Lake of Fire (58 page)

Hank made a noise in his throat. He’d had a brother, and what good had it done him?

Larry Nevers stepped up beside Laura and pressed something into her hand. “I looked around in the bushes near the Lake Hotel and found this.”

She looked down at the familiar shape of the obsidian Cord had brought down from Nez Perce Peak as a child. “Thank you,” she murmured, rubbing her thumb over its smooth contour and placing it into her pocket with the cameo.

“That the damned charm of Sutton’s? The one Feddors threw away?” Hank asked. He turned on John. “What kind of officer are you? Shooting Feddors when you thought he was going to kill young Groesbeck is one thing, but what were you thinking to let a prisoner go free?”

It was all Laura could do not to hit Hank on his still-swollen nose.

John nodded to Alexandra Falls, who appeared on the rear steps of the superintendent’s house. He spoke mildly, “Sutton is meeting me this evening …”

Hank made an impatient gesture. “Let me tell you about Santa Claus. Sutton won’t stop running till he’s in Salt Lake hiding behind Aaron Bryce.”

“He’ll meet John tonight,” Laura said hotly. “I know he will.”

John continued, “As I was saying, as acting superintendent, I can then address any outstanding questions.”

Alexandra approached and slipped her arm through Hank’s. Over her white dress with violet embroidery, she wore a cape of gray wool against the morning chill. “What questions?” she asked with wide-eyed innocence. “What are you talking about?”

John smiled, as a man will at a pretty young girl with her blond hair burnished and caught up in a jeweled snood.

Manfred Resnick spoke up. “I imagine John might have been about to say … there is still the matter of the burning of the
Alexandra.”

If Laura had not been looking directly at her, she would never have seen it. Just before Alexandra’s long lashes swept down to cover her eyes, there was a quick hot blaze of malevolence. In addition, her hand upon her brother’s arm went tense for the time it apparently took her to notice and relax.

“Yes,” she murmured, “my poor brother’s boat. This Sutton man must have done it.”

Laura started to argue again that Danny had set the fire. But before she could open her mouth, she realized that on his deathbed, he’d told the truth about the stage attack and about Edgar Young. Why would he have held back this one confession?

Alexandra kept her eyes cast down, toying with the ties on her cape.

Laura gasped, taking in Alexandra’s dress, her accessories, and the dress she herself had been loaned.

“No,” she said. “Neither Cord nor Danny burned the steamboat.”

Hank looked at her in surprise. “I’m sure you’re not suggesting I torched it myself.”

“No. Look at what you’re wearing, Hank, something borrowed, because all your clothes burned. Now look at your sister; she’s still got a wardrobe, enough to even loan me a dress.”

Alexandra’s head came up and she glared at Laura.

“She tried to kill you, Hank, because you threatened her favorite brother. But she miscalculated when she didn’t let her clothes go up in smoke.”

“She’s crazy,” Alexandra said at Hank’s ear.

Manfred Resnick put up a hand. “She’s right. A woman would notice such things, just as Pinkerton taught me to. Last night I phoned from the hotel to the soldier station at Lake, and I’ve gotten a return call—a valise filled with women’s clothing was stashed in the abandoned cabin where Danny was staying.”

“I didn’t …” Alexandra began.

“Women’s clothing that was predominately various shades of purple,” Manfred finished.

“Alex?” Hank sounded bewildered.

“I hate you!” she shrilled. “When you said you would kill Danny, I … splashed the kerosene … even spilled my perfumes …” She turned and started to run across the grounds of the fort, toward the hotel, where a clatter of hooves announced a stagecoach coming from the park interior.

John Stafford and Manfred Resnick each caught
Alexandra by an arm. “Hold on,” John said. “I don’t think you’re going anywhere.”

From where she stood behind Officers’ Row, Laura saw the spectacle of the stage’s arrival.

On the long veranda, a dozen people watched as the driver brought the stage to a jerking halt and stood, sweeping off his hat decorated with an American flag. Thick dust on his tan coat showed how fast he must have driven the early-morning run.

The driver opened the coach door with a flourish and bowed. Norman Hagen stepped out first, then turned back to assist the ladies.

Fanny Devon and Constance alighted and stripped off their dusters. Fanny waved her paisley shawl as though she were cleaning a rug, while Constance brushed at the dirt on her dark skirt. Forrest Fielding did not alight, but Laura saw him through the open window, his shoulders wrapped in a plaid woolen traveling blanket.

Though she’d thought she despised them all, she broke into a ragged run. Waving and calling, “Daddy! Constance! Aunt Fanny!” she arrived pell-mell and pulled herself up through the coach’s open door.

He was weak, his arms holding her with only a fraction of his former strength.

“Child,” Forrest whispered, and she wished she could be a child again, when life was simple and, in
bedtime stories, everyone lived happily ever after.

Aunt Fanny reached in through the coach window to clasp Laura’s hand. “Thank God you’re here.”

Laura found tears in her eyes. After all she’d been through, believing she and Cord were going to die, she was amazed how the bond of family lifted her spirits. After helping her father down and to a chair on the veranda, she even found her arms wrapped around her cousin while they cried on each other’s shoulders.

“I’m so sorry,” Constance said, “for everything.” She pulled back and her blue eyes searched Laura’s. “Is Cord … ?”

“Cord has been exonerated of all charges.” Laura’s eyes moved to Fanny and Forrest’s faces. “Danny Falls murdered Edgar Young, and Hank’s sister burned his boat.”

Constance gasped. “There’s got to be a story there. You can tell us all about it on the train.”

Forrest pulled out his gold hunting case watch and opened the lid. “The Northern Pacific leaves from Cinnabar at four.” It was at least ten miles to the small town at the end of the line, north of Gardiner.

Laura stalled. “You really should rest some more before taking on the train trip. There should be something going on for the Fourth of July later, maybe they’ll even have fireworks.”

With a sidelong glance at her brother’s slack profile, Fanny said, “I think he’ll do better lying in a berth. We cannot afford to miss that train.”

Perhaps they could not, but Laura decided, “I
won’t be going with you.”

She had an appointment at sundown. And though night would be falling, she viewed it as the dawning of the rest of her life.

O
n Christmas night in Salt Lake City, nearly a hundred happy relatives of Aaron Bryce swarmed through his big brick house off Temple Square.

In the kitchen, a dozen folks who’d sworn at two o’clock they would never eat again, made turkey sandwiches. In the parlor, plump, gray-haired Aunt Charlotte played the piano with earnest enthusiasm, thumping out “What Child Is This?” in a martial rhythm. Aaron’s children and grandchildren gathered before the fire and sang in joyous cacophony, their music seeping through the closed door of the quiet library.

“Son,” Aaron said, “you’ve been in another world since you got here.”

It was true, Cord realized. He’d sleepwalked through Christmas, hardly heard the Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s hundred voices raised in praise of the Lord. He’d partaken of the communion service, mechanically passing the bread and water to the next hand.

“Tell me,” Aaron said in the deep voice that had always invited confidence. “Have you decided what you’re going to do … after Excalibur?”

Though the strain between Cord and Thomas had lessened since Cord had sold him his share of Excalibur, there was still a dynamic tension.

Cord looked into his father’s loving eyes, regretting the silver that had invaded his blond hair. “I’ve been thinking about doing something new at the ranch. There’s been some talk in Jackson’s Hole that tourists from the East might care to come out, ride horses, eat fine food … Laura has even threatened to learn to cook.”

“That sounds fine, so why the long face?” Aaron brought his cup of hot cider and sat in the biggest leather armchair in the room. Through the years Cord had watched him seated comfortably in that chair, his head bent to listen, first to his own young children and then to nieces, nephews, and finally grandchildren on his knee. Cord had been seven when Aaron had taken him from the Mormon Agency for Orphans, too big for such games.

Aaron waited patiently.

Outside the shining mahogany door, someone started the gramophone, and the words to “O Holy Night” reminded Cord of the stars shining brightly as he’d held Laura on Nez Perce Peak.

“I guess it’s nerves,” he cleared his throat. “You remember when you got Laura’s telegram and came to Mammoth on the Fourth of July … when John Stafford
married us that evening, we thought the fireworks went off just for us. But I’m just a little nervous about having another ceremony in the Tabernacle tomorrow.”

“Because?”

“Because the one thing I learned last summer is not to pretend, in any way, to be someone I’m not.”

“The bishop will be disappointed to find out you’re not a Mormon anymore.” A hint of twinkle lighted Aaron’s eyes.

“That’s not what I mean. I guess I keep thinking of Bitter Waters, wondering what he’s doing, how he feels …”

The library door burst open, and a laughing Laura launched herself at Cord, landing in his lap. “No fair hiding out in here talking man talk,” she admonished. “Aunt Fanny, Father, Constance, and Norman have arrived.”

“Then we’d best all go and greet them.” Cord dropped a kiss on Laura’s forehead.

Over the top of her head, he smiled at Aaron, who said, “As to that matter we were discussing, I think you know there’s only one way to find your answer.”

E
arly January snow drifted against the row of small squalid houses on the Colville Reservation in Nespelem, Washington. The creaking wagon in which Cord and Laura had hitched a ride from the railroad siding at Columbia Junction rolled on.

Watching the retreating buckboard, he looked around. Laura gripped his hand.

The taciturn Nez Perce driver had let them out in front of a fine home, contrasting sharply with the rest of the leaning, unpainted structures. Fronted by a long porch, the well-built white house had a sign in front that identified it as Superintendent Stillwell’s Residence.

Cord moved their valises to the roadside, went up the stone walkway, and knocked.

A pair of small blond girls with identical pigtails and ruffled pinafores answered the door. It took him a moment to realize that they were not twins, but
perhaps a year or two apart in age.

“Is your father or mother home?” Cord asked gently.

The older of the girls looked sad. “They have gone to the Dreamer Church with Chief Joseph to prepare for a funeral.”

“I am sorry,” Cord said gravely. “Perhaps you can direct me?”

“Just there.” The girl leaned out the screen door and pointed to the largest building toward the end of the street.

Cord thanked the girls and headed back into the wind, pausing to wrap his muffler more snugly about his neck.

“I hope we haven’t come at a bad time,” Laura murmured.

They passed the first of the small homes, and he found himself forced to reconsider his impression of squalor. Glass windows gleamed brightly; lace edged the curtains inside. On either side of the stoop, beds had been laid in which wild roses had been cultivated, though they stood dry and dead against the winter blast.

A boy of perhaps ten years came out of one of the houses wearing brightly colored clothing that had clearly been mended a number of times. When he approached, Cord noticed the child’s face was shiny clean.

Cord reached into his pocket and extracted a pack of Adam’s pepsin gum. Beckoning the boy, he pressed it into his palm.

At the end of the street, the small, wood-framed Dreamer Church looked like any other, with a bell
tower above its steeply sloping roof. Cord held the door for Laura and entered on a chill gust.

Inside, it was warm, with a steaming smell of damp winter clothing.

Cord might not have recognized Chief Joseph. The big man still wore his draped blanket, but the crest of crisp black hair Cord remembered fell in graying hanks beside a face set in lines of sadness. Deep furrows ran from the base of his nose to the corners of his tight-lipped mouth, and his eyelids drooped, making his once-flashing eyes look small.

His one ornament a tall hat decorated with eagle feathers, Joseph stood at the front of the small chapel before an open coffin in which a Nez Perce woman of perhaps forty or fifty years lay. She wore a beaded headdress and a royal-blue wool dress, also beaded in patterns of red and silver.