy children in such an unspoiled place, a land wrested with much violence from the Indians who loved it, too. Dixon raised his eyes to the fiery sky.

“Rose, I've been absent since you went, as if I left this world when you did. I've been self-indulgent in my loneliness and neglected our children.” Alice turned her head at the sound of his voice. The horse knew her rider's habits, and it was unlike him to speak when they were alone. “This will change. The children need a woman in their lives—not a mother, only you will ever be that, but a softening, female presence. I must find another wife. Whoever she is, she will never replace you in my heart, but she must be worthy of love, or the purpose is defeated. Please understand, Rose. I believe you do.”

He urged Alice forward, toward home. He had not felt desire for a woman since Rose died, that is, not until very recently. Odalie Faucett could not be his, but he wanted her, and that, in itself, was cause for hope. Maybe he wasn't dead yet after all.