Blood at Bear Lake (3 page)

Joe opened the shed and tossed a little hay down to keep Beth's horses occupied, then carried an armload to the fence and dumped it outside where the Palouse could reach it. He went back inside and felt along the east wall until he encountered a bridle hanging there. The Palouse was accustomed to its own bit, so Joe took the time to remove a rein and secure it to his bridle instead of taking the whole outfit. Then he returned the bridle to the peg where it had been hanging—that would undoubtedly cause some puzzlement the next time these horses were used—and went for the Palouse.

“Good boy,” he mumbled as he slipped the bridle back in place, the Palouse opening its teeth to the bit after only a momentary balk. “Good boy.”

That done, he took a moment to ponder.

He knew which direction Fiona took when she fled from Peabody's men. Come daybreak, he would be able to track her from there. With any kind of luck, she would be hiding not too many miles distant.

Joe figured he should be able to find her given a few hours—half a day tops—and then they could begin the second phase of his plan to get Jessica back.

Why, with any luck at all, they could simply slip out from under Peabody's men. Get away from them and sneak back to the church to have that talk with Father O'Connor.

The man had promised Fiona he would return Jessica to her when things worked out to permit that. Having two loving parents who wanted her and were fully prepared to care for her should certainly count toward that delightful end.

They would present themselves to the priest, then take Jessica and be on their way.

Once they were away from Virginia City, Joe would take them where no Peabody gunman would ever find them.

They had money. Joe still had a thousand dollars in his war bag, and he had given Fiona three times that amount. With four thousand dollars, they could buy trade goods and passage upriver on a Missouri River steamer.

Joe knew several different places where a man could build a trading post. He could trade with the Blackfoot and the Lakota. Perhaps some Northern Cheyenne and Crow would come that far north as well, especially if they knew that Man Killer was giving fair prices for good fur.

Those tribes knew him. More to the point, they respected him. They knew Man Killer's words were good. They would come to him with their furs and their hides.

In winter, he might even get in a little trapping of his own.

Not that there was much money in fur these days. But if he had Fiona, well, that was what was important.

They would be safe on the Upper Missouri. They would have a good life there, the three of them. Jessica would have Indian children to play with. Fiona could be her teacher. Joe's, too, for that matter. He had only recently learned to read, and now he had a thirst for it. Fiona could teach him the words he did not yet know.

A smile flickered across his lips as he thought of himself stuffed into a tiny school desk with little Jessica beside him, both learning out of the same primer.

Joe sighed. But that would be then. This was now. And now there were still men out there in the night who sought to kill him and—far worse—to kill his beloved Fiona.

He gathered his reins and slipped lightly into the saddle. It was time to get the hell away from Virginia City so he could get on with his search for Fiona.

6

FIONA HAD BEEN headed a little south of east when she scampered away from the trap Peabody had set for her and Joe, but that meant nothing. She surely would know better than to continue in a straight line when there would be men chasing after her who wanted to kill her.

She would have turned toward . . . where? However many points there were on a compass, that was how many directions she could have gone. Well, except for back there to Virginia City. Joe was sure she would know better than to attempt to hide there where every man could inform on her or any man could decide to collect a bounty on her pretty head.

The only other place Joe knew Fiona was familiar with, and comfortable in, was Lake's Crossing, where Joe had found her after their years of separation. And where they had been at long last married.

At the time, Fiona had been staying with friends, a photographer and his wife.

It was not impossible, Joe thought, that she might return there to wait for him.

Joe pointed the Palouse toward Lake's Crossing and hoped for the best. Wherever Fiona had gone, he was only a day behind her. Surely, he would catch up with her soon. They could wait a little while. Perhaps even enlist the help of some other priest or nun to help them get Jessica back from the convent.

And then, then they could start their lives anew. In Wyoming perhaps. There never was country more big or open or empty than beautiful Wyoming. Or in Montana Territory. There were gold strikes in Montana, they said. That meant miners to feed, and Joe knew valleys there where the grass grew belly-deep to a tall horse and where beef would swell up with fat quick as a jackrabbit mated.

That was the ticket. Build a little trading post where he could do some business with whatever Indians were nearby and raise some beef, too. Fresh meat would be worth a fortune in a mining camp.

It would be a good life, he figured, with Fiona and Jessica at his side. He could not ask for anything more.

The Palouse carried him into Lake's Crossing shortly after the break of day. The horse was about used up. Its muscles quivered with fatigue and its walk was a stumbling shamble.

“You done good, boy,” Joe said as he slipped to the ground and walked the horse the last half mile. He tied it to the gate in front of the photographer's house and started up the walk, only to realize that the door was closed and the windows shuttered. He walked around back and found the same thing all around. The house appeared to be empty, perhaps even deserted.

A woman in the adjacent yard was hanging clothes on a line to dry. Joe removed his hat when he approached her. “Excuse me, ma'am,” Joe said. “I'm looking for the man as lives next door there.”

She gave Joe a suspicious look. “What do you want with him? Are you a friend of his?”

“Not exactly, ma'am, but my new wife is. Her and me was married in Faxon's house a few days back. She had been stayin' with him and . . .”

“You are Fiona's husband? You are Mr. Moss?”

“Yes'm, that's me.”

The lady smiled. “To hear Fiona tell it, you are seven feet tall and handsomer than any other man ever to walk this earth. I see now that she stretched the truth.” She laughed. “But only a little. Where is Fiona, by the way? Is she here? Tell her I have some of that dried apple pie that she dotes on. It's fresh.” The lady craned her neck and came onto tiptoes, looking toward the street where she obviously expected to see Fiona.

“That's what I was hoping you could tell me, ma'am,” Joe said. “I mean about where Fiona is right now. It's a long story, but her and me got separated, and I don't rightly know which way she went from Virginia City.”

“You two were fighting already?”

“Not with each other, no, ma'am. I don't figure that will ever happen. But there's some men that want t' harm her. She had to run while I stayed back t' hold them off her. Like I said, we was separated. Now I'm wanting t' find her.”

“And the little girl?”

Joe smiled. “We seen her. Just for a minute but . . . we seen her. After I find Fiona again, we'll take her back from them nuns and have a proper life together as a family. That's my plan anyhow. But first I got to find Fiona.”

“I wish I could help you, Mr. Moss, but I've not seen her since the two of you left after your wedding.”

“An' Faxon? What about him?” Joe asked.

“Oh, he won't be back here for several months, I shouldn't think. He has been communicating with a publisher in New York City. He and his wife have taken a portfolio of his work there to discuss having the the pictures collected in a book. I don't know how long a thing like that takes, but they closed the house and asked me to keep an eye on it until they get back.”

“And you haven't seen Fiona this morning?”

“I'm sorry. No.”

Joe sighed. “Thanks. Thank you, ma'am. If you see Fiona . . .” He did not know what he should tell the woman to do if Fiona should come here and find the house boarded up and the family gone.

“If she comes here, Mr. Moss, she can stay with me while she waits. I have room enough for her . . . for the little girl, too, if it comes to that . . . and her company would be a pleasure.”

“You're mighty kind, ma'am. Thank you.”

Joe turned away and walked back to the front of the house.

His impulse was to press on. Never mind that he had no idea where to look next. Wherever it was, he was in a hurry to get there.

He had no choice about it, though. He would have to stay here at least long enough for the Palouse to recoup some strength. The horse needed feed and water and a rest before they could move along.

And Joe had some shopping to do. He still had his Colt revolving pistol and of course his ever-present tomahawk and bowie knife, but he had lost his rifle in the shoot-out back in Virginia City. He felt naked without a rifle and wanted to replace his Henry, preferably with a repeater if he could find one for sale here in Nevada. Men in towns tended to carry short arms or knives but not rifles, so it remained to be seen what sort of long gun he could find.

It couldn't hurt for him to catch a little sleep, too, while the Palouse rested.

7

“TWO BITS,” THE man said. “That includes all the hay he can eat and all the water he can hold, but if you want me to give him grain, that'll be extra.”

“How much extra?”

“Ten cents.”

“Good grain?”

“Oats. No corn in it but the oats are clean. There's no mold in them nor on my hay.”

Joe nodded. “I'll go the extra dime. He's earned it.”

“Put him in the stall at the end down there, the last one on the right.”

“I have another question,” Joe said. “Will it be all right if I lay down somewhere an' catch some shut-eye? I'm 'bout as wore out as the horse is.”

The hostler, a bearded gent with a limp and a bad scar that covered much of the left side of his face, pointed toward a ladder that led to the hayloft overhead. “Help yourself. I'm expecting a load of hay later on today, so you might want to pick a spot toward the back if you don't want to be stepped on up there.” He smiled. “Of course, the cussing will likely wake you up anyway. It's hard work and small wages for pitching hay.”

“You ever take in a fur trapper's rendezvous?” Joe asked.

“No, sir, I can't say that I have. Why?”

“Because you learn to sleep through plenty of noise at those things. It's only when some son of a bitch is tryin' to sneak up on me all quiet that I come awake. But noise, that don't bother me none.”

“Then pick a spot up there and welcome.”

“Thank you, friend. I'm beholden.”

Joe stripped his saddle off the Palouse and turned it into the stall, where it promptly dropped to its knees and rolled, squirming in the dry straw. He dipped water from a trough behind the barn and filled a pail that he found in the stall. A small bunk in one corner of the stall was already full of good-quality grass hay—Joe pulled out a handful and smelled it to be sure. Then he gave the horse a half gallon of oats from a bin beside the tack room. While the animal ate, he scrubbed its back with a curry comb and completed the grooming with a soft dandybrush. When finally he was done settling the horse in for its rest, Joe gratefully climbed the ladder into the cavernous loft overhead.

The loft had hay piled on one side of the trapdoor, and straw on the other. Joe went to the far back end of the barn and stretched out on top of a pile of soft, sweet-smelling hay.

He was asleep practically before he had time enough to close his eyes.

“You Yankee son of a bitch!”

Joe woke to the sounds of scuffling feet and the thud of fists on flesh. He heard grunts of pain and the crash of breakingwood. It sounded like rendezvous all over again as he sat bold upright, tomahawk in hand to defend himself if need be.

The noise was coming from the barn floor below. There was no threat to him.

Someone, though, was getting the shit beaten out of him. The noises continued for several minutes, thumping and banging and muttered curses.

Whoever it was down there, this was not Joe's fight and he had no inclination to step in. Besides, he was not done sleeping.

Satisfied that no one was interested in his scalp, he returned the tomahawk to his sash, rolled over on his side, and prepared to go back to sleep.

“You can stop now,” a different voice said. “I think you kil't him.”

“Old bastard,” another answered. “Serves him right.”

“C'mon. Let's get outa here before someone sees us. No, dammit, not that way. We'll go out the back. Far as anybody knows, we ain't been here today.” There was a slight pause, then, “Are you about damn done? I don't wanta be here when somebody comes.”

“I'm done. Let's go.”

Joe listened closely, wide awake now. The footsteps, like the voices, were those of two men. There was nothing distinctive about the footsteps, as there would have been had one of the men been the friendly hostler, but he would remember those voices.

Sure of what he would find even before he got down there, he went down the ladder to the floor beneath. The hostler lay slumped against the tack room wall. A pitchfork lay close by. The man's head was oddly shaped, the skull obviously crushed, probably by a heavy wooden bucket that lay in a corner several feet away from the body. The hostler's pockets were turned inside out.