“James Fenimore Cooper,” Zeke said thoughtfully. “I’ve heard of him. Isn’t he the one who writes about Leather-skin?”
“That’s Leatherstocking, Uncle Zeke.”
“Whatever. Some of my friends have read his other books They say he writes well.”
“You’re welcome to read it if you wish.”
“Thanks. Perhaps I will. It has been a while since I’ve read anything, and in New York I read all the time.” Zeke wagged the book in his hand. “Oh, well. Reading always was a substitute for experience.”
Nathaniel watched his uncle prepare the bed. He envisioned his darling Adeline, far, far away in New York, and he closed his eyes. A single question repeated itself over and over in his mind: What am I going to do?
Chapter Seven
What choice did he have?
If he wanted to please Adeline—and pleasing her was more important to him than breathing—he had to accumulate the fortune he would need to support her lavish style of life. He considered returning to New York City and going to work for her father, but the prospect of spending years in the mercantile profession did not appeal to him, especially as every moment would be spent under the watchful eyes of her stem father. If wealthy he must be, then he would acquire the wealth by his own initiative and not be dependent on another man for his livelihood. For the sake of Adeline, he convinced himself, he must make the journey to the Rocky Mountains and obtain his share of Ezekiel’s treasure.
But there was another reason, a reason he scarcely admitted, although at the back of his mind he realized the truth. The idea of heading farther west, into the rugged, unmapped regions of the unknown, appealed to his adventurous spirit. He had supreme confidence in his Uncle Zeke, and believed that Ezekiel would see him safely through any ordeal. In addition, he kept thinking about the adventures of Leatherstocking, and he wondered if he just might, perhaps, have an adventure or two of his own before he saw St. Louis again.
Few men can resist the siren song of love and the dictates of the heart. Even fewer can resist the overpowering drives of human nature. So it was that with a clear conscience and a happy, expectant soul Nathaniel informed his uncle of his decision at first light the next morning. “I’ve decided to go with you.”
Ezekiel bounded out of bed and pranced around like a panther dancing a jig, clapping his hands and cackling as if at a great triumph. After a couple of minutes he halted abruptly and beamed down at Nathaniel. “Nephew, you will never regret your decision. This I can promise you.”
“I’ll believe that when I see the light in Adeline’s eyes as I show her my gold.”
Zeke straightened, suddenly sober. “Of course. The gold. Well, we should have breakfast and commence outfitting you for the trip.”
“I can buy my own supplies,” Nathaniel offered.
“Nonsense. Since this was my idea, and since I’m the one with the gold nuggets, I insist on paying for your gear and clothes.”
“Clothes? What’s wrong with the clothes I already own?”
Zeke laughed and glanced at the apparel in question, draped over the back of a nearby chair. “Those clothes are all right for city life, even for travel east of the Mississippi, but you’ll need far better if you want to be comfortable beyond the frontier.”
“But I paid good money for them in New York,” Nathaniel persisted.
“New York clothes are mainly for dandies and squires who don’t know beans about life outdoors. Trust me,” Zeke said.
“I trust you,” Nathaniel replied, still not entirely convinced of his need for new clothing.
Ezekiel noticed and placed his hands on his hips. “What are your trousers made of?”
“Wool.”
“And your coat?”
“Wool.”
“And your hat?”
“Wool. But what does that matter?”
“If the Eternal had meant for man to wear wool, He would have made us sheep,” Zeke stated. “Wool is fine for city uses or on a farm, but out west, where you’ll be subjected to the worst weather Nature can throw at you, where you can start out hot at the base of a mountain and be in ten feet of snow by the time you reach the summit, you want buckskins. Wool can shrink, nephew. Wool falls to pieces after a month or two of mountain living. Buckskins do not.”
“Are you saying I need buckskins?” Nathaniel inquired, secretly pleased by the idea.
“Buckskins and much more.”
“Then I guess I’m in your hands.”
“Have you ever fired a gun?”
The unexpected question gave Nathaniel pause. He almost lied, but changed his mind. “No.”
“Not ever?”
“Never.”
Ezekiel shook his head and clucked. “What has my brother done to you?”
“Don’t blame my father. Why should I have fired a gun when there are no hostile Indians in New York and all the food we ate could be bought at the market or the butcher?”
“I can see your point, but it’s still a tragedy when a boy has grown to manhood and hasn’t learned to fire a rifle. How is a youngster to learn the qualities of self-reliance and independence if he doesn’t know how to feed and clothe himself? If this is what cities do to our youth, then they are more vile than I imagined. Cities breed slaves to civilization, nephew, and produce men and women who are in bondage to the mercantile and the slaughterhouse.”
“I never gave the matter much thought.”
“I have. Did you know your father and I hunted quite avidly when we were young?”
Nathaniel’s surprise showed. “No, I didn’t. We don’t even have a gun in the house now. He won’t allow them.”
“Probably because they remind him of me,” Zeke speculated. He walked to the south wall, where he had propped his rifle, and held the gun out. “Do you know what this is, Nate?”
“A rifle.”
“More than a rifle, nephew. It’s a Hawken. The best damn gun ever made, and they’re made right here in St. Louis by Jacob and Samuel Hawken, friends of mine. Mine is a .60-caliber, and I’ve knocked down a buffalo at two hundred yards with it.” “Two hundred yards?” Nathaniel repeated skeptically.
“One day maybe you’ll do even better.”
“Will you teach me to shoot yours?”
“No. I’ll teach you to shoot yours.”
Nathaniel came out of the bed so fast he stubbed his right foot on the night table. “You’ll buy me a rifle of my very own?”
“That’s the general idea, nephew. We’d be in a sorry state if two grizzlies decided that we were their tasty supper and we only had one rifle between us.”
“My own rifle,” Nathaniel said softly, thrilled.
Ezekiel smiled and nodded at his nephew’s clothes. “Get your britches on, Nate. We have a lot to do today if we hope to leave this serpent’s den tomorrow.”
Nathaniel would always remember that day as long as he lived, the first of many memorable days he would experience in the months ahead. He followed his uncle from establishment to establishment like an eager young puppy anxious to please its new master, listening to tales about Zeke’s years on the frontier, tales that prompted him, more than once, to gaze at the western horizon with longing in his eyes.
Ezekiel went on a buying spree, not only for the equipment and supplies his nephew would need, but for provisions he required to restock the depleted stores at his remote cabin. He paid for most of the items with cash or coin, although on two occasions, when he bought buckskins for Nathaniel and when he purchased three pistols, two for the youth and one for himself, he paid with a few of his gold nuggets.
The buckskins were obtained at a store named Farber’s, where the owner, a former trapper himself, specialized in goods for those engaged in the fur trade. One of his employees was quite skilled at constructing custom-made garments from the many skins and furs the owner received in barter. Upon learning, however, that the employee had more work than he could handle and that buckskins for Nathaniel would take four days to be
stitched together, Zeke became annoyed at the prospect of staying in St. Louis beyond his alloted departure date. The owner came to their rescue by suggesting Nathaniel try on one of the dozen or so sets of buckskins that had never been claimed by their purchasers and were gathering dust on a shelf at the back of the store.
To Nathaniel’s delight, he found buckskins that fit him, although rather loosely. Once he donned the soft, pliable deerskin garments, including a pair of moccasins that rose almost to his knees, he felt as if he were a new man. He ran his fingers over the dressed deerskin again and again, thinking he should pinch himself to see if he was dreaming.
Ezekiel studied his nephew for a minute, then commented, “Not a bad fit. We’ll make you another set after we reach my cabin.”
“I don’t know if I can thank you enough.”
“Shucks, Nate. We’re just getting started.”
Next Nathaniel acquired a wide leather belt to which he attached a hunting knife sporting a 12-inch blade in a plain sheath. His uncle helped him select a powder horn, which he hung over his left shoulder by means of a thin strap, angling it across his chest to ride high on his right hip, within easy reach. He also obtained a large pouch for his bullets, bullet mould, ball screw, wiper, and awl. As he was adjusting the bullet pouch under the powder horn, his uncle approached bearing a red and black Mackinaw coat.
“Try this on for size,” Zeke said.
“A red coat?” Nathaniel responded.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Won’t Indians and game be able to spot me too easily?”
“Beaver, bear, and deer don’t care if you’re wearing red, blue, or purple. With a Hawken in your hands, it doesn’t matter if the game spots you or not.”
“But what about the Indians?”
“I’ve been wearing a red cap for years and I still have my scalp,” Zeke said, then surreptitiously winked at Eugene Farber, who stood nearby. “But if it worries you, just remember the best method for getting out of Indian trouble. It never fails.”
“What is it?”
“Run like hell.”
After trying on the Mackinaw coat, which fit perfectly, Nathaniel added the garment to his growing collection. His uncle continued to buy provisions, some of which they were to pick up the next day on their way out of St. Louis. There were spare flints and locks, 200 pounds of lead, 60 pounds of powder, a few spare knives, two pipes and tobacco, and much more.
From Farber’s they went to a small shop where Ezekiel bought the three pistols. He stuck two of them under his nephew’s belt, stood back, studied the pistols and the knife, and nodded. “You look green, but I can guarantee no one will try to rob you now.”
Their last visit of the day was to the Hawken brothers, Jacob and Samuel. who were kept busy meeting the great demand for their superb rifles. Both men were soft-spoken and dedicated to their craft. They greeted Ezekiel warmly and listened to his request for a rifle for Nathaniel.
“What caliber would you prefer?” Samuel inquired, scrutinizing Nathaniel closely. “Since it’s his first plains rifle. I would recommend a .40-caliber.”
“If a man is going to carry a rifle, he should carry one that will stop any brute or hostile he meets,” Zeke declared. “Give Nate a .6o-caliber.”
The Hawken brothers glanced at one another, and Jacob shrugged and said, “As you wish. Would you care for us to instruct him in its use?”
“Go right ahead.”
Into Nathaniel’s tingling hands was delivered a heavy .60-caliber Hawken. He hefted the rifle, admiring the smooth 34-inch octagonal barrel, the sturdy stock with its cresentshaped butt plate, the low sights, and the percussion lock.
Samuel Hawken smiled. “This rifle will serve you in good stead, young man. But you must always remember that a rifle is only as good as the man who uses it. A rifle is a tool, nothing more. Keep it clean and protect it from the elements, and you may find that it rewards you by saving your life.”
“I’ll take good care of it,” Nathaniel promised.
Samuel nodded knowingly. “I expect you will. I can recall how I felt about my first rifle. Now allow me to show you how to load and fire it.”
For 20 minutes Nathaniel was instructed in the proper use of a plains rifle by the two brothers, who seemed to derive considerable enjoyment from the teaching. They showed him how to load the ball, how to use the ramrod properly, and gave him tips on priming. They advised him that there would be a slight kick to the .60-caliber, a negligible recoil that would not hamper a fast reload in an emergency. Nathaniel thanked them for their kindness and walked out the front door feeling strangely euphoric.
“We’ll need to find a cover for your rifle,” Zeke mentioned as they headed for The Chouteau House. “You’ll want to keep it dry and handy at all times once we’re on the prairie.”
Staring at his new gun, his forehead creased as he remembered the duel between Tyler and Clancy. Nathaniel voiced a question. “Have you killed a lot of men, Uncle Zeke?”
“Killing is part and parcel of frontier life. You might never need to kill a white man, but as sure as the sun rises and sets every day you’ll have to kill an Indian or two.” the frontiersman said. “And yes, I’ve killed my fair share. Why?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Don’t you think you could shoot another human being?”
“I don’t know.”
“When the time comes to do it, you’ll do it.”
Nathaniel glanced at his uncle. “How can you be so certain?”
“Because when the time comes, it will either be you or the other fellow, whether white or Indian. And when someone is about to knife you, or scalp you, or put a ball in your head, you’ll find that the Good Lord put a sense of self-preservation in us for a reason. Only a fool or a weakling rolls over and dies without giving a good account of himself. On the frontier and in the unexplored regions it’s often kill or be killed.”
“I don’t want to die,” Nathaniel said softly.
“Who does?”
Chapter Eight
Ezekiel and Nathaniel King rode out of St. Louis on the morning of May 6 under a sunny sky and with a light breeze from the northwest to cool their faces. Nathaniel rode his mare, Zeke a roan gelding, and both led pack horses loaded with their provisions. They followed the winding course of the Missouri River along a well-used dirt road. The state of Missouri had been admitted to the Union in 1821 as a slave state, and there were already 70,000 people living in the westernmost frontier of the nation.
Nathaniel soaked up the sights and sounds with a keen relish. They were not in any danger from the Indians in Missouri, who had signed a peace treaty with the U.S. government some years back, so he could relax and enjoy the trip. He noticed that his uncle seemed to be in a hurry; they only spent two hours in Independence. Eight days after they left St. Louis they came to the farthest outpost of civilization, Westport Landing, near the point where the Missouri and Kansas Rivers met. The trading post there, founded by a Frenchman in 1821, did a bustling business with trappers, hunters, and Indians, and served as a stopping-off point for the traders from Missouri en route to Santa Fe to do business with the Spanish.
Two hours after they arrived, an incident occurred that Nathaniel would have reason to reflect on later. His uncle had selected a campsite to the southeast of the trading post, and they were busily engaged in bedding down for the night, when Nathaniel saw his uncle straighten and stare intently at three men who were riding toward the post. Puzzled, he looked at the riders, all three of whom were hulking, unkempt types attired in shabby buckskins. None of the men so much as glanced in their direction. He shrugged and went back to unfolding a blanket.
At first light they were packed and off, heading west across the rolling prairie, staying close to the Kansas River. In front of them stretched more than two million square miles of pristine wilderness.
Nathaniel cradled his rifle in the crook of his right arm and admired the scenery. Low grass covered the ground for
as far as the eye could see, interspersed with colorful, beautiful flowers. Now and then they would come across a small brook that intersected the river. Cedar trees and others grew along the banks. Occasionally a large fish would leap out of the water and splash down again.
At midday Ezekiel called a halt. He dismounted and stood staring along their back trail for several minutes.
“Is something wrong?” Nathaniel asked.
Zeke frowned. “I’m the biggest fool who ever lived.”
“I don’t understand.”
“By the Eternal, I should have known better!” Zeke snapped angrily.
Nathaniel gazed eastward and saw nothing but the picturesque expanse of prairie. “Known better about what?”
“About paying for the pistols and the buckskins with gold.”
“Why?”
“Because gold loosens lips. Folks start to talk. And then the wrong people hear about it.”
“Like robbers?”
“And worse,” Ezekiel said, and sighed. “We’re being followed, nephew.”
Nathaniel looked eastward again. “I don’t see anyone.”
“Keep watching.”
Squinting in the warm sunlight, Nathaniel fixed his eyes on the eastern horizon. To his surprise, barely perceptible figures materialized in the distance, and he guessed they were three men on horseback. “I see three riders.”
Zeke nodded. “he same ones who were at Westport Landing, no doubt.”
“They’ve trailed us all the way from St. Louis?”
“I reckon they have.”
“If they want your nuggets, why didn’t they jump us sooner?”
“They’re hoping we’ll lead them to where I found the gold,” Zeke said. “They’ll trail us all the way to the Rocky Mountains if I let them.”
“How can we stop them?”
Ezekiel vented a harsh laugh. “There are all sorts of ways, nephew.”
“Should we keep going then?”
“No. We’l take a break and rest the horses. We don’t want the varmints to know we’re on to them.”
Nathaniel had lost much of his appetite. He kept glancing at the eastern horizon, hoping his uncle was mistaken, and wondering how he would fare when the confrontation came. Since leaving New York he had seen three men die, and the future, as Zeke had indicated, promised to hold more death in store for him. But could he squeeze the trigger when the time came? His uncle believed he could, but Ezekiel had spent a decade living as a savage lived. For Zeke killing must be easy.
King of the Mountain (Wilderness # 1) Page 7
