Lake of Fire (47 page)

“I was afraid you’d gone.” Constance stood in the open doorway of Norman Hagen’s room.

Norman turned from folding a shirt into the open valise on his bed. “I was supposed to leave yesterday evening with Hopkins Chandler.”

“You stayed … ?” She wanted him to say he had remained for her. But she’d waited in vain for him to resume the topic he’d introduced yesterday in the rain. When they went in to lunch, he’d been the consummate gentleman. And last night, though she’d hoped Norman would appear to dance with her, she’d been stuck with Private Arden Groesbeck.

“I’m taking the noon stage.” Norman’s hands fumbled his folding.

His saying it out loud made it feel final. The mirror on the wardrobe door reflected him, a big, bearded man with eyes that looked back sadly. She was there in the glass, as well, wearing her sapphire silk dress she believed accentuated the blue of her eyes. Unfortunately, those eyes were rimmed in red.

“It’s awful,” she blurted. “Everyone thinks William burned Hank’s boat.”

He dropped the shirt in a wrinkled ball. “Do you?”

“I don’t know,” she answered tearfully.

Norman had been weighing the pros and cons for
hours, ever since he’d seen the flames and his first thought had been of tearing Cord off Hank, of knives and blood. But now he said, “I don’t think he did it.”

He took a step toward Constance, feeling overly warm in his traveling suit of brown wool. An impulse to pull her inside his room and into his arms seized him.

The feeling wasn’t foreign. He’d felt it when he swept her off the high wagon at the canyon. And again when he’d found her crying prettily in the rain over Cord Sutton.

She pushed off the door and came to him. “I’m glad you don’t think William did it.” She sniffed.

Norman considered and discarded the idea of offering her his handkerchief. Reaching carefully, he interrupted the path of a tear on its way down her cheek. Her skin felt soft as velvet beneath his thumb. He told himself not to do it, but he bent and pressed his lips to the sweet flesh near the corner of her eye.

“God help us, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Maybe some day I can catch you when you aren’t crying about someone else.”

She sucked in her breath. “No,” she said. “No.” She placed her ringless hands on his lapels. “I’m crying because everything is so crazy. Because I think Laura’s taken a horse and ridden out looking for Cord. Captain Feddors and his men are out there, too, and I’m afraid …”

Norman drew her into his arms.

Though they needed to be on their way, Laura and Cord were forced to wait a while to rest White Bird. They kept away from the edge of the bluff, and after she told Cord how she’d spotted Dante earlier, they tethered both horses farther back in the forest.

Sitting with Cord on the slope, Laura said, “Down by the river, I ran into Larry Nevers. He had Edgar Young slung over his horse, near to death.”

“What happened?”

“Larry said a knife fight. He was found washed up on the riverbank.”

“Dammit! Feddors will put that on my ledger, as well.”

“Not if Edgar wakes and tells his story.”

Cord was silent for a moment, staring out toward where the Yellowstone bisected the forest. “Poor son of a bitch.”

Reaching for his two-quart metal canteen, he uncapped it and offered it to Laura. “I waited for you, but the way you’re dressed, you’ll have to go back.”

Laura plucked an Indian paintbrush and shredded the red flower, ripping off one petal at a time. She hadn’t come this far and risked so much to give up the dreams she’d woven. “There’s no place else I should be.”

Cord set the canteen on the ground. “You know Feddors and his men are after me. Want to join the lynch party?”

“I can’t believe you did anything wrong.” After all her agonizing, the words came out easily. “I don’t
think you’re capable of rising from my bed and going out to kill someone.”

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips. “The way one feels after making love doesn’t exactly fit with murderous rage.” He put a hand on her forearm below the pleated upper section of her dress sleeve. “What happened to your field clothes?”

“Aunt Fanny decided they didn’t become a lady and took them. I’ll get by.”

“Quit trying to argue with me.” She felt the puff of his exasperated breath on her hair. “Running away will make you look like an accessory to whatever crimes I’m charged with. When I asked about the lynch party, I meant you could end up hung along with me by vigilante justice.”

Across the valley, she caught a flash of blue coats, men on horseback coming back down toward them.

She pointed. “If we don’t both want to hang, I suggest we get out of here.”

Mounting up on Dante and White Bird, they rode under forest cover up the slope to the divide between the Pelican Valley and the Lamar. Afternoon light turned lemon, then golden, as they outran their pursuers in their quest for the eastern park boundary.

In the valley of the Lamar, almost ten miles from where they met up, Cord drew rein. Laura followed his gaze.

The skyline on the valley’s opposite wall was dominated by a massive peak. Its crown was conical, bare of trees and other vegetation. Below the tree line, the mountain dropped away rapidly, except for three sharp spines of dark rock that formed ridges. The west side facing Cord and Laura sported enormous blocks of talus.

“That’s Nez Perce Peak, named because some of the tribe took that route.”

“Were you with them?”

He nodded. “There’s a canyon, treacherous and full of deadfall,
ananasocum
, Bitter Waters called it, that divides Nez Perce from the mountain to the north.” He pointed out the deep gash. “They’ll never follow our trail through there.”

The last red alpenglow lit the peaks of Nez Perce and Little Saddle Mountain to its north, when Cord and Laura entered the canyon. A wave of déjà vu settled over him.

Twilight came down fast between cliff walls of black rock no more than two hundred feet apart. It looked as though a giant had played a game of pickup-sticks; scattered deadfall made the going nearly impassable in places.

With the visibility almost nil, Dante’s hoof loosened a stone. It tumbled and bounced down behind him, narrowly missing White Bird’s knee, gathering speed until it burst with a sharp sound like a rifle shot.

“It’s getting too dark to ride,” Cord admitted.

When he climbed down from Dante’s back, Laura also dismounted. With night falling, he thought she should be getting ready to dance in that silk dress, not running for her life. He let his gaze stray to her narrow waist and thought about Bitter Waters’s advice to marry her and start a family.

Pulling his spare canteen from his saddlebag, Cord shared the last of his water. A sip for him and Laura; then he poured some into his hat for Dante and White Bird. They still had a little in Laura’s canteen, but they’d need to find some running water here in the canyon.

It might even be safe to slow down during the night and rest the horses, for below in the Lamar Valley he saw the unmistakable glow of several campfires.

“Why have they stopped?” Laura asked.

He chuckled. “Because they’re lousy trackers? Must’ve lost our trail along with the light.”

“So who’s that ahead?” She peered into the depths of the canyon.

Against the fading light, there was a brighter glow, up in the chasm.

“I don’t know.” Keeping his voice low, Cord pulled his Winchester from the scabbard beside his saddle.

“Should we stay here and hope they don’t see us?” she murmured.

If they didn’t move on, they’d be trapped between whoever it was and the posse. It was even possible some of the soldiers had managed to get ahead of them this afternoon using a flanking move.

“That’s no good,” he replied. They had to get past, if they were going to make it through the pass Cappy Parsons had led Cord through.

“Wait here.” He handed his Colt to Laura.

Though his heart was racing, he took a steadying breath and started up the ravine, walking silently the way Bitter Waters had taught him. Ahead, a campfire flared in the lee of a steep rock face.

When he drew closer, he paused and listened, but heard no voices.

By the time he got near enough to hear the snap of a burning stick, he made out the shape of a large pale horse. A man crouched, laying another log on an already adequate fire.

Cord pulled his rifle to a ready position.

He ought to shoot Danny Falls in the back. The world would be a better place, and there’d be one less peril to dodge.

Danny put on more wood.

Cord put the Winchester to his shoulder and placed his cheek hard against the stock’s comb. An easy shot, with his target a prominent silhouette.

Like being at the range.

He focused on his stance and tried to slow his breathing. All the while, he mentally prepared. Danny was a cold-blooded killer. He’d seen him in action, been shot at himself at the coach. If Danny had burned the steamboat, and who else could have, he’d meant to kill both Hank and Alexandra.

And Edgar.

Cord moved his finger toward the trigger and felt the curve of metal beneath his index finger.

He drew in his breath … held it … focused on Danny’s back …

Let out half …

What was he doing? So far, Cord was innocent of the charges leveled at him. Did he want to explain shooting a man in the back?

He took up the slack in the trigger, held, and relaxed the pressure with a sigh. Lowering his weapon, he soft-footed his way back to Laura.