Miss Phipps and the Cattle Baron (20 page)

Adam's jaws tightened and his eyes narrowed.
"And you believe them."

"I don't know what to believe," Priscilla
said, "because I don't know you. We shared a picnic lunch at the
church social, we had a few dinners together when I was staying at
your house, and we had an evening together at the theater. And the
few times when we've managed to be alone whether here or in the
buggy, we never talked about anything except my desire to give up
my virginity, and your desire to take it. Our entire focus has been
on sexual gratification. You've never asked about my family, or my
philosophical views on life, or what I like to do when I'm not
running a paper. All you know about me is that when you kiss me, my
passionate nature takes over and I lose all sense of modesty and
virtue, and that I'm willing to open my bodice to you and bare all
so you can give me pleasure. And I know almost nothing about you,
except that for some odd reason, you seem to find me
attractive."

Adam looked at her thoughtfully. "You're
right on both counts," he said. "From the start I found you
attractive, but I also took advantage of your lack of experience
with men. I've been self-absorbed, and my focus has been on sexual
gratification with you, when I should have been more conscious of
the things women like. Hugging, holding hands."

Priscilla pursed her lips in disgust. "You
are entirely wrong! I'm not asking you to hold my hand or give me
little hugs and kisses. Until just before you came here tonight,
all I wanted was for you release yourself from your britches and
get under my skirt and finish what we started in the buggy. But
that's changed now. I don't want to give up my virginity to someone
I don't love. And Tom Rafferty was shot in the arm while he was
dragging off a homesteader's fence. And homesteaders are being
attacked and intimidated. And every last one of you cattleman want
to see the homesteaders go."

"And you believe I'm right in there among
them," Adam said, eyes narrowed on her, the expression on his face
challenging.

"I don't know what to believe," Priscilla
said.

Adam grabbed his hat off the printer lever
and shoved it on his head. "Well, when you finally figure it out,
let me know. Until then, I won't be bothering you." He stormed out
of the building, slamming the door so hard it shook the wall.

***

Adam walked past the lineup of polo ponies
tied to the hitching rail outside the Cheyenne Club, mounted the
bank of stairs leading to the wrap-around porch of the impressive,
two-story brick building, and knocked on the heavily-embellished
front door. A tall, stately man dressed in black trousers and a
black cutaway coat opened the door. "Good evening, Lord
Whittington," the man said, then stepped aside for Adam to
pass.

Adam nodded to the man and walked into a room
illuminated by elegant chandeliers that hung like so many
upside-down spiders with lit candles balanced on their pointy feet.
The sweet pungency of cigar smoke, mingled with the muskiness of
spilled whiskey and oak paneled walls, teased his nostrils, and as
he walked past the massive stairway that curved upward to the
second floor, he heard the muffled sound of a woman's laughter. Not
a night bird—the Cheyenne Club was not a brothel—but one of the
many beautiful women available to club members and their guests.
What went on behind the closed doors was not questioned.

Adam had spent many evenings in the company
of such women. While she sipped wines of the finest vintage, and he
enjoyed Scotch whiskey served in crystal shot glasses, they both
feasted on fresh oysters and imported cheeses and Swiss chocolates
and other fine delicacies from far off regions of the world. Or, if
it was to be an extended evening, the steward would roll in a
butler's tray with a full-course meal served on the finest English
bone china and set off by sterling flatware and lead crystal
goblets.

The evening would invariably include a romp
in bed. Afterwards, the woman would take a foil-wrapped cigar from
an ornate box and make an art of peeling off the foil, rolling the
cigar between her fingers, placing it between his lips, and
lighting it. And while he'd puff on the cigar, sending perfect
rings of smoke drifting upward, she'd go about the business of
putting herself together. That alone was an art these women had
perfected. When she was done, she'd bend down so he could tuck a
sizeable bill between her ample breasts, and she'd leave. Although
the women always took care of his need, when the evening was over,
he never felt quite satisfied. But tonight he had no need for a
woman. His disturbing encounter with Priscilla earlier alleviated
his problem. He was back to being as limp as an old man. He also
had the feeling that if a beautiful woman stripped naked in front
of him, that part of him would remain unchanged. How one woman
could make him impotent with merely words was both troubling and
baffling.

Hearing a lively exchange behind the closed
double doors to a smoking room, he entered and found several
members of the Wyoming Stock Growers Association, smartly dressed
in white tails and ties, sitting around a large table, debating the
latest issues, while sucking on imported cigars. The men tipped
goblets and snifters and shot glasses toward him in
acknowledgement. But instead of joining them at the table, he sank
into the thick cushions of a large chair, elaborately upholstered
in soft brown steer hide. A steward offered champagne, which Adam
rejected for brandy. After Priscilla all but accused him of being
the brains behind the attacks on the homesteaders, he'd been so mad
he headed straight for the Club, wanting something strong and warm
to take the edge off his anger.

Cupping his palm around the bowl of the
snifter, he held the brandy beneath his nose to allow the aromatic
bouquet to fill his nostrils, then took a sip, held it in his mouth
for a moment, and swallowed. By the time he'd downed a second
glass, his anger began to wane, and he could settle back in his
chair and focus on what the men were discussing...

"...then I say here's to them—" Albert
Bothwell, a cattleman with a huge spread in the Sweetwater Valley
raised his shot glass in a toast. "That's one less fence to contend
with." He looked at Adam. "They were your boys, weren't they?"

Adam was only just beginning to absorb the
conversation. "Who?"

"The two men who tore down the nester's fence
north of the city. One of them got shot in the arm. Someone said it
was one of your boys. Sorry to hear about that. But we'll cover for
him if there's trouble. Rustlers seem to be multiplying around here
faster than jack rabbits, and the rustling's got to be
stopped."

After thinking it over, and taking into
consideration what Priscilla said, Adam was fairly certain Tom
Rafferty had taken the bullet when pulling down the fence. And
Tanner would also be part of it since he had been with Rafferty the
night he got shot. He didn't like his men going off on their own,
even if it was to tear down a fence and release a heard of stolen
cattle, and he'd have words with them.

He eyed the men at the table, who were
waiting for his reply. "If my men did it, they did it on their own
and won't be doing it again," he said. "That's not the way I handle
things."

"It's the way the WSGA does," Bothwell said.
"Last I heard you were one of us."

Moreton Frewan, an Englishman with a large
spread on the Powder River said, "Cowboys like those two, who spend
their days branding strays for us, are the ones who break off and
start their own herds. That's where the trouble begins. Half the
small ranchers around here got their start stealing our stock. It's
our duty to blacklist any man suspected of branding mavericks for
themselves, and to bar them from employment with members. Mark my
word, Whittington. If your men tore down the fence on their own,
they will eventually break away from you and start building up
their herds from your stock."

"I'll keep an eye on them," Adam assured
Frewan.

Bothwell thumped his knotted fist against the
table, and said, "The small ranchers are also turning their stock
into our herds as a reason to go in and brand our mavericks and
claim them as theirs. I say we blacklist every cowboy who's branded
mavericks or bought or sold orphans."

John Durbin, another large rancher on the
Sweetwater, who also had interests in a meatpacking plant in
Chicago, puffed on his cigar, flicked ashes into an ornate silver
ash container, and said, "We have the Maverick Law on our side now,
so anyone taking mavericks or unbranded strays will be arrested for
rustling."

"They're being arrested now," Bothwell said,
"but juries let them walk free. They say the law is
unconstitutional and they plan to challenge it."

Frank Canton, a stock detective hired by the
stock grower's association, said in a metered voice, "Montana
handled the problem in one night. Stock growers gave the names of
rustlers and where they had their ranches and campsites, to hired
guns, who went in and took them all out. We should do the same. I
say we offer five-hundred-dollars for names of anyone branding
cattle on open range and add them to our dead list."

While a barrage of heated voices debated that
idea, Adam eyed Frank Canton with misgiving. Although Canton had
been sheriff of Johnson County, rumor was circulating that he was a
killer and an outlaw. Adam made a mental note to watch the man
carefully.

Bothwell raised his voice to be heard, and
said. "I say we get the U.S. marshal for Wyoming Territory in here.
We need his support, so I'll offer to sponsor him for a
complimentary membership in the club."

"Sounds like a bribe to me," Adam said. "Not
the way to get the law on our side." He also knew the days of the
cattle barons with they're immense holdings and vast herds were
coming to a close, and it was time to face it. "When we started
running cattle here," he said, "there was grass as far as the eye
could see. Now, with nine-hundred-thousand head on the tax rolls
and another six-hundred-thousand grazing, the rangeland's
overcrowded and overgrazed. By next year there won’t be enough
grass to sustain them."

"Whittington's right," Frewan said. "On top
of that, investors in England are pushing for larger dividends,
demanding bigger reimbursements for their investments, which is why
we need to drive out the squatters and nesters."

"That's not the answer," Adam said. "The
answer is scaling back. I've already reduced my herd from twenty
thousand to eight thousand so the rangeland can be rotated and
pastures won't get trampled down. I'm raising feed on the rotated
pastures while also building barns for hay and grain storage. But
without protection from cold, another severe winter like the winter
of '86 could wipe out and entire herd, as some of you know, so I'm
building shelters. We also need a system of irrigation ditches to
bring in water from the Platt so we can maintain our grazing
land."

Albert Bothwell eyed Adam with enmity.
"Sounds to me like you're giving in to the nesters, Whittington.
Maybe we need to add your name to our blacklist, along with that
rabble-rousing spinster you're sweet on. She came riding into
Cheyenne on a wagon train with nesters and she's firing them up and
promoting their cause in her paper, and it seems you're right in
there with the thick of them. Montana had the right idea. I say we
round them up and hang the lot of them and be done with it."

"Here, here," said Tom Sun, a French Canadian
who also had a spread on the Sweetwater.

Adam stood, peered around at the faces
staring back at him, and said, "Good evening, gentlemen. I believe
I'm finished here for tonight." He turned and left. But as the door
closed behind him, a cacophony of agitated voices rose in heated
debate, and it came to Adam that his name might just have been
added to their blacklist. Along with Priscilla's. He had no fear
for himself, but he did for Priscilla. She was too stubborn and set
on making a success of
The Town Tattler
to heed any warning
he might pass on to her, so all he could do for the short term was
to keep a closer watch. And wait.

CHAPTER NINE

'And in the end this shall be for me
sufficient, that

a marble stone shall declare that a Queen,
having

reigned such a time, lived and died a
virgin.'

—
Elizabeth's response to
Parliament's request

that she marry and produce an heir, in
1559

The only reason Priscilla accepted Lady
Whittington's invitation to dinner the following week was because
Lady Whittington expressed her regrets that Adam would not be
joining them. Lady Whittington also insisted that Priscilla wear
her new Pre-Raphaelite dinner dress. After reading Trudy's article
and seeing the illustration in
The Town Tattler
, Lady
Whittington was anxious to see the new fashion. Priscilla's dress
was made from soft flowing silk in muted shades of blues and
greens, and it was designed to be worn without a corset or bustle.
The dress was amazingly comfortable. The skirt was loose enough to
walk and sit with ease, the sleeves, slashed from just above the
elbow to the wrist in Renaissance style, allowed the arms to move
unrestricted, and the dress was free of the excessive ornamentation
that cluttered most feminine attire. Although it was designed to be
worn in the privacy of the home while among family and close
friends, Lady Whittington insisted Priscilla wear it when she came
for dinner.

Instead of taking her place at the head of
the long mahogany table, which normally would be at the opposite
end from Adam, Lady Whittington requested that she and Priscilla be
seated directly across from each other toward one end of the long
table, so they could more easily converse. While the wine was being
poured, Priscilla gazed across the flickering candles at Lady
Whittington, whose face held a cryptic smile, and she couldn't help
but think that the older woman was up to something.