Read Online Blood at Bear Lake by Gary Franklin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gary Franklin
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He tried again. Cocked. Fired.
Then he walked forward and critically examined where the bullets struck. The Spencer, he judged, shot just a little bit high and a hair to the left. That was all right. Now that he knew where it shot, he could compensate. And when he got where he was going, he could borrow some tools and correct the sights.
When he got where he was going.
Last night when he went to bed, heâd had no idea where it was that he intended to search for Fiona. Now he did.
His nighttime pondering reminded him that the last place heâd seen Fiona before their recent reunion was outside Fort Laramie. That was where her sonuvabitch father had forced them apart five years ago. In the little time he and Fiona spent together since their reunion and marriage, Joe had often spoken of his friendship with Sol Pennington, a former mountain man who ran a trading post at Fort Laramie. Maybe Fiona would head for Fort Laramie in the expectation of finding her husband there.
He hated the thought of a woman traveling alone on the Salt Lake emigrant route, but he knew Fiona to be courageous. Perhaps more so than was good for her.
If she thought she might find Joe at the other end of that road, Joe knew she would set out on it regardless of the dangers she would face. From Indians. From drought and heat. From renegade whites who thought that the absence of civilized surroundings meant they no longer had to act like civilized men. The dangers were boundless, as Joe knew full well. He also knew that Fiona would be willing to face them.
His hope now was that he could find her before any harm befell his brave and beautiful bride.
Joe reloaded the magazine of the Spencer and shoved it back into the leather, then saddled his Palouse and loaded the mule ready to travel.
Of a sudden, he was anxious to get moving.
He wanted more than everâmore than anythingâto find Fiona.
21
JOE SAW THE dust long before he ever saw them, and heard the jangle of their trace chains and the screech and squeal of axles that needed grease long before they ever came near. Not many wagons, he thought, but they were in bad condition. Another ragtag bunch of ignorant emigrants, he figured. Likely half-starved, too. More simple-minded pieces of human shit too stupid to wipe their own asses. Well, they could just go along on the damned trail without his help. Damned if he was going to bother trying to educate the dumb sons of bitches. No, sir.
Grumbling and groaning under his breath, Joe stood from beside his tiny campfire and poured more water into his battered coffeepotâdamned if he was going to add fresh grounds for a bunch of pork eaters so ignorant they didnât know enough to grease a wagon wheelâand moved the pot over the flames.
He had been on the road three days now and this would be the third outfit he passed, all of them headed toward California. And away from the war.
The war was bad, they said. It had gone past armies in uniform fighting each other. Now it was neighbor shooting at neighbor. The folks heâd seen thus far were mostly from Missouri and Tennessee and they were more escaping from something than going toward anything. They traveled out of desperation instead of hope. Joe could see that in their eyes.
Not that he was going to be bothered with them. The wagon tracks of those who had gone before were plain enough that a blind man couldnât get lost in this vast expanse of rolling hills and runty cedar scrub. The hell with them one and all.
But they would likely be hungry, damn them for a nuisance. He took out his bowie and eyed the antelope he had knocked down earlier in the afternoon. He would slice off just a little to give to the stupid bastards. A haunch maybe. Or . . . what the hell. He could always get more. Let them take this whole antelope. The meat would just go bad before he could be bothered with drying it anyway. Might as well give it to the fools from back East as see it rot and go to
Then he walked forward and critically examined where the bullets struck. The Spencer, he judged, shot just a little bit high and a hair to the left. That was all right. Now that he knew where it shot, he could compensate. And when he got where he was going, he could borrow some tools and correct the sights.
When he got where he was going.
Last night when he went to bed, heâd had no idea where it was that he intended to search for Fiona. Now he did.
His nighttime pondering reminded him that the last place heâd seen Fiona before their recent reunion was outside Fort Laramie. That was where her sonuvabitch father had forced them apart five years ago. In the little time he and Fiona spent together since their reunion and marriage, Joe had often spoken of his friendship with Sol Pennington, a former mountain man who ran a trading post at Fort Laramie. Maybe Fiona would head for Fort Laramie in the expectation of finding her husband there.
He hated the thought of a woman traveling alone on the Salt Lake emigrant route, but he knew Fiona to be courageous. Perhaps more so than was good for her.
If she thought she might find Joe at the other end of that road, Joe knew she would set out on it regardless of the dangers she would face. From Indians. From drought and heat. From renegade whites who thought that the absence of civilized surroundings meant they no longer had to act like civilized men. The dangers were boundless, as Joe knew full well. He also knew that Fiona would be willing to face them.
His hope now was that he could find her before any harm befell his brave and beautiful bride.
Joe reloaded the magazine of the Spencer and shoved it back into the leather, then saddled his Palouse and loaded the mule ready to travel.
Of a sudden, he was anxious to get moving.
He wanted more than everâmore than anythingâto find Fiona.
21
JOE SAW THE dust long before he ever saw them, and heard the jangle of their trace chains and the screech and squeal of axles that needed grease long before they ever came near. Not many wagons, he thought, but they were in bad condition. Another ragtag bunch of ignorant emigrants, he figured. Likely half-starved, too. More simple-minded pieces of human shit too stupid to wipe their own asses. Well, they could just go along on the damned trail without his help. Damned if he was going to bother trying to educate the dumb sons of bitches. No, sir.
Grumbling and groaning under his breath, Joe stood from beside his tiny campfire and poured more water into his battered coffeepotâdamned if he was going to add fresh grounds for a bunch of pork eaters so ignorant they didnât know enough to grease a wagon wheelâand moved the pot over the flames.
He had been on the road three days now and this would be the third outfit he passed, all of them headed toward California. And away from the war.
The war was bad, they said. It had gone past armies in uniform fighting each other. Now it was neighbor shooting at neighbor. The folks heâd seen thus far were mostly from Missouri and Tennessee and they were more escaping from something than going toward anything. They traveled out of desperation instead of hope. Joe could see that in their eyes.
Not that he was going to be bothered with them. The wagon tracks of those who had gone before were plain enough that a blind man couldnât get lost in this vast expanse of rolling hills and runty cedar scrub. The hell with them one and all.
But they would likely be hungry, damn them for a nuisance. He took out his bowie and eyed the antelope he had knocked down earlier in the afternoon. He would slice off just a little to give to the stupid bastards. A haunch maybe. Or . . . what the hell. He could always get more. Let them take this whole antelope. The meat would just go bad before he could be bothered with drying it anyway. Might as well give it to the fools from back East as see it rot and go to
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