Wilderness Double Edition 26 Page 5

  Shipley Beecher picked that moment to groan. His eyelids fluttered and an arm moved.

  “Be still, dearest,” Cynthia urged. She ran her fingers through his sandy hair, careful not to brush the hen’s egg.

  Unwilling to let the matter of his fate drop, One-Eye said to Nate, “I want to know, damn you! Are you fixing to hand me over to your red kin?”

  Nate ignored the question. Tilting his head back, he uttered a piercing whistle. Cynthia Beecher looked at him quizzically and received her answer when the undergrowth crackled and through the trees came Nate’s bay. Sweat lathered its chest, and it was covered with the dust of many miles. Bobbing its head, the bay came to Nate and nuzzled him.

  “You’ve trained your horse well.”

  “He’s an old friend,” Nate said with affection. He patted the bay’s neck, then opened a parfleche decorated with blue beads—Winona’s handiwork—and took out a coil of rope. To Jackson he said, “Sit up with your hands behind your back.”

  “Like hell I will,” the cyclops growled.

  “Like hell you won’t,” Nate retorted, and extended his pistol.

  One-Eye swore. “You would do it, too. You always have loved Injuns more than your own kind.”

  Nate warily sidled around behind him, saying, “You lived with a Shoshone woman once.”

  “Don’t remind me. Taking up with her was the worst mistake of my life. It cost me an eye.”

  “No, you cost yourself the eye,” Nate said. “There are some things a man just doesn’t do. Not ever.”

  “Who are you to judge?” One-Eye snapped. “I’ll never forget what you did. Never forget how you wouldn’t stand up for me.”

  Cynthia glanced from one to the other. “I repeat. What are you two talking about? What happened, Mr. King, that this horrible man hates you so?”

  Again Nate ignored the question. Instead, he squatted and pressed the muzzle to the nape of Jackson’s neck. “Give me an excuse. Any excuse.” Placing the flintlock on the ground, he grasped the rope in both hands and went to loop it around Jackson’s wrists.

  The instant the rope touched his skin, Jackson erupted in lightning motion. Slamming his shoulder against Nate’s to unbalance him, Jackson bolted like a rabbit and was in among the trees in the blink of an eye.

  “He’s getting away!” Cynthia cried.

  Nate scooped up his flintlock and took a quick bead, but he could not get a clear shot for all the cottonwoods. Surging to his feet, he gave chase. He did not think to grab the Hawken. Plunging headlong through the undergrowth, he covered twenty yards without spotting his quarry. One-Eye, Nate suspected, had sought cover. Stopping in midstride, he crouched and probed the stand with his every sense alert. He heard nothing, saw nothing.

  “Mr. King?”

  Nate hoped the woman would have the good sense not to yell anything else. Jackson was no mangeur de lard, no greener. When Jackson needed to, he could move like a wraith. Nate bided his time, hoping Jackson would give away his location, but the stand was conspicuous by its silence.

  “Mr. King? Are you all right?”

  Reluctantly, Nate returned to the spring. He crammed the rope back in the parfleche, reclaimed his Hawken, retrieved the weapons he had taken from One-Eye, and put the pistols and knife in a different parfleche. One-Eye’s rifle he lashed on the Beechers’ pack animal.

  Cynthia was moistening the cloth when Nate hunkered beside her. “Shouldn’t Ship have come out of it by now?”

  “There’s no predicting head wounds.” Nate examined it. The flesh wasn’t discolored, which was a good sign. “I have something that will help him when he revives.”

  “I want to thank you, again, for coming to our aid. That terrible man said he had followed us all the way from Bent’s Fort.”

  “He did,” Nate confirmed. “His tracks overlaid yours. I didn’t know who it was. But I figured it didn’t bode well.”

  “You haven’t told me why you two despise each other so much.”

  “Some things are better left unsaid,” Nate replied. To divert her curiosity, he examined the dog, which was stirring, and asked, “What in God’s name are you doing here, anyway?”

  “We needed water. What else? We had no idea he was waiting here for us. I distrusted him the moment I laid eyes on him. Unfortunately, my husband gave him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Too much trust can get you killed,” Nate said. “But I didn’t mean here.” He pointed at the spring. “I meant here.” And he encompassed the prairie with a sweep of his arm.

  “Oh. We aim to have us a farm. Ship and his brothers and their families and me. A year from now we’ll be snug in our sod houses and have crops we can sell for cash money.”

  “If you’re still alive.” Nate sat back and asked while scouring the vegetation for Jackson, “Do you have any idea where you are?”

  “What a strange thing to ask,” Cynthia said. “We’re somewhere between Bent’s Fort and Texas.”

  “Do you know what this part of the prairie is called?”

  “I wouldn’t have the foggiest.”

  “Comanche Grass. The Comanches live to the south, but hunting and war parties stray up this way every once in a while. Most folks won’t go anywhere near here because they know they would never come out again.”

  “The only Indians we’ve seen were the tame ones at the trading post,” Cynthia said.

  “Comanches are anything but tame,” Nate assured her. “If they catch you in their territory, they will do things to you I could not begin to describe to a lady. As soon as your husband is up and about, I’m taking you to Bent’s Fort.”

  “He will refuse to go.”

  “No farm is worth your lives.”

  “It’s not that. It’s his brothers. They came out ahead of us to find a suitable spot for our farms. They reached Bent’s Fort and sent a letter back with a wagon train saying how they were ready to strike off across the prairie. That was the last anyone heard from them.”

  “It will be the last anyone hears from you if you don’t persuade your husband to give up the search.” Nate thought he heard a soft sound to his rear and pivoted on the balls of his feet.

  “What is it?” Cynthia nervously asked.

  “Apparently nothing.” Nate straightened and held his Hawken ready for swift use. Jackson was undoubtedly watching them; he would not go far, not without his weapons and his horse. Nate scanned the plain, not really expecting to see anything, but then he stiffened.

  Cynthia slid her legs out from under her husband. “What did you do that for?” she asked as she stood. “And don’t tell me it’s nothing.”

  “Dust. To the south.”

  Her eyes narrowing, Cynthia took a step. “Jackson said the same thing, but I didn’t see any dust then and I don’t see any dust now.”

  “It’s there.” Years of living in the wilderness had honed Nate’s senses to an exceptional degree. His ears, his nose, his eyes were sharper than the dull organs of those who lived east of the Mississippi. Those who never had to fret about taking an arrow or a slug, or being torn asunder by the slavering jaws and blood-tipped claws of some savage beast.

  “That wretched man said it might be Indians.”

  “More likely it’s a herd of buffalo, grazing,” Nate guessed. Once each year the buffalo migrated from north to south and back again. The rest of the time, they roamed widely, seeking fresh grass to fill their bellies.

  “Then it’s not any of those Comanches you are so worried about?”

  “Let’s hope not.” Nate would be hard pressed to save his own hide. Saving theirs might be impossible. The Comanches were fierce warriors. Some folks would say they were the most fierce. As formidable as Apaches, if not more so.

  At that juncture Shipley Beecher groaned and slowly sat up. Wincing, he pressed his hand to the bird’s egg. “I have the grandmother of all headaches.” He smiled at Cynthia, and gave a start. “The rap on my noggin must be worse than I thought. Either the vermin who hit me has t
ripled in size or you went and swapped him for a giant.”

  Dropping onto a knee, Cynthia tenderly clasped his hand in hers. “He’s a friend, Ship. His name is Nate King. He saved me from the other one.”

  Shipley grew red from the neck up. “Where is the Satan spawn? The Bible says an eye for an eye. I say a head for a head should make us even.”

  “One-Eye ran off,” Cynthia revealed. “But we have his guns and his horse. We’ll take them with us.”

  “And leave him afoot?”

  Nate King was surprised by Beecher’s reaction. “Jackson nearly killed you and tried to violate your wife. A few seconds ago you were fit to bury him. Now you’re having second thoughts?”

  “Giving him a taste of his own medicine is one thing,” Ship said. “Stooping to his vile level is another.”

  “Dead is dead,” Nate said.

  “I don’t agree. I might be a simple farmer, but I never do anything that goes against my upbringing.” Shipley attempted to stand and had to stop when his legs wobbled like sticks in a high wind. “Tarnation. I’m weaker than I thought.”

  Cynthia appealed to Nate. “My husband needs rest and tending. Can we stay here the rest of the day? Or overnight perhaps?”

  “We’ll see,” was the best answer Nate could give her. With Jackson lurking somewhere in the stand, it was not wise to stay any longer than was absolutely necessary. While she devoted herself to Shipley, Nate brought the horses closer to the spring and picketed them. By then the dog had recovered and was lying next to Cynthia. It growled at him and Cynthia hushed it.

  Gathering firewood was an easy chore. There were plenty of fallen limbs. He broke the limbs into suitable lengths and stacked them in a pile.

  In addition to the pair of pistols and the bowie knife and tomahawk Nate customarily wore around his waist, he had an ammo pouch and a possibles bag slanted crosswise across his broad chest. From the latter he now removed a fire steel and flint and his tinderbox. The tinder was part of an old bird’s nest he had found some time ago. Pinching enough to suffice, he placed it on a flat spot. By striking the oval fire steel against the flint, he produced sparks that landed on the tinder and set tiny swirls of smoke to rising. Puffing lightly, he nurtured a tiny flame and added dead leaves to make the flame grow. Soon he had a small fire crackling.

  Nate replaced the steel, flint, and tinderbox in his possibles bag. Of all his possessions, it could be argued, they were the most essential. Steel and flint were the two items every mountain man carried with him everywhere he went. Trappers had always carried extra steels and flints to trade with.

  Before the coming of the white man, most tribes relied on a fire drill and fire plow to start fires. It consumed a lot of time and not inconsiderable effort, whereas with a fire steel and flint and good tinder, a fire could be started in no time at all. Indians were no different than white men and liked anything that made their lives easier. They gratefully accepted them. The best aspect, from the white point of view, was that steels and flints only cost a penny or two, so the whites could be generous in handing them out.

  From a parfleche on the bay Nate now took a small buckskin pouch, his coffeepot, and his battered tin cup. He filled the pot at the spring and set it to boil. When the water was bubbling, he poured some into the cup. Then, loosening the drawstring on the pouch, he added about a spoonful of a fine brown powder. He stirred this with a stick and placed the cup aside to cool.

  Cynthia had been watching with keen interest. “What is that you have there?” she inquired.

  “An herb that will do wonders for your husband. As soon as it cools, I’ll make a poultice.” Nate drew the drawstring tight.

  “Is that medicine a doctor gave you?”

  “My wife gathered the roots and ground them. She is quite the healer.”

  “An Indian remedy?”

  “They are as good as anything the white man has come up with, and in some cases, better.”

  “You don’t say?”

  She sounded slightly skeptical, so Nate elaborated. “Indians have cures for everything under the sun.” He wagged the pouch. “This here is the root of a wildflower, a geranium, I guess whites would call it.”

  “What are some of the other cures?”

  “For inflammation, the Shoshones use the root of the elderberry plant. For sores, they rely on honeysuckle roots. For bloated stomachs, they make a tea from peppermint leaves. For female trouble, it’s wormwood.”

  “Female trouble?” Cynthia said, and blushed slightly. “Oh. They even have something for that?”

  “You would be surprised,” Nate answered. “The women are partial to a tea made from juniper berries that they say keeps them from having babies.”

  Cynthia put a hand to her throat. “They abort their babies?”

  “Not after the fact, as it were. Before.”

  “Oh my.” Cynthia did not try to hide her amazement.

  “Clematis bark makes a fine shampoo. From fir trees they make a face cream. From flowers they make a red rouge for their cheeks. From sweet pine they concoct an oil to make their hair shiny. Meadow rue makes a fine perfume. Old sagebrush leaves, crushed into a powder, are dandy for the backsides of babies with diaper rashes.”

  “I had no idea,” Cynthia admitted. The dog nuzzled her leg, seeking attention, and she rubbed it. “Good boy, Byron.”

  “Indians use plants and roots for everything,” Nate said. “For dyes, for chewing gum, for tonics.”

  Shipley Beecher, who had been lying on his back with his eyes closed, opened them and turned his head toward Nate. “You almost make it sound as if they are superior to the white man in some respects. But that can hardly be. They are primitives, after all.”

  Nate’s sympathy for the farmer dropped several notches. “You’re a man of fixed opinions, I take it?”

  “Regarding certain matters, yes.”

  “Indians, for instance?” Nate fished.

  “I won’t lie to you, Mr. King. I am not as fond of them as you are, and I certainly would never marry one.”

  “Ship!” Cynthia said.

  “No insult intended, my dear. But I would be less than candid if I did not confess that I regard the red man as the savage he is. Look at all the atrocities they have committed. Look at all the whites they have killed. They are a hindrance to the spread of civilization.”

  “What you are saying,” Nate said quietly, “is that you agree with the view that all Indians should be rounded up and herded onto reservations.”

  “Why deny it?” Shipley responded. “Their ways are not our ways. They have no place in the white world.”

  “They were here first,” Nate noted. “This land is their land.”

  “Oh, please. I am not dumb. I know, for instance, that many tribes regard land as belonging to everyone. They have no notion of private property. I ask you, how ridiculous is that?”

  Nate did not say anything.

  “Again, I mean no disrespect, Mr. King. I have nothing against those, like you, who adopt red ways. If that is what you want to do, fine. It is your life, after all. But do not expect the rest of us to hold the red race in the high regard you do when they have done nothing to merit it.”

  “Oh, Ship,” Cynthia said softly.

  “Will you stop?” Ship replied. “Mr. King and I are grown men. I am sure he will not hold it against me. Will you, Mr. King?”

  “I can’t help how another person thinks,” Nate said.

  “There. I told you.” Ship grinned at his wife. “Enough about the heathens. My head is throbbing. How about that poultice?”

  Four

  Twilight crept over the prairie like a thief stealing the day. Before darkness fell, Nate searched the stand from end to end. He poked into every thicket, examined every shadowy patch. But he found no trace of One-Eye Jackson.

  On a hunch, Nate made a circuit of the edge of the stand. At a spot where the grass met the trees, south of the spring, he was rewarded for his diligence with a trail of flat
blades. Something or someone had crawled off into the prairie grass.

  Nate stayed in the stand. He suspected that Jackson was lying in wait for him out there, hoping to jump him if Nate went after him.

  Cynthia busied herself cooking supper. The dog lay curled beside her. Among the victuals their packhorse was burdened with was cornmeal, yeast, and sugar, and she was in the process of making dodgers. She already had coffee perking, and had laid out salt pork and prepared succotash.

  The aroma made Nate’s mouth water. His own cooking was more than passable, but there was something about eating a meal cooked by another that made it doubly appealing. Hunkering, he filled his cup.

  “Are we safe?” Shipley Beecher asked.

  “As safe as anyone can be where nearly everyone and everything is out to kill you,” Nate answered.

  “Surely you exaggerate,” Ship said. “It can’t be as bad as all that or no one would live here. Not even the Indians.”

  Nate wondered why it was that so many people, white and red, judged others by their own standards. “This isn’t like where you’re from. Indiana, didn’t your wife say?”

  “Meaning what, exactly?” Ship asked with more than mild sarcasm.

  “East of the Mississippi all the grizzlies have been killed off. A lot of the black bears, too. Cougars are rare in states where they were once plentiful. Wolves have pretty near been exterminated,” Nate patiently detailed. “Every hostile tribe has been wiped out or forced to relocate.”

  “There are a few who still act up,” Shipley remarked.

  “But it’s nothing like out here,” Nate said. “In Indiana you can hike for miles through the deepest woods and all you will run into are squirrels and deer.”

  “I still say you exaggerate,” Ship stubbornly insisted. “We never once set eyes on a hostile or even a grizz’ the whole time we have been out here. Fact is, the most dangerous critter we came across was a coyote that ran off at the sight of us.”

  “You were lucky.”

  “Oh, please. Why can’t you accept that the wilderness is not as danger-filled as you make it out to be?”

  Cynthia broke her long silence. “He’s concerned for our welfare, Ship. He knows this land better than we do.”