Wilderness Double Edition 28 Page 5

  “Enough. I appreciate your concern. I truly do. But I have made up my mind. You are to wait here until I return. I will pay you the same as I would if we were on the trail.”

  “If you insist,” the scout said. “But mark my words. You will regret your decision.”

  “Zach King was right,” I teased. “Much ado about nothing.”

  At ten minutes until two, I was at the gate on my horse, a rifle in one hand and the lead rope to the pack horse in the other. I had not seen Zach since morning and half feared he had changed his mind and slipped away without my noticing. Then he approached leading his mount and pack animal.

  Ceran St. Vrain was at his side.

  I suppose I was beaming like an idiot because they looked at each other and Zach King shook his head.

  “I came to see you off,” St. Vrain said. “Unless I can prevail on you to change your mind.”

  “You, too?” I accused.

  “Augustus Trevor came to see me,” St. Vrain revealed. “He begged me to use whatever small influence I might have to convince you that you are making a mistake.”

  “The nerve,” I said. It seemed to me that everyone thought I was a total incompetent.

  “You are determined to go through with this, aren’t you?”

  “Need you ask?”

  “You are a grown man,” St. Vrain said. “But there is a saying out here that you should give some thought to.” He paused. “You can talk sense to a smart man but not to a fool.”

  “That was harsh,” I said.

  “Mr. Parker, I flatter myself that I know the frontier better than most. I cannot stress the perils enough. So far you have had it remarkably easy. Oh, yes, I heard about the stampede, but in general your prairie crossing was free of mishaps, thanks in large measure to Augustus Trevor.” St. Vrain indicated the gate. “Once you go through there, you take your life in your hands. Zach, here, will do his best to keep you alive, but there is only so much he can do, and I would hate for—”

  I held up my hand. “Enough.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “No more,” I declared. “As you pointed out, I am a grown man. It is my decision to make, and I have made it. Nothing you or anyone else can say will change my mind.”

  “Very well then,” St. Vrain said stiffly.

  “Hear me out,” I went on. “I am a naturalist. My passion is life in all its variety. I collect specimens. I paint animals and flowers and trees. The Rockies are a treasure trove for those in my profession. Only two other naturalists that I know of have been there before me. The opportunities are boundless. If I were to back out, I might as well shovel manure for a living.”

  “I will not argue with such eloquence,” St. Vrain said. “May you find all that you are looking for, and may the Almighty in His omniscience spare you from your folly.”

  I thanked him, we shook hands, and he gave the order to have the gate opened. Zach King had been strangely silent during our exchange, and I said to him, “What? No comments to add?”

  “Since you asked, there is another expression we have in these parts.” Zach looked at me. “Every coon digs his own grave.”

  On that note I followed him out of the trading post and off into the dark heart of the unknown.

  Six

  Ah! The sweet intoxicating joy of the moment when we reached the foothills! I was practically giddy with excitement.

  My powers of description fail me when it comes to describing the Rockies. Compared to them, the mountains of the East are no more than glorified bumps. The Rockies tower miles into the atmosphere. Some peaks, Zach King informed me, are as much as three miles high, if not more. To behold them staggers the mind. They dwarf everything and fill a man with the sense that in the scheme of creation he is pitifully tiny. At the same time, their majesty, their grandeur, their imposing sweep, inspire the soul to new heights. I am no poet, but I swear to you that the effect was so overpowering, I was tempted to try my hand at it.

  My companion was not nearly as enamored. He rode alertly, his Hawken across the saddle in front of him. Again and again he shifted to look back. I checked behind us a few times but saw nothing to account for his interest.

  We were well up into the foothills when Zach twisted in the saddle yet again, compelling me to ask, “Why do you keep doing that?”

  “We’re being followed.”

  “What? The devil you say!” I turned and stared long and hard. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “He is back there.”

  “It is just one man?” For a moment I was worried it might be the Hook brothers and Cutter.

  “One is too many. He’s been following us all afternoon. You’ll see for yourself once the sun goes down unless he makes a cold camp.”

  We stopped for the night on the crown of a hill. Zach picked the spot, I divined, for the view it gave of the surrounding countryside. At his bidding I gathered firewood. As he opened his possibles bag and took out a fire steel and flint, I could not help asking, “Is building a fire wise? It will tell our shadow where we are.”

  “He already knows. For us not to have one might make him suspect we know he is back there.”

  “What do you intend to do about it?”

  “Find out who it is.”

  “How?”

  Zach did not answer. I was to learn that was a habit of his when he did not care to divulge his intentions.

  “We didn’t shoot game for the supper pot. What will we eat?”

  “I have plenty of jerky and pemmican. We won’t go hungry.”

  Jerky, I was familiar with; I ate a lot of it while crossing the prairie. Pemmican, however, was new to me. It seems that it is a staple of the Indians. They dry buffalo meat, grind it until the consistency resembles flour, then mix it with fat and berries. Zach King kept his in a beaded bag he called a parfleche, apparently his mother’s handiwork. Her craftsmanship was superb.

  We were about done eating when Zach pointed and said, “Our shadow is filling his belly, too.”

  Sure enough, a tiny orange tongue licked at the darkness lower down. Even as I set eyes on it, the light blinked out, only to reappear a few seconds later. Then, to my amazement, it blinked out and reappeared a second time. “What in the world?”

  “He camped in trees to hide his fire,” Zach said. “But when the wind blows, we catch a glimpse of it.”

  “Who can it be?” I wondered.

  “You don’t know?”

  The accusation in his voice brought my head around. “What are you suggesting? That I had one of my party follow us? To what end?”

  “A lot of people would like to know where King Valley is.”

  I was offended. “I agreed to the conditions you set down, and I will abide by them.”

  Zach shrugged. “We will find out tomorrow.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That our shadow is in for a surprise.” Zach’s mouth curled in a grin that did not bode well for whoever was back there.

  Need I say I had trouble falling asleep? It occurred to me that Zach might be right and I could be wrong through no fault of my own. I would not put it past Augustus Trevor to follow us despite my express wishes, or to have Jeffers or one of the others do so. He missed his calling being a scout; he should hire out as a nursemaid.

  Eventually, though, slumber claimed me. I was so tired I slept straight through until I awoke to the shake of a hand on my shoulder.

  Stars still ruled the firmament. To the east a golden glow framed the horizon. The sun would rise in half an hour, or thereabouts.

  “You like getting an early start, I take it,” I grumbled.

  “We have a long way to go,” Zach said.

  I had not thought to ask, but I did so now. “How long will this trip take, anyhow?”

  “Twelve to fourteen days, depending.”

  “On what?”

  “Whether everything goes well.” Zach held out some pemmican and I accepted.

  “Don’t construe this the wron
g way,” I said, “but you have a cynical nature. You always expect the worst.”

  “I see things as they are, not as I would like them to be.”

  “Do I detect criticism?” I bit into the pemmican and chewed with relish. It truly was delicious. I could understand why Indians liked it so much.

  “Life is not the rainbow you make it out to be,” Zach said. “Life is blood and guts and claws and fangs. Life is an arrow in the back, a bullet to the brain. Life is the Piegans staking you out and peeling the skin from your body. Life is the Bloods digging your eyeballs from their sockets and cutting off your ears.”

  “Dear Lord. They do that?”

  “My pa and I once came across a trapper who had no eyes, no nose, no tongue. No fingers or toes, either. He still had his manhood, but it had been chopped off and stuffed in his mouth.”

  I stopped chewing. My stomach was churning.

  “Down Santa Fe way, the Apaches struck a bunch of freight wagons. When we happened by, everyone was dead. I was only a boy at the time, and the thing I remember most is a freighter who had been tied upside down to a wagon wheel.”

  “Why upside down?” I asked despite myself.

  “The Apaches lit a fire under his head and baked his brains. He was the lucky one. Some of the other freighters took hours to die.”

  I had the impression this young man had witnessed an incredible amount of violence in his life. “Forgive me if I overstep myself, but I’ve heard that you have taken a few lives, yourself.”

  Zach did not rise to the bait.

  “Forgive me again, but how old were you when you killed your first man?” I justified my prying by telling myself that I was seeking insight into his character.

  “What do you want to know for? So you can scribble it in that book you are always writing in.”

  “It’s my journal,” I explained. “An account of my experiences. When I return to the States, I will combine what I have written with my paintings and sketches to broaden the scope of our understanding of the West.”

  “You intend to tell the whole world I am bloodthirsty?” Zach asked resentfully.

  “Only if you are. I strive to be factual. When I write about you, I will present you as you are.”

  “Don’t,” Zach said.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Write about my family if you have to, but leave me out. Too many people have heard about me as it is.”

  “How so?” I inquired, but he did not reply.

  On that somewhat sour note our day began. We climbed steadily, hour after hour, winding along a game trail marked with deer tracks and occasional elk prints. We were so high up that when I glanced down at the prairie one last time, several antelope I spied were no bigger than ants.

  I was more interested in the mountains. Before us reared a spine of peaks, the Continental Divide. To the south was the Sangre de Cristo Range. To the north the Rockies extended clear into Canada.

  Even in the summer the highest peaks were crowned white with snow. Their ivory mantles glistened in testament to their altitude.

  Prime timber cloaked the slopes, spruce and pine and firs, the latter more common higher up. Here and there stands of aspens broke the monotony of the evergreens.

  The woodland alternated with broad grassy tracts called parks. They were a special treat for me because they were rife with wildflowers; columbines, daisies, wild geraniums, buttercups and more. When we came upon some wild roses I asked Zach to stop so I could sketch them. He told me there were some in King Valley, and we could not afford the delay.

  No sooner did we reach the next belt of woodland, though, than he drew rein and announced, “We will stop here a spell.”

  “What for?”

  “So whoever is following us can catch up.” Zach swung down and led his horses farther into the woods.

  More than mildly irritated, I did likewise. “We have time for this, but we could not spare the time for me to sketch those roses?”

  “Roses won’t slit our throats while we sleep.” Zach looped the reins and the lead rope around separate saplings, hefted his rifle, and retraced his steps to the tree line.

  “Do you know what your problem is?” I asked when I caught up with him. “You think the whole world is out to get you.”

  “Tell it to that freighter I told you about,” Zach responded, and hunkered by a bole.

  “I admit man’s inhumanity to man is boundless. But that is hardly cause to distrust everyone.”

  “Say what you want,” Zach said. “I still have my hair.”

  How can you dispute logic like that? I settled down to wait, opened my bag and took out my journal.

  Half an hour went by. An hour. I was about ready to insist we move on when Zach King whispered, “Stay down and don’t make a sound.”

  I gazed across the park and my breath caught in my throat.

  A horse and rider were at the edge of the trees. At least, so I assumed; they were in the shadow of a tall spruce, and I could not see them clearly. Then the horse moved into the open.

  “What in the world?” I blurted.

  “Hush,” Zach said.

  It was uncalled for. The horse was too far away to hear me. I opened my mouth to say as much but decided not to.

  The horse came toward us. A saddle was on its back, and reins dangled. But no one was in the saddle. No one was holding those reins.

  “Where can its owner be?” I whispered.

  “Maybe in the trees with a rifle,” Zach answered, “waiting for us to show ourselves so he can pick us off.”

  I had not thought of that. A devilish ruse, if that was the case. The horse acted skittish, and stopped often to raise its head and prick its ears. When it was twenty feet away, I looked at Zach, half expecting him to rush out to grab the reins. But he didn’t move.

  The animal, a splendid sorrel, came closer.

  Zach stood and stepped from behind the tree. Holding out a hand, he smiled and said softly, “Here, boy.”

  The horse stopped. It stamped a hoof, but it did not run off.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Zach said. “I won’t hurt you.”

  I thought he was saying that to soothe the animal’s nerves. It advanced, and I noticed, with a start, a bright red splotch on the saddle. “Blood!” I blurted.

  The sorrel glanced at me and stood poised for flight.

  “Nice and easy,” Zach cautioned. “We don’t want it to run off.” He moved nearer, saying to the sorrel, “Don’t be scared, big fella. He’s friendly and so am I.”

  He had a way with animals.

  That sorrel let him walk right up to it and take hold of the reins. Patting its neck, Zach said, “There, now. We’ll look after you.”

  I was surprised. He gave me the impression I was more of a nuisance than anything else. Moving slowly so as not to scare the sorrel, I joined him.

  “What do you make of it?” I asked.

  The red splotch I had noticed was not the only one. There were more, on the saddle and on the horse, itself. The largest was behind the saddle. Scarlet lines streaked the animal’s sides and rear legs. Whoever the rider was, he had lost an awful lot of blood.

  Zach touched a splotch and held his fingers so I could see the tips weren’t red. The blood was dry. “Whatever happened, happened hours ago. About daybreak, I would say.”

  “Who could it have been?” I asked in puzzlement. “And what could have happened to them?”

  He shrugged.

  “Why did the horse follow us?”

  “Maybe because it had our scent. Maybe because it is used to human company.” Zach paused. “Is it one of yours?”

  “What? Heavens, no. I have never seen it before.” Taking the reins, Zach led the sorrel into the woods. “We’ll add it to our string and take it with us.”

  “You haven’t said what you think,” I prompted, eager to get his opinion.

  Zach twisted and stared intently at the far end of the park. “I think we’d better light a shuck.”


  Seven

  The next two days were an ordeal and then some. Zach pushed us and our animals to the point of exhaustion. It did not help that rather than stick to open areas where the going was easier, he deliberately chose the most difficult terrain—the thickest timber, the steepest slopes. And to make matters worse, we never went more than a mile or two in any one direction; we would ride north, then west, then south, then west again.

  I understood why. He suspected we were still being followed, and he wanted to shake whoever was following us. But we had five horses now, and they left plenty of sign of our passing.

  Along about late afternoon of the second day, I piped up with, “This is pointless. A ten-year-old could track us.”

  “Not after tomorrow,” Zach said.

  “Our horses are going to sprout wings and fly?”

  “Would that they could,” Zach replied. “But we will do the next best thing.”

  He did not elaborate.

  We pushed on until dark and made a cold camp. I missed not having a fire and dearly yearned for a cup or three of piping hot coffee. But Zach said the fire would give us away.

  “We could be doing all this for nothing,” I pointed out. “Whoever killed that man might not even be after us.”

  “Better cautious than dead.”

  I was tempted to say his paranoia had gotten the better of him, but then I remembered the blood on the sorrel.

  The next day we worked our way up a mountain until we were above the timber line. The climb was arduous. Deadfalls were everywhere, and had to be skirted. Narrow ravines necessitated constant detours. I did not think much of his choice of routes. I thought even less when he led us toward a wide slope littered with small stones. We were right out in the open, leaving tracks as plain as could be.

  Zach drew rein and bobbed his chin. “Talus,” he said, as if that should mean something.

  “Is that good or bad?” I had never heard the term.

  “Stay close. Have your horse step exactly where mine does.” Zach reined to the left and tugged on the lead rope.