Free Into the Savage Country by Shannon Burke Page A

bottles on a shelf below the rafters. A man with riding boots, muddied to his knees, sat with his feet spread, and a heavy glass on the table next to a bottle of Taos Whiskey. A pistol rested on the table and a shotgun on a chair nearby. The traveler had long, dark hair and a black riding jacket of an expensive cut. I noticed he had not bothered to wipe his feet before he entered and there were chunks of drying mud around his expensive boots. The traveler turned as I entered and held a hand up and said, “William Wyeth, western adventurer, I heard you graced this lovely settlement. How kind of you to call.”
    By his voice and not by his rough appearance I realized it was Henry Layton, the St. Louis dandy, now somehow transported to Fort Burnham.
    Layton had changed greatly in the sixteen months since I’d last seen him. He’d lost a fifth of his weight, and his smooth cheeks were now covered with a dark beard. He sat laconically, exuding a casual arrogance.
    “I hear you’ve been keeping Bailey’s widow company. Damned honorable to respect her mourning, Wyeth.”
    “I’ve respected it much more than I’d like,” I said, and he laughed loudly.
    “Alene will make gentlemen of us all despite our protestations. She had only started her work on Bailey. Damn the poor whapper.”
    “I was sorry to hear of his death,” I said. “You were friends.”
    “Hardly,” Layton said dryly. “We shared the same bottle, nothing more. We had some unfortunate business dealings that he blamed me for. Unjustly. All of the money and none of the grit. But he’s dead now. No reason to speak of his shortcomings. Alene resented me for judging him honestly. I am sure you know that already.”
    “I do not know her thoughts,” I said. “She is in mourning. We are not intimate.”
    “You can’t blame that on her mourning,” he said. “Mourning is a time for rich widows to weigh their options.”
    “She’s hardly a rich widow.”
    “She will be, though not without a fight. I have brought her correspondence from Bailey’s family in which they refer to her as ‘the Squaw.’ ”
    “That was generous of you to read it.”
    “It
was
generous of me to bring it. Damned generous. I diverted five hundred miles to come here. And damn the misplaced morality, Wyeth. How is she?”
    “She’s surviving.”
    “I have heard that surviving is the only word for what she’s doing. She is tending to sick natives, exposing herself to infection, and has gone back to tanning pelts while Bailey’s sisters eat off Imari plates, bickering among themselves about whichbarouche to buy. She is the rightful heir to Bailey’s fortune, which was considerable. There will be a scandal when my letter arrives.”
    “Does she know this?”
    “Of course she knows it. She’d rather wallow in some obscure dust pit than fight for what is hers. I have no such reservations. Sit,” he said again. He waved to Smitts. “Bring Wyeth a glass. I haven’t had a conversation worth a nickel since St. Louis. I don’t know what Wyeth will rate, but in this settlement he’ll have to do.”
    I hesitated, and he added impatiently, “I was insufferable in St. Louis. I know that. Against my nature I have been forced to reform. My presence in the settlements is proof of that. I hear you have traveled the western mountains. Talk to me, Wyeth. I’m dying for conversation.”
    He kicked a chair out and after a moment I did sit.
    “You were injured. Tell me the story. I imagine some heart pounding and gallant act. You were wounded while dashing across a desert waste and battling hostile savages.”
    “I was shot by another trapper while hunting buffalo. And I missed the beast before I was shot.”
    “Bravo, Wyeth. A truthful trapping story. We will need to amend that.”
    Smitts arrived with a glass and Layton poured me a drink.
    “Where were you? In the Tetons?” he asked as he poured.
    “No. South of there.”
    “Do you have a map?”
    “No.”
    “Could you make