“There’s an epitaph for you,” Shakespeare muttered to Nate.
One by one or in pairs they moved off, leaving the marquis alone. William was glad they left, glad they wouldn’t observe the acute torment that now contorted his fine features. He would never confess as much, but he blamed himself for the deaths that had occurred. Indirectly at least, he was responsible since it had been his inspiration to take a jolly jaunt to the colonies and get a taste of genuine American frontier life. Diana, as she always did because she loved to travel, had readily been caught up in the whimsical enterprise. Nash came because she did. But the others had been men specifically chosen by William for their competence and their steadfast qualities. Some of them had been on previous trips, and he knew them well. And while generally he disdained to fraternize with commoners, on occasion he’d mingled with them and found them to be honorable and true in their simple way.
Rising, William cleared his throat and walked to where McNair Was starting a fire. He saw his sister in earnest conversation with King’s wife, and barely restrained an urge to curse. Of late Diana had been spending an inordinate amount of time in the company of the Shoshone woman, so much that she had been unable to spend time with him. At the outset he had chalked up Diana’s interest to her usual fascination with native cultures, but now he was not so certain. He was beginning to suspect a bona fide friendship was developing between the two, which was patently absurd, Winona being a lowly heathen and all.
A few yards away, Nate noticed the odd look the marquis bestowed on his wife and Diana and wondered why. Most likely, Nate thought, the duke’s son was upset that his sister was associating so freely with an Indian woman. In his opinion, it was unfortunate Harrison had died instead of William Templar.
A loud crackling signaled the fire had caught, and Shakespeare sat back on his haunches and held his palms out to the rising flames. The circle of depressed faces ringing him prompted him to remark, “I know we’re all upset by what has happened, but it’s not the end of the world. We can still make it to the Mandan country in one piece if we all pull together. There are more than enough horses left to pack the supplies along, and with game being plentiful we won’t go hungry.”
“How can you talk about such trifles with Harrison lying over there and not yet cold?” William asked irritably.
“I’m sorry he was killed, Templar,” Shakespeare responded. “No man should have to die because of another man’s greed. But out here we learn one thing about death real quick,. Life always goes on. No matter who dies or how many, everything carries on just like before. The sun and moon rise and set. The birds sing. Buffalo roll in their wallows. The world is unchanged.”
“Mr. McNair!” Diana said. “I’m shocked at your callous attitude.”
“I don’t mean to offend you. I’m just trying to make the point that we have to pick up the pieces and get on with our lives. Tomorrow is another day, and if we’re not real careful one or more of us could end the day just like Harrison did.”
“Are you thinking the Crows will come back?” Jarvis asked.
“I doubt it. The young ones paid a steep price for stealing only seven horses, and they won’t bother us again. They’re more concerned right now with having to go back to their village and tell everyone what happened.”
“Why should that bother them?” Diana inquired.
“Indians hate to lose men on a raid. They see it as bad medicine. Losing two is an outright calamity, and the young warriors who took part will have to prove themselves in battle or by earning some other honors before the shame of this night will be erased.”
“I hope they all die,” William growled.
“As for us,” Shakespeare said, “we should turn in. It’s safe to leave just one man on watch, but we should also keep the fire going on the off chance I’m wrong and some of them sneak back to find Plenty Hole and the other one Nate killed.” He stood. “If they see the fire they’ll figure we’re all awake and leave us alone.”
“What about the bodies?” Fletcher asked, breaking his typical silence.
“Nate and I will drag then off into the brush.”
The marquis took a step forward. “Like hell you will. Harrison deserves a proper Christian burial and I aim to give it to him.”
“What will you dig with?” Shakespeare said, and stamped his foot several times. “This ground is as hard as a boulder and we don’t have spades.”
“I’ll use my fingers if need be,” William said. “One way or the other Harrison is going to be buried so the animals don’t get at him.”
“I’ll lend a hand, sir,” Jarvis offered.
“Count me in,” Fletcher said.
“You’ll be up half the night and won’t be able to stay awake in the saddle tomorrow,” Shakespeare pointed out, trying to convince them of the folly of burying their companion.
“So be it,” William stated. “King and you can keep watch. Harrison was one of us, so I don’t expect you to sacrifice on his behalf.”
The Englishmen moved off, and Lady Templar gave McNair a disapproving glance. “You continue to shock me. I flattered myself that I knew you, but clearly I was imagining qualities in you that you do not possess. Haven’t you a shred of basic human decency?”
“I’m just being practical,” Shakespeare said.
“Hang your practicality!” Diana said, and spinning, she walked away in a huff. She was piqued not only at the old mountain man but also at herself for taking a liking to him when she should have known her affection would be betrayed. Americans were a hopeless lot, she fused, barbarians at heart, and it was well and good Britain had lost the so-called Revolutionary War. Good riddance to bad rubbish!
In her pique, Diana had her head down and her fists clenched, and had no idea where she was going or what was in front of her until she abruptly collided with someone. Fearing it might be a savage, she jumped back as she looked up, then smiled in grateful relief. “Eric! I didn’t see you.”
“Your brother has us looking for a suitable spot to bury Harrison. I’m afraid I wasn’t paying much attention either.” He started to leave.
“It’s good to hear your voice again,” Diana said quickly. “You’ve hardly spoken three words to me in days.”
“You know why.”
“Yes, I do. But does that mean we can’t be friends? That we can’t chat now and then?”
“I suppose not,” Eric answered.
Eager to keep him talking, Diana alluded to what was uppermost on her mind. “What do you think of McNair’s attitude? Have you ever witnessed anything so crass in your life?”
“He has his reasons.”
“You’re defending him?”
“Haven’t King and Shakespeare demonstrated time and again that they know this country inside out? They know Indians, they know the wildlife. I should think we would be grateful for any advice they offer instead of criticizing them all the time.”
“But Harrison!”
“Is dead and gone. It will make no difference at all to his whether his body wastes away in a grave or is consumed by scavengers.”
“Would you like to be left to rot on the prairie?”
“If that’s my fate, so be it. The world will suffer no great loss.”
“How can you talk so? My word. You sound like McNair.”
“Do I?” Eric responded, and chuckled. “I knew I was changing, but that much? Thank you for the compliment.”
“I don’t understand you anymore,” Diana confessed. “What happened to the carefree artist who so charmed me with his wit and vigor?”
“His wit died when he realized what a fool he was making of himself. His vigor has flown on the same wind that swept away his zest for life.” Eric gazed sadly into the darkness. “As for being carefree, I stopped being so juvenile the day I discovered I was a coward.”
Diana blinked and tried to read his expression, but the deep shadows frustrated the attempt. Even though she had admitted to herself and to him that she didn’t
love him enough to contemplate marriage, she still cared about his welfare as a proper friend should. They had been close for far too long for her to summarily dispense with her feelings.
“When those Piegans attacked us,” Eric went on in a low tone, “I was so paralyzed with fear and horror I couldn’t move. And do you know that until that very moment I had always regarded myself as a rather courageous chap?”
“You’re mistaken,” Diana said. She took a step and rested a reassuring hand on his arm. “You’re no coward, Eric Nash.”
He pulled away, then looked down at the spot she had touched. “You have no conception, my dear, because you have never felt the sheer terror I did at the sight of the Piegans ruthlessly butchering our fellows. You grabbed your gun and fought like the tigress you are, while I cringed in a corner, too frightened to even pray for deliverance.”
“I think you’re being unduly hard on yourself. You had never seen an Indian attack before.”
“Neither had you,” Eric said, and was gone, hastening into the night, a roving specter among the trees.
Baffled and upset, Diana tried to think of words of comfort she could say to him later, something that would alleviate his despair and dispel his somber mood. Turning, she headed for the fire to warm herself, then suddenly became aware of someone standing nearby. “Who?” she declared.
“It’s me,” Nate King announced, stepping into the open. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Shakespeare sent me after more wood.”
“You heard?”
“Some of what he said, yes.”
“What can I do, Mr. King? I hate to see him this way.”
“There’s nothing you can do. Some problems a man has to work out for himself.”
“Ever the rugged individualist,” Diana said testily.
“Ma’am?”
“You mountain men are so damned self-sufficient, it’s galling. You rely on no one or nothing, and you believe you are honor-bound to handle every difficulty you encounter by yourself. Imposing on others is taboo. You’d rather suffer in silence than ask for help.”
“I think you’re stretching the point a mite.”
“You haven’t even heard my point yet, which is that not all people are like Mr. McNair and you. Civilized people, people with breeding, reach out helping hands to those in need.”
“Like Shakespeare and I have done in offering to see you safely to Independence?”
In a day crammed with more conflicts than Diana Templar normally experienced in a month, having her own argument thrown in her face was the last straw. She rudely shoved past King and stomped to the fire. Ignoring everyone else, she sat down, rested her chin in her hands, and wished to high heaven she had never left England.
Out in the cottonwoods, Nate stared at her stiff back for a bit, then made his way further into the trees, picking up branches as he went along. Soon he spotted the artist up ahead. Increasing his stride, he drew within a few yards and asked, “Found a spot yet?”
Eric stopped. “No. It’s hopeless. There are no soft areas where the digging would be easy.”
“You might try closer to the stream. Flash floods are pretty common hereabouts, and all that extra water makes the soil near streams and rivers a bit softer than the ground elsewhere.
“Thank you. I never would have thought of that.” Eric smiled, and started to retrace his steps.
“Hold on. I wanted to ask you a favor.”
“How may I be of service?”
“We’re getting close to the southern part of Blackfoot country,” Nate said. “Shakespeare and I have decided that one of us should keep on scouting around as we travel so we’re not taken by surprise by a war party. One man alone, though, is easy for Indians to pick off from ambush. We figure on having two men scout around together. That way, if one goes down, the other can escape it and warn the rest.”
“Yes?” Eric said, Missing the inference.
“I’d like you to ride out with me when it’s my turn.”
“Me!” Eric exclaimed. “Why me?”
“Why not?”
“Well ... I’m a ... that is ...” Eric stammered, and finally got out, “You’d be wiser to pick Jarvis or Fletcher.”
“I want you. Will you do it?”
“This is most unexpected.” Eric mumbled, running a hand through his hair. “I suppose, though, if you insist, I’d have to agree.”
“Fine. Make sure your rifle is loaded and you have plenty of ammunition and black powder.”
“I will. I won’t let you down,” Eric said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to tell William about the soil near the stream.” Mustering a smile, he swiftly strode off, and there was more bounce in his stride than there had been for days.
Nate King watched Nash’s departure with pursed lips, and when the Englishman was beyond hearing range, grumbled, “I just hope to hell I know what I’m doing.”
Chapter Eleven
The days that followed the Crow horse-stealing incident were ones Eric Nash would never forget. As he rode with Nate King hour after hour over the flat expanse of prairie, he found himself liking the young trapper more and more. They talked constantly. Eric besieged Nate with countless questions about the pristine land, its many creatures, and, of course, Indians. He learned more about wilderness survival and basic wood-lore in just the first two days than he had learned during the twenty-four years of his entire life.
Eric became adept at recognizing various animals at a distance by their outlines and the way they moved. He learned how to distinguish a wolf track from a coyote print, that of a bull buffalo from a cow. He grew skillful at reading the weather, telling by the shape and speed of the clouds and the scent of the air whether rain would fall later in the day.
His horizons were expanded in other regards as well. Periodically, while they rested far from the main body, Nate gave Eric lessons in shooting, and before long Eric could consistently hit a target the size of his hand at fifty paces. He also acquired proficiency in using the tomahawk and the butcher knife, and could throw both with reasonable accuracy.
Without Eric consciously being aware of it, his confidence grew by leaps and bounds. But one thing he was aware of, a discussion he would always cherish, took place on their very first scout together, when they had gone barely a mile from the others. They had been riding quietly side by side. Suddenly his horse nickered and fidgeted, its ears pricked, its nostrils flaring.
“What the bloody hell!” Eric snapped.
“There’s your reason,” Nate said, pointing at a huge shape a quarter of a mile off, moving away from them. “Your horse got wind of it.”
“What in the world is that monster? An elephant?”
Nate laughed. “No, my friend. That there is a grizzly bear. White bears, some call them. Others call them silver-tips. Whatever the name, they’re terror on four legs, and if one ever comes after you, don’t be ashamed if you’re scared hell West and cook.”
“If I what?”
“Run for your life.”
Eric rode on, thinking of his fear during the Piegan battle. “Have you ever been afraid of anything, Mr. King?”
“Lord, yes. Why, the first time I tangled with a grizzly, I about stained my pants. I didn’t know the true meaning of fear until that day in the Republican Fork of the Kansas River when a big old bear caught me napping.” Nate shook his head. “I was as green as grass: back then.”
“Did you run?”
“I was too scared to run.”
“What did you do, then?”
“I accidentally killed it.”
Eric glanced around to see if the frontiersman was in earnest, and was amazed to confirm such was the case. “How, pray tell, does one accidentally slay a brute that size?”
“Luck. Pure dumb luck. I had a knife with me and I stabbed it in the eye by chance. Next thing, the bear up and keeled over.”
“There must have been more to it than that.”
“Not really,” Nate said. “And that wasn’t the onl
y time I’ve been scared half to death. My first fight with Indians was against a bunch of Kiowas. The whole while my heart was in my throat.”
“Still, you did fight them.”
“There was no other choice. Either I fought or I died, and I wasn’t partial to giving up the ghost just then.” Nate sighed. “Fear is like a cold chill. It burrows deep inside you and turns you to ice, and the only way I know to overcome it is to not think of how afraid you are but to get on with doing what has to be done.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Eric said. “But how does a person shut fear from their mind so they can get on with the matter at hand?”
“You don’t try to shut it out. Just let it lie there while you do what you have to.”
Eric uttered a low, disbelieving laugh. “You make it sound so easy.”
“Most things in this life are until we try to figure them out and make a mess of the figuring.”
“You missed your calling, my friend. You should have been a philosopher.”
Nate King snorted. “Not on your life. Those fancy thinkers don’t know a plew from a plow. I’m content just the way I am.”
Which, now that Eric gave it some thought several days later, was a remarkable statement in itself. He doubted there had been a single day of his existence where he had known perfect contentment, even the months spent in Lady Templar’s company. There had always been dissatisfaction with one element in his life or another. If it wasn’t his failure to paint the masterpieces he thought should flow from his brush, it was unhappiness at being repeatedly put off by Diana.
Yet, as the days followed one after the other, Eric was surprised to note a degree of contentment in his own prowess he had never known before. He eagerly looked forward to his rides with Nate, and sucked up knowledge just as eagerly.
The limitless sea of waving grass fascinated Eric. Several times he tried to capture the essence of the beautiful scenery on his canvas, and fell short of his expectations. How was it possible, he reflected, to recreate the sense of flowing motion, of life and vitality, the prairie radiated?
Season of the Warrior (A Wilderness Giant Edition Western Book 2) Page 12
