Table of Contents
GRIZZLY!
Title Page
Dedication
Copyright Page
HISTORICAL NOTE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Enjoy the Wilderness series by David Thompson from the very beginning!
GRIZZLY!
His fear getting the better of his reason, Nathaniel instinctively backed away from the bear, retreating into the shallow water at the edge of the river.
The grizzly dropped onto all fours and advanced ponderously, rumbling deep in its chest, its eyes fixed on the man.
Nathaniel could stand the strain no longer. He cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Zeke! A grizzly!” Then he retreated several more strides.
The shout prompted the grizzly to growl louder, and it stepped to the river’s edge, then hesitated for a moment.
Nathaniel glanced over the bear’s back, and his hopes soared when he spotted his uncle sprinting toward the bear, a rifle in each hand. He began to think he would survive his first encounter with a grizzly without receiving so much as a scratch, that perhaps the reputation of the species for ferocity was vastly overestimated, when the bear proved him wrong.
The grizzly attacked.
Recent books in the Wilderness series:
#40: SCAR
#41: BY DUTY BOUND
#42: FLAMES OF JUSTICE
#43: VENGEANCE
#44: SHADOW REALMS
#45: IN CRUEL CLUTCHES
#46: UNTAMED COUNTRY
#47: REAP THE WHIRLWIND
#48: LORD GRIZZLY
#49: WOLVERINE
#50: PEOPLE OF THE FOREST (Giant Edition)
#51: COMANCHE MOON
#52: GLACIER TERROR
#53: THE RISING STORM
#54: PURE OF HEART
#55: INTO THE UNKNOWN
For a full listing, turn to the back of this book.
Dedicated to...
Judy, Joshua, and Shane.
To the memory of Joseph Walker,
Jedediah Smith, Jim Bridger, and the rest.
Oh. And to Roland Kari.
We were born about a century too late..
We missed out on all the fun.
A LEISURE BOOK®
March 2008
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10016
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 1990 by David Robbins
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
ISBN 10: 0-8439-3922-2
ISBN 13: 978-0-8439-3922-4
The name “Leisure Books” and the stylized “L” with design are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
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Visit us on the web at www.dorchesterpub.com.
HISTORICAL NOTE
This book is as factually oriented as is humanly possible. Contemporary narratives of trappers, mountain men, fur traders and other archives were consulted to ensure authenticity. Certain fictional liberties have been taken in the interests of dramatic licence, which I hope the reader will agree contributes to the excitement of actually “being there.”
From the records and evidence available, it is believed that the King cabin was located in what is now known as Estes Park, Colorado, just outside of Rocky Mountain National Park.
The Author
Chapter One
“Out of the way, you dunderhead!”
The harsh bellow made 19-year-old Nathaniel King glance up and to his left; his green eyes widened in alarm. A moment before he had started to cross the narrow cobble-stone street. Now he darted back to safety as a speeding carriage rushed past, narrowly missing him, the breeze from its passage stirring his moderately long black hair.
Cackling crazily, the driver of the carriage looked over his left shoulder and waved his whip in the air, apparently deriving perverse pleasure from almost running a pedestrian over.
An impulse to chase down the fellow and thrash him soundly compelled Nathaniel to take several strides after the rapidly departing brougham, and only the realization that he would be late for work prevented him from racing in pursuit. Instead, he drew his heavy wool overcoat tight about him to ward off the chill in the January air, and continued on his way to the accounting firm of P. Tuttte and Sons.
Located several blocks to the north of the New York Stock Exchange, in a stately sandstone bearing a huge sign comparable in size to the owner’s view of his own importance to the business community, P. Tuttle and Sons seemed to exist at the center of a swirling vortex of humanity. Passersby streamed past the front window, while an increasing parade of carriages and buggies, wagons and gigs swept past going in either direction. The perpetual clatter of hooves and the hubbub of conversation, punctuated by whinnies and occasional oaths, lent the scene the aspect of a madhouse.
Or so Nathaniel often thought, and he did so now as he paused to gaze at the noisy street. He took one last breath of sooty New York air, then squared his broad shoulders and opened the door.
“My stars! Can it be that young Master King has finally graced us with his presence?”
The sarcastic comment drew Nathaniel around to his right, and he mustered a smile at the sight of his employer, Percival Tuttle the Elder, standing a yard away holding his open watch in his gnarled right hand. “Good morning, Mr. Tuttle.”
“Is it really?” Tuttle responded wryly. “And here I thought it might be closer to noon.”
“I’m sorry if I’m late.”
“Late, Mr. King? No, I wouldn’t go so far as to label you late. Tardy, yes. Tardy two days out of every month. Why, I will never know. Not when you only have two miles to travel to work. Yet I know my watch is accurate, and by my watch it is three minutes past eight.”
“I’m truly sorry,” Nathaniel said, self-conscious of the stares of the other employees, particularly Matthew Brown, Mr. Tuttle’s pet.
“If I had a dollar for every time you have said you were sorry, I’d be a rich man,” Tuttle the Elder declared dramatically, and snapped his watch case shut. “Fortunately, Mr. King, I practice the Christian forbearance instilled in me by my sainted mother. I forgive you for not arriving on time. For all your tardiness, you’re a hard worker. I’ll grant you that much.”
“Thank you, sir,” Nathaniel said dutifully, and hurried to his desk situated against the right-hand wall, near the window.
“There is one thing that worries me, though,” Tuttle mentioned almost as an afterthought, although he deliberately raised his voice to attract the attention of the other seven employees.
> Nathaniel began to shrug out of his overcoat. “What might that be, sir?”
An impish gleam came into the white-haired gentleman’s brown eyes. “If you persist in failing to be on time when you are a bachelor, when you have no responsibilities other than yourself, I shudder to think how tardy you will be after you have acquired a wife and family.”
A hearty burst of laughter greeted the remark.
As he had done so many times in the past, Nathaniel smiled to acknowledge Tuttle’s profound insight and wit, then draped his coat on one of the wooden pegs in the comer.
“You will, of course, stay six minutes extra this evening to make amends,” Tuttle stated.
“Of course,” Nathaniel said.
Tuttle uttered a protracted sigh. “When I agreed to hire you as a favor to your father, my dear and loyal friend, I had no notion of the challenge you would present.” So saying, he wheeled and walked off to his office.
Nathaniel sat down and considered the mountain of work piled in the middle of his desk. A snicker came from his left, from the plump person of Matthew Brown, and Nathaniel shifted to regard his corpulent rival critically. Brown’s desk, in contrast to his own, was as neat as a spinster’s dress. “Don’t start. Matt,” he warned.
Brown ignored the admonishment. “Won’t you ever learn, Nate?”
“I’ve learned enough to know when to mind my own business,” Nathaniel assured him, and opened the top file on his pile.
“Irritable today, are we?”
have work to do.”
“I’m all caught up on mine. i’ll help you if you wish,” Brown said. He was-unfortunately, as far as Nathaniel was concerned—a mathematical genius.
“No.” Nathaniel brushed some lint from his checkered trousers, wishing he were as adept as Matt Brown.
“Why won’t you ever allow me to assist you?” Brown asked, his tone implying his feelings had been hurt.
“I’ll do my own work, thank you.”
“Has anyone ever informed you that you’re pigheaded?”
Nathaniel’s eyes flashed up from the profit-and-loss statement he had started to study. “Have a care, Matt. I won’t take that type of abuse from any man.”
“Oh, mercy!” Brown said, placing his right palm against his cheek. “I’m scared to death.”
“Do your work and leave me alone,” Nathaniel said, returning to the figures under his nose.
“Who are you trying to fool?” Brown persisted, whispering so as not to be overheard by the other employees. “You take abuse from Old Man Tuttle every day of the week except Sunday. Don’t play tough with me. Who do you think you are, anyway? Jim Bowie?”
The mention of Bowie caused Nathaniel to lean back in his chair, reflecting on the newspaper article published in September of the previous year detailing the bloody duel between Jim Bowie and Major Morris Wright on a sandbar in the Mississippi River. For several weeks the fight had been the talk of the city. Any news of the frontier typically generated considerable excitement, and the battle on the sandbar had caused more than most.
Nathaniel recalled the details vividly. He read every book, story, and article on the west he could find, and his favorite pasttime was to daydream about the exciting exploits he had read about, the adventures of such famous figures as Bowie and Lewis and Clark. Contributing to his keen interest was the fact that his uncle had departed for the rugged, virtually unknown lands beyond the Mississippi a decade ago, and now lived somewhere in the Rocky Mountains.
“You’d better start pushing your pencil,” Brown said. “Tuttle won’t take kindly to you wasting his time.”
“Mind your own business,” Nathaniel said.
“Try prunes. I hear they do wonders for the temperament.”
Nathaniel ignored the barb and diligently applied himself to his work. The morning hours seemed to drag by, and he had to resist the temptation to stare out the window at the bustling activity in the street. Tracking down an error in one ledger occupied most of his attention, and while running his right index finger down a column of figures he became aware that someone was hovering over his left shoulder. Startled. he glanced around.
“Hard at work, I see,” the elder Tuttle said appreciatively. “Have you found the mistake in the Corben account yet?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Hmmmph. Well, you can take your midday break in thirty minutes.”
Thank you.·.
Tuttle went to leave, then halted and stuck his right hand in the pocket of his long-tailed black coat. “Oh. Before 1 forget, there is one more thing.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Is there a reason you’re having your mail delivered to this office instead of your father’s house?”
“Sir?” Nathaniel said, puzzled by the question.
“This came for you two days ago, on Monday, and 1 misplaced it on my desk,” Tuttle stated. From his pocket he withdrew an envelope.
“Who would be sending me mail here?” Nathaniel wondered aloud.
“You tell me,” Tuttle replied, and handed the envelope over.
Nathaniel studied the scrawled handwriting on the front, noting the name and address of the sender, surprise and delight etching his features.
Ezekiel King .
Fort Leavenworth
“A relative, I presume?” Tuttle queried, obviously having noted the name.
“My uncle,” Nathaniel confirmed. “We haven’t heard from him in eight or nine years.”
“Why would he write you and not your father?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, advise him that as a general policy I do not accept personal correspondence at my business establishment. In this case, though. I’ll make an exception.”
“Thank you. sir.”
“Just be sure to read it on your own time.”
“Of course.”
Tuttle nodded imperiously and headed for his office. It was a sanctuary that the employees were permitted to enter only on rare occasions.
Nathaniel deposited the letter in the top desk drawer and resumed working. He could scarcely concentrate on the numbers, his mind racing as he tried to deduce the motive behind his uncle’s letter. Wait until his father heard the news! Aflame with curiosity, he became conscious of each passing second, and the next thirty minutes went by even more slowly than all the preceding hours. He grinned happily when Tuttle announced that he could take his break, and his fingers flew as he opened the envelope and spread the two crudely written pages on the desk. He began reading eagerly.
December 2, 1827
Dear Nate,
That you will be surprised at hearing from me, I have no doubt. Many a year and many a mile has come between us, and I hope you will still remember your old Uncle Zeke who let you ride on his back when you were a sprout, and who took you to the park on the Hudson River to play.
I’m mailing this to you at your place of employment rather than my brother’s. Your Aunt Martha wrote me about your job last January. I don’t want Tom to know I wrote you, so please don’t tell him or there will be bad blood between us. Again.
Your father never did understand the reason I came out to the great West.
I expect to be in St. Louis in May of 28. COme there. I have found the greatest treasure in the world and I want to share it with you before I die.
You were always my favorite nephew.
If you decide to come, be at The Chouteau House on May 4. I’ll be wearing the red so you know me.
Uncle Zeke
Nathaniel recoiled in stunned amazement at the last portion of the letter. He reread it again and again, marveling that his uncle would even think of asking him to travel all the way to St. Louis, to the very edge of the frontier, to the last major outpost of civilization, when his father and mother and two brothers were all in New York, when he had never been beyond Philadelphia, and when he had his career as an aspiring accountant to consider. The list of objections grew and grew. There was his sweetheart, Adeline, and his
plan to eventually marry her and settle down in a house of his own.
How could his Uncle Zeke make such an insane proposal?
Dazed, Nathaniel sat back and mumbled, “Go to St. Louis? How in the—”
“What’s that?” interrupted a familiar voice on his left.
Frowning, Nathaniel twisted and watched Matthew Brown take a bite from an overstuffed sandwich. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
“I distinctly heard you say something about going to St. Louis,” Brown said, his mouth full, a sliver of beef dangling from the corner of his mouth.
“You were hearing things,” Nathaniel insisted. He folded the letter, replaced it in the envelope, and struck them in the pocket of his Byronic-style coat.
“Are you planning to visit St. Louis?” Brown inquired.
“No. ”
“If you go, you’re not in your right mind.”
Annoyed, Nathaniel faced his coworker. “Is that a fact?”
“Certainly. Why would anyone want to leave the culture and refinement of New York for the barbaric society of St. Louis?”
“New York has its drawbacks too,” Nathaniel said simply to be argumentative, although in his heart he agreed with Brown.
“Oh? What, for instance? Carriage congestion, pickpockets, footpads, and a little ash in your eyes in the winter when everyone has their fireplace lit? Such inconveniences pale into insignificance when you compare them to the benefits we enjoyed by living in the greatest city in the country, even the world.”
“Now you’re exaggerating.”
“Am I? New York is the largest city in the United States. Do you realize there are one hundred and twenty-five thousand people living here? Why, there are only about ten million people in the whole country. Over one-tenth of the total population lives in New York State. Imagine that!”
Nathaniel gazed out the window at the bedlam in the street and found it easy to imagine.
King of the Mountain (Wilderness # 1) Page 1
