King of the Mountain (Wilderness # 1)

by David Thompson

  The reference sparked a memory long buried, and Nathaniel simply nodded. Back in 1793, or thereabouts, the Congress had passed the Federal Fugitive Law, which allowed slave owners to cross state lines if necessary to retrieve runaway slaves. He gave the quartet a last glance, then wheeled and hurried to the stable behind the inn to reclaim his horses, filled with an overwhelming urge to put as much distance as he could between the four chained human beings and himself. Until that moment, he had never seriously pondered the issue of slavery. For the remainder of the day he reflected on nothing else.

  In Illinois, just over the border from Indiana, the third incident occurred.

  Nathaniel stopped at an inn situated a little off the beaten path after he found two others, both nearer to the pike, full to capacity. He bedded his horses for the night, then took a room, washed, and ate a leisurely supper of tasty venison and potatoes. As he concluded the meal, he happened to gaze toward the rear of the dining area and spied an open door. Five men were visible in a room beyond, seated around a circular table, playing a game of cards. Intrigued, he rose, paid for his meal, and walked back to investigate. As he stepped through the doorway all eyes swung toward him. He halted, uncomfortable under their probing stares, wondering if he had committed a blunder by intruding on their game.

  “What the hell do you want, whippersnapper?” demanded a bear of a man who wore a cape with a beaver-fur collar.

  “I only wanted to watch,” Nathaniel replied, putting as much self-confidence into his voice as he could muster.

  “This isn’t a church social. Go watch the birds play in the trees,” the man snapped, and one of the other players tittered.

  A third player then spoke, his tone firm, a slight edge to his pronouncement. “Leave him alone, Clancy.”

  Nathaniel focused on his defender, a slim man wearing an immaculate black suit and a frilled white shirt. The thin man’s features were angular, his hair brown, his eyes an icy grayish-blue. He held his cards in his left hand, close to his shirt, while his right elbow rested on the edge of the table and his right hand was lost to view, evidently on his lap.

  “Is this sprout a friend of yours, Tyler?” the man named Clancy inquired testily.

  “Never laid eyes on the gentleman before,” Tyler replied, smiling and nodding at Nathaniel.

  “Then what difference does it make to you whether he stays or not?” Clancy demanded.

  “If he wants to stay, he stays,” Tyler stated with an air of finality, and locked his eyes on the bigger man.

  Nathaniel saw the other men stiffen and lower their cards, and he glanced from Tyler to Clancy, noticing the obvious hatred gleaming in the massive man’s dark eyes. Tyler sat calmly, composed and relaxed, but Clancy appeared on the verge of exploding into violence. A silent battle of wills had ensued, and neither man seemed willing to back down. Nathaniel inadvertently broke the deadlock by saying, “If I’m causing trouble, I’ll be glad to leave.”

  “I don’t give a damn whether you stay or not,” Clancy said harshly, finally tearing his gaze from Tyler.

  “Then let’s play cards,” another man said. “This constant bickering is ruining the game.”

  Nathaniel stood next to the right-hand wall and idly observed the course of the game. Having never been much of a card player himself, he still knew enough to recognize the five men were engaged in a form of poker. He watched as the cards were shuffled and dealt, listened as bids were made and coins tinkled on the table, and marveled at the intensity displayed on all the faces except one. Every player except Tyler sat in a posture of anxious expectancy and hung on the deal of each card. Curses were vented when hands went against them, and although they tried to conceal their elation when they received a good hand, most of them were transparent by their sudden silence or stony expression.

  For over an hour the game continued. Tyler dominated the play, winning two out of every three hands, his pile of silver and gold coins and stack of paper dollars growing higher and higher. His slim, elegant hands handled the cards with balletic grace, his fingers flying when he dealt, gliding each card to the recipient with unerring accuracy.

  Clancy became progressively surlier as he lost more and more money. Clearly an inept player, he insisted on challenging Tyler again and again. Each loss diminished his self-esteem and aroused his anger, and he began to cast open, spiteful glances at the man in black. He also started fiddling with his brown cape, moving the left flap from side to side. Despite the warmth, he kept the cape on, even though all of the other players had taken their coats off.

  Nathaniel was about ready to retire and had stepped toward the doorway when the trouble began.

  “Well, you’ve cleaned me out, Tyler,” Clancy declared, throwing his last hand on the table in disgust.

  “You play poorly,” Tyler stated. He used only his left hand to rake in his winnings.

  “You play well,” Clancy responded, leaning forward. “Perhaps too well.”

  The other men suddenly pushed back from the table, giving Tyler and Clancy plenty of space.

  “Be very careful.”

  “Don’t threaten me, you dandy,” Clancy spat. “I say you play too well. ”

  Nathaniel could almost feel the tension in the room. The other players seemed scarcely to be breathing, as if they were waiting for a great and terrible event to transpire. They weren’t to be disappointed.

  Tyler placed his left arm on the table, a slow, deliberate, almost delicate gesture. His right hand was once again out of sight in his lap, a fact fraught with significance for all of the players except the irate Clancy, to whom he addressed his next words in a low, hard tone. “Say your meaning straight out.”

  “I say you cheat.”

  The players were now statues, rooted to their chairs, their unblinking eyes on the protagonists in the unfolding drama.

  “You have insulted my integrity, sir, and I demand satisfaction,” Tyler stated.

  “I’ll bet you do,” Clancy said, and laughed, a short, brittle sound, an insult in itself.

  “Name the time and the place.”

  Both thrilled and secretly appalled, Nathaniel listened to the challenge being issued in amazement. Tyler wanted a duel! He knew all about dueling, about the code of last resort for any offended gentleman, but he had never been privileged to witness one. Famous duelists were constantly making headlines. Only two years previously, Henry Clay and John Randolph had engaged in a much-publicized event. Clay, the Secretary of State, had challenged Senator Randolph after the latter had insulted Clay on the Senate floor. Their duel had prompted countless snide remarks and crude jokes because neither man had scored a hit. Clay had sent his shot through Randolph’s coat, and the Senator had then elevated his pistol and fired into the air.

  “Right here and now,” Clancy replied angrily, rising to his full height.

  “As the offended party, I claim the choice of weapons,” Tyler said.

  “Choose whatever you like. I’ll be waiting outside,” Clancy declared. He stalked from the room like a grizzly bear storming from its cave to do battle.

  “Don’t trust him, Adam,” one of the other players remarked the moment Clancy was gone.

  “No,” chimed in another. “He’s too treacherous.”

  Tyler stood, his forehead knit in thought. “Renfrew, will you kindly be my second?”

  “Gladly, Adam,” responded a white-haired man attired in a brown suit.

  “My dueling pistols are in my room,” Tyler said. “Would you fetch them for me?”

  “Certainly.” Renfrew hastily departed.

  Tyler squared his shoulders and strode from the room, trailed by the remaining players, each man somber and reserved.

  Enthralled, Nathaniel followed them, watching Tyler the entire time, marveling at the man’s courage. The owner of the inn appeared and remonstrated with Tyler to call the duel off, but the man in black ignored the plea. The news was spreading rapidly, and patrons were flocking to the spacious green bordering the f
ront of the establishment. As he emerged into the bright sunlight and squinted, Nathaniel spied Clancy waiting in the center of the green, standing next to his discarded cape, a large knife in a sheath in plain sight on his left hip.

  Tyler waited for his second to return bearing a large black case, then both men walked out to Clancy.

  Nathaniel moved through the crowd to obtain a clear view, and watched as Tyler and Clancy exchanged words. He wondered if Tyler was offering the big man a chance to select a second. Whatever the import, Clancy declined and pointed at the black case, saying something that made Tyler clench his fists in anger. The pistols were promptly distributed and the duelists aligned themselves back to back.

  “This is horrible,” a woman standing nearby remarked. “Someone should put a stop to this.”

  “If you believe it’s horrible, don’t look,” advised a man dressed in breeches and a white shirt.

  Nathaniel tried to take the measure of Clancy . The big man had impressed him as being an uncouth lout, but now he wasn’t so positive. Clancy’s clothes, while not as refined as Tyler’s, were of good quality and clean, his black boots polished.

  Renfrew carried the pistol case from the dueling field. He turned and called out, “At the count of three you will proceed ten paces, then face your opponent and fire.”

  Tyler and Clancy were immobile, each with his right hand next to his chest and his pistol pointing skyward.

  “One,” Renfrew cried.

  A hush fell over the spectators, none of whom averted their eyes.

  “Two.”

  A squirrel in an oak tree off to the right chitterred loudly, apparently peeved at all the noise.

  “Three!” Renfrew shouted.

  Transfixed by the tableau, Nathaniel saw the two duelists begin to pace. Tyler took measured treads, but Clancy moved swiftly, and the man in black had only gone eight steps when his adversary abruptly wheeled, raised his pistol, and fired. The booming retort produced a cloud of gunsmoke, and simultaneous with the discharge Tyler stumbled forward as if slapped by an unseen hand. He recovered his balance, steadied himself, and pivoted.

  Clancy took one look, saw his doom reflected in Tyler’s visage, and threw the pistol to the grass. He whipped his knife from its sheath and charged, bellowing inarticulately at the top of his lungs, as if his maniacal yells could accomplish what his aim had not.

  Tyler never hurried. He elevated his pistol slowly, he took aim slowly, and when Clancy had only five yards to cover, he squeezed the trigger slowly.

  The ball struck Clancy squarely in the forehead and burst out the rear of his cranium, splattering blood and brains every which way, rocking the big man on his heels for a moment before he toppled over with an incredibly puzzled expression, as if his passage into eternity constituted a perplexing mystery.

  Before Clancy hit the ground Renfrew and others were hastening to Tyler’s side. After firing, the man in black doubled over and staggered, and he would have fallen if his second had not reached him and provided support.

  “Disgusting,” commented the matron who had offered the earlier observation.

  Nathaniel glanced at her, surprised she had stayed to witness the duel. She gazed at the dead man for several seconds, smacked her lips distastefully, and hurried into the inn.

  Renfrew and four others were transporting Tyler inside, holding him as still as they could. A bright red stain had formed on Tyler’s shirt, a stain that was spreading.

  Upset by the unjust outcome, Nathaniel looked at the man in black as the party passed him. Tyler’s face was pale, but his eyes were alert and they focused on Nathaniel. A reassuring smile creased the man’s thin lips, and then he was past and being carried inside.

  “So much for Noah Clancy,” remarked a bystander, an elderly man in the garb of a farmer.

  “He always was a braggart and a bully,” said another.

  “Who wants to bury him?” asked a third.

  “I will,” offered the farmer. “He’s not a fit sight for children to see with his brains oozing out like they are.”

  Nathaniel lingered at the inn for several hours, waiting to hear the prognosis of a doctor who had been urgently summoned from a small town close by. He listened to other patrons relating the duel again and again and again, disgusted by their callous disregard of the man who might be dying upstairs. All they were interested in were the gory details. He sat in a corner, drinking an ale, listening to them chatter, and came to the conclusion they were the worst flock of vultures he had ever seen.

  Only when the doctor announced that Tyler would live did Nathaniel walk to the stable and collect his horses. In 20 minutes he was back on the road, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of dying and death, of justice and honor, and in such a frame of mind he finally arrived at his destination.

  Chapter Four

  St. Louis.

  In 1764 a pair of French fur traders established a trading post on the west bank of the Mississippi River, just to the south of its junction with another mighty river, the Missouri. One of the Frenchmen decided to name the post after Louis IX, a French king who was made a saint, and thus St. Louis had its humble beginnings.

  Located in territory originally claimed by the Spanish. St. Louis officially came under French jurisdiction when Spain ceded the region to France.

  The transfer gravely alarmed President Thomas Jefferson. The French made plans to send troops to take possession of the territory, and President Jefferson became worried that they would not honor the agreement the U.S. had worked out with Spain concerning the city of New Orleans far to the south. American farmers and trappers who lived west of the Appalachian Mountains shipped their produce and goods by river down to New Orleans. If the French refused to continue the arrangement, untold economic hardships would result.

  President Jefferson sent a delegation to France under orders to make a reasonable offer to purchase New Orleans and the Floridas. When the delegation tendered their proposal, they were astounded by the reaction. The French not only agreed to sell New Orleans, but all of the territory the Spaniards had ceded over. So, for the sum of approximately $15 S million, the United States doubled its size and acquired the city of St. Louis in 1803.

  And what a city it was.

  Despite all the news reports and stories Nathaniel had read about the frontier, he was unprepared for the raw, bustling scene that blossomed before his astonished eyes as he entered St. Louis on the morning of April 29. First to attract his attention were the scores of steamboats and barges on the Mississippi River, enough to almost rival the harbor of New York on any given day. Grogshops and dozens of taverns literally lined the waterfront area, and rivermen, fur trappers, wagoners, and other rowdy types mingled in reckless abandon twenty-four hours a day.

  Rearing above the waterfront area were the private residences of the wealthy and not-so- wealthy, a curious mixture of French. American, and even Spanish architecture that gave the city a distinctive quality all its own. The French were still very much in evidence, with their regal homes, Canadian horses, and curious little carts.

  As Nathaniel rode into the heart of the city, he was pleasantly surprised to discover there were several newspapers .in operation. He even passed a bookstore, and promised himself he would pay it a visit soon. There were also a number of theaters where live plays were performed daily. All in all, St. Louis was not anything like he had expected the city would be.

  The one element Nathaniel did find, and which he had anticipated, was the abundant presence of firearms and other weapons. Nearly every man carried either a rifle, a pistol, a knife, or a sword. The few who didn’t appeared, by their clothing, to be upper-class city residents. Every frontiersman strolling the streets had his rifle and knife, as much a part of his attire as his buckskins. Nathaniel had encountered more and more firearms the farther west he traveled, and now they seemed as indispensable for survival as the air itself.

  Then there were the Indians. Nathaniel had not expected to discover so many of t
he red men within the city limits, and not until the third day of his stay did he learn the reason. General William Clark, the same Clark who had journeyed with Meriwether Lewis to the Pacific Ocean and back, was now the Superintendent of Indian Affairs, and on a daily basis large delegations of Indians arrived to confer with him.

  Nathaniel took a room at The Bradley Hostelry, and put up his animals at a stable. Once his belongings were safely locked in his room, he took to the streets and ambled until nightfall, drinking in the sights and sounds in the manner of a starved man falling upon a side of roast beef. He couldn’t seem to get enough. There was a vibrant, dynamic, vigorous atmosphere to St. Louis that thrilled his soul and enchanted him beyond measure.

  That night in his room, as he lay listening to the sounds coming through his open window, he thought of New York and compared the metropolis to St. Louis. The comparison bothered him because he decided he liked St. Louis better. Both were bustling beehives of human commerce, but St. Louis was endowed with a robust, undisciplined vitality New York City lacked. Perhaps, long ago, New York had possessed the same frontier-style nobility, the same raw passion for life exhibited by the denizens of St. Louis, but not anymore. The people in St. Louis were living life to the fullest; the people in New York merely going through the motions while waiting to be planted six feet under.

  Nathaniel spent the next day much as he had the first, strolling through the city and familiarizing himself with the location of various establishments and parts of town. He found The Chouteau House, one of the premier hotels in all of St. Louis, and wondered why Zeke would want to meet , him at such an expensive place. He opted to stay at The Bradley Hostelry to conserve his funds.

  Several hours that afternoon were spent browsing through the delightfully large collection of books lining the shelves at the bookstore. There were bibles, of course, and cookbooks galore. There was a copy of The History of the Expedition of Captains Lewis and Clark, edited by Nicholas Biddle, which he was almost tempted to buy. There was a reprint edition of John Marshall’s Life of George Washington that he found interesting. But by far the books that fascinated him the most were those by James Fenimore Cooper. He had already read Cooper’s The Pioneers, published in 1823, and enjoyed the tale of the frontiersman Natty Bumppo immensely. Now he found The Pilot, a sea novel, and joys of joys, the next novel in the Bumppo saga, The Last of the Mohicans. Billed as an outstanding romance of the wilds, the story actually depicted Leatherstocking, as Bumppo was known, at an earlier age, embroiled in battles with the Iroquois. Nathaniel purchased the book and returned to his room. That night he ate a hearty meal and retired early.