Wilderness Giant Edition 6

by David Robbins

  No sooner was she on the sorrel than the three grim warriors raced into the forest on the trail of those responsible for the slaughter.

  Eighteen

  Barely ten seconds after Shakespeare McNair slid over the rim of the shelf, he heard Jasper Flynt bellow.

  “Galt! What the hell are you doing sittin’ down? Go check on that old coot you’re supposed to be guardin’. There’s something mighty strange about the way he’s lyin’ there. I don’t like it.”

  Shakespeare had been crawling, staying low in case any of the cutthroats peered over the edge to look for sign of the men who had been sent out to find the Varga expedition. Now he flung himself erect and ran, praying he wouldn’t trip over a rock or step into a rut.

  There was no moon. It was so dark, he could not see his hand in front of his face. Fortunately, boulders and other objects loomed as shadowy bulks even blacker than the night. He swerved aside again and again, refusing to slacken his speed even at the risk of a broken leg or twisted ankle.

  Ahead, a seemingly solid ebony wall hove up out of the earth. Shakespeare knew it for what it really was, and ran faster. He was almost there when angry shouts and curses informed him that the renegades had discovered he was gone.

  Torches lit up the rim, but two more bounds brought Shakespeare to the trees. He barreled into the growth, raising both arms in front of his face to protect his eyes from the raking limbs and rapier-like branches that thrust at him from all sides.

  His plan had worked to perfection! The key had been persuading Flynt to send out most of the cutthroats in search of the Vargas. Now only a handful remained. He stood a much better chance of eluding them than he would the whole band at once.

  Slowing, Shakespeare listened to the nicker of horses and Jasper Flynt roaring curses. They were saddling up. He jogged eastward, the ground spongy thanks to a thick layer of fallen needles that muffled his tread.

  It worried him that the only weapon he had was a short piece of jagged quartz. Against a grizzly or a painter it would be useless. He might as well throw peas at them.

  Hooves drummed, growing steadily louder. The killers were making their way down the slope. He counted three, four, five torches. Flynt had ordered every last man to take part in the hunt. They were zigzagging back and forth, yelling to one another.

  Shakespeare came to a dense patch of brush and veered to the left rather than barrel on through and be lashed and torn. Suddenly something snorted. A large shape materialized, and he drew up short, crouching, fearing he had blundered onto a bear.

  The creature did not move. Neither did he. Its heavy breathing confirmed its massive size. Behind him, the undergrowth crackled. At least one of the cutthroats had reached the forest. He could not afford to stand there much longer, yet if he moved, he might provoke an attack.

  The animal snorted. Recognizing the sound, Shakespeare straightened and said softly, “Boo!”

  Uttering another snort, the elk pivoted and fled, plowing on through the vegetation like an out of control steam engine. Shakespeare could go on now, but he didn’t. Darting to the right, he dropped onto his hands and knees and scooted in among high weeds.

  “Do you hear that, boys?” a grating voice bawled.

  “Flynt! He’s down here! Hurry!”

  Two torches moved toward McNair, bobbing and weaving as the riders wound among the boles. In the flickering glow, the grimy, bearded faces of the two men resembled disembodied specters. They reined up less than fifteen feet from where McNair lay to cock their heads and listen.

  The elk was still making plenty of noise.

  “We’ve got him!” gloated one of the killers.

  “Flynt! Flynt! This way!” shouted the other, and the pair sped off.

  Shakespeare started to stand, then ducked down again. The rest were closer than he had realized. Within moments, Flynt, Galt, and the last man drew abreast of his position.

  He grinned to himself. Once they had gone by, he would retrace his steps to the shelf. His white mare and personal effects had been left unguarded. In no time he would be in the saddle and out of there.

  Then Jasper Flynt unaccountably reined up. Galt and the other man followed his example. Galt asked, “What is it, Jasper? Why’d you stop?”

  Shakespeare tensed. Had Flynt seen him? No, that was not possible. But Flynt might have sensed him. Men who lived in the wilderness long enough often developed heightened senses much like those of the wild beasts with whom they lived in such close proximity.

  Flynt swiveled in the saddle, his gaze passing right over Shakespeare. He looked toward the shelf and frowned. “Galt, I want you to go back and keep watch.”

  “By my lonesome?”

  “You afeared of the dark, fat man?” Flynt said. “No, it’s just that—”

  “I ain’t got time to bandy words, damn you!” Flynt growled. “It’s your fault the old-timer got away from us. I ought to take a switch to your head. Or maybe hack off one of your fingers. Maybe that would learn you to do as I tell you from now on.”

  The tip of Galt’s tongue nervously licked his thick lips. “There’s no need for that, Jasper,” he whined. “I was stickin’ close to him, just like you said. How was I to know that he untied those cords?”

  “Untied them, hell!” Flynt declared. “Those knots were too tight for anyone to unravel. I should know. I tested ’em myself.”

  To the northeast one of the pursuing riders hollered, “Jasper! Jasper! We’ve got the varmint cornered in a wash! Come on! We need some help!”

  Flynt jabbed a finger at Galt. “You don’t know how lucky you are that McNair didn’t get away. Now, get your fat ass back to camp and don’t budge until we return. Savvy?”

  Galt’s double chin bobbed.

  Flynt raised his reins, then paused. “So help me, if you let anything happen to our pack animals and supplies, I’ll skin you alive and stake you out over a hill of red ants.” With that, he was gone, flying toward the two points of light in the middle distance.

  Mopping his forehead, Galt wheeled his animal and did as he had been instructed. “Damn that man!” he grumbled. “One of these days he’s going to push me too far, and that will be the end of Mr. High-And-Mighty Jasper Flynt!”

  Shakespeare rose to his knees. His scheme had not worked out, after all. Galt would be extra alert, afraid of incurring Flynt’s wrath. To try and claim the mare might get him shot.

  He glanced at the torches of the others, visible through the trees. It would not take Flynt and company long to learn that they had trapped an elk, not him. The first thing they would do was retrace their steps, seeking sign. He had to leave.

  Bearing to the southeast, Shakespeare held to a pace that would have exhausted most men half his age. After an hour he slowed to a walk. Another hour, and a haven appeared, a deadfall at the edge of a meadow. It was a tricky proposition climbing to the top, what with the gaps and cracks where an arm or leg could slip. But he managed it.

  Resting on a wide log, Shakespeare propped his arms on his knees. He was tired. Powerful tired. It had been a long day, and the next promised to be longer. He had no rifle, no pistol. No belt knife, no tomahawk. His ammo pouch and powder horn were gone.

  So was his possibles bag. He missed it the most, since it held, among other useful items, his flint and steel. Also a small clasp knife. With them, he could make do fairly well. Without them he would have to scrape up food as best he could, and starting fires would be a chore.

  Or would it? Fishing under his moccasin, Shakespeare pulled out the flint. All he needed was another piece. Striking them together would set sparks to flying. With the right kindling—an old bird nest, for example—he could get a fire going in no time.

  But it would be dawn before he could think of doing anything. Replacing the flint, he reclined on his back, his arm on his forehead. Glumly, he stared at the stars. Normally the celestial grandeur was inspiring. Not tonight.

  He was glad to be shed of the renegades, but he had a greater worry th
at had been eating at him for days. Namely, what could have happened to his wife and the Kings? He was sure it had been something awful. That they had not shown up to rescue him was proof.

  Hadn’t he trained Nate himself? The younger man could track like an Apache, and his wife was no slouch in that regard, either. It should have been simple for them to trail the renegades.

  What if they were … dead? The notion was unthinkable, yet he had to be realistic. As the old cliché went, no one lived forever. His white hairs belied the fact that most trappers wound up as worm food within three years of coming to the mountains.

  At the last rendezvous, he had been astounded at how few faces he knew. Of the three hundred or so mountaineers who had been around when beaver trapping commenced, less than a score were still alive.

  He was one of the supremely lucky ones. Nate had also lasted longer than most. They were overdue, as it were.

  Shakespeare did not know if he could go on without Blue Water Woman and the Kings. They brought lively sparkle to his life, zest to his weary old frame. Losing them would plummet him into a state of unbearable loneliness.

  “To be, or not to be,” Shakespeare quoted, and closed his eyes. It had been a spell since last he prayed, but he prayed now, prayed long and hard that his wife and the man he thought of as his son were still alive. He fell asleep praying, not intending to rest more than a couple of hours.

  Bright, warm sunlight tingling his skin awakened him. Shakespeare sat up, annoyed that he had overslept. The sun had been up half an hour. A deplorable lapse, he mused, and blamed his advanced years.

  Stretching, Shakespeare took note of his surroundings. The deadfall was wider than it had appeared in the dark, the meadow that bordered it ripe with green grass. Somewhere in the woods a squirrel chattered. Elsewhere sparrows chirped gaily.

  Serenity sublime, Shakespeare reflected as he clambered carefully to the ground. The pristine beauty of the wilderness had entranced him from the moment he first beheld virgin territory.

  The majestic Rockies were Creation in its purest form, Creation as the Almighty meant the world to be. Here a man could live unfettered by the silly rules and tyrannical laws of civilization. Here a man could breathe deep of air not choked by wood or coal smoke, wander where he pleased, live as he saw fit.

  Here a soul could revel in the glories of Nature. The rivers and lakes were as pure as gold. The forests had not been rendered a wasteland by the woodman’s ax. The prairie had not yet been tilled by plows. It took his breath way, sometimes, to gaze out over so much splendor.

  Occupied by his thoughts, Shakespeare headed across the meadow. Lower down would be lush valleys abundant with game and watered by babbling creeks. He glanced over his shoulder at the slopes above but did not see any evidence of the renegades. His stomach reminded him that he had not eaten since the evening before, and he gave it a playful swat to shut it up.

  Shakespeare was at the middle of the meadow when a loud grunt to the southwest stopped him cold. A large animal moved in murky shadow under some trees. Another elk, he guessed, and walked on. As big as they were, elk were harmless. They would rather run than fight.

  The animal shambled into the open. Shakespeare halted again in consternation. He had erred. Badly. The massive brute glaring at him out of beady dark eyes was not an elk. It was a bull buffalo.

  Few easterners were aware that there were two types of bison west of the Mississippi. Most people had heard of the immense herds of Plains buffalo, herds of a million or more that yearly migrated from Canada to Texas and back again. The second variety had not been met with as often, and was less widely known.

  Indians called them mountain buffalo. They were shaggier, darker, and slightly smaller than their prairie-dwelling kin. One trait both breeds shared was a fiery temperament, with those that lived in the mountains being rated more dangerous.

  Shakespeare could remember being skeptical when he was first told about the high-country breed. He had been so much younger then, and cocksure of himself, as were most that age. Only youth could explain his audacity in thinking that he knew more about wildlife than the Indians. Eventually he had been proven wrong, and ever since he had given mountain buffalo a wide berth except when he was specially hunting them.

  More appeared behind the bull that was glaring at him. Four cows and two calves shuffled closer to their lord and master, as if for protection.

  Shakespeare did not move. Buffalo had a keen sense of smell but poor eyesight. If he pretended to be a tree, the brute might lose interest and stray into the woods. The animal had its hairy head low to the ground, but it was not behaving belligerently.

  As if to prove him wrong, the bull snorted again and tossed its great head. Wicked, curved horns that could rend another bull wide open glinted dully in the sunlight.

  Shakespeare shifted his eyes toward the deadfall without turning his head. It was too far off. The beast would run him down before he made it two-thirds of the way.

  To the north grew tall pines. They were the closest available cover, but they were not close enough to suit him. He glanced at the bull as it rumbled deep in its huge chest and lumbered a few feet nearer. Its nostrils were flared to test the breeze.

  Shakespeare was all right so long as he stayed calm and quiet. The wind was blowing from the northwest to the southeast, bearing his scent away from the small herd. He saw the bull sniff a few more times. Grunting, the monster began to turn.

  As fate would have it, the wind chose that instant to change direction. Where it had been caressing his right cheek, now it fanned his back.

  One of the calves bawled. The cows hurried toward cover, their short tails flicking. But the bull vented a bestial snort and swung around with incredible agility for an animal its size. The grotesque head tilted. It advanced, testing the breeze. The muscles on its sides and those that layered the broad hump on its front shoulders rippled and surged.

  “No,” Shakespeare said under his breath.

  The bull paused to paw the ground. Clods went flying. Its head dropped lower, its shaggy beard almost brushing the soil. Nearly six feet high at the front shoulders and heavier than a stallion, it was not an adversary any sane person would care to tangle with.

  It charged.

  Shakespeare sprinted toward the tall pines. He was pumping his legs madly, yet it seemed as if he were wading through thick molasses. He could not move fast enough to suit him.

  Huffing and puffing, the bull bore down on the mountain man. A wide swath of grass was left flattened in its wake, the ground scarred by deep hoof prints and chunks of ripped earth.

  It was as if Nature had spawned a living engine of destruction, a creature that knew no fear and had no equal. Buffalo had ruled their vast domain for untold ages, and according to many Indian tribes they would endure forever.

  For the Sioux and the Cheyenne, for the Arapaho and the Shoshone, for the Blackfeet and many others, the buffalo was as much a part of their lives as breathing and eating. They depended on the well-nigh limitless herds for their clothes, for their utensils, for the very dwellings in which they lived.

  Buffalo hunts were held regularly. When a herd was spotted, warriors mounted their fleetest, most dependable steeds and gave chase. It was not uncommon for lives to be lost. A warrior might be thrown from his mount and be buried by an avalanche of plunging bodies. Or his mount might be gored, and down he would go under a flurry of hammering hooves. Or a bull might decide to turn and attack.

  Small wonder that Indian women dreaded the aftermath of a hunt. It was not the backbreaking labor, not all the skinning and butchering they had to do. It was the constant fear of having the hunters return and their man not be among them. Buffalo had made widows of more women than all the guns of the white men combined.

  Shakespeare McNair had been on his share of hunts, most of them when he was much younger and did not know any better. Each had been a bedlam of noise and motion and dust. He had lost friends. He had seen men stomped to a gory pulp, seen wa
rriors torn by horns. After every hunt he had vowed that he would never go on another, yet he always did when invited.

  He had been charged before. Once, a bull had chased him and his horse for pretty near two miles, which was unusual given that buffalo were not endowed with much stamina. On another occasion, a pair of young bulls had tried to box him between them and nearly succeeded. The horse he had owned at the time carried a jagged scar on its hindquarters ever after as a reminder of exactly how close a shave it had been.

  But none of those times could hold a candle to the unbridled terror of being pursued on foot. A quick look showed Shakespeare that the bull was gaining with uncanny swiftness. He would never reach the trees. Not alive. Not unless he did something.

  The pounding of hooves grew louder and louder. Shakespeare swore he could feel the deep breaths of the buffalo on the back of his neck.

  Just when it seemed that the monster was about to run him down, Shakespeare leaped to the right, throwing himself prone. The bull chugged on by, brushing his leg. He rolled when he hit, over and over and over, and when he came to rest, he hugged the ground as if trying to melt into it.

  The bull turned and came back. Shakespeare could feel the vibrations under him, could hear the rustling of the high grass and the animal’s angry snorts and grunts. He was as still as a rock, refusing to twitch even when a hulking brown shape reared on his left.

  Stems at his elbow crackled. A dark hoof was planted an arm’s length from his head. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bull plainly. Its own eyes were roving over the grass beyond. Saliva dribbled from its chin, spatting his hand.

  Shakespeare stared at the hooves. If they came any closer, he must roll aside or be stomped.

  For an eternity the bull stood there, sniffing and snorting. Then, with a jerk of its head, the brute lumbered to the southwest, nearly stamping on McNair’s arm. He lay low until the crash of underbrush assured him that the monster had rejoined its harem.