The Silver Shooter

by Erin Lindsey

  “Well, you’re welcome to it,” the foreman said, sliding the trunk into the back of the wagon. “What’s left of it, anyways.”

  We finished loading up and climbed onto the buckboard. “So,” Thomas said as the wagon rattled into motion. “This is Medora.”

  “What’s left of it,” Charlie Morrison said again, with a sour twist of his mouth.

  “We’ve heard about the difficulties out here,” Thomas said. “Hard times.”

  “You could say that. Half the town’s upped stakes. Newspaper’s gone, and the hardware store. Not to mention the billiard bar, the oyster grotto … These days, about the only concern going is Granger’s Saloon. That and the hotel. Speaking of which…” He hauled on the reins, bringing us to a halt outside a white clapboard building.

  “We’re here already?” I glanced over what would be our home for the next few weeks, a bland structure of two floors with small, grimy-looking windows.

  “Ain’t a big place, ma’am.” Mr. Morrison jumped down and offered me a hand. “I’ll be here midmorning to take you down to Cougar Ranch. If you’re looking to get a photo of whatever’s been taking them animals, that’s the best place to start.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Morrison, what do you make of all this business?” Thomas asked. “What are we likely to find out there?”

  The foreman was silent a moment, his features inscrutable in the dark. “Whatever it is, I’d stay out of its way if I was you. I seen my share of blood and guts—begging your pardon, ma’am—but what that thing done to young Gareth Wilson…” He shook his head. “Best keep a shotgun on you, is all I can say.”

  “Sound advice. We’ll procure one first thing in the morning.”

  “Sleep well.” The foreman touched his hat and was on his way.

  The mention of sleep hit me like a spell. Suddenly, it was all I could do to keep my eyes open. Thomas and I headed into the hotel, and about half an hour later, I was curled up on a sagging bed, dozing off.

  I dreamed of monsters.

  * * *

  “A lion,” I told Thomas over breakfast the next morning. We sat in the small dining room on the ground floor of the hotel, pushing vaguely oatmeal-shaped sludge around in our bowls. “A lion the size of a mountain.”

  “Indeed? I didn’t realize mountain lion was quite so literal.”

  “Easy to make fun when you’re well rested.” I reached for the sugar, but decided against it when I saw the line of ants marching up and down the side of the bowl. I followed the procession with my gaze, tracing it across the ill-fitted floorboards all the way to a crack in the wall. From the look of it, ants weren’t the only thing coming and going through that crack, and I resolved to make sure my trunk stayed tightly sealed.

  “Actually,” Thomas said, “I couldn’t sleep either. I spent much of the night on the balcony, taking in the night air.”

  “Balcony?” I frowned. “My room barely has a window.”

  “Yes, it would appear that aside from being haunted, my room has the additional distinction of being the Presidential Suite.” Thomas’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Apparently, there was some hope of President Cleveland stopping here at one point, so they erected a balcony for him to oversee the parade they were planning. Alas, the townspeople were disappointed. He never came. A great shame for Cleveland, too, I should think. That parade would have been something to witness.”

  I glanced around the dining room, packed with whiskered ruffians who hadn’t seen a bath this side of Easter. “I think you’re right about that.”

  “Ah, here’s Roosevelt’s man.” Thomas waved at a figure in the doorway.

  We abandoned our breakfast without regret and headed outside, where Charlie Morrison waited with the buckboard and an extra horse. By the light of day, our guide revealed himself to be just the sort of hard-bitten fellow you’d expect of a cowboy, with craggy features and a bushy mustache that hid a great deal from the world.

  “Nice-looking bit of iron you got there,” he said, inclining his head at Thomas’s shiny new 12-gauge shotgun. “That the new repeater folks is all lathered up about?”

  “Indeed.” Thomas hefted the weapon, looking pleased. “It seems the gunsmith is moving on as well, so he was keen to unload his inventory. I made a number of splendid purchases.”

  “Lucky you. Anyways, we oughta hit the trail. You two take the wagon. I got Fletch here.” Morrison patted his horse and mounted up. Thomas took the reins of the buckboard, and we were off.

  We’d arrived in the dark, so I had yet to form much of an impression of the town, but the morning light revealed a glum scene. Medora lay scattered across a flat expanse of dust and sagebrush, hemmed in on either side by looming walls of rock. The main street was a muddy track flanked by false-front buildings, many of them boarded up. Behind them, chickens and the occasional stray hog picked their way between scruffy shacks of graying wood. Some of those looked abandoned too. Medora is in danger of becoming a ghost town, Mr. Roosevelt had said, and he hadn’t been exaggerating.

  The picture improved as we passed the outskirts of town, following the gentle arch of the Little Missouri River. Tufts of green started to appear in the parched earth, and the muck of the main road gave way to a hard-packed wagon trail. The cliffs blocked much of our view, but as we passed beyond their embrace, the landscape erupted into violent relief. Towering bluffs of rock and clay studded the horizon, forming a chaotic tableau of gold and green and rust. Rugged peaks glowed white under the sun, while shadows carved deep troughs in the clay. Coulees lined with cottonwood and willow cut between the buttes, carving a million branching pathways through a maze of stone and sagebrush. I’d grown up in a different kind of maze, one of brick and peeling paint stuffed with so many people that it could be hard to breathe. This vast, empty country was vaguely terrifying—and exhilarating in a way I can hardly describe. I’d never seen such a wild place. It made me want to unhitch the horse from the wagon and ride, just ride, until both of us were exhausted.

  “It’s quite remarkable,” Thomas said, his lean frame swaying along with the wagon. “If there’s any trace of civilization out there, I can’t see it.”

  “There’s a few ranches nearby,” Morrison said. “Normally, we’d be coming across some cattle by and by, but things is pretty quiet nowadays, what with the Great Die-Up.”

  The Great Die-Up. Like roundup, only deader. I recognized only too well the bleak humor of the destitute. We Irish practically invented it. “Were you here during the winter?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Worst I ever saw. Lost a lotta good folks.”

  Thomas and I exchanged a look. How could we ask more pointed questions about the winter without sounding strange? By the way, did it seem supernatural at all?

  “Was there a particular storm?” Thomas asked. “Or was it just generally very cold?”

  “Both. Mercury fell below fifty more ’n once. And there was this blizzard in January…” He shook his head. “Three full days, wind screaming like demons unleashed.”

  Demons. As analogies went, it seemed eerily on the nose.

  “Wind wasn’t the only thing screaming, neither.” Morrison’s gaze had taken on a faraway look. “Every night, you could hear the cows bellowing. Like they was begging for help. Until they wasn’t. After that it was so quiet. Quiet enough to drive you mad. Some folks decided they preferred the business end of a rifle rather than go on with it.”

  I shuddered. Suddenly, the rugged landscape didn’t seem quite so inviting.

  We continued on in silence, hugging the riverbank for several miles until eventually we came to a shallows. “Cougar Ranch is just over yonder,” Morrison said, indicating the far side of the river with a nod of his head. “We can cross here. Normally, I’d’ve done it a ways back, but the Little Misery is high this time of year.”

  Little Misery. More bleak humor, or was that just the local pronunciation of Missouri? I figured it would be rude to ask.

  We splashed across into a lush meadow. Sq
uinting, I could just make out the bulky outlines of cattle scattered across the green. Even from a distance, they looked thin and listless. “These are the strong ones,” Morrison said. “Those as could hold up through the weather. Or at least, they was.”

  A few minutes later, the ranch house came into view, a long bungalow sheltered in a stand of cottonwood trees. Behind it, the working part of the ranch was a hive of activity. Men crisscrossed the yard like ants, ferrying wheelbarrows and pails and bushels of feed. Someone was shoeing a horse in front of the barn, while another man loaded his pony with rope and branding irons. Meanwhile, on the far side of the yard, a young stallion pranced nervously in a riding arena, while a colored fellow in worn leather chaps approached the animal slowly, murmuring something consoling. A pair of ranch hands leaned against the fence, watching; Morrison rode over, and they chatted for a spell, their laughter carrying on the wind. Money was exchanged, and then Morrison headed back to us, calling, “Good luck to you, John,” over his shoulder. The cowboy in the arena nodded, but his eyes never left the stallion. The animal was watching him too, hooves stuttering against the hard earth.

  “Is he trying to break that horse?” Thomas asked. “It looks awfully agitated.”

  Morrison swung down from his saddle. “He’s full of piss and vinegar all right, but my money’s on John all the same.” He paused, looking embarrassed. “Beg your pardon, ma’am. Ain’t used to having ladies about.”

  I’d barely noticed, too busy watching the fellow in the arena. “Is it dangerous? Breaking a horse?”

  “Can be, but John’s been doing it since he was in short britches, so I reckon he’ll be just fine. This way.”

  We found the ranch owner, one Mr. Fergus Reid, reclining on a wide verandah overlooking the river. I could smell bread baking inside, but if there was a Mrs. Reid, she didn’t come out to greet us.

  “Mornin’, Gus,” said Charlie Morrison. “This here’s the photographer I was telling you about, Thomas Wiltshire. And his assistant, Miss Gallagher.”

  The rancher looked us over, but he didn’t get up from his chair. “Roosevelt’s friend.”

  “That’s right,” Thomas said. “Thank you for taking the time to see us.”

  “Englishman.” Reid grunted. “Figures.”

  “Does it?” Thomas smiled blandly. “Do you mind if we sit?”

  “Suit yourselves.” Our host continued to eye Thomas, taking in his silk ascot tie and engraved silver belt buckle, his perfectly tailored trousers and still-shiny boots. Even in the reinforced cotton known as denim, my partner somehow managed to look stylish, which probably wasn’t a point in his favor in these parts. I’m sure he knew that, but Thomas simply wasn’t capable of anything less than impeccable grooming, even if it marked him out as a dude.

  “As Mr. Morrison has no doubt explained, we’re here to photograph the mysterious creature everyone is talking about. I gather your stock has fallen prey more than once. If you have any information—”

  Reid cut him off with an impatient gesture. “Like I told Charlie, and Roosevelt before him, there ain’t no creature. Nothing in these woods is near strong enough to do what’s been done to them animals. This is the red man’s work, but if they think they can scare me off with all that hocus-pocus hoodoo of theirs, they are very much mistaken. All that jawin’ about a serpent-demon?” He leaned over and expelled a squirt of tobacco juice, in case we’d missed the contempt.

  “Serpent demon?” Thomas tilted his head.

  “Something to do with the Sioux,” Charlie Morrison explained. “A couple of their elders is saying it’s down to this demon from their folk tales. That’s the word, anyways, but nobody knows if they really believe that or if it’s just smoke.”

  “Meanwhile, preacher in town’s going on about the end times.” Reid waved his hands elaborately before treating us to another volley of spittle. Apparently, he didn’t discriminate when it came to religion; they were all equally worthy of the spittoon. “Ripe bunch of hogwash, all of it. This here’s a straightforward affair. The Indians got it in for us, plain and simple.”

  Why, Mr. Reid, I can hardly imagine why anyone would have it in for you. Aloud, I said, “Weren’t some of their horses taken too? The Sioux, I mean.”

  “So they say.”

  “Mr. Roosevelt saw the carcasses himself.”

  “How’s he gonna tell one set of horse bones from another? And even if it was their horses, what’s that prove? I can get Charlie here to sock me in the eye and say I was jumped by bandits, but that don’t make it so.”

  I didn’t know much about life out here, but it was plain to see that horses were important. The idea that the Sioux would slaughter their own animals just to throw some white ranchers off the scent seemed pretty far-fetched to me.

  Thomas thought so too, judging from the starch in his posture. “Mr. Morrison mentioned some tracks,” he said coolly. “Perhaps you might tell us about those?”

  “I weren’t the one saw ’em. That’d be John.” Reid hooked his thumb in the direction of the riding arena.

  “Want me to get him?” Morrison offered.

  “No need,” said a new voice, and I turned to find the man in question coming toward us. He looked a little wary at hearing his name mentioned, but when his gaze settled on Reid, he grinned. “Got him, boss.”

  The rancher whooped and slapped the arm of his chair. “Hot damn!”

  Morrison was grinning too. “Them boys owe me some money,” he said, inclining his head at the pair of ranch hands he’d been chatting with earlier.

  “I warned ’em,” John said. “Today’s the day, I said. He won’t take nobody but me just yet, but it won’t be long now.”

  “Well goddamn, John Ward, if you ain’t the finest bronco buster in the territory.” Reid slapped his chair again. “That pony’s gonna fetch me a pretty penny. You see ’im, Wiltshire? That there’s a prime Missouri Fox Trotter.”

  Thomas smiled politely. “I’m not familiar with the breed.”

  “Strong as a standardbred, pretty as an Arabian.” He paused, eyes narrowing shrewdly. “Horse like that’d be perfect for a fancy feller like yourself. Interested?”

  Thomas laughed. “I enjoy a challenge, but a freshly broken horse doesn’t seem like a very practical choice.”

  “Not him. Got another one, same sire. Three-year-old.”

  I could tell Thomas was tempted. On the whole, he lived modestly for a man of his means, but he did have a weakness for certain indulgences. Elegant tailoring. Fine wines. Swiss timepieces. And, apparently, horses. “As it happens, we are in the market—”

  The rancher didn’t even let him finish. “John, why don’t you show these nice people what we got in the stables?” Smirking, he added, “You can tell ’em all about your monster.”

  CHAPTER 6

  JOHN WARD, COWBOY—A NEW ROMANCE—ANNIE OAKLEY—AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR

  “He really is magnificent,” Thomas said, displaying all the bargaining skills of a rich man. He patted the stallion’s neck, and it gave him a friendly snuffle. “I’ve never seen coloring like this.”

  Neither had I, and I couldn’t deny it was striking. The coat was a sooty brown, almost black, but the mane and tail were silver.

  “It’s different, all right.” John Ward had a deep, rasping voice that hinted at Southern roots and a fondness for tobacco. Late twenties, I guessed, though it was hard to be sure, lean and sinewy as he was. “Mr. Reid bred him special. Had a buyer lined up, but he went back east. Guess you could say Gideon here got stood up at the altar.”

  “Gideon.” I could tell by the wistful look in Thomas’s eye that he was going to buy that horse, whatever the price.

  “Chose the name myself. It was me trained him to saddle, too. He’s young yet, but if you know what you’re about, he’s as smooth a ride as they come.”

  Thomas smiled. “You’re a skilled salesman as well as a skilled horseman, I see.”

  “Don’t know about that, but I sure would
like to see him well situated. He’d be wasted around here. Horse like this is meant for running.” Patting the animal’s neck, he added, “And for lookin’ fine.”

  As diverting as it was to watch two grown men fussing over a pretty pony, we had business to attend to. “Mr. Reid says you’re the one who found the animal tracks,” I said. “The ones left by the mysterious animal, I mean. Mr. Wiltshire and I are hoping to photograph it.”

  “Photograph it?” The ranch hand looked at me as if I were a few straws shy of a bushel. “Ma’am, anybody finds that thing, they need to put it in the ground.”

  “So you do believe the beast exists?” Thomas said. “Your employer seemed doubtful.”

  “All due respect, he ain’t seen what I seen. There’s something out there. I been hunting it for weeks, ever since the snows melted.”

  “Have you found anything?” I asked.

  “Not much, but I only make it a few miles at a time before I gotta turn back. Boss don’t consider it ranch work, and I ain’t got too much free time on my hands, ’specially since I’m doing the foreman’s job half the time.”

  I took out a notebook and a pencil. “What did the tracks look like?”

  “Strange. Sorta like cat tracks, but huge.” He made a shape with his hands, as big around as a supper plate.

  I swallowed. Thomas’s fancy shotgun seemed a whole lot less comforting than it had a minute ago. “Could it be a freakishly large mountain lion?”

  Mr. Roosevelt had laughed at that question, but the look Mr. Ward gave me was deadly serious. “All I know is, I never saw nothing like it before. On top of which, I’m a decent hunter, but I can’t seem to track this thing for more than a couple hundred yards before I lose the trail.”

  “Hmm.” Thomas stroked Gideon’s neck thoughtfully. “Could the tracks be faked? Perhaps your employer isn’t completely off the mark after all.”

  “You mean about the Sioux?”

  “Or at least about cattle rustlers.”

  The ranch hand hesitated. “I don’t like to contradict, but if you’re asking my opinion…”