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  Western Fiction!

  CONTENTS

  About the Books

  Copyright

  Dedication

  About the Author

  About Piccadilly Publishing

  GOLD RAGE

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  THE QUEST

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Gold Rage

  Penniless old trapper Ben Frazier is just about ready to pack it all in when an Arapaho warrior takes pity on him and shows him where to find the elusive gold that white men value so greatly. His problems seem to be over, but then another band of trappers finds out about the gold and forces Ben to lead them to it. It’s up to Zach King to save the old man, but can he survive a fight against a gang of gold-crazed mountain men?

  The Quest

  Life in the brutal wilderness of the Rockies is never easy. Danger can appear at any time, from any direction. Whether it’s in the form of hostile Indians, fierce animals, or the unforgiving elements, death can surprise any unwary frontiersman. That’s why Nate King and his family have mastered the fine art of survival— and learned to provide help to their friends whenever necessary. So when one of Nate’s neighbors shows up at his cabin more dead than alive, frantic with worry because his wife and child have been taken by Indians, Nate doesn’t hesitate for a second. He knows what he has to do—he’ll find his friend’s family and bring them back safely. Or die trying.

  WILDERNESS DOUBLE EDITION 14:

  27: GOLD RAGE

  28: THE QUEST

  By David Robbins Writing as David Thompson

  First Published by Leisure Books in 1999

  Copyright © 1999, 2018 by David Robbins

  First Edition: June 2018

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Our cover features Rivers West, painted by Gordon Crabb, and used by permission.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  To Judy; Joshua, and Shane

  WILDERNESS 27

  GOLD RAGE

  One

  Ben Frazier squinted at the blazing sun, then wiped a grimy sleeve across his sweating brow. “I reckon it’s about time, Bessy.”

  The old man said it sadly. He had been in the mountains a long time. One of the first to see the potential in the beaver trade, he had arrived in the Rockies with the first company of free trappers. That had been decades earlier. His plan had been to make enough from raising plews to set himself up comfortably for life. During idle moments, he’d daydreamed of becoming as fabulously wealthy as John Jacob Astor.

  But things never quite work out like a person figures. Raising plews was a lot harder than Frazier had counted on. Truth was, trapping was god-awful hard work. The toil, the cold water, took a fearsome toll on a body’s health. And there were other perilous factors to deal with. Savage beasts that would as soon eat a man as look at him. Equally savage warriors who took a dim view of having their territories invaded by whites. All in all, the fife of a trapper wasn’t for the squeamish.

  Frazier persevered, even though he’d never gotten rich. Oh, he’d had nine or ten really good years where he earned a couple of thousand dollars, and this in a day and age when the average worker was lucky if he brought home four hundred annually.

  If Frazier had been smart and saved some, he could have gone back to the States with a tidy nest egg. But he’d fallen into the same rut most trappers did. At each summer’s rendezvous he received payment for the peltries he’d collected, and before each rendezvous was over, he had always spent most of his earnings.

  Only part of the blame could be placed on greedy traders and company men who milked the trappers for every cent that could be squeezed from their possibles bags. It always angered Frazier to think that in St. Louis sugar cost ten cents a pound but at the rendezvous it went for two dollars. Lead for bullets went for six cents a pound back in the United States. Come rendezvous time, it went for up to three dollars. And so on and so forth.

  Prices for goods were outrageous, but the truth was that most mountain men could restock all the provisions they’d need for a few hundred dollars. So where did the rest of the money they earned go? Where did money always go? It was spent on women, whiskey, and gambling.

  Frazier was no different from his friends. Once he bought enough supplies, he’d spend up to two weeks in fearsome debauchery. Drinking until he passed out night after night. Frolicking with willing maidens who swapped their charms for expensive geegaws. Literally throwing his money away by betting on horse races and wrestling matches and shooting contests.

  Small wonder, then, that by the end of each rendezvous Frazier was usually as broke as he was when he arrived. Small wonder he never saved a nickel. Small wonder that when beaver fur fell out of fashion back east and the trapping trade dried up, Ben was left with barely a hundred dollars to his name and a mule as contrary as the grass was green.

  Now the annual rendezvous was no more. The trapping fraternity had disbanded. Most had headed back to the States. Ben had almost done the same, although it galled him to slink off with his tail between his legs, like a whipped cur. He’d had such a grand dream.

  Then the Almighty sent a godsend in the form of a friendly Arapaho by the name of White Antelope. They had met many winters before when a much younger Frazier stumbled on a small Arapaho village. Wariness had grown into guarded respect and eventual friendship. On many an occasion Frazier had stayed at White Antelope’s lodge, always bringing presents for the family. It got so the children called him “Uncle.”

  About two months ago, on a pleasantly cool evening, as Frazier sat glumly beside a crackling fire, pondering how unfair life was, he’d been alarmed to hear the light tread of a footstep. Leaping up, he’d brought his heavy Hawken to bear, then relaxed when out of the shadows stepped White Antelope.

  The warrior had heard about the collapse of the beaver trade and had come to say good-bye. The gesture mightily touched Frazier. As a token of affection, he gave White Antelope a spare Green River knife, a fine blade, never used. The Arapaho had admired it awhile, then taken a small pouch from his side.

  “I have something for you, as well, Scared of Rabbits.”

  Frazier thought back to that morning, shortly after they met, when a rabbit had bounded from some brush and startled him so badly, he’d jumped and accidentally snapped off a shot. The Arapahos thought his antics hilarious. Thus, the name. “There is no need to give me anything. You have shared your lodge and your food more times than I can count. The knife is my small way of saying thanks.”

  “One gift deserves another,” White Antelope replied. He’d held the pouch in his palm. �
��I know how much whites value that which you call ‘money.’ I also know you have little of it, and that you would like to have much.”

  The reminder soured Frazier. ‘‘My people breathe money.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Think of it this way. The worth of an Arapaho warrior is measured by how many coup he has counted and how many horses he owns. The worth of a white man is measured by how much money he has and how many things he has bought with it.” Frazier sighed and said in English, “It’s why I’ve spent all those winters breakin’ my back raisin’ plews. Beaver hides were worth a heap of money for a spell.”

  “Why only beaver, my friend? A fox hide sheds water just as well. A bear hide is warmer. And the hide of a buffalo has many more uses.”

  “I know,” Frazier said, reverting to Arapaho. “But the whites who live east of the Muddy River only wanted beaver. My people call that ‘fashion’.”

  “Again I do not understand.”

  “White people who have a lot of money like to buy a lot of clothes. But never the same kind of clothes for very long. For a while they liked beaver hats and beaver trim, but now they are bored with that and have gone on to something else. Silk, I heard it’s called.”

  White Antelope had digested the information. “White people are strange. My people have worn buckskins for more winters than anyone can remember. Why should we change, when buckskin is easy for our women to cure and sew, and holds up so well?”

  “There are days, my friend, when I almost wish I’d been born an Arapaho.”

  The warrior smiled. “Your words touch my heart, Scared of Rabbits. Here.” He held out the pouch.

  Thinking it must contain a few coins acquired in barter, Frazier had loosened the drawstring and up-ended the contents into his right hand. Bathed in the flickering glow of the firelight were a dozen kernel-size golden pebbles. Frazier looked closer, and gasped.

  “Grizzly Killer once told me that white men value these yellow stones as much as they do money. I have no use for them. But I thought you might.”

  Flabbergasted, Frazier had taken a nugget and bitten it. “Gold!” he’d declared. “Good God in heaven, it’s real gold!”

  “They please you, then?”

  In Arapaho, Frazier exclaimed, “Friend, you have given me the greatest gift any white man can possess! Where did you get these?”

  “I found them.”

  “Are there any more where they came from?”

  “As many as there are stars in the sky.”

  Frazier’s mind had raced. “Did you have to dig very deep?”

  “Dig?” The warrior snorted. “They were in a stream. So shiny and bright they caught my eye, so I picked some up. I did not know what they were.” White Antelope paused. “I can show you where, if you would like.”

  And so Ben Frazier had been led to a stream high in the mountains, a stream too shallow and narrow to harbor beaver, a stream overlooked by all other mountaineers as being of no consequence. Little did they know. For it was just as White Antelope claimed. Nuggets were as plentiful as ripe grapes in a vineyard.

  The warrior had gone off to rejoin his people, and for weeks afterward Frazier spent every waking moment gathering the gold up, enough to make him the richest man in all Creation. He filled parfleche after parfleche, making new ones from deer hide as the need arose.

  Frazier wasn’t a prospector. He didn’t know a lot about minerals and geology. As near as he could gather, the nuggets and grains had been washed down from higher up, no doubt from a vein the likes of which would put old King Midas to shame. He tried a few times to find it, without success. Which didn’t bother him at all, because he still had hundreds of pounds ready to take out. Unfortunately, he had no way to transport it. Bessy couldn’t be expected to tote that much clear across the plains. What he needed were packhorses, five or six good, sturdy animals, and he knew just where to get his hands on some: Bent’s Fort.

  On this hot day in late summer, Ben Frazier mounted his mule and headed down the mountain. Gold Mountain, he’d named it, for an obvious reason. His treasure was safely cached except for two bulging pokes hidden under his beaded buckskin shirt. He would use them to buy the pack animals he needed and be on his way to the States within the week.

  And that was why Frazier was sad. No more majestic Rockies. No more rugged peaks rearing to the clouds. No more towering ramparts crowned by mantles of glistening snow. No more eagles soaring on high, no elk bugling in the valleys. No more of the natural wonderland he had come to love so much.

  Ben would miss the splendor, but he was looking forward to living the life of a country squire. He’d buy a big estate somewhere, with woods for hunting and a lake for fishing, and he’d spend his waning days in ease and luxury. Damn, it would be fine! He imagined riding in a plush carriage, imagined wearing whatever in hell was the latest in high-society fashion, imagined being the talk of the town, of having pretty ladies on his arm when he went to the theater and such.

  To at last be rich, after all the toil and sweat and disappointment, was a heady experience. Ben rode with a song in his heart, his spirits soaring to the clouds. He resolved to make a list of all the things he’d always had a hankering for but could never afford so that once he was set up, he could treat himself.

  “Bessy, life will be sweet. I’ll eat off china plates and drink from china cups. I’ll have a gal to serve my food three times a day. And one of them fellers who opens doors and fetches tea. I’ll wear a jacket with tails on it, and have one of those newfangled hats that look like a stovepipe.”

  The mule ambled briskly on. It was used to his rambling.

  “Yes, sir. The Almighty finally got around to givin’ me what I deserve. I reckon I’ll thank Him by donatin’ some to a church. Doesn’t hardly matter which one, since they all say they have His ear.’’

  For the rest of that day, Frazier cheerily envisioned the great and wonderful times in store for him. He stopped for the night in a gully that offered shelter from the wind, and where his fire was unlikely to be spotted by hostile eyes. His dreams were of mansions and lace. At first light he forked leather, bearing to the southeast. He whistled softly, the Hawken resting across his thighs.

  Along about noon the acrid scent of smoke brought Frazier to a halt. Wispy gray tendrils in high pines to the east alerted him to the presence of a camp. White men or red, it was unimportant. He was determined to avoid contact with others as much as was possible until he reached St. Louis.

  But then, as he swung to the right to give the pines a wide berth, two riders appeared, traveling in his general direction. They were whites, much younger than Frazier. Dressed in badly worn and faded homespun clothes, they had a haggard, weary aspect. From the pommel of one saddle hung a sack such as trappers used to carry traps and whatnot.

  They didn’t see Frazier, and probably would have gone on by if he hadn’t hailed them. Why he changed his mind, Frazier couldn’t say. Maybe it was the feet it had been months since he last jawed with a fellow citizen. Maybe it was his good mood. Maybe it was stupidity. Whatever the case, he helloed and rode into the open, saying, “Howdy there, gents! It’s good for these old eyes to see some young coons like yourselves! Have any ’bacca in your possibles?”

  The two men had been taken utterly by surprise. A rodent-faced fellow, who favored a mackinaw coat two sizes too big, snickered and said, “Well, lookee here, Billy. We done found us someone’s grandpa.”

  The other, who was barely old enough to shave, gestured sharply. “Pay Ed Stark no mind, mister. He’s always got a burr up his butt. I’m William Batson, but everyone just calls me Billy.”

  Frazier introduced himself, then nodded at the smoke. “You boys alone?”

  “No, sir,” Billy said. “There’s seven of us, bound for the States. Would you care to meet the others? You’d be more than welcome to light and sit a spell. We don’t have any tobacco left, but there’s coffee on.

  Ed Stark frowned. “Kendrick sent us to find mea
t for the supper pot. He won’t take it kindly if we return empty-handed.”

  Billy stiffened. “Oh. That’s right.” To Frazier he said, “Sorry, mister. But we’d better do as Mr. Kendrick told us or he’s liable to get riled. And I wouldn’t want that.”

  The old trapper thought it peculiar the two men would let someone boss them around, but it was their affair, not his. “How about if I help?”

  “We’d be obliged,” Billy answered cheerfully. “But we have to hurry. I need to get back as quick as I can.” He didn’t say why.

  It took half an hour. Frazier flushed a buck, bringing it down with a single shot through the brainpan. Ed Stark hurriedly cut off a haunch, threw it over his shoulder heedless of the blood that oozed onto his clothes, and climbed back on his sorrel.

  “What about the rest of the deer?” Frazier asked.

  “What about it?” Stark rejoined. “This here is enough to go around.”

  “We can’t dawdle,” Billy stressed.

  The two young men trotted off. Reluctantly, Frazier followed, saying softly to Bessy, “What an awful waste. Young ’uns nowadays ain’t got no common sense. Why, my pa would’ve taken a switch to me if I ever squandered meat like they do.’’

  In a sizable clearing among stately pines lay their camp. Four grungy men were hunkered beside a fifth, who was on his back, covered by blankets to his chin. They regarded Frazier in a cold manner, as they might a rattler that had crawled into their midst. The biggest of the bunch, a strapping he-bear with shoulders wider than a grizzly’s, was coldest of all. Frazier pegged him as their leader, Kendrick, and his hunch was proven right by the first words out of the big man’s mouth.

  “What the hell is this, Ed? I send you after supper and you bring back this mangy old coot?’’

  “This old coot can speak for himself,’’ Frazier stated. “Seems to me, friend, your manners are plumb atrocious. In these parts a stranger is generally made welcome. Or don’t you believe in being hospitable?” Some of the others tensed and looked at Kendrick as if they expected him to cut loose with his rifle or pistols, but the big man merely said, “I’ll be dogged. We’ve got us a regular hellion. Sure, mister, I believe in being hospitable. It’s just that we’re a mite peeved at your kind right now. Don’t hold it against us, though.”