Noble was watching her closely.
She lifted her chin and spoke with quiet dignity. “You are correct. It was thoughtless of me. But I will still, somehow, make the journey to my uncle’s camp.”
Crooked Hand watched the interplay between McCaneaghy and the skinny little woman. With all the whites nattering at once, it was hard to comprehend their conversation. That was one of the many problems his people, the Utes, had communicating with these interlopers. They were overwhelmingly rude, constantly talking over one another, like squawking ravens. Only by carefully listening had he been able to unravel their conversation. Apparently the woman wanted them to take her to Mil-Ton and the men did not like the idea.
The idea wasn’t intelligent enough to warrant dislike.
“Why do you turn your back on this woman, when it is clear you have a care for her, McCaneaghy?” Trees-Too-High asked curiously.
Noble made a gesture of frustration. In his halting Ute, he said, “She . . . she not my tribe. What I want makes no matter. She needs go with some man to her father’s brother’s camp.”
Only good manners kept Crooked Hand from cringing. McCaneaghy had meant to honor the Ute nation by learning their tongue, but he was completely inept at the rich subtleties of the language.
“You go with her,” Crooked Hand said.
Noble shook his head. “Woman belongs to this other man’s camp. She should not with me be.”
Crooked Hand frowned, trying to understand. “‘Be’ with you? You mean she should not lie with you?”
“No!” Noble nearly shouted.
Crooked Hand thoughtfully tugged on his ear, trying to make sense of this. “Why?” he finally asked.
“Because I cannot keep her!”
The other whites had finally stopped their incessant chattering and were looking at them.
“The other man,” Crooked Hand said, “he could keep her?”
“Yes!” Noble bit out the word and with it he seemed to surrender the fierceness from his long body. “Yes.”
“What is he saying, Noble?” the boy asked.
Crooked Hand sighed. It was better to speak in English anyway. It sounded cramped and ugly no matter who spoke it.
“Okay, then. One of these men take the woman to Mil-Ton’s camp,” he said in English.
The woman’s eyes—gray, like a gosling’s down— widened. She took a step toward Noble. Crooked Hand could see the pleading in her. McCaneaghy answered as if she voiced a need, his body bending toward her before halting. Crooked Hand could feel him fighting her unvoiced request.
He was going to lose. The woman’s power over him was too strong. Crooked Hand could see it as clearly as the scar on a lightning-marked pine. McCaneaghy did not stand a chance.
Suddenly, the other white man—the older man with the hair under his nose—barked out, “If you want to journey to your uncle’s encampment, Miss Leiland, I will of course be honored if you would accept my company. I am sure these . . . people will guide us,” he said.
The woman looked around. Her cool eyes, which were so hot when she looked at McCaneaghy, flickered uncertainly between the two older white men.
“I’ll take you up to yore uncle’s camp, Miz Leiland!” the boy said. “I’ll make sure you’re all tucked in at night and no big, bad bears comes prowling around.”
“Stuff it, Blaine,” McCaneaghy said.
“I mean it, Noble. I’d be proud as he—as kin be to escort Miz Leiland!”
“Looks like you got yourself a pair of gallants to choose from, Venice.” McCaneaghy’s tone was wry and the woman turned the color of ripe juniper berries.
“We will take this white woman and her chosen companion for a fee,” Trees-Too-High declared. “Tomorrow morning, before sun rises.”
“A fee?” asked the woman.
“Yes,” Trees-Too-High said. “One hundred dollars.”
“That’s absurd!” sputtered the man, Cassius.
“Leaves me out,” mumbled the boy, scratching his head.
“I will, of course, be willing to pay the guide fee and any additional costs for whoever accompanies me.” The woman’s gaze touched McCaneaghy. “As Noble has pointed out, I cannot ask these men to take me alone.”
Crooked Hand could see the muscles jump in McCaneaghy’s cheek.
“No, madame,” said the hairy man. “I cannot allow you to spend your money when I alone shall reap the benefits of your delightful company.”
“I sure can’t ask you to pay my way, ma’am,” the boy said apologetically. “My mama would have my ears on a plate if’n I so much as thought of it.”
“Looks like Cassius here is the only one who can afford you,” McCaneaghy said. “As it should be. You’ll be better off with someone who knows what fork to use. Never know when you might need to pop open an oyster shell.”
“There’s a thread of sense in McCaneaghy’s drivel. Please be assured, I’ll see to your . . . comfort.”
Something in the man Cassius’s tone made McCaneaghy bolt one step forward. He stopped suddenly, the tension in the air nearly palatable.
The Cassius man ignored him. “We’ll make an adventure of it, shall we?” he asked the woman.
“I . . . well . . .” Her gaze darted pleadingly toward Noble, who was fiercely studying the floorboards. “I guess, I mean . . . that is, thank you, Mr. Reed. I’d appreciate your company,” she finished unhappily.
“It’s settled then!” Cassius exclaimed. “We’ll have a smashing time. Doing the explorer stint and all.”
“For God’s sake!” Noble strode to the door. “When you decide when you’re going to commence this ‘adventure,’ tell me. I got some things I’ve been meaning to send up to Milt.” He slammed the door behind him.
The woman spent two heartbeats watching the closed door, her expression sad. Disgusted, Crooked Hand touched Trees-Too-High’s arm, signaling for them to leave. He’d spent more than enough time in the whites’ company for one day.
As the hostess, it was Venice’s duty to begin the party by welcoming her guests. Her mind, however, kept slipping back to Noble.
“Honey?” Venice heard Katie say next to her.
“Yes?”
“There’s nearly four hundred people milling about here waiting for a signal from you to commence partyin’. This is yer chance to say somethin’ bout you bein’ in Salvage and what fer. Tell ‘em somethin’ nice, Venice,” Katie urged in a gentle voice. “These folks have lived and worked in this no-count town for years and they’re afraid yore gonna make it so they have to leave. The ladies especially”
“The ladies?”
“Yeah. The Convivial Ladies.” Katie motioned toward the women clustered together near the outer edges of the crowd. Their sunburnt faces were alight with interest, wreathed in smiles.
“They’re good women who’ve left homes back East to make a life out here. They’re the kind of women who turn territories into states. That’s why they’re here, honey. To make Salvage a permanent kinda place. A place to raise kids and build houses. And they’re willin’ to work hard. Damn hard. But they need to know they haven’t set roots on rocky ground. You tell ‘em, Venice. And don’t use no five-buck words!”
Venice stared at Katie. Who’d have thought Katie would be spouting Biblical allusions and so eloquently championing a group of women who normally wouldn’t so much as raise a hand in greeting to her? Venice nodded and Katie started clearing the center of one of the trestle tables.
Lifting her skirts, Venice stepped up onto the seat.
“Any particular reason you wants to be standing on this table, Miz Leiland?” one of the men asked politely.
“Ah, yes. I wanted to talk to the people a minute.”
“You want I should get this herd to listen to you, Miz Leiland?”
“That would be very kind, indeed, sir.”
“Frank Fields, ma’am,” the man said. “We had lunch together over at the Gold Dust the other day.” Still smiling, he reached inside h
is thick wool coat, withdrew a pistol, and held it high above his head. “I’d plug my ears if’n I was you, miss.”
Just in time, Venice stuck her fingers in her ears. The pistol report shot across the field, reverberating off the walls of the surrounding mountains.
“Listen up!” shouted the man.
Venice looked down at the expectant, wary faces turning toward her. With the right words, she could be a hero tonight. She could fair make these people like her. And she wanted that. Very much.
“Hello! I am Venice Leiland.”
“Shoot, honey, we knows who you are!” someone yelled. The general noise level rose as people started laughing and calling to her.
“All right. You know who I am. And you think you know why I’m here. But you’re wrong!” Conversation dwindled to a trickle. A few people murmured uncomfortably.
“I am not here to close down the spur line!”
Someone whooped and another hollered “Hooray.” The crowd started buzzing again. Hastily, Venice held up her hand for silence.
“Eight years ago, my uncle approached the Leiland Foundation and asked them to sponsor his search for prehistoric fossils in the Colorado Territory. That request was honored. That funding has been responsible for the supply line running from the East to Denver and up here. In other words, the Leiland-Hawkness Spur Line.”
“We know that!”
“So?” someone called out.
“So, my uncle has spent seven years exploring these mountains for . . .” She looked around. No big words. “. . . old bones. Without success. When my uncle left earlier this year neglecting to payroll the spur line, the Denver office contacted the foundation. The situation was reviewed and the recommendation made that any further funding of expeditions in this territory be terminated . . . along with the spur line.”
Unhappy murmurs rose from the crowd.
“Listen. Please! I didn’t come here to personally close down the spur line, like you all seem to fear. If I had, it would be closed by now.”
“Then why’d you want all them papers and ledgers and stuff?” a man hollered.
“Because I wanted to determine if Salvage could survive without the spur line.”
“Hell, Miz Leiland, the spur line is Salvage.” The mob buzzed concurrence.
“I know that now!” Venice called back.
The people around her shifted.
“I came to Salvage to see if there weren’t something we could do to persuade the foundation that Salvage merited the sponsorship of the Leiland Foundation all by itself.”
“I thought you come to Salvage ‘cause your daddy kicked you outta New York.”
Venice stared out into the crowd and laughed. These people were never going to allow a person to dissemble.
“Fair enough!” she called, still laughing. “I was exiled. But I didn’t have to go to Salvage! And I have come to help you. But I believe that the necessity for my intervention is now in question.”
“Say what?”
“It appears Salvage might not need my help. If what my uncle’s note suggests is indeed true, the Leiland-Hawkness Spur Line will make the Salvage run for many years to come. Listen.” In a loud, clear voice that carried over the silent crowd, she read her uncle’s note.
“What’s it mean?” asked an excited voice near her.
“I believe my uncle has found what he’s looking for. In other words, there are bones in them thar mountains!”
The cheers started in front and swelled back through the crowd, hoarse with relief and happiness. Hats soared into the sky, borne on the stiffening evening breeze. Men and women clapped each other on the back.
Venice beamed at the happy, laughing mob. “Salvage! Let’s have a party!” she called.
No further encouragement was necessary. A fiddle sang to life and a horn called back in gay harmony. A skirt flashed and suddenly the people of Salvage were dancing.
Venice was stepping down from the table when Tim Gilpin placed a hand at her elbow and lifted her to the ground. He alone of three hundred some men didn’t look very happy.
“Mr. Gilpin?”
“Miss Leiland. What if you’re wrong?” he blurted out in a gruff voice. “What if your uncle hasn’t found any fossils?”
Venice met his worried look steadily. “Then I’m afraid we’re back where we started,” she said quietly. “Don’t worry Mr. Gilpin. In the larger world my uncle is a renowned paleontologist.” She put a hand on Tim’s arm. “Tonight, at least, don’t worry.”
She angled past him, nearly colliding with the Grundy brothers.
“Well, shit. I guess this means our job ain’t done yet,” she heard one of them say. She hadn’t gone another fifteen feet before she was dancing in the arms of an enthusiastic miner. Within five minutes, she’d forgotten all about the Grundys’ “job.”
Chapter 11
“Cayuse Katie Jones somewhere around?” Anton Grundy asked Noble as he peered into the darkened barroom.
Lord, what a moose, thought Noble. Aloud he said, “Haven’t seen her for a while, Anton.”
“Crap.” Anton blinked down at the burlap bag he held in one enormous paw and then toward the party going on in the field around him. “Well, give ‘er this when she come. Tell ‘er she owes me two dollars. I ain’t gonna stand ‘round waitin’ on her while everyone elst drinks up all Miz Leiland’s fancy likker.” He waved his hand in the direction of the meadow.
Venice’s shindig was in full swing. Probably not a moment too soon, either. Unless Noble missed his guess, the string of clear days the territory had enjoyed was about to come to an abrupt end.
It was getting darker by the minute. Late afternoon clouds, shredded on the jagged peaks of the surrounding mountains, had disappeared beneath a slow rolling bank of sulfur-tinted thunderheads. Sudden gusts of wind danced the Chinese lanterns on their wires and rustled the paper skirts nailed to the tables.
“Sure will,” Noble said when he realized Anton was waiting for him to answer.
Anton tossed the sack on the porch. “That’s two bucks. Tell her.” He turned, lumbering off into the crowd, muttering, “Them things is hard to catch . . .”
“You’re welcome,” Noble said, lifting his mug after Anton’s retreating bulk. He leaned against the makeshift bar Katie had set up on the Gold Dust’s back porch, feeling a little tipsy and not at all unappreciative of that fact. The bar was nothing more than a plank set across a couple of rain barrels and hung with a tablecloth. Nailed to the front was a sheet of paper that read FREE BOOZE.
Except for Noble, there wasn’t anyone taking up the generous offer. He understood the lack of interest. The bitter burn of the cheap whiskey clung to the inside of his mouth.
Noble grimaced down at his tin mug. As far as he could tell, everyone was making sure every last drop of champagne Venice had shipped up was finished well before the storm broke—everyone except him.
He took another swig just as Katie rounded the corner in time to see the look of revulsion on his face. Gamely, Noble tried to hide his loathing.
“Ah, Anton Grundy was just here,” he said. “He left that sack for you.”
Katie’s eyes widened and she darted over, scooping up the bag. She wheeled to face Noble.
“Said you owed him two bucks.”
“Two bucks!” Katie’s voice rose.
Noble shrugged. “That’s what he said.”
“Two bucks for—for a—” She glanced down at the bag. “Moth-eaten bolt of calico?”
“Whatever,” Noble said disinterestedly. Katie grinned. “What’s with the free liquor?” Noble lifted a brow questioningly.
Katie leaned over the bar, glancing in both directions before confiding in a low voice, “That Frenchie stuff ain’t gonna last another fifteen minutes. Once that’s gone, folks are gonna remember about good, old Katie giving away free liquor and come running. Only when they hit the porch they’re gonna discover it ain’t free any more, and I’m gonna make a killing” She slapped her h
and, palm down, on the plank.
Admiration made Noble smile. “You’re quite a savvy businesswoman, Miss Jones.”
“Cayuse Katie, hon,” Katie said gruffly and glanced down at the bag in her hand as though just remembering it. She straightened. “I gotta put this away,” she said, opening the back door and slipping inside.
“Not that I don’t like the company, mind you, but why ain’t you at the party?” Her voice floated back to him from the darkened barroom. “Everyone’s havin’ a grand time of it. Dang, I fergot to lock up the office. Be right back.” Her voice trailed off.
Noble shot another rancorous glance at the party going on around him. Everyone was having a fine old time.
There was wine, music, and food, an overabundance of food. The Convivial Ladies, not to be outdone by the soiled doves fluttering around their own cookfires, had obviously prepared to launch a counteroffensive. They had met the barrage of stews, meats, and vegetables with a volley of baked goods: fruit pies, raisin-studded turnovers, ginger cakes, buttery rolls, and flaky biscuits.
Most of the men, however, were more interested in finding a female to drape their arms around than in eating. Toward this end someone had dragged the piano out of Mrs. Gates’s front parlor and Mrs. Gates herself was pounding away on it while her husband displayed an unsuspected talent for sawing on a fiddle, and the Pay Dirt’s Mexican chef coaxed pulsating, vibrant notes from a battered horn.
Everyone seemed to be dancing. And no one danced more often, or more tirelessly, or more gaily, than Venice Leiland.
She’d made a fine recovery from her little fright at the railroad station, Noble thought sourly.
He had watched her give her little speech to Salvage, officially opening the party She had sounded concerned and sincere, as if the Leiland Foundation would do everything in its power to keep the spur line running.
But the cold, hard reality was that the existence of the spur line depended on just one thing— Milton’s finding prehistoric fossils.
Noble’s hand, braced on the porch column, tightened into a fist. There weren’t any “terrible lizard” bones here. He’d spent five years out here, scouring the mountains and the valleys and the washes, and he’d never seen anything that resembled a dinosaur bone. Neither had Milton. But that didn’t matter to Venice. She’d say whatever these folks wanted to hear. Anything for love.
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