Page 16 of Head Room (Caught Dead in Wyoming #15)

Our dinner was fun and satisfying — Hamburger Heaven did know how to make a burger — and filled with Tamantha sharing what she’d learned about dinosaurs in Wyoming. They left a lot of their bones in the state, was my inexpert recap.

We went to the house afterward.

I avoided a double dose of dirty looks by scooting next door to retrieve Shadow so he and Tamantha could see each other before she and her dad left for the Circle B.

Watching their departure, I resolved that after the wedding, when Tom wasn’t packing in extra ranch work and I wasn’t a slave to my mother and stepdaughter’s to-do list, we would settle into a routine that had us all in the same place at the same time as a rule, not the exception.

After putting thick moisturizer on my feet and pulling on cotton socks to protect the sheets, I did recognize that not being with Tom overnight had the small compensation of not conflicting with the dreaded to-dos.

Why I needed to have softer feet for the wedding, I did not know. Mom and Tamantha declared it. I had three more nights to do it.

I settled into my bed with my device, prepared to read more of Irene Jardos’ manuscript.

Dale had sent me the first section while we were at dinner, along with a promise to keep working tonight until it was finished.

I messaged back — wait for it — Great. I was not about to look a gift-crush in the mouth that meant getting work done fast.

But now, opening the file, I saw the next part of the manuscript was not written out in complete sentences as the first part was. Instead, it held scraps of dialogue and what looked like notes the writer had made to herself.

It was rather like a fill-in-the-blanks game on a massive scale. As if Vanna White had to point to spots on a manuscript-sized board and the contestant — that would be me — had to guess at big chunks instead of individual letters, without even knowing the category.

After reading through the scraps a few times, I think I had the gist.

Ransom Fletcher, Peter, and the other soldiers in the group — company, I guess — reached Fort Laramie.

That’s where Major Brand showed up again. He wanted a few soldiers to go with him deeper into Indian territory. He didn’t sugarcoat the danger. Peter volunteered before Ransom could stop him. Ransom volunteered, too.

There was also a note that it would be confirmed to the reader that Peter was Ransom’s nephew and the references to Thomas were to another nephew, who died before they left Camp Douglas.

But, wait a minute . . . In the prologue, Ransom Fletcher had worn the tatters of an officer’s uniform and the guy looking for volunteers said no officers.

Had Ransom worn an officer’s uniform not his own?

Or pretended to not be an officer so he could join this group and make sure Peter got out of Camp Douglas?

Then there were more notes.

Some wanted to fight. Brand trades horses for captives, instead. Stelmen Viess disgusted. Get Maggie and a boy about twelve.

Platte Bridge? On the way out or back? Check dates?

Caspar Collins?

I’d need to do research for context, especially about those questions.

It would make sense to get the background from Mrs. P before I advanced much further.

I returned to the pages on the screen.

Never was good at withstanding temptation.

* * * *

(Note: They’ve rescued her and a boy another group held. Traded horses for them rather than fight. Stelmen Viess and a couple others unsatisfied with that decision. Don’t know they avoided a trap that would have ambushed them by bigger force . . . How?

(Tense talk . . . Stelmen Viess talking . . .

“Word I’m hearin’ is that this Brand you’re so all-fired ready for us to follow’s got a stripe of yellow down his back as wide as the poor excuse for a river out there.”

“I’ve seen no sign of yellow down Brand’s back.” Ransom said it with just enough emphasis to indicate to those who chose to hear that he might have detected a strong hint of that color down Stelmen’s back.

“We ain’t been fightin’ behind him yet, have we? He hasn’t had anything to run from.”

“You were the one belly-aching about not wanting to go near those Indians who had the captives. Kept saying we’d none of us get off with our scalps,” Peter said.

Stelmen Viess ignored the younger soldier and his point.

“What I hear is he was fighting in the War and then he broke up, started bawling like a baby and begged to be shipped out here. Heard it from a corporal whose cousin was in the unit stationed right next to Brand’s when it happened.”

. . . silence while they considered that . . .

A cackle cut across the silence and it took a moment to identify it as laughter. It took another moment of listening to that creaky sound to realize it came from Sergeant Zanger in the corner.

“Well, if you believe that about the Marble Major, then you’re a sight dumber Johnny Reb than the dumbest strawfoot I ever met to this day, Viess. And that’s includin’ the one who gave the name mush-head to all mush-heads.”

“I ain’t stupid, Sergeant.”

“No? Well, one who’d believe anybody came out here thinking it was a safe place to get away from the fearin’ and shootin’ and dyin’ would have to be a full-stupid man. And that ain’t something I’ve ever heard anyone sayin’ about Major Brand. Unlike some privates I know.”

Titter from the others. Stelmen Viess looked around at them, affronted.

“I heard what I heard,” he said defiantly. “And I ain’t seen nothing from Brand that’s changed my mind.”

“Gotta have a mind to change.” Not leaving Stelmen Viess time to fire up over that, the sergeant added, “Now, I’m not saying he’s a man I’d care to spend an evening with a jug ’round a fire. No, sirree. Why those eyes alone are enough to make you believe in hobgoblins.

“All the same, I tell you, Major Brand’s got more than air under his hat.

And a man like that — one who’d been out here before the war started back in the States, he’d know what he was getting himself into comin’ back.

And he’d know it was the kind of fighting that could make the bravest man want to turn tail and run. When you seed what I seed . . .

“I’m not saying there’s any good way of dying, but a man that’s gotten to by the Indians.” The sergeant shook his head. “That’s the worst way to die there is.”

Moving only his eyes, Ransom looked around and knew the wily sergeant’s words had an impact on the men.

Made them think, for sure. Maybe made them more willing to follow Brand’s orders. Maybe keep them alive.

(Note: Stelmen Viess says boy’s an Indian. Why’d we take him?)

“That boy’s white.”

“Nah.”

“He is. Look close.”

“Half-breed, maybe. Takin’ care of him’ll likely come out of our provisions. Why should we have to give up food for some half-breed?”

“He’s no more half-breed than you, Stelmen.”

“Then he’s worse, because he gave up being who he was to become one of them savages.”

“You mean that in order to survive,” the tall one spoke without raising his head, “he adapted to his circumstances and rode with his former enemies.”

Now he raised his head, and looked directly at the bearded one.

The others stilled, watching the tall one stare. The bearded one stared back. Defiant, angry.

She didn’t like the bearded one. His eyes were mean, like—

She shut that off.

But she understood his defiance, his anger. She remembered when she had let her own out. Before she’d learned to hold them near. Near and quiet. Absolutely quiet.

“What are we going to do with her?” That was the young one, called Peter.

“First thing we should do is dip her in boiling water and get some of the stink off her.”

That was the bearded one, the one who’d been so angry when the tall one made him give up his horse for her.