The Bones of Paradise (16 page)

“Boarding school in Mission. Jesuits. If it doesn't kill you, you learn to read and write and do sums. Still doesn't get you a job, though.” Jerome looked down the street where half the windows held signs that read
NO INDIANS ALLOWED
.

“I can ride pretty good,” he continued. “Used to break horses for my uncle on the reservation. Don't much care for cattle. And I can keep books with my eyes closed. But nobody would hire an Indian for work like that around here. Rose said Mrs. Bennett needs help on her ranch, though.”

Graver nodded and let his gaze wander to the spotted pony tied to the railing, the family's belongings hung cleverly from a pack fashioned of rawhide and bone. The horse seemed in good flesh, but Graver's eye caught on a series of gashes on its front and hind legs. He frowned and stepped closer for a better look. The deeper cuts were sewn shut, the smaller ones coated with grease, and the horse didn't appear to be in any pain as it dozed in the afternoon sun. He turned to Some Horses, his eyebrows raised.

“Tangled in barbed wire.”

“Did a good job doctoring it. What's the greasy stuff on the cuts?”

“Ask Rose. She's the horse doctor and everything else with those darn animals.” He laughed and shook his head. “She should be Some Horses, and I should be Not So Good With Horses.”

Graver looked at Rose with new respect, but when she smiled, he couldn't be certain she wasn't laughing at him. He'd been aware of her eyes on him at the ranch, and now realized she was someone he should keep an eye on, too.

“Mrs. Bennett needs help,” she said.

I
nside the lawyer's tiny office two wooden chairs sat against the dingy plaster wall cut off by the temporary partition. Despite the attempt at privacy, Graver could hear the conversation between Mrs. J.B. and Percival Chance as he sat down. There was nothing to entertain, only the grimy window of the outside door that gave onto a blurry street. He looked down at the floor, its rough planks, hastily nailed in place, separating and warped. Soon be a hazard to see your lawyer, he noted with a wry smile.

“You see we were in correspondence over the years,” Dulcinea was saying, “as these letters prove. And J.B. deeded the ranch to me, as this document supports. It's dated last year, drawn up by an Omaha attorney who came out here to deer hunt. It's all clear in this letter. J.B. had second thoughts about his boys and their ability to handle such a large enterprise, and their grandfather's nature. I had a lawyer in Chadron look them over already, but I'd feel more comfortable having someone local.” Graver could hear the worry threading her voice.

“What do you want me to do, Mrs. Bennett?” Chance's voice was as smooth as river-polished stone, except for the hint of amusement underneath.

There was a brief pause, followed by the click of her purse snapping shut and the chair scraping back. “I want you to file this deed today and notify Mr. Rivers that the court should set aside the will he has on file. Then, write a letter to Drum Bennett and my sons explaining the terms. They need to hear this from a lawyer, not me. Do you understand?”

Chance cleared his throat, and the chair groaned as he apparently leaned back, stretched, and then pushed himself upright. “Perfectly clear. Would you prefer to pay me now or . . .”

From the looks of his office, it was obvious the man needed money. Too many in the hills settled their differences by means other than lawyers. It would be years before the signs that hung in Omaha and North Platte advising men to leave their firearms at home appeared here. The excuse was always rattlesnakes and coyotes, but folks were generally more respectful toward a man with a pistol belted around his hips or a rifle on his saddle.

“Of course, but I would not appreciate a delay or a disclosure of our conversation until you file the will and transfer the deed. Do you understand?” This time her voice was low and even. Woe to the man who didn't do her bidding. Graver smiled.

“You needn't worry about my desire to converse with my fellow townsmen. I have been here five years and have yet to be invited to share a single meal or drink. There is little society for me here.”

This news surprised Graver. Chance was a tall, handsome man, a bachelor.

“You're lucky then,” Dulcinea said. “This town is a sore on the rump of Balaam's ass, as far as I'm concerned. You should move to Denver or Omaha, Ainsworth even. After you file for me, of course.” She laughed, and Graver could imagine the tilt of her head as she did so.

“Would
you
care to take a bite with me at the Cattleman's Café?”

“I must decline today, Mr. Chance, but I'll return in a week to discuss the reaction to my filing if you can send a rider out with the
letters. I imagine there will be some noise from Drum Bennett, who is recuperating in my home at the moment.”

“I'll bring the letters personally in a day or so, Mrs. Bennett. I'd be interested in seeing the ranch, and there's nothing as soothing to the weary mind as a sojourn to the country.”

There was a moment of silence as the door opened, allowing him a glimpse of the office, the walls covered with an assortment of handmade Indian goods.

“What is it?” she said when she saw him waiting.

Graver didn't need reminding that she was the boss, and her tone embarrassed him. “Wahl, boss, we got all them chores done.”

Her head jerked at his exaggerated servility.

Over her shoulder, Graver saw Chance grin. It put him on guard. The man found too much humor in things, as if he always had a hidden card to play and was never in danger of losing the game.

Outside the office Mrs. J.B. stopped, then looked up and down the street. “Have you seen the boys?”

“Not lately,” Graver admitted.

“Please find them.” She consulted the little watch that hung from a pin on her dress.

He opened his mouth to protest, then shut it and jammed on his hat as she turned and started for the livery stable.

“But first bring the runabout with my dog,” she called over her shoulder.

“Hello.” Dulcinea dug in her pocket, pulled out a lump of sugar, and offered it to the gray stallion. The horse looked at her, ears twitching back and forth. He blew high through his nostrils, arched his neck, and bared his teeth as if to bite. Then he grabbed the sugar from her palm and backed away to chew. Dulcinea pulled another lump from her pocket and offered it. This time the horse lowered his head, snorted, and edged over to take it carefully,
chewing without backing away. Dulcinea reached up and rubbed his jaw and the side of his neck, working her way up to the ears, which she stroked between her fingers. The stud relaxed and nuzzled her shoulder.

“I'll be riding him. Graver, you take the runabout. The boys will be on their horses,” she said. “And we'll pony the two mares.”

“Ma'am.” Dun Riggins, the livery stable owner, cleared his throat, spit, bit down on the chew, and then shifted it to the other side of his mouth. “Where you want them boxes?”

She looked startled and glanced at the stack in the aisle. “We'll need to rent a wagon from you.”

A crafty look stole into his eyes, and his lips set in a grim smile. “Yes, ma'am, we got us a wagon.” He paused, spit, shifted the chew again, and glanced at the stallion. Graver could tell he was toting up the cost of his general irritation at being ordered about by a woman.

“Yes?”

“Only one left in town, I'm afeared, and it's seen better days.”

Graver almost groaned aloud.

“Will it make it to the ranch or not, Mr. Riggins?”

“T'aint no other,” he said in a mournful voice.

“I'm sure. Fetch it with a team and I'll have my men load.” She opened her purse.

The wagon was a shambling wreck, the wood warped, cracked, and paintless, the wheels wobbly, the seat brace broken on one side and shored up with a log that meant the driver sat on a downhill slant. The team was a mismatched pair that would fight each other the whole way, Graver could tell, since the paint was a barely broke youngster with a small pig eye and Roman nose, already humping its back and trotting in place. The washed-out strawberry roan was an old broodmare whose ponderous belly swung so low to the ground, it looked as if she'd knock into it when she trotted. Judging from the bog spavins in her hocks and the hooves that hadn't been trimmed in so long the toes were starting to curl, Graver knew she
couldn't do much more than a plodding walk. It was going to be a long journey home.

“This the best you can do?” Graver asked.

Riggins nodded, eyes sly, infuriating little smile in place as he harnessed the animals. He had a short club tucked in his belt that the paint eyed with disdain. Graver thought the horse probably deserved it as his teeth snapped the air beside the man's head, and its hind leg snaked up and out in a swift cow kick that would have nailed Riggins had he not been agile enough to jump out of range. Graver saw Rose's family standing beside their horse, which the child now rode, watching the spectacle. Jerome and Rose whispered and nodded to each other, until Rose came forward and stopped at Graver's side without speaking.

“I can drive them,” she finally said in a flat voice.

Graver handed her the patched rein.

Mrs. Bennett saddled the gray stud, which looked to have Thoroughbred racing blood from its long body and fine head but was too heavy-boned for speed, and Graver brought out the two mares. He would ride the prancing black one with the too-alert eye, and tie the bay mare to the wagon, as she appeared calmer and less ambitious. Both were clean-legged and well set up. Where had she found Kentucky racing stock?

Graver took the boys' horses back to the Emporium while Jerome tied his to the runabout and followed, driving as his daughter sat beside him and the dog rode in back, chewing a bone among the packages.

Graver found the boys at the Emporium in front of the glass-encased gun display quietly discussing the merits of the Smith & Wesson .44 Russians. Hefting the guns, Hayward pointed toward the target on the far wall, an Indian chief in war paint and full eagle feather bonnet. An old Spencer .56 and a Berdan sharpshooting
rifle sat on the counter. Haven Smith peered at them over his round glasses between customers, and when he saw Graver join the boys, he seemed to sigh in relief.

“You boys starting a Wild West show or planning on joining Buffalo Bill's?”

“This ain't none of your business,” Cullen said. Lifting the big Spencer to his shoulder, he sighted on the target and squeezed the trigger, and then mimicked the sound of the Indian's head exploding. The boys gave a short, mirthless chuckle, and Graver smelled the alcohol.

“You want you a nice Winchester you're going after deer or antelope. No point in blowing the thing to pieces and ruining the meat.” Graver picked one with an engraved barrel off the wall. “Here's a good used one.” He held up the rifle, rubbing his hand along the satiny finish of the stock, and quickly sighted down the barrel. “Looks true.” He turned it over in his hands, suddenly squinting at the memory of the shooting at the windmill. He looked at the boys, who watched him but now glanced away as if they didn't. Was that guilt on their faces?

“But you boys already own one of these, don't you? Your pa give it to you?”

Ignoring him, Hayward laid the Russians carefully on the glass and pulled a wad of dollars from his jeans. “Think he'll take eighty for the pair?” He began smoothing the bills with the side of his hand, larger than his brother's, Graver noticed.

“You don't need those,” Cullen muttered to his brother. “That Berdan's probably seen better days, but it'd get it done. I'm taking the Spencer.” Cullen slipped a thick pack of folded bills from his back pocket. “Come on. Cash money talks, baby brother, cash always talks.” He hefted the long rifle over his shoulder and pushed past Graver, who had to lean back to avoid being hit in the head with the gun barrel.

“Your mother's waiting for you,” Graver said when they'd completed the transaction.

“Tell her we're staying in town tonight.” Cullen glanced at his brother and the younger boy nodded.

“Tell her yourself.” Graver walked toward the door.

“Do as you're told or get packing,” Cullen called after him.

“You didn't hire me, boy, and you don't fire me.” Graver half expected Cullen to shoot him in the back as he walked out the door, carefully closing it behind him so as to not rattle the etched glass. He stood on the boardwalk, took a deep breath, and lifted his hat to wipe his eyes on his shirtsleeve.

Astride the stallion, Dulcinea was speaking with Rose, who drove the dilapidated wagon. He studied the way Dulcinea sat, waiting, her big horse restive, chewing the bit and nodding his head up and down, each upward swing slightly higher so that eventually he would hit his rider in the face. Graver was about to intervene when she tweaked the rein and told him to stop. The horse tucked his nose to his chest and rattled the bit with his teeth. Sweat broke out on his neck and around his ears.

“Did you tell them we're ready to go?” she asked.

He nodded. She sat a horse well, astride, in full command with a deep seat and straight back. “How long do you think they'll be?”

He wanted to respond that they were spoiled, disrespectful brats, and they needed a good hiding, but shut his mouth and shrugged. Her hands held the reins firm and light at the same time. In English riding, they kept the reins short with constant contact on the bit, which wouldn't do for cow work where a person had to handle a rope and sometimes a whip, too. A horse had to be trusted to carry itself, to work off the leg and shift with the cowboy's weight.

“That horse isn't real cowy,” Graver said by way of making conversation. Jerome smiled.

“I should hope not,” Dulcinea said. “We're going to breed a new kind of horse out here, one that will, well, one that will be a pleasure to ride and possess greater beauty and intelligence. And it can be taught about cows.” She dropped her chin and frowned. “Where are those boys?”

“You could give them a holler,” Graver said and leaned against the post that held up the porch overhang. He studied the stallion, a tall gray with four white socks, and wondered about its bloodlines.

“We'll go and set up some bottles and try them out.” Cullen exited first, cradling his new rifle across his chest like an orphan calf, followed by Hayward, adjusting how the new holster rode his hips.

“These sit a little heavy. Maybe I should just wear one. Leave the other one on my saddle. It's hard to walk. Maybe I should—”

“You bought guns,” Dulcinea said, her expression flat.

“Aren't they something?” Cullen held up his rifle so it pointed at the stallion's chest. Graver straightened. Even Hayward looked startled and reached a hand toward his brother, then let it drop.

“Hayward's too young for those pistols,” she said.

“I am not! Watch—” He drew the guns so quickly she gasped. “I got a cross draw, too.” He flipped the guns into their holsters and just as quickly pulled them out cross armed, wearing a big proud grin.

“But how accurate are you?” Graver said. “Doesn't matter how fast you are if you can't shoot straight.”

“I hit everything I'm aiming at.” The boy pouted.

“And I get anything he misses,” Cullen said.

“We'll have this discussion at the ranch,” Dulcinea said.