The lawyer leaned over, stroked her cheek and neck with the flat of the blade, and pushed his hand down her shirtfront and rubbed her breasts. Dulcinea couldn’t suppress the gasp, and stared straight ahead with hatred in her eyes. Graver gritted his teeth and tried to move the strips down to his ankles, where maybe he could slide them off his feet. Chance seemed to sense the motion, and his head jerked around. He frowned. Graver closed his eyes and lay still. Chance sat in the other chair beside the table. “It’s a long night out here, isn’t it? Don’t worry”—he glanced at Graver—“I’m not going to kill you. I thought we’d talk first, then we’ll get to what I need. A certain set of papers to be signed. I tried, but I’m terrible at forgery.” He tapped the blade on the stack of pages, then paused as if deep in thought, spread his arms, and bowed slightly. “I apologize for the sparseness of my rooms, but I haven’t been myself of late, and these reduced circumstances are, well, merely transitory. You understand. Great fortunes take time and one must go through trials and deprivations and—” He glanced at Dulcinea with the trail of blood on her cheek. Graver stared at the fire, considered rolling over and thrusting his feet in the flames to burn off the bonds but worried his clothes would catch fire, too. He couldn’t risk leaving Dulcinea alone with this man.
“Let me tell you a story. It all began at Wounded Knee.” He softly stroked the side of his jaw with the flat of the blade as if petting a cat. His eyes softened with nostalgia, his jaw relaxed, and his face took on the creaseless countenance of boyhood.
“It was my first time to the West, 1890. I was in the employ of the Earl of Manset, the first son of the Duke of Sullywood, meaning he would succeed to the title and ownership of the estate, which would make him the second-largest landowner in Britain after the Crown. You can see why every measure was taken to ensure his safety on his safari through the West. We may have won the War of Independence, but we still have to accommodate royalty whenever it pokes its head into the provinces. At least that was his belief, and I wasn’t about to dissuade him. At the time I was rather at the end of a certain rope. My parents had sailed away to find a fortune and soon enough I was an orphan casting about for opportunity, and he presented himself one evening. Fortune shines on her favored children, I say.”
He stopped and stared into the fire, rubbing the knife blade with his thumb. Graver thought if he freed his feet he could jump him, bring him down.
“I didn’t know anything about the West, so I read the dime novels and true-life stories and decided it would be perfect. Few laws and fewer authorities to get in my way. With luck, we would find gold, too. Off we went. We shot every living thing. The young earl killing, skinning, beheading, stuffing, and sending his bounty home to decorate the great houses that would soon be his. Imagine the horror that awaited his relations once he filled their walls with his kills. Finally, there was nothing left that we hadn’t shot, eaten, mounted, or cast aside. Still, there was a certain restlessness about the young man. A small, slender figure, he seemed determined to force his personality upon every person or creature he encountered, and that’s a delicate way of saying it.”
The lawyer stood before them, waving his gun. “I don’t think I’ve enjoyed myself so much in a long time. I’ll tell you about it, a tale to pass the time on a cold winter’s eve, a story that begins, ‘Once upon a time’ and ends with ‘All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put her back together again.’”
His eyes reflected the flames of the fire as it took a new log and hungrily ate it.
“I was doing what men do in war.” Chance shrugged and opened his palms to declare his innocence. “I certainly didn’t see the child or I never—Well, I’m not a monster, am I?” He turned to Dulcinea, and the irony of her bound and bloody form seemed to dawn on him. “Point taken,” he said with a sigh.
“The young earl proved an increasingly difficult person after that encounter with the Indians, and nothing could satisfy him unless he, well, I don’t need to go into more details and make you uncomfortable, Dulcinea.”
Chance limped back and forth, his hands thrust in his pockets, head up, eyes darting as if he reenacted the battle in the small cabin space. Graver hoped the man would weave closer so he could trip him or use his tied legs to push him into the fireplace.
“Something had to be done. There were too many bodies, too many damaged women, young girls even, he didn’t discriminate. It was all his fault!” Chance scrubbed his face with his hands.
“He expected me to participate, begged me, then ordered me, threatening to cut off the funds we shared equally by that time. I couldn’t have that!” He looked at them, eyes searching for sympathy. A piece of burning pine in the fire suddenly cracked and hissed and the sound jerked him around. When he turned back, his expression had darkened, and Graver took a quick breath.
“Turn us loose, Chance. There’s no reason to do this.” He spoke calmly to not provoke him.
“You don’t know me very well, Mr. Graver, or you wouldn’t point out the obvious. I need something from Mrs. Bennett, and I need to convince her of the seriousness of my intent.” He gazed around the cabin, then picked up his chair and brought it to the fire so he could sit in the warmth facing them.
Dulcinea sighed. Both men startled and looked at her. “Is this all a plan to convince me to sign with the gas and oil people?”
Chance smiled and shook his head. “That was my original thought. But you decided to take matters into your hands. You had your cowboy here and the deeds to the ranches with Drum dead. I had to come up with another. How do you like it so far?”
“Things can go back to the way they were,” she said. Graver heard the desperation in her voice. “You can represent my interests. I’ll even put you on retainer.”
“I will tell you the rest of the story now so you understand.” He smiled, congenial now, eyes light.
“You see, I dropped a most precious keepsake that night at Wounded Knee.” He looked at Graver. “I met you after the massacre, remember? Your husband, too, Dulcinea. I guess none of us have the high ground here, do we?” He poked Graver in the ribs with his foot.
“I hadn’t known exactly where I’d lost it, the locket with the pictures of my beloved parents, not until I was at the trading post on Rosebud last spring, and there was a certain Indian girl there, well, not a girl, rather a young lady named Star, and I happened to spy it around her neck.” He pivoted in the chair, crossed his legs, leaned his elbow on his knee, and propped his chin in his hand like a schoolboy studying the fire.
“I was surprised, of course, and curious as to how she came by it, but I didn’t want to scare her, so I agreed to meet and discuss it. It took three meetings before I was able to ascertain the story—what a relief! She hadn’t told a soul. She had been there that night, with the earl and me—witnessed the whole tragic event. Though I wondered at her lack of feeling. I could hardly have worn the keepsake of my mother’s murderer, but then, Indians are Indians the world over. In that the earl was correct. Too bad.” Chance shook his head. “Too bad he didn’t live to meet her.”