Jonis Agee - The Bones of Paradise

“I would appreciate you being there tonight, Mr. Graver. These men want something I’m not prepared to give.”

His face darkened. “Well, I . . .”

“No, I mean they have plans for the ranch apparently. I need you to stand with me. You’re the only one I trust.” She hadn’t realized she felt this way until she uttered the words, and now she felt them deep in her chest, gathering with an odd force under her ribs. “Something might slip out about my husband’s killing, too. I need another set of eyes and ears.”

“Ma’am, I think they’ve come courting.” Graver pushed his hat back on his head with a forefinger and smiled.

She waved the idea aside. “That kind of nonsense won’t get them what they want. No, they’re after much more than a middle-aged widow with two unruly half-grown boys.” She hadn’t heard those two since they returned. Had they already snuck off to the bunkhouse? She must work harder to tame them. In the meantime, she had to convince Graver.

“I’ll go change into dry clothes.”

Turning to leave, she heard him mutter, “Sooner haul a wagonload of skunks.”

Dinner progressed about as expected: The hands had already eaten, and her sons acted brutish and sullen the entire meal because they’d had to wait. Frank Higgs didn’t help when he insisted on questioning their whereabouts this afternoon when someone took a shot at him and put a hole in his favorite hat. The boys looked guilty, heads down as they sawed at their meat, pretending to have manners for a change. Dulcinea said they were at the stock tank and that turned the discussion for the time being.

When the meal was over, and seven bottles of wine later, the men were in fine spirits. Vera and Dulcinea had a glass apiece, the boys half a glass and they made much of how terrible it tasted, like children given a privilege they hadn’t earned. The men retired to J.B.’s study to smoke and drink his brandy, and Rose and Dulcinea cleared the dishes, since Vera disappeared as soon as the men stood.

“Having suitors is a lot of work,” Rose said in a deadpan voice.

“Suitors?” She stopped, accidently tilting the platter of congealed steak grease, blood, and bones that she was about to throw out to the dogs whining outside the door.

Rose looked over her shoulder and smiled.

“I think they’re here on business.”

“Yeah, the business of a handsome woman with enough land to make a man feel good about himself.” Rose took the platter from her hands and carried it to the door. She opened it and kneed the dogs away.

“That lawyer is the one to watch,” Rose whispered and slid back inside. They stood there for a moment, listening to the Sand Hills night, the call of a barn owl into the darkness, looking for a mate perhaps, or simply announcing itself to the world, the breeze rattling the cottonwood leaves, the occasional whoop from the perennial card game at the bunkhouse, and the low laughter of the men in J.B.’s study as they imagined how to divide what was not theirs. It would not surprise Dulcinea to hear buying and selling in a minute, as if she were a blooded mare. It occurred to her that only Graver seemed to want nothing from her.

“Have you seen Chance doing something suspicious? What about Graver?” Dulcinea kept her voice low.

Rose shrugged.

“I think Graver’s all right, don’t you? The lawyer though, what was that business in town about the girl Chance took home?” Dulcinea asked.

Rose paused, her hands deep in the soapy dish water, and she seemed to think over her answer before saying, “She ended up another place.”

Dulcinea stared at her. “What do you mean?”

Rose turned to face her. “He took the girl to his room.”

Dulcinea’s mind flooded with unwanted images, and she shook her head to rid it of them.

When the dishes were done, the two women sat at the table with cups of tea.

“Have to butcher another cow, these men stay much longer. We’ve run through the spare chickens. They sure eat.” Rose raised the cup to her lips, blew at the surface, and sipped.

Dulcinea shook her head. “They’ll drink the cellar dry at this rate. I don’t know what’s gotten into them. Drum’s not objecting either. That makes me nervous.”

“We’ll need more help they stay on. You decided where they’re all sleeping?”

“They’ll have to double up, and that might convince them to go home. Drum too.” They laughed and were so relaxed in the moment that the sudden bang on the door caused them to jump and spill their tea.

Dulcinea stood and yanked open the door, thinking it was one of the hands with some injury from horseplay. Instead, it was Larson Dye, owner of the Box LR, hat in hand, hair oiled back, and freshly shaved since there was a white line halfway up his face like a high-water mark on a post. The rest of his skin was burned dark red, his fox-brown eyes permanently bloodshot; he looked like he had weathered a sandstorm. He was dressed in a brown suit and a yellowed white shirt. He rubbed the toe of each boot against the back of his legs, as if they wouldn’t notice. His hands were the same beaten red-brown as his face, and he was missing the little finger on his left hand, and the tip of the ring finger on his right.

“Larson Dye, ma’am,” he introduced himself, although Dulcinea used to know him and his wife, who died in the diphtheria epidemic years before.

“Yes, I remember, Mr. Dye. Please come in.”

He nodded at Rose, and she ducked her head shyly.

“We were just discussing whether we could purchase some chickens from you tomorrow. If you have any to spare?” Dulcinea said.

Larson Dye appeared surprised, his head startling to the side as if she had slapped him. He struggled to form the words, and she remembered he had a slight stutter when nervous. He must have practiced his greeting on the way over.

“See, that’s just it!” he managed to say. “I brought you a whole crate! I, I didn’t figure, since J.B, and you come back, and all.”

“Why thank you.” Dulcinea offered her hand, which he stared at as if he had no idea what to do with it. Then he daintily held the tips of her fingers, moved them up and down two inches, and let go.

The men in J.B.’s study burst out laughing, and Larson Dye’s head swiveled in their direction, confusion on his face.

“I’m sure you know the other men. Care to join them?” She gestured for him to give her his hat and he handed it over reluctantly, nodded once to Rose and once to her, and ambled through the parlor to the men.

“At least that one brought something. Crate of chickens won’t last long, though.” Rose was interrupted by the sudden wild squawking of the chickens and the cracking of wood.

“The dogs!” The crate, chickens, and dogs were rammed against the door, and by the time they opened it, the crate was reduced to splinters, chickens running blindly into the dark, and the black-and-white dog stood with a dead bird hanging half out of his mouth. Since they were better trained, the other dogs simply whined and barked at him.

They closed the door and leaned against it, shoulders shaking with laughter they didn’t want the dog to hear.

“Guess there’ll be a hunting party tomorrow. Fresh deer or antelope. Turkey if they can get close, or grouse.” Rose stretched and yawned. “I should leave you to your suitors.” The merry expression returned to her eyes and a smile tugged at her lips.

“If anyone else shows up on this doorstep, shoot them,” Dulcinea said.

When the Sioux family stopped at the ranch in late November of 1890 to trade for food, their story of the coming messiah and the dancing that would welcome him stayed with J.B. until he finally left Higgs in charge, took Hayward, and rode up to Rushville, arriving midmorning. He wasn’t a religious man, but he’d heard rumors of the Indians gathering since summer and decided to see for himself. If he could find Dulcinea, he’d leave the boy with her. He tried the telegraph office, but couldn’t give them her address so he gave up on that notion and thought maybe he’d see her in town. The place was teeming with cavalry troops, newspaper writers, politicians, and curious citizens.