Badlanders (9 page)

I
solda could hardly sleep, she was so excited. What she was doing was so bold, so audacious, it would scandalize her father. If he found out, he might punish her by restricting her to the ranch. She didn't want that. She must be clever. She must outsmart him.

Isolda was up an hour and a half before dawn. She'd taken a bath the night before and done her hair to perfection so that all it needed now was ten minutes of brushing to make it shine. She realized she might be wasting her time. Three hours in the buckboard with the wind and the dust might make a mess of it. But that's why shawls were invented.

In order not to make her father suspicious, Isolda had to forgo her most revealing dress, the one she wore to dances and on other special occasions, in favor of a plainer one. She chose a dress that clung to her where a man was liable to appreciate clinging the most. She also wore her smallest shoes. They tended to hurt her feet after a while, but she wasn't walking to town, so it shouldn't be a problem.

Now came the important part. Her face. Isolda knew
men found her naturally attractive. She wasn't above helping things along, though. The year before she'd gotten hold of some Crème Celeste
and fallen in love with it. A mix of almond oil, rosewater, white wax, and that oily substance they took out of a whale's head, it was, in her estimation, simply wonderful. It not only smelled nice and kept her skin from becoming too dry, but it hid wrinkles, too. Today it would keep her looking fresh until she got to Whiskey Flats.

Isolda also dabbed a little castor oil onto her eyelashes and eyebrows. The sheen was alluring. Then there was the pomade, made from beeswax, for her lips. She had to be careful to apply it lightly or it made her lips sticky, and she hated that. Finally she had a carmine dye she liked to rub into her cheeks. She'd been told it was made from dead insects, but she didn't care. She liked the luster it gave her.

Finally done, Isolda admired her reflection in the mirror of her portable toilet table. It was made of rosewood with a velvet lining, able to hold all her toiletries and then some, and she never went anywhere without it.

With a shawl over her shoulders and a handbag in hand, Isolda ventured down to the kitchen. Her father and sister were already there. Her father believed that breakfast was the most important meal of the day and insisted they eat with him, even though she had made it plain countless times that she was never hungry early on and much preferred to save her big meal for supper.

Alexander stopped chewing long enough to ask, “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes, Father,” Isolda said dutifully. She forced herself to eat some toast and picked at an egg to please him.

Edana was looking at her and grinning. “Your hair looks nice today,” she remarked.

“Why, thank you,” Isolda said, thrown off guard by the praise. Her sister rarely complimented her on her appearance.

“And your cheeks are the very pink of health,” Edana said.

Isolda realized her sister was aware of the extra effort she'd gone to, and was teasing her. “How observant you are today.”

“I feel very much alive,” Edana said. “Here we are, starting a new life. Think of all the new experiences we'll have.”

Isolda made the mistake of saying, “A cow is a cow.”

Alexander smacked his fork onto his plate. “Here we go again. Thinking like that annoys me, daughter. You couldn't be more wrong. A longhorn isn't a dairy cow, and this ranch is nothing like those dairy farms. So what if you mainly handle our bookkeeping? I expect you to familiarize yourself with all aspects of ranching life as you did with the dairy profession.”

“Yes, Father,” Isolda said while thinking there were few things that interested her less.

“Personally, I'm looking forward to all the new things I need to learn,” Edana said. “And not just about the cattle. At my request, Neal is going to teach me how to use a rope one day soon.”

“So you can throw a loop over him?” Isolda said.

Edana looked down at her food.

“What will you be doing, Father?” Isolda pretended to care.

“Mr. Bonner is taking us out on the range,” Alexander answered. “I want to see some of these longhorns up close.”

“Be careful you don't get too close,” Isolda said. “They call them
‘
longhorns'
for a reason.”

They all heard the clatter of the buckboard as it came around the house, and Stumpy saying, “Get along there, you lazy so-and-sos.”

“Oh my,” Isolda said, rising. “Time for me to leave.”

“I'll walk you out,” her father said.

“No need. Finish your meal.”

“I insist.”

Isolda was in too good a mood to argue. She'd gotten the better of her sister, and she would soon see Beaumont Adams again. Humming to herself, she hurried down the hall and out the front door onto the porch. The buckboard and Stumpy were waiting. So was someone else. At the sight of him, she stopped in consternation. “What's
he
doing here?”

“I told you I was sending someone along to watch over you,” Alexander said, moving to the rail. “Mr. Bonner assured me that you're in perfectly safe hands with Mr. Jericho along.”

“Mornin', ma'am,” Jericho said. His black hat was low over his brow, hiding his eyes. In the growing daylight, the white of the pearl handles on his Colt contrasted sharply with the black of his leather vest. Isolda was fit to spit nails. “I hate to put Mr. Jericho to any special bother,” she said in the vain hope her father would take the hint.

“He works for me, my dear,” Alexander said. “It's no bother at all, is it, Mr. Jericho?”

“I ride for the brand,” Jericho said. “What you want, I do.”

“Excellent,” Alexander said with a broad smile. “Heed me closely.” He nodded at Isolda. “I don't want anything to happen to her. Although Mr. Bonner deems it unlikely, should you encounter any hostiles, you're to protect my daughter with your life.”

“That goes without sayin',” Jericho said.

Stumpy piped up with “Same here. I'm not about to let redskins get their hands on a white gal.”

“When you get to town,” Alexander said, still only addressing Jericho, “you're not to let anyone near her who doesn't have any business doing so. That especially goes for—what was his name? Scar Wratner.”

Isolda was relieved he hadn't mentioned Beaumont Adams. But her relief was short-lived.

“It also applies to that gambler. Edana tells me he
was too free with his eyes, and I won't have a man like that around my girls. Do you understand?”

“I savvy,” Jericho said.

Stumpy interrupted again. “Just so I know, Mr. Jessup. How far are you willin' for Jericho to take it?”

“I don't get your meaning.”

“Let's say we run into that gambler feller or Wratner and they say somethin' they shouldn't to Miss Jessup and Jericho tells them to back off and they won't. Can he shoot them with your blessin'?”

“I'd rather it didn't come to that,” Alexander said.

“What's he to do, then? Say ‘pretty please' and if they laugh in his face, tuck tail?”

“I don't tuck,” Jericho said.

“You're making more of this than I think is warranted,” Alexander said to Stumpy. “Despite what everyone keeps telling me, I can't see Adams or Scar Wratner resorting to firearms without being provoked, and you're not under any circumstances to provoke them.”

“What about if they do the provokin'?”

“I leave it to your best judgment,” Alexander said. “The important thing is that no harm comes to my daughter.”

Isolda saw Stumpy give Jericho a troubled look. She couldn't tell what Jericho was thinking, because his face seemed to be made of stone and that black hat covered his eyes. “Don't worry, Father,” she said. “I'm sure we'll be just fine.”

“I hope so,” Alexander said. “It would devastate me if anything were to happen to you or your sister.” He took hold of her arm. “Here. Let me help you up.”

Isolda settled in the seat and carefully slid the shawl up over her head to protect her hair. “Whenever you're ready,” she said to Stumpy.

“We're ready now, ma'am.”

Isolda was jostled slightly as the buckboard lurched into motion. She didn't look back. Her father probably expected her to, but she wasn't feeling particularly
sentimental at the moment. Not that she ever did normally, anyway.

Glad to be finally under way, Isolda sat back and smiled. The sun hadn't fully risen yet, and a brisk breeze was blowing. She shivered slightly.

Stumpy noticed and said, “I've got a blanket in the back if you need it, ma'am. Brought it just for you.”

“That was thoughtful,” Isolda felt obligated to mention. “But I don't need it right now.”

“Suit yourself,” Stumpy said. “And if you don't mind my sayin', you might want to turn a bit and watch to the east. Sunsets out here are downright pretty.”

Isolda had seen the sun rise before. But she had nothing else to do, so she humored him and shifted.

Jericho was following behind, and touched a finger to his hat brim.

Isolda nodded, even though she resented his being there. Or, rather, she resented that her father had made him come along. She gazed past him at the horizon, and received a surprise. Stumpy was right. The sunrise was spectacular. The sun seemed larger somehow. It reminded her of nothing so much as a great circular furnace, shimmering with molten fires, suspended on edge. From it radiated bands of red, orange, and yellow. She had never seen a sunrise so dazzling. By some freak effect of the atmosphere, she had the illusion she could reach out and touch it. “It truly is wonderful.”

“Told you, ma'am,” Stumpy crowed. “The sunsets can be just as pretty, but I'm partial to sunrise myself. It makes me start off the day in a good mood.”

“I've never enjoyed nature as much as my sister does, but I agree with you about your sunrises.”

“Thank you kindly.”

After that, not a word out of him. Isolda had the sense that as friendly as Stumpy had been, he wasn't entirely comfortable around her. Or perhaps he wasn't comfortable around females, period.

Neal Bonner had told Edana not to be offended if the
hands acted shy around them. Cowboys, by and large, held a high respect for womanhood but were so unaccustomed to their company that when circumstances conspired to throw them together, the average cowboy's tongue became tied in knots.

Isolda thought that was silly.

It was bad enough, in her estimation, that a lot of men put women on pedestals. Churchgoing ladies and married ladies in particular. But then don a woman in a tight dress and have her prance around a saloon, and suddenly she wasn't deserving of a pedestal anymore.

Isolda had always thought that was hypocritical. As far as she was concerned, she shouldn't be treated any differently than a man treated another man. That Stumpy plainly did brought her old peeve to the surface. Just once she'd like a man to regard her as just another person. As no better, or worse, than he was.

For now she put it from her mind and gave some regard to the scenery. In the spreading glow of the new dawn, the Badlands acquired a rosy tint that made them less stark, less foreboding. The colors in the rock strata stood out, and many cliffs and buttes were golden with reflected light.

After about an hour, the charm of the landscape wore off. The sun was all the way up and the temperature climbed.

Isolda wasn't looking forward to two more hours of just sitting there doing nothing. Turning to Stumpy, she asked, “What would you like to talk about?”

“Ma'am?”

“All this time on our hands, we should make conversation. Pick a subject and we'll talk about it.”

Stumpy shifted uncomfortably. “The only things I know much about, Miss Jessup, are horses and cows. How about you pick which it should be?”

“Neither,” Isolda said. “I have no interest in horses and even less in cows.” She had an idea. “I know. Why don't you tell me about yourself?”

“Me, ma'am?”

“Where were you born? Where did you grow up? Do you have family? Those sorts of things.”

“Well, let's see. I was born in Illinois but my pa moved all of us to what's now called Wyomin' Territory when I was a sprout. Ma and him died a few years back. He went first and she didn't want to live anymore and went soon after. I've got a sister in Colorado, but I don't see her much.” Stumpy shrugged. “That's all there is to me, I reckon.”

“Well, that was entertaining,” Isolda said.

“Ma'am?”

“I was hoping there was more to you.” Isolda glanced over her shoulder. “I know, I'll ask Mr. Jericho.”

“I'd think twice about that, ma'am. He won't take kindly to you pryin' into his personal life.”

“Oh, really?” Isolda said, and raising her arm to get her bodyguard's attention, she called out, “Mr. Jericho! If you would be so kind, come up here and join us. I have some questions to ask you.”

“Oh Lordy,” Stumpy said.

S
olomon Corinthians Jericho was born to a deeply religious woman on a cold and blustery winter's morning in North Carolina. Esther Jericho loved her Bible. She never went anywhere without it. She attended church not once but three times a week, and sang in the choir. She was devoted to the Lord, and to Scripture. So when her first child came into the world, she showed her devotion by naming him after her favorite person from the Old Testament and her favorite book from the New.

Her husband, Abe, didn't mind. He wasn't as religious himself. He only went to church because she made him. It wasn't that he didn't believe. He'd just rather be off hunting or fishing or just about be doing anything other than listen to a sermon.

Solomon didn't mind his name, although he didn't like that a lot of the kids called him “Sol” for short. It sounded too much like “Sal,” which was short for Sally, and a girl's name besides.

Then he turned fourteen, and something happened that not only changed his name forever after, but changed his life, as well.

Sol had been raised to treat everyone fairly and decently, to do unto others as he'd like them to do to him. He never bullied anyone and didn't like it when others did.

He didn't like liars and cheats, either. His mother was always reminding him to be a good boy, and he took that to heart.

He got into trouble a few times when he saw someone being picked on and stuck up for them. Tempers flared, and tempers often led to blows. His mother always sat him down afterward and explained how he must turn the other cheek. Solomon tried. He honestly tried. But by the age of twelve he knew he wasn't a cheek turner. It just wasn't in him.

Then came his fourteenth year and he took the family wagon into town. A neighbor boy he knew was being picked on by several young men, strangers who were passing through, and who'd had a lot to drink. Sol tried his mother's way. He tried to get the boy away from them without violence, but one of the men started pushing him and calling him names, and when he couldn't take it anymore and slugged him, the man pulled a knife.

All three strangers jumped him, and it was plain to Sol that they aimed to kill him if they could. But he was strong for his age, and quick. Everyone was always saying how quick he was. He broke one's nose and smashed another's teeth, and then he and the last boy scuffled and somehow the boy stabbed himself with his own knife, cried out, and died.

Solomon panicked. The sheriff in those parts liked to boast that there hadn't been a killer he hadn't had hanged. Solomon didn't want to hang. So he ran.

Looking back years later, he regretted being so rash. It had been self-defense. A jury might have let him off. But he didn't know that then, and he fled all the way to New Orleans by taking a job hauling for a freighting outfit. He didn't stay in New Orleans long. The city was too big for his tastes, and too refined. He had little in
common with all the fancy folk with their elegant clothes and carriages, and even less with the river rats who swarmed the docks. He was a plain country boy, and he drifted in search of a place where he'd feel more at home.

It took him a while. Three years of roaming. But he found the heaven he was looking for.

They called it “Texas.”

Solomon took to the Lone Star State like a duck to water. Most of the people were down-to-earth, and he liked that. They were friendly, and he liked that. And they didn't pry into what others had done in the past, and he especially liked that.

Out of worry there still might be a warrant out for his arrest, he changed his name by dropping Solomon and Corinthians and calling himself Jericho. When anyone asked if that was his first or his last, he always told them it was his only and let it go at that.

Jericho took a job at a ranch. It was his introduction to cattle and to six-shooters. He bought his first Colt the day he turned eighteen, never suspecting that less than a month later, he'd kill two men with it.

His employer was squabbling with another rancher over water rights. The other rancher had a bigger spread, and more hands, and two of them were toughs who reminded Jericho of those bullies from his younger days.

On a sunny summer morning, Jericho went into Jeffersonville with his boss to pick up supplies. Mr. Hamilton—that was his boss's name—told him to wait with the wagon while he went down the street. As Hamilton passed the saloon, who should stroll out but the two toughs, and they were on the prod. They insulted Hamilton and dared him to go for his six-gun, but he refused. Hamilton was no gun hand, and he was pushing fifty, besides. One of them knocked him down.

That was when Jericho stepped in. He'd felt oddly calm. He didn't shout or curse or do any of the usual things men did when they were about to come to blows. He walked up and told them to light a shuck, or else.

They picked the “or else.”

Jericho relived that moment many times over the days and years ahead. He'd been practicing with his Colt to where he could draw and hit a bottle at ten paces about eight times out of ten. The toughs were closer than ten paces. They clawed for their hardware and he drew and shot both in the chest before either cleared leather. He was as surprised as Mr. Hamilton and the other onlookers at how quick he was.

That was the day his life changed. He was no longer just a cowboy. He was a gun shark, a quick-trigger man, a killer. Men talked about him. They pointed at him, and whispered.

Jericho hadn't wanted it, but there it was. He heard that the other rancher was bringing in someone to deal with him, and he practiced harder with his Colt, every spare moment he had, until he could hit bottles ten times out of ten.

Over six weeks went by, and just when Jericho figured the rumors were false, he was in Jeffersonville one afternoon with several punchers and a man came down the street and loudly proclaimed that his name was Luke Spicer, and he was there to kill him.

Jericho was amazed at how open and loud the man was about it. Later, he learned that this Spicer was a bad man who hired his gun out and had killed a lot of others. Spicer always made it a point to provoke the other man into going for his six-shooter first. He tried it with Jericho, but Jericho never let name-calling anger him. That he didn't rise to Spicer's insults made Spicer mad, and easier for Jericho to return the favor. Jericho told Spicer that he heard a cur yapping somewhere, and Spicer glowered. Jericho sniffed a few times and asked Spicer if there was an outhouse nearby or was it him, and Spicer turned red. Then Jericho asked if Spicer's ma was proud of giving birth to such a miserable son of a bitch, and Spicer went for his pearl-handled, nickel-plated Colt.

Jericho's hand flashed and his own Colt boomed and
bucked, and Luke Spicer ended up spread-eagle in the street with a hole between his eyes. The pearl-handled Colt had fallen at Spicer's feet, and Jericho went over and helped himself to it. He felt he was entitled.

The shooting had some unforeseen consequences. He went from being whispered about to being practically famous. Texans took their shootists seriously. Killers were talked about as much as the weather.

The second consequence was that the sheriff looked him up to tell him that no, the sheriff wasn't going to arrest him, and yes, the sheriff knew that Luke Spicer had come looking for trouble, and Jericho might like to know that as contemptible as Spicer was, Spicer had a few equally contemptible friends who might come looking for Jericho, and the sheriff would take it kindly if Jericho wasn't in his jurisdiction when they caught up to him.

Jericho would have stuck for Mr. Hamilton's sake, but the rancher sat him down and told him that things were getting out of hand, and Mrs. Hamilton was worried they would escalate even more. The both agreed it might be best if Jericho moved on.

Jericho did. His next years were spent drifting. He mostly worked cattle. Once he briefly hired on as a deputy with a friendly marshal who got blown to hell by buckshot when they went to arrest a man accused of horse stealing. The marshal had no chance. The man came to his door loaded for bear, or lawmen, as the case was, and at the marshal's knock, threw the door wide and cut loose. The marshal took a barrel full in the chest. Then the horse thief swung on Jericho, but Jericho already had his Colt out and put two slugs through the man's heart. That was it for law work.

The incident was written up in the local newspaper, and his reputation grew. It got so he rarely mentioned his name so he wouldn't be recognized.

It was strange how life worked out sometimes. Growing up back in the hills, he'd never have imagined that
one day he'd be regarded as a killer of other men. His ma would be horrified if she knew. She'd raised him to be better than that. Some nights, when he lay thinking of her, it filled him with shame. But he always shrugged it off. A man did what he had to, and had no more control over his fate than he did over the weather.

Jericho was drifting again when he stopped in Benton City. He'd reckoned to play some poker, have a drink or two, and turn in. A nice, quiet night. Then Lindsey accused someone of cheating who wasn't, and tried to back-shoot him. He'd had his head half-turned and was watching the no-account out of the corner of his eye when Lindsey made his play. It surprised him when the big cowboy shouted a warning. He'd gone over to shake the cowpoke's hand, and now it was seven years later and they were still together.

Pards for life was how Jericho like to think of it. Or until a filly came along to sweep one or the other away.

Jericho could tell Edana Jessup was interested in Neal almost from the moment he'd met her. It showed in her eyes. She probably wasn't even aware that she gave it away.

Jericho could also tell that Neal liked her. Liked her more than any women they'd come across. He had to face the fact that, even though they'd only just met, it could be that Edana was the one for his pard. Time would tell.

As for the other sister, Jericho hadn't cottoned to her. She had cold eyes, aloof eyes, eyes that said she looked down her nose at most of the world and everyone in it. Jericho would as soon have nothing to do with her. But his pard, Neal, wanted him to watch over her, so here he was, escorting the buckboard into Whiskey Flats when he'd rather be at the Diamond B.

Jericho didn't pay much attention to the talk she was having with Stumpy. Just so much chatter, as far as he was concerned. Then she twisted in the seat and beckoned, saying she had some questions to ask, so he gigged his zebra dun alongside the buckboard. “Ma'am?”

Isolda had that looking-down-her-nose look. “I want to ask you a few questions,” she said again.

“About what, ma'am?”

“You.”

Jericho looked at Stumpy.

“It's not my doin',” the older hand said.

“Call it womanly curiosity,” Isolda said. “Plus, I'm bored. But I'd like to hear all about you. Where you grew up. How you ended up a shootist, or whatever it is they call you. Everything.”

“No, ma'am,” Jericho said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I reckon I won't.”

Those cold eyes of Isolda's narrowed. “I'm your boss's daughter. For that matter, since the consortium hired the three of us to run the ranch, I'm as much your boss as my father is. Do you agree?”

“If you say so.”

“Then you'll do as I want.”

“No, ma'am.”

Isolda sat up and bunched her small fists. “How dare you refuse? It was a reasonable request. Your presumption is uncalled for. I demand you tell me what I want to know.”

Jericho didn't respond. He'd already told her no twice, which was one more time than he should have to say it.

“Say something, blast you. You can't just ignore me. That's rude. I'll speak to my father about you.”

“You do that, ma'am.”

“I'll have you disciplined, or even fired.”

“If you say so, ma'am.”

“You don't believe I will?” Isolda said, her voice rising. “I'll show you. I won't stand for impertinence. Stumpy here will be my witness that you've treated me with rank contempt.”

“I will?” Stumpy said.

“You and that Neal Bonner,” Isolda said to Jericho. “Father and my sister think the world of him, but I don't.
You think he'll protect you from being fired, but he won't. He's only the foreman.”

“I wouldn't ask him to protect me, ma'am.”

“Quit being so polite. I'm mad at you, damn it.”

“I can see that, ma'am.”

Isolda uttered a strangled snarl of baffled resentment. “Do you think you're being cute? Is that it?”

“Not in a million years, ma'am.”

“Ohhhh, you make me so mad.”

Jericho rose in the stirrups and peered to the northwest. “You might want to hold off on takin' out your bile on me.”

“Why should I?” Isolda demanded.

Jericho nodded at riders in the distance. “Because some Injuns are comin' our way.”