Wilderness Giant Edition 6 Page 2

  Across the lake birds erupted in throaty chorus, while on the north shore a small herd of elk slaked their thirst. In the vicinity of the cabin, located west of the lake, songbirds did not utter a peep. Deer, rabbits, and the like were conspicuous by their absence.

  It led Nate to believe that the war party was still close by. As the shadows retreated under the onslaught of dawn, he sought some sign of the men who had shot at him.

  Presently, a golden crown rimmed the eastern horizon. Under normal circumstances Nate would have been entranced by the spectacular vista of lofty peaks, forested slopes, and a blazing solar arch.

  “Where are they?” Zach wondered, craning his neck to see better.

  “Keep your head down!” Nate exclaimed, giving his son a none-too-gentle shove. “Haven’t I taught you better than that?” In the mountains, being impulsive was as bad as being careless. Either could get a body killed.

  “Sorry, Pa,” Zach said. He knew better. He was just tired of standing around twiddling his thumbs. “But shouldn’t we do something?”

  “I aim to, shortly,” Nate informed him. They had enough food and water on hand to last for days, if need be. So it was not urgent that they break out. Being cooped up, though, rankled him. He would much rather take the fight to the enemy than sit there and wait for the war party to bring the fight to them.

  Winona had overheard, and turned. “What do you plan to do, husband?” she inquired in her impeccable English.

  “Go for my morning stroll,” Nate replied with a grin.

  “And be rubbed out? No.” Winona gestured. “We have the advantage here. They cannot get at us except through the door, and they cannot get close to it without being spotted. It is best for all of us to stay inside.”

  “I don’t fancy being hemmed in,” Nate confessed.

  “No.”

  If his marriage had taught Nate anything, it was that there was no arguing with a woman once she made up her mind. A man could talk himself hoarse. He could rant and rail. He could even pout and plead. But it went in one ear and out the other.

  One tactic, and one alone, sometimes worked. As stubborn as a woman could be, she was usually willing to bow to irrefutable logic. “We’ve held our own so far, true,” he said, “but what if more show up? I say we drive these off now, while we still can.” Winona gnawed her lower lip. She hated to admit it, but he had a point.

  “The two of you can cover me,” Nate proposed. “Once I’m in the trees, close the door and don’t open it again unless I holler.”

  “I don’t know ...” Winona hedged.

  Nate backed to the table to give himself a running start. “Time’s wasting,” he said.

  Reluctantly, Winona switched positions, taking up his post by the door. As she passed him, she brazenly kissed her man full on the mouth. “Take care, Grizzly Killer.”

  “Always,” Nate said, and hurtled on out.

  Two

  “I swear!” declared Shakespeare McNair. “I must not have been paying attention when the Almighty asked us to line up so he could pass out brains.” His piercing blue eyes shifted to the lovely Flathead who rode beside him. When she offered no comment, he growled deep in his throat like a riled griz and said, “You’re supposed to speak in my defense. Point out that everyone forgets things now and again.”

  Blue Water Woman bestowed an amused look on him. “I am? Sorry, husband. I did not see the need since everyone knows that you have been searching for your brains ever since.”

  “Wench!” Shakespeare huffed.

  His wife’s merry laughter tinkled on the wayward breeze. They were winding down a series of low hills bordering the high country valley that was home to the man Shakespeare regarded more as a son than a friend. “I just hope Nate finds it before Evelyn does,” he said. “She’s liable to use it to dig in the dirt or some such nonsense.”

  “It will wash clean,” Blue Water Woman said, running a hand through her shoulder-length hair. In recent years more and more gray had speckled the black; her temples were completely silver.

  “Easy for you to act so clam,” Shakespeare carped. “It’s not your favorite pipe.”

  “I do not smoke,” Blue Water Woman reminded him matter-of-factly. “And as I have often begged you, I wish you would stop. It smells up the cabin.”

  Shakespeare adopted a pained expression and put a hand to his brow as if he were in torment. “How long shall I be patient?” he quoted from King Richard II. “Ah, how long shall tender duty make me suffer wrong?”

  “I did not hear you complaining the last time we made love.”

  Acting shocked, Shakespeare said, “Hussy!” Then he launched into another quote. “O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face! Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant! Fiend Angelical! Dove feathered raven! Wolfish-ravening—” Abruptly stopping, he rose in the saddle and scanned the valley.

  “What is wrong?” Blue Water Woman inquired.

  “Something ain’t quite right,” Shakespeare answered. He could not say exactly what, but the valley was ... different ... somehow.

  East of them the sun was rising. Starkly revealed in the golden glare, the surface of the lake sparkled a rich blue. The pines were a striking green. It was hard to conceive of a more tranquil scene. Shakespeare pursed his lips, thinking he must be mistaken.

  Then Blue Water Woman straightened. “There is no smoke,” she said.

  Shakespeare tensed. By this time of the morning the King family would normally be up and about, and Winona would be fixing breakfast. It was a daily routine, never broken. He should be able to see the smoke that curled from their chimney, even if he couldn’t see the cabin. Yet there was none. “I don’t like it,” he said, and jabbed his heels into his white mare.

  At a brisk pace they descended to the valley floor, Shakespeare with his Hawken resting across his thighs, Blue Water Woman carrying hers in the crook of her left elbow.

  McNair hated to think that harm might have come to the Kings. He’d never own up to it, but he loved all four of them as if they were his own flesh and blood. He was so much a part of their family, the kids had been calling him “Uncle Shakespeare” since they were knee-high to a grasshopper.

  It was ironic how life worked out sometimes. Years back, when Nate’s real uncle, Ezekiel King, had claimed the valley as his own, Shakespeare had been a mite irritated. He hadn’t liked the notion of having a neighbor so close. Some might say he was making a mountain out of the proverbial molehill, since their cabins were twenty-five miles apart. But at the time, to Shakespeare’s way of thinking, Zeke had been crowding him.

  As it turned out, they had become fast friends. Shakespeare had taught Zeke everything he knew. Later, when Zeke lured Nate to the Rockies under false pretenses and then had the unmitigated gall to die on the boy, Shakespeare had taken Nate under his wing.

  They shared a bond few easterners would understand, forged in adversity, tempered by hardship, seasoned by mutual affection. They had grown as close as two peas in a pod. If anything ever happened to Nate or Winona or the kids, Shakespeare would take it mighty hard.

  So he spurred the mare across the flats, winding among trees and vaulting logs with a skill few men half his age could boast. Blue Water Woman stayed right on the mare’s heels, her long hair flying.

  Shakespeare considered himself fortunate to be her mate. They’d first met and fallen in love shortly after his first trek to the mountains, way back in ’98. Cruel circumstance had separated them, and it wasn’t until many years later that they were reunited.

  Sharing his life with her was literal heaven on earth. It never ceased to amaze him that now, in his waning years, when his joints ached half the time and his mane of hair and bristling beard were as white as driven snow, he had finally found supreme happiness.

  The sight of someone moving along the north shore of the lake caused Shakespeare to raise his rifle. Slowing, he pointed, then said softly, “Go to the cabin. See if they’re all right. Fire a shot if yo
u need me.”

  Nodding, Blue Water Woman angled to the southwest. Shakespeare kept going until he was within a few hundred yards of the lake. Dismounting, he tied the reins to a low limb.

  Due to the dense brush, Shakespeare had lost sight of the figure. His best guess was that he was due north of where he had last seen the man. So, making nary a sound, he snuck forward.

  If someone were giving the Kings grief, Shakespeare would make damn sure the varmint lived to regret it. He’d die before he would let them come to harm.

  It scared him to think about it. Which was strange, given that he had seen more than his share of massacres and rank butchery over the years. Why, once up in the Missouri River country, he had stumbled on a party of trappers, or what was left of them after the Bloods got through. It had made him physically sick.

  Then there was the time Shakespeare witnessed a clash between a band of about seventy Blackfeet and a village of Crows. He had been visiting the Crows when the alarm was given. Apparently, the Blackfeet had tried to make off with dozens of Crow horses and been caught in the act.

  Outnumbered ten to one, the Blackfeet had retreated to the brow of a hill, fighting furiously the whole way. There, protected by a circle of boulders on three sides and a cliff to the west, they had dug in.

  Again and again the Crows had tried to roust the Blackfeet from their refuge. Again and again the Crows were thrown back with great losses.

  It had reached the point where the Crow leaders called a council. Many advocated giving up. That was when a black man, Edward Rose, who had lived among them for decades, stood and made an impassioned speech, saying that the Crows had small hearts, that if they abandoned the attack, other tribes would say Crow men were no more to be feared than old women. Rose fired the Crows to a fever pitch. And when he was done, those warriors streamed out of the village and up into the natural fort like a horde of rabid wolves.

  The battle had been unforgettable. There was no describing the sheer ferocity, the brutal savagery.

  Crammed into a space no bigger than an acre, the two sides had bashed, slashed, hacked, and rent one another with knives, tomahawks, eyedaggs, and war clubs until the grass ran scarlet and men slipped on slick puddles of warm blood.

  From a vantage point on an adjoining hill, Shakespeare had observed the carnage in awed silence. At length the remaining Blackfeet had been forced to the crest of the low cliff. Some jumped. Some slid down.

  At the bottom, twenty or so formed a compact square and tried to fight through to the north, but there were simply too many Crows. Side by side, the Blackfeet cut and smashed. Side by side, they died.

  At length the last Blackfoot dropped. Shakespeare had thought that would be the end of it, but he was mistaken. For the Crows then proceeded to gather all the wounded Blackfeet and torment them.

  Ears, noses, hands, and feet were all sliced off. Eyes were gouged out, tongues removed. But the worst had been when their bellies were slit wide and their intestines plucked out and strung on the ground like so many greasy, gory loops of rope.

  To be fair to the Crows, they had suffered repeated degradations, losing many lives and horses to raiding Blackfeet. The two tribes were bitter, mortal enemies, and likely always would be.

  Still, it had been a sobering lesson. From that day on, Shakespeare had always been ready and willing to take his own life rather than fall into the hands of hostile Indians. Better a quick, painless death than to suffer the unbearable torture of the damned.

  A glimpse of buckskin dropped Shakespeare into a crouch. The scent of water was strong. Out on the lake, a fish splashed. Ducks quacked, geese honked.

  Relying on all the stealth at his command, Shakespeare moved to a patch of high weeds rimming a bank that overlooked the shore. Parting the weeds with the barrel of his Hawken, he rose a trifle higher—and found himself staring into the muzzle of a cocked rifle.

  “One of these days you’re going to get yourself shot, acting the fool like you do,” Nate King stated.

  “You!” Shakespeare said, rendered numb by an equal mix of elation and embarrassment. Embarrassment prevailed. “What’s gotten into you, you ornery young coon? Don’t you know any better than to point guns at your best friends? And what in tarnation are you doing traipsing around half-naked? Where’s your hunting shirt and your moccasins?”

  “We were attacked last night.”

  Shakespeare promptly sobered and rose. “Anyone hurt?”

  “No, thank God. We held them off until first light. I made a break for the trees, and when no one tried to part my hair with lead, I went looking for them. They’re long gone, I’m afraid.”

  “Following their sign, are you?”

  Nate indicated tracks close to the water’s edge. “There were two of them. One wore boots, the other moccasins. Strangest footwear I ever did see.”

  “How so?”

  “See for yourself.”

  The men who made the prints had been running. One wore peculiar high-heeled boots with spiked toes. The other wore moccasins with soles wider than any Shakespeare had ever seen. The stitching, too, clearly imprinted in a muddy spot, was new to him.

  The toes of the boots were slanted outward; those of the moccasins were slanted inward.

  “I’ll be switched,” Shakespeare said. “One of them was white, the other an Indian.”

  Nate rested the stock of his Hawken on the ground. “They left a couple of hours before dawn. By now they’re miles from here.”

  “Are you cutting out after them?”

  “What do you think?”

  Shakespeare smirked. “Count me in, hoss. If you’re going to get into a racket, I want to be there to cover your hind end.”

  Nate had no objection. He was glad his mentor had showed up. “Don’t take this wrong, but what in the world are you doing back so soon, anyway? Next moon, you said before you left.”

  “I forgot my pipe.”

  “Oh. That’s right,” Nate said, leading the way to the west. “Evelyn came across it under the table. She took it outside and was digging in the dirt when Winona happened to notice.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “It’s still in one piece. I cleaned it myself, and put it on the shelf above our bed.”

  A flurry of flapping wings announced the arrival of a flock of goldeneyes. A variety of ducks called the lake home, along with throngs of geese and a few gulls. High in the azure sky a majestic bald eagle soared, waiting for fish to rise near the surface. To the west, a red hawk circled over the pines.

  “What I would like to know,” Shakespeare said, “is who would be after your hide? Have you made some new enemies lately?”

  The same question had been plaguing Nate. “Not that I’m aware of,” he grimly responded. And to his knowledge, no one he had ever met wore shoes or moccasins like those of the mysterious pair who had invaded his mountain sanctuary. He couldn’t wait to catch up to them.

  “Fie! Fie!” Shakespeare quoted. “Unknit that threatening unkind brow. And dart not scornful glances from those eyes.” He clapped the younger man on the back. “Brace up, son. Put a smile on your face.”

  “A smile?”

  “For the sake of the womenfolk and the sprouts.” Shakespeare started up the narrow trail that linked the lake to the homestead. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, I swear. But it won’t do to upset them any .more than they already are.”

  Nate bowed to his mentor’s wisdom and plastered a wan grin on his face. He pretended to be in jovial spirits as they strode within view of the cabin. It was well he did. Winona and the children were apprehensively awaiting his return. The children broke out in smiles and rushed down to greet their uncle.

  “Carcajou! Carcajou!” Evelyn squealed. It was French for “wolverine,” the name bestowed on McNair by fellow trappers more years ago than he cared to recollect.

  “Little darling!” Shakespeare said, bracing himself. True to form, she threw herself into his arms like a pint-sized battering ram, nearly bowling
him over. He hugged her, more glad than words could express that all of them were unhurt. He’d lost so many friends since the early days. So very, very many.

  Winona walked to Nate and jabbed a thumb toward the corral. “Your stallion is saddled. I put pemmican and jerky in a parfleche.”

  Nate marveled at her uncanny knack for predicting what he would do. She seemed to know him better than he knew himself. “It shouldn’t take long to overtake them if I leave right away,” he said.

  “Go, then. We will be fine.”

  Hastening indoors to don the rest of his clothes, Nate discovered Blue Water Woman preparing breakfast. Before he got a word out of his mouth, she asked, “Is my husband going with you?”

  How did they do it? Nate wondered. “Yes,” he said.

  “Keep an eye on him. He is not as spry as he used to be. And I suspect his hearing is not what it once was, either. Two weeks ago he was out chopping wood and never heard a black bear walk up behind him.”

  Nate slid his hunting shirt over his head and smoothed it. His moccasins went on next. Ensuring both flintlocks were wedged securely under his belt, one on either side of the big buckle, he aligned a tomahawk on his right hip, a Green River knife in a beaded sheath fashioned by Winona on his left hip. He angled the straps to his powder horn and ammo pouch across his chest so that they crisscrossed. That left his possibles bag, filled with his tinderbox and assorted other items no mountaineer could do without. Onto his head he jammed a beaver hat.

  Zach had brought the black stallion around. “I want to go too, Pa,” he declared as his father emerged. The prospect of adventure made him tingle with excitement.

  “No.”

  Hooded by indignation at having his hopes dashed, Zach protested. “But, Pa—”

  Nate swung onto the stallion. “What if they circle around and show up while we’re gone? I want you here to help your ma, if need be.”

  Zach glanced at his mother for support. “You don’t need me, do you, Ma? It’s all right with you if I go, isn’t it?”