Blaze stood in the debris of what had once constituted Jon Hazard Black’s cozy cabin and called him every despicable name she could dredge up from her well-stocked inventory. It wasn’t that Jon Hazard Black was, in fact, any of the multitude of names she called him. It was, rather, that Jon Hazard Black was the first individual in Blaze’s self-indulgent life who had had the audacity—and the ability—to order her about.
“We’ll see who does the ordering,” she muttered into the silence of the pottery-strewn cabin. “We’ll just see who the hell does what!”
Chapter 7
Lunchtime, as it turned out, was spare and silent, noteworthy only in the dramatically rearranged interior of the cabin. After carefully navigating the broken crockery with thinly shod moccasined feet, Hazard found himself some jerky in the cupboard, scraped pottery chips from the butter, and proceeded to make his second meal of the day on bread and butter. He ate in the heavily condemnatory glare of Blaze’s sullen gaze and after finishing said, with a small exhalation of breath, “You know, Boston, you’re going to have to clean this up.”
“Now listen—”
Hazard’s voice cut her short. “You listen first, then you get equal time.” Blaze’s lips pursed into a tightly drawn line, but she quieted. “Sit down.” It looked for a moment as if she wouldn’t. Hazard swept an inviting hand toward the chair and smiled his particularly winning smile that few could resist. “Please,” he said, offering a conciliatory bow, and she sat.
“Since this is an … arrangement,” he began, seating himself on the corner of the table, “neither of us anticipated, I suggest we keep it as civil as possible. Taking the obvious shortcomings of this small cabin into consideration, of course.” He was neither nervous nor condescending, exuding instead a calm pragmatism, one moccasined foot swinging idly. “I won’t live with tantrums in this small space, so you must clean this mess up. But enough of that. More important, I realize this will probably have ramifications on your future and I apologize for that, but I didn’t start any of this—didn’t ask for it, didn’t want any part of it.” He shrugged slightly. “But it happened, unfortunately, and since you now are my insurance against Buhl’s machinations, I feel it would be best if we avoided the sort of … ah … intimacy that took place yesterday. And since this is at base,” he said, all seriousness, “a business arrangement, I for one would prefer—”
“You needn’t go on,” Blaze interjected, her voice taking on the same cool detachment as Hazard’s. At once both humiliated and relieved, his proposal, she understood as well as he, was the only reasonable alternative to an exceedingly uncomfortable situation.
Hazard received her acquiescence with contradictory emotions. He had been practical about the need for distance. What he’d prefer, in lieu of practicality, would be Miss Braddock’s ready sensuality as a delightful and frequent respite to his hard gold mining.
“If we’re agreed, then—” Hazard paused.
Blaze nodded and said, “I shall control my impulses without any trouble, Mr. Black, I assure you. I pray, however,” she continued, rising from the chair with a petulant toss of her red-gold hair and a new caustic edge to the sweetness, “that Daddy comes to some arrangement with you very soon.”
“Amen to that, Miss Braddock,” Hazard agreed, noting his exquisite companion’s sulk. “I’ll add my prayers to yours.”
Chapter 8
At that moment, Colonel Braddock was following a Bannack Indian guide along a mountain trail on an urgent journey to find a go-between from Hazard’s clan to save his daughter. Since Hazard wouldn’t allow any of them to approach, it was imperative that the Colonel find an acceptable negotiator.
Hazard’s ominous ultimatum had struck terror in Billy Braddock’s soul. His daughter was the center of his life, his entire world, and he would willingly give up everything he owned to see her safe. His love for her had been unconditional from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, all fragile pink innocence, on the day of her birth. And he’d vowed from that very first moment, his daughter would have all the love and luxury his own orphaned childhood had lacked. She would never know the grinding poverty and uncaring neglect of his harsh early years. And he had spared neither time nor money to fulfill his vow.
Father and daughter had become inseparable even before she could walk. A nursery had been installed on the top floor of the Braddock Block in downtown Boston, and with the relieved blessing of Millicent Braddock, who found motherhood a distasteful interruption to a busy social schedule, Venetia grew up under her father’s doting regard. She’d become “Blaze” shortly after her fourth birthday, when the full glory of her vivid hair had grown to luxurious magnificence. And Blaze she’d remained, despite her mother’s displeasure at the unladylike sobriquet. But long before Blaze was four, her mother had relinquished any interest in her daughter, embracing the upper-class dictum that children should be ignored until they became civilized enough to enter the adult world at eighteen. By that time, of course, there had been too many years of cool neglect for any rapport to exist between mother and daughter. Blaze was her father’s pet by then, and that, too, blunted any hope of amity between mother and daughter.
Millicent Hatton had bartered her fragile beauty and old Virginia name for the richest fortune on the open market at the time, and under her terms of the sale, as she saw it, she had to neither like William Braddock nor indulge him—only marry him. Once wed, her duty was done. Before the honeymoon was a month old, Billy Braddock had known he’d made a disastrous mistake, but his young bride was already plagued by morning bouts of nausea. They returned to Boston immediately and, politely avoiding any discussion of their differences, took up their separate lives. They met occasionally at dinner, when by coincidence both were home for the evening, infrequently attended a social fete together, and because of Blaze they celebrated holidays as a family. It was a marriage devoid of all emotion, leaving Billy Braddock vast reserves of affection to lavish on his only child.
Yesterday, every inch the magisterial millionaire, he’d commanded his colleagues under no circumstances to make a single move toward Hazard Black’s claim until he returned with a member of Hazard’s clan to act as mediator for him. He knew from experience when a bluff is a bluff. And the Indian on the mountain yesterday had meant what he said. He intended to offer the Indian whatever he wanted to free Blaze, but a gnawing fear remained that perhaps this time money wouldn’t be enough. Anxious, disquieted, Billy Braddock pressed on, restlessly vetoing a suggestion to make camp for the evening. “There’s twenty more minutes of daylight,” he declared, gently prodding his tired horse. They’d been riding upcountry steadily for sixteen hours, and for a man his age, the effort was draining. He’d been running on adrenaline the last two hours.
The guide finally had to warn him they’d lose their horses to broken legs if they didn’t stop. The moon was behind heavy cloud cover that night, and their mounts had stumbled twice in the last few minutes. Reluctantly, Colonel Braddock agreed to stop, picked at his food, and lay awake all night waiting for enough light to start out again.
On the third day they found the first Absarokee summer encampment, but the Indians were Black Lodges, a related clan, but not Hazard’s. The Many Lodges, they were told, had moved over the mountains a week ago looking for new pasture. Perhaps they could be found down by the Horses River.
Only taking time to trade for fresh mounts, Colonel Braddock and his Bannack guide traveled on, arriving at the upper reaches of Horses River two days later, where they found that the camp had moved once more. The summer migrations were on, each clan and its pony herds journeying from pasture to pasture in the foothills to escape the heat and insects of the sultry plains below.
The guide couldn’t help noticing the white man’s difficulty breathing in the thin upland air. But his recommendations that they stop and rest were always waved off. The yellow eyes weren’t used to the high altitudes. Most of them, like this one, had spent too much time indoors and not enough time in
physical activity. The man looked near collapse, his lips blue, his face pale and perspiring. The guide feigned a caught stone in his horse’s hoof and was pleased to see color return to the white man’s face after the short rest to examine the pony’s “injury.”
Chapter 9
Hazard slept that night on the floor, buffalo robes serving as a mattress. Blaze told herself she was glad he was gentleman enough to honor their business-like agreement, but her dreams were of strong arms holding her and silky black hair brushing her cheeks moments before tender lips touched hers. The pleasure these thoughts sent coursing through her body warmed her flesh, and restlessly she tossed her covers aside. Hazard rolled over then, away from her alluring exposure, and faced the wall. Unable to sleep, his own desires more conscious and real, his dark eyes had strayed to the narrow bed a hundred times the last few hours. Blaze’s voluptuous nude body—now fully exposed—was too tempting. If he trusted himself more, he would have gotten up and covered her again, but he was cognizant of his resolve’s limitations, and he daren’t go too close. Not the way he was feeling now, not with the urgency of his desire battering his sanity.
He finally dozed off long after midnight but woke, silently alert, just as the first slivered beams of morning sun slid over the mountains. Quiet, unhurried footsteps approached.
He was on his feet in one smooth motion and across the cabin, rifle in hand seconds later. The door slowly opened, a soft warbler trill announced the intruder, and Hazard relaxed against the wall, his mouth curving into a smile. A tall Absarokee stepped into the room and without turning, his eyes on Blaze’s voluptuous sleeping body, addressed Hazard standing behind him. “Show-da-gee ba-goo-ba (Hello, brother). She’s much too good for you, Dit-chilajash. Let me take her off your hands, Hazard … say eighty horses? She’s going to cut into your work time like hell.” Male drollery laced the soft Absarokee tongue.
“It’s nice to have such a solicitous friend, but save your horses, Chadam Chelash; she’s not for sale,” Hazard said, slipping into his leggings. “She’s my hostage, Rising Wolf.”
Rising Wolf half turned toward Hazard, the long beaded fringe on his clothes catching the light, one dark brow raised. “Better yet. If she didn’t cost anything, eighty horses will be pure profit.” He was familiar with Hazard’s pattern with women. They were all beautiful but transient. “I can wait awhile,” he added with a smile. “Shouldn’t take more than a few weeks, if I remember your style.” They spoke in low tones, the sibilant sounds of their native tongue conducive to quiet dialogue.
“If I didn’t value my life more than your pleasure,” Hazard said, returning the smile, “I’d consider the eighty horses.” Rising Wolf had the most discerning eye in the clan with horses, and his ponies were always superior. “Tempting as it is—this female has a temper like the hot springs up north—her presence here is guaranteeing my mine, and my life, at the moment.”
“Really a hostage, then.” Rising Wolf saw Hazard was serious.
“They tried to buy me out, run me off, and then”—Hazard’s black eyes flickered in Blaze’s direction—“bribe me.”
“Who?” Rising Wolf was wondering if a small raiding party some night would handle the menace.
Hazard knew how his mind worked; it was, after all, the customary way of dealing with enemies. “Too many and too influential for that, Rising Wolf. It’s the Eastern mining money that’s been throwing their gold around for the last couple of months.”
“Will it work? The hostage?”
Hazard shrugged. “The yellow eyes are crawling over this country like ants. Every week brings wagonloads more. It’s my only choice.”
“Too stubborn to sell?”
“Why should I, just because they’ve more money than I? This is a valuable vein I’m sitting on. Don’t see any reason to hand it over to them. They’ve got lots of interests in this country—they can live without mine.” He smiled faintly. “Not that their kind is likely to do that. But, hell, this whole thing could blow over in a few weeks, or even days, if some new strike with bigger potential comes through somewhere else.”
“Need help?”
“With what?” Hazard teased, his mood lightened by Rising Wolf’s familiar presence, the feel of home he always brought with him.
Rising Wolf chuckled. “When the pines turn yellow, as they say … No, I was thinking about some lookouts. We could set up out here.”
“You haven’t seen my new toy.”
“You have another one besides her?”
Hazard laughed aloud at Rising Wolf’s characteristic leer. The ringing resonance woke Blaze. She took one look at the strange Indian and screamed. Hazard moved toward her with a soothing gesture of his hand. Only then did her frightened eyes shift to Hazard’s familiar lean form and the shock turn to recognition. “A friend,” Hazard said, pulling up the light blanket over her shoulders possessively. “Don’t be afraid.” It was an unconscious action immediately reminding Rising Wolf of Raven Wing years before. Hazard had responded to her in the same solicitous way. And he’d never seen him behave that way since.
“Go back to sleep,” Hazard softly said. “We’re going out.” And taking Rising Wolf by the arm, he steered him through the entry. After shutting the door and carefully placing the lock in place, he said, “Come,” indicating a narrow trail between the pines. Following a brush-cut path a hundred yards up the mountain east of the cabin, Hazard moved onto a small ledge cut into the rock, pointed to an artillery piece and remarked: “The newest model, uses a copper fifty-eight-caliber rimfire cartridge, capable of being loaded while firing. It’s accurate at five hundred yards and … can keep anyone away from the claim.”
“What is it called?” Rising Wolf asked, admiring the multibarreled weapon mounted on a gun carriage.
“A Gatling gun.”
“Where did you get it?”
“A friend of mine from school knows an ordnance officer at the Washington arsenal.”
“And they just gave it to you?”
“It’s pretty untried yet. In fact, most of the testing wasn’t too successful. None of the veteran officers support it.”
“Have you seen it in action? Does it work?”
“Rosecrans tried some of these in the Wilderness campaign. The time I saw it near Burgessville, it tore the hell out of a brigade of cavalry.”
“So how did you talk them into sending it out here?”
“My friend had his ordnance officer from Washington rewrite the shipping orders. It was simple; they shipped it to the railhead outside Omaha and I had it freighted overland from there.”
“You mean you didn’t pay for it?” Rising Wolf smiled his appreciation of the U.S. government’s unknowing largesse.
“Let’s say I consider it a bonus for a field officer’s meager pay.”
“You should have gotten more,” Rising Wolf mildly chastised, his tactical mind already visualizing the effects this gun would have.
“Don’t think I didn’t try,” Hazard replied. “Even for this one, I think I owe favors beyond the grave.”
“How much ammunition do you have?” Rising Wolf asked, well aware that it was always a problem for the Indian tribes, getting enough ammunition.
“Plenty.”
“It would be superb against the Lakota.”
“When the gold runs out, we’ll take it to camp.”
“How did you get it up here?”
“I had it winched up.”
“What did you tell people was in the crate?”
“Mining equipment. Everyone’s used to that. It comes by the ton either overland or up the Missouri.”
“You look well set up.”
“As I intended. Maybe a year from now most of the gold will be in our mountain cache, securing our people’s future.”
“And the woman?”
“She’ll never last that long.”
“Meaning?” Rising Wolf questioned softly.
“Nothing ominous,” Hazard quickly responded to Ri
sing Wolf’s raised brows. “Only … I’m sure her father will reach some agreement with me much sooner than that. She tells me she’s an only child.” A smile flashed across his dark face. “My good fortune—worth at least fifty bargaining points more.”
“Forget the bargaining points, I can think of better reasons to be grateful for having that woman in your bed.”
“She sleeps alone.”
“Tell that to someone more gullible—someone who didn’t grow up with you.” Hazard’s discriminating instinct for beautiful women was as legendary on the plains as it had been in Boston.
“I mean it. I don’t want the problems.”
“Since when is making love a problem?” Rising Wolf’s grin was widened.
“Generally I’d agree with you, but …” Hazard exhaled. “The circumstances are different.”
“You really mean you haven’t?”
“Not lately.”
“So you have. I didn’t think you’d let the biahia—that sweetheart—go untouched.”
“I’m sorry now I did.”
“Sorry?” Rising Wolf believed in pleasure with uninhibited enjoyment. “That’s a strange attitude coming from you.” And he searched Hazard’s face piercingly, for the memory of Hazard attending the woman just minutes before was fresh and vivid. You didn’t look at a woman that way and not want her, Rising Wolf thought.
“It’s complicated.”
“Women always are.”
“More complicated than usual. I must fulfill my vision. There’s no time for pleasure.”
Rising Wolf understood. A vision must be followed.
And as a visionary, Hazard’s revelations had been prophetic, giving them a potency and symbolic power. Years ago, as a boy on Wolf Mountain, fasting for four days in search of his biricī’ sam (medicine-dream), he’d seen the white men coming for the gold already then, had seen the riders with the fire spears come down from the sky, had seen the sun darken with blood before the white men’s disease had taken so many lives.
Susan Johnson Page 12