Powder River (21 page)

The six-car train left Cheyenne late on the afternoon of April 5. On board were fifty-two men, including Faucett and a dozen of his fellow cattlemen, twenty-two hired gunfighters, and enough guns and ammunition to kill every man, woman, and child in the new state of Wyoming. The horses traveled in three stock cars, and three new Studebaker wagons were tied down to a flatcar. The train would take Faucett's regulators as far north as Casper, a distance of one hundred and fifty miles. There they would disembark and begin their southward march on horseback, cleaning out the rustlers on the way.

Faucett, cigar in hand, addressed the men as they rolled northward: “Gentlemen, our time has come at last. We shall claim this state for the good, honest people of Wyoming, who are sick and tired of the rustlers' brazen lawlessness, sick and tired of the tyranny of these godless criminals. They shall swing at the end of our ropes!” This was met with cheers which he acknowledged with a smile, then quieted with a raise of his cigar hand. “My only fear, and I have but one, is that the miscreants will somehow get wind of our purpose and flee to the mountains, where we will pursue them still, though our work will be made more difficult. But mark my words: not one of them—not one thieving soul—shall escape our wrath!” He pumped his fist in the air, drawing another chorus of cheers.

Later, he and Fred Jolly sat in a corner of the smoke-filled car, drinking brandies. “Do they know where the Indian is hiding?” Faucett said.

Jolly nodded. “Sun and a few others are at the Lazy L and B, holed up in a line shack. Frank and some of the Texans are there. They won't get by him.”

“When we get to the Lazy L and B, I shall kill Billy Sun myself. Canton knows that, but make sure it's widely understood. I don't want anyone to deprive me of the experience.”

“Yes sir.” Women were a lot of trouble, Jolly thought, and the better looking they were, the more trouble they brought. No doubt about it, his father gave him good advice when he said, “homely women make the best wives.” He had his eye on a widow woman in Buffalo who was just homely enough.

Odalie got off the Denver train at the first stop: Olympus. Despite its grand name, Olympus was a desolate outpost on the Fremont, Elkhorn, and Missouri Valley line that consisted of a covered platform and ticket office, telegraph station, livery stable, and hotel. After instructing the porter to remove her bags, Odalie stepped out onto the rickety platform where the cold April wind robbed her of her breath and almost of her hat. With one hand on her head, she approached the ticketing agent's window and requested a ticket to Buffalo.

“You just came from Buffalo,” the agent said.

“Yes, and now I want to go back. When does the next train leave?”

“Not till tomorrow morning, miss. Ten o'clock, but it's usually a half hour late.”

It was just noon. Odalie sighed and looked at the hotel—a hand-lettered sign above the door identified it as The Excelsior—a two-story frame building with peeling paint the color of sulfur and a trio of unclean characters lounging in chairs on either side of the entry. Could she bear nearly twenty-four hours in such a place? No, she could not.

“I want to send a telegram,” she said.

The agent took a set of keys from the drawer. “Follow me.” He led her across the platform to the telegraph station on the opposite side, where he unlocked a door and held it for her as she entered. “Now,” he said, sitting before the machine and handing her paper and a pencil. “Write down what you want to say and to whom you wish to say it.”

Odalie considered. By sending this telegram she was crossing a line that could not be uncrossed. She was, in effect, passing the point of no return. Resolutely, she gripped the pencil and began to write:
“To Sheriff Red Angus, Buffalo. Lord Richard Faucett and the WSGA cattlemen of Johnson County have formed an army. They will seize the courthouse and its weapons. They intend to murder seventy men, including Dr. Dixon and Billy Sun. Frank Canton is one of Faucett's men
.
”
She handed the paper to the agent. “No signature.”

The agent gave a low whistle as he read. “How do you know this, miss?”

“Never mind that. Just send it please.”

The agent tapped out the message, but as he worked, Odalie heard her husband's voice speaking words she had forgotten until now:
“The telegraph lines will be cut, of course.”

“Can you tell if the message goes through?” she said. “Is there any way to know if Sheriff Angus has received it?”

The agent did not respond until he was finished sending. “No, miss.” He took off his visor and raised his face to hers. She saw that he was quite young, clean shaven with a pleasing face. “I asked him to respond straightaway, but until he does there's no way to know if the lines are down. I assume that's what you're worried about.”

Odalie's thoughts raced. She paced the room and tried to think clearly.
I can't wait for the train. Tomorrow may be too late
.
Daniel and Billy may be dead by then
. She pictured Dixon's hazel eyes and thick unruly hair, now mostly gray. She remembered the way he smiled when their eyes met at her Christmas party, the way he held her when they danced.
I can't let Richard hurt him, or Billy. I won't.

“Do you have some reason to think the lines might be down?” the agent said. Odalie, lost in thought, did not answer. After several minutes of restless waiting, she said, “Can I rent a horse at that livery stable?”

The agent showed surprise. “Well, Horace Stubbs has a horse to let, but she's an old bag of bones. I hope you're not thinking of riding back to Buffalo, miss. It's nearly forty miles. You won't make it before dark.”

Odalie picked up her bags.

“Miss,” the agent called. “You'll freeze!”

But she was already out the door.

Billy Sun and Pat Comstock were enjoying a meal of bacon and beans when Hi Kinch and Nestor Lopez rode up to the line shack in the late afternoon. It was spitting snow when they arrived, and by the time the beans and bacon were gone it was coming down hard. The men passed the cold evening before the fire. Kinch and Comstock played cards, Lopez cleaned his gun, and Billy wrote in his journal.

“Russ and Carlos and the boys will be here Friday, before maybe,” Lopez said, squinting down the barrel of the Smith & Wesson army revolver he had won at cards off a drunken deserter from Custer's Seventh Cavalry years before. “Then when Faucett and his nabobs come, me and Carlos will show him what a couple of Mexicans can do. He won't be calling us greasers no more.” Lopez smiled to himself as he pushed an oily rag through the barrel.

There were only two bunks in the shack. Billy and Kinch took those while Comstock and Lopez spread their bedrolls on the dirt floor. At dawn, Billy was first to wake. As he stoked the dying fire, Kinch climbed out of bed, pulled on his boots and picked up the bucket.

“I'll get us some water,” he said, pushing aside the feed sack that darkened the window and peering out. “Damn me. There must be two foot out there.” Snowdrifts twice that deep were banked against the cabin walls. Kinch had a fight just to get the door open because of the snow piled high against it. When at last he succeeded, he admitted a blast of cold air that made the two men on the floor groan and turn in their blankets. Kinch whistled to himself as he crunched through the frozen crust toward the creek, about fifty feet down the hill. As he passed the barn, where the horses were stabled, he heard a voice.

“Who's that?” Kinch said. “Someone in there?”

“Shut up and keep walking, old man, and you'll live another day.”

Kinch kept on toward the creek, feeling a worm of fear crawl down his spine. As he walked he heard footsteps following, close behind. Once he turned his head halfway to see a young man, with white-blond hair and a thin, beardless face, carrying a rifle. “Don't try anything stupid,” the young man said. Kinch thought he looked familiar, but he could not place him. Once they arrived at the creek he found two others, wrapped in colorful Mexican blankets, in a miserable, cold camp. One rose and spoke to the gunman.

“He the one we're after? This old buzzard?” Kinch recognized a Texas accent. Kinch hated Texans.

“No,” the young man said, jabbing Kinch in the back with the business end of the rifle. “Is Billy Sun in that shack, old timer? You'll tell the truth if you know what's good for you.”

“Yeah, he's there.”

“Who else?”

“Pat Comstock and Nestor Lopez.”

“Any others?”

“Just them.”

“They on the list, kid?” the Texan said. “Say, maybe this old buzzard's on the list. What's your name, Granddad?” The Texan gave Kinch a tobacco-stained smile.

“H.I. Kinch. Folks call me Hi.”

“Do they now?” The Texan's grin widened.

The boy consulted a folded paper from his pocket. “Those names aren't on it,” he said, shaking his head. “None of those. It's only Billy Sun we want.”

“Well, damn, let's go take the son of a bitch,” the second Texan said. “We shoulda done it last night while they was sleeping, like me and Jess said. Jesus H. Christ.”

“No,” the boy said. “We're not supposed to kill him, just hold him till Canton and the others get here.”

“The hell,” Jess, the first Texan, said. “You two are all warm and cozy in that barn while me and Andy are freezing our balls off down here. We don't care what Frank Canton and Lord what's-his-name say. C'mon, let's go finish it.”

“No,” the boy said. “When this one doesn't return, Billy Sun will come looking for him. That's when we'll take him.” He turned to go back to the barn.

“So me and Jess keep on freezin' our balls off down here, with Granddad for company?”

The boy did not reply but raised a hand over his shoulder as he walked back up the hill. Kinch watched, trying to think where he had seen him before.

Jess looked up at the lowering sky. “Looks like more snow, Granddad. Damn, if I'd a knowed how damn cold and snowy it was up here I wouldn't a come. It's like the goddamn North Pole. Jesus H. Christ.”

“Keep thinking on the money, Jess,” Andy said. “Just you keep thinkin' on that.”

“I guess.” Jess settled back on the ground and wrapped himself in his blanket. “May as well sit, Granddad,” he said. “You're gonna be here a spell.”

* * *

Billy looked out the line shack's lone window. Hi should be back by now. Even if he'd stopped to answer nature's call, he should at least be on his way. Billy had a bad feeling.

“Something wrong?” Pat spoke from his bedroll on the floor.

“Could be. Kinch went for water and it's taking too long.”

“I'll go see what's keeping him. I gotta take care of business anyhow.”

“I don't know,” Billy said. “Maybe me or Nestor should come with you?”

“Naw,” Pat said, pulling on his boots. “I don't need company for what I gotta do. You just get coffee going and fry up some bacon. Me and Hi will be back in no time. Mind if I borrow your coat? Mine's still wet.” He shrugged his broad shoulders into Billy's sheepskin and stepped out into the cold morning air. He took three steps when a bullet whistled past his head and smashed into the side of the cabin. Pat turned back, wild eyed with fear, when the second shot came. The back of his head exploded in a red spray of blood and brains.

Odalie's heart sank when she saw the rental horse available to her, an elderly, swaybacked mare with one milky eye. “Have you nothing else, Mr. Stubbs? I doubt this one will go the distance.”

Horace Stubbs spat a jet of brown tobacco juice on the hay-covered floor. “Bella, here, is a fine, gentle palfrey for a delicate lady like yourself, Miss . . .” He waited for her to offer her name, but when she did not he continued. “Anyhow, what kind of distance are we talking about?”

“I need to get to Buffalo tonight.”

“Haw!” Stubbs laughed. “Buffalo tonight!” He wiped his wet mouth with the back of his hand. “Do ye now?” He turned to two other men lounging in the stable, inviting them to share his amusement. They were regarding the beautiful, well-dressed woman with slack-jawed amazement.

“Yes, Mr. Stubbs.” Odalie spoke impatiently. “Can you help me or not? I can pay.”

At the mention of money, Stubbs's rheumy eyes narrowed. “Well, now, let me think a bit, let me think. Yes, I might be able to come up with a sturdier animal, but it will be a hardship, such short notice, don't ye know?” He moved toward her. “How much are you willing to pay?”

Odalie felt a red burst of panic. Her ladies' pistol was in her bag, hanging from her arm. Could she hold these three men at bay with it? Would she even be able to get it out before this brute jumped her? She took a step backward.

“Well, miss?” Stubbs smiled and came closer. “How much?”

To Odalie's great relief the door opened with a bang, and the ticket agent walked in. “I'm sorry, miss, I was delayed.” He looked from her to Stubbs, then back again. “Is everything all right here?”

Odalie flew to his side and took his arm. “No, I don't think it is.”

“Stubbs?” the agent said angrily. “Have you done something to frighten this woman?”

“Hell no, Rob. No.” Stubbs shifted from one foot to the other. “Me, I was only tryin' to help her out, rent her a horse. We was just negotiatin' my fee. No need to get riled up.”

Odalie laughed derisively. “He was preparing to rob me.”

“No, Rob, I wasn't.” Stubbs forced a smile. “That ain't how it was, was it, boys?” He appealed to the two gray men who stood silently by. “Tell him, boys. Tell Rob how it was.”

“Never mind, Stubbs. Your services won't be needed after all.” He picked up Odalie's bags. “Come with me, miss. I believe I've found an answer for your problem.” Together they walked from the dark livery stable into the sunlight, where Odalie drew a deep, sweet breath of relief.

“What a horrible man! However can I thank you, Mr. . . . ?”

“Hardy. Robert Hardy. Call me Rob. I should've warned you about Stubbs, but you were in a hurry. Stubbs used to be all right, but he took to the bottle when his wife died. Anyhow, I shut down the offices and came fast as I could. But I meant what I said, I think I can get you to Buffalo, if you really mean to go.”

“I mean to go.”

“All right then. My sister, Anna, has a buggy and a strong pair of horses. I believe she'll give me use of them. I think you're right about the telegraph lines. I haven't had any traffic from the north for hours. That's not normal.”

Odalie put her hand to her head. “Yes, I was afraid of that. I pray we're not too late!”

Hardy put his hands on her waist and lifted her easily onto his horse, then Hardy mounted behind her. They rode to his sister's ranch, a tidy, well-tended place two miles west of town. A widow, Anna was five years older than her brother and harder. She refused to lend her buggy and team and did not soften, even when Rob told her lives were at stake.

“What do I care?” she said. “Those people up north don't mean nothing to me.” With disapproving eyes, she took in Odalie's tailored traveling suit and veiled, narrow-brimmed hat. “And you neither. Why should we put ourselves out for the likes of them? They wouldn't do for us.”

“Anna, we can't let innocent people be slaughtered. The lines are down, and there's no way to warn them.”

Anna would not budge until Odalie said, “I'll give you two hundred dollars.” She reached into her purse and pulled out four fifty-dollar gold certificates, each bearing the sour likeness of Silas Wright. “Take the money,” she said, offering Anna the limp currency. “This is all I have with me.”

The woman's faded eyes gleamed. “Well, all right then. I guess you can use them.” She took the bills in her calloused hands and stuffed them in her waist pocket. “But Robbie, you see to it I get those horses back in good shape. If they ain't . . .” she turned to Odalie and patted her pocket, “I'll be needing more of this.”

Within minutes, Rob and Odalie were settled in the buggy, a sturdy rig previously used by Anna's late husband, a drummer, and on their way north to Buffalo.