In the Season of the Sun (28 page)

The Blackfeet looked to be returning home after a successful hunt. Three horses laden with fresh-killed meat and packets of smoked venison trailed behind the hunting party.

Tom had ascended the treacherous slope on foot. He'd left Pike Wallace with the horses below in the forest. He must have hidden himself well, as there had been no sign or sound of a struggle. No red bastard was going to take Pike's tam for a trophy without a struggle. And no murdering buck was going to take Tom Milam either. Enough Milams had perished in this howling wilderness. Tom Milam intended to live.

Slow as molasses in winter, he drew the percussion pistol from his belt. It was a big bore gun and fired the same hunk of lead as a Hawken rifle, a .50-caliber ball. His high-boned unshaven features blended into the shadowy juncture of the granite crevice. The walls around him blocked the procession of Blackfeet warriors from sight. But the hunting party would pass right in front of Tom's makeshift lair. And if even one brave noticed him, there'd be hell to pay.

Tom listened as the horses drew closer, heard the shale rattle downslope beneath the unshod hooves of the mountain-bred ponies. One of the braves spoke softly as if to his mount, urging the horse over a treacherous stretch of the trail. Tom had to admire Blackfoot horsemanship. He had been loath to try the slope on horseback, but these braves seemed undaunted in their ascent of the precipitous ridge.

Tom Milam held his breath and raised his gun as the lead brave appeared at the mouth of the crevice. He sighted on the warrior's beaded buckskin shirt, leading the hunter until the man rode out of sight. The next man was smaller in size, his thick body firmly astride his mount. The Blackfoot pulled a woolen blanket around his shoulders and cradled his rifle in the crook of his arm.

Tom once again shifted his aim as the third and then fourth warrior filed past. Their features were devoid of war paint, yet Tom felt no trust for them. The Blackfeet were notorious for protecting their tribal territory. They had fought incursions by the Sioux and Cheyenne, by the Crow and Bannock, and by the white man.

The last brave in line caught Tom completely off guard as he brought his gun to bear. He hadn't noticed before, but now he was training his gun sight on a white man. Or at least what had once been a white man.

Blond hair hung to the warrior's shoulders. The hunter's once pale skin had been burned by the sun to the color of bronze. He was long limbed and rode as if he were part of the animal beneath him, at one with the motion of the big chestnut gelding.

Here was a foundling. No doubt his family had been butchered by these Blackfeet and this man carried off as a child.

So, the white man he had been was dead and in his place rode a Blackfoot brave who would no doubt lift Tom's scalp if he got the chance. The kindest fate for him now would be a bullet in the brisket, Tom thought, and his finger tightened on the trigger. Then he realized how foolish he was being. A gunshot would mean Tom's own death as well. The blond-haired brave paused, his horse responding to the merest touch of the reins. The hunter turned and looked directly at the crevice as if sensing something about the hiding place and the menace it contained. The wind whipped the Blackfoot's long blond hair across his features as he studied the niche, the piercing bronze of his eyes as if chipped from the sun was set in a sad stern visage.

Tom ground his back against the rock wall behind him. His thumb poised on the hammer of his pistol, ready to cock and fire if the brave lifted the Hawken cradled in his arm. Tom Milam held his breath and willed himself as one with the surrounding stone. He peered past his gun sight into the face of the white warrior and felt a cold chill creep up his spine. It was an unsettling experience that might have blossomed into full-blown recognition had not the white warrior as suddenly turned away and continued along the trail.

Tom Milam waited and listened to the clatter of the horses recede along the ridge trail. He sighed and lowered his gun, not realizing how close he had come to killing his own brother.

32

T
om Milam sat astride his bay mare on the forested shore of the Marias River and allowed the animal to drink its fill upriver of Fort Promise.

Tom studied with open appreciation the accomplishments wrought by Nate Harveson, Coyote Kilhenny, and the veritable army of men they had brought from Independence.

A great stockade rose out of the lush grassy meadow about two hundred yards from the river and well out of reach of any flood should the Marias ever leave its well-worn banks. Hand-hewn timber walls towered fifteen feet and provided ample protection for the entire complement of Harveson's command.

The fort's west wall served as entrance and exit. Two massive doors swung ajar and a path had already been worn through the gate, passing beneath a whitewashed plaque that read
FORT PROMISE
. Nate Harveson had brought the plaque from Independence, safeguarding it in his cabin throughout the long trip by stern-wheeler. Two smaller blockhouses dominated the cleared ground in front of the fort, arranged in such a way as to bring an enemy venturing to the front gate into a crossfire. They were solid-looking structures, built to withstand attack. Each housed a dozen men. Firing ports lined the walls. Food and cisterns of water were stored within. And each blockhouse sheltered a nine-pounder cannon loaded with grapeshot, devastating weapons at close range. The cannon portals were shuttered and latched from the inside to conceal the weapons until the proper time.

The fort itself held three more nine-pounders. Their black iron snouts poked from the ramparts to north, south, and west. Several long, low-roofed barracks had been built beneath the walls to house the men. A stable and corral lay in the shadow of the east wall. In the center of the compound, Nate Harveson had built a two-story log house facing the gate. Stone chimneys rose skyward from the north and south ends and shed-roofed servants' quarters were connected to the rear of the house. Smoke curled from the chimneys.

Pike Wallace and a half-dozen other riders pulled up alongside Tom. Pike dismounted and rubbed his buttocks.

“I got three weeks of ache in me,” he groaned. He dropped the reins and his horse sauntered on to the river's edge.

“They finished them two blockhouses since we been gone,” another of the men dryly noted. “I'll choose the trail over hauling timber any day.”

“These bones ain't suited to neither,” Pike complained. “A man my age deserves finer things than a blanket on the ground, jerked beef, and cold coffee.” He scratched his scalp beneath his plaid tam and looked up at Tom. “Of course, some of us have got better reasons than corn likker and hot food for coming on in.” He grinned at the men behind him. The hardened trappers chuckled among themselves, for it was common knowledge Tom Milam and Abigail Harveson enjoyed each other's company whenever the opportunity might arise.

“We need to run us down some squaws,” one of the six grumbled loud enough for Tom to hear, but he was unable to identify the speaker.

Tom ignored the complainer. He didn't care if the man slept alone or with a pack mule. His gaze had centered on Iron Mike, Skintop Pritchard, and the Shoshoni whose name they'd all shortened to Bear. The three men rode a buckboard loaded with empty barrels. Iron Mike steered the team and Skintop Pritchard rode beside him on the seat. Bear sat in back with the barrels.

Traversing the wheel-rutted path to the river took more than a little skill. The wild grasses had been beaten into the sod by all the traffic and the dirt itself churned into mud. But Iron Mike was the best man behind a team of mules and he took pride in his ability to handle the transport wagons. A fistful of reins was more than most men could manage.

“Probably gonna fill them barrels and cart 'em to the blockhouses,” Pike observed.

“Better hope nothing spooks his mules,” another of the trappers muttered. “Come on you nag, drink your fill. Then I get my rum.”

“At noonday? Like hell,” cautioned another of the group. His name was Bill Hanna—Dog Bill, men called him, for the peculiar tastes he had acquired in captivity among the Kiowa. Dog Bill claimed he could stew a mongrel until it tasted like buffalo hump. No one disputed his claim. No one had ever stepped forward to make him prove it either. “Nate Harveson don't allow the likker uncorked 'ceptin' after sundown.” Dog Bill scratched beneath his brawny arms, grinned, and showed a row of blackened teeth. He was a big heavyset man marked for life by a Kiowa scalping knife that had left a jagged white ridge of scar tissue scrawled across his forehead. “Come to think of it. I'm about tired of Harveson's say-so. Think I'll have a jug all to myself.”

“Now you're talking. Tear that key right off Harveson's neck and head for the supply house,” the first trapper, Job Berton, replied, relieved he'd have help in bracing Harveson.

“Key, hell!” Dog Bill said. “I'm tired and mean enough to bite the damn lock off and help myself. You with me, Tom?” He knew Milam had a wild streak as wide as the Mississippi and could be counted on when there was some devilment abrew.

But Tom's attention was elsewhere. He studied the water wagon and Iron Mike. And the longer he watched, half a dozen pranks ran through his mind. Iron Mike was a cruel son of a bitch and Skintop Pritchard a bully. And as for Bear, well, everyone knew such savages to be tricksters and back shooters, men who fought without honor. Tom had no use for his kind.

Finding the three together presented too good an opportunity to miss. He reined the bay mare about. The half-wild animal reared and pawed the air, but Tom held on and forced the mare to his will and galloped down toward Fort Promise. Tom rode at an angle that brought him behind the water wagon.

As yet no one had noticed him. The men on the bench seat had their backs turned and the Shoshoni appeared to be asleep.

Tom untied the blanket from behind his saddle, then gripped the reins and his Hawken rifle in one hand and the blanket in the other. Several of the men in the fort noticed his approach and waved. Tom ignored them and headed away from the stockade walls and toward the wagon. He waited until he'd closed within twenty feet of the wagon, then rose up in the saddle and loosed a blood-curdling yell, fired his rifle, and swung the blanket in a circle over his head.
“Haaaiii-yaaa!”

Bear, the Shoshoni, jolted awake and slipped down into an empty barrel, leaving only his fingers and feet hanging over the rim. The startled mules stampeded despite Iron Mike's effort to hold them back. Four mules, in their traces, charged as one down an incline that only increased their speed.

Skintop Pritchard, at the crack of the rifle shot, stood and spun around and grabbed for the pistol tucked in his belt. A wagon wheel dipped into one of the ruts and struck with a jolt that knocked Pritchard off balance. The trapper pitched from the buckboard and landed on the single tree between the mules. The pistol jetted black smoke as Pritchard inadvertently fired the gun. The already panicked team continued their headlong rush to the river.

“Whoa! Hold up, damn you!” Iron Mike bellowed. The wagon bucked from side to side. He didn't dare reach for the brake. “Hold up!” The mules rolled their eyes, flattened their ears back, and galloped on.

And Tom Milam urged them on with war whoops and flapping blanket.

“Oh no,” Iron Mike groaned as the river rose to meet him. “Whoa!” He hauled on the reins, put his back in the effort. “Ohhh … shit!”

The wagon skidded in the mud and hit the river with enough force to send a shower of spray exploding into the air. Iron Mike flew headfirst into the Marias. The mules kicked and fought their harness. Skintop Pritchard dove over the backs of the team to keep from being hit or kicked.

As for Bear, the Shoshoni had just pulled himself halfway out of his barrel when the buckboard careened down the riverbank. The wagon gate dropped and the barrels spilled out the back of the wagon, depositing the hapless brave into the muddy shallows.

Tom Milam turned the mare and headed the animal upslope toward Fort Promise. He felt better than he had in days. Behind him, Pritchard, Iron Mike, and the Shoshoni continued to flounder in their icy bath.

Iron Mike heard the laughter and spied Tom riding away. In the distance, Kilhenny's trappers on the walls of Fort Promise cheered and guffawed and taunted the men in the river. Pike Wallace, Dog Bill, and the others rode downriver to add their remarks at the expense of Iron Mike and his companions but were quickly chased back toward the fort.

Skintop Pritchard wrung the water from his beaver hat and hurled it in Tom's direction. He staggered out of the river and shook his fist in the air.

“I'll kill him. The little bastard. I swear I'll kill him!”

“You'll have to stand in line,” Iron Mike growled, stumbling up onto the bank. He slipped and sat down in the mud and grimaced as the muck seeped into his britches. He shut his eyes and shook his head in dismay.

Bear crawled out of the barrel for the second time, wiped the water from his dark face, and glanced about in utter bewilderment. He angrily made his way up to Iron Mike, who'd just managed to stand.

“I thought my white brother said he could handle a mule team,” Bear complained.

Iron Mike's only reply was a big fist that clipped the brave beneath the chin and flung him onto his back in the sand. The brave rolled over on his stomach, started to push himself off the ground, then settled unconscious against the moist earth.

Skintop Pritchard reached down and dragged the brave back into the water.

“What the devil are you doing?” Iron Mike said, glaring.

“Bringing him around,” Pritchard wearily replied. “I don't aim to load these barrels without all the help I can get.”

33

T
om had sensed the tension in the fort by the time he'd reached the livestock corral and unsaddled his horse. Spence Mitchell had been shoeing the livestock; he quit when he spied Tom arrive. Mitchell spat a stream of tobacco juice and sauntered over to Tom.