Wilderness Double Edition 11 Page 16

  Before Nate could lift his arm again, the wolverine gave a terrific wrench of its whole body and broke free of his grasp. Its mouth opened wide and swept to his exposed throat. He felt its teeth on his skin.

  He was going to die.

  Two

  Time stood still.

  To Nate King it seemed as if an eternity went by, when in reality it was no more than five intensely horrifying seconds. Awful, harrowing moments in which he braced for the searing pain that would rack him when the creature’s teeth ripped through his soft flesh.

  Yet there was no pain, no agonizing spasm, nothing except the light prick of deadly teeth pressed almost gently against his skin. Gradually it dawned on Nate that the wolverine had stopped moving. It had sagged against him, then gone limp.

  Gingerly, Nate reached up and pried the glutton’s jaws wide enough to ease them off his neck. Shoving the animal to one side, he swiftly scrambled erect. A few feet away lay his tomahawk, which he scooped up and elevated to strike.

  The battle was over. The wolverine posed no further threat. Evidently the pistol shot had struck a vital organ, but the carcajou had fought on until it expired. Blood oozed from the entry hole and was forming a scarlet puddle.

  Nate reclaimed his weapons, stepped over to the big boulder, and wearily sank down. Leaning back, he stared at the bestial terror and marveled at his narrow escape.

  Wolverines, like grizzlies, were notoriously hard to kill. Or, as the members of the trapping fraternity liked to phrase it, they were ‘powerful hard to die.’

  No less a personage than Meriwether Lewis had first applied the saying after the men on the famed Lewis and Clark expedition encountered a few grizzlies and nearly lost their lives. One bear, in particular, had been shot eight times through its vital parts and still would not go down.

  Gluttons were no less formidable. They would fight on even when mortally stricken, as the one before Nate had done. He made a mental note to fight shy of its kin in the future unless he had no other choice.

  While Nate rested, he reloaded the spent flintlocks and the Hawken. It annoyed him that his hands shook a little at first, but they steadied after his blood stopped racing in his veins.

  As any hunter worthy of the name knew, it was a cardinal sin to let any part of a slain animal go to waste. With that in mind, Nate drew his butcher knife and returned to the body.

  Skinning the beast took less than half an hour. Nate hauled it away from the puddle, then hunkered and rolled the wolverine over. His next step was to slit the hide open down the back of each hind leg. Gripping the edge of the pelt in one hand, he slowly peeled it down over the body, cutting ligaments and muscles as it was necessary and always remembering to hold the edge angled toward the carcass.

  Since Winona was much better at curing hides than he was, Nate opted to leave that chore for her. But he did take a step to insure the pelt would stay in prime shape. Using the tomahawk, he split the skull open. He had to pry a bit with his knife before he could slip his fingers into the cranial cavity and remove the brain, which he rubbed over the underside of the hide as he might a sponge. When the whole pelt had been so treated, he tossed what remained of the brain to the ground, rolled up the hide, and was ready to go.

  Nate strolled back to the stallion. After the ordeal he had just been through, it felt grand to breathe in the crisp mountain air and to smell the fragrant scent of pine and the musty odor of the rich soil.

  He tied the hide on the stallion, forked leather, and turned the big black eastward. At a brisk trot he descended the mountain. On reaching the level valley floor, he goaded his mount into a distance-eating canter.

  Nate was eager to get home. He spent so much time away from his family during the fall and spring trapping seasons that the days spent with them were precious to him.

  It was a glorious afternoon, with the sky as blue as a deep lake and the verdant valley lush with grass and flowers. Wildlife was abundant; deer grazed unafraid in the open, shaggy mountain buffalo hunted the valleys fringe, bald eagles soared high on the air currents, while everywhere frolicked birds and lesser animals.

  The Rocky Mountains, Nate frequently mused, were the next best thing to paradise on earth.

  Among the pristine peaks and winding valleys a man could live as he pleased, accountable to no one except his Maker. Here a man enjoyed true freedom, a state those living east of the broad Mississippi could no longer claim as their birthright.

  It saddened Nate to think of how far the country had fallen in so short a time. Having lived in New York City until his eighteenth year, he had seen for himself how politicians and lawyers had taken the basic tenets outlined in the Constitution and perverted them for their own ends.

  With his own eyes, Nate had read where journalists referred to the Government as if it were a holy entity with the God-given right to rule the people as those who were in Government saw fit. Such profound ignorance would one day do the country irreparable harm.

  Among the half-dozen or so books lining a short shelf in the King cabin was one dealing with the works of Thomas Paine, whose sentiments Nate shared. The firebrand of liberty during the American Revolution had once written: “When extraordinary power and extraordinary pay are allotted to any individual in Government, he becomes the center round which every kind of corruption generates and forms.” Paine had referred to such power mongers as ‘parasites’, and Nate wholeheartedly agreed.

  In the Rocky Mountains there were no parasites, because there was no government. Men and women, red and white, lived as they pleased. They did as they wanted, when they wanted, and woe to the fool who claimed they couldn’t. Anyone who took on airs paid for his idiocy at the point of a gun, if need be.

  Nate would no more give up his life in the high country than he would his arms and legs. True freedom, he had learned, was a greater treasure than gold, more desirable than diamonds. The person who had it had everything. The person who lacked it lived in an invisible prison of someone else’s making.

  Such were the thoughts that occupied the free trapper as he made his way toward home and hearth. Preoccupied as he was, he almost missed spotting the fresh horse tracks he came upon when still several miles from his cabin.

  Drawing rein in alarm, Nate studied them closely. He counted nine riders, all tolled. None of their mounts had been shod, which indicated they were Indians. And they were heading in the same direction he was.

  Nate urgently brought the black stallion to a gallop. Nine warriors were too many for a simple hunting party; it must be a war party. There was an outside chance they were Shoshones, his adopted people. But they might also be Blackfeet or Piegans or Utes, hostiles who would exterminate his family without a second thought.

  Filled with fear for those he loved, Nathaniel King sped like the wind on down the valley, his ears straining to hear the war whoops he prayed would not shatter the serenity of his mountain retreat.

  Once, years ago, a major by the name of Stephen Long had been commissioned by the United States Government to survey a portion of the vast unknown western stretches with an eye to finding the source of the Arkansas, Red and Platte Rivers.

  Long ran into some problems. He had a hard time telling which river was which. He never found the source of the Arkansas and wrongly thought the Canadian River was the Red River.

  The major confusion was not limited to waterways. On reaching the Rockies, he mistook a high peak for the one previously discovered by Zebulon Pike, even though Pike’s Peak was far to the south.

  On his return to civilization, Long produced a map of his travels, which became the standard for many years to come. On it, he labeled the prairie as the “Great American Desert” and compared it to the immense sandy deserts of Africa. The plains were, in his opinion, “uninhabitable by a people depending on agriculture.”

  The peak he ‘discovered’ became known among the mountaineers as Long’s Peak, and it was north of there, in a picturesque lateral valley ridged by lofty mountains and dominated b
y a beautiful lake, that Nate King had settled.

  The cabin was not his originally. Nate’s uncle had built it and had intended to set down roots, but a vengeful Ute had made wolf meat of Ezekiel.

  Since taking it over, Nate had made many improvements. Among them were genuine glass windows. Imported from the States at great cost and brought in on a caravan from St. Louis, they were the talk of the trapping fraternity.

  Most free trappers either lived with Indians or lived Indian-fashion in lodges or dugouts they abandoned at the end of each winter. Few went to all the bother Zeke had done in erecting a sturdy cabin. And none had gone to the lengths of Nate King in improving their cabin to where it resembled an ordinary home.

  At the annual rendezvous, Nate’s peers were not above ribbing him about his homestead. They sincerely thought it strange that he would go to so much bother. And they weren’t the only ones. Nate’s wife thought it strange, too.

  Winona King had never quite become accustomed to living in a cabin. Having been reared in a succession of buffalo hide tepees, she had been absolutely flabbergasted when her new husband had proposed they move into the ‘wooden lodge.’

  She could still remember that first day, over twelve winters ago, when she had spent all of an afternoon wandering around in a daze, running her hands over the smooth logs and the stone fireplace and the floor and the furniture.

  It had amazed her that her husband did not desire a lodge that could be taken down and transported to new sites as the need arose.

  Her people, the Shoshones, migrated over a wide area throughout the year, and it had taken considerable adjustment on her part to accept Nate’s plan to stay in one place not only for an entire winter, but for the rest of their lives. Secretly, she had wondered if perhaps he was in his right mind.

  Now she was grateful to him.

  Winona stood at the long counter Nate had built, chopping roots she planned to add to the soup she was making for their supper, and grinned as she stared out the window at her son.

  It was nice having the glass. The pane kept out dust and bugs, yet let them see what was taking place outdoors.

  And it was nice having solid walls instead of hides, which constantly had to be mended or replaced.

  Likewise, Winona appreciated having the stone fireplace. It kept the cabin much warmer during the coldest weather than the fire in a hide lodge ever had.

  Winona gazed over a shoulder at her infant daughter, who rested quietly in a cradleboard, and smiled. “I guess I am fortunate to have a husband who goes to so much trouble for us, little one,” she said in impeccable English.

  Evelyn cooed and gurgled.

  It had taken many moons for Winona to master the white tongue, and she was rightfully proud of her accomplishment. Nate liked to brag that she spoke English better than he did. If that was true, she had him to thank, for he had spent many days and nights teaching her.

  Through the window, Winona could see her son busy making arrows. He owned a rifle and pistol and he was a crack shot, but long ago Nate had decided that they should ration their ammunition as much as possible by using traditional Shoshone weapons when they hunted close to home.

  Their safety was an added consideration. The sound of a shot could carry for miles in the rarified air at higher elevations, and if heard by a roving war party would draw them like a flame drew moths. By using quieter weapons, they eliminated that risk.

  Winona finished chopping the last root, set down the knife, and wiped her hands on a cloth towel. Taking the cradleboard, she walked out into the bright sunlight.

  “How soon do you reckon Pa will be back, Ma?” young Zachary King interrupted his work to ask.

  “Before the sun sets,” Winona said, remembering the promise Nate had given her. Squatting, she slid the wide straps attached to the sides of the cradleboard over her arms so that the cradleboard rested against her back. From a bench by the door she took a wooden pail “Care to join us?”

  “Sure,” Zach replied, glad to have an excuse to stretch his legs. He had been working on arrows since noon and needed a break. As he rose he thought of his rifle in the cabin but decided not to fetch it. They were only going to the lake, and he had his pistol.

  The well-worn trail wound through pines to the water’s edge. As usual, plenty of ducks, geese and brants were in evidence. Overhead, gulls wheeled and squawked.

  This was the second trip Winona had made that day. Needing water for the soup, she knelt and dipped the pail in.

  Runoff from the ring of adjacent peaks fed the lake. Year round the water was ice cold and so clear that a person on the shore could see the bottom a dozen yards out. Winona spied a school of small fish being shadowed by a larger one.

  Zach moved a few feet off and idly regarded the forest to the west. He had something on his mind that he was reluctant to bring up, so rather than get right to the point, he approached the subject in a roundabout manner. “I’ve been meaning to ask you a question,” he commented as casually as he could.

  “Which is?” Winona responded. She looked at him and was taken aback when he averted his gaze.

  “I was wondering if we’ll go live with the Shoshones over the summer like we always do?”

  It was a peculiar question. Each and every year since Winona’s son had been born, they had made it a point to spend two or three months with Winona’s people. She insisted on it, in order that Zach might learn their customs and traditions. “Of course we will, Stalking Coyote.”

  “Do you think Plenty Coups’s band will spend time with Spotted Bull’s again this year?”

  Spotted Bull was Winona’s uncle. He had been like a second father to her since the death of his brother at the hands of the Blackfeet. Morning Dove, his wife, and Willow Woman, his daughter, were two of the best friends Winona had.

  The previous Buck Moon and Heat Moon, another band had joined Spotted Bull’s on the banks of the Green River. Plenty Coups was their leader. He was as highly respected as her uncle, who had recently become chief after the death of old Broken Paw, and the two had become fast friends.

  None of which explained why Winona’s son was so interested in whether the two bands would get together again. She slowly lifted the heavy pail, then straightened. The sight of the swirling water under the dripping pail reminded her of an incident that solved the mystery.

  It had been during the waning sleeps of the Heat Moon the previous year. The two bands had been about to go their separate ways. Winona and Nate had also been about to say their good-byes and return to their cabin, so she had gone in search of Zach. She had found him on a knoll close to the river, just sitting there with his arms draped over his knees and an odd pained expression on his face. He had jumped up when she’d spoken his name and acted embarrassed that she had caught him there. Why, she hadn’t known. Until this very moment.

  For it was only now that Winona recalled there had been others at the river that day. Three older girls had been south of the knoll, washing garments. She had not made the connection because her son had never shown any interest in females, but suddenly she understood.

  “I expect Plenty Coups will be there,” Winona mentioned matter-of-factly. “Perhaps he will invite us to his lodge for a feast as he did the last time.”

  Zach held his tongue. He didn’t want his mother to suspect that he had grown uncommonly fond of one of the chief’s daughters and had been pining for her all during the previous fall and winter. He didn’t want anyone to know. The overwhelming feeling that had come over him when he had set eyes on her for the first time was unlike any he had ever felt before. It bothered him immensely.

  Her mouth quirked, Winona started back up the trail. She would have to tell Nate and counsel with him on how best to handle their son’s awakening manhood.

  It was a subject they had discussed before, and Winona knew that Nate was not in favor of their son marrying early. He wanted Zach to, as he put it, “see more of the world” before settling down, a notion she regarded as silly. Wh
at difference would it make in the long run?

  No matter how Nate or she felt, when Zach was ready, he would take a mate, and nothing she or Nate said would dissuade him. Love would run its own course. It always had, it always would.

  A pair of ravens abruptly winged low over their heads, the steady beat of their wings bringing Winona out of her reverie. She watched the birds sail westward, in the direction her husband had taken, and hoped he was all right. Wolverines were not to be taken lightly.

  She should know, since she had fought one once, many winters ago. It had been during one of Nate’s frequent absences, before the children were born, and she had been lucky to survive its onslaught. Years had passed since last she thought of it.

  Such encounters happened all too often in the wilderness. So often that whites and Indians alike tended to take them for granted.

  In any given month, Winona might spy two or three grizzlies in the vicinity of the lake. Black bears were also regular visitors, as were panthers and wolves. Any one of them would attack her without warning if they were in the mood, but she never fretted over the likelihood. They were simply part and parcel of her everyday life, hazards to be prudently avoided. And when that wasn’t possible, she was prepared to defend her life and the lives of her loved ones with her dying breath if need be.

  As if on cue, to the north rose a guttural cough. Winona halted and scoured the valley without result.

  “That sounded like a griz to me,” Zach mentioned as he placed a hand on the smooth butt of his pistol. He wished now that he had brought his rifle. No pistol made was capable of dropping one of the lords of the wild with a single shot, and it was doubtful a charging bear would give him time to reload.

  Evelyn squirmed in the cradleboard, prompting Winona to hurry on. Some of the water in the pail sloshed over the rim onto her legs, so she gripped the handle in both hands and held the pail in front of her to steady it.