Wilderness Giant Edition 6 Page 8

  He heaved up to his feet, throwing men right and left, his fists cracking heads and sinking wrist-deep into stomachs. His attackers were thrown into confusion by the unexpected resistance. They gave way. He saw the mare, ten feet off. If he could reach her, he might still live to see another dawn.

  “Stop him!” the leader roared.

  Shakespeare slammed into a man who tried, bowling him over. He bolted toward the mare, but another dusky form barred his path. Knuckles grazed his chin, the blow cushioned by his thick beard. His answering punch rocked the cutthroat on his heels. Barreling onward, Shakespeare was two strides from the mare and salvation when arms tackled him around the shins.

  Down he crashed. Shakespeare twisted, thrashing mightily, but the arms were bands of stone. He flicked a right at the man’s cheek and missed.

  A shadow heaved over him. Shakespeare looked up into a pale profile that was vaguely familiar.

  “You old buzzard!” the leader snarled. “If I want something done right, I reckon I’ve got to do it myself!”

  Shakespeare glimpsed a descending rifle stock. He tried to jerk aside and failed. His last thought before he was sucked into a swirling black well was that he hoped Blue Water Woman would find someone else to share her lodge and not end her days alone and heartsick.

  “This is awful, señor, just awful!” Don Manuel de Varga declared. Smacking his palm with his fist, he said, “My men and I are at your disposal. As soon as it is light, we will scour the countryside for your friend.”

  The Spaniard was so earnest that Nate King found it hard to believe the man could be putting on an act.

  “My Maricopas will find McNair,” Don Varga said. “They can track anyone, anywhere.”

  Ignacio, Martin, and Diego were near at hand. The former stepped forward and pointed at a deer haunch being roasted on a spit. “What about the food, mi padre?’ he asked. “We should not let it go to waste just because one of these gringos is missing.”

  Nate came close to slugging the cur. He balled his hand and shifted, but Don Varga beat him to it, backhanding Ignacio across the mouth, shocking son and onlookers alike.

  “Silencio! How can you think of filling your belly at a time like this? Do you not see how upset these women are?” Don Varga said, gesturing at Winona and Blue Water Woman. “Do you not see the children?”

  Ignacio had flushed scarlet, but he did not raise a finger against his father. Nodding at the wives, he said with blatant scorn, “But they are Indians and ’breeds, savages like those who attacked them. Why should we care?”

  Don Varga stepped back as if stricken, his eyes wide in loathing. “Flesh of my flesh, yet you can talk so? Until this very moment, I did not realize ...” His voice trailed off, and he turned to Winona and Blue Water Woman. “My heartfelt apologies, señor,” she said sorrowfully. “My son has no manners and less compassion.”

  Winona felt sorry for him. The shame of having a son like Ignacio was more than many fathers could bear. Among her people it rarely happened. When it did, often the father would sever all ties with his offspring in a formal ceremony, in effect washing his hands of his son for all time.

  Blue Water Woman glared at Ignacio. Were she a warrior, she would challenge him and cut out his heart for his callous insult.

  Don Vargo moved toward crates placed in a half circle close to the spit. “Come. Please. Be seated. Have some coffee or tea, if you wish.”

  Neither the wives nor the children moved. All eyes turned to Nate. As strongly as he yearned to decline, as much as he wanted to climb back onto his mount and return to the foothills in search of Shakespeare, he had to be practical. Stepping to a crate, he sat, and the others followed suit.

  Smiling wanly, Don Varga had two vaqueros drag another crate next to the one Nate had picked. Sighing as he sank down, he said ruefully, “Why does God afflict us so, Señor King? Why does he allow suffering and misery?”

  “I know, sir!” Evelyn piped up, much to Nate’s and Winona’s surprise.

  “You do, child?”

  “Sure. Uncle Shakespeare told me. Bad things are like when you walk along a trail and trip.”

  Don Varga rested his elbows on his knees and made a tepee of his fingers. “I am afraid I do not understand, little one,” he said gently.

  “Haven’t you ever tripped and fallen?” Evelyn asked innocently.

  “Well, yes, I have. Everyone has, I suppose.”

  “And what did you do?

  “Pardon?”

  “What did you do after you tripped? Did you just lie there?”

  “No. I got back up and kept on going.”

  Everyone was listening. All activity had stopped. “Well, life is just like that. We go along doing whatever it is we do, when all of a sudden something bad happens. We don’t want it to. No one plans it that way. It just happens. And when it does, we have to get right back up and go on living our lives, just like we do when we trip.”

  Nate was shocked to see the elder Spaniard’s eyes glisten. Just as perplexing was his daughter’s boldness. Usually, she was shy around strangers. Evidently she had taken a shine to the Spaniard.

  Don Varga cleared his throat. “You say that your uncle taught you that lesson? He is a very wise man, this McNair.”

  Evelyn nodded. “The wisest. He says that’s how he got all those white hairs. Every one was a lesson he learned.”

  Touching his own gray streaks, Don Varga smiled. “His words are true, little one. I pray I get to talk to him myself before long.” Turning to his daughters, who stood off to one side, he beckoned, and when they came, he rose and took hold of the oldest daughter’s wrist.

  “Papa, what—?” Maria said.

  Don Varga unclasped a gleaming bejeweled bracelet and held it out to the light. It sparkled and shimmered in a blaze of brilliant hues. “This has been in my family for many generations,” he said gravely. Then, abruptly turning to Evelyn, he dropped the bracelet in her lap. “Here, sweet child. This is yours.”

  The Varga sisters were stupefied. Maria opened her mouth as if to protest. Ignacio rose, flaring with anger. Vaqueros and servants gawked at one another.

  Winona was as dazed as everyone else. Rising, she went over. “I am sorry,” she said politely, “but we cannot accept so generous a gift.”

  “I insist,” Don Vargo said, affectionately placing a hand on Evelyn’s head. “Consider it a token of my gratitude.”

  “For what?” Winona asked.

  Don Varga did not answer. Walking back to his crate, he said to Maria, “Close your mouth, daughter. What is one bracelet, more or less? You own more jewelry than you know what to do with. And since I gave you that bracelet to begin with, I can bestow it on the child if I so wish. The matter is ended.”

  Winona picked up the bracelet. She knew enough of civilized ways to know that it must be worth a small fortune. The wide band alone was solid gold.

  “Can I keep it, Ma?” Evelyn asked naively. “The nice man said I can.”

  Winona looked at Don Varga, who stared at Evelyn with a haunted, wistful, melancholy expression that hinted at a tormented soul momentarily at peace. “You may keep it,” she said.

  Vaqueros brought crates for Maria, Francisca, and Luisa. Rosa and other servants brought trays bearing drinks and cheese and bread.

  Nate had little appetite. He nibbled on a piece of cheese. A subdued air hung over the camp. Conversation was conducted in low tones. When people moved about, they did so as if on tiptoes. Meals were eaten quietly.

  Maria Varga broke the icy grip by smiling broadly and turning to Winona and Blue Water Woman to ask about their respective tribes. She was so sincerely interested and friendly that the wives soon warmed to her, and the other sisters joined in.

  Nate was glad. It would take their minds off Shakespeare for a while, maybe calm them enough so they could catch some sleep later on. He accepted a slender glass of wine from Rosa. “Mighty tasty,” he said after sipping. “Goes down smooth, as the dandies back east might say
.”

  Don Varga had a glass of his own. Swirling the dark red liquid, he said, “It comes from my own winery, señor. My grapes are the sweetest in all the land.” After swallowing some, he sobered, then asked out of the blue, “What do you know of my country, if I might ask?”

  “Spain? Not much,” Nate admitted. “Most of what I hear has to do with Mexico.”

  “Ah, yes. Mexico,” Don Varga said, somehow making the word sound as if it referred to a disease instead of a country. “Mexico is a nest of primitives. But Spain, señor! Spain is as grand as a nation can be! Once, we had an empire that spanned the world. Our fleets sailed the seven seas. Our conquistadors conquered whole continents. The life of the nobility was splendid beyond compare. Those were the days!”

  “Times change,” Nate commented.

  “That they do,” Don Varga said bitterly. “And what I most regret is that I lived to see them change so drastically in my own lifetime. As your sweet little one pointed out, adversity shows no favorites.”

  Nate did not see why Varga was so upset by the decline in Spain’s fortunes. Many European countries had colonial empires once: England, France, and the Netherlands, to name just a few. Before them it had been the Romans and the Greeks. Empires rose and fell like the ocean tide. None lasted forever. They had their day and expired, to be replaced by yet another.

  “The Varga family is an old family, Señor King. As old as Spain itself. Once we owned estates so vast, it took days to ride across. Now we have one small estate in Spain and a small hacienda in Mexico. Once we had hundreds of servants, today just a dozen. Once we lived like barons, señor. Now...” His voice trailed off.

  Since his host was so intent on talking about it, Nate asked, “What happened?”

  “Mexico happened,” Don Varga spat. “My great great-great-grandfather laid claim to thousands of acres in northern Mexico and set himself up in royal style. The tremendous amount of money it took to maintain lavish estates in both countries was of no consequence to him. Not with money pouring in from the Varga mine, the Varga winery, and the Varga shipping company.”

  “But something went wrong?” Nate guessed.

  “The ore in our mine was depleted. Our shipping company failed. We owned three fine luxury ships at one time, but the first caught fire and sank, and the second was wrecked by peasant rabble during the Mexican Revolution to keep their rightful rulers from escaping.”

  “The third?”

  “Ah, that was the cruelest cut of all. We lost it in a freak storm, with all hands and passengers.” Don Varga slumped. “The stream of money that had swelled our coffers almost dried up. We cut back expenditures, but it was not enough. We had to rely on our savings. When they dwindled, we sold off sections of our property until we had no extra to sell.”

  “Why didn’t you try new ventures?” Nate asked.

  “Do you think we did not try?” Don Varga said. “But where before everything we touched turned to gold, the new businesses my family started floundered and failed.”

  “You still have the winery.”

  Don Varga gazed at the wine in his glass. “That is all we have left, Señor King. I shudder to think what would happen if we were to have a bad year. A single spoiled crop and my family would be ruined. We would have to sell everything and live like common rabble. Us! The Vargas! It is unthinkable.”

  “Maybe things will turn around,” Nate offered. The patriarch of the Varga family looked at him. “I am betting everything that they will.”

  Loud laughter diverted Nate’s attention to the women. Winona was saying something and patting her stomach. The Varga girls pealed with more mirth. So did Evelyn. Even Blue Water Woman smiled. He reckoned it had something to do with babies and turned back. Don Manuel de Varga was studying him oddly.

  “Are you much of a gambler, Señor King?”

  “Can’t say that I am. Not unless you count pitching coins when I was a kid in New York City.”

  “No, that is not the same. I am talking about bigger stakes, about putting all that you have on the table and wagering it on a single cut of the cards or a toss of the dice. A man can win big if luck favors him.”

  “He can also lose his shirt.”

  “There is an element of risk in all things. No risk, no gain.” Don Varga peered into the crackling flames. “I have staked my family’s future on this venture. If we succeed, we will be rich beyond our wildest dreams. Life will be like it was in the old days. Magnificent estates, servants galore, the finest clothes, a stable of Arabians, whatever our hearts desire will be ours. We will not be destitute.”

  Nate could think of any number of people who would give their eyeteeth to be as “destitute” as the Vargas. The family still had an estate and a winery in Spain, and a hacienda in Mexico. Don Varga himself had mentioned that his daughters owned more fine jewelry than they knew what to do with. What the Vargas called poor, most folks would call rich.

  Sure, the family had fallen on hard times. But they had a lot to be thankful for.

  “Would you like to hear why I have traveled all this way from my own country? Why I nearly used up what little was left of my family’s money to outfit this expedition? Why I have dragged my sons and daughters with me into the heart of this dark land?”

  Nate did not respond. Varga was going to tell him whether he wanted to hear it or not.

  The Spaniard bent forward, face taut, eyes gleaming. “Being American, you no doubt know that this whole region is now claimed by the United States.”

  “It was part of the Louisiana Purchase,” Nate mentioned.

  Don Varga did not seem to hear. “Once, though, this land was claimed by Spain. Three hundred years ago conquistadors explored the land a few hundred miles south of here. Later, missionaries tried to convert the savages. Later still, a few small settlements sprang up.”

  Nate wondered what the history lesson had to do with Varga’s expedition.

  “Rich veins of gold and silver were found deep in the mountains, and we mined them with the help of local Indians.”

  That was not entirely true, Nate reflected. In many cases, the Indian were compelled to work under the threat of being exterminated.

  “Later, when the ungrateful savages rose up against us, we were forced to abandon the mines and were never able to return. But maps were drawn, showing their locations. Some were lost. Some were written so that only a few people could understand them, and those few people died without revealing the secret. A rare few are still in existence.”

  Don Varga glanced both ways as if to verify no one was eavesdropping. “I have one of those maps, Señor King. It shows where to find the richest gold mine in the world. And you are going to take me to it!”

  Eight

  Shakespeare McNair struggled up out of a clinging gray fog. He was lying on his right side. Pain lanced his head, his temples worst of all. He had a sour taste in his mouth, and his stomach was queasy.

  A crackling noise was the first sound Shakespeare heard. Someone coughing was the second. He opened his eyes and blinked in the glare of a small fire less than twelve inches from his face. A low groan escaped his lips as he tried to roll onto his back. His wrists and ankles were bound, hampering him.

  Hands fell onto his shoulder. He was roughly hauled onto his left side, so that he faced away from the flames. In front of him squatted a grungy character who, judging by the smell, had a lifelong aversion to water. “So you’ve finally come around, eh?” the man said. “Well, he said to wake him.” Rising, the man walked toward sleeping figures scattered about a wide clearing.

  Shakespeare’s head began to clear. Overhead, stars glittered. The position of the Big Dipper told him that it was the shank of the night. He had been unconscious for at least seven hours.

  There was whispering. One of the prone shapes stood and approached, sleepily scratching his chin. Yawning, he squatted and smirked. “I’ll say this for you, old man. You’re as tough as rawhide.”

  “Jasper Flynt,” Shakespeare
said, wishing he could shove that smirk down Flynt’s throat. “It was you who hit me with the rifle.”

  “Surprised you’re still alive?”

  “Somewhat,” Shakespeare confessed. “What are you up to, you son of a bitch? Why did you try to make buzzard bait out of us?”

  “All in good time, old-timer,” Flynt said, stifling another yawn. “For now, the only thing you need to know is that you get to live for a while yet, unless you act up, in which case I’ll slit your throat from ear to ear.”

  Shakespeare believed him. “Is all this just because Nate King beat the stuffing out of you?”

  Flynt’s features hardened. “I wouldn’t remind me of that again, if I were you. Sooner than he expects, that bastard’s going to get his due.” A wicked smile creased his thin lips. “You just lie here and behave yourself. I’m going to catch some more sleep.”

  As his captor straightened, Shakespeare asked, “Was it you who attacked the King cabin the other night?”

  “Me and a friend, yes.” Flynt started to walk off. “Why, Jasper? What did you hope to gain? You hadn’t even met Nate then.”

  “No, but I knew roughly where his cabin was located, and I made the mistake of mentionin’ it to that damn Spaniard. Varga decided he wanted to look King up. Just to pay a social call, he claimed. But I wasn’t fooled. Varga was going to ask a lot of questions about Long’s Peak and give the whole thing away. I couldn’t let King get involved.”

  “Give what away? Get involved with what?” Flynt slid a hand under his arm and picked at his armpit. “Tomorrow, old man. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “But why go—” Shakespeare began, and froze. In a blur of movement, the cutthroat had pressed a knife against his throat.

  “You don’t listen so well, do you, old-timer? Not another peep out of you, hear? I’m only keepin’ you alive because you might be useful later on. But rile me again, and to hell with it.” Flynt pressed on the hilt to accent his point. “If and when I feel the need, I’ll tell you what this is all about. Until then, shut up. Savvy?”