Wilderness Double Edition 28

by David Robbins

  What makes people do what he was doing? Why, in the face of all reason, do we ignore what is best for us and do that which will only heap hardship on our heads? Is it pride that makes us think we are immune to the folly of our actions? Or is it that we think we are invincible when we are not? Whatever the cause, I was grateful Cutter was no different from any other mortal; he was too stubborn for his own good.

  “Did you hear me?” Jess Hook shouted.

  “Quit pestering me!”

  “Fine. You’re on your own.”

  Hefting his knife, Cutter crouched. “It’s you or me. I won’t stop until one of us is done for.”

  “You should listen to him and let him bandage you.” I was stalling.

  Cutter cocked his head. “I hate you.”

  Why he said that, at that moment, was a mystery to me. But it was not all he had to say.

  “I hate you more than I have ever hated anyone or anything. You are all that is wrong with this world. You are why I am as I am.”

  That made no sense whatsoever. I figured the loss of blood had brought on delirium. “We are each of us accountable for our own actions,” I responded.

  “There you go again, using big words. I hate that, too.”

  Now I ask you, where was the logic in that? Why hate a person’s vocabulary? “What you need is a cup of tea. My grandmother always claimed that calms the nerves.”

  For some reason that drove Cutter berserk. Roaring like a mad bear, he charged me, his knife weaving a tapestry of death.

  I did the only thing I could.

  I turned and ran.

  A string of swear words blistered my ears as I weaved through the aspens with all the speed I could muster. I risked a look over my shoulder to see if Cutter was after me.

  He was.

  I had never seen anyone so furious. His face was so red, it was virtually purple. Rage contorted his features. His eyes were filled with red lines, and his nostrils were distended. His chest rose and fell in great gasps.

  I am not fleet of foot. Under ordinary circumstances, Cutter would have caught me with no difficulty. But he was severely wounded, and his wound slowed him. I, on the other hand, was spurred by my fear. I ran for all I was worth. Reaching deep down inside of me, I called on reserves of stamina I did not know I had.

  “Come back!” Jess Hook bellowed. “You are in no shape for a foot race, you damned fool!”

  My adversary paid no heed. He wanted me dead, and he would stop at nothing until he achieved that end.

  As if to confirm it, Cutter screeched, “I am going to kill you! Kill you, kill you, kill you!”

  Jess Hook did not come after us. Maybe he thought Cutter would be mad if he did, although how Cutter could get any madder was beyond me. I ran and ran, Cutter never more than a few steps behind me. One slip of my foot and he would be on me, stabbing and slicing.

  I kept glancing back to be sure he was not gaining. Along about the tenth or eleventh time, I rounded an aspen, and there, directly in front of me, was another. I tried to veer to the right but the tree was too close. I slammed into it and the impact knocked me off my feet.

  The next thing I knew, I was flat on my back, dazed and in agony, and Cutter was standing over me, sucking air, half his shirt bright scarlet, his knife poised to finish me off. He grinned in triumph. “I have never wanted to kill anyone so much in my entire life.”

  I had dropped my knife when I hit the tree. Unarmed and unable to rise, I was as good as done for.

  Cutter tensed for the fatal thrust. Suddenly blood trickled from a corner of his mouth, and then from the other comer. A strange look came over him. “No!” he exclaimed, and staggered back a step. “Not like this!” He steadied himself and again raised the knife, only to have a river of red gush over his lower lip.

  I was stupefied. Belatedly, it occurred to me that this was a result of my stabbing him. He should have listened to Jess Hook.

  I pushed against the ground and sat up. My hand came down on a familiar object, and a second later I held the knife Blue Water Woman had given me. But I did not use it. There was no need.

  Cutter’s arms had drooped and his chin had dipped to his chest. He groaned, then attempted to speak. But all that came out was a frothy gurgle. His legs buckled and he slowly sank to his knees.

  I just as slowly stood. “Do you see what comes of being evil?”

  Cutter opened and closed his mouth a few times but all that came out was more blood. A fit of coughing doubled him over. When it ended, he spat and looked up at me. “I can’t tell you how much I hate you.”

  “Do you want those to be your last words?” I asked.

  They were. Life fled from Cutter’s eyes. Like pudding poured into a bowl, he oozed to the earth, quivered and was still.

  I mopped my forehead with my sleeve. My relief, though, was short-lived. I abruptly remembered Blue Water Woman was at Jess Hook’s mercy.

  She needed me.

  My legs were leaden, but I willed them to move. Each second was an eternity of anxiety. When, at last, I came in sight of Jess Hook’s horse, my worry knew no bounds; he was not on it. I sped past more aspens and saw him, on his knees beside Blue Water Woman. She had not revived, and he was slapping her to bring her around.

  “Wake up, squaw! I want you to feel it when I do you!”

  When it comes to stealth I am a blind cow. But by stepping on the balls of my feet and watching for twigs, I crept within fifteen feet of him without him being aware. He slapped Blue Water Woman twice more, and suddenly she was staring up at him as calmly as you please.

  “You have hit me enough.”

  Jess Hook laughed. “Hell, I am just getting started. For what you did to Jordy you will die a tiny piece at a time.”

  I slunk forward, hoping I could get close enough to use the knife. But would I? The decision was taken from my hands when Jess Hook stood, stepped back from Blue Water Woman, and leveled his rifle at her knee.

  “We will start with your legs and work up. Feel free to scream all you want. No one will hear.”

  I cleared my throat. “I would rather you didn’t do that.”

  Jess spun, his legs spread wide, ready to shoot. Astonishment rendered him mute but only for a few seconds. “You!” he blurted. “Where is Cutter?”

  “Dead,” I said.

  “Not in a million years, mister. Where is he really?”

  “Wherever scum like him go to when they give up the ghost.” I was trying to provoke him, and I succeeded. He took a step toward me, his finger curling around the trigger.

  “If you are not blowing smoke, then I get to make worm food of both of you.” Jess tucked his rifle to his shoulder. “You I’ll do quick. Smack between the eyes.”

  Once again I stared death in the face.

  Then it happened.

  I saw the whole thing.

  Blue Water Woman’s arm appeared between Jess Hook’s legs. Her hand rose to his belt and wrapped around a pistol. He felt her yank it free, and gave a start. Before he could think to grab it, she pressed the muzzle to his groin, the barrel angled up, and fired.

  Stars sparkled in the firmament later that night. In the distance a wolf howled. The night was pleasantly cool this high up.

  I took a sip of steaming hot coffee. “You are leaving it up to me? Whether we go back down or stay so I can paint and sketch?”

  “Whichever you like,” Blue Water Woman said. “After what we have been through, I imagine you can use some rest.”

  “It shows how little you know me,” I teased. “Bring on the paint and the canvas.”

  “You are strange, Robert Parker,” Blue Water Woman said.

  “Strange as in special?”

  “No. Strange as in male. All men are. But we women put up with you.”

  Her smile made me warm all over.

  Postscript

  According to his journal, Robert Parker spent three more weeks in King Valley. He named the yellow-crowned kinglet in honor of his hosts.
/>   Nate King took him back to Bent’s Fort. There, Parker solved the mystery of the horse covered with blood.

  Augustus Trevor had been concerned for the naturalist’s welfare, and followed him, intending to keep an eye on him without Parker being aware. What Trevor did not know was that the Hook brothers and Cutter were also shadowing Parker and Zach. To keep Trevor from interfering, one of them shot him in the back. They saw him fall, but when they reached the spot, they could not find his body. From the amount of blood they assumed he would die, and they rode on. But frontiersmen were a hardy breed, and Augustus Trevor was one of the hardiest. Emaciated almost to the point of starvation, he made it to Bent’s Fort. The rest of Parker’s party immediately set out after him. Since no one, not even St. Vrain, knew how to find King Valley, they had no recourse but to return to the trading post and await his return.

  By the time Parker showed up, Trevor had recovered sufficiently to lead them on a nine week “species tour of the Rockies,” as Parker referred to it. His observations, sketches and paintings were lauded in the press and in academic circles. All told, he documented over a thousand new varieties of plant and animal life.

  Parker went on to became a professor at the University of Pennsylvania. He eventually headed their Ornithology Department. He was a prominent member of the American Philosophical Society and a fellow of the Linnaean Society, where he rose to the position of vice president.

  Robert Parker never married. He led a quiet, scholarly life. For thirty years he lived in a small house near the university. His most prized possession, according to friends and acquaintances, was a painting he hung in his bedroom.

  It was not a painting of the birds he loved so much or any of the animals or plants he discovered. It was a painting of a woman, and all who saw it praised it as the best painting he ever did. He was offered large sums of money for it, but he refused to sell. No one ever learned the woman’s name. All Parker would tell them was that she was a Flathead.

  WILDERNESS 56

  IN DARKEST DEPTHS

  Dedicated to Judy, Shane, Josh and Kyndra.

  First Incident

  To the bald eagle flying high in the Rocky Mountain sky, the lake was a great blue egg in the center of the lush green nest of the valley floor.

  To the girl standing on the lake’s western shore, it was a constant source of entertainment and wonderment. She loved to gaze out over its watery expanse and watch the ducks and geese swim and dive for fish. She fished herself, now and then, and this was one of those occasions.

  Evelyn King had not yet seen her seventeenth birthday. The daughter of mountain man Nate King and Nate’s Shoshone wife, Winona, Evelyn had more of her father in her than her mother. Sparkling green eyes and lustrous black hair testified to her blossoming beauty, of which she was wholly unconscious. She still thought of herself as a girl, not a woman. She still liked to take her father’s fishing pole and spend an idle hour fishing and thinking.

  On this particular bright sunny day, Evelyn was perched on a small boulder, humming to herself as she watched the bald eagle soar with outstretched pinions. She wore a beige dress she had sewn herself, patterning it after the latest St. Louis fashion.

  Evelyn was watching the eagle, but she was thinking of Degamawaku. She thought of him a lot. He and his family were Nansusequa, a tribe from east of the Mississippi River. Forced to flee when whites wiped out their village, the family had settled in King Valley, as it was called, with her father’s consent. She had been spending a lot of time in Dega’s company of late. He was her age and fun to be with and strikingly handsome.

  As Evelyn sat humming and wondering about the intent looks Dega gave her from time to time, she heard the tread of approaching footsteps. Thinking he was coming to pay her another visit, she swiveled and smiled her warmest smile, only to have it die stillborn and be replaced by a frown. “Oh. It is only you.”

  The white-haired man in buckskins, a Hawken rifle cradled in the crook of his left elbow, blinked eyes the same color as the lake and puffed out his full cheeks. “I dare say, that was as warm a greeting as I have ever received. How now, girl? Dost thou jeer and flout me in the teeth?” he said.

  “Hello, Uncle Shakespeare,” Evelyn said. “I am glad to see you.”

  “So you claim,” Shakespeare McNair responded. “But I was not born yesterday. Nor ten thousand yesterdays ago.” Again he quoted his namesake, “‘Let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp.’“

  Evelyn grinned and asked, “What does that mean, exactly? Or is my pa right in saying that when you quote the Bard, you have no notion of what the Bard is saying?”

  A pink tinge of indignation spread from Shakespeare’s neck to his brow. He was sensitive about his namesake. “Horatio said that?” he sputtered. “Why, he hath more hair than wit and more faults than hair.”

  Laughing, Evelyn lowered the pole to her lap. “I love it when you talk like that. You are just like an old billy goat.”

  Shakespeare’s indignation increased. “And to think, I used to bounce you on my knee and make funny faces so you would grin and giggle.”

  Evelyn adored McNair. He was not really her uncle. He was her father’s best friend and mentor, and as much a part of their family as any blood relation. More so, since he had many times shown his love for them by risking life and limb in their defense. “What brings you out and about on this fine summer morning?”

  McNair hunkered next to the boulder. In addition to his rifle, he was armed with a brace of pistols and a bone-handled hunting knife. An ammo pouch, powder-horn, and a possibles bag were slanted crosswise over his chest. “That wretch I share my cabin with kicked me out. She was cleaning and said I was underfoot.”

  “Oh, Uncle Shakespeare,” Evelyn said. “That’s no way to talk about the woman you love.”

  “Says who?” McNair rejoined. “A pox on all females! As for my wife, we cannot call her winds and waters sighs and tears. They are greater storms and tempests than almanacs can report.” Teasing women was one of his favorite pastimes.

  “You know,” Evelyn said. “I like how you always quote from that big book you have on the real Shakespeare. But half the time I have no idea what you are saying.”

  “My apologies, child. I just said my wife is a moody wench.”

  “Blue Water Woman is one of the sweetest people I know,” Evelyn remarked. “She adores you and you adore her, and don’t pretend you don’t.”

  “Adore!” Shakespeare snorted. “I will praise an eel with the same praise as I do that—” He abruptly stopped.

  The pole had given a jerk. Evelyn gripped it firmly and saw the line go taut. “I have a bite!” she said in delight. She hoped it was a big one. She and her brother, Zach, had an ongoing contest to see who could catch the biggest fish, and a couple of months ago he had landed one that weighed close to five pounds.

  Shakespeare shot to his feet. His entire life he had been an avid fisherman, as much for the sport as the eating. “Careful now,” he cautioned. “Let it have some line if it wants it.”

  “I know.”

  “The trick is to tire it out. Then you can bring it in nice and easy,” Shakespeare went on.

  “I know that, too,” Evelyn said. “My pa taught me all about how to fish.”

  “I am only trying to help. Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop?”

  “What?” Evelyn said, and nearly lost the pole when it tried to leap out of her hands. Holding fast, she stood and braced her legs. “Did you see that?” she exclaimed in amazement.

  “You have caught a whale,” Shakespeare said.

  Evelyn strained to hold on to the pole. “It must be huge! Wait until Zach sees what I’ve caught.”

  “There are two things in life we should never do, child,” Shakespeare said. “One is to put the horse before the cart, and the other is to put the fish before the frying pan.”

  The line went slack, but Evelyn was sure the fish was still on the hook. “What is he up to?”

/>   “He?” Shakespeare repeated. “How do you know it is not a she? If it is contrary, it must be female.”

  “To hear you talk, a body would think you do not cuddle with your wife three times a week.”

  Shakespeare imitated a riled chipmunk. “Why, Evelyn King! Wait until I tell your mother what you just said. She will brand you a wanton.”

  “For talking about cuddling?” Evelyn was about to tell him she once overheard Blue Water Woman mention to her mother how frisky he was, but the line went taut, and the end of the pole curled toward the water. It was all she could do to hold on. “Dear Lord.”

  “A by-God whopper, girl!” Shakespeare exclaimed. “Whatever you do, don’t lose him.”

  “Him? I thought you just told me it has to be female …” Evelyn got no further. The pole jumped toward the lake, and she went with it, digging in her heels to keep from falling on her face. “Help me!”

  In a bound Shakespeare reached her side. He grabbed the pole with his free hand and was amazed when it bent even more.

  “What do we do?” Evelyn asked.

  Before Shakespeare could answer, the line broke with a loud snap. He lunged but missed, and the line disappeared into the water, leaving tiny swirls in its wake.

  “Drat,” Evelyn said in disgust. “It got away.”

  “Fish do that,” Shakespeare philosophized. Secretly, though, he could not help but be astounded.

  “You don’t suppose ... ?” Evelyn let her question trail off.

  “No, I don’t.”

  They looked at each other and then at the lake, and Evelyn said softly, as if afraid to be heard, “You’re probably right. Why would it go after a measly worm? It was a fish, nothing more.”

  “It was a fish,” Shakespeare said.

  But neither believed it.

  Second Incident

  To most whites, Blue Water Woman was a Flathead. Her people, however, called themselves the Salish. They lived well to the north of King Valley in a region that boasted the largest body of fresh water between the Mississippi River and the Pacific Ocean. King Lake was not nearly as big as Flathead Lake, as that other lake was known, but to her it was the jewel in their new home.