Lake of Fire (39 page)

Bitter Waters barely touched Dante’s side, slid his foot into the stirrup, and looked down from the saddle. Cord handed up the reins with a thick feeling in his throat. “Meet me at noon, where your horse is tethered.”

“Halt!” Captain Feddors’s voice was unmistakable.

Cord turned to face him.

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Sutton with his friend, the Injun.” Feddors rode a good-looking bay with a silky black mane and tail. He focused on Dante. “That one of them-there Nez Perce horses?”

Dante shifted his feet and neighed. Bitter Waters controlled him with ease.

Behind Feddors, Sergeant Larry Nevers rode White Bird. Her cheek bore the scar of the whip.

Feddors leaned back in his saddle and shifted his gaze to Bitter Waters. “I heard about you, old man. Stirring up trouble among the tourists with your stories about the Nez Perce War.”

Cord stepped between Dante and Feddors’s mount. “Last I heard, they weren’t stories.”

Feddors stared down at him and fingered his moustache. With a deliberate motion, he lowered his right hand to his side. His pistol holster unlatched with a snick.

Larry Nevers gave an audible gasp.

The Colt slid out of the leather; Feddors raised the shining silver gun and looked at it with affection. “Bitter Waters has been telling stories. Anybody want to hear my story? About the Nez Perce War?”

On the train and the stage to the world’s first national park, Quenton Feddors got to know his father, Zeke, in a way he never had before. By the time they arrived at Bart Henderson’s ranch just north of Yellowstone, Zeke was speaking to fifteen-year-old Quenton of the lingering pains of Reconstruction as though he were already a man.

On the train, they heard about the Nez Perce. How General Howard tried to catch them for months and lost them in Yellowstone.

On August 31, in the northern reaches of the park, two Nez Perce braves on horseback had surprised Quenton in the woods beside a waterfall, both men painted up and carrying rifles. Sneaking away undetected, he raced to McCartney’s Inn at Mammoth to spread a warning. The small log building nestled against the hillside at the head of the meadow below Mammoth Hot Springs, a towering cone of travertine marking the track into the yard.

On a boulder before the building rested a man in army blues. He rose and introduced himself as Lieutenant Hugh Scott. “Stay back,” he advised, but the curiosity of youth impelled Quenton forward.

A bearded young man lay on the porch, clutching a sheaf of sheet music in his hand. Quenton read at the top of the crushed score that it was by Mozart. Fresh blood stained the worn wooden boards.

“Shot by the Nez Perce,” Scott told Quenton. Richard Dietrich was a music teacher from Helena who had studied in Germany. With two bullets through him, he wasn’t even cold yet.

Feddors raised his pistol and pointed it at Bitter Waters.

Cord’s throat threatened to close, but he managed, “This man had nothing to do with Richard Dietrich’s death.” He hoped that was true.

Before he finished his sentence, something like recognition spread over Feddors’s mean features. “Sergeant Nevers,” the captain said, “Ah believe ah have figured something out. Our Mr. Sutton’s Indian blood is not Crow, Bannock, or Shoshone.” He showed his yellowed teeth. “He’s a fuckin’ Nez Perce!”

Cord’s two worlds collided. His fate was sealed, as it had been since his birth.

“That’s right,” he said evenly. “This man you are threatening is my uncle.”

“That so?” Feddors’s pistol did not waver.

“Yes.” The second time, it came out easier.

“Captain Feddors!” said a voice from the forest. Cord didn’t dare take his eyes off the Colt to see who had arrived.

“Lieutenant Stafford.” Feddors solved the problem. “You’re not needed heah.”

From the corner of his eye, Cord saw Stafford dismount, Colt in hand. “Sir, as your second-in-command, I must back you and Sergeant Nevers up.” He looked at Bitter Waters astride Dante. “What is this man’s offense?”

“His offense?” The captain’s aim did not waver. “This man has been inciting the tourists about the Nez Perce War. Getting things stirred up all over again.”

“Bitter Waters is kin to me,” Cord broke in. “He has spoken the truth of history.”

Stafford’s solemn gray eyes flicked over Cord, his commanding officer, and back to Bitter Waters. “Let him leave the park in peace. He will agree not to return.”

To Cord’s surprise, his uncle inclined his head in answer.

Feddors glared at Bitter Waters a little longer, then shrugged. He holstered his pistol with what Cord believed to be pretended indifference.

“Go on,” Stafford directed.

Bitter Waters rode away with slow dignity. Several times, Dante looked back over his shoulder as if bewildered at being given away.

Stafford looked at Feddors. “There is a telephone message for you at the station, sir.”

Cord took the opportunity to walk, not ride, away.

What had he been thinking to entrust Dante to the man he’d always blamed for his parents’ death? He knew so little about Bitter Waters.

Except what the heart could discern.

His mother, Sarah, had always had a lilt in her voice when she spoke of her childhood family. Her older brother had taught her to call in waterfowl; to play games with a ball and stick; to dig clay from the creek bank, form it into shapes, and let it bake in the sun. Only when Franklin Sutton came and loved her had the trouble began; a story with so many rights and wrongs that Bitter Waters declared would take many suns to tell.

With an ache in his chest, Cord recalled the way Dante had trembled when he handed over the reins. He saw the intelligent brown eyes with their long black lashes, and recalled the contrast between the velvet nose and the few longer, coarse hairs when he stroked his muzzle. He counted the hours till noon and prayed Bitter Waters stuck around.

In preparation, Cord circled around the Wylie Camp and located Bitter Waters’s tethered Appaloosa. At his approach, the animal tossed his head, pawed, and snorted.

“Shh, shh,” he murmured. “You’re a good boy.” He should have taken the time to find out his name. To be sure he had the right horse, he checked the brand and found the rising sun.

Within minutes, Cord was leading him down to the lake for a drink. He walked him, then retethered him to the staked rope. Offering his hand, he let it be sniffed, and promised to return later in the day with

Bitter Waters.

Between now and then so many things would be decided.

The next time Cord saw Laura, she would proudly and publicly accept him, or she would not. With the bullet out, her father would improve, or he would begin to develop the fever and infection that presaged decline and death. Edgar would show up beside Cord at the late-morning meeting with the railroad, or he would have fled in the night.

Hell, what was the use in even showing up at the meeting? Why not just wait till noon, get Dante back, and ride?

But, no. He wasn’t going to run as Feddors hoped. He’d stay, attend the meeting with his head high. Hopkins Chandler and Norman Hagen had a clear choice to make.

Hank had behaved deceitfully, hiding the evidence of his past mistakes. Cord had to plead his personal record, his integrity … and the fact that in the new century there was no reason not to do business with the adopted son of prominent Aaron Bryce. After all, he was still the man who had created Excalibur.

One who just happened to have a newfound pride in his native roots.

C
ord nearly choked on his lukewarm coffee when Laura entered the hotel meeting room at ten-thirty with Hank. Dressed almost gaily in emerald silk, she nonetheless had dark circles etched beneath her wide green eyes. Two spots of color stood out, high on her otherwise pale face.

Norman Hagen, who had been tapping the table and running his fingers through his bushy red beard, smiled kindly. “How is your father?”

“Until he is better, I will represent the bank in these discussions.” Norman nodded.

Cord started a slow burn. How could she waltz in here with Hank after what had happened between them last night?

“We’ll wait for Edgar a minute more,” Norman suggested, though Hopkins Chandler looked displeased.

Laura took a seat. Her bent head revealed the nape of her neck, with an escaped lock of hair. The tendril curled to just below her collarbone, where a shadow defined the delicate hollow beneath the bone.

Cord stared at her, and she suddenly seemed to find her fingernails fascinating.

Norman studied the wall clock and looked apologetic. “I guess we should begin without Edgar.”

Cord did not argue.

“Even with Forrest struck down …” Hank cast a challenging look at Cord, “the Fielding Bank will still partner with me in funding my purchase of the Lake

Hotel.”

“What do you say, Norm?” Cord ignored the implied accusation and used the familiar version of Norman’s name that he’d adopted this spring in St. Paul. He still hoped for a quick decision; perhaps Hopkins Chandler would leave the park before hearing any slurs against his heritage. “When do you anticipate making a decision?”

“Hold on,” Hank demanded. “I have new information that bears on Sutton’s eligibility to purchase the concession.”

A creeping cold took hold of Cord. Surely, Laura couldn’t have …

Hank rose. “The United States Government and the Northern Pacific have gone to a great deal of trouble to clear the Crow, Blackfoot, and Shoshone out of Yellowstone Park.”

Cord set his jaw.

Hank paused to light a cheroot, while anticipation deepened. Inhaling through pursed lips, he blew the smoke across the table into a cloud over Cord’s head.

“I have learned,” he announced smugly, “that William Cordon Sutton, despite his fancy name and blue eyes, is really a Nez Perce.”

Cord was on his feet, looking at Laura with a rage so palpable she felt as if he had struck her. His sleek hair gleamed in the light, and Laura thought that Sarah’s hair must have been like that, a blackbird’s wing glowing in the fire that had consumed her.

Laura fought the lump in the back of her throat and forced herself to look at him. “I didn’t …”

Hopkins Chandler’s expression was ugly, as he glanced at the railroad poster of the fallen red man. “If this is true … Mr. Sutton … ?”

Laura watched Cord draw himself up and make a formal bow. He addressed the room at large, “For the second time this morning, I am taken to task for the blood of my people.”

His angry gaze met Laura’s and held. “And for the second time, I must confess—no, announce with pride—that I am of the Nimiipuu, the People.”

Then he wasn’t looking at her anymore, but at Hopkins Chandler. “If that eliminates me from your consideration as a buyer, then there is nothing more to be said.”

He stalked from the table and left the room. The firmness with which he shut the door behind him was not quite a slam.

Laura wanted to go after him, but Norman leaned forward, both hands flat on the table. “I don’t see why,” he addressed his boss, “there couldn’t be a shift in policy. It is the twentieth century and Cord—that is, Sutton—is only one-quarter Nez Perce. His association with Aaron Bryce …”