To Felicity it had been a contradiction. Scrubbing floors always put her in a funk. She would rather be out playing with her friends, having fun.
But that was then. Nowadays, when Felicity scrubbed the cabin floor, she did whistle while she worked. She liked to keep their nest spotless. She loved her husband and wanted their home to sparkle. Who would have thought it?
On this bright and cheery morning, Felicity had taken an oval basket given to her by a Shoshone woman and gone out to find roots. The same woman, Winona King, had taught her which kind were edible and which were good for making herbal remedies. She needed to restock both.
Thinking of Winona as she walked through the shadowy woodland, Felicity grinned. There was another thing. Who would have thought one day she would consider an Indian her best friend in all the world? Why, back in Boston there had not been any Indians. The first one she ever saw had been in Illinois. Later, in St. Louis, they were as common as chickens, but she had not paid them much mind. After all, they were “only” Indians, little better than animals, or so she had been led to believe by the newspapers and the government. Many people felt the only good Indian was one planted six feet under.
Felicity learned differently. She had discovered Indians were just like her own kind. They were people, not animals. Some were good by nature, some were not. To paint a whole race as vile based on the behavior of some was wrong.
Winona was largely responsible for opening her eyes. Felicity had never met a kinder, gentler person, never known anyone so considerate of others, so willing to lend a hand when needed. Felicity had grown to love Winona as dearly as her own sister, and looked forward to their get-togethers with great anticipation.
The sight of a bush with tiny, shiny leaves drew Felicity to its side. The roots were the main ingredient in a potent tincture that relieved muscle aches and cramps. She often rubbed it on Simon’s shoulders and back after he spent most of an afternoon chopping wood or doing other heavy labor.
The blue dress Felicity wore was one of six still fit to wear. Winona had offered to assist her in making a buckskin dress, but Felicity would rather go on wearing the clothes she was used to until they wore out. Doing so reminded her of Boston, of her parents and her siblings. The dresses were a link to her past, a past she had loved in its way as much as she now loved her new life.
Around her waist was a wide leather belt, another of Winona’s gifts. From it hung a knife. Tucked under it was a pistol, a .55-caliber smoothbore she referred to as “my cannon.” Her husband insisted she take it with her everywhere in case she ran into bears or whatnot. When he first suggested she always go about armed, she had balked, thinking it silly. Then one day she had been off gathering flowers and a grizzly had risen out of the undergrowth and stared at her as if sizing her up for its next meal. Thankfully, it had wandered off without molesting her. But the incident taught her a lesson. Even husbands could be right now and then.
Felicity chuckled at her thought, set down the basket, and drew her knife. As she stooped to examine the base of the bush, a twig snapped behind her with a distinct crack. She spun, her other hand dropping to the butt of the big pistol.
Something or someone was out there. Twigs did not break on their own.
Felicity was not very worried about Indians. To the north lived the Shoshones, Winona’s people, the friendliest tribe in the Rockies. To the northwest were the Crows, who could be mischievous thieves at times but who rarely harmed whites.
Far to the southwest was Ute country. While the Utes were not fond of whites, Winona’s husband had once done the tribe a valuable service and as a result they let his family live unmolested on the fringes of their territory.
Winona’s husband had sent word to the Utes that Simon and she were his friends, and would be friends to the Utes, as well. An Ute leader had given his consent for the Wards to stay as long as they never harmed a member of the tribe.
Felicity had seen Utes once. On a hot day the summer past, Simon had rushed into the cabin saying they had visitors coming. Seven Indians. They armed themselves, and Simon stood in the doorway, waiting. Unable yet to tell one tribe from another, they had no way of knowing if their visitors were friendly or hostile.
The Kings had warned them many times about the Blackfeet, Piegans, and Bloods, who routinely slew whites but who rarely came so far south.
The Indians reined up a dozen yards out. A tall man kneed his horse closer. Felicity had marveled at how bronzed his skin was, at his long braided hair. He had touched his chest and said one word: “Ute.”
Simon immediately leaned his rifle against the wall and took a cup of water to the warrior as a token of friendship. The man gulped it, smiled, then admired the tin cup. When he went to give it back, Simon motioned to let the warrior know he could keep it. The Indians left. That evening, when she went to fetch water, there on the grass by the front door was a dead buck. The warrior had shown his gratitude.
Now Felicity curled her thumb around the pistol’s hammer and probed the undergrowth. No movement or sounds broke the stillness. Whatever it was, it did not want her to spot it.
She hoped it might be a deer or some other harmless creature.
Then she heard the brush rustle.
Simon Ward threw caution to the breeze and sped in among the trees. He could not run as fast as he would like, because he must stay glued to the tracks. Complicating matters, his wife had meandered back and forth as if hunting for something.
The stalker had followed her awhile, then veered to the right. Simon had a choice to make. Should he press on after his wife or shadow the stalker? He picked his wife. A quarter of a mile fell behind him. Half a mile. A hole in the ground gave him a clue what she was after. Roots.
Not calling out to her was a gamble, but a necessary one if Simon was to take her stalker by surprise. Wending in among stately pines, he stopped to look and listen. Lowering the rifle’s stock, he accidentally struck a rock. Not loudly, but loud enough to carry a few dozen feet. Suddenly, to the west, leaves parted. A shaggy, bearded face peered out. Simon saw beady eyes fix on him, saw a cruel slash of a mouth curl in annoyance. He brought up the rifle, but the stalker vanished in the blink of an eye.
Simon gave chase. Twice he glimpsed a bulky form. That shaggy face glanced over a shoulder once, and an icy sensation rippled down Simon’s spine. It was childish, he knew. He was after a man, nothing more, nothing less. Yet he could not shake a feeling that his quarry was more beast than human, despite the stalker’s grimy homespun clothes and mud-caked boots.
The man did not appear to have a gun, which was baffling. No white man with a brain larger than a turnip would venture into the wilds without one. A dependable rifle was as essential for staying alive as a set of lungs.
Simon almost shot the fellow. The chase had lasted over five minutes, and he was growing winded when the man crested a low mound. For several seconds the burly figure was silhouetted against the green canopy. Simon snapped his rifle up, pulled the hammer back, and took a hasty bead. All it would take was a squeeze of the trigger, but Simon could not do it. He could not shoot someone in the back.
The stalker ran on, unscathed. Simon pounded to the top of the mound. “Stop, you!” was on the tip of his tongue, but he never called out. The man was gone, as if a secret cavern had yawned wide and swallowed him whole. Simon halted and listened for the telltale crash of brush but heard only the wind.
Impossible, Simon mused. Warily, he descended and prowled the pines. The tracks went to the edge of a thicket, then ended. Hunkering, he raked the interior without seeing hide nor hair of the stranger. He circled around but could not find any more prints.
Simon didn’t linger. Felicity was his main concern. He jogged to where he had first spotted the intruder. His wife’s tracks bore to the southeast, so he did the same. Strangely, they abruptly looped to the northeast, then traveled due north, toward the cabin. Relieved she was heading home, he slowed and contemplated what to do about the mysterious stranger.
The man had invaded Eden once; he might do so again.
Felicity spied two vague shapes flitting through the forest to the west. She opened her mouth to demand they identify themselves but changed her mind. Maybe they had no idea she was there. Why advertise it and risk being taken captive, or slain?
When the crackling faded in the distance, she worked her way to the northeast to swing wide of anyone who might be dogging her footsteps. Only when she was convinced it was safe did she bear to the north and hurry homeward.
Felicity debated whether to tell her husband. Simon meant well, but he had a habit of overreacting when he thought she was in peril. He became as protective as her mother, and that was the last thing she wanted.
Felicity’s mother had dominated her life from the day she learned to toddle on two legs until she finally stood on her own two feet and announced she would wed Simon whether her mother liked it or not. Her mother had ranted for weeks about how Felicity would regret it, how Simon was unfit matrimony material, how he would never amount to much.
Felicity’s father had said little, as always. His opinions were never rated worthwhile by his wife, so he no longer expressed any. He sat in his chair, puffing on his pipe, mumbling “Yes, dear,” whenever Felicity’s mother addressed him. It always galled Felicity, how weak her father had become.
Her mother had that effect on a lot of people. Maribel Morganstern cowed them, bossed them, treated everyone as if they were inferior. Even Felicity. Until there came the day when Felicity decided enough was enough. She would not let her mother rule her life anymore. She would live as she saw fit.
Frequently, Felicity wondered if she had dated Simon because she truly liked him or to spite her mother. Truth was, Simon had not appealed to her very much at first. When she got to know him better, when she saw how sweet he was deep down, how he was always a gentleman, how he cared so deeply for her, love blossomed.
Their wedding had been the grandest day ever. Felicity had worn a special dress that had belonged to her grandmother. More than a hundred people attended, and after the vows were exchanged, everyone danced and drank and ate until after midnight. Incredibly, even her mother seemed to have a good time.
But any goodwill harvested that day was soon destroyed by Simon’s decision to head west. Her relatives and his both tried to talk them out of it. Her mother threatened to disown her. His father said the same. Yet, when it became clear Simon would not relent, both families helped defray expenses and sincerely wished them well.
Suddenly the sound of something crashing through the underbrush brought Felicity up short. She whirled, extending the pistol. Whatever it was, it was almost on top of her. “Halt or I’ll shoot!” she hollered, thinking if it was an animal her voice might scare it off and if it was a person they would have the common sense to stop even if they could not comprehend English.
But the thing kept on coming.
Much to Felicity’s dismay, her hand started to shake. Inadvertently, her finger tightened on the trigger just as someone broke into the open.
It was Simon!
The pistol discharged with a thunderous boom.
Two
The bull elk sensed something was amiss. A splendid specimen, it raised its head and sniffed the air, testing for danger. But the wind was blowing the wrong way, and the man who had crept to within forty yards of the clearing went unnoticed. After a while the elk resumed grazing.
Nate King did not try to shoot it yet. With the patience of a born hunter, he waited for the elk to be completely at ease. Then, slowly sliding his rifle along the top of the log he was hidden behind, he aimed carefully, pulled back the hammer, and pressed his cheek to the stock. The elk raised its head again, chewing contentedly, blissfully unaware its minutes of life were numbered.
Nate held his breath to steady his aim, centered the sights on the elk’s side, and smoothly stroked the trigger. Lead and smoke spewed from the muzzle. The recoil was negligible. To a man of his size, the kick of a Hawken was like the slap of a baby. The elk staggered but did not fall. Nate rose onto his knees, drawing one of the matched pair of flintlocks adorning his waist. Forty yards was a long shot for a pistol, but he had dropped targets at that range before.
There was no need. The elk tottered, spouting scarlet from nostrils and mouth. A few halting strides was all it could take. Dropping to the ground, it snorted, spattering its chest with blood. Long legs thrashed wildly as it sank onto its side.
Nate cautiously approached. Wounded elk had been known to attack those who shot them, to flail with iron hoofs or slash with rapier antlers. But his caution proved as unnecessary as a second shot. The bull was dead.
Idly aiming at a stump, Nate fired a shot anyway. It was the signal that would bring his son and his son’s companion at a gallop. All three of them were eager to get home before sunset – Nate more so, since he was worried about a series of strange events that had taken place over the past week.
It had started with a feeling, a troubling sensation of being watched. On more than one occasion Nate had felt as if unseen eyes were upon him. He would be skinning a hide or repairing a saddle and suddenly the short hairs at the nape of his neck would prickle. Several days before, on his way to the lake to fill a bucket, the sensation had been so strong that he conducted an extensive search of the surrounding woods, without result.
Then, two days later, a horse had gone missing. For a horse to stray was not unusual. For one to wander from the corral when the gate was shut most definitely was.
That very morning another incident had taken place. Nate, Zach, and Louisa had ridden out before first light, heading to the northwest. About ten miles from home, on a ridge that afforded a sweeping vista of Longs Peak and the snow-crowned summits that flanked it, Nate had stumbled on footprints. Puzzling footprints. A white man had made them, a big white man, someone bigger than Nate himself, and Nate was well over six feet tall. The man had been alone, on foot, trekking from north to south.
Who had it been? What was he doing there? Where was he headed? These were questions that burned in Nate all day. They required answers. Ten miles from his cabin sounded like a lot, but to Nate it was the same as if the stranger had passed with ten yards of his doorstep.
Travelers were always welcome at Nate’s cabin as long as they were friendly. Those who weren’t soon learned why Nate had a reputation among the trapping fraternity as being one coon it was wise to avoid when he was riled. Maybe it had something to do with the name bestowed on him by a Cheyenne: Grizzly Killer. Or maybe it was because anyone who tried to harm him always wound up worm food.
Nate was anxious to take up the trail of the giant and find out where the man had gone. First things first, though. Sliding the ramrod from its housing under the barrel of his Hawken, he reloaded the rifle and the pistol. As he finished, hooves drummed. Two riders came toward him, side by side.
On the right was Nate’s oldest, Zachary King. Not quite eighteen, the boy looked more Indian than white. His buckskins, his moccasins, his hair were all worn Shoshone-style. “You beat me to it, Pa,” he declared, smiling. “I should have known you’d win.”
Nate smiled. His son referred to a bet they had made as to who would bring down an elk first. “I don’t see what you wanted twenty dollars for, anyhow. That’s a heap of money.”
Zach glanced at Louisa. He was embarrassed to say it, but he wanted it for her. For a very special gift. Sighing, he responded, “Oh, well. Having to tote water, chop wood, and tend the horses for a week all by myself won’t kill me.” The significance of the glance was not lost on Nate. His son and the young woman had taken a powerful shine to each other. “Cow eyes,” his friend Shakespeare McNair called the looks they swapped. “Climb down and we’ll get to work. Ever skinned an elk before, Louisa?”
Louisa May Clark nodded. Wiry and lean, she wore baggy buckskins and cropped her hair short. From a distance she could easily pass for a boy. By design. To spare her from rude advances, her father had thought u
p the ruse. And it worked. In every frontier settlement they passed through on their journey west, not one male had caught on. “Yes, sir, Mr. King. Don’t you remember? I helped Stalking Coyote cut up one when we first met.”
“I remember,” Nate said. Stalking Coyote was his son’s Shoshone name. For some reason Louisa preferred it over Zach’s Christian one. “Let’s get cracking, then.”
Louisa slid off and set right to work. She did not mind the blood and the gore. Nor did she become queasy at the sight of coiled intestines and other internal organs. During the many months spent trapping with her father, she had skinned three or four animals a day, whether beaver for plews or game for the supper pot.
Zach squatted beside her, admiring her skill. She was unlike any white girl he had ever met. True, he had not met many, except for the time his parents took him to St. Louis. But he had been much younger then.
It was only recently that Zach had begun to notice the opposite sex. He observed quirky things at the outset, such as how they walked and how they smelled and how their bosoms jiggled when they ran. His father told him it was normal, that all males went through the same change. He had refused to believe it was happening to him. He’d had no interest in women and would never have an interest, not if he could help it. Which was exactly his father’s point. He couldn’t help it. No male could. Nature always took its course regardless of human wishes.
So Zach reached the point where he noticed everything about females. Particularly about Louisa. How her hair curled around her ears. How her jaw muscles twitched when she worked. How supple she was, how graceful. How her eyes glowed when she gazed at him.
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