“Do as your father tells you,” Winona said. Among her people, it was unthinkable for a boy Zach’s age to dispute his parents. Children did as they were told, when they were told. To disobey was to heap shame on one’s shoulders.
Shakespeare looked around for his mare and suddenly remembered where it was. Slapping his forehead, he exclaimed, “I must be getting senile in my old age. I plumb forgot my horse.”
Bending, Nate extended his arm. “Climb on behind me and we’ll fetch it.”
The women and children clustered and waved as the two mountain men trotted into the firs. Dappled by shadow, Nate threaded through the virgin woods, the stallion’s hooves drumming dully on the thick carpet of pine needles. “Look in that parfleche by your right knee,” he said. “Tell me what you make of it.”
“Of what?” Shakespeare said, and drew out the broken halves of an arrow. “Hmmmmm, What do we have here?”
“I dug it out of the cabin wall,” Nate explained.
Just as no two tribes crafted their clothes or moccasins exactly alike, so, too, with their weapons. Some bows were made of wood, some from horns. One tribe was partial to ash arrows. Another favored arrows constructed of dogwood. Some tribes swore that bowstrings made from deer sinew were best; others would not use anything except buffalo tendon strings. And so on and so forth.
His far-flung travels had given Shakespeare more than a passing familiarity with the different tribes and their customs. At one time or another he had lived among the Flatheads, the Cheyenne, the Sioux, the Arapahos, the Crows, and others. If the truth were known, there wasn’t a mountain man alive—not even Jim Bridger or Joe Walker—who knew more about Indians and their ways than he did.
So it came as quite a shock for Shakespeare to realize that he had never set eyes on a shaft quite like the broken one he held in his left hand. It appeared to be made of mulberry, but that was impossible. The only Indians who made bows and arrows from mulberry trees were those who dwelled in the arid regions west of the recently formed Republic of Texas. Pimas, Maricopas, Apaches, and the like.
Shakespeare recalled the strange moccasin tracks beside the lake, and gave a start. Now that he thought about it, the style had indeed been similar to those worn by tribes who lived in the arid wasteland far, far to the southwest. But how could that be? What would a desert country warrior be doing in the central Rockies? Not even the notorious Blackfeet roamed that far.
“Well?” Nate prompted. The arrow, the footprints, the attack itself, had him perplexed.
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
“In other words, you have no idea which tribe it belongs to,” Nate deduced.
“Did I say that?” Shakespeare countered, miffed. “Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth. And thus do we of wisdom and of reach, with windlasses and with assays of bias, by indiscretions find directions out. So, by my former lecture and advice, shall you, my son.”
Nate failed to see what that had to do with anything. But then, half the time he never understood what the Bard meant. Secretly, he suspected that McNair didn’t, either, but he would never say as much to his wrinkled face.
Among the closely knit brotherhood of trappers, McNair’s passion for the Bard was legendary, as was his flair for quoting accurately from any of Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets at the drop of a hat. Everyone knew that McNair never went anywhere without his rare volume of the complete works of the playwright, bundled in hides for protection from the elements.
Exactly why Shakespeare was so fond of the Englishman, no one had ever found out. Nate asked once. Shakespeare had looked up from a play he was reading, chuckled, and said, “Why? You might as well ask why the sun rises every morning, why the moon shines at night. Why do ocean tides go in and out? Why do buffalo migrate? Why are there so many stars? So few men of peace and goodwill? Why do birds have feathers, and we don’t? Why do fish swim in water instead of walking on land? Why are we here? Why? Why? Why?”
Nate never asked again.
Ahead, a horse nickered. Nate reined to the left, saying over his shoulder, “Have you heard of anyone else being attacked? Old Hugh stopped by about six weeks ago and said things were quiet up in his neck of the woods. Too quiet.”
“Old Hugh’s problem is that he thinks he’s still thirty instead of seventy-four. Why, last spring that scrawny yak went into a bear den after a silver-tip that treated itself to some of his chickens. He fired at it and missed.”
“What happened?”
“What else? The grizzly ripped him to shreds. Shakespeare cackled at his joke, slapping his leg.
Another whinny by the mare guided Nate around a stand of saplings. The horse had its back to him and was prancing as if agitated. “What’s wrong with that contrary critter of yours?” he said.
Both of them saw it at the same instant. Crouched ten yards from the mare was a huge tawny cat, its long tail flicking, its ears pinned back, tapered teeth exposed.
“A painter!” Shakespeare bawled.
At the outcry, the mountain lion launched itself at the mare.
Three
Shakespeare McNair was especially fond of that mare. He had been riding her for a good many years. And while she was a feisty cuss given to nipping when his back was turned, she could outrun anything on four legs. To lose her would be a calamity. But he had one hand on Nate’s shoulder and the other was between them, holding his rifle. He could not possibly get off a shot in time. “Nate!” he yelled.
The younger trapper was already in motion. There was no time to lift the Hawken resting across the pommel of his saddle, so Nate grabbed for one of his pistols. His right arm a blur, he jerked the flintlock out.
The cougar was already in midair. Nate fired from the hip, knowing he missed the second he squeezed the trigger. At the crash of the smoothbore, the black stallion shied.
The outcome seemed inevitable. But the white mare had resources of her own, namely a fighting spirit and sharp hooves. She bounded to the left as far as the reins would allow, and the cat alighted in the spot where she had been standing. Whinnying, she kicked, her forelegs lashing out with the force of heavy hammers, her hooves catching the mountain lion on the ribs and tumbling it into the brush.
Hissing and spitting, the frustrated painter heaved onto all fours and crouched to spring again. A glance at the onrushing stallion changed its mind. Venting a baffled snarl, it wheeled and fled, a tawny molten bolt of lightning that was gone before either trapper could resort to a rifle.
“Damn!” Shakespeare fumed, dropping off the stallion’s hindquarters and running to his mount. “Mary, gal! Are you all right?” Snatching the reins, he stroked the quaking mare, soothing her. There were no claw marks that he could see, and he heaved a sigh of relief. “For a bit there, Mary, I was afeared you were a goner.”
Nate rose in the saddle, scouring the terrain. The cougar seemed to be gone, but it was not wise to take anything for granted. Reloading the pistol, he arched an eyebrow at his mentor. “All these years, and I never knew you had a handle for that horse.”
Shakespeare nodded, patting the mare’s neck. “Mary,” he said softly. “Named her after my sister.”
“You never mentioned having one,” Nate said. Truth to tell, McNair never talked about his past. Nate knew virtually nothing about his friend’s personal history, but he would not think of prying. It was an unwritten rule that mountaineers mind their own business. Sticking one’s nose into another’s affairs was not only frowned on, it could result in an exchange of lead.
“She was the sweetest little gal ever born,” Shakespeare recalled fondly. “Had her a doll she toted everywhere. We used to play in this big old maple tree out back of our house.” His eyes misted. “Those were fine days, Nate. Childhood is the best time of our lives, and we’re too blamed young to realize it.” Since McNair had broached the subject, Nate felt safe in asking, “Is Mary still alive?”
Shakespeare blinke
d, and a tear stained his left cheek. “I have no idea. Last I saw her was nigh on forty years ago. She’d married a weasel, a shiftless bastard who never did an honest day’s work in his life. Swilled liquor like he was sucking his ma’s teat.”
“Sorry to hear it,” Nate said sincerely.
“That’s not the worst. When he was in his cups, the scum would beat on her. On Mary! On a gentle soul who never hurt anybody!” Shakespeare paused. “Last I knew, they were living in New York City. I went back for a surprise visit. Walked in, and there was my sister, lying on the sofa, her face swelled up like a buffalo bladder, all black and blue and bleeding at the mouth.” The white-maned mountain man fell silent.
“What did you do?” Nate asked quietly.
“Went berserk. Sis told me he was at a local watering place, so I stomped on down, barged into the dive, and lit into him like the wrath of the Almighty. Beat him senseless, I did. His nose was bleeding, his mouth was bleeding, his left wrist was busted.” Shakespeare shuddered. “I damn near killed him. Had my hands around his throat and was choking the life out of the son of a bitch when Mary showed up. She pulled me off, begged me to let the buzzard live. Like a fool, I did.”
“He give you trouble later?”
“Did he!” Shakespeare snorted. “He was too much of a coward to trade blows, so he got back at me a better way. Through her.”
“He beat her again?”
“No. I cured him of that bad habit.” Sorrowfully, Shakespeare climbed onto the mare and gazed into the distance. “She wrote me a letter. Sent it to Jacob Hawken, since she knew he was a friend of mine and I stopped by his shop once a year to stock up on powder and ammunition.”
The memory was so bitter that Shakespeare had to cough to clear his throat. “She told me that she thought it best if I didn’t go see them ever again. It would upset the polecat, and she didn’t want to do anything to spoil things now that they were getting along fairly well.”
“Did you do as she wanted?”
Shakespeare turned a pained expression on his protégé. “Wouldn’t you have? She was my sister. I loved her with all my heart.”
Nate said nothing. He could imagine how awful it must have been.
Shakespeare coughed again to dislodge the lump. Pressing a sleeve to his eyes, he commented, “Look at me! You’d think I just peeled a bucket of onions.” Tossing his head, he clucked to the white mare and headed for the lake, saying, “As old William S. once phrased it, each of us must let our own discretion be our tutor. More’s the pity, that.”
For once Nate understood. He followed the mare to the shore, where the hunt began in earnest. Assuming the lead, he paralleled the footprints, which bore around the lake to trees fringing the east shore. Warily, he rode into the growth, and no sooner did so than he came on a small clearing. The odor of horse manure brought him to a halt.
Shakespeare dismounted to study two sets of hoof prints. “Here’s where they tied their critters,” he said, memorizing the tracks.
Nate thought of the beeline the pair had made along the north shore directly to his cabin. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“Sure do. They knew right where to find your place.” Rising, Shakespeare adjusted the fox skin hat Blue Water Woman had given to him on his last birthday. “Yet how could that be? I’d wager my poke that the varmints are new to these parts.”
“We’ll ask them when we catch them,” Nate said, and forged into the undergrowth along a winding game trail the pair had taken.
“They sure lit out in a hurry,” Shakespeare remarked, based on the loping gait indicated by the tracks. “Maybe they were afraid you were after them.”
Nate doubted it. The two men had left long before daylight, when he was still in the cabin. Whatever motive they had for racing off was a mystery.
The game trail climbed to a broad opening between two sawtooth mountain ridges, an opening Nate had passed through countless times since it was the only way in and out of the valley on the east side. Below, rolling emerald foothills unfolded. Beyond the hills, for as far as the eye could see, rippled a sea of shimmering grass.
“Lookee there,” Shakespeare said.
Nate had seen them. Strung out across the vast prairie was a long column of riders and pack animals. From that altitude they looked like ants.
Shakespeare clucked in disapproval. Only greenhorns would allow themselves to become that strung out in hostile country. A war party would make short shrift of them if they were caught in the open. “Shall we go see who they are?”
“We’d better,” Nate said, kneeing the stallion. Whoever they were, he did not want them trespassing in his valley, and their line of march hinted they might just do that.
“Maybe they’re pilgrims bound for the Oregon Country,” Shakespeare suggested, although it was unlikely. Settlers always traveled in wagons. His second guess was that it might be an army patrol. But there had to be sixty riders, at least, and patrols rarely included more than forty soldiers.
Avoiding open areas, the mountain men wound steadily lower until they came to the crest of the last foothill. By then the sun was directly overhead. Hidden among pines, they spied on the newcomers, who were half a mile out.
“A mountanee man is leading them,” Shakespeare said.
Nate leaned forward, squinting. For the life of him, he could not distinguish the features of the foremost figure. His mentor’s hearing might not be as keen as it once was, but there was no denying McNair had the eyes of a hawk.
“Do you recognize him?” Shakespeare asked.
“Has the sun fried your brain? At this distance all I can make out are his buckskins and his beaver hat.”
“What about the others?”
“I can’t tell much,” Nate said.
The column advanced until it was a quarter of a mile from the foothills. At that point the lead rider hoisted a rifle and barked a command. Noon camp was pitched. A fire was made. The pack animals were tethered but not stripped. Mounts were picketed. Amid the hustle and bustle sashayed three slender figures whose bearing and attire set them apart from the rest.
“Women,” Nate said.
Shakespeare was more interested in the garb worn by the men. Most sported unusual pants that flared at the bottom. Wide-brimmed hats with high crowns were common, as were colorful sashes and capes. “I’ll be dogged. Remember Santa Fe?”
Nate glanced around. How could he forget? A few years ago, he had let Shakespeare talk him into taking their families on a trek to Santa Fe. The excursion was supposed to be a grand holiday, a long-overdue break after several seasons of steady trapping. Instead, it had turned into an ordeal Nate would rather forget when Winona was taken captive by Apaches. “What about it?”
Shakespeare nodded at the camp. “I think they’re Mexicans.”
Nate scrutinized the party more closely. Yes, it appeared so. But what was a small army of Mexicans doing so far north of New Mexico, the nearest Mexican province?
“Let’s ride on down and introduce ourselves,” Shakespeare proposed, and clucked to Mary.
“Is that smart?” Nate said.
“Probably not. But if we only did things when we were sure of being right, nothing would ever get done.”
McNair stuck to cover until they came to the tree line. Most of the Mexicans were resting. Sentries had been posted around the perimeter, and he figured one was bound to spot his white mare the moment he rode into the open. To his surprise, no shouts rang out. Holding the mare to a walk, keeping his hands where they could be seen, he smiled broadly to demonstrate his peaceable intentions.
Nate fingered his Hawken. “Why haven’t they noticed us yet?”
“Either they’re as blind as bats, or city-bred,” Shakespeare said. It had been his experience that city dwellers were generally deaf and dumb. Oh, there were exceptions. But plop most of them in the wilderness and they were as helpless as newborn babes; they couldn’t find water, they were pitiful hunters, and nary a one could track a bull
buffalo through mud.
The cities were to blame, not the people, Shakespeare believed. City life was simply too easy. When people were hungry, all they had to do was walk across the street to a restaurant. When they required new clothes, there was the tailor. New boots? Off to the shoemaker.
Every need was met. They never had to fend for themselves, never had to shoot game for the supper pot or skin an animal for its hide so they would have something to wear, or learn how to find water so they wouldn’t die of thirst.
It made them soft and flabby. It dulled their senses. Their eyes dimmed. Their sense of smell grew feeble. They clumped noisily about, oblivious to the world around them, ignorant of their fall from natural grace but as happy as clams.
Even worse, city life made people dependent on others, particularly on government. When that happened, they stood in dire risk of losing the cherished freedom their forefathers had sacrificed so much to preserve.
Shakespeare had had a bellyful of politicians well before he ever ventured west of the Mississippi. The groveling for votes, the lies and broken promises, the nepotism, had sickened him. He didn’t want anyone telling him how he should live, and he could never comprehend how others were willing to abide it.
A hail brought an end to Shakespeare’s reverie. He made a mental note to quit letting his thoughts wander as sentries converged and rifles were trained on him and Nate.
Butterflies fluttered in Nate’s stomach. He hoped McNair knew what he was doing. None of the sentries acted friendly. Distrustful eyes marked their progress, fingers lightly touching triggers. If one of them should sneeze, all hell would break loose.
Unfazed, Shakespeare elevated his arms and showed all his front teeth. “Buenos tardes, Caballeros!” he called out.
Other members of the party were drawn by the commotion, among them the three women.
A tall man in a black sombrero and a wide red sash pushed through the crowd to stand next to the sentry who had given the alarm. Inner flames burned in the depths of his brooding eyes. A thin mustache topped thin, almost cruel, lips. His left cheek bore a jagged scar. Snapping an arm at the frontiersmen, he barked in clipped English, “Halt where you are, gringos, or we will shoot!”
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