Wilderness Giant Edition 6 Page 13

  The game trail brought them to a narrow valley bisected by a gurgling stream. Jasper Flynt drew rein, pointed at four of his men, and announced, “You do the buryin’. And do it deep enough that no coyote’s going to come along and dig Spence up.”

  Three of the four climbed dutifully down. The fourth, a heavyset man whose florid cheeks quivered when he spoke, complained, “Why do I have to help? You’re always giving me chores to do. I must do twice as much as everybody else.”

  Flynt’s rifle was across his pommel. A deft twist, and the muzzle pointed straight at the malcontent. “Are my ears playin’ tricks on me, Galt? Or did you just sass me?”

  Galt’s jowls quivered. “I’d never do that, Jasper. Honest. I was just saying that it only seems fair for some of the others to do a little more work.”

  “I decide who does what, and when,” Flynt said, a honed edge to his tone. “I say what’s fair and what ain’t. Anyone who doesn’t like it had better light a shuck while he still can.”

  Galt joined the other three over by a spruce. Shovels were produced and a suitable hole was dug. No words were spoken over the grave. No one doffed a hat or showed any sorrow whatsoever.

  “Oh, hell,” Shakespeare said. A little while before, Calloway had untied his ankles so he could dismount, and he had promptly knelt at the stream’s edge and plunged both hands into the cold water. Cupping some, he had drunk slowly, aware that to drink too fast invited cramps.

  Now, standing, Shakespeare strode to the foot of the grave. “Even this worthless sac of pus deserves a eulogy of sorts.”

  “A what?” Galt asked.

  “Bow your heads, you miserable husks,” Shakespeare said, doing just that, his bound hands folded in front of him. “Pretend you’re in church.”

  Cracking his eyelids, Shakespeare saw that most of them had complied. Of those who had not, two were thirty feet away, another was on his rump chewing jerky, and the last, Jasper Flynt, had turned away in disgust. None of them was anywhere near the horses.

  “Oh, Almighty One,” Shakespeare began, and quoted from Proverbs. “For the ways of man are before the eyes of the Lord, and He pondereth all his goings. His own iniquities shall take the wicked himself, and he shall be holden with the cords of his sins. He shall die without instruction, and in the greatness of his folly he shall go astray.”

  The pair thirty feet away had finally joined in, lowering their heads in respect. As callous as they were, as bloodthirsty as they might be, the words had struck a responsive chord in their raw natures.

  “A naughty person, a wicked man, walketh with a froward mouth,” Shakespeare continued, surreptitiously watching Jasper Flynt. “He winketh with his eyes, he speaketh with his feet, he teacheth with his fingers. Frowardness is in his heart, he deviseth mischief continually. He soweth discord.”

  Jasper Flynt walked farther away, kicking at weeds and dirt clods.

  Shakespeare scanned the assemblage. No one was between him and the mare. “These six things doth the Lord hate. Yea, seven are an abomination unto him. A proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that deviseth wicked imaginations, feet that be swift in running to mischief, a false witness that speaketh lies, and he that soweth discord among brethren.”

  The moment was ripe. Shakespeare started to shift toward the animals, but a question from Calloway thwarted him.

  “When did you learn the Bible so good, McNair? I thought you liked that English stuff better.”

  “I read them both,” Shakespeare said brusquely. “Now, don’t interrupt. I’m almost done.”

  Some of the rowdies had looked up. To get them to bow their heads again, Shakespeare said, “Humbly we bow to your greatness, O Lord.” The majority took the hint. “My son,” he quoted, “Keep my words, and lay up my commandments with thee. Keep my commandments and live, and my law as the apple of your eyes.”

  Shakespeare peeked from under his eyebrows. No one was paying any attention to him. It was now or never. “It is as sport to a fool to do mischief, but a man of understanding hath wisdom. The fear of the wicked, it shall come upon him. But the desire of the righteous shall be granted.”

  Sidling toward his white mare, Shakespeare solemnly intoned, “The wicked flee when no man pursueth, but the righteous are bold as a lion.” He passed several ruffians without being challenged. “Whoso keepeth the law is a wise son. But he that is a companion of riotous men shameth his father.”

  Shakespeare was only a few yards from the mare. None of them had caught on yet. Jasper Flynt was staring at Long’s Peak, and the glutton stuffing his mouth with jerked venison was picking at a tear in his pants.

  Raising his voice, Shakespeare took a final step. “And so we ask, O Lord, that you accept this cur’s soul into Hell where it belongs, and that you see fit to punish the rest of these sons of bitches for ambushing innocent women and children.”

  Whirling, Shakespeare was on the mare before the first outcry. Although bound, he could hold the reins.

  Raking his heels, he goaded the mare into motion. Like a white bolt of lightning, she streaked on up the valley.

  Shouts and profanity were thrown at him. Laughing, Shakespeare looked over his shoulder. The dimwits were darting to their animals to give chase. But there wasn’t a horse alive that could catch his mare once he gave her her head.

  Then Shakespeare saw Jasper Flynt. The killer was sighting down his Kentucky rifle. He wouldn’t! Shakespeare told himself. Flynt needed him alive.

  But he was mistaken! With a start, Shakespeare saw that Flynt was aiming at the mare, not at him. Instantly, he brought her to a lurching halt.

  Jasper Flynt lifted his cheek from the stock of his rifle. “Nice try, old man!” he yelled. “Now, turn that nag around before I put a ball into her just for the hell of it.”

  What else could Shakespeare do?

  Twelve

  The Varga expedition trekked into the foothills the next day. Don Varga sent the Maricopas ahead to scout the route indicated by the map. As a precaution against surprise attack by unfriendly Indians, he always had six heavily armed vaqueros follow a short distance behind the main column. Outriders were also posted on both sides.

  The King family was always under guard. Four watchful vaqueros were constantly close by, even when they slept. Varga was taking no chances.

  The expedition angled to the northwest, to a river that sliced through the foothills toward their destination, Long’s Peak. Each noon the column halted for half an hour. At the end of every day, Varga selected a campsite that could be readily defended.

  Nate’s main worry was the Utes. Sooner or later, the tribe would learn of the incursion and there would be hell to pay. As yet, he had seen no sign of warriors on the ridges, which was surprising given the racket made by the riders and the pack animals as they clattered, clanked, and rattled ever higher.

  It took them three days to traverse the foothills. Another two were spent reaching a verdant spot south of the Twin Sisters Peaks.

  Nate gazed longingly at them. Just beyond lay the valley his family called home. So close, yet so far!

  Ahead reared the jumbled cluster of peaks dominated by Long’s. More than a dozen stretched in a ragged row from northwest to southeast. Most did not have names of their own.

  The closer the column came, the more often Don Varga consulted an aged yellow parchment. Afterward, he always folded it and stuck it inside his shirt. No one else, not even his sons and daughters, was permitted a peek.

  Not once had Varga asked Nate for help in locating landmarks. Nate was beginning to think that Varga had made a mistake and brought them along unnecessarily, when that very night, as he sat sharing coffee with Winona, the Spaniard approached their fire.

  “Greetings. I trust all of you are faring well?”

  “As well as can be expected for captives,” Winona answered. She had developed a profound dislike for the man and his suave but sinister character. He was one of those people who would do anything to
get what they wanted, which made him doubly dangerous.

  “Please, sarcasm ill becomes you,” Don Varga said. Smiling at Evelyn, he went to pat her on the head.

  Evelyn scooted aside. Exhibiting the natural bluntness of children her age, she said, “Stay away from me. You’re a bad man. A very bad man. I want nothing to do with you.”

  “I feel the same,” Zach announced. His blood boiled whenever any of the Vargas were nearby.

  Well, almost any. He had grown fond of the daughters, who made it a point to ride with the Kings for several hours each day, chattering gaily, like merry chipmunks. Luisa, in particular, was special.

  Sometimes the two of them would ride side by side and talk quietly so the vaqueros could not overhear. Luisa and her sisters were very sorry for what their father had done. Were it up to her, she would let them go. But in her family the women had no say in important affairs. Her father ruled with an iron fist.

  Don Varga turned to Nate. “We must talk. Come with me, Señor King.”

  “And if I don’t?” Nate responded testily.

  “Do not be childish, señor. Or would you rather I have my men tie your hands again, and your feet, as well, and keep you separated from your loved ones until you decide to cooperate?”

  Boiling with resentment, Nate set his tin cup down. “Lead the way.”

  Varga walked to another fire shared by his sons and daughters. “Away with you,” he said, gesturing. “Go somewhere else for five minutes.”

  Maria, Francisca, and Luisa obeyed without a word of protest. So did young Diego. Martin, frowning, trailed, but Ignacio did not rise. He began addressing his father in Spanish. Manuel cut him off with a wave of a hand and said, “In English, son, for the benefit of Señor King.”

  “What do we care what he thinks?” Ignacio asked in English. “Our private affairs are none of his concern.”

  Don Varga put his hands on his hips. “How long, son? How long before you use your head for something other than to fill a hat? Always think before you speak. Tact is a sign of maturity, of which, unfortunately, you have a mere trifle.”

  “I only wanted to know when the rest of us can see the map,” Ignacio said defensively. Spearing a finger at the darkling mountains, he snapped, “We are almost there, yet we have no idea where the mine is. What if something happens to you before we find it? What if the map is lost?”

  “Your concern is touching.”

  Ignacio shoved himself erect. “Do not twist my meaning, Father. I would die for you. You know that.”

  “True,” Don Varga conceded. “Whatever faults you may have, however much you argue with me, I know that in your heart you are my most loyal son.”

  Nate did not believe that for a moment. Martin was the most obedient, therefore the most loyal. Not once had Nate ever heard the middle son dispute his father, as Ignacio routinely did.

  “Well, then?” Ignacio said. “Do I see the map, or not?”

  “No,” Don Varga replied. “Soon, though. Very soon.” Smiling tenderly, he rested a hand on his eldest’s shoulder. “Trust me, my son. Have I ever let you down?”

  “No,” Ignacio grumbled. “Very well. I will be patient a while longer.” He pivoted on a boot heel and sulked off into the night.

  “He has always been his own person,” Don Varga said softly, as if thinking aloud. “Of them all, he is the proudest, his blood the hottest. Another twenty years and he will be fit to take my place.”

  “Provided you live that long,” Nate commented. Varga sat and motioned for the trapper to do likewise. “Spare me your fear of the Utes, señor. My Maricopas have seen no evidence of them. And Jasper Flynt happened to tell me that while the Utes claim this area, it is on the fringe of their territory.” He paused. “Their villages are many miles to the southwest, are they not?”

  “Yes,” Nate admitted. “But hunting parties pass through here all the time on their way to the prairie for buffalo, and war parties go through on raids against tribes to the north.”

  “That is a risk I am willing to take,” Don Varga said. “Now, let us attend to the matter at hand.” Glancing both ways, he unbuttoned his shirt and slid a hand underneath. ‘4We have reached a point where I require your assistance.”

  Curiosity got the better of Nate. Sitting, he leaned over the faded parchment as Varga carefully unfolded it and spread it flat on his lap.

  The handwriting, of course, was in Spanish, the ink faded in spots but still legible. Whoever sketched it had done an adequate job of noting all the major peaks and ridges. Long’s Peak was marked by a large black X. Tiny dots represented the route to the mine, and at various points landmarks had been scribbled in.

  “Captain Valdez was in a hurry when he drew this,” Don Varga said. “He was fleeing south with his men, hotly pursued by the Utes. So all the landmarks were drawn from memory. He was not able to go back and verify he had gotten them right.”

  “If he didn’t, you’ve gone through all this for nothing,” Nate said.

  “I will have tried my best for the sake of my family,” Don Varga stated. “No more can be expected of any man.” He gazed after his offspring. “I daresay you would do the same for your wife and children, señor.”

  “I wouldn’t go as far as you have.”

  “You only say that because you have never been in the same position I am. But you would talk differently, I think, if it were your family that was threatened with the loss of everything they owned. You would do whatever it took to secure their future happiness.”

  “There are lines no man should ever cross. Not if he wants to go on holding his head high.”

  Don Varga reflected a moment. “Ah, you imply that I have shamed myself by holding you against your will, and not trying harder to save McNair? I will agree that what I have done is not entirely honorable. But even you must admit that I have not stepped over the thin line that separates a decent man from killers and thieves and other trash.”

  “Not yet,” Nate said.

  “And I will not, ever,” Varga declared. “If I were truly the ogre you make me out to be, I would be making your life utterly miserable instead of doing all in my power to make your stay with us be pleasant and bearable.”

  “Don’t expect any thanks.”

  Anger flared, and Varga pounded his leg with a fist. “How dare you, Americano! How dare you set yourself up as my judge. That is for God alone.” He took a deep breath to calm himself. “No one treats me with disrespect. Not my servants, not my own sons, and certainly not you.”

  Several vaqueros had come closer on hearing their patron's outburst. Varga said a few words in Spanish and waved them off. “Now, then, where was I? Oh, yes.” Bending over the map, he said, “Tomorrow we will reach a river that runs from north to south, yes?”

  Nate nodded.

  “Will it be difficult to cross?”

  “Not if we’re careful.” The current was swift, the channel narrow. Nate knew of two fords, one well to the north, the other to the south where the river flowed into a broad basin.

  Don Varga read a note on the map. “Once on the other side, there is a sandy creek?”

  “It’s fed by a lake higher up,” Nate recalled. “I trapped beaver there a few winters ago.”

  “Then the map is accurate,” Varga said confidently, folding it. “That is all I need for now. Once we reach the lake, I will require your services again. You are dismissed.”

  But Nate did not stand. A question had been nagging at him ever since the Spaniard informed them that they would be released once sufficient ore had been mined. “How long, exactly, are we going to be your prisoners?”

  Don Varga was replacing the map. “Prisoner is such a harsh word, señor. I prefer to regard you as my guests.” He plucked at a button. “How long exactly? I cannot say. It depends on factors over which I have no control.”

  “Give me some idea. Two weeks? Four? Six?” Varga pointed to where the animals were tethered. “I intend to load every pack animal I can spare with as
much gold as they can carry. Twenty-five animals, at least. Possibly thirty. With my men working in shifts around the clock, I estimate that it will take a month and a half.”

  “And what will my family and I be doing the whole time? Twiddling our thumbs?”

  The Spaniard laughed. “What a quaint American expression. You may do whatever you want, Señor King. Hike. Fish, if you like. Go for rides. Always under guard, of course.”

  “Of course,” Nate said dryly.

  “Why do you ask?”

  Nate picked what he said next with exquisite care. “A minute ago you claimed that you are a man of honor. I’d like you to prove it by letting my wife and children leave.”

  “You know I cannot do so. They are my leverage, señor. Without them, what is to keep you from turning against me?”

  “My oath not to,” Nate said. “What if I promise to do whatever you want for as long as you want, provided you let my family go?”

  “I would like to, but—”

  “All I’m asking is that you give it some thought. Our cabin is just over that range, there,” Nate said with a poke of a finger at the Twin Sisters. “Not more than two days’ ride. I’d feel better if they were there instead of with us.”

  Don Varga scratched his chin. “That close, eh?”

  Sensing that the Spaniard was wavering, Nate said, “If you’re really the gentleman you make yourself out to be, you’ll agree.”

  It was a full minute before Varga spoke. “You tempt me, señor. I am not cruel, despite what you might feel.” He scrutinized Nate closely. “But the question I must ask myself is this: ‘Is the Americano to be trusted?’ Before I can give my permission, I must decide whether you are a man of honor.”

  Nate hid his disappointment. Antagonizing Varga would not help his cause. “Fair enough. If that’s how it has to be, I can wait for you to make up your mind. After all,” he said with a smirk, “I’m not going anywhere, am I?”

  “No, señor. You most definitely are not.”