Part 7 (1/2)

He looked at me as if I had just fallen from the sky.

”That was an attempt at humor, Mr. Calder.”

”It doesn't strike me as funny.”

”It would be, if you knew my situation.”

”I'm sure I don't,” he said.

”Nor would you like to, apparently,” I said.

”I have no time for-”

”For what?” I asked. ”What do you take me for?”

”I take you not at all,” Calder said. ”Your business is your own, miss.”

”My name is Ophelia Wylde,” I said. ”I prefer 'Ophelia' or 'The Reverend Professor Wylde' to 'miss,' if you don't mind.”

”Of course,” he said, the corners of his lips betraying him. ”Reverend.”

”From the train, I saw a cemetery at the edge of town. Could you tell me the name of it?”

”You don't know?”

”I would not ask if I did.”

”That's Boot Hill.”

I left wicked Front Street-and the smugly disapproving Jack Calder-behind.

On Bridge Street, I worked my way north, then ambled west along Chestnut, where most of the brothels on the north side were concentrated, and then on Walnut. The blocks north of Walnut were where most of the permanent residents of the city lived, and their homes ranged from shacks to limestone cottages, all with clotheslines and vegetable gardens out back. The hill I had seen from the train encroached on the northwest corner of town, with some homes and a few businesses hard against its flanks.

But Boot Hill was really more of a ridge, pointing south, than a hill. I hiked up, discovering it to be composed of a peculiar mixture of clay, sand, and rocks, with patches of buffalo gra.s.s and soapweeds. The tops of the scattered soapweeds, a type of yucca, were heavy with their bell-shaped white blossoms. Loose sand and gravel skittered beneath my feet as I climbed, and a few times I slid back a few feet when I attempted too steep an angle.

The hill came to a bulbous point overlooking the town, and it afforded a good view of the Arkansas River, which serpentined across the plain a half mile south. Even at the summit, there was the stench of cows. Herds of several thousand longhorns dotted the valley.

No buffalo.

No Indians.

On the opposite side of town, I could see the brick-and-stone Ford County Courthouse, by far the largest building in town. A few blocks from the courthouse, atop a low ridge, was a white steepled church.

In the center of town, I could see the Dodge House, and it was clear now that it was really several buildings st.i.tched together. On the roof of the main building bristled an array of meteorological instruments for the government weather station. I could see the west window of my corner hotel room, and much of both Front Streets.

The saloons on both sides of the tracks blazed with light, and little knots of cowboys drifted from one to the other. Their rough laughter carried to me on the still air. There were a few soldiers, little groups in blue, having come from Fort Dodge, a frontier outpost five miles to the east.

From up on Boot Hill, it was easy to imagine the cowboys and the soldiers and the townspeople as animals. The good citizens and the soldiers were mostly herd animals, I decided, but the cowboys ran in packs, like wolves. The most unpredictable and therefore most dangerous of the cowboy animals were the loners-the lobos.

I walked over to the cemetery, on the side of the hill facing town.

There were a few dozen graves, identified by white crosses or wood markers, and a few rectangles of sunken earth that had not been marked at all. A cemetery visit is essential research for any medium, because you very quickly gain the names of residents and a brief family history, told in years and ages.

But at Boot Hill, there was scant information to work with.

The town was too new, having been settled only five years before. There hadn't been time for many permanent residents to have been planted here. Most of the wooden markers, at least when the graves had markers, indicated transients, murder victims, or other unfortunates.

Some carried brief, hand-lettered epitaphs: Jack Reynolds shot dead 1872 by railroad track layer.

Five buffalo hunters, names unknown, frozen dead after blizzard 1873 north of city.

Barney Cullen, railroad employee, dead 1873 saloon shooting spree.

Unknown boy found hanged west of town 1875.

Texas Hill and Ed Williams shot dead for cause, Tom Sherman's barroom 1873, Dodge City Vigilance Committee.

And so forth.

Death by natural causes seemed to be virtually unknown in Dodge City. It would be a healthy place to live if only you could duck the flying lead, avoid knives and ropes, and keep from freezing to death in winter.

The epitaphs were colorful, but hardly useful.

No family groups, no birth dates to determine ages, no relative sizes of monument to indicate status. It was all horribly and rustically democratic.

Near the top of the hill was an open grave, having been prepared sometime in the last day or so, judging from the freshness of the sides of the earth, but it had not yet received an occupant. There was a shovel driven into the mound of earth beside the grave.

Were the city fathers antic.i.p.ating another wild weekend? Or was the Vigilance Committee just sending a warning?

I sat down next to the open grave.

The sun had nearly set and the sky had turned a deepening blue. The evening star blazed brightly in the west, and overhead a few faint stars were emerging.

I leaned back on my elbows to look up at them.

Then I stretched out full beside the open grave and put my hands beneath my head for a pillow.

There was a gentle breeze from the southwest, chasing away the smell of cattle and replacing it with the scent of rain and gra.s.s. It was cool, but not cold. Soon I was asleep, or nearly so.

Then I felt something slither near my elbow.

I shot up like a skyrocket.

A rattlesnake the length of my arm was undulating along next to the open grave, following its pink flicking tongue. A cold thrill pa.s.sed from the center of my chest to the top of my head as I realized it could have bitten me at any time. I took a few steps back as I caught my breath.