Blood at Bear Lake Page 2

  “Father, I . . . who are you? I haven’t seen you here before. Are you passing through? Is there anything you need?” The nun looked mildly confused but not alarmed. “Is Father O’Connor with you? Is he all right?” She shuddered. “There was shooting earlier today. Very close to the church, it was.”

  Joe wanted to tell her to shut the hell up, but that was probably not the best idea. He let her prattle on for a moment, then asked, “Do you have a horse I can use?”

  “We? A horse? No, of course not. Whatever use would we have for a horse?”

  “No, of course not. I tell you what, Sister, whyn’t you guide me over to the other side of this place.”

  She gave him a questioning look, but did not voice her reaction to what must have seemed a very odd request. “Of course, Father.”

  Father. No one had ever called Joe “Father” before. Under the circumstances, with Jessica somewhere within these walls, it seemed strange to him. And kind of nice, too. “Thank you.”

  “Will you be hearing confessions, Father? Or assisting Father O’Connor with Mass?”

  Joe ignored her, and after a minute or so it got through to the nun that he was not feeling chatty. She hushed up and led the way.

  He followed as the nun silently led him through a maze of handsomely appointed rooms to the far side of the convent. Joe kept looking anxiously to either side, hoping he might see Jessica, but the only thing he saw were a few black-robed nuns going about the humdrum chores of institutional living.

  The convent was dimly lighted—thank goodness—and eerily silent. Not that he minded that. Silent beat the hell out of the fusillade of gunfire that would erupt if he were seen and recognized.

  “This is the other side, the side toward Virginia City,” the nun said, stopping abruptly when they reached a long hallway that was lined with a series of small rooms on one side and corresponding small stained-glass windows on the other. “Is the diocese planning an expansion, Father? Is that why you are here?”

  Instead of answering, Joe asked, “Do those windows open?”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t think so. We’ve never had any reason to open them. We get quite enough fresh air without that.” She tilted her head. “Why would you ask a thing like that?”

  “’Cause I’m gonna open one of them,” Joe said.

  “Why would you . . . ? ”

  Joe ignored her. He stepped closer and took a look at the window frame. It was permanently fixed in place and not intended to be opened.

  What the hell!

  He removed his biretta and handed it to the puzzled nun, then shrugged out of the cassock, too, and let it fall off his shoulders and slide to the stone floor.

  Joe put his Stetson back onto his head and winked. “Thanks, Sister. I owe you one.”

  He pulled his Colt’s revolving pistol from his holster— he thought the nun was going to faint dead away when he did so—and used the butt to carefully break the nearest stained-glass window.

  Then he proceeded to climb through the vacant window frame and lower himself to the ground outside while the nun watched in stunned silence the behavior of this very strange new priest.

  4

  DAMN NUNS SHOULD have put some effort into landscaping, Joe silently grumbled when he hit the ground outside the convent, because he sure could have used some bushes to get behind. Crouched there against the bare stone of the convent walls, he felt like there must have been a thousand eyes pointing in his direction.

  A glance toward the road where Peabody’s gunmen were patrolling back and forth showed that at least at this moment the coast was clear. Joe turned and went in the opposite direction, staying in his crouch, revolver in one hand and tomahawk in the other.

  If anyone tried to stop him, he would use the tomahawk if he could, the revolver if he had to.

  But he would much prefer to make this getaway in silence and without bloodletting. Since he could not kill them all, that is. Had he been able to lay waste to Peabody and every one of his men, Joe would gladly have done that in order to protect Fiona and little Jessica. Short of that, however, what he wanted right now was to get the hell away from there and find Fiona.

  He needed her if he hoped ever to set things right. At this point, he did not even know how it was that Chester Peabody, the eldest of the brothers, came to wind up dead in Fiona’s home with a butcher knife in his back. In the magic of reuniting and quickly marrying, Joe had not had a chance to talk with Fiona about that. Did she kill Peabody? If she did, what reason or reasons did she have?

  Joe had no idea what her answers to those questions would be, and in truth he really did not much care. What he knew was that he still loved her. Deeply. And Fiona was now his wife in name as well as in deed. Whatever she did or did not do in the past, he would stand with her against all care or torment.

  Anything that threatened her, threatened him as well, and he would fight tooth and claw to protect her. And Jessica. Lordy, what a beautiful child Jessica was. It melted his heart just to think about her. Just knowing that Jessica existed made him want to be a better man, made him want to be worthy of the child when finally he and Fiona could reclaim her from the convent and become a family.

  All of that, though, would depend on him first getting away from Peabody’s men so he could follow Fiona, find her, and somehow return to recover Jessica from Father O’Connor and the nuns.

  Joe ran swift and silent through the night. His Henry rifle was lost, somewhere behind where he had dropped it once it ran empty. The Henry repeater would make a fine trophy for whichever of Peabody’s men found it, but no matter. He could buy another. The important thing was to keep his scalp. And equally important to him was that he find Fiona.

  The Palouse horse was gone, too. He had abandoned it outside the church when he had to cover Fiona’s escape on her leggy sorrel mare. He hoped, though, that once loose, the Palouse might have drifted back to the last “home” it had known, to the barn behind Beth Hamilton’s mansion.

  The house there had been destroyed, burned to the ground by the Peabodys, but the barn and tack shed had been intact when Joe and Fiona went there that morning.

  Joe stood upright and extended his stride, muttering under his breath the cadences of a Crow war chant.

  Because he was indeed intent upon a long and bloody war with those Peabody sons of bitches who threatened his wife and his daughter.

  Joe knew exactly the order of things that he intended. First, find Fiona. Second, kill Peabody and any of his men who stood with the son of a bitch. Finally, reclaim Jessica from the nunnery.

  But first he needed to get away from Virginia City and find Fiona.

  Wherever she had run to, however far, he would follow and he would find her. He would!

  5

  THE PALOUSE WAS there, standing outside the pen that served as a corral behind the ruins of the Hamilton mansion. Beth’s tall gelding was inside the enclosure along with a horse Joe did not recognize. The Palouse had a broken rein, but seemed unharmed.

  Joe stripped his bridle off, but left the horse where it was while he crawled inside the pen. “Easy, boys. You know me. Easy now,” he said in a soft, soothing voice.

  Beth’s gelding nickered at the scent of this man with whom it was already familiar. The other horse turned its butt toward him and stamped its forefeet a few times, but did not offer to kick.

  Joe opened the shed and tossed a little hay down to keep Beth’s horses occupied, then carried an armload to the fence and dumped it outside where the Palouse could reach it. He went back inside and felt along the east wall until he encountered a bridle hanging there. The Palouse was accustomed to its own bit, so Joe took the time to remove a rein and secure it to his bridle instead of taking the whole outfit. Then he returned the bridle to the peg where it had been hanging—that would undoubtedly cause some puzzlement the next time these horses were used—and went for the Palouse.

  “Good boy,” he mumbled as he slipped the bridle back in place, the Palouse opening its
teeth to the bit after only a momentary balk. “Good boy.”

  That done, he took a moment to ponder.

  He knew which direction Fiona took when she fled from Peabody’s men. Come daybreak, he would be able to track her from there. With any kind of luck, she would be hiding not too many miles distant.

  Joe figured he should be able to find her given a few hours—half a day tops—and then they could begin the second phase of his plan to get Jessica back.

  Why, with any luck at all, they could simply slip out from under Peabody’s men. Get away from them and sneak back to the church to have that talk with Father O’Connor.

  The man had promised Fiona he would return Jessica to her when things worked out to permit that. Having two loving parents who wanted her and were fully prepared to care for her should certainly count toward that delightful end.

  They would present themselves to the priest, then take Jessica and be on their way.

  Once they were away from Virginia City, Joe would take them where no Peabody gunman would ever find them.

  They had money. Joe still had a thousand dollars in his war bag, and he had given Fiona three times that amount. With four thousand dollars, they could buy trade goods and passage upriver on a Missouri River steamer.

  Joe knew several different places where a man could build a trading post. He could trade with the Blackfoot and the Lakota. Perhaps some Northern Cheyenne and Crow would come that far north as well, especially if they knew that Man Killer was giving fair prices for good fur.

  Those tribes knew him. More to the point, they respected him. They knew Man Killer’s words were good. They would come to him with their furs and their hides.

  In winter, he might even get in a little trapping of his own.

  Not that there was much money in fur these days. But if he had Fiona, well, that was what was important.

  They would be safe on the Upper Missouri. They would have a good life there, the three of them. Jessica would have Indian children to play with. Fiona could be her teacher. Joe’s, too, for that matter. He had only recently learned to read, and now he had a thirst for it. Fiona could teach him the words he did not yet know.

  A smile flickered across his lips as he thought of himself stuffed into a tiny school desk with little Jessica beside him, both learning out of the same primer.

  Joe sighed. But that would be then. This was now. And now there were still men out there in the night who sought to kill him and—far worse—to kill his beloved Fiona.

  He gathered his reins and slipped lightly into the saddle. It was time to get the hell away from Virginia City so he could get on with his search for Fiona.

  6

  FIONA HAD BEEN headed a little south of east when she scampered away from the trap Peabody had set for her and Joe, but that meant nothing. She surely would know better than to continue in a straight line when there would be men chasing after her who wanted to kill her.

  She would have turned toward . . . where? However many points there were on a compass, that was how many directions she could have gone. Well, except for back there to Virginia City. Joe was sure she would know better than to attempt to hide there where every man could inform on her or any man could decide to collect a bounty on her pretty head.

  The only other place Joe knew Fiona was familiar with, and comfortable in, was Lake’s Crossing, where Joe had found her after their years of separation. And where they had been at long last married.

  At the time, Fiona had been staying with friends, a photographer and his wife.

  It was not impossible, Joe thought, that she might return there to wait for him.

  Joe pointed the Palouse toward Lake’s Crossing and hoped for the best. Wherever Fiona had gone, he was only a day behind her. Surely, he would catch up with her soon. They could wait a little while. Perhaps even enlist the help of some other priest or nun to help them get Jessica back from the convent.

  And then, then they could start their lives anew. In Wyoming perhaps. There never was country more big or open or empty than beautiful Wyoming. Or in Montana Territory. There were gold strikes in Montana, they said. That meant miners to feed, and Joe knew valleys there where the grass grew belly-deep to a tall horse and where beef would swell up with fat quick as a jackrabbit mated.

  That was the ticket. Build a little trading post where he could do some business with whatever Indians were nearby and raise some beef, too. Fresh meat would be worth a fortune in a mining camp.

  It would be a good life, he figured, with Fiona and Jessica at his side. He could not ask for anything more.

  The Palouse carried him into Lake’s Crossing shortly after the break of day. The horse was about used up. Its muscles quivered with fatigue and its walk was a stumbling shamble.

  “You done good, boy,” Joe said as he slipped to the ground and walked the horse the last half mile. He tied it to the gate in front of the photographer’s house and started up the walk, only to realize that the door was closed and the windows shuttered. He walked around back and found the same thing all around. The house appeared to be empty, perhaps even deserted.

  A woman in the adjacent yard was hanging clothes on a line to dry. Joe removed his hat when he approached her. “Excuse me, ma’am,” Joe said. “I’m looking for the man as lives next door there.”

  She gave Joe a suspicious look. “What do you want with him? Are you a friend of his?”

  “Not exactly, ma’am, but my new wife is. Her and me was married in Faxon’s house a few days back. She had been stayin’ with him and . . .”

  “You are Fiona’s husband? You are Mr. Moss?”

  “Yes’m, that’s me.”

  The lady smiled. “To hear Fiona tell it, you are seven feet tall and handsomer than any other man ever to walk this earth. I see now that she stretched the truth.” She laughed. “But only a little. Where is Fiona, by the way? Is she here? Tell her I have some of that dried apple pie that she dotes on. It’s fresh.” The lady craned her neck and came onto tiptoes, looking toward the street where she obviously expected to see Fiona.

  “That’s what I was hoping you could tell me, ma’am,” Joe said. “I mean about where Fiona is right now. It’s a long story, but her and me got separated, and I don’t rightly know which way she went from Virginia City.”

  “You two were fighting already?”

  “Not with each other, no, ma’am. I don’t figure that will ever happen. But there’s some men that want t’ harm her. She had to run while I stayed back t’ hold them off her. Like I said, we was separated. Now I’m wanting t’ find her.”

  “And the little girl?”

  Joe smiled. “We seen her. Just for a minute but . . . we seen her. After I find Fiona again, we’ll take her back from them nuns and have a proper life together as a family. That’s my plan anyhow. But first I got to find Fiona.”

  “I wish I could help you, Mr. Moss, but I’ve not seen her since the two of you left after your wedding.”

  “An’ Faxon? What about him?” Joe asked.

  “Oh, he won’t be back here for several months, I shouldn’t think. He has been communicating with a publisher in New York City. He and his wife have taken a portfolio of his work there to discuss having the the pictures collected in a book. I don’t know how long a thing like that takes, but they closed the house and asked me to keep an eye on it until they get back.”

  “And you haven’t seen Fiona this morning?”

  “I’m sorry. No.”

  Joe sighed. “Thanks. Thank you, ma’am. If you see Fiona . . .” He did not know what he should tell the woman to do if Fiona should come here and find the house boarded up and the family gone.

  “If she comes here, Mr. Moss, she can stay with me while she waits. I have room enough for her . . . for the little girl, too, if it comes to that . . . and her company would be a pleasure.”

  “You’re mighty kind, ma’am. Thank you.”

  Joe turned away and walked back to the front of the house.

 
His impulse was to press on. Never mind that he had no idea where to look next. Wherever it was, he was in a hurry to get there.

  He had no choice about it, though. He would have to stay here at least long enough for the Palouse to recoup some strength. The horse needed feed and water and a rest before they could move along.

  And Joe had some shopping to do. He still had his Colt revolving pistol and of course his ever-present tomahawk and bowie knife, but he had lost his rifle in the shoot-out back in Virginia City. He felt naked without a rifle and wanted to replace his Henry, preferably with a repeater if he could find one for sale here in Nevada. Men in towns tended to carry short arms or knives but not rifles, so it remained to be seen what sort of long gun he could find.

  It couldn’t hurt for him to catch a little sleep, too, while the Palouse rested.

  But Fiona. Oh, Fiona! Where are you?

  7

  “TWO BITS,” THE man said. “That includes all the hay he can eat and all the water he can hold, but if you want me to give him grain, that’ll be extra.”

  “How much extra?”

  “Ten cents.”

  “Good grain?”

  “Oats. No corn in it but the oats are clean. There’s no mold in them nor on my hay.”

  Joe nodded. “I’ll go the extra dime. He’s earned it.”

  “Put him in the stall at the end down there, the last one on the right.”

  “I have another question,” Joe said. “Will it be all right if I lay down somewhere an’ catch some shut-eye? I’m ’bout as wore out as the horse is.”

  The hostler, a bearded gent with a limp and a bad scar that covered much of the left side of his face, pointed toward a ladder that led to the hayloft overhead. “Help yourself. I’m expecting a load of hay later on today, so you might want to pick a spot toward the back if you don’t want to be stepped on up there.” He smiled. “Of course, the cussing will likely wake you up anyway. It’s hard work and small wages for pitching hay.”