Wilderness Double Edition 11 Page 19

  Winona was glad that their second child had turned out to be a girl. Boys were fine—she loved Zach as dearly as she did Evelyn—but it was nice to have a girl she could rear as her mother had reared her. She looked forward to passing on the many lessons she had learned at Morning Dew’s knee.

  Over at the string of tethered horses, Zach King was grooming his pinto. It was a nightly ritual of his ever since his father traded for the animal.

  The terrible incident in the canyon had dampened Zach’s enthusiasm. Try as he might, he couldn’t get the awful image of the young warrior going down under that boulder from his mind. But for the grace of the good Lord, that might have been him, or his mother, or his father. It impressed him as nothing else could that the raid should not be treated as a lark. It was a serious, grave affair which might result in the deaths of all of them if they weren’t almighty careful.

  Suddenly Zach became aware that he was no longer alone. Turning, he was startled to find He Dog a few yards off, regarding him with open disdain. He ignored the hothead and went back to stroking the pinto with a horsehair brush.

  Footsteps came closer. The Crow uttered a mocking laugh.

  Zach slowly turned again. The warrior was so close that he could smell the bear fat in He Dog’s hair. Making his face as blank as a slate, he set the brush on the pinto’s back and signed, “Question. You want?”

  He Dog shouldered Zach aside to stand next to the mount. “You call this a horse, white dog?” he signed haughtily. “I would not give it to a girl to ride.”

  Anger flared in Zach and he clenched his fists. He was all set to take a swing when it occurred to him that might be exactly what the warrior wanted him to do. He Dog was goading him into a fight, probably counting on his father to rush over and get involved.

  Plastering a fake smile on his face, Zach said in English, “Why, you mangy polecat. You’re plumb no account any way I lay my sights. If you had any brains, you’d know that getting my pa riled is as dumb as can be.” Switching to Shoshone, he added, “Your heart is as foul as buffalo droppings. If I were a warrior, I would kill you and be done with you.”

  He Dog glared. He did not need to understand either language to know that he had been insulted. He raised an arm as if to backhand the boy, then looked up, frowned, and walked off without another gesture.

  Bull Standing With Cow strolled up. His kindly eyes conveyed regret, and something more. “I saw, Stalking Coyote,” he signed. “If I did not need his help so much, I would tell him to leave. Please bear with him until my daughter is safe.”

  “I will try,” Zach promised.

  An awkward few moments went by. Bull Standing With Cow sighed and patted the mare. “My daughter is not much older than you,” he signed. “She was just taking an interest in boys. In another winter she would have married, and in two or three I would have grandchildren to sit on my knee.”

  “It can still happen. We will save her. Watch and see.”

  The Crow father gazed into the darkness. “I wish I had your confidence, Stalking Coyote. But I have lived too long. I know that good intentions do not always insure events will turn out as we would like them to. Sometimes matters are taken out of our hands.”

  “We will do all we can to help you. You know that.”

  “Yes,” Bull Standing With Cow signed. “Your father is an honorable man. The Shoshones think highly of him. The Utes, too, I hear. As do my people. He is like the Blanket Chief, straight and true in all he does.”

  The Blanket Chief, Zach knew, was a mountain man named Jim Bridger, perhaps the single most widely respected white man living west of the Mississippi. The warrior had given his father quite a compliment.

  Over by the fire, Nate King rose. He saw his son signing to Bull Standing With Cow but could not make out what was being said. Picking up his Hawken, he strolled to the river.

  The night was moonless. A pall of gloom hung over the camp, befitting the mood of the Crows.

  Nate spied the silhouette of his wife against the lighter backdrop of the river. Her gaze was on the myriad of stars sparkling like jewels in the inky firmament. “Are you fixing to spend the whole night in this spot?” he joked.

  Winona grinned. “It is so peaceful here, husband. Our daughter is sound asleep and I do not want to disturb her yet.”

  Sinking down and crossing his legs in front of him, Nate listened to the whisper of the current and the sigh of the wind in the cottonwoods. “I see what you mean,” he commented softly. The tension drained out of him like water from a sieve and he leaned back on his hands. “I hope to high heaven we haven’t bitten off more than we can chew,” he voiced his uppermost concern.

  “Are you worried?”

  “I’d be speaking with two tongues if I claimed otherwise. But we’ve gone up against worse. I reckon we can handle whatever comes along.”

  Of the many traits her husband possessed that Winona King admired, his perseverance in the face of adversity was foremost. When up against an insurmountable obstacle, he liked to say, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” And then he would go on to overcome it.

  Winona tenderly placed her hand on his wrist and leaned over to peck him on the jaw. “I am sure you are right,” she whispered.

  Nate kissed her lightly on the lips. Two of her fingers traced the outline of his knuckles and he could feel the smooth flesh at the tips where formerly her nails had been.

  Years ago, shortly after they met, Winona’s parents had been slain by Blackfeet. In keeping with Shoshone custom, as a token of her grief, she had chopped the ends off of a couple of fingers on her left hand. There had been a time when the mere thought of her sacrifice would have caused Nate to break out in goosebumps. But no longer. He had grown to accept the custom, just as he had grown to accept a great many things he once had branded as plain obscene.

  Life was warped in that regard. Back in the States there were plenty of whites who hated Indians simply because they were different. Savages, the whites called them. Yet if those who did the name calling could spend some time with those they hated so much, they’d learn, just as Nate had, that when all was said and done, the red man and the white man were closer kin than most would admit.

  “I think tomorrow Zach and I will take turns riding behind everyone else,” Winona mentioned.

  “So you can keep better tabs on He Dog and his pard,” Nate guessed.

  “It is not wise to have an enemy riding at your back. You never know when you might sprout more arrows than a porcupine has quills.”

  Nate chuckled. “Goodness gracious, dearest. You’re starting to sound a lot like Shakespeare McNair.”

  “I wish he were with us now.”

  “So do I.” Nate missed his closest friend and mentor greatly. A few moons back Shakespeare and his Flathead wife, Blue Water Woman, had gone on a long delayed visit to her people. Shakespeare had told him it would be unlikely they’d be back at their cabin, located about twenty-five miles north of the King homestead, until the first leaves started to fall.

  Evelyn stirred, and Winona reached down to cover the infant’s face. As she straightened, she peered through the trees toward the prairie and tensed. “Husband, look.”

  Far out on the plain, barely visible, flickered a dancing point of light.

  “Another camp fire,” Nate realized. He almost jumped up and dashed to their own fire to put it out. But it was small and shielded by the vegetation. He doubted whoever was out there had spotted the pale glow. “I’d best have a talk with Two Humps. The Crows have to help take turns keeping watch tonight, whether they like the notion or not.”

  Winona took his hand as he rose. “No matter what happens on our journey, I want you to know you have done the right thing. You make me proud to be your woman.”

  “Thanks,” Nate said. He didn’t add that if anything happened to their children or her, knowing he had done right would be damn small consolation. Yet he was thinking it.

  Five

  The spot was easy t
o find, thanks to the acrid scent of smoke lingering in the brisk morning air and the spiraling white tendrils that wafted upward now and again from the smoldering embers of the camp fire.

  Nate crouched in high grass a score of feet away and scanned the vicinity. Even at that distance he knew white men had been responsible. The charred remains formed a wide circle, indicating the fire had been a big one. And only white men made fires so large that they dared not get too close for fear of being singed. Indians invariably built small ones so they could sit close to the flames to keep warm.

  Rising, Nate cautiously emerged from cover. It puzzled him that the camp had been made right out in the open in a small-flattened area rather than in a gully or near a knoll where there would have been protection from the stiff night winds and hostile eyes would have been less apt to spot the blaze. No mountain man worthy of the name would have camped there. It had to have been greenhorns, Nate reasoned.

  The trapper found tracks, but they only added to his puzzlement. There was one set, and one set alone. Boot prints, judging by the size and shape. And the man had been afoot. There was not a single hoof track anywhere.

  Nate hunkered and scratched his chin, pondering. The boots confirmed his hunch about a greenhorn being to blame. Experienced mountaineers preferred lightweight moccasins to unwieldy store bought footwear.

  It bothered Nate that the man was afoot. Being stranded without a horse was a certain death warrant for any man not able to fend for himself. The wilderness was a harsh taskmaster. Those not able to wrestle with the wild on its own terms inevitably paid for their weakness with their lives.

  The tracks bore eastward. Evidently the man was on his way back to civilization. But for him to expect to cross the vast prairie on foot was akin to expecting a miracle. Grizzlies and other predators were more numerous than fleas on an old coonhound. And hostiles were everywhere.

  Rising, Nate held his Hawken aloft and waved it from side to side, the signal they had agreed on if it was safe for the rest to join him. They were hidden in a wash over a hundred yards off and promptly appeared, riding abreast, with Zach leading the black stallion.

  “What did you find?” Winona asked as she drew rein.

  Nate explained in sign language, pointing out the tracks as he did. Then he surprised the Crows by signing, “I would like to speak to this white man. He left a short while ago, so it should not take long for us to catch up with him.”

  He Dog promptly objected. “What do we care about this stupid white man? Bull Standing With Cow’s daughter is more important. I say we press on. This will only delay us.”

  Nate faced the father. “He Dog has a point. The decision should be yours. If you want, the rest of you can ride to the northeast and I will overtake you before the sun is straight overhead.”

  The Crow reflected a few moments. “A short delay will not matter much. And I do not want us to be separated. We will all go after this white man.”

  “Thank you,” Nate said sincerely. Forking leather, he galloped on the greenhorn’s trail. The man had not made good time. Within ten minutes Nate spied a solitary figure plodding along under the brilliant sun.

  “I should go on ahead,” Nate signed. “He might shoot if he mistakes us for enemies.”

  “Can I tag along, Pa?” Zach asked. He was burning with curiosity to learn more about the stranger. Other than the annual rendezvous and regular visits by his Uncle Shakespeare, encounters with white men were few and far between.

  “No,” Nate replied, deliberately looking at He Dog. “You’d best stay here with your ma.” He rode off before the hothead or Runs Against could complain, holding to a trot until he was close enough for the greenhorn to hear him.

  Since Nate was not partial to being shot at, he hollered in greeting, “Hold up there, friend! I’d like a few words with you!”

  The man slowly stopped and turned. His movements were awkward and sluggish, as if he were drunk. His eyes narrowed and he peered uncertainly around him as if he could not see well.

  Nate moved closer. He was shocked to discover the man was unarmed. No rifle, no pistol, no knife, nothing. Other than a worn set of grungy woolen clothes and a leather possibles bag, the man had no possessions whatsoever. “I mean you no harm. I’m a white man, like you.”

  The greenhorn’s thin lips quirked upward. “White?” he croaked.

  Nate came to a halt. He’d come across men on the verge of starvation before and recognized the signs. The sluggishness and confusion were typical. Plus the man was skin and bones, the clothes hanging limp on his wasted frame. “My handle is Nate King. I’m a free trapper. Who might you be, hoss?”

  “Emmet Carter,” the man rasped. His eyes commenced to water, but whether from the sunlight or because he was crying, Nate couldn’t tell.

  “Well, Emmet, it appears to me that you could use some help. What in blazes are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere all by your lonesome?”

  Carter licked his lips and coughed. “I’m heading home, to Maryland.”

  “You fixing to walk the whole way, are you?”

  “My horse was stolen by Injuns. They took practically everything. My supplies, my guns, my water skin.” Carter sniffled. “It was the last straw, King. A man can only take so much.”

  Nate slid down. The greenhorn was swaying and his hands shook as if with palsy. “Let me guess. You came west thinking you’d make your fortune in plews, and you struck off for the Rockies on your own?”

  Carter nodded. His cheeks were slick with tears. “But you found out the hard way that trapping isn’t all its cracked up to be. I’ll bet you hardly caught any beaver.”

  “Just one,” the man said, “and then I couldn’t cure the damn hide right. It got all stiff and hard on me.”

  It was the same old story Nate had heard dozens of times, with minor variations. Back in the States, certain so-called journalists and other unscrupulous types were filling the heads of young men with all sorts of lies and half-truths about the glorious life of wealth and leisure awaiting anyone who spent just a few years trapping for a living. The fact was that free trappers never made more than enough to get by, while company trappers made a pittance.

  The only ones who got rich off the fur trade were the heads of the big fur enterprises. But that was the way it had always been, in all facets of life. Those with money lorded it over those without, and arranged things so that more and more wealth flowed into their hands at the expense of honest hard-working souls who were trod under their financial heels. Or, to put it more succinctly, the rich stayed rich and the poor made them richer.

  “You must be hungry,” Nate declared, offering a piece of pemmican from his possibles bag.

  Carter snatched it and bit off half in one bite. He chewed greedily, groaning all the while.

  “Tell me,” Nate coaxed, “when was the last time you had something to eat or drink?”

  “I can’t remember. I think it was three days ago.”

  “Then have a seat and I’ll treat you to some of the best jerky this side of the Divide. My wife made it herself.” Nate helped the greenhorn sit and stepped to his horse to open a parfleche.

  “I don’t know how to thank you, mister,” Carter said, his voice quavering with emotion. “You have no idea the nightmare I’ve been through.” He sniffled some more, louder than before. “To tell you the truth, I can’t quite believe this is happening. I half think I’m dreaming this whole thing, that in a few minutes I’ll wake up and find I’ve been chewing on grass or some such.”

  “Don’t fret yourself. This coon is real enough.” Nate gave him a half-dozen thick slices of jerky. “Your guardian angel must be watching over you, mister. Another day, and you would have keeled over and never gotten up again. You must be mighty tough to have made it this far.”

  The compliment had the opposite effect than Nate intended. Unexpectedly, Emmet Carter broke down and bawled like a distraught baby. He cried and cried, his face buried in his arms, blubbering and wheezing unt
il he had cried himself dry. At length he wiped his nose with the back of a dirty sleeve and looked up. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you for saving my life.”

  “You’re not out of the woods yet, hoss. Were it up to me, I’d take you back to my cabin and fatten you up, give you a chance to regain your strength. Then in a month or so I’d escort you to Bent’s Fort so you could hitch up with the next caravan back to Fort Leavenworth.”

  “You can’t do that?” Carter asked, a forlorn note hinting at a sudden panic that salvation was about to be denied him. He glanced at the stallion, and for a moment it seemed as if he contemplated leaping erect and trying to ride off before Nate could stop him. But he stayed where he was.

  Over the next several minutes Nate filled the man in about the Crows and the rescue mission to save Fetches Water.

  The greenhorn listened intently, his mouth constantly crammed with jerky. “These Crows are friendly, you say?” he asked when the mountain man concluded.

  “Friendly enough, although one or two of them would slit your throat as soon as look at you,” Nate conceded. “But the only way out of the fix you’re in is for you to throw in with us. Once we have the Crow girl safe, we can get you to William Bent, a friend of mine.”

  Emmet Carter never hesitated. “I don’t have much choice, do I? Bring on the Crows, King.”

  So Nate did. Another council had to be held, conducted in sign for his benefit. The two troublemakers objected vigorously to having the greenhorn along, but Two Humps overruled them. So long as the man did not slow them down, the venerable leader had no objections. Nor did Bull Standing With Cow.

  In an hour they were on their way, Carter riding double with Zach. The boy was glad to make the man’s acquaintance. He had never met anyone from Maryland before and asked dozens of questions about the greenhorn’s life there.

  Nate and Winona overheard most of the talk. They learned that Carter was the son of a shoemaker, that he had balked at following in his father’s footsteps and decided to strike off on his own. So he’d spent every last penny he had to outfit himself as a trapper and lit a shuck for parts unknown.