Shakespeare reined up. “Not very hospitable of you, friend,” he said dryly. “Didn’t your ma ever teach you any manners?”
The tall man’s swarthy complexion grew darker. “State your business here, señor. Pronto.”
“Ignacio! That will be quite enough!”
A shorter man had appeared. Gray hair crowned a ruggedly handsome face lined by many years. His cape, jacket, and pants were immaculate, his boots polished to a shine, his white shirt unstained. Shoulders squared, he planted himself beside the man in the red sash. “What are you thinking, that you treat these men so? Remember where we are, and why we are here.” Facing the trappers, he smiled and gave a gracious bow. “Greetings, gentlemen. Please forgive my son. He worries that we will come to harm, so he is a trifle overprotective.”
“No harm done,” Shakespeare said amiably. “I had me a pet bear cub like him once. It’d bite the hand that fed it.”
The elderly man chuckled. “Permit me to make introductions. I am Don Manuel de Varga, at your service.” He pointed at Ignacio. “You have met my eldest son. Behind him is my middle son, Martin.”
The man in question was short like his father, and stocky. He had a plain face, lacking mustache or beard. “Señors,” he said politely.
Don Varga beckoned. A youngster barely older than Zach sheepishly stepped from the group. “This is my pride and joy, Diego. He is not yet old enough to earn my consent to shave, but he is competent in many respects.”
Nate happened to see the oldest brother, Ignacio, scowl, then quickly adopt a stony expression. What was that all about? he wondered.
“I am the head of this expedition,” Don Varga continued. “We have been traveling for many weeks, and in all this time we have met few strangers. Your company is most welcome. Perhaps you would be so kind as to join us for coffee and cakes?”
“Don’t mind if I do, sir,” Shakespeare declared, sliding off. “Thank the heaven, Lord, thou art of sweet composure. Praise him that got thee, she that gave thee suck. Famed be thy tutor, and thy parts of nature thrice-famed beyond, beyond all erudition.”
Blinking, Don Varga put a hand on McNair’s wrist. “My English is not all it should be, señor, so perhaps I am in error. But is that not a quote from William Shakespeare?”
“Most assuredly,” Shakespeare said, tickled that their host was versed in literature. “Not many would have guessed.”
“I have been to London many times and attended some of his plays,” Don Varga said.
“From Mexico to England. That’s quite a sea voyage to make once, let alone many times,” Shakespeare commented.
Don Varga was turning, and paused. “But you are mistaken, señor. My family is from Spain, not Mexico, although we hold extensive estates there.”
Shakespeare was intrigued. Spaniards had generally been unwelcome in Mexico since that country won its freedom from Spain twenty years ago. “It doesn’t make a bit of difference to me where you folks are from. Give us your paw,” he said, holding out his hand. He introduced himself, then Nate.
At that juncture a lanky man in buckskins and a beaver hat walked up. “Thought I heard you bellowin’, McNair,” he said coldly. “It’s been a while, hoss. I figured you’d been turned into worm food ages ago.”
“As I live and breathe, Jasper Flynt!” Shakespeare said. “You mean to tell me no one’s hung you yet? As I recollect, the last time we met was in New Orleans, when you were about two hops and a skip ahead of the law.”
Don Manuel de Varga glanced from one to the other. “What is this?” he said uneasily. “I was told that Señor Flynt is a reliable, trustworthy fellow.”
Shakespeare laughed. “Who told you? Pards of his?”
Flynt bristled, taking a swift step and starting to level his Kentucky rifle. He froze when the muzzle of a Hawken blossomed in front of his nose.
“Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” Nate King warned.
Flustered, Flynt snarled, “Where do you get off buttin’ into our spat, mister? It ain’t healthy to get in a racket with me.” Resentment spiked from his gray eyes. “I didn’t catch your name.”
Nate told him.
“King?” Flynt repeated. “Yeah, I’ve heard of you. Grizzly Killer, the Injuns call you. Word is that this old fart is your nursemaid—”
Once, Nate would have meekly stood for the insult. That was over a decade ago, back when he worked as an accountant for a crusty skinflint in New York City. Each and every day, the skinflint, his coworkers, and others had heaped verbal abuse on him, and each and every day he had taken it without batting an eye. At the time, he had flattered himself that he was turning the other cheek, that he was being noble.
It was amazing how a man’s perspective changed.
In the wilderness, anyone who let another ride roughshod over him was asking for more of the same. Turn the other cheek to a Blackfoot on the warpath, and the Blackfoot would split it wide open with a knife or tomahawk. Try to act noble around cutthroats who would as soon stab someone they disliked as look at them, and those cutthroats would delight in making your life a living hell.
Putting on airs was a luxury only civilized sheep could afford.
So on being insulted by Jasper Flynt, Nate reacted without thinking. He swept the stock of his Hawken up and around and smashed it into Flynt’s jaw.
The surly frontiersman dropped like a poled ox. Immediately, other expedition members flourished guns, pointed at Nate’s head and chest.
“How dare you, Americano!” Ignacio stormed, his hand dropping to a pistol wedged under his bright red sash. “We invite you into our camp and you mistreat our guide.”
Nate met the eldest son’s withering gaze without flinching. For strained seconds no one else spoke or moved. Then Ignacio gripped his pistol more firmly and tensed his arm to draw it.
“Con eso basta!” Don Varga shouted, striding between them and gripping his son’s arm. He launched into a string of Spanish incomprehensible to Nate, but the gist was self-evident. He was giving his son a tongue-lashing.
Vile spite was mirrored in Ignacio’s eyes, yet he bowed and addressed his father in a contrite tone.
Don Manuel de Varga faced the hulking young trapper. “My son apologizes for his outburst, señor. It has been a hard journey and our tempers are short. Please forgive him.”
Nate was not disposed to do any such thing, but a nod by Shakespeare compelled him to say, “No hard feelings, then. Just keep a muzzle on your guide. I won’t abide being treated with disrespect.”
“We are a lot alike, I think,” Don Varga said. He only had to snap his fingers for three men in broad brimmed hats to collect the unconscious Flynt and haul him off. “Come, now,” Varga said, smiling. “Let us start over. Be seated and we will talk.”
“Our pleasure,” Nate said, falling into step beside the Spaniard. He adopted a casual air, but as he crossed to the fire, he could feel Ignacio’s eyes bore into his back.
Four
Nate King caught sight of other women as he fell into step beside the Spaniard. One was brewing coffee. Another was setting small round cakes on an ornate tray. A third was seated on a crate, stitching a shirt. A fourth was rummaging in a pack. All four wore simple homespun dresses and little jewelry.
In dazzling contrast, the three women Nate had noticed earlier were adorned in garments fit for queens. Colorful silken bodices flared into ankle-length, billowy skirts that swayed with every motion. Their earrings, necklaces, and bracelets were either gold or silver. Lace mantillas framed their slender shoulders. Two wore their rich, dark hair up in buns. The third, who was stunningly beautiful, had hair that fell clear to her waist.
Don Manuel de Varga stopped beside them. “These three lovely señoritas are my daughters,” he revealed proudly, taking the hand of the beauty. “This is Maria, the oldest.”
Maria coyly curtsied. “My pleasure, gentlemen,” she said in sweetly accented English. “We did not think to come across other civilized souls in the middle of
this vast wasteland.”
“Wasteland?” Shakespeare repeated, and snorted. “Whatever gave you that notion, missy? All sorts of critters call the prairie home. There’s more buffalo than you could count in a month of Sundays. Deer, elk, antelope, too. You name it, there’s plenty. Not to mention all the Indian tribes that have staked out territories.”
Maria stared out over the ocean of grass. “True, señor. But do not your own people call this the Great American Desert?”
Now it was Nate’s turn to snort. “Only those who don’t know any better, ma’am,” he said. Some years ago the government had sent Major Stephen H. Long to explore the country west of the Mississippi. His official report had tarnished the plains as totally unfit for human habitation, and on the map he drew up and presented to Congress, he’d referred to the prairie as the “Great American Desert.” The name had stuck.
Don Varga clasped the hands of his other daughters in turn. “This is Francisca,” he said of one who wore a pretty red ribbon in her hair. “And my littlest is Luisa.”
To call the youngest “little” did not do her ample bosom justice. Luisa curtsied, timidly studying the mountain men from under her hooded lids.
“Now be seated, if you please,” Don Varga said. “I apologize for not offering more comfortable accommodations, but circumstances being what they are, I’m sure you will forgive us.”
Crates had been arranged in a circle around the fire. Shakespeare sank onto one with a sigh. “Nothing to forgive, old hoss,” he said, tapping the crate. “This is as good as a throne in these parts.”
The Vargas took seats, the daughters primly smoothing their dresses. It was obvious the family bubbled with curiosity about the trappers. Except for Ignacio, who wore a perpetual frown.
Don Varga clapped his hands, and coffee was brought. The plump woman who carried the tray stood to one side and held out the tray for him to take his pick.
“I’m a mite surprised to see you’ve brought so many females along,” Shakespeare mentioned. Given the many perils to be encountered in the wilderness, the Spaniards were flirting with calamity.
“Her?” Don Varga said, bobbing his chin at the plump woman. “Rosa is just a servant. I brought four up from our hacienda in Sonora. They do the best they can to meet our needs, but I should have brought along four more.”
The comment, uttered so offhandedly, told Shakespeare a lot about their host. He smiled at Rosa, who shyly averted her face. “You folks sure are a long way from home,” he said.
“That we are,” Don Varga conceded, gazing thoughtfully at the towering ramparts to the west. Caps of snow shone on some. “And we have a lot farther to go before we reach our destination.” Frontier etiquette prevented Shakespeare from coming right out and asking where that might be. So he tried a roundabout tack. “Heading for Canada, are you?” he asked.
Don Varga pointed at a particular peak, the highest of them all, so starkly imposing, it dominated the entire range. “Do you know that mountain, señors?’
It was Nate who answered. “That’s Long’s Peak, named after an army officer who mistook it for Pike’s Peak. No one has ever been to the top. They say it must be over fourteen thousand feet high.” He did not add that the secluded valley in which his cabin lay was a short distance north of it.
“Montana grande,” Don Varga breathed in awe. “Nearly three miles high, you say? These Rocky Mountains of yours are much more formidable than I was led to believe. They rival the Pyrenees, in my native land. Why, Pico de Aneto, the highest, would be lost among them.”
“You’re headed up there?” Nate said.
“Si,” Don Varga admitted. “Why? What is wrong? Your tone implies we should not.”
Nate accepted a sterling silver cup from Rosa. “Thank you.” Then, to the patriarch, he said, “What you do is your affair. You’re the booshway of this expedition. But if you go dragging a bunch of women and greenhorns up into Ute country, you’ll be lucky to make it back down alive.”
The Vargas looked at one another. Ignacio reddened and declared, “Do you think we are cowards, gringo? Do you think we are unable to protect ourselves and the ladies?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Nate said. “It’s what the Utes will think that counts. And I can tell you right here and now that they won’t take kindly to having their territory invaded by a small army.”
“So?” Ignacio sneered. “We have fifty-five men under us, vaqueros and others from our Mexican hacienda, men who can shoot the eye out of a doe at a hundred paces. Each man has two rifles and two pistols. Let the savages come! We will send them running with their tails tucked between their legs.”
Nate disliked the hothead more and more as time went on. “Fifty-five, huh?” he said. “Well, that’s fine and dandy. But the Ute nation boasts over two thousand warriors. If all of them were to rise up against you, you wouldn’t stand a prayer.”
“Two thousand?” Don Varga said, troubled by the news. “Our guide did not tell us that.”
Shakespeare had taken a sip of the coffee. It was thicker than he was accustomed to, but delightfully sweet. Sugar was a rare treat in the wild, and he smacked his lips in appreciation before saying, “That’s just for starters, Don. To the north of here live the Sioux, who will steal every horse and mule you’ve got if they catch wind of them. And then there are the Blackfeet. Granted, they don’t get down this way much, but if a war party stumbles across your trail, you’ll lose a damn sight more than stock.”
Rosa was about to hand a cup to Ignacio. He rudely pushed her away and jabbed a finger at McNair. “You seek to scare us with your tales, Americano. But we are not afraid. We have more than enough guns to hold off any heathens who dare risk our wrath.”
Shakespeare could not resist. “Tell me. Do you spend a lot of time admiring yourself in the mirror?”
Ignacio snapped erect. “I take that as an insult.”
‘'Sit down!” Don Varga ordered with an imperious gesture. After his son obeyed, he turned to Nate. “If these Utes are so dangerous señor, how is it that they have not slain you? You and your family have lived on Ute land for quite some time, yet here you sit, unharmed.”
About to raise the cup to his mouth, Nate glanced up sharply. “How do you know where I live?”
“Our guide, Jasper Flynt, told us,” Don Varga said. “In fact, it is most fortunate that you came by when you did. We planned to pay you a visit tomorrow.” He absently stretched his legs. “I hope you would not mind.”
Nate’s body grew as rigid as steel. The Spaniard’s boots had uncommonly high heels and spiked toes, just like the pair of boots that made those tracks up by the lake. He swiveled. Practically all the men wore the same style. It could have been any one of them. Calming himself, Nate asked, “Why did you want to see me?”
Don Varga hesitated. “Now is hardly the right time. Perhaps you would do me the honor of accepting a formal invitation to be our guests this evening? Bring your family for supper. You, too, Mr. McNair.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Shakespeare said. “My missus loves to meet new folks.”
Nate would rather have declined. Now that he knew one of their number had tried to kill him, he wanted nothing to do with the Vargas. But it would not do to have McNair enter the lion’s den alone. “I’ll be here,” he promised.
“Excellent.”
Their host and his offspring swapped smiles, with the notable exception of Ignacio, who opened his mouth to say something when a whipcord figure stalked in among them.
There was no warning, no outcry, no threats or lusty oaths. Nate glimpsed the figure out of the corner of his left eye and started to turn. A ringing blow landed on his jaw, knocking him to the ground. The cup tumbled as he tucked and rolled into a crouch, his right hand falling to the polished butt of a flintlock.
Jasper Flynt glowered down. His jaw was swollen and discolored, but he could still speak. “I’m going to gut you, bastard, for what you did to me.” His Green River knife flashed f
rom its sheath. “On your feet.”
Don Varga leaped from his crate. Livid with outrage, he said, “How dare you, Señor Flynt! These men are my guests and will be treated accordingly.”
Without looking around, Flynt rasped, “This is between King and me, mister. None of you butt in, or else.” Wagging the blade, he circled like a cat about to pounce.
“Put down that weapon this instant!” Don Varga demanded.
“Go to Hell, old man.”
Indignation swept the Vargas. Francisca and Luisa gasped. Maria clenched her fists. Ignacio and Diego took steps toward the frontiersman, Ignacio placing a hand on the hilt of a dagger that jutted from under his sash. “No one speaks to my father like that, you cur! Turn and face me!”
Don Varga grabbed his son’s arm and spoke in Spanish. Ignacio halted, but he shook with fury.
Shakespeare was the only person present who sat sipping his coffee, unflustered. To Flynt, he said, “Better lower your horns, Jasper. Better men than you have tried to carve him up.”
“You can go to Hell, too,” Flynt said, not taking his feral eyes off the object of his hatred. “Maybe when I’m done with him, I’ll cut off one of your ears for a keepsake.”
“I tried,” Shakespeare said with a shrug. To no one in particular, he remarked, “Some fools are so soured on life, they never get the acid out of their systems.”
Don Varga was incredulous. “Are you just going to sit there and do nothing? Do you not care for your amigo?’
“In our neck of the woods, sir, a man has to stand on his own two feet or he’s not rated much of a man.”
While all this was going on, Nate had slowly risen. Bent at the waist, he held his knife low, close to his right thigh. Flynt suddenly thrust at his chest and Nate skipped backward. Countering, Nate nicked Flynt’s sleeve.
The Vargas backed off to give them more room. Vaqueros and others were rushing from all directions to witness the clash. Even the sentries. Only Shakespeare McNair stayed where he was, contentedly sipping his coffee.
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