Lake of Fire

by Linda Jacobs

The hand jerked back.

  Resnick grabbed it and repeated the maneuver on another finger, and another.

  The third time, Edgar groaned.

  The fourth, he rolled his head on the pillow and his eyelids fluttered.

  “Edgar!” Resnick called.

  “Uhhhhh …”

  “Who hurt you, Edgar?”

  His eyes blinked, unfocused.

  “Edgar?”

  His head lolled back.

  “Cord Sutton? Was it him?”

  Edgar’s eyes closed.

  “Not Cord?” Larry hoped.

  Resnick was no longer hurting him, but holding his hand in a supportive grip.

  Edgar lay still and silent, breathing evenly as he had before.

  Before Resnick could try anything else to awaken him, Dr. Upshur tapped his shoulder. “I must insist.”

  Larry followed the Pinkerton man outside. Though he was supposed to take charge, he deferred to him. “What do you think?”

  “Sutton fought with Falls last night, but that was apparently over Laura Fielding.” Resnick stroked his chin. “And while he might have gone back to finish the job, she says they were together when the boat went up.” He pulled out his tiny pad and pencil. “I haven’t had a chance to question her about the business of her father’s shooting, but I’m certain she’ll back him.”

  Recalling a conversation he’d overheard between Resnick and Feddors, Larry asked, “Do you think she’s lying this time?”

  Resnick shook his head. “If she had any inkling a man had shot her father, she’d have gone straight to the authorities.”

  “What about the outlaw?”

  “I used the company resources to check. A Daniel Patrick Falls was born the same day, same town in Idaho, as Henry James Falls, who goes by ‘Hank.’“ Resnick made a note. “When Hank denied having a brother, that proved there was trouble between them.”

  “Edgar was meeting Danny. Couldn’t he have hurt him, rather than Cord?”

  After another scribbled notation, Resnick lifted his head. “Possible, even probable.”

  “But they’re hunting Sutton.”

  “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 al
penglow 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 coldblooded 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.

  “It’s Danny Falls,” he whispered.

  Laura had thought having one’s heart leap into one’s throat was a saying. But hers felt like it was choking her, its wild erratic beating like the wings of a captured bird. She stared at Cord, unable to make a sound. That was a good thing. Inside her head, she was screaming, while it all flooded back: Angus Spiner’s slow-motion fall from the high seat to his last bed in the spring snow; Danny’s satisfied smile when he pocketed her little pistol; his avaricious sneer as he pawed through her things.

  Her hand tightened on Cord’s Colt. Danny was just there; she’d gladly go and shoot him.

  “I thought about it.” Cord touched her shoulder. “That’s what separates us from outlaws.”

  He looked back the way they’d come, where the soldiers camped. “We’ve got to get past him tonight. Get up into the high valley between Little Saddle and Nez Perce, where the going’s easier.”

  The last thing she wanted to do was to move.

  “If he comes toward us, we’ll both blast him,” Cord directed.

  Laura managed to nod.

  They set off. She followed Cord and Dante, leading White Bird with a slack rein while they picked their way over the broken ground by feel. They couldn’t afford to loosen another stone.

  Though they hugged the right side of the canyon, as far as possible from Danny’s camp, the smell of roasting meat made her mouth water. She didn’t see anyone beside the fire.

  Slowly and silently, one step at a time. Cord was keeping to where the earth was soft and duff-covered in order that the horses’ hooves not make noise. Laura tried to place her feet where he did. It seemed to take forever, but at last, the firelight began to fade behind them. Relieved, she looked down to find the next quiet place to step … from the corner of her eye she saw a shadow flit between trees.

  It must be an owl.

  The incline steepened. Her dress clung to her armpits where she sweated, even in the night wind. In the hand that wasn’t holding White Bird’s reins, she clutched the Colt.

  Ahead, Cord stopped and put out a hand. Laura went still, and both horses stopped. White Bird’s hoof touched a stone with an audible scrape.

  From the corner of her eye, Laura once again caught motion. Before she could turn to see what it was, something seized her.

  It took a fraction of a second to know it was a man’s long arm, sliding around her throat. And a laugh that sounded like Hank when he’d pinned her on his bed.

  Heart racing, her knees turning to water, Laura nonetheless clutched the Colt and tried to point the barrel up over her shoulder at his head …

  “No, no, no.” He disarmed her with a single move and pressed the barrel hurtfully against her temple.

  She sensed Cord trying to bring his Winchester up.

  Beside her ear, she heard the hammer being pulled back, one click …

  Two.

  Laura wanted to shout at Cord to shoot.

  Three.

  Even if she was at risk.

  Four.

  Cord lowered the Winchester.

  “Let’s all go over to my fire, shall we?” suggested Danny Falls.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  JUNE 30

  It must have been past midnight, as the night chill came down in earnest. Cord sat with his head tilted back against a sapling, his arms bound behind him and around the trunk. His sheepskin coat lay nearby; he wished Danny had let him give the wrap to Laura, who lay huddled in a miserable bundle too far from the fire to get any warmth.

  Danny had feasted on roasted rabbit he must have shot earlier in the day, but had offered neither food nor water to Cord or Laura. He’d tethered Dante and White Bird near his palomino.

  Tilting a compact ceramic jug that smelled of liquor, Danny drank, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing, one, two, three times. “Tracked you all day,” he said. Four times.

  “Got the jump ahead in the boulders and deadfall.” He moved with deliberate steps toward Laura. “Shouldn’t have brought a woman to slow ya.”

  She struggled to a sitting position. Her hands were not tied, but a loop around her waist secured he
r to a fir.

  Danny reached to twine a lock of her hair around his finger. “Pretty.” He spoke softly, eyeing Cord.

  Laura’s knotted hair clung to Danny’s finger, and he jerked, yanking the hank out by the roots. In the firelight, Cord saw tears shine in her eyes.

  With a chuckle, Danny traced the curve of her breast beneath filthy green silk, still puckered after being wet earlier. She kept her head averted.

  “Take your hands off her,” Cord demanded. He imagined that he threw Danny to the earth and ground his boot into his face.

  “Got to you with that?” He turned from Laura, seeming to lose interest in her. “The shoe’s on the other foot.” His face was ugly. “You killed my partner, Frank. In fairness, I should return the favor.”

  Cord started to speak, but Laura burst out, “Was it fair what you did to the stage driver? For a paltry valise of women’s clothing.”

  “You think Frank and I are small-time operators who go around robbing stagecoaches?” He shook his head. “No, no, no.”

  Cord shifted his aching shoulders and tested his bonds as he’d been doing for hours. His knife had gone into Danny’s pack. This time, as he swept his bound hands across the ground, he uncovered the tip of something hard and sharp.

  Danny drank again. “I’m not as dumb as Hank thinks. I set my high-livin’, too-good-to-talk-to-his-twin brother up to lose his fancy Lake Hotel.”

  “I guessed that much,” Cord said.

  “Got eyes and ears all around. Frank was in a bar in Jackson, found out from the fellow runs the stage station that a Laura Fielding would be on the Yellowstone run.”

  Cord craned his neck trying to see the ground.

  “Queer,” Danny mused, “gal traveling alone, but that name matched the bank the railroad told Edgar was backing Hank.”

  There. Cord felt the adamantine surface of obsidian.

  He strained, his shoulders aching, and managed to touch it with the tips of his fingers. It wasn’t a knifepoint or arrowhead, but a piece of material that had been worked into a single sharp edge and then abandoned without being finished.

  Danny’s laugh was a chilling arpeggio. “What better … dis … discouragement for a man investin’ than to lose … his daughter?” The drink was getting to him.