In the Season of the Sun (2 page)

Jacob was momentarily torn between staying by his little brother's side or running back to the Platte as fast as he could to fetch his father and the other men from the camp. John Beaufort knew some healing and Kilhenny, the scout, had claimed to patch himself a hundred times. “Lordee, Thomas, where's the break, your shoulder, ribs … what?”

“Worse,” Tom replied sadly. “See here.” He held up an ornately carved clay pipe he had pilfered from his father's belongings. He'd intended an illicit smoke here in the privacy of the prairie. But his fall had shattered the stem and chipped the bear's-head bowl. “Pa'll kill me for sure.”

“A busted pipe!” Jacob blurted out, realizing he had been duped once more. “Why you … little … lying, no good …”

Tom laughed in his face, even when Jacob gave him a good shaking and tried to rub his face in the dirt. Unfortunately for Jacob, his brother's impish humor was contagious, and he rolled off the smaller boy and lay on his back and had a laugh at his own expense.

“You really think I was dying?” Tom asked. “Did you really?” His blue eyes twinkled merrily.

“I ought to make you eat your weight in dirt for scaring me like that, Tommy.” Jacob rolled on his side and stared at his brother. “You got the devil in you, Tom. And you better grow out of it, for it will do you no good.”

“Now you sound like Pa. Always preaching and such,” Tom scowled. “Me … I'll take a life like Coyote Kilhenny's. Now there's one for you. Just think of all the places he's been and the things he's done.”

Jacob sighed, realizing it was futile trying to talk sense into his younger brother. Tom had been tagging at the scout's coattails ever since Kilhenny had signed on in St. Louis. Where the other children seemed afraid of the brutish frontiersman, Tom was a moth drawn to the flame. In turn, Kilhenny basked in the boy's attention. An ordinary man like Joseph Milam, their father, could hardly compete with tales of Indians and wild escapades across plains and deserts and mountains. Oh, Jacob too stood in awe of the scout. But Jacob was more cautious in his affection. His bronze-eyed gaze softened and he patted the younger boy's arm. Then he stiffened and a frown knotted his brow. He placed his ear against the ground, following the example set by Kilhenny weeks earlier. Tom started to speak, but Jacob waved him to silence and slowly raised himself up to a kneeling position and straightened, then rose to a crouch and eye level with the tall grass. He thought he had heard the tremor of approaching horses or buffalo. He hoped for buffalo and fantasized returning to camp with enough meat for all five families. Wouldn't father be proud?

Dreams of a successful hunt died aborning as a war party of braves crested a swell in the rolling landscape and plunged on toward the bluff in the direction of the wagons.

Jacob's blood froze in his veins as he watched the war party gallop through the tall yellow grass and pass within fifty yards of the thirteen-year-old. He counted seven half-clad men wearing buckskin leggings, their naked torsos wildly painted in garish designs of red and black and yellow. The warriors brandished circular shields of willow and rawhide and carried rifles and war lances, light bows and long-shafted war clubs. Raven feathers were braided into their hair and into the manes of the horses these proud fighters rode. The horses themselves bore the markings of each warrior's charm, a red hand, a jagged smear of yellow and black, a crimson circle, all designed to give the animal quickness in battle and stamina in pursuit.

Jacob ducked out of sight, then caught Tom and pulled him down fast as the smaller boy was attempting to see.

“Blast it, Jacob, how am I supposed to see if you won't let me?”

Jacob clamped a big hand over Tom's mouth and cut him off. He pinned the smaller boy to the ground and as Tom struggled, whispered, “Indians.” Tom grew still.

“Friendly?”

“I don't know,” Jacob said. “They don't look it. There's seven of them all painted up and headed toward the river.”

“Ma … Pa … we got to warn 'em.” Tom fought against Jacob's restraining hold.

“They weren't traveling as the crow flies,” Jacob said. “I reckon I can outrun 'em and beat 'em to the camp if that's where they're bound.” Jacob pulled off his pouch, shot box, and powder horn and laid them alongside his brother.

“What am I gonna do?” Tom asked, his once mischievous countenance wide eyed and openly afraid.

“Keep out of sight, you'll be all right.” Jacob patted him on the shoulder. “I'll be back for you. I want to see you explain to Pa about how you broke his pipe.” He grinned and tousled the ten-year-old's hair.

Tom scowled and tried to look angry, but as Jacob started to leave, he reached out and caught his older brother's arm.

“Jacob … are we always gonna be brothers? Forever?”

Jacob paused for a second, then worked an antique gold ring off his finger. It was a single strand fashioned into a serpent. His father had given it to him on his thirteenth birthday with the admonition, “Keep the serpent coiled around your finger and it'll never wrap itself around your heart.” Jacob opened Tom's hand and placed the ring in the palm and closed the fingers.

“Forever,” Jacob said. Then he scrambled to his feet and darted away, hitting his long-legged stride through the wind-stirred grass.

“I'm sorry I scared you and pretended to be hurt,” Tom called in a whisper. He chewed his lower lip a second and shrugged. “Well, not really.” He grabbed up the rifle that was too big for him.

The sun crept upward in the sky. Tom cursed the tears glistening in his eyes. He clutched the ring tightly in his fist and waited.

On the last day of his life Joseph Milam took advantage of his sons' absence and rolled atop his wife, who whispered sharp protests that the families in the other four wagons might hear their lovemaking. Joseph laughed softly and entered her, promising they wouldn't hear if only Ruth would hush and enjoy the brief moment of privacy allotted to them on this wondrous spring morning.

Joseph sighed in pleasure.

“Where are the boys?” the dark-haired woman asked even as her legs wrapped around her husband's thick waist.

“Jacob went hunting and Tom just had to tag along,” Joseph said. Sweat glistened in the rolling musculature of his shoulders and back.

Joseph Milam and four other families had pulled their wagons beneath a bluff within a stone's throw of the Platte River. The area was teeming with wildlife, and the lure of fresh venison had been too great for young Jacob to deny. For once, Joseph was grateful for the boy's sense of adventure.

“I think the Beauforts are up and about.”

“Still in their bedrolls,” Joseph explained patiently. He kissed her cheek, her shoulders, tried to cover her mouth with his, but she twisted aside.

“What about Kilhenny? He's always at hand, always watching.”

“Oh God,” Joseph muttered and slumped against his wife. “Coyote Kilhenny is our guide. We hired him. He's supposed to be watchful. That's his job.” Joseph worked over onto his side and felt his passion diminish. “We've come this far to build a community where all men will be equal. A place where there will be no slavery, a place for each and every person to start life anew. Yet how can any of us start over if we bring our old fears and suspicions and prejudices along as baggage?”

“But the way he looks at me … ever since leaving St. Louis …”

“You are a remarkably beautiful woman. A might talky—but beautiful.” Joseph pulled up his trousers and fastened them about his waist and, patting the blanketed form of his wife, started to crawl out of the end of the wagon. “Very well. Shall I remain celibate until we reach the site of New Hope? Kilhenny tells me we ought to reach the high plains by the end of the month.”

“I'm sorry, Joseph,” Ruth began, wanting to explain her lack of desire had nothing to do with him. “Stay with me. I don't care who hears us.” But her husband merely brought his fingers to his lips, silencing her.

“I'll be back, woman. Just as soon as I've sent the half-breed out to round up Jacob and Tom. What excuse will you be using on me after that?”

“None at all,” Ruth said, holding the blanket open for him to glimpse her softly rounded thighs. She modestly covered her womanhood with the hem of her nightgown.

Joseph scrambled out of the wagon. He stood, transfixed for a moment by the sweep of the sky, an airy ocean of cobalt blue on which floated mammoth mountains of clouds severed from earth. This was a vast and beautiful land, fertile enough for a man and his dreams to take root. Joseph Milam, a fool said some men, a malcontent said others—he wore such labels proudly and welcomed scorn—was built large and powerful, but his true strength was of the spirit.

That same spirit had drawn four other families to journey with him out from the confines of Virginia society. Spirit and dreams had led him onward, to St. Louis and upriver to the Platte. Courage and a trust in divine providence held him to his course. He would find the perfect site and set down the foundations of New Hope with its promise of freedom and fresh beginnings.

Kilhenny, who had been hired on in St. Louis, had found them a good camp here in the bend of the Platte. It was early morning, a foreshadowing of sunlight glimmering in the eastern sky, and, save for a lone inquisitive pup, everyone else had yet to rise. Normally the camp would have been the scene of furious preparations for departure, but Kilhenny had convinced the families to rest a day and allow the horses and livestock to nourish themselves on the sweet green shoots of grass sprouting up to replace the brittle golden stalks of yesterday.

The five Conestogas nestled in the lee of the bluff looked like a small flotilla of sea-going ships anchored in an ocean of grass—five prairie schooners with canvas tops for sails and great iron-rimmed wheels to roll across the windswept vastness of the plains and teams of big-boned sturdy horses to pull the heavily loaded wagons. A good day to rest, Joseph Milam thought as he noticed the blanket-covered forms of fathers and sons asleep beneath each of the wagons. Womenfolk required the comfort and privacy found within the faded blue-and-red-trimmed walls of the Conestogas.

Joseph Milam turned his attention from the wagons and the smoldering remains of the cookfires to the half-dozen horses, ground hobbled and kept close at hand to be used to round up the other wagon teams busily grazing the meadow here in the bend. Trees obscured the river here, but the rush of water was unmistakable. It was through this stand of white oak and willow that Coyote Kilhenny, their half-breed guide, emerged. The dark-eyed product of a Scottish father and Shoshoni mother, Kilhenny had grown up on the frontier and, at thirty-two, claimed to have ranged the wilderness from the Apache rancherias in Old Mexico to the Cree villages in Canada. He was a broad, solid-looking man with shoulder-length red hair and a rust-colored beard that concealed his coppery features. His appearance was more that of a savage Indian than a highlander. He wore buckskin trousers and a hide shirt. A bone-handled hunting knife jutted from his beaded belt, and another leather belt draped from his left shoulder across his chest held three .50-caliber pistols, loaded and primed.

He waved a leather hat in Joseph Milam's direction and moved with astonishing quickness for one so large. As he reached Joseph's side, Kilhenny seemed surprised to see the leader of the families up and about.

“We've long days ahead, Mr. Milam. You ought to be resting while you've got the chance.” The guide waved toward the trees and the river beyond. “I've been setting up a net yonder in the river. Reckon we'll be havin' us a fish fry today, huh?”

“It would be a pleasant change from beans and sidemeat.” Joseph Milam noticed Kilhenny's demeanor darken. The half-breed frowned as he stared past Joseph. He had noticed the empty bedrolls beneath Joseph's Conestoga.

“Where are your boys!” the guide snapped, his gaze sweeping the camp.

“Hunting,” Joseph replied, puzzled by the sudden change in the man's manner. “They climbed the bluff and headed out onto the prairie. They're afoot; I doubt they'll wander far. Still, I hoped you might keep an eye on them for me.”

Kilhenny's expression grew conciliatory. The half-breed wiped a scarred hand across his beard. “Didn't mean to bark at you, Mr. Milam. Guess that's why they call me Coyote. It just makes my job easier if I know where everyone is.”

Joseph Milam nodded; he wasn't easily offended and, anyway, the guide made a lot of sense. Joseph considered the woman waiting for him in the wagon and wondered if he ought to go to her or remain on watch until the half-breed returned from his rounds.

Kilhenny seemed to read his thoughts. “Go on, man, there's nothing to worry about. I've made the rounds.”

“Well … I don't know.…” Joseph stammered, torn between a sense of duty and his desire. A sudden flurry of activity above the treetops silenced Joseph Milam in mid-sentence as half a dozen meadowlarks erupted into flight. A raccoon scampered out of the underbrush, brought up sharply at the edge of the clearing twenty yards from the wagons, and then beat a hasty detour along the fringe of leafy underbrush.

Joseph had enough savvy to know the camp was about to have visitors, and a cold shiver ran the length of his spine as a number of possibilities flashed through his mind.

“Damn it,” Kilhenny muttered beneath his breath.

Joseph glanced at him, perplexed at the guide's behavior. The half-breed made even less sense when he brought a finger to his lips in a silent warning for Joseph to be quiet.

“I better warn the others.” Joseph started toward the Conestogas, brushing aside Coyote Kilhenny in the process. But the guide's hand shot out and caught Joseph by the arm and spun him around.

“Not a word and there'll be no trouble.” Behind Kilhenny twelve men materialized out of the shading oaks. Two of the party were white men, dressed in much the same fashion as the guide, plainsmen in buckskins, lean and hard looking. The younger of the two was bald and a gold ring pierced his right ear; the other concealed his silvery hair with a plaid tam that was adorned with beadwork and a single eagle feather. This man's weathered features were arrogant. The bald man seemed apprehensive, but the shotgun in his hand was steady even though he swung back and forth as if he were trying to watch all the wagons at once. The rest of the men were Shoshoni, ten muscular dark-faced warriors brandishing an array of bows and war clubs. The faces of the warriors were streaked with red clay the color of blood. One of the warriors, a brave of obvious authority, spoke in his native tongue. The bald-headed man with the ring in his ear stepped forward.