Chapter 1
Bismarck, Dakota Territory, December 1888
Trusty Dawson cinched the saddle as tight as he could without causing his durable strawberry roan gelding that he called Horse to object. He wanted to be ready to ride after seeing Marshal Delaney in his office. He’d had enough of the rickety and windblown capital city. Too many people to be concerned with, even this far north. Any happiness in this new place would be found alone on the trail. He hadn’t come to terms with his new assignment any more than he’d adjusted to the frigid weather. The Dakota Territory looked and felt like hell had frozen over to him, and his skin and his mind didn’t take well to the cold—or being sent somewhere to be kept out of sight. If that was the real reason he’d been sent to Bismarck in the first place.
Once Trusty was finished with the chore of preparing Horse, he remained inches from his ride, head down with the rim of his faded blue Cavalry Stetson campaign hat resting on the saddle. He was listening to the two men in the next stall talk amongst themselves. The pair had got his attention and made him want to know more about them. Caution and suspicion came easy to Trusty these days.
At first glance, the men seemed harmless enough, sewing machine salesmen making their way across the prairie, selling the marvel of the Singer Manufacturing Company to women in need of more time that the modern invention would afford them. It was the taller man of the two that especially bothered Trusty. There was a darkness about the man’s choice of dirty gray clothes and his sidearms—a Colt .45 on each hip—that seemed out of place for a salesman. This man’s hardened eyes suggested that he was more of a hired gunslinger, a protector, than a man who hocked wares for a living; his eyes were as black as the steel and cast-iron sewing machines that sat in crates loaded on a wagon outside the livery. The shorter of the two men was tending a lone horse, a swayback black draft mare, with white stockings above her hooves, that Trusty supposed was set to lead them on their sales route.
“We’ve hit a vein of luck with this weather, Miles, but I fear it’s not going to hold. I think we should head south instead of west.” Miles was the one that Trusty was concerned about, dark and unamused by the shorter man’s expression of fear. Names always helped—if they could be relied on to be true. The man speaking was short and thin in a fit way, not a hungry, sickly way. He was outfitted in natty clothes fresh off of a tailor’s needle, a crisp blue linen shirt, clean white collar, and a brown tweed vest. He wore a thick suede overcoat with a rabbit fur collar, clean of any lint or dirt and open, not buttoned down for extreme temperatures. A struggling farmer would see the short man coming from a mile off and know he was a huckster of some kind, though at the moment, the sewing machines appeared to be a legitimate concern, not snake oil or other flights of fancy. A Singer could change the life of any woman who could afford and learn how to operate the mechanical contraption.
Miles shook his head, objected to the change in plans with a grunt, then said, “West is the route we agreed on, Mr. Carmichael, and that’s the route we take. I got my reasons to go west, and you’ve got your prospects along the way. I say we go now like was planned.”
Carmichael held fast, planted his feet firmly on the straw-strewn floor, acting as if he were the one in charge. “Do you know where you are?”
Trusty peered over the saddle as he began to fuss with his bedroll, a thick buffalo blanket, tightening it down again, giving himself a reason to stay inside the stall and listen. Horse snorted and kicked his rear leg hard enough to toss a bit of straw into the air. The roan had a restless streak in him that Trusty recognized and appreciated, but he wasn’t going to be called off the two men by the beast. Both of the salesmen knew he was there but weren’t paying any attention to him that he could tell.
Carmichael and Miles stood opposite each other, both of them looking like mules refusing to budge. The short man made the first move. “It was my friends and colleagues, Holland Freeman and Earl Lancaster who set out on a fine winter day much like this one that brung us here in the first place. They journeyed away from Bismarck enjoying a rare, warm January day with coats unbuttoned, immune to any icy touch, or so they thought, as they made their calls on one soddie to the next. Them and a whole lot of other folks who’d lived on this land for the ages thought they’d been allowed to breathe safely from the wrath of winter who should have knowed better. A whoosh of wind hurried straight down from the north with the force of a white four-footed monster, bringing with it a blizzard that no one was prepared for or had seen the likes of before. Them two fellas, the finest Singer salesmen as was ever seen in this territory, plum froze to death, just like more than two hundred other people, a lot of them children, lost in the blizzard, seekin’ their way home with nary a coat or scarf around their necks. Just because the sky is clear right now don’t mean it can’t change on the turn of a bird’s wing. This is the Dakota Territory. You can’t trust what you see with your own eyes. I ain’t ready to freeze to death, Miles, and I doubt you are neither. South is a safer bet for livin’ another day. I’m certain of it.”
Miles stiffened, looked down on Carmichael since he towered over him a good five inches, and shook his head again. “Don’t matter if we go south or west. A wind like what you say shows up, ain’t nobody gonna out run it. We go west, you hear?” It was then that Miles tore his attention away from Carmichael and made eye contact with Trusty. “You got a problem, stranger?” His voice was hard, and his jaw set forward as he took in the man he saw, assured now that he was being listened to.
“Not at all,” Trusty said. “Just finishin’ up with my horse and I’ll be on my way. Your friend there is right, though. From what I’ve seen around here it’s best not to trust the sky overhead. I heard tell of that Children’s Blizzard that befell so many families back in January. Winter up this way seems to have an appetite for fools and the unattended.”
“You callin’ me a fool?”
“I’m not callin’ you anything. Just makin’ a statement is all.”
“If I want to know what you think, I’ll ask you.”
Trusty forced a smile, patted Horse, and walked to the front of the stall the two men stood in and stopped, blocking any exit from it. Like Miles, he was outfitted to ward off trouble if it came his way. One holster was armed with a Colt .45 with carved ivory grips and a six-inch barrel. His belt was fully complemented with cartridges, and a Bowie knife hung opposite the pistol in a worn black leather sheath. A single gun was enough for him. If it wasn’t, then his Winchester ’73 was loaded and waiting to be called into action in the scabbard on Horse’s right side. “Suit yourself, friend, but I’d heed your partner’s warning. Blizzards are as common here as rattlesnakes in Texas.”
Miles judged Trusty head to toe like he was an opponent of some kind. He let his gaze stop on the badge that was securely pinned on Trusty’s chest. “Never been to Texas so I wouldn’t know. Like I said, you need to mind your own business, Deputy. Ain’t nothin’ that concerns you here. We’re honest, hardworkin’ men, lookin’ for our next sale is all.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
“Now, now, Miles,” Carmichael said, it ain’t prudent to be rude to a Deputy U.S. Marshal. He didn’t mean no disrespect, Marshal, we’re just startin’ out as a team. We’ve got a lot to learn about each other’s ways.”
Miles sneered at Carmichael, and for a second Trusty thought the tall man was going to smack his partner in the mouth, but that didn’t happen. Miles unclenched his fist and smiled, offering the first bit of charisma since the conversation began.
“You gentlemen have a fine day, and be careful out there,” Trusty said, holding Miles’s stare, before he set one boot in front of the other and headed for the open door of the livery. “I hope you have good luck on your trip.” He didn’t wait for a response, just kept on walking until he was outside the wind-blasted gray barn, glad to be free of the tension, the smell of horse shit, and the uncertainty that men wearing guns on their hips always brought him. It was then, just beyond the door, that Trusty glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of Miles’s gaze following him outside. Trusty nodded, then headed toward Delaney’s office, allowing his hand to dangle as close to his Colt as it needed to be. It was better to be prepared than to be dead.
* * *
Marshal Michael Delaney remained sitting behind his simple oak desk when Trusty walked into the office. Delaney wore a perfectly trimmed horseshoe mustache, white as Dakota snow and thick as a drift alongside a barn. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles and was hunched over a stack of papers, mumbling to himself as he ran his long, narrow finger down an open ledger. “I’ve been expecting you, Sam. Sit down.” Delaney didn’t look up, didn’t dare lose his place among the numbers. The order was firm enough launched as it was by his deep, gravelly voice, to be taken seriously.
Trusty appreciated the fact that Delaney called him by his given name, Sam. Most people called him Trusty whether he liked it or not. He did what he was told and took a seat in a solid chair that fronted the desk. The finish was starting to wear off the seat and arms of the chair, reflecting its time spent in Delaney’s presence and maybe the Marshal before him. A curtainless window arched up behind the Marshal’s desk with bright, golden light, penetrating the office making the room more hospitable than it would have been any other time of the day; the color tones were usually marked by cold, gray uninspired shadows. This wasn’t Trusty’s first visit to the Marshal’s office, and it wouldn’t be the last, but there was an institutional smell to the place and a sense of confinement that didn’t appeal to any of his senses. He was always quick to leave after any necessary business had been conducted.
“I’m assuming you’ve already cashed out?” Delaney said, looking up as he settled back into his red leather chair.
“Yes, sir. I plan on stopping at the bank on my way out of town.”
“In a hurry to leave Bismarck?”
“No more than usual. I had enough of city life as a boy.”
“Saint Louis, if I recall.”
“That’d be correct, sir. My father still owns a blacksmith shop there.”
“Explains your build and demeanor a bit, doesn’t it?”
Trusty didn’t show the flinch on the outside that he felt on the inside. He’d given up the hammer and the anvil, and all of the work that came along with forging iron into something useful a long time ago, but the early days of his life, muscles to some extent, broad shoulders, and workingman hands gave away the experience and the forced occupation of his boyhood. He tried not to think too much about the past, those days when fire and smoke seemed to be his only kin. His father was a cold and distant man with a taste for whiskey and rage, especially after Trusty’s mother had died when he was eight years old and left the two of them to survive each other’s presence. At least there had been some comfort and predictability to be found in the iron and fire.
“I suppose so,” Trusty said, with a glance to the toes of his well-worn boots.
“You get back to Saint Louis often? I’m partial to that city, myself. It’s always buzzing with excitement. People coming and going every day.”
“I try to avoid going home if I can. Especially now.”
Delaney nodded; he understood Trusty’s meaning without being explained to. “There’s still no word on Marberry’s location, if you were wondering. He’s disappeared.”
“I’ve been given to understand that Marberry isn’t my problem or my assignment.”
“You understand correctly.” The Marshal drew in a deep breath and leaned forward. His attention to business had changed from numbers to Trusty. “It makes no difference why he has offered a bounty for your life, the fact is he has, and we will find him and hold him to account, while you continue on with your duties here. I will ask you again if you want to ride with another marshal to help look over your shoulder?”
“I prefer to ride alone.”
“I figured that’s what you would say. Have it your way, then, Dawson. I have a warrant I want you to collect on. I think you’re the right man for the job. It will be your sole focus until the paper is served.”
“Just one warrant, sir?”
“There’ll be plenty of mileage to compensate you for the lack of multiple assignments.”
“It’s not that, sir. I’m not concerned about the money.”
“What then?”
“Coming back to town so soon after I leave.”
“This won’t be an easy card to pocket if that’s what you’re thinking. You’ll head south, then back north again if what I’ve been told proves to be true. I think you’ll have a challenge with this one. The ride will be long, especially this time of the year. The weather will be as much a test to you as your collar. You won’t be returning to Bismarck anytime soon.”
“Okay, that suits me. What do you have?” Trusty hoped the warrant would take him farther south than the confines of Delaney’s jurisdiction reached. He wanted to look for Theodore Marberry, the man who had put a bounty on his head. If that wasn’t enough of a reason, Trusty needed to see the child who was in Marberry’s care, at least at the last sighting of her. A baby girl, born to Marberry’s daughter, Jessica, a woman Trusty had loved since he was a boy, and who, if it was to be believed, he was the father of. He had to find out. He had to know for sure if the baby was his blood, but he was trapped by the badge, the bounty, and the duty he’d swore to uphold. Being a Deputy U.S. Marshal was all he’d had until the moment he’d encountered the news, still unproven, that he had a daughter out in the world somewhere.
“A Yanktonai Sioux called Charlie Littlefoot,” Delaney said. “His birth name was Hadakah, if that matters. Translates into something like ‘the pitiful last,’ which could account for some of his troubles. He is accused of raping a white woman in Fort Yates, a captain’s wife who is now with child. Littlefoot escaped the jail and is thought to be heading north into Canada. On the run, dangerous and smart. Just the kind of challenge you like from what I can glean from your records. First thing I need you to do is head to Fort Yates and make sure the story is straight. Then if everything adds up, you’ll need to track down Littlefoot.”
“Is this captain still on duty?” Trusty was disappointed at the thought of Canada. It was not the direction that he wanted to go.
“Yes. James Pierpoint Plumright. I would seek him out before speaking with anyone else. You’ll need his favor, I would imagine, when it comes to speaking to his wife.”
“And if the story doesn’t add up?”
“You’ll know what to do, but my guess is that it will. At least on the surface of things.”
Trusty couldn’t hide the frown on his face or the fear that the warrant would take him farther from his personal search for the baby girl. He didn’t even know her name, had only seen her briefly disappearing in a crowd. He could be chasing a fairy that really didn’t exist. “Canada’s a little out of our jurisdiction, isn’t it?”
“I’ve paved the way for you to meet up with a Mountie from Wascana, Henri Bisset, if it comes to that. That is if you have to cross the border. Bisset’s a good man. You’ll like him. We’ve had some dealings in our time since I’ve been here.”
Trusty settled back in the chair and tried to think of a way to get out of the assignment. Canada in December was the last place he wanted to be. The only way he could go on his search alone to find the baby girl was to quit the Marshal service, but that wouldn’t do. Not now. “Why me, Marshal? You have deputies who have more experience with the Yanktonai and that part of the country than I do. I don’t have any knowledge of that corner of the world, especially Canada if I end up there.”
“You’ll be a fresh set of eyes. Besides that, I’m hoping nobody knows who you are that far north—including Charlie Littlefoot. He’s faced trouble before and knows most of my badges by their first names.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Whiskey arrests. The usual. Nothing violent or mixed up with white folk from the fort, which is why I want you to poke around before you try to pick up his trail.”
What Delaney said made sense to Trusty, but it still felt like more punishment for his unresolved troubles than a tried-and-true strategy. “And you think I’m the one to find out what smells?”
“I do. Your reputation and service as an Army scout, and then a marshal has been exemplary. I know that you think you were sent here as a punishment for losing Judge Hadesworth, but I have requested your presence in the Territory more than once over the years, and have always been denied,” Marshal Delaney said, his eyes warmer and more personal than Trusty had seen them since he had arrived. “I think you’re a damned good deputy, Dawson, and I think you have the makings of a Marshal appointment in the future if that’s your desire. We all have our failures. It’s what you do after that failure that matters. Finding Charlie Littlefoot is your chance to prove yourself all over again. I hope you see that is the case and not the punishment of it.”
“I’m beginning to,” Trusty said. “I appreciate your confidence in me.”
* * *
In good weather the ride south to Fort Yates was a two-day journey. Luckily, the temperate day had held without turning into an unexpected blizzard like the natty Singer salesman in the livery had worried about. Not that it wasn’t cold beyond Bismarck, out in the open, as Trusty was now. But the ride could have been a lot worse. Less than an inch of snow sat atop the frozen ground, and the wind was mild, a soft push out of the southwest instead of a constant, angry rage out of the north. With the right gear, and layers of clothes underneath his buffalo coat, Trusty had been comfortable as he rode. Glad to be free of Bismarck and all of its confinements, though he was wary as a mouse ducking a hawk’s shadow every time he approached any kind of human traffic on the trail—which had been rare.
Starting as late in the day as he had, Trusty didn’t get as far as he hoped he would. Darkness forced him off the trail miles from his first stop, a thick spot along the way called Cannonball, a trading post on the Standing Rock Reservation. If Charlie Littlefoot had headed north, it was likely he had gone through there.
Luck had accompanied Trusty on the trip so far, offering him a thin grove of cottonwoods that reached up a slight ravine that protected the campsite from the wind. To make things even easier, Trusty had spied a jackrabbit before the light faded away into the fullness of night, and a quick, accurate shot had allowed for a dinner of roasted meat instead of jerky and beans. Bedding down on frozen ground and staying warm, not freezing your fingers or toes off was a learned skill, and Trusty’s time in the Dakota Territory had been short. Still, with his blankets, buffalo coat, and a decent fire, along with the luck of the weather, he had found some comfort. Sleep didn’t come straight away. In the darkness of night, protected by the glow of the fire, happily alone out of Bismarck, back on the trail, he could breathe easier. His mind didn’t turn toward what lay ahead, but what was behind him. He thought of Jessica Marberry and still had a hard time believing that she was dead. He had known her, loved her since he had seen her for the first time in his father’s blacksmith shop. Happiness in the world seemed less possible without Jessica in it. But she had left a baby behind. The baby was the reason for the bounty. He hated living his life like a prey animal, men coming for him for the sport of it, for the money. If he was honest, he also hated riding alone. Somehow, some way he had to find his way to his daughter and claim what was rightfully his.
Trusty finally found sleep, hugging the pile of orange coals as close as he could, dressed in his riding clothes and coat, hunkered down under a buffalo blanket. The night was clear with thousands of silver stars pulsing overhead. The downfall of riding alone was the fear of sleeping too deep, but there had been no sign of riders on the trail for hours, so it had been easy enough to relax, which as it turned out, was a mistake.
The snap of a twig and a snort and rustle from Horse roused Trusty from his slumber straight to his feet, his hand reaching for the ivory grips of his Colt as he stood, half awake, half unsure if he was having a nightmare, or truly standing before a short man with a scattergun aimed straight at his belly. Trusty’s finger found the trigger out of habit and preparedness.
“Well, well,” Carmichael, the shorter of the two sewing machine salesmen said, smiling with the glint of the moon bouncing off his teeth. “We meet again, Trusty Dawson. Only now I know who you are and what you’re worth. A thousand silvers can change a man’s life. Especially a man like me who has to travel hundreds of miles in hopes of making a sale, riding with idiots, and freezing my ass off for pennies instead of dollars.”
There was no sign of his partner, Miles, the one Trusty had originally feared. Carmichael didn’t demand that Trusty drop his gun or raise his hands in surrender. He didn’t say anything else. The huckster just smiled wider and pulled the trigger of the scattergun he had aimed at Trusty’s gut. But he was too late. Trusty pulled the trigger of the Colt first. The two explosions of gunfire joined together, rumbling across the frozen prairie like the thunder of a coming storm, followed by the thud of one body hitting the cold, frozen ground.