Chapter Five

Standing in the dusty parade arena, Captain Stuart Sulgrave studied his Hudson’s Bay brigade of misfits. The summer had turned unusually hot, and the heat from the relentless sun fueled his anger to near the boiling point—making him almost yearn for the mind-numbing cold of winter.

Three of his men had been killed, and Carson, the one who made it back alive, was wounded and kept jabbering on about some female Indian with green eyes, and two trappers who fought with the strength of four men. No doubt more backwoods nonsense, so typical of the rabble he was obliged to command.

His men should have killed the free trappers, and appropriated the woman, the furs, and the supplies. But accomplishing such a mission would have entailed these half-wits executing a comprehensive plan of action without direct orders.

Repeatedly slapping his riding crop against his thigh, he paced to and fro, his steps marking time with the whip-like sound. Damn them all to hell and back. He directed his ire indiscriminately at the dead men as well as at the men who’d killed them.

“You two.” With his short whip, he pointed out the men he’d chosen. “You’re to leave immediately.” He hated wasting manpower on these interlopers. He would need as many men as possible when they reached the horrendously vulgar confluence of mankind called rendezvous.

“Find the free trappers and bring them to me.”

The two men he’d selected swallowed hard and stared straight ahead. He could almost smell their fear.

“Carson is well enough to give you directions as to where the skirmish took place, and you can take a couple Bug’s Boys. Make sure it’s the two Blackfoot who have been causing trouble in the Fort. Might as well put them to work tracking—it’s about all they’re good for. When you complete your mission, return here. If you’re gone longer than one week, we’ll already be heading south. I trust you have the brains to find the location of the gathering. Don’t come back without the murdering rabble you’re hunting, or a good accounting of how they met their demise.

“Dismiss the men—” He nodded to his second in command. “—and carry on.”

The two men selected went to saddle their horses and draw supplies.

What a sorry bunch—the whole lot of them. Sulgrave showed no compassion for the living or dead and didn’t care who knew. Controlling Fort Elise, a desolate outpost of the Hudson’s Bay Company, didn’t leave room for such an emotion. It didn’t leave room for much of anything except dreams for the future, and a well-thought-out plan of escape.

He took to the ramparts and watched the two men and their Indian guides disappear into the shimmering heat. There was change in the air. He’d heard rumors the American Fur Trade Company was on the verge of collapse, and the demand for beaver back East was dwindling. Soon these annual rendezvous of trappers, traders, and Indians would be a thing of the past, and God only knew where he might be sent next. Good thing his plans didn’t include being on this continent come 1837.

His assignment at Fort Elise could only be interpreted as a personal affront, more a prison sentence than a command. He hated this uncivilized land and being so far away from England ate at his soul. Now, because returning home was out of the question, moving on was the only answer.

Prior rumors about his liaison with a female French spy had ruined his service to the King within the upper echelons. The rumors were true, of course, but on his part, it had been merely a case of lust, not espionage. Not so for his paramour. Too bad she’d been caught and hanged. Barely escaping the same fate, the result had been his banishment to this godforsaken place. Still he commanded men and ruled his own little empire. No one told him what to do or when to do it. No one except George Simpson.

When the Hudson’s Bay Company merged with the Northwest Company in ’21, George Simpson had been appointed governor of the northern department—a position upon which Sulgrave had once set his own sights. Another slap in the face.

Being a stubborn Scotsman, Simpson refused to retire or die. The insufferable old man was unpredictable and drunk with his own sense of power. And he had a habit of making unannounced inspections, wearing his damnable long black coat and top hat, bagpipers announcing his arrival with that earsplitting screeching they called music.

But Simpson was in for a big surprise. Altering the HBC books and appropriating money by selling undeclared hides, Sulgrave finally had enough money to retire in style to a home he owned free and clear. For the past several years, the money he’d been pilfering had been sent to a friend in Broc, Switzerland. Now he was a silent partner in a sheep ranch, and he intended to make a killing in the wool market, which was booming due to industrialization.

He’d visited the area back then with his former French lover, declaring it the perfect place to live in comfort and anonymity. How could one not like a country that gave the world chocolate, absinthe, cheese, and a decent timepiece? Not to mention beautiful women to cater to his needs. And as an added bonus, it felt as if he were stealing directly from Simpson—making the endeavor all the sweeter and worth the risk.

Returning to his quarters, he closed the door and lit a cigar, or a close facsimile. An old rope burning would have smelled less foul, but again, it was better than nothing. Nothing. That’s what there was plenty of out here. Setting the smoldering stub aside, he grabbed a bottle of brandy. The liquid lightning washed down his throat and set his stomach on fire as he continued to contemplate his future.

Touching up the wax on his mustache and oiling his hair, he checked his reflection in the mirror. No need to resemble a philistine even though forced to live like one.

He’d withstood nearly five years in this uncouth no-man’s land, and this was his last chance at the life he deserved. To lose it now would be unbearable. This fear of failure drove him. He refused to be bested by anyone. On so many levels, survival always boiled down to kill or be killed. Sometimes the killing was necessary, sometimes just for fun.

He headed for the stables.

“Lieutenant—ready my mount.” A good hard ride would take his mind off things.

Once in the saddle, he rode as if in pursuit of glory—or as if something terrible followed close behind. He heard the man at the gate choking and coughing in the cloud of dust churned up in his wake.