Jonis Agee - The Bones of Paradise

Graver took a deep breath. “That’s enough.”

Smith was enjoying himself. “Oh, and what is it you need?”

Graver took the package and placed it in the Indian’s arms. Then he reached into the jar of candy and pulled out a handful of sticks and gave them to the child.

“I hope you can pay for—”

“That will do,” Graver said. “Put it on the Bennett account.” He placed Vera’s crumpled shopping list and the scented one on the counter. “And while you’re at it, fill these lists for Mrs. Bennett and load it into her buggy out front.”

Under his watchful eye, Smith left to gather the items, weaving in and out of the many customers with questions. Graver went to inspect the ready-made spectacles in the second aisle, figuring he could use a pair for reading in the dim light of the bunkhouse, before wandering over to examine the slightly used clothing along the back wall.

He caught sight of Rose’s family as they moved toward the back door. Graver shook his head, nodded toward the front, and led them out. For the first time, her husband gave a tiny smile. Outside on the boardwalk, a ranch couple split to walk around the little family, and the man spit into the street. Graver took a step after them, but the Indian touched his arm to stop him.

“Thank you,” he said, and turning to Rose, he said something in Lakota that brightened her face.

“Ry Graver.” He held out a hand and the man took it.

“Jerome Some Horses.” He held up a hand and nodded wryly. “I know, I know, but I like walking.” Both men laughed, and for the first time Rose smiled. The child detached one of her candy sticks and began licking it.

“I think you know my wife, Rose at Dawn, and this is my daughter, Lily.”

“Your English is good,” Graver said to Some Horses and removed his hat and bowed slightly, which made Rose snort.

“Boarding school in Mission. Jesuits. If it doesn’t kill you, you learn to read and write and do sums. Still doesn’t get you a job, though.” Jerome looked down the street where half the windows held signs that read NO INDIANS ALLOWED.

“I can ride pretty good,” he continued. “Used to break horses for my uncle on the reservation. Don’t much care for cattle. And I can keep books with my eyes closed. But nobody would hire an Indian for work like that around here. Rose said Mrs. Bennett needs help on her ranch, though.”

Graver nodded and let his gaze wander to the spotted pony tied to the railing, the family’s belongings hung cleverly from a pack fashioned of rawhide and bone. The horse seemed in good flesh, but Graver’s eye caught on a series of gashes on its front and hind legs. He frowned and stepped closer for a better look. The deeper cuts were sewn shut, the smaller ones coated with grease, and the horse didn’t appear to be in any pain as it dozed in the afternoon sun. He turned to Some Horses, his eyebrows raised.

“Tangled in barbed wire.”

“Did a good job doctoring it. What’s the greasy stuff on the cuts?”

“Ask Rose. She’s the horse doctor and everything else with those darn animals.” He laughed and shook his head. “She should be Some Horses, and I should be Not So Good With Horses.”

Graver looked at Rose with new respect, but when she smiled, he couldn’t be certain she wasn’t laughing at him. He’d been aware of her eyes on him at the ranch, and now realized she was someone he should keep an eye on, too.

“Mrs. Bennett needs help,” she said.

Inside the lawyer’s tiny office two wooden chairs sat against the dingy plaster wall cut off by the temporary partition. Despite the attempt at privacy, Graver could hear the conversation between Mrs. J.B. and Percival Chance as he sat down. There was nothing to entertain, only the grimy window of the outside door that gave onto a blurry street. He looked down at the floor, its rough planks, hastily nailed in place, separating and warped. Soon be a hazard to see your lawyer, he noted with a wry smile.

“You see we were in correspondence over the years,” Dulcinea was saying, “as these letters prove. And J.B. deeded the ranch to me, as this document supports. It’s dated last year, drawn up by an Omaha attorney who came out here to deer hunt. It’s all clear in this letter. J.B. had second thoughts about his boys and their ability to handle such a large enterprise, and their grandfather’s nature. I had a lawyer in Chadron look them over already, but I’d feel more comfortable having someone local.” Graver could hear the worry threading her voice.

“What do you want me to do, Mrs. Bennett?” Chance’s voice was as smooth as river-polished stone, except for the hint of amusement underneath.

There was a brief pause, followed by the click of her purse snapping shut and the chair scraping back. “I want you to file this deed today and notify Mr. Rivers that the court should set aside the will he has on file. Then, write a letter to Drum Bennett and my sons explaining the terms. They need to hear this from a lawyer, not me. Do you understand?”

Chance cleared his throat, and the chair groaned as he apparently leaned back, stretched, and then pushed himself upright. “Perfectly clear. Would you prefer to pay me now or . . .”

From the looks of his office, it was obvious the man needed money. Too many in the hills settled their differences by means other than lawyers. It would be years before the signs that hung in Omaha and North Platte advising men to leave their firearms at home appeared here. The excuse was always rattlesnakes and coyotes, but folks were generally more respectful toward a man with a pistol belted around his hips or a rifle on his saddle.

“Of course, but I would not appreciate a delay or a disclosure of our conversation until you file the will and transfer the deed. Do you understand?” This time her voice was low and even. Woe to the man who didn’t do her bidding. Graver smiled.

“You needn’t worry about my desire to converse with my fellow townsmen. I have been here five years and have yet to be invited to share a single meal or drink. There is little society for me here.”

This news surprised Graver. Chance was a tall, handsome man, a bachelor.

“You’re lucky then,” Dulcinea said. “This town is a sore on the rump of Balaam’s ass, as far as I’m concerned. You should move to Denver or Omaha, Ainsworth even. After you file for me, of course.” She laughed, and Graver could imagine the tilt of her head as she did so.

“Would you care to take a bite with me at the Cattleman’s Café?”

“I must decline today, Mr. Chance, but I’ll return in a week to discuss the reaction to my filing if you can send a rider out with the letters. I imagine there will be some noise from Drum Bennett, who is recuperating in my home at the moment.”

“I’ll bring the letters personally in a day or so, Mrs. Bennett. I’d be interested in seeing the ranch, and there’s nothing as soothing to the weary mind as a sojourn to the country.”

There was a moment of silence as the door opened, allowing him a glimpse of the office, the walls covered with an assortment of handmade Indian goods.

“What is it?” she said when she saw him waiting.

Graver didn’t need reminding that she was the boss, and her tone embarrassed him. “Wahl, boss, we got all them chores done.”

Her head jerked at his exaggerated servility.

Over her shoulder, Graver saw Chance grin. It put him on guard. The man found too much humor in things, as if he always had a hidden card to play and was never in danger of losing the game.

Outside the office Mrs. J.B. stopped, then looked up and down the street. “Have you seen the boys?”

“Not lately,” Graver admitted.