In the Season of the Sun (34 page)

“Kill me and you'll never have a moment's peace,” Harveson said. “My sister or Captain Smead—somehow, some way, word will reach the authorities. I have too many friends. And they will see you hounded to perdition.” Harveson closed the ledger. “There you have it.”

Kilhenny chewed his lip and ran a set of stubby fingers through his beard as he considered the possibilities. He'd always felt a grudging respect for Harveson, no more so than now.

“For a small man, you cast a long shadow,” Kilhenny said.

“Damn right I do.” Nate Harveson stood and stepped around his desk to confront the half-breed face-to-face. “Thalia will be serving supper.”

“I'm surprised you want me at your table.”

“All the better to keep an eye on you.”

Kilhenny studied the man, then gestured toward the rear of the house.

“Lead the way, Mr. Harveson. Like you said, the house is yours.”

As the sun loomed low in the west, cookfires glimmered and men unfurled their bedrolls amid muted tones of conversation. Nate Harveson sat across from Coyote Kilhenny. Skintop Pritchard, Pike Wallace, and Tom Milam gathered round and took their places at the long table. Thalia brought platters of biscuits and set them down in front of the men. Captain Mose Smead arrived to take his place at the end of the table while Abigail, despite Kilhenny's look of disapproval, worked her way between her brother and Tom Milam. Tom didn't mind a bit having Abigail close by, and when she glanced in his direction, he flashed a wicked grin that let her know precisely what he was thinking. She blushed despite herself and concentrated on the meal at hand.

Thalia followed the biscuits with a platter of antelope steaks smothered in gravy, and a cast-iron Dutch oven filled with boiled rice. An apple cobbler rounded out the repast and the men, with little regard for manners, fell to wolfing down their meal, eyes darting greedily to the cobbler on the table before them.

“Job Berton and Tom here say the redskins'll be riding in about noon. That right, Tom?” Nate Harveson said.

“If they make camp,” Tom said. He'd been on the trail again for the last couple of days, making a cold camp at night with Job Berton and shadowing the Blackfeet down from the high country.

“You counted thirty braves?” Harveson asked. “I thought only the tribal elders would be coming.”

“Call it an escort,” Kilhenny said. “A few representative bucks from each clan, the Buffalo Clan, the Kit Fox, the Bowstring, and such.” Kilhenny, reached across the table and clapped Harveson on the shoulder and guffawed, spilling gravy down his chin. “Now don't fret, Mr. Harveson, we figure to arrange a celebration for those red devils they'll never forget.”

“I'll play 'em a tune personal on one of those nine-pounders,” Skintop Pritchard added and winked at Pike.

“I thought if we captured the tribal leaders, the rest of the poor primitives would stay right in line.” Abigail folded her hands on the table and waited for Kilhenny to reply. She wasn't about to let the half-breed Scot bully her. “I see no need for unnecessary bloodshed.”

“Look, honey,” Kilhenny said, “with the Blackfeet, there ain't no such thing as unnecessary when it comes to killing.” Kilhenny pointed to the mountains to the west. “Up yonder there's streams and creeks just teeming with prime pelts. Know why? 'Cause the Blackfeet been murdering and scalping any poor bastard who just so even pokes his nose into their hunting grounds.”

“Kilhenny's right, dear sister,” Harveson said. “We must demonstrate our resolve to stay here from the outset. The savage must give way to civilization.”

“Better we meet the heathen on our terms than his.” Pike Wallace never looked up from his plate but promptly filled his mouth with a gravy-soaked biscuit.

“We'll keep the tribal elders until the remainder of the tribe has been driven out,” Kilhenny explained. His ham-sized fist closed around his coffee cup and he drained its bitter black contents down his gullet.

“You shouldn't have sent those men to the south.” Nate Harveson had yet to touch his meal, the chunks of meat and gravy congealed in the center of his plate.

“Hunters go where there's sign!” Kilhenny snapped. He held out his cup and Thalia hurried over with the coffee pot and filled it, taking care to slosh some of the steaming liquid on the man's fingers. The half-breed never even flinched, though his eyes glanced up at the cook as if gauging whether or not her clumsiness had been an accident.

“S'cuse me, suh.” Thalia waddled back to her stove.

“Anyway,” Kilhenny continued, “a dozen men won't make much difference.” He smiled and in a taunting gesture added, “You needn't be afraid, Mr. Harveson.”

“Oh, I'm not,” Harveson replied. “Only a trifle concerned. Still, I'll go as far as you. And one step further.” He glanced at Kilhenny's cohorts. “Perhaps you and your men had better get your preparations in order. Tomorrow promises to be a busy day.”

Kilhenny intended to do just that, in ways Harveson couldn't even begin to guess. He shoved himself away from the table. He stood and motioned for his companions to join him. Pike Wallace sandwiched a chunk of antelope meat in a biscuit. Skintop Pritchard wiped his mouth on his sleeve, drew a knife, and helped himself to a lion's portion of the cobbler, which he held in his hand for want of a plate.

“I hate to rush a meal,” Tom said, his expression impassive as he looked up at Kilhenny. “Never can tell when it might be your last.”

“Yeah,” Kilhenny said, his shrewd gaze darting from Abigail to Tom. “Take your time, boy. Just so long as you're hid down in the draw with Dog Bill and the lads come sunup.”

“I'll be there ready to ride,” Tom replied.

Kilhenny, satisfied, headed out into the fort with Pike Wallace and Skintop Pritchard keeping close behind.

“Blessed are the peacemakers,” Mose Smead said in a reflective tone. He shook his head and tried to make sense of it all.

“No room for peacemakers in my kingdom.” Nate Harveson began to pace the packed-earth floor. Things were coming to a head. He had to figure all the angles so as not to be caught off guard.

“I don't like it,” Abigail spoke up.

“I see.” Smead adjusted his spectacles with a forefinger; the wire frames had an annoying habit of sliding down the bridge of his nose. The captain looked in Tom's direction. “And what of you, young man? Are the precious thoughts contained in the word of God at all familiar to you?”

“My pa read verse and chapter to us every night, all about the peacemakers. Hell, he
was
one right up until the red savages massacred him, my mother, and probably my brother,” Tom snarled. His hand crept toward the snake ring dangling from the chain around his throat. “You can't trust them. There isn't a single trick the bastards don't use.”

“Like inviting you in under a flag of truce to the slaughter,” Abigail blurted.

Even Thalia, tending another batch of biscuits, glanced around at Abigail, surprised she spoke with such force.

“This is different,” Tom retorted.

“No,” Abigail said, lowering her voice. “But you'll make it so to keep from having to face the fact that you and Kilhenny and all the rest are no better. For all your talk, tomorrow you'll become what you hate the most.”

Tom, astonished by her outburst, faltered, tried to respond, to defend himself.

“I thought … my God, Abby,” Harveson sputtered, taken aback. “You came to build this empire, same as me.”

“But not on a foundation of blood.”

“There is no other way,” Tom angrily interrupted. “Not here. Maybe in the safety of a drawing room but not in the wild country.” Her attack had wounded him and only added to the lingering pain he still carried. His parents were dead. Jacob no doubt was dead and Tom had spent a lifetime building a wall around his heart to pen in the hurt. He slowly rose from his place. Abigail, sensing she had overstepped a boundary with him, reached out to him, but Tom pulled away.

“There's a price to be paid when you cross into wild country and you'd better be willing to pay it.” Tom said. “Be willing to pay it or get out as fast as you can.”

Tom started to walk away, then hesitated, as if there was something else he wanted to say, a word of tenderness born of feelings and emotions still new to him. Abigail was part of him now, locked deep in his heart, but now wasn't the time to tell her. Later maybe … He marched across the compound with quick, fluid strides.

Later, Abigail would remember how in the lengthening shadows of a crimson sunset Tom Milam had straddled that precarious border between the darkness and the light.

Kilhenny dispatched Pike Wallace to one blockhouse, Skintop Pritchard to the other, cautioning each one to be alert come the morning. He promised his companions that tomorrow would see the beginning of a glorious future for them all.

One mission accomplished, Coyote Kilhenny proceeded to the next and veered toward the barn. He rounded the corral and moments later he slipped unannounced through the gap in the barn doors that someone had forgotten to completely close. Kilhenny paused to allow his vision to adjust and, being a cautious man, listened before calling out to Vogel.

He heard a girl's muffled laugh, then a rustle of straw and a man's voice, Con Vogel, groan aloud, “Oh God …” Kilhenny pinpointed the sound as originating from one of the stalls at the rear of the barn. He stalked silently down the aisle. He already knew what he'd find when he reached the second-to-the-last stall. There, in the fitful glare of a lamp turned dim and hung from a peg on a post above the sweat-streaked couple, Con Vogel lay on his back on a bed of straw, and the dusky form of young Virginia rode him like a stallion from out of the corral. Her back arched and her pelvis ground forward, and Vogel continued to groan as he lifted his pale arms to caress her sweat-streaked dark limbs. Straw clung to her legs and thighs and showed in stark contrast where a few twigs had caught in her black hair.

“Well, I'll be a cross-eyed son of a seventh son.” Kilhenny chuckled aloud. “Fiddle player, if you just aren't full of surprises.”

Virginia uttered a cry of surprise, grabbed for her cotton smock and calico dress, and scrambled underneath the rails of the stall. The German bolted upright, face blank, then made an attempt to cover himself and his rapidly shrinking manhood. He glanced around for anything he might use for a weapon. There was nothing, so he scrambled to his feet, brushed the straw from his backside, and tensed as Kilhenny pulled a pistol from his belt.

“Now let's discuss this like gentlemen, Kilhenny,” Vogel said, holding out his hands as if to ward off the impending gunshot and lead slug.

“I bleed red, not blue.” Then, to Vogel's complete surprise, Kilhenny tossed the percussion pistol to the German. “I heard you can use one of these.”

Vogel caught the gun and looked up in disbelief. “In the fatherland, I had quite a reputation as a duelist.”

“Hell with that, can you shoot?”

“I can shoot. At twenty paces, there is no one my equal.”

“Good.” Kilhenny scratched at his beard. His shaggy red hair, framing his fierce features, spilled down his back as he tilted his head back and laughed. Holding a gun on such a man didn't make Vogel feel any less at risk. “You're about to become a red Injun,” Kilhenny declared, only further confusing Con Vogel.

Coyote Kilhenny leaned over the railing and peered into the adjacent stall as Virginia pulled her dress over her head. The half-breed loosed a horrible growl and bared his yellow teeth. The poor girl choked back a scream and scrambled out of the stall and darted to safety through a back door.

Kilhenny turned to Vogel, who had yet to so much as twitch despite the fact he held a gun. “Pull your pants on, fiddle player. I've got plans for you.”

39

T
hirty-one Blackfoot warriors skylined themselves along the low hills to the west of Fort Promise and watched a spring shower track across the rolling prairie that stretched between the hills and the stockade.

Jacob drew up alongside Lone Walker, who studied the lay of the land and the fort and blockhouses. The doors to the stockade were open in a gesture of friendliness. A wagon loaded with trade goods had been brought out in front of the fort. Beyond the wagon, a long oaken table had been placed about twenty yards from the west gate. A half-dozen white men at the table stood when the Blackfeet arrived on the hilltops and arranged themselves on one side of table; they seemed unconcerned by the arrival of the warriors.

Lone Walker's expression betrayed his alarm at the sight of the fort and the riverboat that was anchored downstream. Only a handful of white men patrolled the stockade parapets. Lone Walker marveled that so much had been accomplished in so short a time. He wondered how many of the trappers waited in the blockhouses or aboard the riverboat or were hidden in the draws and behind the trees.

“They have seen us.” Bear rose up on horseback and held his hand palm upward and shouted a greeting to the buckskin-clad trappers by the fort. One of the men at table—who alone wore a frock coat and woolen trousers, the formal trappings of a life he'd left behind—stepped forward and mirrored the gesture.

“The white men wait. Are we women, to be afraid of meeting them?” Hawk Moon was brash, if courageous to a fault. No one among the Blackfeet had counted coup more than the war chief of the Kit Fox Clan.

“Even the wolf is cautious before the cave of the bear,” Tewa replied. Being a warrior woman, her words carried as much weight as any man's.

“I can hear but the wind,” Two Stars scoffed. “And the fear in your voices. But I am not afraid. Who will lead me to the white men?”

Two Stars yanked free of his granddaughter's grasp and started his horse downslope. Lone Walker trotted forward to catch up the reins of the old one's horse. Tall Bull, Standing Elk, and Hawk Moon arranged themselves among the members of their societies who had chosen to ride east with them. A third of the fighting men had left Medicine Lake to escort the elders to the white man's camp.