Lake of Fire (23 page)

Aunt Fanny smiled. Upon hearing Laura’s wish for an equestrian outing, she had altered one of her own riding habits.

Larry bowed. “Shall I escort you to the stables around two o’clock?”

The tension was back as Hank and Cord both scowled from opposite sides of the room.

C
ord rode Dante along the lakeshore through a meadow of waving grass. He tried to focus on the beauty of the afternoon, but it was difficult.

Edgar Young had refused to reveal his sources, leaving a dilemma. If Cord could not communicate with Edgar and place his trust in him, should he go forward with him as his banker?

But what else could he do? If he placed his offer on the table in short order and had it accepted, there was no time to arrange alternate financing.

Unless he used the telephone … the army had strung lines to the hotel and soldier station … to call his adopted father. Aaron would loan him as much as he needed. But Aaron would also know the railroad’s attitude toward dealing with those of Indian blood and realize Cord was trying to be something he was not.

“Have pride in both your heritages, son,” he always said. “Your father’s and your mother’s.”

A clutch in Cord’s gut said he wasn’t ready to make a call. It would be tantamount to admitting defeat, and Thomas, his partner in Excalibur, would be sure to gloat that Cord had tried something on his own and failed.

No, Cord would have to go forward as soon as tomorrow, presenting his offer to the Northern Pacific. And he would have to stay clear of Captain Feddors and his accusations in the meantime.

Captain Quenton Feddors thought he was a fool to have taken on the challenge of White Bird simply because the mare had been bred by the Nez Perce. All over the West, they were still bought and sold, traded on the reputation of bloodlines linked to the herd that followed the Nez Perce on their fourteen-hundred-mile flight in 1877.

“Try and throw me?” Feddors hissed through clenched teeth, while he struggled to stay astride the wild gray mare in the Lake Hotel paddock. A shock of his brown hair had come loose from where he’d plastered it down across his receding hairline.

The gray reared again, her shoulder glancing off the split-rail fence. Strong-willed and stubborn, she had an especially long mane and a blaze in the center of her forehead that looked like a white bird flying.

Feddors gripped the reins and noticed that a group of soldiers had gathered to watch their commanding
officer’s troubles. He really should have reset the stirrups that were adjusted for a taller man, but hadn’t wanted anyone to see.

Now, before they flew from his feet, Feddors reached for the thin quirt inserted beneath a strap beside the pommel.

He pulled the whip free, thinking that he had always broken horses the way he managed the weak and lazy men in his command. Swiftly and without leaving any doubt as to who was in charge.

“White Bird!” Sergeant Nevers shouted. He leaned against the fence with one leg propped on the bottom rail, waving his arms and inflaming the mare.

Feddors did not like the young man, with his earnest round face, for the simple reason that he had risen through the ranks faster than he had. He was also humiliated to note his viewers included Laura Fielding, the girl from the stagecoach robbery.

The one that Pinkerton man, Resnick, said was

lying.

White Bird turned back and tried to bite Feddors on the calf. He brought the whip down hard.

The animal gave an unexpected twist, and he found himself unseated.

His audience a blur, he fell to land hard on his back in the dirt. The breath knocked from him, he watched the sky spin … transported back to the summer of 1877, when the Nez Perce had gone to war rather than to a reservation.

That August he had been staying at Bart Henderson’s
guest ranch north of Mammoth Hot Springs. Of course, at fifteen, he had preferred riding alone to the company of his father with whom he traveled.

In a meadow in northern Yellowstone, he’d come upon the confluence of two creeks. The sound of rushing water drew him on, up into a thick forest of lodgepole, spruce, and fir. There, a cascading waterfall poured at least eighty feet down tiered steps of lava rock.

Quenton dismounted and approached the pool at its base, feeling the welcome coolness on the hot afternoon. On his knees, hands cupped to drink, he suddenly went still.

Beneath the trees on the opposite creek bank, half-hidden in thick undergrowth, two men watched him from horseback. Both riders appeared to be perhaps twenty years old, with shining black hair divided into braids. They each wore blue trousers that could have been part of an army uniform; stripes of red paint decorated their cheeks and bare chests.

Quenton stood up carefully. He reached for his mare’s reins, wishing he hadn’t left his Winchester .25-20 in the scabbard behind his saddle. Over his shoulder, he watched the two men, noting their rifles were larger, the Model 1873 Springfield like the U.S. Army carried.

His heart beat faster. At Bart Henderson’s, the talk was of little except the band of Nez Perce fleeing though Yellowstone. He’d heard of the battlefields farther to the west, the tribe versus the United States Army, and realized that the trousers and weapons had no doubt
been stripped from the bodies of dead soldiers.

Quenton watched with fascination. The Nez Perce controlled their horses without benefit of saddles or bridles, merely by touching their moccasined feet to the animal’s side or placing their hands into the horse’s mane.

With a shiver, he felt the almost palpable desire to someday be a horseman of that caliber. Sinewy muscles stood out on the men’s arms and shoulders … he imagined when he finished his growth he would look like that, his scrawny chest and weak white arms transformed magically into manfulness.

Cord returned to the paddock from his after-lunch ride on Dante in time to see Captain Quenton Feddors lose his seat on the back of a well-blooded gray mare. He landed in the dirt, and the gray danced away, still bucking.

Four soldiers in shirtsleeves, who’d been grooming horses, moved to join the group already leaning on the fence. Laura was next to Sergeant Nevers.

Feddors clambered to his feet, knocking a cloud of dust from his uniform pants. “Back to work!” he shouted.

Though one very slim young private, with red hair and freckles, turned away, the others did not.

Feddors raised his whip and started across the paddock after the gray.

The private who’d been leaving put his boot back up on the fence rail.

Catching the mare by the reins, Feddors slashed up and laid open a red welt on the side of her nose.

Cord slid off Dante and went to stand outside the fence beside the sergeant. The whip flashed again, and the abused mare reared.

“By God,” Nevers murmured fiercely, “you get

him, White Bird.”

Her hooves landed harmlessly, and Feddors kept raining blows on her face and neck.

Cord looked around at the enlisted men. A few appeared to be enjoying the spectacle, their expressions taut and their hands jerking as if they were throwing punches. Thankfully, most of the ten or so men looked slightly sick.

Beside Cord, Sergeant Nevers gripped the rail, his knuckles pale. If the captain had not outranked him, Cord thought the young man might have tried to end the senseless cruelty.

“Someone stop him,” Laura called out.

At a woman’s voice, the men’s heads swiveled. But no one made a move to halt the commanding officer’s abuse.

In a single motion, Cord placed his hands on the top rail and vaulted over. He ran, out into the paddock toward the fray. Slipping between man and horse, he jerked the reins from the officer’s hand. With an almost simultaneous movement, he plucked the quirt from Feddors’s fist and threw it across the trampled
earth of the paddock.

When he turned his back, he felt an itch between his shoulder blades as though the captain was about to strike him there. Nonetheless, he led the mare to the gate where the sergeant and Laura waited. As Cord passed off the horse, Feddors caught up to him and clamped a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“How dare yew,” he sputtered. “What gives yew the right to interfere in mah discipline of an army horse?” The southern influence on his speech that Cord had noticed the other day was more evident.

“How dare you, Captain?” Cord looked down at the hand that still clutched his arm.

Feddors looked around at the men watching him manhandle a civilian tourist.

He held on a moment longer and released Cord.

“White Bird is an ‘army horse,’ is she?” Cord asked quietly.

Feddors furrowed his brow.

“The only problem with your logic,” Cord went on, “is that White Bird here failed to enlist.”

A wave of laughter rippled through the watchers, and he noted another woman in addition to Laura. Esther Giles was watching the altercation with an intent interest that chilled Cord; he had no doubt she meant him ill.

“Get out of here!” Feddors waved his arms. Turning back to Cord, he gritted, “I ought to throw you in the stockade at Mammoth for assaulting an officer of the United States Army, you half-breed scum.”

Cord’s aplomb burst like a soap bubble. Behind him, Mrs. Giles’s laugh was as sharp and nasty as a rat terrier’s bark, while he hoped Laura hadn’t noted the last words.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said a voice from behind Cord and Captain Feddors.

Thinking someone had divined from his expression his immediate intent to deck the captain, Cord turned to find Manfred Resnick sitting on top of the rail fence like a jockey in the saddle.

“Mr. Sutton never touched you or threatened you in any way,” the Pinkerton man went on, looking sternly at Feddors.

The captain’s already-flushed face darkened. “You’re defending that red man?”

This time there was no mistake. However in the hell the man had guessed, at his words Laura gasped.

Resnick jumped down from the fence. “I did some checking the other day when you accused Mr. Sutton of poaching and other peccadilloes. He was adopted by Aaron Bryce of Salt Lake City when he was quite young.”

“If Aaron Bryce had the rotten judgment to take in an Injun kid, he should get used to folks insulting his … ward.”

“Son.” The word slipped from between Cord’s lips. “Aaron Bryce is my father.”

Feddors stared at Cord a moment longer. Resnick plucked at his sleeve. “I am sure you would not want to incur the wrath of a man like Mr. Bryce.”

“City folks don’t carry much weight out heah.”

Yet, Feddors permitted Resnick to lead him as he limped away.

Cord felt he should say something to deny the captain’s accusations about his heritage, but while he hesitated over telling an outright untruth, the moment passed.

Sergeant Nevers cleared his throat and offered Cord his hand across the paddock fence. “Good show.”

He clasped hands with Nevers and looked over his shoulder to be sure Feddors was gone.

“If you hadn’t been here and done what I was about to do,” Nevers’s eyes looked enormous behind his thick glasses, “I reckon I’d be on my way to Mammoth and a court-martial.”

“I’m glad I could put a stop to his cruelty. For today, at least.”

“If only the little tyrant was throwing his weight around at Headquarters in Mammoth, instead of at his usual post at Lake,” Nevers fumed.

Laura and Nevers entered the paddock and walked over to Cord and White Bird. Laura put up a hand to stroke the mare’s nose. To Cord’s surprise, after such harsh treatment she lowered her head and nickered.

Cord examined the wound on her cheek. The laceration was not deep but had to smart.

Laura looked at Nevers. “This is the horse you told me about. The one you thought I’d like to ride.”

“Yes, Miss Fielding. Another day.” Gently, Nevers removed the brass military bit with curb chains
from White Bird’s mouth and went to hang it on a nail in the tack room.

Laura continued to soothe the animal, petting her and murmuring. White Bird submitted to her ministrations.

Cord brought Dante into the paddock and walked him over. The mare tossed her head, then stretched her neck to sniff at Dante’s nose.