Wilderness Double Edition #10 Read online

  The shot had unforeseen effects, the most immediate of which was the terror it provoked in the already scared horses. Several became uncontrollable. One broke loose and galloped madly into the forest. Another effect was an abrupt series of snarls to the southwest, followed by the heavy crashing of foliage as the grizzly ran off.

  Nate began to run after the fleeing horse, but stopped on realizing the futility of his gesture. He had no hope of catching it, but ran a great risk of stumbling on the bear. Halting close to the trees, he listened to the rapidly dwindling sounds of the pell-mell flight.

  Shakespeare hastened to the rest of the horses and went from animal to animal, soothing their frayed nerves by speaking softly and stroking their necks. Nate soon lent a hand, and between the two of them they quieted the entire string. As they went to reclaim their seats, Shakespeare saw the stem look in Nate’s eyes and touched Nate’s elbow. “Let me handle this,” he requested softly.

  Tim was trying to reload, but his hands shook so badly he spilled most of the black powder he poured down the muzzle. He glanced up and asked excitedly, “Did I get it?”

  “With that?” Nate responded angrily. “Mister, you’d do better throwing marbles. The bear wouldn’t get quite so riled.”

  Rebuffed, Tim lowered his pistol, spilling more powder. “Why are you so upset? I saw the brute, clear as day. What else was I supposed to do?”

  Shakespeare sat next to the greenhorn and took the flintlock. “Allow me,” he said. As he opened his powder horn, he said, “Remember what I told you about looking, listening, and learning? You should have paid attention to us, and if you had you would have noticed that we were holding our fire until we could see what we were shooting at.”

  “But I …” Tim began, and stopped when the older man held up a hand.

  “Let me finish, son,” Shakespeare said. He wagged the pistol. “A piece like this is no good against a grizzly. Their skulls are so thick, the balls bounce off. And if you’d wounded that bear, as sure as you’re sitting there, it would have charged us.” Shakespeare paused. “You ever had a grizzly come at you from out of the dark?”

  “No.”

  “I have, and it’s not something I’d rate as one of life’s great experiences. In the time it takes you to blink your eye, a grizzly can swat you twenty feet or rip you apart with one swipe. And believe me, that’s not a pretty sight.”

  Tim bowed his head. Now that he had a moment to reflect, he wasn’t so certain he’d seen the bear. His imagination might have gotten the better of him. “I made a mess of things again, didn’t I?”

  “We’re still alive, so no real harm was done,” Shakespeare said, offering a kindly grin. “The loss of a horse will be bothersome when it’s time to pack out our plews, but we can live with it.”

  “True,” Nate chimed in. Curry was so downcast, Nate regretted snapping at him. “And I’m a fine one to be mad. You should have seen some of the dunderhead stunts I pulled when I was green to the Rockies. My being here today is proof that fools and simpletons have their own guardian angels.”

  Shakespeare clapped the youth on the back. “I’ll vouch for that. So cheer up, Troilus. Another day, another lesson learned.”

  “I’ll try,” Tim said. But deep down he was worried. For the first time since leaving Maine his mettle had been seriously tested, and his insides had turned to mush. He’d always believed he was as brave as the next man, but now he had his doubts. Would he act the same if hostile Indians showed? Would he be so rattled he couldn’t load a gun?

  Nate had taken his seat on the other side of the fire. He leaned the Hawken on his saddle, then reached behind him to pull the lower half of the eagle feather into view. “Recollect me telling you about the Cheyenne who gave me this?”

  A dull nod was Tim’s response.

  “I didn’t tell you the whole story,” Nate said. “The same warrior also saw me tangle with a grizzly. He thought I handled myself well. But I don’t mind admitting that I was never more scared in my whole life than when that hairy devil came at me.”

  “You were?”

  Nate nodded. “And that wasn’t the last time I’ve been scared hell and cooked. We all suffer a fright now and again. The trick is to find your grit and bounce back.”

  The youth settled down on his blankets to ponder. Not in a hundred years would he have suspected King of being afraid of anything, man or beast. And if someone of King’s caliber knew fear on occasion, he figured he shouldn’t be so hard on himself for the same failing. He had to give himself time to adjust, to find his grit, as King put it. Then he’d show them. He’d show everyone that Timothy Curry was a man to be reckoned with.

  Shakespeare pulled out his pipe. He was mightily pleased at how Nate had handled the situation. It justified his trust in Nate’s judgment, and his decision years ago to take Nate under his wing and do for Nate as he would have done for the son he’d never had, the son he’d always wanted.

  For Nate’s part, he laid back discontented. The incident had confirmed that greenhorns were unreliable, and some more unreliable than others. He wanted to help Curry learn the ropes, but not at the expense of his life and McNair’s. Something told him that unless he was extremely careful, the youth would bring more hardship down on their heads. And in the raw, savage wilderness, where survival of the fittest was the unwritten law for all, hardship had a nasty habit of leading to the ultimate affliction; death itself.

  Chapter Three

  Nathaniel King spent the entire next day setting traps by himself. Prior experience had honed his skills to where he was a master at locating ideal places and putting the traps where they would be the most effective.

  Trapping was never done in a haphazard fashion. There was a science to the procedure that every mountain man made sure to know intimately since his livelihood depended on his ability.

  First off, a trapper had to find a stretch of stream beaver frequented. Their marvelous dams and intricate domed lodges were dead giveaways. Then came the next, critical step.

  Not many people back in the States knew much about the habits of beaver. Few knew, for instance, that beaver had a way of marking their territory, much like dogs. In the case of beaver, the marking was done by the animal bringing a small amount of mud up from the bottom, smearing it on the bank, and then dabbing the mud with a sticky yellow substance secreted from its glands. Whenever other beaver caught the scent, they invariably made straight for the spot to dab on their own mud and secrete castoreum.

  This was their weakness, the Achilles heel the trappers exploited. For it was by smearing mud and gland extract on the banks of waterways, and submerging traps at points where the beaver would climb out to investigate, that trappers snared their prey.

  Nate stored his castoreum in a small wooden box he kept in his possibles bag. On this particular morning he had set five of the six traps he’d toted from camp, and was opening the box to dip the tip of a stick inside for more castoreum when he had the distinct feeling that he was being watched. Seasoned trappers knew the sensation well. A prickling at the nape of the neck combined with a tingling in the mind, an instinctive alarm that something was amiss.

  Nate knew better than to leap up and scour the landscape. Whoever, or whatever, was out there would duck down and he’d never spot them. No, he continued to work, applying a small amount of castoreum to a large patch of mud, while at the same time, shifting from side to side, he looked out the corners of his eyes.

  Waving grass gave the culprit away. Nate saw it move, twenty feet to his left, but didn’t let on. He made a show of closing the castoreum box and replacing it in the possibles bag. He still had to establish whether he was being watched by a human or an animal. Standing, he stepped to the last trap and bent to grip the chain. The grass parted, and he was astounded to see the face of a small Indian boy peeking at him.

  Acting as if he hadn’t noticed, Nate carried the trap to the end of the bank. On the one hand, he was relieved it was only a child. On the other, the bo
y’s presence meant a village must be nearby, much too close for comfort. Should the boy’s people prove to be Utes, he would have to alert McNair and get out of there before they lost their hair. If Crows, the situation was little better since the Crows were notoriously unreliable.

  Nate had to talk to the child. In order to trick the boy into thinking he wasn’t aware of anyone being nearby, Nate set the trap. He stood with a foot on each spring, bent, and opened the jaws. It was delicate work to adjust the pan so that the dog caught in the notch. Then he carefully lowered the trap to the streambed, stretched the chain to its full length, and firmly drove a stake into the bottom. His stake, like the one left by the mysterious trapper who had abandoned the trap Curry stepped in, had been chopped from hard, dry wood. Using freshly cut wood invited failure since it was a favorite fare of the beaver.

  Wading to shore, Nate clambered out and shook his legs. He contrived to move close to the patch of high grass. A hint of buckskin assured him the boy was still there. So whipping around, he dived.

  The boy was jackrabbit-quick. He came up off the ground in a rush and turned to flee. Nate barely caught hold of an ankle, and held fast. The boy shrieked and tugged on his leg, but he was no match for Nate’s vast strength. Holding on, Nate lunged and grabbed the boy around the waist. He almost missed seeing the knife that arced at his chest, and caught the boy’s wrist at the last second. The wildcat kicked and clawed, trying to gouge Nate’s eyes out. Nate merely swiveled, swinging the boy over his hip, and tossed the spunky youngster to the earth. The boy, groggy, tried to stand, so Nate pinned him with one knee, then wrested the butcher knife loose.

  Clarity returned to the boy’s dark eyes. He vainly tried to move the big knee astride him, then gave up and glowered, his expression saying more eloquently than words that he expected to die but would die as a true warrior should.

  Nate tested the blade on his thumb and found it razor sharp. Tossing the knife aside, he addressed his captive in the universal Indian tongue, sign language. “Question. How are you called?”

  The boy seemed surprised that Nate could communicate. He twisted, slapped at Nate’s knee, and finally subsided, signing, “My name is known far and wide as the name of a fierce fighter, white dog! Kill me if you will, but know that Gray Badger, the son of Two Humps, does not fear you.”

  “I am known as Grizzly Killer,” Nate signed. “I kill grizzlies, not boys too small to climb on horses by themselves.”

  Gray Badger puffed his cheeks like an enraged chipmunk. “I have seen twelve winters, white man! I can ride better than you.”

  Nate held back a smile. He knew that Indian boys were plunked on horses at the tender age of four, and by the time they were ten, they were adroit riders. “Perhaps you can,” he signed, “but I can run faster than you can. So I can catch you easily if you try to run off.” He paused. “Will you give me your word that you will not try to flee if I let you up?”

  The boy’s brow knit. “I really am not going to die?”

  “Not today. Not by my hand.” Nate uncoiled. He grasped the youngster’s wrist and pulled the boy upright. “Do I have your promise?”

  Gray Badger regarded him suspiciously. “Question. Why would you take the word of your enemy?”

  “Even enemies can have a sense of honor,” Nate responded, trying to identify the boy’s tribe from the child’s clothes and hair style. Neither revealed much. Gray Badger wore his hair long and loose, not braided in any particular fashion. His buckskin leggings might have been made by a woman belonging to any of a dozen tribes. The boy’s moccasins, however, were different from most. “And I have no reason to call a Crow my enemy unless he shows me that he has a bad heart.”

  “How did you know I am a Crow?”

  “No two tribes make moccasins the same,” Nate signed. He stared off down the valley, seeking columns of smoke. “How far off is your village?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Are you lost?”

  “A Crow does not lose his way in the woods.”

  “Then how can you not know where your village is?”

  “Maybe I do know,” Gray Badger allowed. “Maybe I do not trust you enough to tell you where to find my, people.”

  That made sense, but Nate suspected there was more to the boy’s reluctance to answer than Gray Badger let on. He wondered if possibly the boy was on a family outing. “Where is your father and mother?”

  “Far away from here.”

  “Then who are you here with?”

  “No one.”

  “Straight tongue?”

  “Whites lie, not Crows,” Gray Badger signed indignantly.

  Nate was unwilling to accept the boy’s assertion. Gray Badger was too young to be permitted to wander any great distance from a village alone. So either the Crow had lied to protect others who were close at hand, or there was much more to this than met the eye. “Where is your horse?”

  “I do not have one.”

  Now Nate was doubly skeptical. The Crow nation had acquired horses shortly after the early Spanish exploration of the Rockies, and had adapted to them as readily as the Sioux and the Cheyennes. Crows never went any great distance unless it was on horseback. And boys were given their first ponies when they were barely old enough to walk. “Your family must be very poor,” he signed.

  Gray Badger bristled as if insulted. “My father is one of the richest men in our tribe. He has three hundred horses all his own. And that does not count the many horses he has given away to those in need.”

  “Two Humps is a chief,” Nate deduced, basing his judgment on the knowledge that only prominent warriors owned so many animals.

  “My father is a man of great importance,” Gray Badger boasted. Strangely, his countenance fell, as if the admission saddened him. “He does not let his sons want for anything.”

  “Except horses.”

  The boys temper made him careless. “Had I wanted, I could have taken any animal my father owns. But I needed to leave quietly, on foot.”

  “You snuck away from your own people?” Nate signed. “Why? Were you in trouble with your parents? Were you being punished and you did not think the punishment fair?”

  Gray Badger lifted his hands to reply, hesitated, then dropped them to his sides.

  “Very well,” Nate signed. “As you have made clear, your affairs are not my concern. Go in peace. I wish you well.”

  He picked up his trap sack, slung it over his shoulder, and headed northward, hoping he wasn’t making a numskull mistake that would cost him dearly. If there was a village near, the boy would take off like a shot. If there wasn’t, if he was right about there being more to this than seemed apparent, then the boy might tag along with him, out of curiosity if for no other reason. He refrained from glancing back until he came to the first bend, and he grinned on discovering the Crow youngster a dozen paces behind.

  Going on, Nate debated whether to lead the boy all the way to camp or to try to get to the bottom of things beforehand. He hiked a quarter of a mile and stopped beside a log perched on a cutoff. There he sat, pretending to rest.

  Gray Badger had halted. He made no attempt to hide or flee, nor did he approach any closer.

  Nate opened his possibles bag and took out some venison jerky. He broke off a piece and chewed lustily, smacking his lips as if it was the best meal he’d eaten in ages. The boy licked his lips and fidgeted, taking a step forward, then a step back. “Question. Would you like to eat?” Nate signed.

  The young Crow was in the grip of a quandary. His hunger was obvious, yet his pride prevented him from giving in.

  Taking another, bigger bite, Nate made as much noise as a hog at the feed trough, thankful his wife wasn’t there to hear him or he’d never hear the end of it. He was the one who always insisted their children eat with their mouths closed. New York upbringing did that to people.

  Practically watering at the mouth, Gray Badger advanced. “I would be grateful to share your food,” he signed with all the dignit
y of a warrior invited to attend a grand feast. He took a seat at arm’s length and accepted a thick piece of jerky. Rather than wolf it, he bit off a small chunk and chewed slowly, savoring the morsel.

  Nate was impressed by the boy’s self-control. He finished eating in silence, then signed, “I am with two friends. Our camp is not far, and you are welcome to come with me and share the rabbit stew we will have later. There will be more than enough for everyone.”

  The boy had frozen in the act of taking a nibble. “There are more white men?” he signed, unable to hide his apprehension. “Are they like you or like him?”

  “Who?”

  Gray Badger suddenly crammed half the piece into his mouth and chomped down. He gazed at the stream, clearly stalling. “How do I know your friends will be as kind as you?”

  “You do not,” Nate admitted, “but you have my pledge that no harm will come to you while you are under my protection.” He didn’t press the issue of the other white man the boy alluded to. All in good time, he told himself. To further soothe the young Crow’s fears, he added, “I have a son about your age. You remind me of him.”

  “I do?”

  “Both of you are more fond of food than you are anything else,” Nate signed, grinning to show he meant it as a joke. The boy smiled for the first time. “Once, my son, Stalking Coyote, ate a whole buffalo at one sitting.”

  “He did not,” Gray Badger signed, laughing.

  Nate beckoned and resumed his journey. Now that he had an opportunity to examine the youngster at his leisure, he observed that the boy’s leggings and moccasins were grimy with dirt, a condition no mother would abide. The boy’s face also bore more smudges than regular washing would allow. The only conclusion Nate could reach was that Gray Badger had indeed been on his own for quite a while. But why? What had driven the boy to flee his own tribe? “Question. Was your village attacked by the Utes or another war party recently?”