In the Season of the Sun (31 page)

Too many of the men had watched his humiliating dunk in the river and those that hadn't witnessed the event heard about it second hand, in richly embellished detail. Before long, Iron Mike had begun to suspect every laugh as being at his expense.

“You've drunk your fill of this snake poison,” Spence Mitchell muttered to his former trail partner. They'd ridden the high country together more than once.

“Don't tell me what I've done, you old windbag,” Iron Mike growled in reply and banged his cup against the barrel. “Fill it and be damned.”

“Likely as not,” Mitchell admitted with regret. He spat a stream of tobacco and twisted open the tap.

Gunfire from a dozen guns signaled the beginning of a contest. The trappers jostled and shoved and fought among themselves in position as Dog Bill Hanna and a swarthy-looking hide hunter by the name of Brownrigg squared off against each other. They stood several feet apart as Tom Milam brought a steaming coil of buffalo intestine from the cookfire. The grayish mass, seared by the flames, dripped grease as Tom gingerly carried one end to Brownrigg and the other to Dog Bill. Between the two men stretched more than twelve feet of “boudins,” as the trappers liked to call the delicacy.

Tom Milam drew his knife and notched the length of boudins midway between the two men.

“You boys ready?” Tom called out. Both men nodded. “Remember … the first man past the cut I made wins a jug of Kentucky Kick Eye all to himself.”

The throng around him cheered and began to furiously wager among themselves. Dog Bill Hanna had never lost such a contest. There were few things he loved better than boudins. On the other hand, Brownrigg was a quiet, shiftyeyed individual that no one seemed to know much about, but judging by the size of the belly, which overhung his belt like a bay window, the man could hold his own around a cookfire.

By the buckboard, some distance from the clamoring crew anxious to wager gold, pelts, guns, or horses on the contest, Iron Mike sloshed the fiery contents of his cup down his throat. Spence Mitchell had left to place a bet on Dog Bill.

Iron Mike's mood was much too dark to enjoy the event. Just watching Tom Milam strut like a gamecock among the trappers made Iron Mike's blood boil all over again. His attention rooted on the events by the fire, he didn't notice Con Vogel standing close at hand until the violinist spoke.

“Heard about this morning,” Vogel said.

“Go to hell,” Iron Mike muttered, ready to drop the young German if he intended to amuse himself at Iron Mike's expense.

“Not me,” Vogel replied, holding his hands palm up in a gesture of surrender. “But somebody ought to send Tom Milam there.”

“He'd strut for sure, then,” the trapper said, his speech slurred from too much drink. He wiped a coarse-looking hand across his features and glanced at Vogel. “You got no use for him?”

“No.”

“Then why don't you brace him?”

“Maybe I will,” Con Vogel replied.

“The hell you will,” Iron Mike chuckled. “You're afraid of him, greenhorn.”

“You cut a wide circle around him yourself.” Vogel tucked his hands in his pockets and studied the trapper's expression. He wondered if he'd pushed the right button. He didn't have to wait long. Iron Mike crawled to his feet and steadied himself against the nearest wagon wheel.

“I'll show you who's yellow,” he said, patting the pistol butt jutting from the wide leather belt circling his waist. He wiped his hands on his nankeen trousers and started toward the bonfire.

Tom Milam announced that the betting was finished. He raised a pistol in his right hand. Dog Bill stared straight ahead, his gaze fixed solely on the length of cooked gut. Brownrigg looked from face to face in the crowd, unable to focus his attention on anyone in particular, his jaws firmly clenched around his end of the “boudins.”

Tom fired his pistol and the two men began to eat furiously. They began as one, wolfing down the boudins at a brisk pace, hardly pausing for breath. The men surrounding the two cheered them on. More money had been wagered on Dog Bill and it was obvious from the din that most of the cheers were for him. And slowly, gradually, inch by inch, Dog Bill began to pull closer to the notch. Bite, half-chew, swallow, and bite, chew once or twice, then swallow—he gained on Brownrigg. The cheers for Brownrigg and the shouted encouragements quickly turned to curses. He had promised more than he could deliver.

Just as Dog Bill's teeth closed on the organ meat a full three inches past the notch, the crowd of men swarmed over the two men in the middle and tore the remaining boudins to pieces. Dog Bill was raised onto the shoulders of his friends and handed his jug of Kentucky whiskey before being carried away. Brownrigg was left to double forward and empty the contents of his stomach into the bonfire.

Tom had just started to work his way through the thinning crowd when he spied Abigail coming from the direction of the fort. Several of the buckskin-clad men tried to intercept her; some even moved to block her path. Tom started toward her when Iron Mike caught up to him from behind and spun him around.

One of the riverboatmen had just struck up a tune on his concertina, but his song ended as he backed out of trouble's course.

“I wanna talk to you,” Iron Mike blurted out.

“Not now,” Tom said and tried to pull free. The man holding him only tightened his grip. His hairy hands closed like a vise. Perspiration showed through his thinning hair, beading his scalp.

“Now! We'll settle it when I say!” Iron Mike bellowed. He was the same height as Tom Milam but outweighed the younger man by fifty pounds.

Tom didn't dwell on the difference or the man's physical advantages. He simply drove his left fist into Iron Mike's face. It was a short, vicious jab that rocked Iron Mike back on his heels. It seemed to sober him up even as the blood began to flow from his swollen nose.

“You bastard,” Iron Mike roared and reached for the gun at his waist. Then he froze, realizing Tom had already filled his own hand with a pistol.

“Go ahead. Take it out, Iron Mike,” Tom said.

Something in the younger man's eyes compelled the hide hunter to obey. Iron Mike drew his pistol. The two men faced each other, no more than a couple of yards separating the muzzles of their guns. A hush suddenly settled on the throng of men as they hurried to escape the line of fire.

Iron Mike licked his lips and looked down at the gun leveled at his. This wasn't a fight; it was suicide for them both at such a distance.

“Go on, Mike. What's stopping you. Your powder's dry.”

Iron Mike's gun began to waver in his hand. He tried to steady it. He was sober now and he finally realized how very dangerous Tom Milam had become. Tom was grinning now, and his blue eyes seemed to blaze with life as if here at the moment of death he was truly alive. There was something horrible in that grin, in the mad light in Tom Milam's eyes, and in the way he seemed to purr as he urged Iron Mike to “start the dance.”

Tom walked up to the hide hunter, flush against Iron Mike's pistol, and placed the barrel of his gun to Iron Mike's chest.

“Well?” Tom asked. And Iron Mike lowered his head and dropped his gun. He turned and headed out of the crowd, shoving aside anyone who got in his way. Tom Milam returned his gun to his belt. The concertina player struck up another tune and the crowd of men returned to life.

A cheer rose up from the trappers as a dusky shape flitted among them. Virginia appeared out of the shadows where she'd been waiting and watching, and the trappers raised a great cry of approval. Tom headed straight away from the fire as Abigail vanished beyond the glare. She paused to allow him to reach her side. Then the two of them headed for a grove of trees clinging to the riverbank.

Back at the bonfire, Coyote Kilhenny had arrived with Skintop Pritchard, Pike Wallace, and Bear, and had been given an account of the face-off.

“The lad's full of piss and vinegar,” Kilhenny said with pride.

“And maybe you oughta rein him in,” Pritchard muttered, his sympathies clearly with Iron Mike. He had to admit, though, Iron Mike had been a fool. “He should have shot first and taken his chances.”

“Like you would've done,” Kilhenny said, winking at Pike.

Pritchard made no reply. He saw Tom leave with Abigail Harveson and the envy almost choked him. He averted his eyes to the mulatto girl dancing a jig with Spence Mitchell.

“What the heck are we celebratin'?” Pike Wallace wondered aloud.

“Why not celebrate? Look around you, old man. Everything you see is mine!” Kilhenny exclaimed.

“Well, Mr. Nate Harveson may have something to say about that.” Pike said. Nothing Kilhenny said surprised him anymore. The half-breed had more twists and turns than a barrel full of snakes.

“Yes.” Kilhenny nodded in agreement. “But not much.”

They didn't need to tell each other lies to lure each other out into the grove of willows and scrub oaks lining the riverbank. In a secluded clearing a hundred yards downriver of Fort Promise, Tom Milam built a small fire. The night was milder than Abigail had expected. She spread her shawl on the ground in the circle of warmth emanating from the campfire. Tom held up a stoneware jug he had stolen from one of the freight wagons. He uncorked the jug, took a drink, and with a daring expression on his face offered Abigail a drink.

Too proud to refuse, Abigail accepted his offer and tilted the jug to her lips. She hadn't expected a Bordeaux. But liquid fire? She gasped and doubled over, coughing, as the cruel liquor seared a path down her gullet. She sank to her knees and Tom knelt in front of her and laughed as she gasped for breath.

Abigail tried to glare at him, but his laughter and the silliness of her reaction finally won through and she laughed as well, laughed and kissed him. He returned the kiss and Abigail's lips pressed to his yet again. His embrace tightened; her hands searched for him. She lay on her back, the shawl beneath her hips and shoulders as Tom set his guns aside, removed his belt, kicked his trousers away. By the time he stretched himself atop her, Abby's dress was already bunched at the waist. She pulled him to her breast. He entered her with a sudden quick stroke.

They lay together, naked to the warming flames and sated after their passionate union. Tom propped himself up on an elbow and studied the woman beside him. He nuzzled her cheek. She responded with a kiss and then began to search for her clothes.

Tom caught her wrists and forced her to quit and had her lie with him a moment more.

Abigail reached up and traced a line along his jaw, then dropped to his neck and finally his chest. He had been an ardent lover, caressing, touching, kissing, exploring the length of her body. He had brought her to the peak of satisfaction and plummeted with her into the abyss. And yet, lying by him, so warm and blissfully sleepy, she experienced not the golden glow of consummated love but a strangely dispassionate curiosity that tempered her true feelings for him. She was left with a sense of disappointment in herself. She cared deeply for him. How deeply Tom cared for her, she could merely speculate. Would he fight for her? Would he kill if he had to protect her? Of that she had no doubt.

But would he side with her if need be against Coyote Kilhenny? That remained to be seen.

One thing for certain, she'd done all she could to ensure a favorable answer to her unspoken questions. Well, almost all. The night wasn't over yet.…

Tom bolted upright and glanced about, searching the grove in the gray light. All was stillness. Then what had awakened him? He reached for one of his guns, the reassuring weight of the pistol soothing his nerves.

“Tom?” Abigail whispered as she was startled awake by his actions. A morning mist shrouded the trees and muted the morning chatter of the birds. “Did you hear something?”

“Yes,” Tom answered. “Sort of. I don't quite understand.”

“Where?” Abigail said, standing at his side. She faced the same direction as Tom, yet he seemed to be seeing beyond the mist and the trees to the ragged battlements of Ever Shadow and the mountains she knew dominated the western horizon.

“Here,” Tom replied and he touched his chest. Perspiration formed along his upper lip. For the first time since he had hidden in the tall grass and waited for a brother and parents who had never returned, Tom knew fear. But he didn't know why. He stood as still as a statue, facing the west, one hand covering his chest, as he listened with his head and with his heart.

The door to the longhouse opened as Abigail reached for the latch, her breath clouding the cool air as she breathed from her exertion. She had hurried across the compound in an effort not to be noticed returning home at such an unseemly hour. She knew her hair was disheveled and reconciled herself to suffer in silence the jokes and innuendos spoken behind her back.

Brownrigg, the bleary-eyed trapper from the night before, all but blundered into Abigail. She barely managed to avoid being knocked down. Brownrigg touched his cap.

“Beg pardon, Miss.” Brownrigg was a man with a keen desire to avoid trouble. “Wasn't expecting to see you,” he said lamely.

“Nor I, you,” Abigail flatly replied.

“Yes'm. I had business with Mr. Harveson.” Brownrigg hurried off toward the barracks built along the walls.

Abigail went into the house. To her surprise, Nate Harveson was waiting for her. He sat on the divan, a pot of coffee and two cups on a tray before him. He had the look of a man who hadn't slept. If the fact that she had been out all night bothered him, he certainly didn't show it. And Abigail, determined to save face, closed the door behind her and kept the color from coming to her cheeks.

“Another musician?” she asked.

“More a songbird,” Harveson answered, pouring a cup of coffee for his sister. His cup was already full. “Ignore his rather uncouth plumage. He sings a rather interesting song.” Harveson sipped and eased back on the divan. Abigail sat at his side, waiting to hear what he had to say.