“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.”