CHAPTER1
October, 1869
Montana Territory
Aaron Long tightened his hands around the mule team’s reins as the dog halted in the trail ahead of them, ears pricked toward something in the distance. The mangy mutt’s body nearly quivered with tension.
Aaron peered through the scattering of pines ahead, but no sign of movement flashed through the branches.
A low growl slipped from the dog’s throat, and Aaron lifted the rifle from the seat beside him to firing position. “Who’s there, Barney?” Of course, the mutt didn’t answer.
Still no motion ahead. No sounds. In fact…nothing. Not the twitter of a bird or even the rustle of wind.
A shiver slid down Aaron’s arms, and he shifted to climb down from his freight wagon’s bench. He kept tight hold of the bar he’d fastened for support until both his legs landed on the ground and his right leg secured its balance. Then he eased some of his weight onto the gimpy left limb, finally releasing the bar once he stood straight.
This leg might be the death of him yet. He’d survived the bullet that ripped away part of his thigh bone, then the surgery to add a metal plate to replace the missing fragments. Even endured the year of dark days as he recovered and learned to walk again. With God’s help, he’d mostly come to peace about the accident—he’d been the one in the wrong after all—but the way this leg slowed him down still pressed on his frustrations. Not to mention the constant ache on cold days like today. With winter coming on, this pain would be his steady companion for months.
As he hobbled along the road, another burning in that limb made itself known, this one farther down. His shoe had rubbed a hole through his stocking and started into his flesh two days ago. He’d stopped to help a driver retrieve items from an overturned load, and all that walking up and down the mountainside had started a chafing that hadn’t stopped since.
We glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience.He replayed the verse from Romans that he’d been clinging to ever since he’d found those powerful words. According to the apostle Paul, patience would produce perseverance, and the perseverance would turn into hope.Lord, I could use some hope right now.
He pushed aside the pain and dark thoughts it always tried to summon, then stepped forward, focusing on the road ahead. Barney still held his position, staring into the distance, but occasionally the dog would glance back, as though to make sure Aaron was following.
Aaron did his best to quiet his footfalls as he limped forward, though he could never manage the silent stalk he’d mastered before—in his past life. The road wound through the trees, but he took a more direct route so he didn’t have to walk as far. Also, the foliage would give him cover if a true threat lurked ahead.
Since he hadn’t heard any unusual sounds, this was more likely to be an animal than a human, and the only creature this quiet who posed a danger would be a wildcat.
Aaron shifted his attention up to the trees ahead of him. Perhaps he should have taken the road instead of planting himself under so many branches where a cougar might be waiting. But the lower branches were far enough apart through here that he could see an animal long before he came close enough to be attacked.
Barney trotted beside him, just out of reach but never straying far. The mongrel probably only stayed with him for the food Aaron tossed him at each meal, for he’d never actually allowed Aaron to touch him.
Something dark through the trees ahead made him slow. That could be a boulder at the edge of the road, but the flash of color looked manmade. He shifted from trunk to trunk as he approached, resurrecting all the senses that had laid dormant so long now. He’d once possessed a well-honed ability to spot danger and move a step or two ahead of the threat.
As he reached the last tree at the edge of the road, he leaned around for a better view of what he’d glimpsed.
A wagon. Lying on its side, bundles and barrels spilling out from under an oilskin.
His gut clenched tighter. That kind of accident was a freighter’s worst fear. One of them anyway. But where was the man? The mules were missing, too, so maybe the fellow had gone off to catch them. This looked like a runaway situation.
A glance down the road in both directions showed no one around, but just in case, he called out, “Anyone there?” He didn’t want to be shot when he crossed to the rig.
No answer sounded. Only this deathly stillness.
Easing away from his cover, Aaron kept the butt of his rifle tucked against his shoulder, finger near the trigger so he could fire if danger reared its head. He wouldn’t shoot a person. Not if he could help it. So many months of recovery had given him a healthy respect for the lasting effects of a split-second decision like that.
As he neared the wagon, he could better make out the smashed crates and spilled contents. Some kind of ore—probably silver or copper—meant this rig had been coming from one of the mining towns, headed to Fort Benton, where the containers would be loaded on a steamer bound for the States. Peeking out from the oilskin was the flash of color he’d seen through the trees. A carpet bag, stitched with roses and swirls that no respectable man would be caught carrying. The freighter must have had his wife on the bench with him.
Lord, let neither of them be hurt. He moved to the front of the rig and toed the straps that secured the team to the wooden traces. Ripped. This had definitely been a runaway.
Since Aaron hadn’t seen a team of mules careening along the Mullan road, the animals must have split southward down the slope. Either that, or they’d turned and gone back the way they’d come.
He hobbled around to the other side of the box to see what condition the wheels were in. When the driver caught his animals, his next step would be to right this vehicle and try to patch it together enough to get to Helena, the closest town with a wainwright in these parts.
As he rounded the corner, a bit of brown in the grass caught his gaze.
No.
The pressure on his chest clamped down.Please, Lord…
