He was talking riddles again, so she persisted.
‘But not Linda Pickett?’
He thought for a while, chewing on a grass stem.
‘No, not Linda Pickett.’
‘You promise, Ben?’
‘I promise.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
In college at Bozeman Charlie Bevin had had a friend who had become a journalist and moved to work on the Billings Gazette. She called her and asked for a quick check of the back issues for any mention of the announcement of an engagement involving a young woman called Linda Pickett. It did not take long.
Four days later the mail package brought her a cutting from the early summer. Mr and Mrs Michael Pickett and Mr and Mrs William Braddock had been pleased to announce the engagement of their daughter Linda and son Kevin. Charlie raised her eyebrows and whistled. No wonder the girl did not intend to break her engagement.
‘That must be the son of Big Bill Braddock,’ she told Craig. ‘You know, the beefsteak king?’
The scout shook his head.
‘No,’ said Charlie with resignation, ‘you just hunt your own. Without a licence. Well, Ben, the father is very rich indeed. He lives on a big spread up north of here, near the Yellowstone. Do you know the river?’
Craig nodded. He had ridden down every inch of the southern bank with General Gibbon, from Fort Ellis to the junction with the Tongue, far east of Rosebud Creek, where they turned back.
‘Could you find out when the wedding will be, Charlie?’
‘You remember your promise?’
‘I do. No Linda Pickett.’
‘That’s right. So what do you have in mind? A little surprise?’
‘Uh-huh.’
Charlie made another phone call. September slipped into October. The weather remained fine and mild. The long-range forecast suggested a real Indian summer, with fine sunny weather until the end of the month.
On the 10th a copy of the Billings Gazette arrived with the tour bus. With the school term well under way, the flow of visitors was easing fast.
In the paper from her friend Charlie found an entire column from the writer of the social diary. She read it out to Craig.
In breathless prose the diarist described the forthcoming nuptials of Kevin Braddock and Linda Pickett. The ceremony would be at the magnificent Bar-T Ranch south of Laurel Town on 20 October. Given the continuing clement weather, the ceremony would take place on the expansive lawns of the estate at 2 p.m. before an invited thousand guests who would include the social cream and business elite of the state of Montana. She went on like this to the bottom of the page. Ben Craig nodded and memorized.
The next day the post commander addressed them all on the parade ground. The Fort Heritage summer experience would close for the winter months on 21 October, he said. It had been an outstanding success and messages of congratulations had flowed from educators and legislators across the state.
‘There will be much hard work to do in the four days prior to closure,’ Professor Ingles told his young team. ‘Salaries and wages will be paid out on the day before. We have to get the facility cleaned, stored and ready for the hard winter before we go.’
Afterwards Charlie took Ben Craig aside.
‘Well, Ben, we’re coming to the end,’ she said. ‘When it’s over we can all go back to wearing our normal clothes. Oh, I suppose those are your normal clothes. Well, you have a wad of dollars coming. We can go into Billings and get you some sneakers, jeans, a selection of sports shirts and a couple of warm jackets for the winter.
‘Then I want you to come back to Bozeman with me. I’ll find you nice lodgings and then introduce you to some people who can help you.’
‘Very well, Charlie,’ he said.
That evening he tapped on the professor’s door. John Ingles was sitting at his desk. A wood-burning pot-bellied stove glowed in the corner to take the chill off the evening air. The professor welcomed his buckskin-clad visitor warmly. He had been impressed by the lad, by his knowledge of the wild and the old frontier and the fact that never once had he slipped out of character. With his knowledge and a college degree, the professor could have found him a post on campus.
‘Ben, my boy, how can I help you?’