There came a day when dark clouds to the west betokened an afternoon thunderstorm. Nate and Eric were two miles ahead of the others, as always scouring the land for hostile Indians. In front of them appeared one of the low hillocks that intermittently dotted the plains, and Nate was in the lead as they rode to the top.
Suddenly the black stallion whinnied shrilly and swung to one side. Nate, caught off guard, was nearly unhorsed, and had to grab the reins with both hands. His Hawken fell to the ground. Engrossed in regaining control of his mount, he didn’t see the sight that sent a shiver of consternation down Eric’s back: an enormous grizzly coming at them over the hill.
Few animals are as formidable at close range as the grizzly. Possessed of a massive build, with a length often reaching seven feet and a weight in excess of a thousand pounds, a grizzly is a veritable engine of destruction when aroused. Equipped with gigantic teeth and claws nearly four inches long, it is more than a match for any creature in its domain.
As Eric saw the bear sweep over the crest, he nearly fainted from fright. He would have turned and fled—the thought was uppermost on his mind—had he not realized there was no hope for Nate. The trapper couldn’t possibly get his horse turned in time to avoid the bear’s rush. So without thinking, Eric jammed his heels into his animal, rode in close to the grizzly, and fired into its head.
Eric didn’t see the mighty paw that flashed out and hit his horse in the shoulder. He heard the thud, and a loud crack, and then his horse was falling to the left and he was falling with it. At the last possible moment he thought to throw himself clear so he wasn’t pinned underneath.
Impetus carried Eric into a roll. Any second he dreaded the sensation of sharp pain as the grizzly tore into him, but he shoved to his feet without being set upon. Then he saw why.
The enraged bear was in hot pursuit of Nate. Displaying surprising swiftness for a creature having such a huge bulk, the grizzly was close on the heels of the fleeing black stallion. Nate had a flintlock out and cocked and trained on the brute, but inexplicably, he didn’t fire.
Eric was waiting for the stallion to go down, the grizzly was so close. But the horse put on a burst of speed that took it far in advance of its pursuer, and the bear, lacking the stamina to run long distances, soon slowed and gave up the chase entirely.
A dismaying thought struck Eric: What if the grizzly turned around and came after him? He took a half step, intending to flee, then changed his mind when he recalled being told by Nate that a horse was faster than a grizzly but a grizzly was much faster than a man. He wouldn’t get twenty yards before the bear overtook him.
Eric’s next idea was to reload, but he was still too slow at it and might not get the powder and ball down his rifle in time. Then he remembered that Nate had dropped the Hawken, and spinning, he ran to the rifle and scooped it up. As he straightened he saw Nate riding up to him.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you,” Eric said, and glanced back at his mount. Torn wide open from its shoulder to its elbow, it was thrashing in a spreading pool of blood and neighing pitiably. “Which is more than I can say for my horse.”
“William will throw a fit.”
“Hang William! Where’s the bear?” Eric asked, looking out across the prairie. He was stunned not to see it, and couldn’t comprehend how so large a creature could simply disappear. Then the black stallion took a few more steps and far out beyond it he spotted the bear moving rapidly to the east. Not only that, he saw two smaller versions of the beast trailing along behind it. “What are those?” he asked in bewilderment.
“Haven’t you ever laid eyes on cubs before?”
“The grizzly was a female?” Eric said, his sensitive artist’s soul recoiling at the idea of shooting a mother bear even if she had been on the verge of ripping Nate apart.
“Sure was. Sometimes the cubs stay with the mother for a year or longer. I saw them as I was trying to lead her away from you so I held off putting lead into her. Figured if I could outrun her there wouldn’t be any need kill her.” Nate reached down for his Hawken and added, I hate to kill anything unless I don’t have any choice.”
“You deliberately led her off? You let her get that close to you knowing what she’d do if she got close enough?”
“I saw you were afoot,” Nate said simply.
Eric stared after the fleeing bears. I shot her, though. Now the mother will die and the cubs won’t be able to take care of themselves.”
“Those cubs are old enough to get by on their own,” Nate responded. “And don’t worry about the mother. I had a good look at her face and your shot only creased her thick skull. She probably didn’t even notice.”
“You really think she’ll be all right?”
Nate cocked his head and scrutinized the artist’s anxious upturned countenance. I guarantee it,” he said after a bit. “Now why don’t you strip your saddle off your horse, do what has to be done, and well head back to get you a new animal.”
“What else has to be done?” Eric inquired innocently.
“You have to put the horse out of its misery.”
Every drop of blood seemed to drain from Eric’s face. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and his throat bobbed. “I have to shoot it?”
“Would you rather the poor animal lies there for hours in the hot sun, suffering the whole time?”
“But couldn’t you do the chore for me?”
“No. Some things a man has to do himself.” Nate was inspecting his rifle, insuring there were no cracks or chips. His next comment was spoken so casually that Eric never suspected the motivation behind it. I don’t rightly see why you’re so upset. A few minutes ago you charged a grizzly. And now you don’t have the gumption to do an act of mercy?”
The reminder shook Eric. He had charged a raging bear, hadn’t he? Ridden right up to it and put lead into its skull, as his trapper friend would say, which was hardly the act of a coward. Perhaps, just perhaps, he wasn’t the hopeless person he’d imagined. “Very well,” he declared, and walked over to the still-struggling horse. The scarlet pool of blood framed its sweaty head and neck, while from its slack mouth came feeble whinnies.
Eric slowly reloaded his rifle, his fingers shaking a little as he poured in the black powder. He nearly forgot to use a patch, but he did remember to push the ball down the bore with a rapid, steady stroke instead of tapping it down. He also remembered not to place his hands over the end of the ramrod when he seated the ball. As King had explained, sometimes there were embers in the barrel from an earlier shot, which might cause the gun to go off prematurely. At last he was ready.
“Try for the forehead,” Nate suggested. “A shot to the brain is quick and painless.”
Dully, Eric nodded, his mind awhirl with the harsh reality of the grim task he was about to perform. He’d never, ever killed a living creature before, and he didn’t know if he could now. The grizzly had been different, what with King’s life endangered. This was cold, calculated, premeditated. Or was it? What was so heartless about ending the life of an animal in agony? King had been right. It would be more humane to spare the horse further torment.
“Eric?” Nate said.
“I’m ready,” Eric declared, and touched the stock to his shoulder. As he pointed the barrel, the horse looked up at him with its great, moist, dark eyes, causing him to hesitate. Did it know? he wondered. What was it thinking? He heard a sharp click and realized he had cocked the hammer. His mouth was dry, his palms damp, when his forefinger pressed lightly on the trigger.
At the blast the horse threw its head high, neighed once, and collapsed, its tongue protruding as death claimed it.
Eric inhaled the acrid smoke, coughed, and stepped back. He glanced up at the young trapper, then said, “To you something like this must be easy, but my whole being has been dedicated to preserving all life on canvas for future generations to enjoy. I worship the pervading spirit that animates all things, and I strive to reflect that spirit in my
art. The thought of killing anything has always been like sacrilege to me. Do you see what I’m saying? Do you realize what I’ve done here?”
“You shot a horse.”
“You don’t see,” Eric said sadly.
“Let me ask you something,” Nate said. “If a Piegan was to come rushing at you right this second with a lance in his hand ready to throw, what would you do?”
There was no pause on Erie’s part. “I’d shoot the blighter.”
Nate nodded and moved his stallion closer. “You’ll do to ride the high country with.” He stared at the dead horse. “Except for one little mistake.”
“What?”
“You forgot to strip off your saddle first. Now you’ve got more blood on it than before.”
“Why didn’t you remind me?”
“I didn’t want you to have too much time to think about what you were doing,” Nate answered, and grinned broadly like he might if his son had just done something that made him especially proud.
“You know,” Eric said, as the truth commenced to dawn, “I’m beginning to think you duped me.”
“I did.”
And they both laughed.
If one member of the marquis’s party was enjoying himself immensely and expanding his personal horizons in the bargain, another was profoundly distraught at the outcome of their trip to America, and becoming increasingly embittered toward everyone and everything connected with the country she was growing to despise.
Diana Templar kept more and more to herself the farther north they traveled. Until the loss of Harrison she had withstood the emotional ravages of their setbacks with her customary poise and self-control. But his death, even though she had rarely associated with him on a personal basis, upset her tremendously.
For the first time Diana realized that she might die before they reached civilization and safety. During the Piegan attack she had been so busy she had barely given a moment’s thought to harm befalling her. Afterward, involved with her plans for the trek and diverted by Winona’s attachment to her, she had not had occasion to dwell on the subject.
Now, though, traveling mile after mile over boring terrain that annoyed her with its unending sameness, Diana had little else to do when not chatting with Winona other than to think, and of late her thoughts were straying more and more to her possible death.
As she gazed out over the monotonous ocean of rippling grass, Diana could conceive of no worse fate than perishing in this godforsaken land populated by teeming savages and fierce animals, where her bleached bones would lie undisturbed forever. No one in England would know of her fate. They would all wonder, all speculate endlessly over the mystery. Her father would undoubtedly send a party to try and find William and her, and his heart would be crushed when the search party failed.
Perhaps, Diana reasoned, her days of flitting around the globe like a vagrant hummingbird in search of stimulating sights and sounds should come to an end. Perhaps she should give serious consideration to settling down, to doing as that old ruffian McNair had suggested and finding herself a husband.
That thought brought Eric’s image into her mind, and Diana found herself debating the merits of what it would be like as his wife. He was witty, charming, and gallant, if a tad timid, and as devoted to her as a man could be. Or he had been until she spurned him. Had she made a mistake?
Diana suddenly heard a horse riding up close to hers, and the next second Winona appeared at her side.
“Are you feeling ill?” Winona asked.
“Not at all. Why?”
“I have watched you today and you seem very upset. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, thank you,” Diana said, grinning at the childish devotion the simple Shoshone was constantly showing her. “I’m fine. Really.”
To the north a distant rider appeared, and Shakespeare immediately bellowed for everyone to halt. Shortly thereafter they could see that there were two men astride the animal, and presently they recognized Nate and Eric on the black stallion. Everyone except Fletcher, who was at the rear of the column minding the horses, clustered forward to learn what had happened.
Diana was struck by the happy glow infusing Eric’s face as the pair galloped up. He had the look of a boy on a great adventure, of someone deliriously thrilled at being alive. She listened as King told McNair about an encounter with a she-bear, as King called it, and heard about the fate of Eric’s mount.
Eric was walking past her on his way back to the horses to pick a new animal to ride. Diana bestowed her friendliest smile on him and said, “That must have been a very frightening experience for you, yet you’re remarkably chipper.”
Stopping, Eric regarded her coolly. “I did what I had to,” he said proudly.
Diana didn’t quite understand his attitude. He could easily have been killed, and that bothered her. So she said, “Perhaps you should inform Mr. King that he can scout alone or with Jarvis from here on out. There’s no earthly reason why you should risk your life.”
“Are you implying I can’t take care of myself?”
“No. Don’t be silly. I just don’t see why you, a man who dabbles with paints and brushes for his livelihood, should be required to bear arms and fight off animals and savages like the other men do,” Diana stated, and instantly knew she had said something terribly wrong.
Eric Nash might have been chiseled from marble, so drawn were his handsome features. His next words were uttered in a gravelly tone Diana had never heard before. “I’ll thank you, Lady Templar, to keep your opinions regarding my limitations to yourself. For your information, I shall continue to assist Nate in whatever he wants me to do, and I shall do so gladly. Unlike some, he doesn’t judge a person’s ability by what they dabble in.” Back erect, Eric abruptly stalked off.
“Oh, dear,” Diana said. “What have I done?”
“No man likes to be told he is not a warrior at heart,” Winona commented.
“Eric? A warrior?” Diana laughed at the ridiculous concept. “He’s never harmed a living soul. He’s a painter, my dear. An artist. A devotee of harmony and tranquility. Eric knows nothing of the martial spirit.”
“There are men in my tribe who are artists,” Winona mentioned. “They paint the history of our tribe on buffalo hides, and they paint as they are asked on our lodges so that everyone can tell whose lodge is whose by the paintings on it. Their paintings are very true to life.” She paused. “These men are also brave warriors, and when an enemy attacks they fight just like the men who are not artists.”
“What are you saying? That Eric wants to be a warrior like them?” Diana shook her head. “I’m afraid you don’t know him like I do. He prefers a life of ease and luxury to one of fighting and bloodshed.”
“I am not saying he likes to fight. I am saying he can if he has to.”
Diana glanced over her shoulder and saw Eric selecting a new mount. She knew she was right, yet she was troubled. Eric had been changing lately, not behaving as he typically did. What if he should go so far as to recklessly expose himself to danger and be slain, now of all times, when she was finally beginning to respond to his previous romantic interest in her?
Surveying the prairie, Diana frowned. It was this awful land that was changing him for the worse, she reflected. This horribly primitive country that brought out the primitive in all its inhabitants. “I hate this land and everything about it,” she said bitterly to herself. “I can’t wait until we’re safe and sound back in England.”
Winona, if she heard, made no response.
Chapter Twelve
At long last they reached the Yellowstone River and followed along its shore to the northeast, making for the junction of the Yellowstone and the Missouri. Nate and Shakespeare practiced more diligence than ever for now they were at the southern boundary of the land the Blackfeet called home. They were in daily risk of running into a Blackfoot war party or a band of warriors out hunting, and unlike the divided reception the Crows had given them, they could count
on the Blackfeet showing nothing but hostility.
Fortune favored them at first. Always present were herds of buffalo or antelope or deer, which enabled them to easily live off the land. And they came on no evidence of Blackfoot activity, not until they were within twenty miles of the junction, by Shakespeare’s reckoning.
That morning had dawned bright, clear, and promising. Nate and Eric headed out ahead of the rest to do their daily scouting duties. Recently the Englishman’s confidence had grown to such an extent that he often separated from Nate and rode a half mile to the east of their main group to further reduce the possibility of their being taken unawares.
So it was that Nate was riding alone within a hundred yards of the river when his keen eyes spotted curling tendrils of gray smoke rising from a point not quite a hundred yards in front of him and close to the water. Instantly he turned the stallion to the left, hunched low, and rode into the sparse trees growing along that particular stretch.
His Hawken cocked, Nate dismounted, tied the stallion to a tree limb, and then trotted toward the thin wisps. Avoiding snags and twigs, he worked close enough to see the charred, smoldering embers of a fire. The ground around it was empty. No voices wafted on the morning air. Nor did he see any horses. He suspected that whoever had made camp there was gone, but he still advanced warily to confirm it.
Tracks told the story. Four Indians, Blackfeet by the cut of their moccasins, had rested overnight and moved out at dawn. They were now riding to the northeast, in the exact same direction as the marquis’s party, in a leisurely fashion.
Nate squatted and scratched his chin. The Blackfeet, he mused, must be four or five miles ahead and were no threat so long as they maintained that distance. Since there were only four,
he guessed they were after game and not on a raid, but he couldn’t be positive of that. Often raiding parties were quite small.
Season of the Warrior (A Wilderness Giant Edition Western Book 2) Page 13
