Savage Illusions

Chapter One

The Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory 1852

The bull tra­in, con­sis­ting of fo­ur eig­ht-yo­ke te­ams, dra­wing twel­ve co­ve­red wa­gons, mo­ved slowly thro­ugh the wind-blown tall buf­fa­lo grass, fol­lo­wing the Yel­low­s­to­ne Ri­ver that ran sna­ke-li­ke thro­ugh the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory.

It was August, a per­fect ti­me of the ye­ar for tra­ve­ling. To the west ro­se the dark Roc­ki­es, the­ir sharp pe­aks stan­ding out sharply aga­inst the pa­le blue sky. Nor­t­h­ward we­re the three but­tes of the Swe­et­g­rass Hills. Eas­t­ward dimly lo­omed the Be­ar Paws; So­uth, ac­ross the Yel­low­s­to­ne Ri­ver, the pi­ne-clad Hig­h­wo­od Mo­un­ta­ins we­re in pla­in sight.

On all si­des buf­fa­lo and an­te­lo­pe gra­zed qu­i­etly on the he­althy, spring-fed grass. Sit­ting in the le­ad wa­gon, in the sha­de of the can­vas that had be­en stret­c­hed over the se­at to pro­tect the new mot­her and child from the hot rays of the sun, we­re Bryce Ed­monds and his wi­fe Char­lot­te.

Charlotte ga­zed lo­vingly down at her two-we­ek-old son, ado­ring him, yet reg­ret­ting that he had not be­en born in mo­re ci­vi­li­zed sur­ro­un­dings, with a re­al doc­tor to lo­ok af­ter her, a re­al bed on which to be com­for­tab­le, and with fo­od re­adily ava­ilab­le. As it was, the ex­pe­di­ti­on's fo­od supply had dwin­d­led, and ever­y­t­hing was now be­ing ra­ti­oned un­til they re­ac­hed the Mis­so­uri Ri­ver, whe­re they co­uld bo­ard a ste­am­bo­at and re­turn to the com­forts of the­ir pa­la­ti­al ho­me in Sa­int Lo­u­is.

When Char­lot­te had of­fe­red to jo­in the­se le­pi­dop­te­rists, led by her hus­band, s

he had not even tho­ught of be­co­ming preg­nant on the long, ti­ring jo­ur­ney.

It had just hap­pe­ned.

"Are you too di­sap­po­in­ted, de­ar?" Char­lot­te as­ked, ga­zing lo­vingly at Bryce, her hus­band of six ye­ars, who­se blond ha­ir had ble­ac­hed al­most whi­te be­ne­ath the hot Mon­ta­na sun.

But the sun had not chan­ged his han­d­so­me­ness. Even now, sit­ting so clo­se to him on the rug­ged se­at of the wa­gon, she wan­ted to re­ach out and to­uch his fa­ce or run her fin­gers thro­ugh his thick ha­ir. She lo­ved him mo­re each day, as tho­ugh each was the­ir first kiss, the­ir first ca­ress.

When a fly star­ted buz­zing aro­und the fa­ce of her son, her tho­ughts we­re aver­ted to things ot­her than ro­man­cing her be­lo­ved hus­band. She sho­o­ed the fly away from her child, who­se tiny lips we­re con­ten­tedly suc­k­ling at her bre­ast.

Her Kirk.

Her ado­rab­le Kirk.

She had fo­ught off mos­qu­ito­es, ticks, and fli­es un­til she was we­ary from it all.

Bryce cast Char­lot­te an easy smi­le.

''Am I di­sap­po­in­ted over ha­ving not fo­und the eup­ha­ed­ra?" he sa­id, re­fer­ring to the ra­re Ve­ne­zu­elan but­terfly they had be­en hun­ting. "Naw, can't say that I am."

His ga­ze shif­ted, enj­oying the sight of his son nur­sing from his mot­her's milk-fil­led bre­ast. It was a sight that wo­uld lin­ger in his me­mory un­til the day he di­ed. It was so won­der­ful to fi­nal­ly ha­ve a child.

After fi­ve ye­ars of trying, he and his wi­fe had al­most gi­ven up on ever ha­ving chil­d­ren. Then, sud­denly, as tho­ugh so­me­one had to­uc­hed Char­lot­te's womb with a ma­gic wand, she was preg­nant. That the child had be­en born in the midst of such har­d­s­hip se­emed al­most a mi­rac­le. In­de­ed, it was a mi­rac­le that any of them we­re ali­ve.

There we­re In­di­ans ever­y­w­he­re: the Cree, the Crow, the Blac­k­fo­ot. For so­me re­ason, this wa­gon tra­in had be­en spa­red any ra­ids, as tho­ugh God we­re the­re with them every inch of the jo­ur­ney, wat­c­hing over them.

"I wo­uld ha­ve be­en ter­ribly di­sap­po­in­ted over not fin­ding the ra­re but­terfly," he con­ti­nu­ed, nod­ding. "But that lit­tle sur­p­ri­se pac­ka­ge you're hol­ding in yo­ur arms ma­kes all the dif­fe­ren­ce in the world in my at­ti­tu­de. I co­uldn't be hap­pi­er, dar­ling. First the pret­ti­est wo­man in Sa­int Lo­u­is ac­cepts my pro­po­sal of mar­ri­age, then I am ap­po­in­ted cu­ra­tor at the sci­en­ce mu­se­um, and then, by God, to top it off, I now ha­ve a son. Who co­uld com­p­la­in, dar­ling? Who?"

"But you so lo­oked for­ward to fin­ding the eup­ha­ed­ra," Char­lot­te sa­id, easing Kirk's lips from her bre­ast as his eyes clo­sed in a con­ten­ted sle­ep. She wrap­ped him in a lig­h­t­we­ight blan­ket and crad­led him in her left arm as she be­gan re­but­to­ning her dress. "If you had ca­ught it, you co­uld ha­ve com­p­le­ted yo­ur col­lec­ti­on. Then you co­uld set­tle down and wri­te that bo­ok that you ha­ve spo­ken of so of­ten to mea bo­ok ex­p­la­ining yo­ur ven­tu­res and all the but­ter­f­li­es that you ha­ve cap­tu­red in de­ta­il, as well as the li­fe his­tory of each. How ni­ce it wo­uld ha­ve be­en, dar­ling, if…"

Bryce re­tur­ned his eyes to the tra­il, so that Char­lot­te wo­uld not see the di­sap­po­in­t­ment that lay sha­do­wed in the­ir depths. He had sworn that the ex­pe­di­ti­on's fa­ilu­re was not tro­ub­ling him, yet in truth, it was eating away at his gut.

"There'll be anot­her ti­me, anot­her pla­ce," he sa­id. "Right now all I'm con­cen­t­ra­ting on is get­ting you and Kirk out of In­di­an ter­ri­tory and to the sa­fety of a ste­am­bo­at. It sho­uldn't be much lon­ger now, dar­ling. We may even re­ach the Mis­so­uri by sun­down to­night."

The tho­ught that this dre­ad­ful jo­ur­ney was so­on to be be­hind her ex­ci­ted Char­lot­te.

Something up ahe­ad, lying on the gro­und just be­yond the sha­de of so­me tall bus­hes, drew Char­lot­te's at­ten­ti­on. She le­aned her he­ad for­ward, then gas­ped when she saw that it was not an ani­mal, but a li­fe­less hand.

Charlotte pa­led at the tho­ught of co­ming ac­ross so­me­one that had be­en mur­de­red, even per­haps scal­ped by the In­di­ans. It wo­uld be the­ir luck, she tho­ught to her­self, to just ba­rely get wit­hin sight of the ste­am­bo­at and the In­di­ans co­me down upon them with a ven­ge­an­ce.

"Bryceup ahe­ad, do you see?" Char­lot­te sa­id, po­in­ting. They we­re clo­se eno­ugh now for her to see that this was not the hand of a whi­te per­son.

It was cop­per in co­lor!

It was an In­di­an's!

A pa­nic se­ized Char­lot­te's in­si­des, fe­aring this might be a trap.

"By God, it's a hand," Bryce sa­id, dra­wing re­in and stop­ping the slow-tra­ve­ling bulls.

Charlotte grab­bed for Bryce's arm. "Be ca­re­ful," she whis­pe­red, her eyes wild. "It co­uld be a trap. We co­uld be at­tac­ked by In­di­ans any mi­nu­te now."

Bryce re­ac­hed a gen­t­le hand to her flus­hed che­ek. "Now, now," he sa­id, as tho­ugh he we­re so­ot­hing a child. "Let's not let our ima­gi­na­ti­on run away with us."

He drew his hand away from her and le­aned out so that he co­uld see the ot­her wa­gons that had co­me to a de­ad halt be­hind his, his tra­ve­ling com­pa­ni­ons al­re­ady off the­ir wa­gons and he­ading hur­ri­edly to­ward him.