Wilderness Giant Edition 3 Read online

  Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  CONTENTS

  About Prairie Blood

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  More on David Robbins

  While America is still a wild land, tough mountain men like Nathaniel King dare to venture into the majestic Rockies. And though he battles endlessly against savage enemies and hostile elements, his reward is a world unfettered by the corruption that grips the cities back east.

  Then Nate’s young son disappears, and the life he has struggled to build seems worthless. A desperate search is mounted to save Zach before he falls victim to untold perils. If the rugged pioneers are too late—and Zach hasn’t learned the skills he needs to survive—all the freedom on the frontier won’t save the boy.

  To Judy, Joshua, and Shane.

  And to all the good folks we meet on our travels

  through Nebraska, Kansas, Montana, Wyoming,

  and the Dakotas.

  Author’s Note

  For the benefit of those who will wonder, four clarifications are in order.

  The account of Nathaniel King’s experience (and you’ll know which one when you get there) is derived from contemporary records of a man who survived a similar ordeal.

  Yes, the names of the various warriors are based on historical sources. The particular name that will either make you blink, laugh, or brand me as vulgar (you’ll know which one when you get there) was in fact the name of a prominent Minneconjou.

  The Pawnees did indeed practice the rite mentioned (you’ll know it when … ) until the early nineteenth century.

  And, finally, please forgive the liberties I have taken with sign language in the interests of dramatic license.

  Chapter One

  The four riders were strung out in single file, riding along the south bank of the meandering Yellowstone River. They rode alertly, their rifles across their thighs, their eyes trained to the north.

  “I’ll sure be glad when we’re past this stretch, Pa,” said the youngest of the four, a lanky boy who hardly appeared old enough to handle the long Kentucky in his lap.

  “I don’t blame you, Zach,” replied the father, Nate King. “Those Blackfeet get right riled when they find whites near their territory.”

  Nate was a big, powerfully built man clad in garb typical of those who made their living as free trappers: buckskins, moccasins, and a beaver hat. Angled across his broad chest were a powder horn and ammo pouch on one side and his possibles bag on the other. On his right hip nestled a tomahawk, on his left a large butcher knife. Wedged under the front of his wide leather belt were two matching flintlocks.

  No sooner had Nate made his comment than from behind them came a hearty chuckle. “The Lord preserve us! I never met such a bunch of worriers in all my born days. If I had a dollar for every time you fret over nothing, I’d never have to raise another beaver for as long as I live.”

  Twisting in the Indian saddle he straddled, Nate gave the speaker a critical look. “You don’t think the Blackfeet are worth worrying about, Shakespeare? With all the trappers they’ve rubbed out?”

  Shakespeare McNair gazed at the sluggish Yellowstone and grinned. In his style of dress he was the spitting image of the other man, and like Nate he carried a Hawken. But where Nate’s hair and beard were as dark as coal, Shakespeare’s were as white as driven snow. And where Nate’s green eyes were usually somber, Shakespeare’s sea-blue eyes danced with playfulness. “You see any Blackfeet out yonder right this minute?”

  “No,” Nate admitted.

  “Then I reckon we don’t need to fret ourselves silly, do we?” Shakespeare asked. He adopted the tone of an orator on a stage and quoted the playwright to whom he was passionately devoted. “A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger in this attempt. For here we have no temple but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts. But what, though?” Shakespeare paused to give Nate a meaningful glance. “Courage!”

  Young Zach shook his head. “Pa, why is it I can never figure out what he’s saying when he goes on like that?”

  “Don’t feel bad, son,” Nate said. “Half the time, he doesn’t have the foggiest notion what the dickens he’s talking about himself.”

  Shakespeare made a noise reminiscent of a bull buffalo on a rampage and looked over his shoulder at the lovely Shoshone woman bringing up the rear. “Did you hear what your husband said, Winona?” He launched into another quote. “An honest fellow enough, and one that loves quails. But he has not so much brain as ear-wax.”

  Winona laughed and said in flawless English, “Do not try to involve me in your petty arguments.”

  “Petty!” Shakespeare cried. “You’ve wounded me to the quick, fair maiden. Here I am trying my best to educate your husband in the ways of the wild, and you say I’m being petty?”

  It was Nate who answered. “Yell a bit louder, why don’t you? Maybe the Blackfeet haven’t heard you yet.”

  “Ungrateful pups,” Shakespeare muttered.

  Nate King grinned and faced front. The brief diversion had taken his mind off the problems of the moment, but there was no denying them for long. He had two big worries eating at his innards, and no matter what his mentor Shakespeare said, they were legitimate.

  Nate’s first worry concerned the Blackfeet. His small party was on its way back to the Rockies after a visit to a Mandan village on the eastern plains. To reach the mountains, they had two choices. They could either follow the Yellowstone, which was the southern boundary of Blackfoot country, or they could strike out straight across the prairie, which would put them in the heart of Sioux territory. Neither prospect was all that appealing, and he had opted for the lesser of the two evils. By sticking to the Yellowstone, they might get through without seeing either Blackfeet or Sioux.

  Nate’s second worry revolved around his wife. Winona was over eight months pregnant, and he keenly desired to get her safely back to their remote cabin high in the Rockies before she gave birth. Although she was holding up well, he’d noticed she tired easier than she normally would, and the long hours on horseback were causing her pain in her lower back.

  At that very moment the object of Nate’s concern was touching her spine and grimacing. For the ninth or tenth time that day Winona had felt a sharp twinge. She was mildly upset that the sensations were becoming more and more frequent as time went on, but she did not relay her anxiety to her husband. She knew how he would react; he’d demand that they stop and rest for a day or two, delaying their homecoming even longer.

  And, truth to tell, Winona sorely yearned to be home. She chided herself, as she had repeatedly the past few weeks, for talking Nate into taking the trip east when she’d known they would be hard-pressed to make it back before the delivery. What had she been thinking of?

  Winona glanced at Nate to be sure he had not seen her flinch, then she straightened and pushed back her waist-length raven hair. Attired in a beaded buckskin dress that was loose fitting enough to partially hide her condition, she was as comfortable as she could be under the circumstances. She would not disgrace herself by showing weakness. She would endure whatev
er came along without complaint.

  Just then young Zach looked at her. ‘‘You all right, Ma?”

  “Fit as a flapjack,” Winona said, deliberately mangling the figure of speech.

  Zach cackled and slapped his thigh. “That’s fit as a fiddle, Ma. This heat must be getting to you.”

  “It is hot,” Winona allowed.

  The boy nodded and squinted up at the blazing sun. He could remember only one other time when the temperature had been so high, the year his family journeyed to Santa Fe and wound up tangling with a band of Apaches. Wiping the back of a hand across his brow, he licked his dry lips and gazed longingly at the river. If it had been up to him, he would have stopped and run over to gulp the Yellowstone dry. But his pa had warned him about drinking too much, saying it would make him so sick he couldn’t sit in the saddle, and from hard experience Zach had learned that his pa had an uncanny knack for being right about such things.

  Humming softly, Zach stared at the expanse of buffalo grass to the south and wondered whether they would stumble on any of the shaggy brutes. The thought caused his mouth to water and his stomach to rumble. Buffalo meat was his favorite food in all the world, next to blackberries, of course.

  Zach felt the breeze pick up and tilted his face to take advantage of its cool touch. He saw his Uncle Shakespeare do the same and hoped the breeze would last a while so it would cool them down.

  Had the boy been able to see Shakespeare’s face and not just his back, he would have observed how Shakespeare focused on the western horizon, studying dark gray clouds that had appeared. The grizzled mountain man pursed his lips, then sniffed a few times. Was that moisture he smelled? he asked himself. Or was imagination playing tricks on him?

  Shakespeare adjusted his beaver hat, then stifled a yawn. He reluctantly had to admit he wasn’t as spry as he used to be, and the long journey was gradually taking its toll on his stamina. When he got back, he aimed to sleep for a month.

  Shakespeare thought of his beloved wife, Blue Water Woman, and pictured her attractive features in his mind’s eye. He couldn’t wait to see her again, to have her snuggle against him under a heavy buffalo robe, to know the thrill of her knowing touch. Stamina or no stamina, there were some things a man just couldn’t give up.

  The thought sparked a smile. Shakespeare idly gazed at the river, and at the undergrowth bordering its shore. A hint of tawny movement riveted his attention and he immediately called out, “Hold up!”

  The other three complied. Nate turned his sorrel sideways and asked, “What’s the matter?”

  “This coon saw something, Horatio,” Shakespeare said, with a nod at the brush.

  “What?”

  “Couldn’t be sure. Painter, maybe.”

  Nate raised his Hawken and probed the vegetation. As he well knew, panthers were notoriously unreliable. Nine times out of ten they would go out of their way to avoid humans. But there was that one instance in ten when a rogue cat would stalk a man as it would a deer, and only quick wits and a steady trigger finger could bring it down. “Stay put,” he said. “I’ll take a look-see.”

  “Can I come, Pa?” Zach asked eagerly. He had never killed a panther before, and the prospect of tangling with one set his blood to racing.

  “You keep close to your mother, son,” Nate said. “Protect her if the critter gets past me.” Nudging the chestnut with his knees, he slowly moved forward.

  “If you get a shot, take it,” Shakespeare urged. “No meat shines like painter meat.”

  Nate bobbed his head. Most trappers relished a juicy cut of panther tender loin now and then, but he’d never met anyone so almighty fond of the tasty meat as his friend. Cocking the heavy Hawken, he angled between a pair of saplings and scoured a thicket in his path. By now the cat was probably long gone, but he had to make certain. If it attacked, it might bring down one of their mounts before they dropped it, and at this stage of their journey they couldn’t afford the loss of a single horse.

  The cool wind was now blowing so hard the brush rustled and crackled as if alive. Nate wouldn’t be able to hear the cougar, as some of the trapper fraternity had taken to calling the beasts, until it was almost upon him. He continually swiveled his head, checking in all directions, his whipcord body tensed for action.

  Nate covered twenty yards, but saw neither hide nor hair of a panther. He rode nearer the river, where the going was easier, and drew rein on spying a set of fresh tracks in the soft soil. They were huge panther prints, as clear as could be. His finger resting lightly on the trigger of his rifle, he ventured westward, following the tracks.

  The panther had paralleled the river for a dozen yards, then veered into a cluster of cottonwoods. Nate scoured the trees from end to end and saw nothing to suggest the cat was lurking in wait. He started to turn the sorrel, to go back and report they could go on, when a hint of motion out of the corner of an eye proved him wrong.

  Nate had made a critical mistake. He’d been raking the growth at ground level, assuming the panther would come at him from out of the brush. He should have remembered that panthers liked the high ground, that they preferred to pounce on their quarry from boulders or trees when such were handy. And this particular cat was no exception.

  The panther was perched on the branch of a cottonwood, its long tail flicking like a thick whip. Venting a feral shriek, it leaped, its front legs outstretched, its curved claws unsheathed.

  Nate barely had time to bring the Hawken up. He stroked the trigger just as the cat slammed into him. The impact deflected the barrel upward even as it knocked him from the saddle. He landed hard on his shoulders and promptly rolled to his knees, expecting the panther to be on him in a flash. And he was right.

  The cougar paid no attention to the sorrel as the horse whinnied in fright and bolted. It closed on the two-legged prey, its thin lips pulled back to reveal its tapered fangs.

  Nate reacted instinctively, throwing the Hawken at the panther to buy him the precious seconds he needed to draw the flintlocks. But the big cat merely leaped over the rifle and swooped down intent for the kill.

  Frantically Nate threw himself to the right, rolled once, and pushed upright, clearing a pistol as he rose. He hastily pointed the .55-caliber smoothbore and fired. The ball ripped into the panther’s right shoulder, spinning the big cat completely around.

  Snarling lustily, heedless of the blood pouring from its wound, the enraged panther coiled and sprang.

  Nate was in the act of drawing his second flintlock. The cougar was on him before he could and he clubbed at its head as it bowled him over. Stinging pain lanced his forearm and he felt razor claws tear into his thigh. When he hit, he lost his grip on the second flintlock and it fell.

  In desperation Nate shoved, pushing the animal from him. He got to one knee, dropped the spent pistol, and whipped out his tomahawk and butcher knife at the selfsame second the cat charged again. A deft swing caught the cougar flush on the skull and sent it tumbling, but it was up again in the blink of an eye and coming at him in a tawny blur.

  Nate cleaved the air with his tomahawk, but missed. The cat rammed into him and they went down locked in a struggling flurry of limbs and steel. He stabbed once, twice, three times, and nearly cried out when fangs sank into his shoulder.

  Suddenly Nate found himself flat on his back, pinned under the cat’s great weight. The panther hissed and lunged at his exposed throat. He began to swing the tomahawk, aware it was too little, too late, and braced for the sensation of having his jugular ripped from his body. Instead, he heard the loud crack of a rifle and the panther went flying, tumbling end over end for a good ten feet.

  Surging up, Nate crouched and waited for the next onslaught. There would be none, though. The panther was wheezing its last as gore and brains seeped from a cavity in the side of its head. Exhaling in relief, Nate glanced over his shoulder.

  “Can’t you do anything right, Horatio?” Shakespeare quipped, already in the process of reloading his Hawken. “The idea was for
you to kill the varmint so we could have it for supper, not for you to wrestle the danged thing.”

  The close shave had rattled Nate. His heart was beating so fast, his temples were pounding. He sank to his knees and sucked air into his lungs, grateful to be alive.

  “You all right?” Shakespeare asked as he tugged on the ramrod to extract it from its housing under the Hawken’s barrel.

  “Just dandy,” Nate said.

  “You look a mite cut up to me. I’ll fetch Winona and have her tend you.”

  “It’s just a few nicks and scratches, is all,” Nate insisted, looking down at the blood flowing from his shoulder. A wave of dizziness assailed him and he fought the sensation. What kind of man was he, he mused, that he fell all to pieces after a little tussle with an oversized kitty?

  Shakespeare was wheeling his black stallion.

  “Hey,” Nate said.

  “What?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank your ladylove. She’s the one sent me to check on you.”

  “She didn’t think I could handle myself?” Nate asked, slightly annoyed that his wife would think so little of his ability to protect his family.

  “Not that, so much.”

  “Then why?”

  Shakespeare smiled. “She knows as well as I do that you have this natural knack for getting yourself into more trouble than ten men put together.”

  “I do not.”

  “Oh?” Shakespeare nodded at the still panther. “Most times a painter will leave a man alone, but not if one sees you. It attacks.” He gave a low snicker and went on. “Most times a bear will go the other way if it sees a man, but if one sees you it tries to rip you apart. Most times wolves will head for the hills if they so much as catch a whiff of human scent, but if they smell yours they figure you’re their next meal. Most times—”

  “I get the point,” Nate cut McNair off. “There’s no need to belabor it.”