Though, maybe I was also just a tiny bit lonely.
On that note, and with the wine glass empty and rain clouds beginning to slide in to wink out the stars, I went inside.
I’d be around plenty of people tomorrow.
DAY THREE
SATURDAY
Chapter Eleven
Warren Fisk was right. It rained hard overnight. But now it was bright and warmer than the past couple days. Back to summer after the visit to autumn.
The place was buzzing when I arrived with Diana in the Newsmobile, an indestructible vehicle of KWMT-TV lore, including having no shock absorbers or springs in the seat. The Newsmobile could get anywhere … and its occupants felt every inch of the journey.
The recreation of the miners’ camp sat low on the slope opposite the spectators, with a wagon, several tethered horses, a campfire coming to life, and props placed around, such as bedrolls, cooking pots, panning supplies, a wooden water bucket, ropes, and more.
The blue tarps remained, stirring more today under the remaining influence of last night’s rain. Thanks to periodic gusts displacing the bottoms and edges of this outdoor version of a stage curtain, we saw miner and Native American reenactors mingling, chatting, and tending to horses.
Spectators already occupied the gentler slope, with the creek between the two sides.
The spectators included a clump of the camp-goers in their themed t-shirts, discreetly herded by adults.
One of those adults was Thomas David Burrell.
As I’ve said, we have a history.
No future, based on his view that our indeterminate status was confusing and detrimental to his daughter, but definitely a history. Of some sort.
I suspected Tamantha was a heck of a lot better equipped to deal with uncertainty than either he or I was, but she’s his daughter and I respect his looking out for her welfare, even if the consequence is a distance between us that makes me sad.
“Ahem.” Diana cleared her throat.
“I saw him.”
At that moment he also saw me.
After a slight pause, he nodded.
You have not been nodded at until you’ve been nodded at by a tall man standing in strong sunlight wearing a cowboy hat. The shade of that brim is like a shutter coming down over his face. It’s a greeting and a door closed in your face.
In this instance, a fine metaphor for the situation.
I raised a hand and produced a brief smile, then faced Diana.
“Okay, we go to work now. You need anything from me?”
“Nope,” she said cheerfully, but her eyes said she was concerned about me.
I was glad that all my eyes said to her at the moment was sunglasses.
“I’m off to find the powers that be for any updates. We’ll meet back here right after the reenactment.” I checked my phone. “Good. We have connection, so we can call to stay in touch.”
Diana immediately went to work with her camera, getting scene coverage of the audience. Without discussion, I knew she’d get set-ups of the miners’ camp and preparations behind the tarps.
She’d also shoot the actual reenactment. We’d finish with comments from participants and watchers.
I sighed and surveyed the scene, assessing where to start.
Mrs. P, of course.
My path toward the blue-tarp enclosed area took me past knots of people, a number of whom I’d met over the past months.
I successfully kept moving while saying hello to Jean Chalmers from Chalmers Travel, Viv Eckhart, a neighbor of Jennifer’s family, and Mrs. George, a neighbor of Tom’s and sometimes babysitter for Tamantha. Then I waved to Linda Caswell and Connie Walterston, both friends and seated together in prime spots. That broke my on-a-mission concentration long enough that I was caught for more than a hello.
The catcher was Verona Fuller, an insurance agent who’d done a no-holds-barred on-air interview for a “Helping Out!” segment on insurance fraud inflicted on customers by unscrupulous insurance sellers. It remained one of my favorites.
“…and this is Paige Schmidt,” she added after our hellos. “She now owns the estate sale business near the Haber House Hotel and I’ve persuaded her to join our women in business group.”
“Paige and I have met,” I said with a smile and a handshake. She was a lot less jumpy than when I’d met her before. Maybe being the boss did that for her. “What brings you to today’s event?”
“Nadine Hulte works for the business now.”
“Works for you,” Verona urged in an undertone. “Your business.”
Paige ducked her head in a combination of acceptance and avoidance. “The business needs more than one person — there’s so much to do — and she knows a lot about history. Not that we’re specialists in antiques or—”
“You handle antiques. In the rare instance when you might need to consult a specialist, you have a roster of helpful contacts,” Verona amended.
If Verona had taken Paige under her wing for business coaching, the younger woman would surely learn a lot … if she didn’t smother.
“I suppose. Anyway, Nadine helps with the clean-out and setting up. Not full-time—”
“Yet. But when the business expands…”
“—but she’s real helpful. You were totally right about her, Verona.”
“I was certain she was the right person for you. Though I haven’t seen her in a while, when I’d have expected to a few weeks ago. I was chatting a couple days ago about that to a new client who came in to see if damage to his new truck was covered. He was lucky it was so little,” she confided to me. “Hitting animals can cause so much damage.”
“Oh, dear. I’ve been keeping her so busy,” Paige said. “Although maybe she got insurance from Kamden Graf. I saw her Thursday with him and your new client outside the Ferguson house. I couldn’t believe that even with all she’s doing she was picking up things needing to be disposed of and—”
She broke off at Verona’s outraged glare. Remembering Clara saying only two people offered the insurance they needed, I deduced Kamden Graf was Verona’s rival in that market, and she would not take well to Nadine switching to him.
“I, uh, I hope I haven’t taken advantage of her,” Paige faltered with an anxious look toward her mentor. “She’s such a hard worker—”
“You have not taken advantage of her,” the older woman relented. “Don’t apologize for giving someone employment. It’s great that you’ve had so much business, mostly brought in by word of mouth.”
“Uh-huh. And for the past few weeks we were doing that big old house I told you about where the woman kept everything for fifty years and then her husband continued on since she died.”
“Oh, yes. The Fergusons,” Verona said.
The name sounded familiar, but the elusive memory of why hadn’t surfaced before Paige continued.
“And I do mean she kept everything. There were newspapers and bottles of pills and calendars and magazines from decades and decades ago. Why, it took Nadine a full day to get through that woman’s bathroom. Thank heavens there weren’t any dead, uh, rodents. But even so, I couldn’t have done that without Nadine. I was so worried we wouldn’t finish before all this takes up every second of her day, but we did because some of her time opened up, and she worked so hard. So, of course, I came here to support her.”
She shot a look toward Verona, looked guilty, and added in a totally different voice, “I would have come anyway, because it’s an important part of Cottonwood County’s history and as a woman business owner, I support all of our culture and history.”
After farewells, I left them with Verona beaming at the other woman.
“Good day, Elizabeth.”
I turned to find that Mrs. Parens, accompanied by Aunt Gee, had approached from my blind spot. I greeted them both, then asked, “What do you think of this new site for the reenactment?”
“Nice,” Aunt Gee said.
Mrs. Parens gave me a little more. “This setting provides twi
n benefits in being more accurate and offering more scope for the actions of the reenactments, this year and in the future.”
“I thought I’d ask people how they like the change.” And hope the people I talked to were more sound-bitable than either of these ladies have proven themselves to be.
“Look behind the scenes at the preparations.” Aunt Gee nodded toward the blue tarps. Their flutterings revealed vignettes of people — all men, reinforcing Nadine Hulte’s point of little about women and kids — in Nineteenth Century miner or Native American garb, mixed with those in modern day t-shirts and jeans, with the horses in the background. Among the modern-day folks, I recognized O.D. Everett and Anna Price-Fox directing the painting of symbols on the faces and bodies of the riders in red, white, blue, yellow. Clara Atwood and Nadine also had clusters around them, asking for guidance, decisions, help, or all three.
“No, thank you. I don’t want to ruin the illusion. For my first time, I want to see it strictly as a spectator.”
“You could stay down here for the usual spectator view and talk with those who have watched the events many times before.” Mrs. Parens did not approve of that idea.
“Or I could…?”
“If you are willing to take on a bit of a climb, you could gain a broader view.”
“One from the Native Americans’ viewpoint?”
“Oh, not that, precisely, because then you would need to be on horseback, in fact, bareback, as well as flouting historical accuracy of having a woman—”
“Much less a white woman,” Aunt Gee interposed.
“—in the attacking group.”
Discussion of my participating on horseback was academic.
Tamantha had gotten me into a saddle, I’d made progress from the most placid of horses to very placid, and didn’t make a fool of myself. I’d come to truly enjoy our rides. But not even Mrs. Parens was getting me out of a saddle on horseback.
“Short of me ruining the historical accuracy by joining in with the Native American group, how would I gain this broader view?”
“The reenactors representing the tribes will come from that opening.”
She pointed up.
The butte looked as if an ancient river had coursed along it, carving out designs in its striated surface. From here, what Mrs. P pointed at appeared to be simply a shadow in the irregular surface. I’d take her word for it there was an opening.
“That,” she continued, “will allow them to swoop down on the camp. You would gain a view from behind the Native American riders, seeing events from their point of view though not as a member of the party, if you loop to the left and climb up even with where they will emerge, while remaining back enough that you do not impinge on their movement.”
“Or get trampled,” Aunt Gee said.
“Nonsense, Elizabeth will not get trampled. However, you should not dally. The reenactment does not have a specific time to start, but it should be soon. You want to be in place and visible to the riders.”
With the image of trampling in my head, I did not dally.
At least at the start.
Chapter Twelve
I swung well left of the shadow I associated with Mrs. P’s opening. Then began the climb.
From this angle, I saw that the ancient river I imagined forming this landscape had, in one place, carved a channel between the main formation and a rock cluster the size of a two-story house. The area between was the opening Mrs. P referred to. Actually, it had two openings, one toward me, another toward the miners’ camp, tarps, and audience below. I suspected the openings connected behind the rock formation, but didn’t know for sure.
It felt solitary here. Quiet, except for the wind rushing to its next endeavor and the sweetly piercing whistle of the meadowlarks that cut through it.
The climb became hard enough that I used my hands to balance at times. Never for hand-holds, because the ground was covered in skittery stones and dirt that offered no handhold.
I’d like to say that was also when I began panting. But I’d started that much earlier.
Finally, I reached a spot that gave me a view of the opening on my side behind the house-sized rock and seemed far enough away from the opening closer to the audience to ensure I was out of trampling territory.
I was taking video with my phone — not with any thought to air it, but as a memory aid — when nine riders came out from behind the tarps below and started a leisurely diagonal route across the slope, heading toward the other opening, the one closer to them.
All male, all riding bareback. A couple appeared to have leggings on, the others wore loin cloths, and nothing else except the paint I’d seen them acquiring on body and face.
I thought of some of the spots of my anatomy that got sore when I rode and winced vicariously for them.
But it didn’t seem to bother them at all. They rode farther forward than someone in a saddle, more on the horse’s withers than the middle of the back.
With a quarter of the distance left to go, three riders pulled to a stop for a brief discussion. With that completed, they used their heels to urge their horses to catch up.
Either the other horses or their riders weren’t prepared to cede the lead. They leapt forward, racing to be the first to the opening cluster. As they came closer, I saw the paint formed designs and picked out a symbol here and there, despite their speed.
The smallest rider, who’d been closest when the rush started, disappeared from my view behind the rock cluster first.
A sound came, distorted by echoes to the point that I couldn’t tell absolutely if it came from rider or horse.
The others were right after him, the ones from behind catching up, then overtaking the main group, and all of them thundering into the gap that took them out of my view.
More sounds registered, and now I knew they were human. Most cut short, but feeling even more urgent because of that. And not in keeping with the apparent good nature of the race to reach the opening on their side of the rock formation.
Were they practicing in preparation to turning around and descending on the miners with whoops? What I heard didn’t sound war-whoopy to me, although my expectations might be deluded from movies and TV.
Some sort of ceremonial preparation?
But the miners weren’t all in place yet, with most still behind the tarps, as I saw from this height. The riders would be able to see the same thing.
And these sounds didn’t fit a ceremonial preparation, either. They gave me an impression of confusion. Or worse.
Then a rider emerged from the opening nearer me. He was in his late teens or early twenties, one of the three who’d pulled up for the consultation, and he rode the horse I’d picked out as the fastest in the dash to the rock formation, outstripping most of the group, despite the others’ lead.
His horse shied and sidestepped. The rider handled that with easy confidence.
But his body language and expression conveyed neither ease nor confidence.
He made eye contact with me and jerked his head back toward the opening.
I started toward him as fast as I could.
He disappeared into the opening, which obviously did extend all the way behind the rock formation.
As I followed, I pulled out my phone. Don’t know who I meant to call, but no connection made that question moot.
Rounding the near edge of the large formation, I saw that the opening between it and the curve of the main butte widened back here into a fat crescent moon with enough room for eight times as many horses and riders as occupied it now.
A couple of the riders were still astride. They held the reins of the other horses, up against the wall formed by the butte.
The rest, including the rider who’d summoned me, were on foot, in a semicircle halfway to the front wall. They parted as I neared.
A body was on the ground.
Chapter Thirteen
The body was curled over on itself. As if someone in the fetal position had turned from his s
ide to mostly on his front, with the crown of his head in the dirt and his face toward his chest. That chest was presumably as bare as the rounded back that presented itself to the sky.
No, not directly to the sky, because the rock formation was cupped, leaving an overhang protruding fifteen feet off the ground, as if half of a deck umbrella extended out of the rock. A small bush sprung up along the rock, as if it, too, protected the body.
A flash of red caught my eye.
Blood?
No.
On the one shoulder visible, marks in red and yellow resembled what I’d seen on the warriors on horseback.
One cowboy boot was mostly tucked under the body, the other was turned out, a dusty, partial hoof print showing on the darker surface. As I neared, I saw a tear in the bottom of the jeans. Higher, the bare back bore impressions of blows. Nothing as perfect as a hoofprint, but the general shape was right. The upper back, neck, and head were close to the base of the rock wall, hampering my view of it.
Yet the jeans, the boots, and the apparent age of the body did not match any of these riders.
I shifted my weight, leaning to the side for a better view.
The red and yellow colors I saw on that shoulder were matched on the upper back. All were faded, some eroded, with rivulets of flesh revealed. And now, lower, I saw faint remnants that indicated more marks had once been there.
No blood.
I scanned the body and the dirt around it again.
Definitely, no blood.
One of the reenactors crouched beside the body. The summoner was behind me, to my right. The others retreated another step.
Pitching my voice to the crouched guy, I said, “If he’s dead, you shouldn’t—”
“Aleek’s checking,” the summoner said. “He’s training as a paramedic.
I was confident I knew the answer, but the paramedic-in-training was already next to the body, his footprints clear, no sense making an issue of it now.
“Not a paramedic yet,” he mumbled.
Body Brace (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 10) Page 6
