Blood at Bear Lake Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  OUTNUMBERED . . .

  “They’s no place for you to run, mister, so whyn’t you give it up. We won’t hurt you none. Just take that fine-lookin’ horse and the mule. Take them an’ whatever else you got.” He laughed. “But we won’t touch a hair on your old gray head.”

  Joe frowned. “Am I really starting to get some gray in my hair?”

  “Damn you, mister, you ain’t takin’ us serious.”

  “Why should I worry about a bunch of dead men?”

  Howard turned to his brothers and shouted, “Get him, boys. Cut him good.”

  Thomas started circling around Joe in one direction, Benjamin in the other. Joe suspected that their plan—one they must have used before with a successful outcome— was for the three of them to trap him in the center of a triangle so that his back had to be toward at least one of them at all times.

  It was a perfectly good plan, he conceded. If he allowed them to carry it out . . .

  Titles by Gary Franklin

  MAN OF HONOR

  THE MOTHER LODE

  BLOOD AT BEAR LAKE

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  BLOOD AT BEAR LAKE

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley edition / August 2008

  Copyright © 2008 by Gary McCarthy.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

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  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-0-425-22292-8

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  1

  A MAN WILL NOT keep his scalp very long in the mountains if he lacks patience. Patience was a trait Joe Moss learned as a young free trapper in the Rockies, and he still had it as a man in his early forties. He also still had his own scalp, no thanks to some.

  Trapper, trader, freighter, miner, and sometimes fugitive, Moss had led a rough-and-tumble life and bore the scars to prove it. On the other hand, he had inflicted far more scars than ever he’d received. And he had taken a great many scalps over the years.

  Now, newly married, with a wife whose whereabouts he did not know and with a daughter who was denied to him, Moss found himself in a tight spot. Literally.

  In ducking away from a mob of hired assassins, he had plunged into what might well prove to be an inescapable trap.

  After years of searching, Joe had finally reunited with the love of his life, Fiona McCarthy. In his absence, she had borne him a child, but while they were apart, Fiona was accused of murder. To protect her, she gave their four-year-old daughter, Jessica, to an order of nuns at St. Mary of the Mountain church in Carson City, Nevada.

  Joe was with Fiona barely long enough to be legally married to her—an event they had not quite gotten around to before they were separated five years earlier—and to make an appearance outside the convent to reclaim their daughter. Fiona, and now Joe as well, were hated by the wealthy and powerful Peabody brothers, who wholly owned one of the top-producing mines on the Comstock Lode.

  When Joe and Fiona reached the gates of the convent, they were immediately attacked by a paid mob of the Peabody thugs. Joe held the attackers off to give Fiona time to escape, but he was surrounded and greatly outnumbered.

  Father O’Connor, the priest who oversaw both the church and the convent, offered Joe sanctuary, but the priest and Joe knew better than to think the mob would honor the age-old sanctuary of the altar. O’Connor shoved Joe into a tiny space carved out of solid rock, the entrance to which was concealed by a bookcase in the priest’s private office.

  Now Joe was trapped there, with a howling mob searching for him throughout the church and its outbuildings. Joe had only his Colt revolving pistol, his bowie knife, and his ever-present and fearsome tomahawk to defend himself.

  He might as well have been weaponless. If he was discovered, neither bullets nor steel would be enough to extricate him from this trap.

  Which suggested he damned well better not allow himself to
be caught.

  Joe checked his weapons, then silently investigated the limits of the artificial cave where he was trapped.

  In pitch-dark, he felt his way to the back. Cold, slightly jagged stone was all his seeking hands encountered. The hole ran less than two paces deep, and was not quite high enough for Joe’s six-foot-plus height to come fully upright. He could touch both side walls at the same time simply by extending his arms. The floor was uneven and littered with stone chips.

  Joe had no idea why such a hole might have been carved from the rock. Perhaps it was to have been the start of a mine adit that was abandoned when no ore was discovered. Perhaps it was intended as a concealed storage place for church purposes that he could not imagine.

  Whatever the reason, it would make a most uncomfortable coffin.

  Joe had to get the hell out of there. Every moment he spent in there, Fiona was getting farther and farther away from him.

  The last he saw of her was a tiny moving figure and a stream of dust raised by the hooves of her madly racing sorrel mare as she ran to escape her tormentors.

  And, dammit, he did not know where she was bound.

  He would follow her to the ends of the earth or to the end of his days, whichever came first.

  But that would be after he got out of this miserable damned hole in the ground.

  Joe sat gingerly, sweeping loose rock from under his butt, careful to make no noise while he did so. He leaned back against the stone wall and closed his eyes, willing his muscles to rest but concentrating his entire being on the faint sounds that came from the other side of that bookcase.

  “. . . that sonuvabitch . . . we’ll find . . . we do you’ll pay, Priest . . . then we . . .”

  The voice was not one Joe had heard before and he could not hear it clearly, but it was a voice he intended to remember. Perhaps it belonged to the last living Peabody brother—Joe had already killed the other two—but perhaps not.

  Had he been sure it was Peabody himself who was speaking, Joe would have stepped out and killed the son of a bitch, inside a church or not. Killing the last Peabody might well be enough to call off the dogs who were after Fiona for a murder he was sure his gentle wife could never have committed, no matter what the Peabodys claimed.

  But there were simply too many in the mob whose voices and boots he could hear out there. He could not kill them all, although he would have been glad to if that gave Fiona freedom from fear. Even if it meant his own death, Joe would gladly have leaped into the fray if he only was assured that Fiona would be free.

  All he could do, dammit, was to sit there, slumped against the cold, gritty stone, and wait. And wait.

  2

  JOE WOKE WITH a start, aware that he had dropped off to sleep but with no notion of how long he had been sleeping. He was sure of one thing, though. It was long enough to fill his bladder. He had to take a piss that would float a boat.

  Outside his hole in the rock, beyond the bookcase that concealed this spot, he could hear voices. Louder now than they had been and, he thought, closer.

  “You’re gonna tell us, you old son of a bitch,” someone snarled. “The boss wants t’ know and you’re either gonna tell us where he is or I’ll cut your useless balls off.”

  There was a muffled sound that might have been a slap, and then another.

  “Tell us, damn you.”

  Joe could hear mumbling. It was in the cadence of a prayer.

  “Hold the old bastard still, Charlie, while I slice one o’ his ears off’n his head,” the voice said.

  There was a sound of scuffling and some more slaps, then a sharp cry.

  “What? You don’t think I’ll do it, old man? You think your papist ways are gonna help you now? Dammit, Charlie, hold ’im still so’s I can get a clean cut. I wouldn’t want t’ ruin his looks with a ragged cut, now would I? Them nuns wouldn’t let him fuck ’em if I went an’ made him ugly.”

  Joe could hear laughter.

  He could also hear his own blood coursing hot through his veins.

  Gunfire would draw attention back here, but steel is silent. And just as deadly.

  With the remembered cadence of a Lakota war chant going through his mind, Joe slipped his bowie from its sheath and held it loosely in his left hand. In his right was his deadly tomahawk.

  He was not sure how many armed men were in the priest’s office with Father O’Connor. At least two. But why worry about details?

  He rose into a crouch, finished the Lakota prayer, and pushed the bookcase open.

  The heavy set of shelving moved ponderously forward, squealing a little as seldom-used hinges grated metal on metal.

  “What the—?”

  The thug who stood over Father O’Connor never had time to finish his sentence. Joe took two long steps forward, and his wicked tomahawk split the man’s skull wide open. He went down, spilling blood and brains onto the stone floor.

  There were two others in the small room. They clawed for their pistols.

  Joe quickly retrieved his tomahawk and threw it at the one who was standing off to the side of the room. The ’hawk spun end over end and landed blade-first in the middle of the fellow’s breastbone. The man looked down at the ’hawk protruding from his chest. He went pale and began to sag to his knees, no longer interested in his or anyone else’s firearms.

  The man who had been holding Father O’Connor’s arms behind him blanched and tried to use the priest as a human shield.

  Joe was able, if just barely, to suppress an impulse to shout a triumphant war cry as he leaped the short distance between him and Father O’Connor’s assailant. Joe’s bowie flashed and the man fell back, his throat open and blood spurting half-a-dozen feet across the room.

  “Bastards!”

  Joe retrieved his tomahawk and returned it to his sash, then quickly began relieving the dead men of their scalps. One of them had red hair. His scalp would make a fine addition to Joe’s collection. It needed replenishment badly after his friend, the widow Ellen Johnson, had discarded all of his old scalps some months earlier.

  “No. You can’t . . . you mustn’t do that!” O’Connor protested.

  “Hell, there ain’t no harm of it.”

  “No, really, I can’t allow it. This is sacred ground.”

  “T’ you maybe. Wasn’t to them. An’ if the truth be known, it ain’t sacred to me neither.” Joe ripped the scalp from the head of the first man he had killed there.

  The priest looked like he was going to be sick. The man stood there with his clerical robes in disarray, his spindly legs on display. He seemed not to notice that, however. “Stop this, Moss, or I will never consent to let Jessica go back to her mother.”

  Joe grunted and finished scalping the second man, then moved to the last, the one who had caught the tomahawk in his chest. He was still alive, although barely. Joe picked his head up and began cutting.

  “Do you hear me, Moss? You will never so much as see that little girl again.”

  “You promised t’ return her to her mother. You gave your word. You never gave me nothing but grief, Priest. Now quit your prattling an’ tell me how I can get out o’ here. Are there others of Peabody’s men out there?”

  O’Connor nodded. “Yes. I think so, yes.”

  “How many?”

  “I don’t know that. A dozen. Possibly more.”

  “Do you know where they’re waiting?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Would you tell me if you did?”

  Father O’Connor drew himself to his full height and with dignity said, “I would not bring harm down upon you, Joe Moss, any more than I would bring harm to your wife. Or to your daughter either, for that matter. I will pray for the deliverance of your soul. If I could do anything to help deliver your body from evil, I would do that, too.”

  Joe looked the priest up and down, thinking. Then he grunted. “You got any more of those robe things, Padre?”

  “My cassock, you mean? Yes, why do you ask?”

&nbs
p; “ ’Cause I want to borrow one. And one o’ those funny-looking hats you guys wear.”

  “I have a biretta, of course, but I only use it . . .”

  “Where is it?” Joe interrupted. “I’m in a bit of a hurry here, Padre. If you don’t mind.”

  “My cassock and biretta are in that wardrobe over there, but I cannot allow . . .”

  “Thanks.” Joe snatched the wardrobe door open and pulled out the cassock. He slipped it on over his clothing and stuffed his Stetson hat beneath the voluminous robe, then perched the biretta on top of his head.

  Already six feet two, with black hair and weathered flesh, with the biretta he probably looked as big as a grizzly. But as harmless as a kitten.

  He hoped.

  “Is there a side door, Padre?”

  The priest pointed. “There is a covered corridor that leads to the convent, but you are not permitted to . . .” By then he was speaking to an empty room. Joe Moss was already on his way out of Father O’Connor’s office and headed toward the convent. The convent where Jessica was.

  3

  THE FIRST THING Joe did when he reached the corridor that connected the church to the convent was to open the priest’s robes and take a leak into the bushes that were struggling to survive in this stony, arid soil.

  While he stood there watering the plants, he could see one pair of armed men standing guard at the front of the church. Another two patrolled back and forth along the road that ran past it.

  He had slept longer than he realized when he was in that hole in the ground. It was well past sundown now. Joe welcomed the shadows. They would help him get away without endangering the nuns or—more important—little Jessica.

  But if he could see her, even speak to her before he left . . .

  Joe scowled. He did not dare try to push his luck that far. If Peabody’s men discovered his attachment to the child, they could well take her hostage. He would not put it past them, and the last thing in the world Joe would ever do would be to place his daughter in harm’s way.

  He had no more than gotten a glimpse of her, but already he loved her more than life itself, and as soon as he could find Fiona they would take Jessica back and be a family.

  As soon as he could find Fiona.

  Joe’s scowl deepened and turned into a sigh. He rearranged the robes and hurried along the corridor, letting himself into the convent at the other end.