In the Season of the Sun (44 page)

Jacob called out to his brother thirty yards away but could scarcely hear himself above the din. Tewa, trying to alert her lover, had to gallop up alongside him and all but shout in his ear to get his attention.

“Lone Walker!” she yelled.

“Where?” Jacob called back.

“The wagon!”

Jacob looked ahead, but the pass was already obscured in billowing curtains of gray smoke as the flames quickly fed on the buffalo grass. Some of the trappers who had been riding to the fore charged through the smoke and made straight for the upper end of the pass leading to Medicine Lake. The Crazy Dogs opened fire. Otter Tail picked a target and knocked one of the renegade trappers from the saddle. A lead slug fanned Jacob's cheek. Another man aimed a rifle at the yellow-haired Indian but died choking on one of Tewa's arrows before he could fire a shot. A Blackfoot brave and a trapper fired into each other at point-blank range and both men dropped from horseback, dead before they reached the ground.

The ragged line of combatants closed ranks. The Crazy Dogs dragged the remaining trappers from horseback in a vicious display of hand-to-hand fighting. Red man and white thrust and parried; fought with long knife and tomahawk, war hammer and rifle butt. A trapper dove for Jacob, who clubbed the man senseless and trampled him in the dirt as he rode from the fray. Somewhere ahead, in the fire-choked passage, Lone Walker was a prisoner and as much in danger as any of Kilhenny's men caught in the Blackfoot trap.

“Rally round me, buckos,” Iron Mike roared to the men at his side. He and Ousley had unhitched the nine-pounder and brought it to bear on the western slope. “We'll hound 'em from the hills!” The nine-pounder wasn't going anywhere—two of the horses had been shot dead in their traces.

Warriors on both sides of the pass started down, dodging through a hail of lead. Indian rifles jetted tongues of flame and powder smoke. Willow bows sent arrows arcing into the smoke-obscured passage.

Iron Mike didn't worry about the elevation. Hell, he couldn't even see the damn hill. But he'd already loaded the cannon and all that remained was to touch a flaming brand to the fire part. Black powder flared and the big gun boomed. The trappers cheered and took courage. The explosive shell landed two thirds of the way upslope and blew a hefty crater in the hillside, mortally wounding a trio of braves advancing into the pass.

Lone Walker flattened himself onto the wagon bed as slugs ripped into the wood siding and the surrounding powder kegs, showering him with splinters. He sneezed, inhaling smoke from beneath the wagon. It stung his nostrils and made breathing difficult. But that was the least of his worries. He chanced a stray bullet and crawled to his knees and glanced over the side at the flames lapping at the front of the wagon.

Ousley appeared at the foot of the wagon, grabbed a small keg of powder, and hurried back to the cannon. In his haste he paid no mind to Lone Walker. The trappers, with the natural instincts of all fighting men (and many of them had served as soldiers in their youth), arranged themselves in an uneven but effective skirmish line.

Kilhenny arrived on horseback and immediately took command, though only for a moment.

“Beat out the fire, lads,” he shouted. His soot-blackened features were streaked with sweat. “Make your shots count. We'll whip these red devils.” Then he galloped off and no one had time to realize that the man wasn't just seeing to the rear guard but fleeing for his life. Only Tom knew, and he raced past Iron Mike and the skirmishers before they had a chance to even recognize him.

It was a time for killing and everyone had a job to do.

Lone Walker worked his bound feet under a powder keg and managed to lever it up to balance on the siding before it dropped out of sight. Lone Walker stiffened, hoping he had missed the flames. A mistake would send the wagon up in smoke. With his hands still bound behind him, the shaman prepared himself for a nasty jolt and dropped to the ground; landing on his legs, he managed to break his fall. Still, he wrenched a knee and a spasm of pain shot up his left side. He ignored both and kicked the powder keg away from the flames. He held his ankles over a tangle of burning underbrush. His leggings caught fire, but the ropes binding his ankles burned away and he managed to extinguish his leggings by rubbing his heels in the dirt.

The shaman switched positions and grimaced as he held his wrists above the flames. The flesh blistered and seared. The rawhide loosened. Lone Walker strained against his bonds, lowered his head, and endured the pain in silence. His jaw tightened and from deep in his throat a softly uttered prayer escaped. The rawhide parted and Lone Walker crawled clear and rubbed his raw wrists in the dirt. Then he lifted the powder keg he'd nudged out of the wagon and shoved the little barrel into the flames that threatened the wagon. He scrambled to his feet, crouched low, and ran as fast as his shaky legs could carry him.

Back by the wagon, unnoticed by the men at the skirmish line, the flames greedily consumed the powder keg. One of the trappers spied Lone Walker and broke ranks to intercept the Blackfoot before the shaman escaped. Lone Walker tried to outrun the man, but his legs were just too wobbly. The trapper, a raw-boned lout armed with a shotgun, rammed into Lone Walker and knocked him to the ground.

“I ain't goin' anywhere and neither are you.” The trapper loomed over the fallen shaman. “'Ceptin maybe to perdition.” He leveled the shotgun at Lone Walker's head.

Twenty feet from the trapper the hungry flames at last wormed their way through a crack in the powder keg and ignited the contents. The smaller keg exploded. Lone Walker ducked and held his hand over his head. He knew what was coming. The trapper spun around. This time the entire wagon erupted in a flash of fire and an earth-shuddering roar. Lone Walker was lifted off the ground and landed another ten feet away while his attacker dropped in the dust behind him, a splintered length of wood piercing the man's chest.

Blood streamed from Lone Walker's nostrils. His ears rang, his entire head felt numb. He spat out a mouthful of dirt and managed to raise himself up on his elbows and knees. A figure moved toward him out of the smoke. A trapper, Ousley, stumbled forward like a man in a trance. His buckskin coat was patched with blood and singed in several places. A sleeve and an arm had been completely blown away. Men galloped past him. The column was in rout and those men and explosion hadn't killed were clearing out. Ousley disappeared into ashen clouds that choked the passage through the hills.

Lone Walker stood and stumbled back toward the smoldering wreckage of the wagon. The skirmishers within range of the blast had all been killed. He counted seventeen bodies sprawled upon the blackened earth. The nine-pounder cannon had been blown over on its side. One wheel continued to spin. A groan issued from beneath the cannon, where Iron Mike lay pinned and dying beneath the gun's crushing weight.

More horses galloped past, a few riderless, the others bearing the remnants of Kilhenny's army out of the pass and beyond the reach of Blackfoot rifles.

“Lone Walker!” Jacob shouted and reined back so sharply that his mount skidded and almost lost its footing on the hard-packed earth. The gray mare tossed its head as Jacob guided the animal toward the solitary brave standing amid the carnage he had wrought. Tewa appeared not far behind Jacob and followed him to Lone Walker's side.

“Are you all right?” Jacob breathlessly asked. He started to dismount, but Lone Walker waved him on and swung up behind Tewa.

“Your brother has gone after the man called Kilhenny,” Lone Walker told him and gestured toward the south entrance.

“You know?' Jacob said. There wasn't time to ask how.

All that mattered now was Coyote Kilhenny. The half-breed mustn't escape. And afterwards, somehow, someway, Jacob thought, he and Tom could try and rebuild their lives out of the ashes of the past.

“Take care of him,” Jacob said to the woman at his side. “I have to go.”

Tewa said, “It is your right.” She brushed the wolf-pelt cowl back and love radiated from her proud features. “I'll be waiting.”

Five minutes later, Jacob galloped into the valley and sucked in a lungful of sweet clean air. His eyes still stung from all the smoke, but the big gray had carried him through all the fire and death unscathed. Now the pass was behind him. To the east Kilhenny's men fled in a ragged line toward the distant hills and probably wouldn't stop until their horses dropped. No doubt they expected a horde of wild savages to come charging after them.

But it was to the west that Jacob turned his attention. There two riders could be seen in the distance, one ahead of the other. Kilhenny was certainly crafty enough to pick the opposite direction in order to throw off any pursuit. And where Kilhenny went, Tom would have to follow.

The gray mare was fresh compared to Tom's and Kilhenny's. Jacob had no doubt he could catch them. And it wouldn't take long.

Shadows played on the sea of wind-rippled grass. The red-tailed hawk like a harbinger of Armageddon had returned to haunt the sky. Clouds like heaven's feather robes trailed along an azure skyscape, while the sun left its golden scrawl upon the snow-tipped peaks. Distant cliffs were a study in amber and maize and, in their shaded depths, mauve and obsidian.

An hour's ride from the Medicine Lake pass, the thunder of hooves shattered the stillness of a high mountain meadow ringed by forested ridges opening into box canyons and glacial passes.

Coyote Kilhenny's horse faltered as he crossed a narrow ribbon of melted ice, the runoff from a distant glacier. Kilhenny accepted the poor animal's failing with uncharacteristic good grace. The half-breed didn't like running from a fight. The notion galled him. So he halted his mount and let the animal catch a moment's rest. There was no escaping destiny, he figured. Better to make a stand and choose the moment.

Kilhenny watched the horseman round a hill and enter the meadow in pursuit. He knew Tom Milam even from a distance.

Then a second pursuer followed the first and the half-breed's mood dramatically altered. So both brothers had come seeking him. Then it was time to close the curtain on the drama begun more than ten years ago. It had begun with a Milam and would end with the same.

Tom heard his name called and slowed his pace. He glanced over his shoulder as Jacob quickly closed the gap and pulled up alongside his brother. Neither spoke, yet between them passed an unvoiced knowledge of what needed to be done.

Jacob checked his Hawken rifle, placed a firing cap on the nipple, and thumbed the hammer to half cock. Tom Milam thrust his rifle in a saddle scabbard and drew a pistol from his belt. It was a rifled weapon, short barrelled and lethal looking. A second pistol just like the first jutted from his belt.

“My horse can catch him if he tries to break,” Jacob said.

“He won't run,” Tom replied grimly. “After all, there's only two of us.”

Jacob shaded his eyes. The hawk caught his attention, swooping low, rising on the breeze, and alighting on the topmost branch of a towering ponderosa.

“We have an audience.”

“Better give him a proper show,” Tom said.

Were they strangers after all? Jacob wondered. Had the years indeed broken the bond of blood? Maybe the answer he sought waited in the meadow.

Tom slapped his horse's rump and the exhausted animal managed a loping gallop. The gray mare started forward as if challenged by Tom's mount. And in the meadow by the narrow little stream, Coyote Kilhenny vaulted onto his horse and charged them both.

“Come on, lads!” he shouted. “Let the devil take your soul, Tom!” His horse splashed through the rivulet in a shower of golden droplets.

The meadow was a carpet of emerald and amber stretched beneath the shadows of the mountains. The sunlight here was stark, brilliant. It shone with a clarity reserved only for the lost and lonely places of the world, far from the realm of men. And yet, men had come to beauty today and brought with them violence and death.

Jacob on his gray mare led Tom by several lengths. He waited until he could recognize Kilhenny's determined features set in a seething tangle of crimson hair and beard. Then he slapped the rifle to his shoulder and fired. Blood spilled from Kilhenny's shoulder. Kilhenny howled, leveled a pistol, and fired. The gray mare crumpled and Jacob kicked free and leapt from horseback as Kilhenny swept past. The half-breed, for a single moment, had a clear shot at Jacob's back.

“Kilhenny!” Tom challenged. The half-breed swung around to face this new threat. For a moment they faced each other across their gun sights. For all Kilhenny's villainy, he had spared Tom's life. For all Tom Milam's thirst for revenge, he cared for Kilhenny, who for better or worse had become like a father. Then both men emptied their guns. Kilkenny, although grievously wounded, clung to his saddle, tossed his pistol aside, and tugged another from his bandolier.

“I'll not go under, damn you!” Eyes wild, Coyote Kilhenny looked around for someone to kill. But Jacob sprang from Kilhenny's blind side. Sunlight flickered on the length of double-edged steel gripped in his fist. He'd drawn the “Arkansas toothpick” from its sheath, Joseph Milam's own knife, left to his son. The half-breed did not see him until it was too late. Jacob plunged the blade to the hilt in Coyote Kilhenny's heart and dragged the murderer from horseback. Kilhenny shrieked and clawed at his assailant and writhed in Jacob's grasp. With the last of his great strength he shoved Jacob from him and managed to stand. First Kilhenny wavered, then he sank to his knees, disbelief in his eyes. His hands clutched at the knife's hilt. He groaned and loosed a terrible gasp. Then his eyes rolled up in his head until only the whites showed and he fell face forward in the buffalo grass.

Jacob struggled to his feet, shaking from the ordeal. The man seemed something more than human. He left the knife in Kilhenny's body, fearing to disturb him even in death.