Eric Nash was having difficulty maintaining a straight face. Secretly he had reveled in William’s comeuppance, which in his estimation had been long overdue. The marquis was notorious for his arrogant airs, and had it not been for sweet Diana, Eric would have had nothing to do with her overbearing brother. Now, taking a seat, he surreptitiously admired her profile while she puttered about pouring tea into four china cups. She took the first cup to their guest, and as his gaze followed her his eyes caught McNair’s and the mountain man smiled and winked.
“I give you my word my brother shall behave himself from now on,” Diana said as she moved to a chair close to McNair’s. “He always has had difficulty adjusting to the customs of the locals. Africa, India, China, South America, wherever we go, he invariably gets on someone’s wick.”
“You’ve been to all those places?” Shakespeare asked, and took a sip. The tea had a mild minty flavor with an underlying taste of honey.
“Those and many, many more,” Diana said. “For three years now we’ve been traveling the globe, visiting out-of-the-way spots no one else has ever been to. We’ve dined with yak herders, Masai lion killers, Hindu holy men, and Amazonian primitives. We’ve ridden camels and elephants. I daresay by the time we’re through there won’t be a corner of this planet we haven’t explored.”
“Why?”
Diana paused with the cup halfway to her mouth. “I beg your pardon?”
“Why the blazes is an elegant lady like yourself traipsing all over creation? Do you have ants in your drawers? You should latch onto some handsome rascal and do yourself proud by rearing a passel of young’uns.”
William Templar stiffened, his lips compressed.
Eric Nash started to laugh, then caught himself and coughed, his eyes twinkling.
Only Diana displayed no hint of the emotions she was feeling, except in the slight edge to her voice when she answered, “I see. You believe a woman’s lot in life is to be a dutiful, obedient wife?”
“Not at all,” Shakespeare said. “I admire any woman who can hold her own in a world where men hold all the high cards, and I’ve always been right partial to those with an independent streak. But there comes a time when everyone, women and men, have to put their noses to the grindstone and do what the Good Lord put us here to do.”
“Which is?”
“To have a home and rear a family, of course.”
“Hear, hear!” Eric cried lightheartedly. “I have long maintained the same, sweet prince. But the woman for whom I feel a perfect and boundless attachment refuses to commit herself.” He punctuated his comments with a meaningful look at the Lady Graustark.
“Women can be contrary critters sometimes,” Shakespeare philosophized. “And once you marry them, it gets worse. When you want to stay home and rest, they want to go out and visit kin. When you want to go off fishing, they want you to fix up something around the cabin. It never fails.”
“Is this experience speaking?” Diana asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m married to the most beautiful woman ever born.”
“Is she white?” William threw in.
“No, she’s a Flathead. Her name is Blue Water Woman.”
William Templar had a sarcastic remark on the tip of his tongue, intending to demonstrate his social superiority by putting the upstart frontiersman in his place. But there was something in the glance McNair shot in his direction that gave William the impression of a volcano about to explode. He looked at the mountain man’s knife and changed his mind about saying anything.
“Where is your wife now?” Diana asked.
“Back at our cabin. We spend about half the year there and the other half with her people.” Shakespeare polished off the tea in a single gulp. “Right now I’m on my way to visit a friend and escort him and his woman to our place for a visit.” He studied her a moment. “Where might you be headed?”
Diana shifted to stare longingly at the majestic peaks to the west. “Deeper into these glorious mountains. William thought we might head north until we strike the Canadian border, then go east to the Great Lakes. From there it should be relatively simple to find our way to Chicago. Then it’s on to New York and passage on a ship to London.”
“You sure have it all worked out.”
“Is something wrong with our plan?”
“Only this.” Shakespeare placed the cup and saucer on the table. “If you go north, you’ll soon be in the heart of Blackfoot country.”
“The ones you mentioned earlier?”
“Yes, ma’am. And they hate whites. Have ever since they tangled with Meriwether Lewis’s party and one of them was killed while trying to steal a gun. More trappers have lost their hair to the Blackfeet than to all the other tribes combined. You go up there and every man in your party will be slaughtered and you’ll end up as the wife of a Blackfoot warrior.”
“Oh, dear.”
William could no longer hold his tongue. “I’m not calling you a liar, McNair,” he began, “but surely it’s not as bad as you make it out to be. We have two rifles for every man and plenty of horses. I should think we can hold our own against the entire Blackfoot nation. From what I hear, Indians are inveterate cowards.”
“Who told you such a bald-faced lie?” Shakespeare responded testily. “A drunk in a tavern?” He gestured at the horses, the supplies, and the trunks. “I’ll admit you’ve brought along enough provisions to last you a lifetime, but that’s exactly what will do you in. An Indian’s eyes would bug out of his head on seeing so many goods just waiting to be stolen. Your horses alone are reason enough for them to kill you, not to mention all the guns.”
William pointed at the bewhiskered giant in the odd cap, who was engaged in rubbing down a horse. “Do you see that gentleman? His name is Jarvis, and he was a sergeant in the Dragoon Guards. If trouble comes he’ll know how to deal with it. He’s an expert in all forms of combat, and I dare say he’s killed more men than you can count on your fingers and toes.”
“William!” Diana declared angrily.
“Let him have his fun,” Shakespeare said, and fixed a smirk on the irritated nobleman. “Thou art armed, Gloucester. Let thy trumpet sound!”
“Do you doubt Jarvis’s ability?” William snapped.
“No doubt he was a dandy soldier,” Shakespeare replied, “but if he’s never fought Indians, then he has no idea what to expect from them. Besides, he’s just one man.”
“Do you have any advice to offer us about our travels?” Diana asked.
“Sis, please!” William said.
“Quiet. I want to hear Mr. McNair out.”
Shakespeare was about to sit back down when he detected a hint of movement on a hill to the south. Without being too obvious, he surveyed the hill from bottom to top as he spoke, “I’d change my plans if I was you, Diana. Instead of going all the way to Canada, go north until you hit the Yellowstone River and follow it northeast to the junction with the Missouri. From there, head south and eventually you’ll wind up at Independence. You’ll get to see a sizeable chunk of the country and the tribes you run into will be mostly friendly.”
“Mostly?”
William made a pyramid of his fingers and tapped them against his pointed chin. “If we do as this man wants, we’ll see very little of the mountains. And I thought you were keenest on that idea.”
“I was,” Diana said, “but not at the cost of our lives. If Mr. McNair believes the danger is too great, I think we should accept his judgment and modify our plans.”
“Really!” William snorted.
The mountain man turned, his countenance inscrutable. “Are any of these other men as good as your Jarvis?”
“They’re all highly competent or I wouldn’t have retained their services,” William bragged. “Some have been with me for years, and without your help we managed to survive native uprisings, drought, near-starvation, and wild beasts.”
“Then I reckon it’s only fitting that they might die with you.”
“What?
”
“How bloodily the sun begins to peer above yon busky hill!” Shakespeare quoted. “The day looks pale at his distemperature.”
“You’re raving, old fellow,” William scoffed.
“No, I’m trying to tell you that your camp is about to be attacked by a hostile war party.”
Chapter Three
There was a twinkling of an instant for Nate King to act before the glittering shaft struck him. Had he been accustomed to sitting at a desk or working behind a counter day after day, his atrophied muscles would have been unequal to the occasion and he would have died on the spot. But Nate had left his accounting job in New York City years ago for the uncertainties of the violent frontier, and his unending fight for survival in a primitive land where unfriendly Indians and fierce predators might lurk behind every bend in the trail had honed his reflexes to a lightning-like degree. So it was that he threw himself to one side as the arrow streaked at his face and avoided being transfixed, but the shaft passed so close to him the feathers tickled the underside of his nose.
Quickly Nate whipped up the Hawken, yet he was not quite quick enough, for the Ute bounded into the undergrowth and disappeared. Sinking down, Nate exhaled and calmed his ragged nerves. That one had been too close! He glanced at the black stallion, then moved down the gully away from it. The Ute would expect him to stay close to the horse, so by doing the opposite he might be able to catch the warrior off guard.
Twenty yards brought him to a spot where the left bank had been partially eroded away, leaving a gap a yard wide and about the same height. Here was his salvation. Dropping to his hands and knees, he crawled into the opening and advanced until he was in danger of exposing himself to the Ute. Cautiously, he eased his head out just far enough for him to scan the wall of vegetation. Wherever the Ute was, he was well hidden.
Nate paid particular attention to the trees nearest where the stallion stood. If the Ute intended to steal or shoot the horse, that was where the warrior would show himself. Cocking the Hawken, he settled down to wait he knew not how long.
After a while the insects came to life again, with the buzzing cicadas and a chorus of crickets vying for the honor of which could be the loudest.
The Ute might as well have been a ghost for all the sign there was of his presence. Nate wondered if the warrior would sneak around to the other side of the gully to come at him from the rear, and from then on he glanced repeatedly over his shoulder to forestall such an attempt.
The blazing sun vanished, painting the western horizon a vivid red. Twilight afforded scant illumination and lent the landscape an eerie aspect.
Nate fought his own impatience. Eager to reach home, he wanted to end the stalemate as soon as possible, but he knew better than to commit a reckless act that would only get him slain.
At last Nate’s patience paid off. He saw a dark shadow detach itself from the trunk of a tree, glide noiselessly to another tree, and begin climbing. The Ute was going high in the hope of getting a clear shot.
Nate rested the rifle barrel on the top edge of the gap and took purposeful aim on the shadow. It was hard to distinguish the warrior’s head so Nate went for a body shot, his sights fixed on where he believed the man’s chest to be. Slowly he let his breath out so the rhythm of his breathing wouldn’t cause the barrel to waver, then he touched his forefinger to the cool metal trigger and applied gentle pressure.
Simultaneously with the blast of the Hawken the shadow threw up its arms, screeched, and plummeted, hitting the ground with a dull thud.
There was no time to lose. Drawing a flintlock, Nate vaulted over the gap and sped to where the body lay, ready to finish the warrior off if it should be necessary. But it wasn’t. The ball had penetrated the right side of the Ute’s chest, torn completely through both lungs, and exploded out the other side. Already a spreading red pool stained the grass.
Nate tucked the pistol under his belt and mopped his perspiring brow. He had been incredibly lucky and he knew it. The next time he might not be, and as sure as the sun rose there would be a next time, because the Utes were not about to let him live where he did in peace. He toyed with the notion of leaving, then shook his head. Too much time and energy had been invested in the building of his cabin and the developing of his land for him to tuck his tail between his legs and slink off somewhere else. He’d stay, come what may.
The better part of an hour was spent gathering weapons and rounding up three of the four warhorses. The fourth was long gone, no doubt making a beeline back to the Ute village where its arrival would create quite a stir. The Utes would have no way of knowing the fate of the four warriors, although a few shrewd individuals might guess the truth.
By the time Nate had the three horses in tow and had resumed his trek toward his cabin, the moon had risen, bathing the virgin terrain in a pale, diffuse light, and enabling him to see plainly enough to avoid downed trees and thickets. The crisp, rarified air carried sounds exceptionally well, especially at night, so to his ears came the rumbling grunts of roaming bears, the guttural snarls of prowling panthers, and now and again the howling of wolves or the yipping of coyotes. Mixed in intermittently were the screech of night birds. Occasionally the air was rent by the terrified squeal of an animal in the grip of one of the predators, a sound which never failed to set his nerves on edge.
There was only a mile to go when Nate became aware of a crackling in the brush to his left. It stopped, then went on again for several seconds. Once more silence reigned, only to be broken by the sharp snap of a twig. Something big was paralleling his course, perhaps stalking him. He rested the rifle stock on his right thigh and probed the darkness, ready for the worst. It might be a panther after the horses, or perhaps a grizzly that had caught the scent of the buck. Whichever, he wasn’t relinquishing the meat he had fought so hard to keep.
The creature skulking in the shadows grew braver and came nearer. Shortly, Nate could see a vague outline, but it was impossible to determine its size or shape. Then he heard the pad of heavy feet and knew the identity of the beast: a grizzly. The big cats seldom made so much noise, and no other animal, not even a bull buffalo, had such a ponderous tread.
Soon Nate also heard the bear’s raspy breathing, and knew it wasn’t more than ten feet away. Had it been daylight he might have risked a shot. In the dark, though, he couldn’t be sure of hitting a vital spot, and if he only wounded the animal his life would be forfeit. Wounded grizzlies were fury incarnate, unstoppable in their wrath, capable of shredding a man to ribbons with their iron claws.
So Nate rode on, hoping against hope the bear would decide to go elsewhere. Presently he spied a square patch of light ahead and knew it was the cabin window. At his wife’s insistence he had recently added an expensive glass pane window to admit more daylight and keep out dust, although he had protested that doing so made their home more vulnerable to an attack. She had pointed out that, with three of them able to shoot, defending their home should be no problem.
As usual when they had a dispute, she had won.
Now Nate slowed, listening to the ponderous thud of the bear’s paws. He didn’t want the brute to get any closer to his home. Should his wife or son, for any reason, be out and about, it might go after them. What should he do? A moment’s deliberation prompted him to draw a flintlock and point it at the ground.
The bear had also slowed and seemed to be creeping closer.
“That settles it,” Nate said aloud, and banged off the pistol. His stallion fidgeted at the retort, as did the warhorses, so for several vital seconds he was distracted, trying to regain control. When next he glanced to his right the grizzly was gone and from a hundred feet away arose the sound of a bush being trampled under its immense bulk.
“Good riddance,” Nate declared, grinning.
Suddenly light flared outside the cabin, capturing two people in its rosy illumination. One was a lovely woman with raven hair who held a torch, the other a young boy armed with a long Kentucky rifle.
�
�Pa?” the boy called. “Is that you?”
Jabbing his heels into the stallion, Nate trotted to the sturdy pole enclosure he had made for his stock and swung down. His wife reached him first, her free hand tenderly touching his cheek, her eyes reading his features as he might read a book.
“You had trouble,” Winona said, bobbing her chin at the extra horses.
“The Utes again,” Nate disclosed, and let the subject drop. So accustomed had he become to his harrowing life in the Rockies that the encounter with the four warriors qualified as mundanely routine and not worthy of a protracted discussion. He faced his pride and joy. “What if it hadn’t been me, Zach?”
“Pa?”
“Haven’t I taught you better than to come running out in the middle of the night when you hear a shot? What if it had been hostiles trying to lure you into the open?”
Zachary blinked, pursed his lips, and shuffled his feet self-consciously. How well he recollected the many times his father had told him the Utes would try any devious trick to draw them into an ambush. Since in his father’s absence he was the man of the house, as Nate had repeatedly stressed, he should not have been so rash. The only excuse he could think of was the one he mumbled. “Ma did it too.”
“Which doesn’t make it right,” Nate said, and whereas his own father would have given him a tarring he would never forget for the blunder, he merely walked over to his son and affectionately draped an arm over Zach’s slender shoulders. “No harm was done, this time. Just be sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“You can count on me, Pa.”
Winona held the torch while father and son stripped the animals and put them in the horse pen. Two trips were required before all the weapons and the buck were transferred indoors, and at last Nate was able to fully relax. He sat in the rocking chair he had built with his own hands in front of the stone fireplace he had constructed years ago and let the warmth permeate every pore, soothing his aches and melting his cares away.
Season of the Warrior (A Wilderness Giant Edition Western Book 2) Page 3
