Wilderness Double Edition 11 Page 15

  Predators and hostiles were not about to advertise their presence. The first inkling there might be of an attack could well be the roar of an on-rushing silver tip or the searing jolt of an arrow in the ribs. He had to stay alert.

  Trappers did not last long if they were careless. In recent years, hundreds of young men had flocked to the frontier to make their living at the fur trade, and many scores of them would never see their kin back in the States ever again.

  Bleached bones were all that remained of their youthful dreams, their craving for adventure.

  Tense moments dragged by. Nate rested his thumb on the hammer of his rifle and lightly touched his finger to the trigger. His black stallion was gazing to the northwest with its ears pricked. He looked in the same direction but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  Ever so gradually, the woodland resumed its natural rhythm as if the gigantic hand that had been smothering everything had been lifted so the creatures could breathe again. Birds sang. Squirrels scampered about on lofty branches. Chipmunks did the same over boulders and logs.

  Nate let himself relax. The danger had passed. He could go on about his business. Bending to the right, he fixed his piercing green eyes on the ground while nudging the stallion onward with a jab of both heels.

  Tracks were few and far between, but there were enough for the seasoned mountaineer to keep from losing the trail. Complete prints showed five toes, although the smallest barely left an impression. Claws were also evident.

  Less experienced trappers might have mistaken the tracks for those of a wolf. But Nate knew better. Wolves only had four toes, and their pads were shaped differently. The prints he followed had been made by a creature much more fierce, a creature shunned by Indians and whites alike.

  Nate King was after an animal which, pound for pound, was rated the most powerful of any its size. Its reputation for savagery was unrivaled even by grizzlies. It would eat anything it could catch and kill, as well as carrion.

  Early French trappers had a name for the animal, ‘carcajou’, which was still used by some mountaineers. A few of Nate’s acquaintances had taken to referring to the voracious brutes as ‘gluttons’, based on the habit the creatures had of gorging themselves to the point of stupor. The majority, however, simply used the name the creatures were known by east of the Mississippi: wolverines.

  For several weeks now, a particularly vicious specimen had been plaguing Nate’s family with repeated visits. At first it had only shown an interest in the many ducks and geese that routinely flocked to a small lake near the remote King homestead. His young son, Zach, had found the first clues, in the form of three ducks that had been literally ripped to shreds and a couple of clear tracks in the blood-soaked mud at the water’s edge.

  Nate had not been overly alarmed by the report. Wolverines, by and large, tended to fight shy of human beings. He’d assumed the beast would tire of lying in wait for water fowl and wander elsewhere. But as the days turned to weeks and the weeks became a full month, he’d grown increasingly concerned.

  The wolverine had started to rove closer to the King cabin. Nate had stumbled on tracks close to the trail his wife and infant daughter took daily down to the water’s edge. The animal, quite obviously, had been spying on them. He began to worry that perhaps it had designs on tiny Evelyn, as wolverines were known to be fond of fawns and other young animals.

  Then the beast had developed the habit of circling the cabin late at night. Its pungent scent always spooked their horses, and the animals would prance and snort and whinny until Nate appeared to soothe them. On a half-dozen occasions he’d heard the wolverine off in the thick brush, growling and snarling as if in frustration that it could not get at the stock because of the small corral in which he kept them penned.

  The final straw had been an incident the previous night.

  Nate had been snuggled against the warm form of his lovely Shoshone wife, Winona, in the pine bed he had fashioned with his own two hands. Close by, stretched out on a buffalo robe in front of the stone fireplace, slept their son. Little Evelyn had been snug in her small cradle.

  The cabin had been cozy and warm and tranquil.

  Suddenly a tremendous uproar had erupted outside. The horses had been nickering and stomping in abject fright.

  Nate had grabbed his Hawken and dashed into the darkness in his bare feet. He’d rushed to the south side of the cabin just in time to see a long, hairy form trying to force its muscular bulk between two of the rails to get at a terrified colt his wife’s mare had given birth to months ago.

  Out of sheer reflex, Nate had whipped the Hawken to his shoulder, fixed a hasty bead, and fired. In his sluggish state he’d missed. The ball gouged into the rail inches from the wolverine’s head.

  Like a streak of lightning, the scourge of the Rockies had whirled and vanished in the undergrowth.

  Nate had automatically reached for his powder horn to reload and only then realized that he had left it and everything else he needed inside. Fortunately for him, his wife and son arrived, both bearing their own rifles.

  “Was it the glutton, Pa?” Zach had asked.

  “Sure was,” Nate had confirmed.

  The boy had taken a few eager steps. “Reckon we should go after it before the varmint gets away?”

  Winona had glanced sharply at Nate. There had been no need for her to say a word, because they both had been thinking the same thing: It would have been foolhardy to dash into the inky forest where the wolverine was in its element. “No, son,” Nate had answered. “We’d best stick close to the cabin in case it tries to get at the horses again.”

  Thankfully, the rest of the night had proven uneventful. At first light, Nate had thrown a blanket and his saddle on the stallion, added a parfleche laden with pemmican and jerky which his wife had thoughtfully prepared, and headed out to track the troublemaker down no matter how long it took.

  To Nate’s surprise, he’d located the animal’s tracks with little difficulty. Now, after spending the greater part of the morning on its trail, he felt that he was drawing near his quarry.

  Strangely enough, the wolverine did not appear to be in any hurry. It had traveled upward at a leisurely pace, meandering as its heart desired.

  Nate had counted on finding where the creature had holed up for the day, but so far the voracious beast had given no indication that it intended to stop anytime soon. He gained the crest of the switchback and reined up to survey the ridge. The tracks led straight across.

  Tightly clustered lodgepole pines covered the facing slope. The trees were so jammed together that the stallion would not be able to go faster than a brisk walk. He would fall behind his wily adversary, but it couldn’t be helped. If he circled around, he risked losing the trail.

  Cradling the Hawken in the crook of his left elbow, Nate trotted to the tree line. Scant sunlight penetrated the upper terrace, resulting in perpetual shadow at ground level.

  Slightly uneasy, Nate warily advanced. He chided himself for letting the gloom get to him. Or was it something else? he wondered. A vague feeling came over him that he was being watched. Try as he might, though, he failed to catch sight of the glutton or any other animal that might account for it.

  Men who lived in the wilderness long enough learned not to discount their intuition. Many a trapper had his gut instincts to thank for saving his hide from lurking hostiles or wild beasts.

  The tall boles of the lodgepoles hemmed Nate in on all sides. He had to pick his way with care. Often the stallion squeezed through gaps where there was barely space to spare. On several occasions Nate had to lift his legs and fork them over the saddle so they wouldn’t scrape against trunks.

  All the while, the mountain man climbed higher. Having to constantly glance up to insure the carcajou wasn’t lying in wait above him put a crick in his neck.

  The tracks were harder to find thanks to a spongy layer of pine needles covering the forest floor. Even the stallion barely left prints.

  Presently Nate ha
d to dismount and bend low in order not to lose the trail. The minutes passed slowly. Off to the north, a red hawk screeched. To the southwest a coyote yipped, a rarity during daylight hours.

  So engrossed did Nate become in his task that he didn’t realize he had reached the end of the lodgepole growth until he almost bumped into a boulder in his path. Straightening, he discovered a twisted outcropping of solid rock dotted with many more boulders. The tracks went on into the maze.

  Nate hesitated. Taking the horse in there was out of the question. He was reluctant to go on without it, yet he had no choice. Tying the reins to a pine, he hefted the Hawken, thumbed back the hammer, and cat-footed around a boulder half the size of his cabin.

  Clearly imbedded in the bare earth were the wolverine’s prints. The animal had been moving rapidly, as if it were suddenly in a hurry to get somewhere, leading Nate to conclude that it had a den nearby.

  Before going around obstacles, Nate always took a peek first. All too vividly, he recollected the time he had tracked a black bear into some rocks and nearly been tom apart when the bear came at him from out of nowhere. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.

  Here in the outcropping, the air was totally still. Sounds were amplified, so Nate had to be vigilant to avoid making any. He stepped over all dry twigs and patches of loose gravel.

  Unexpectedly, up ahead, a bird twittered shrilly.

  The cry was strangled off, as if its throat had been tom asunder or its neck broken. Then a series of low rumbling growls echoed off the boulders and rock walls.

  Leveling the Hawken and keeping his trigger finger tensed to fire, Nate edged around a jutting spike of stone. Before him was a narrow path, which shortly ended at an oval cleared space about five feet in diameter. In the very center lay a dozen bloody gray feathers.

  Nate examined them. He nearly stepped on a tiny dark eyeball, which had been severed from the bird’s head. Fresh wolverine tracks took him to a path that angled to the southwest. He went a single step and froze when a menacing snarl rose from seemingly close at hand.

  Pivoting on a heel, Nate sought the source. The high boulders and rock walls had distorted the sound so badly that he was unable to pinpoint the glutton’s position. But something told him the creature knew exactly where he was. Either it had somehow caught his scent, or it had heard him.

  Firming his grip on the rifle, Nate inched forward. He paused after each stride. More feathers littered the ground. When he rounded a bend, he found the bird’s head, partially eaten.

  Nate recognized it as having been a gray jay, or Whiskey Jack, as some of the trappers called them. A little further on, he came upon a single gnawed leg and several long, black tail feathers.

  The path looped this way and that, never running in a straight line for more than a dozen feet. Nate was glad when he stepped out into the open on the rim of a barren slope. He scoured the area below him, but didn’t spot the carcajou. A check of the ground at his feet told him why.

  The wolverine had not descended. Instead, it had slanted to the left and made off along the edge of the outcropping.

  Nate gave chase. Since the beast knew he was after it, stealth was no longer essential. He poured on the speed, running flat out, and when he came to where the wolverine had skirted the southwest corner and headed due east again, a stab of anxiety speared through him.

  The glutton was doubling back on itself! It was heading for the stallion!

  Fairly flying, Nate flashed past boulder after boulder. He doubted the wolverine could bring down a full grown horse, but it might cripple the black so severely that he would have to put the horse out of its misery, leaving him stranded, afoot, many miles from home.

  A towering boulder loomed before him. Nate started to swing around it, but stopped cold in his tracks on glimpsing a streak of motion in smaller boulders beyond. Tucking the polished rifle stock to his shoulder, he stood perfectly still and waited for the beast to show itself again.

  There was a faint scraping noise, such as claws might make on stone, followed by unnerving silence.

  Nate took a few short steps. He needed to lure the carcajou into the open, and to that end he extended his left arm and ran his fingernails over the rough surface of the boulder. He hoped the scratching would excite the wolverine’s curiosity and it would pop into sight just long enough for him to squeeze the trigger. That was all he asked.

  One clear shot.

  Nothing happened.

  Keeping his back to the tall boulder, Nate glided along its base. His attention was turned low to the ground, where the glutton was most likely to appear.

  Wolverines were not large animals. Males seldom measured more than four feet long or weighed more than fifty pounds. But every square inch of their compact frames was packed with steely sinews. And their long claws and tapered teeth made formidable weapons.

  So intent was Nate on the area around the smaller boulders that he neglected to pay attention to anything above the level of his waist. Almost too late, he registered a hint of something dark brown at shoulder height and snapped his head up to see the wolverine spring from a rock shelf.

  It all happened so incredibly fast.

  Nate already had the Hawken raised. He spun and tried to bring the gun to bear, but the carcajou was on him in the blink of an eye. The bruising impact staggered him backward and caused his finger to curl around the trigger. His rifle belched smoke and lead.

  Teeth slashed at Nate’s forearm, missing by a whisker as he stumbled against the tall boulder. Automatically he lashed out, driving the stock at the wolverine’s head. The beast danced aside with astounding ease, snaked in close, and bit into the fringe on Nate’s leggings. He winced as those razor teeth sheared through buckskin and flesh.

  Wrenching to the right, Nate swung the Hawken as he might a club. Again the hissing wolverine evaded the blow. In leaping to the right to get out of reach of its wicked teeth, Nate neglected to note a small boulder. He tripped and fell, jarring his spine when he crashed onto his back.

  Snarling in feral fury, the wolverine was quick to seize the advantage. It leaped.

  The only thing that saved Nate from having his throat tom wide open was the Hawken. By a sheer fluke, he brought the rifle up at the selfsame moment that the glutton’s jaws lanced at his jugular. The brute’s teeth crunched on the barrel rather than his vulnerable neck.

  Hot, fetid breath blew over Nate’s face as he heaved with all his strength. He partially dislodged the wolverine. Its claws cut into his shirt, shredding the buckskin as if it were so much wet paper. He twisted and rolled onto one knee, still holding onto the rifle.

  The wolverine also held on. Digging in its over-sized paws, it yanked on the barrel.

  Nate let go. The predator was thrown off balance by its own momentum, giving him the fleeting chance he needed to make a grab for the flintlocks wedged under his belt. As the right one cleared the top of the belt, the carcajou released the Hawken and darted in close, its glistening teeth poised above his shin. He jerked his leg out of harm’s way, then fired. His rushed shot went wide by a hand’s width, plowing into the hard earth instead.

  Most animals would have bolted after the first shot, let alone the second. Not the wolverine. Fear was not part of its nature. Its kind had been known to tangle with grizzlies and panthers, if they dared cross its path. Mountain men and Indians alike had witnessed wolverines drive both from prey that was rightfully theirs.

  So it was no surprise that the blasts of the rifle and the smoothbore pistol had no effect. The wolverine coiled, then, apparently mistaking the smoking flintlock for an appendage of its two-legged foe, bit at the tip of the smoking barrel.

  Nate drew his other pistol, pointed it at the glutton’s chest, and fired at so close a range that the beast was singed by powder burns. The .55-caliber flintlock packed quite a wallop, sufficient to knock a man down at twenty yards, yet it hardly slowed the wolverine. Snarling viciously, the carcajou closed in.

  Back-pedaling
, Nate hurled the spent pistols at the creature’s head. It dodged aside, allowing him to drop a hand to his tomahawk. Arcing the weapon overhead, he drove the keen edge at the wolverine’s skull.

  The carcajou’s lightning reflexes came to its rescue one more time. The tomahawk swished by its cheek. Whirling, the wolverine lunged at the trapper’s wrist.

  A desperate yank of his arm saved Nate from losing his hand. He swung again and again, but couldn’t connect.

  Wiry as a cat and as elusive as a phantom, the glutton was next to impossible to hit. Nate aimed high. He aimed low. He fought with all the skill at his command, yet it wasn’t enough. The wolverine kept one step ahead of him.

  They continually circled one another, each seeking an opening that would end the fray. Nate thought he saw one when the wolverine snapped at his leg, missed, and slipped as it threw itself backward out of harm’s way. He took a short step and drove the tomahawk at its neck. By rights, he should have separated the head from the bearish body. But the thing was too quick for him, and before the tomahawk could connect, it vaulted upward, ramming into his chest.

  Suddenly Nate had a fifty-pound bundle of raw ferocity in his arms. He flung his free hand in front of his face and nearly cried out when those iron jaws clamped down. Tottering under an onslaught of claws and teeth, he tripped over his own feet and wound up on his back, like before.

  Nate had to drop the tomahawk so he could grab hold of the carcajou’s throat as it hurled itself at his face. Muscles straining, he held the enraged predator at bay with one arm while he deflected its rapier claws with his other forearm. Locked together, they rolled to the right, then to the left.

  The beast had a pungent body odor and foul breath. Nate could scarcely stand to inhale. He shoved with all his might, but the wolverine clung to him, its claws digging deep. A moist sensation crept along his arms and down over his chest.

  Nate knew that he couldn’t hold the glutton at bay for long. Unless he broke free, he would weaken from loss of blood and it would finish him off.

  The only weapon he had left was his butcher knife, but to reach it he had to lower one of his arms. Taking a gamble, he swooped his left hand to his waist. His fingers closed on the beaded sheath—but the knife was gone! In the flurry of combat it had fallen out!