Past Promises

by Jill Marie Landis

  She opened her notebook again and paged through it until she found a sketch she had made of the skeleton of a stegosaurus, a Jurassic-plated saurian discovered ten years earlier at Como Bluff in southern Wyoming. Handing the book to Whitey, she watched while he frowned over the drawing.

  “This ’bout the size of a lizard?”

  Smugly Jess shook her head. “No. It’s about the height of a very tall man.”

  Whitey laid the book on the table and leaned over it with a whistle. “Ain’t never seen one around here. Hope I don’t.”

  “You don’t have to worry, they’re all dead. Have been for millions of years. That’s why I have to content myself with bones.”

  He eyed her skeptically. “You ever seen any bones from one of these things?”

  She nodded. “Not any I found personally, but I do have one I can show you.” Jessica rose and went over to the many boxes and barrels stacked near the tent. She opened the lid of a low box filled with smaller cartons and soon approached him with what appeared to be an elongated piece of stone. “This is a fossilized saurian bone, from one much smaller than the stegosaurus. Fossilized means it has turned to stone.”

  Whitey reached for it, handled it gently, looked down the length of it, and then announced, “I seen somethin’ like this before.”

  Myra set her book down and leaned forward expectantly. Jessica folded her hands in her lap and tried to remain calm. “Where? On the mesa?”

  Whitey looked over toward the mesa. The late-afternoon sun set it afire with a red glow. Emphatically he shook his head. “Nope. Not up there.”

  Jess waited for him to go on. When nothing was forthcoming, she prodded, “Then where?”

  “I can’t rightly remember, but I’ll dwell on it tonight and it’ll come to me,” he said.

  Reaching out to take the fossilized bone from him, Jessica sighed, doubtful that he’d ever really seen one at all. She had the distinct impression that Whitey Higgins would say anything to impress her.

  Chapter Six

  “I GUESS YOU could liken this to a logjam.” Jessica straightened and looked at Whitey from beneath the brim of her helmet as she blew at a strand of hair dangling in front of her eyes. Glancing down at a chunk of fossilized vertebrae barely exposed in the dry earth at her feet, she decided she must be living under a lucky star. First the tracks and now this young cowboy had led her straight to a multiple find in a dry gully not a two-mile ride from Camp Zanzibar.

  Whitey put his hands in his back pockets and puffed his chest with pride. “Just what you’re lookin’ for, I take it.”

  Dropping to her knees again, ignoring the soft soil that dusted her skirt, Jessica dug in her knapsack until she found a sable brush. Quickly dusting away loose pieces of soil and finely ground pebbles, she uncovered more of the exposed bone. “There may be something of significance here”—leaning forward, she poked at the sandy soil with the end of the brush—“but it may take months if not years to uncover every fragment. From what we’ve learned of this sort of find, this is most likely a spot where the remains of all manner of dead creatures washed downstream, then piled up because of a sandbar or other obstacle and decayed. More bones are probably embedded in sediment far below the ground.”

  “So it ain’t that great a thing then?”

  Unwilling to diminish the importance of his find, Jessica reassured him with a shake of her head. “It’s a wonderful discovery and one definitely worthy of further examination.” She leaned back, pushed back her helmet, wiped her brow with her sleeve, and then sighed. “I was hoping for a miraculous find, an entire skeleton that would be close enough to the surface for me to guarantee to Beckworth that it was just what he wanted. Such discoveries are rare, but not unheard of.”

  “Shoot,” he said, hunkering down across from her, his dark eyes serious beneath the shadow of his hat brim, “there’s plenty of these dry washes hereabouts. I wouldn’t mind ridin’ out from camp in all directions to see if I can come up with somethin’ else. Now that I know what to look for.” He smiled again. His long arms dangled over his knees, his wrists exposed by the too-short sleeves of his shirt.

  Wishing she could be as certain of success, Jessica laid the brush down and pulled a pick the size of a small hammer from her knapsack. Leaning over the fossils and bracing herself with one hand in the dirt, she carefully loosened the soil around the time-blackened bones. “The trouble with these ancient riverbeds is that many of the bones may have been washed away by erosion. That’s how these pieces became exposed over time. A skeleton on higher ground stands a chance of being complete. That,” she mumbled, “is why I want to explore the mesa.”

  Whitey watched her work in silence then volunteered, “I can help if you show me what to do.”

  Jessica looked toward Zanzibar. Myra would be content to explore the perimeters of the camp and read beneath the awning until late afternoon, so there was really nothing for Whitey to do there. From this point on, her work would be long, tedious, and lonely.

  “Why not?” she decided. “I’ll put you to work while I make notations and map out the area.” She handed him her brush. “To begin with you can sweep away all the loose soil along this ridge of bone back to where it disappears below the soil. When you get that finished, I’ll show you how to dig a channel around the bone.”

  Eager to please, he sat down cross-legged, his back to the sun, and began to work slowly and carefully.

  Jessica paused for a moment and watched him, then asked, “Will he mind you working at this, do you think?”

  Whitey looked up. “Who?”

  “Mr. Burnett?”

  “Hell . . . pardon me, ma’am, heck no. He told me to help you out. That’s what I’m here for.”

  Once more she dipped into her huge leather bag and withdrew her notebook, pen, and ink. Frowning, Jessica picked up a rock, examined it quickly, and tossed it aside before she sat down and stretched her legs and propped her book on her thighs. Squinting against the sun, she began to make notations.

  RORY’S APPALOOSA splashed through a slowly meandering stream as he rode in the shadow of a high butte, pushing the remnants of a small herd of cattle. A gray-brown rock wren sang out before he startled it into flight from its perch on a wind-twisted piñon pine. He called out to the cattle, whistled sharply, and waved his hat to keep them moving into the nearby box canyon where they could graze until morning. There was enough feed and water in the canyon to keep them happy, and at first light he would return with two men to move them back to the ranch proper, where he had begun to collect the herd he intended to sell off.

  Tamping down his irritation, he wondered why he hadn’t seen any of his crew all afternoon. He’d told them to scatter and round up as many strays as they could, but it was odd he hadn’t come across any of them yet. With Whitey over at the women’s camp, he was short a good hand.

  Rory wondered how the boy was faring with both women on his hands. It had been two days since he’d left them and he intended to see for himself before another day passed. He hollered again, waved his hat over his head, and shooed the last of the cattle into the canyon, then began pushing them along the creek so that they would head upstream toward the steep sandstone walls.

  Within an hour he had the simpleminded creatures boxed into a canyon filled with enough sage and sparse grass to keep them happy until morning. Turning Domino about, he then spurred the big horse toward Jessica’s camp. Before he’d gone more than a few yards, he drew Up Snort at the sight of two Ute making their way down the steep hillside. Rory recognized Piah’s tall black hat and the band of conchos, silver medallions that flashed in the sunlight. The other was far smaller, a youth Rory recognized as Piah’s nephew, Chako. Unexpected irritation pricked him. His visit to Jessica’s camp would have to be postponed awhile longer.

  They met on a rise at the mouth of the canyon. The stream behind
them chanted as it bubbled over the rocky bed. Rory dismounted and let Domino wander over to the stream, where the big horse drank heartily and then contented itself with a mouthful of thick grass growing at the water’s edge. Piah dismounted and led his horse by a rough hemp halter until the two men stood within arm’s length of each other. The youth remained astride a big bay and waited beside the stream, watching the cattle lazily amble along the canyon floor.

  Rory stared at Piah and waited for him to speak. The man’s overlarge hat shaded the upper half of his face and kept Rory from reading the emotion in his haunting dark eyes.

  Piah finally spoke first. “I have come to thank you for taking the women off the mesa.”

  Rory thought it was far more likely that Piah and his nephew had come to rustle a wandering steer, but he knew the Utes needed the meat as much as he could afford to spare it.

  Toeing a curled lizard skin lying in the dust, Rory shrugged. “Don’t thank me yet. They’re still on my land, still searching for bones of the giant thunder lizards. I can’t guarantee they won’t want to go back up the mesa.”

  He watched the other man’s lips compress into a taut line. “The spirits cannot be stopped if they do.”

  Rory’s own expression darkened as he pinned Piah with a determined stare. “They will be stopped if you are wise.”

  “Your father was a friend of the People,” Piah began. When Rory tried to interrupt, the Ute silenced him by waving his hand downward. “Because of this I will tell you what I have learned from a cousin just returned from the land of the Paiutes. A great prophet, Wovoka, has foretold of a time that will come soon—a time of miracles when the whites will die and the dead spirits of our ancestors and those of the great buffalo will rise up and take over the earth again. If these women are wise”—he nodded at Rory—“if you are wise, you will leave this land and go east, where you can stand and fight with your own kind.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” Rory said softly, “I’ve read of this new religion and the Ghost Dance.”

  Indeed, the papers were full of news of the new Indian messiah whose teachings were rapidly spreading through the reservations. Rory didn’t expect that the native people would dismiss this new religion lightly—not when their old ways had rapidly deteriorated as the reservations closed in ever tighter.

  “I’m afraid it’s going to take more than a dance to bring your people back—not to mention the buffalo.” A niggling warning prickled the hair on the back of Rory’s neck. He recognized the intense look of a zealot in Piah’s ebony eyes.

  In answer to Rory’s casual dismissal of his warning, Piah turned away. The steady breeze that blew through the canyon lifted the man’s long hair and sent his words drifting back to Rory. “You may not believe, Burnett, but things will change, and far sooner than you think. A new way is coming as surely as the coyote howls at the moon.”

  “I won’t hold my breath,” Rory told him.

  Piah’s warning reminded Rory of Jessica. He glanced toward the afternoon sky. It was getting late. If he was going to pass by her camp before dark, he’d best be on his way.

  Piah spoke again. “If the woman finds the cave—”

  “She won’t find the cave.” Rory looked over at the slim, long-haired youth astride the huge bay horse and wondered how many others on the reservation shared Piah’s views. As he thought of many of his Ute friends, he remembered the annual Fourth of July celebration at the Silver Sage. The Burnetts had always invited all the neighboring ranchers, their hands, and any Utes who cared to join in. “Ghosts or no ghosts, I’m planning on holding the barbecue and rodeo at the ranch as usual this year. Tell your people they are invited.”

  Piah frowned. “Some will come.”

  Rory turned away and grabbed Domino’s reins from where they trailed to the ground. He swung easily up into the saddle and left Piah standing in the dust. “Good. They’ll be welcome. Bring the ghosts if they’re back in town by then.”

  JESSICA WAS CERTAIN she’d never be clean again. Sandy grit had seeped through her clothes and into her very pores. The air inside the tent was close and warm, Myra’s cot and the floor around it a study in upheaval. Books lay open on the makeshift bedside table. Clothing was draped over the woman’s cot. Her trunk stood open at the end of the bed. Jessica didn’t know how Myra could function comfortably in such a mess—the woman brushed aside the pile of clothes and climbed under it to sleep—but the lack of order never bothered Myra.

  In exact opposition, every item of clothing on Jessica’s own side of the wide tent was either carefully folded away in her trunk or hanging from the support pole. Her toilet articles were lined up alongside the china washbowl she now filled with tepid water from the bucket they refilled from water barrels strapped to the wagon. She supposed it was her early training in paleontology that made her so organized. There was no room for disorganization in a museum laboratory.

  She dipped her washcloth into the tepid water and squeezed it dry, then swabbed it across her face and neck with a sigh of relief. Leaning over the washbowl, she stared at her reflection in the small oval mirror nailed to a support pole and looked at the freckles dusting the bridge of her nose with chagrin. Try as she might, it was impossible to suffer wearing her helmet all day. More and more she had come to relish the feel of the warm, dry wind in her hair and the sun on her face. She was paying for such frivolity with the spattering of freckles and sunburn.

  “Teatime, Jessica!”

  Myra’s voice penetrated the privacy afforded by the canvas wall of the tent.

  Jessica swabbed her face again and called out, “I’ll be right there.”

  With the day’s work behind her, she started to change into a clean shirtwaist then thought better of the idea. In minutes it would be as wrinkled and dirty as the rest of her things. Instead she rebuttoned her blouse and straightened it as best she could, pulled back her hair and wound it into a tight knot, and then rammed a decorative tortoiseshell fork into it to hold it in place. The tortoiseshell reminded her that Methuselah, still roaming his makeshift pen, needed to be fed. Hooking the wire stems of her glasses over her ears, she was ready to join the others.

  Jessica bit back a smile as she ducked beneath the tent flap and saw Whitey seated on the edge of a chair with one of her fragile teacups and saucers balanced awkwardly on his knees. The dark-haired youth was always trying his best to please.

  “Can I help with anything, Myra?” she asked.

  “Not at all, dear. Please just sit down. You two have been in the hot sun all afternoon. I’m sure it’s been draining. Me, I can’t stand the hot sun.” She had been reminding them of that fact for two days now. “This awning that Whitey so kindly erected for us is wonderful. Why, now I can enjoy the great outdoors all day and still be protected from the burning rays of the—”

  “Myra?” Jessica interrupted gently.

  “Oh, yes. Where was I?” She hustled over to the cook bench, a long board stretched out over two barrels and covered with their kitchen utensils and supplies. “I’ve put together a light snack of Dutch-oven-baked biscuits and tea. Actually I experimented by adding a little extra sugar and some currants and have come up with a tea scone I think you’ll enjoy.” She bent over and filled their plates with the biscuits and added a dollop of raspberry preserves to each.

  “They look delicious.” Jessica was grateful for her companion’s willingness to take over the cooking, and she meant her compliment as Myra set the plate before her.

  Whitey took a sip of tea and leaned back, stretching his long legs under the table. “That jam sure looks good enough to eat.” He smiled and Myra beamed.

  “Why, thank you, Whitey. I made it myself back in Boston.”

  “Sure wish we had a decent cook back at the ranch. I’m gonna miss the fine meals you put together.”

  Myra paused in the middle of peering down into
the teapot and looked up at him. “You have no cook?”

  “Oh, we got one all right, but what Scratchy sets out can’t be likened to food.”

  Frowning with concentration as she set down the pot and then passed the sugar bowl, Myra said, “I can’t believe a ranch with strong, hungry cowhands like yourself doesn’t have a decent cook. Jessica is a wonderful cook—”

  Jessica’s voice held a warning. “Myra—”

  “—she’d be an asset to any man’s home, or ranch for that matter.”

  Whitey turned adoring calf eyes on Jessica. “I know that, ma’am.”

  Blushing under such intensely open admiration, Jessica fiddled with the button at her throat. “Actually, I hate housekeeping. I find it boring.” She glanced up and found them both staring at her. Myra was smiling, Whitey moon-eyed. “You are both embarrassing me. I think it’s time—”

  She was interrupted when Whitey abruptly stood and stared in the direction of two riders silhouetted against the sun. They were approaching fast.

  “Oh, my,” Myra said, looking worried. “I’m not sure if I have enough scones for two more.”

  “That is the least of our worries,” Jessica told her before she walked over to Whitey, who watched with one hand shading his eyes. She asked, “Is it trouble, do you think?” He waited a moment longer as the two figures grew closer and took on recognizable characteristics, then he shook his head. “No. Not trouble, just a nuisance.”

  Jessica couldn’t help but hear his disgruntled tone. “You know them?”

  “Yeah. That tall one that looks like a beanpole on a horse is Fred Hench. He’s like to talk your leg off. The other one, the one that looks wide as his mount, that’s Woody Barrows. We call him Wheelbarrow. They ride for Burnett.”

  “Do you think they’re bringing news?”

  “Naw.” He shook his head again and stomped back to his chair. He sat down hard and picked up his cup and saucer. “They’re supposed to be out roundin’ up cattle for the drive. My guess is they come for a look-see.”