Copyright © 2011 by Michael Zimmer
First Skyhorse Publishing edition published 2014 by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
ISBN: 978-1-62873-640-3
eISBN: 978-1-62873-999-2
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter One
It wasn’t much past midday when Ethan Wilder drew rein on top of the bluff overlooking his family’s ranch. Leaning forward with both hands covering the broad horn of his saddle, he studied the ramshackle collection of log and adobe structures closely. Pausing for a few minutes to study the spread from a distance was an old habit of Ethan’s, a holdover from when the Sioux used to cross this stretch of northern Montana on their way to and from the Grandmother’s land—Canada. The Sioux didn’t get up this way much any more, but Ethan still stopped to look every time he came home, whether he’d only been gone a few hours, or, as he had this last time, nearly two months. A pack mule wandered up beside Ethan’s bay gelding, long lips nibbling at the autumn-dried buffalo grass. In addition to his personal gear—some cooking utensils, traps, and extra clothing—the mule was carrying nearly two dozen wolf pelts that Ethan intended to turn in to the Montana Cattleman’s Association for a bounty, plus a trio of grizzly bear hides he’d taken in the Small Horn Mountains, west of his pa’s Bar-Five spread on the Marias River.
The Bar-Five wasn’t the biggest spread north of the Marias in that summer of 1884, but it was the oldest. Its roots went back to the American Fur Company trading post Ethan’s pa had worked for in the 1850s. What remained of the old post was the family’s living quarters now. A small barn and blacksmith shop constructed of logs dragged up from the river, and a corral off the barn’s south side, had been added after the fur company abandoned the post in 1865, selling the buildings to Jacob Wilder for a pittance.
Ethan had come to the post as a toddler, but could still remember reaching up to hold onto his mother’s hand the first time they’d entered the building. The ex-trading post was the only home Ethan had ever known, or ever wanted to, although its continued existence had been questionable during those early years of the Sioux wars.
Staring down the long slope to the ranch, Ethan’s instincts stirred warningly, in a way they hadn’t for many a year. Something didn’t feel right. It wasn’t anything he could see or put a finger on, but it was there, hanging over the broad flat that bordered the feeder creek above the Marias like the smell of rotting meat. Shucking his Winchester, he laid it across his saddlebows, then nudged the bay’s ribs with his heels.
Ethan Wilder was a lean, broad-shouldered man of twenty-four, his square jaw heavily stubbled after two months in the wilderness, eyes a blue so pale they sometimes looked gray. He sat his horse with the loose-jointed familiarity of a man who had spent his life in the saddle.
Ethan’s pa, Jacob, ran a few head of cattle to pay the bills and keep the family stocked in what couldn’t be raised, hunted, or traded for, but ranching had never been his calling. He’d gone into it reluctantly after the buffalo had been shot out, as much to claim the better water holes and springs north of the Marias River than any desire to build a stock-growing empire the way so many others seemed driven to do.
Some of the newer citizens to that part of Montana claimed the only thing Jacob Wilder could raise with any success was hell and sons—he had four of the latter, Ethan being the oldest. Not that Jacob ever gave a damn what others said. His reputation for raising hell was something he cherished, having come to the frontier long before those latecomers with their law books and Bibles and big talk of taming the West for decent, God-fearing folks. It was Jacob’s opinion, and he’d never been shy about voicing it—especially while getting drunk on cheap river whiskey in Ira Webb’s Bullshead Saloon in Sundance—that no man tamed the wilderness with a timid soul.
Ethan had never begrudged his pa his wild ways. He’d grown up on the frontier himself, and knew what it took to carve a living out of the harsh Montana plains. But there was a level-headedness about Ethan that was absent in his pa and brothers, an awareness of the changes that were coming over the land now that the buffalo were nearly gone, the wild tribes clamped down on reservations, and towns—little dusty, wind-scoured communities like Sundance—popping up every fifty miles or so, until a man could hardly ride out in any direction without bumping into one.
Thoughts of a changing land were far from Ethan’s mind as he rode down off the bench toward the ranch. Observing the smokeless chimney above the house, the empty yard and corrals, he felt a trickle of sweat squeeze out from under his wide-brimmed, flat-crowned hat and run down the side of his face. He was about to lever a round into the Winchester’s chamber when he heard a whoop from inside the adobe house, and his shoulders sagged with relief when his youngest brother, Ben, came bounding out the door.
“Ethan!” he shouted, as loud and rowdy as a young bull moose. Ben was fourteen, tall and gangling, with the Wilders’ pale blue eyes and stubborn jaw. Like Ethan, he wore denim trousers and a flannel shirt, but he was also bareheaded and barefoot, kicking up a knee-high cloud of dust as he raced across the yard to his brother’s side.
“Dang it, where ya been?” he called while still some distance away.
“I reckon you know where I’ve been,” Ethan replied, reining toward the low barn.
Eyeing the mule, Ben whistled appreciatively. “Looks like you got a pack full, for a fact.”
There was a howl from behind the house. Ethan drew up with a scowl. “What’s that?”
The happy-go-lucky expression dropped from Ben’s face. “Aw, that’s Pa. He’s madder’n hell at me, Eth.”
“What did you do this time?” Ethan asked, then quickly amended: “Besides nothing.”
“Not enough for the thrashing he wants to give me.”
Dismounting, Ethan leaned his rifle against the front of the barn, dropped his reins over the top rail of the corral. His scowl deepened as he studied the house. From the sounds Jacob Wilder was making, there wasn’t much doubt he was in a deadly mood. What puzzled Ethan was that he hadn’t come into view yet. “From the way he’s hollering, I’d say you’d better tell me what you did real fast. Maybe I can talk some sense into him before he gets his hands on a buggy whip.”
“I already hid the buggy whips,” Ben said. “Not that I figure that’ll slow him down much. Fighty as he’s feelin’, he’ll likely skin me from neck to heels with a willow switch.”
“Ben,” Ethan said with quiet impatience.
“Aw, hell, Ethan, it wasn’t that much. Pa bought hisself a neat little rifle, a Thirty-Two pump, and he caught me using it to shoot flies off the ceiling in the kitchen.”
Ethan swore under his breath, feeling as if a weighted harness had been dropped over his shoulders. It was just like Ben to do something so damned irresponsible, l
ike his pa, too, to over react.
And my luck as well, he thought irritably, to come home just in time to get caught in the middle of it.
“It ain’t the holes in the ceiling that’s riled him up so much,” Ben explained. “It was me using his rifle and shooting up all his ammunition. I’d’ve bought him another box of cartridges the next time I got to town, but that wasn’t good enough. He was determined to teach me a lesson about taking another man’s gun without permission.”
“You ought to have known better in the first place,” Ethan said. “You know how touchy Pa is about his firearms.”
“He is almighty roused, for a fact,” Ben agreed. “That’s why I took off for the river before he could grab me. Figured he’d beat me black and blue if I didn’t.” Then a grin lit up his face like a full moon. “But, man, Ethan, that little rifle is sweet. You could shoot tin cans off a fence rail at fifty yards with that thing all day long.”
Ethan didn’t reply. Pa was still hollering from the rear of the house, his voice growing steadily angrier, yet coming no closer. “Where’s he at?”
Ben ducked his head as if embarrassed. “In the privy.”
“The privy!”
“It was after supper and Pa’d been drinking and cussing somethin’ fierce, so, when he went into the privy to take a crap, I got a rope and tied him in.”
“You damn’, dumb . . .” Ethan’s train of thought faltered. “You say you tied him in the privy after supper? Last night?”
Ben nodded sheepishly. “He’s been howlin’ what he’s gonna do to me ever since. He’s mad, Eth. Madder’n I’ve ever seen him.” For the first time, Ben looked truly remorseful. “I guess I really grabbed the bear by the balls this time, huh?”
Ethan shook his head ruefully. They’d all pulled some bone-headed stunts over the years—Ben wasn’t the first one Jacob Wilder had caught sniping flies off the kitchen ceiling—but he couldn’t remember anything this bad. Ben was right. When Pa was released, he was going to pound the stuffing out of his youngest son, and Ethan wasn’t sure he could stop it. Not short of whacking the old man over the head with an axe handle.
“What am I gonna do, Ethan?”
“Where are your brothers?”
“Vic took a string of horses up to Medicine Hat to sell to the Mounties. Joel’s been in Sundance all week. I think he’s got a girl there, but he wouldn’t tell me anything about her.”
“All right, pack up enough grub and gear to last a couple of weeks, then head up to the lean-to where we hunt elk in the fall. Stay there until I come for you, understand?”
Ben hesitated, clearly not wanting to go, but he finally nodded. “If that’s what I’ve gotta do.”
“It is if you don’t want Pa whaling the tar out of you.” Ethan gave him a shove. “Go on, saddle your horse. I’ll pack some grub.”
Ben jogged off, and Ethan headed for the house. He left his horse and mule standing hipshot at the corral, knowing he wouldn’t hang around long after Ben was gone. Pa was going to be in a foul mood, and he wouldn’t be particular who he took his revenge on.
The interior of the house was still pretty much as it had been when it was a fur trading post. Its walls were two-foot thick adobe—insulation for both winter and summer, but mostly protection from dissatisfied customers—its windows few and small, set up high in the walls with platforms underneath where a man could stand and fire down at those outside. The roof was sod and impervious to fire, its overhead beams peeled cottonwood, crooked and stubbed with broken limbs no one had taken time to hack off with an axe.
In the old days a counter had run down the length of the room, with some tables and chairs on the customer’s side, shelves filled to overflowing with trade goods on the other. Between the shelves and racks of merchandise were two doors, one leading into the spartan living quarters of the post factor, the other into a larger storage room where Jacob had kept his robes and furs until he could ship them downriver in the spring.
Ethan could still recall the raw odors of the post—leather and hides, tobacco, bear grease, gun oil. The sounds were just as vibrant in his mind—the jingle of gew-gaws the Indians wore when they came in to trade, the pounding of drums at night, the wild caterwauling of dancers. He’d been too young to realize what he was witnessing, the loss of cultural innocence, an epochal death. To remember the land as it had been just ten years ago, and know it would never be the same again, was like an ache deep in his heart.
Jacob Wilder had torn down the counter and shelves after the trading days and used the lumber to divide the storage area into separate rooms. Although Jacob had freighted a bed in from Chicago for Ethan’s ma, the boys had slept on buffalo robes on the floor—good enough for sons of the frontier.
Ethan walked from the front room into the kitchen, thinking how much the place had deteriorated without a woman’s presence, a father’s responsibility. Ethan’s ma had died shortly after giving birth to Ben, and except for a wet nurse for a couple of years—a widowed Cree with part of her hand bitten off by a wolf pup—the place had been solely male ever since.
It showed, too, Ethan mused, staring about the kitchen. The floor was dirt, lumpy and coated in dust as fine as chalk, and the table was falling apart, its top carved over the years with all their initials, as well as some pretty artistic renditions of the female form. The heavy iron stove they’d hauled in a couple of years ago was already rusting, and dirty dishes were piled everywhere. Pulling the ill-fitting lid off a kettle sitting on the oven’s warming tray, Ethan wrinkled his nose at the slowly crawling maggots inside. What the original meal might have been was beyond identification, and he slammed the lid back on in anger.
“Lazy bastards,” he said aloud.
He found five pounds of flour that looked weevil-free, some coffee and salt. He shoved it all into a greasy cloth sack and took that and a tin billy and pewter drinking mug outside to set on the flat stone stoop. Then he went back in and picked up his pa’s new rifle. Not surprisingly, it had been recently cleaned and oiled. Ethan knew that, if he checked the gun cabinet, he’d find all their firearms in similar condition. Jacob Wilder might be content to live in squalor, but he’d never put a gun away dirty in his life.
Hearing the slow thud of hoofs outside, Ethan returned the carbine to its corner and went to the door. Ben was dismounting from a sorrel mare, reckless grin back in place.
“I was thinking maybe I’d take some of your traps and catch me a few wolves on my own,” he announced loudly. “Then I can buy my own rifle.”
“How’d you carry them?”
“What, the traps?” Ben’s expression became cagey. “I’d carry them on your mule.”
“Uhn-uh. That mule’s been worked hard enough the last couple of months. As soon as I sell those pelts to Davidson, I’m going to turn it loose for the rest of the summer.”
“Hell, I’ll turn it loose at Elk Camp. The grass is better up there, anyway.”
“I said no, Ben.”
Ben’s eyes flashed darkly, but Ethan stood firm. After a lengthy pause, Ben muttered a curse and ducked past him into the house.
While Ben was in the bedroom putting together some personal effects, Ethan returned to the kitchen. There was a hutch beside the back door, a drawer under the counter where Jacob kept some of his wife’s things. Opening it, Ethan rummaged through the knitting hoops and needles until he found what he was looking for, then tucked it behind his belt. When he returned to the front room, Ben was just exiting the rear of the house. He had his boots on and was strapping a gun belt around his waist, but it was the long gun clamped under one arm that brought an instant retort to Ethan’s lips. “Christ Almighty, Ben, are you that big a fool to take the same rifle that got you into all this trouble to begin with?”
“I got to have a rifle, and I sure as hell ain’t totin’ that heavy Sharps you give me. This”—he hefted the pump .32 with a happy grin—“will do just fine for rabbits and such.”
“Put it down,” Ethan said flatly.
The grin faded from Ben’s face. “You can’t make me.”
“You want to bet on that?”
Ben didn’t move. Ethan could see the struggle in his face, the need to assert himself against the knowledge that his older brother was probably right, and a whole lot bigger, too.
“You’re a son-of-a-bitchin’ momma’s boy, is what you are,” Ben said finally, slamming the rifle down in their pa’s rawhide-woven chair.
“You take time to sass me when pa’s free and you ain’t running like a scared pup,” Ethan told him. “Go get your Sharps and get out of here. I’m going to cut the old man loose in a minute.”
“Not yet!” Ben squawked, racing into the bedroom. He was back moments later carrying Ethan’s old Sharps and a cartridge belt gleaming with ammunition. “Don’t wait too long to come fetch me,” he said on his way out the door.
Ethan followed, picking up the food sack on the way. Ben was already sliding his rifle into its scabbard—the long one for the Sharps, Ethan noticed. He shinnied into his saddle like a monkey up a rope. Ethan handed him the sack, then tied the billy to his saddle, but he kept the mug.
“Don’t leave any food sitting around,” he instructed. “There’s three less bears up there than there were a month ago, but I saw plenty of fresh sign, too.”
“If I see a grizzly, I’ll shoot it,” Ben boasted.
“It’s the one you don’t see that’ll take your head off. Watch out for ’em.”
“You’re an old mother hen,” Ben cried, laughing as he wheeled his horse out of Ethan’s reach. He slapped the mare’s ribs with his heels and raced out of the yard.
Ethan watched him go, then turned reluctantly toward the rear of the house. His pa started roaring and swearing as soon as he caught sight of him.
“Where the hell you been?” Jacob demanded hoarsely.
Ethan paused at the corner washstand they used for shaving and dipped the pewter mug into a bucket of creek water. The outhouse was set about fifty feet behind the main building, thankfully shaded by the gnarled limbs of a cottonwood, partially hidden by thistles. His pa’s face was pressed against the ventilation hole. Some folks carved quarter moons or decorative stars in their doors for such purposes. Jacob Wilder had created his with half a dozen rounds from a Colt .45, then knocked out what was left with a hammer.
Wild Side of the River Page 1
