King of the Mountain (Wilderness # 1)

by David Thompson

  “You have nothing to be nervous about yet, Nate,” Zeke commented.

  “Wll they try to kill us?”

  “Not until they’re convinced I won’ lead them to the gold. They’re fools, in addition to being worthless vermin. They probably make a living by robbing other trappers and traders.”

  “What will you do to them?”

  “Wait and see.”

  In 20 minutes they were mounted and resuming their journey. To take his mind off the men shadowing them, Nathaniel concentrated on the wildlife they encountered and asked his uncle about each species, learning the habits of all the game on the plains. They saw deer and antelope in abundance, and several days later spied the first of many elk. There were birds and hawks, eagles and owls. But Nathaniel had yet to spy the animal he most wanted to see.

  “Uncle Zeke, where are all the buffalo?” he inquired when they turned up the Republican Fork of the Kansas River.

  “We’re not quite to buffalo country yet,” Ezekiel answered. “They don’t quite range this far east, although I was told by a Caw chief that they did graze in this vicinity many years ago.”

  “Why haven’t we seen any Indians yet either? I was under the impression they are all over these plains.”

  “They are. A small band was watching us about three hours ago.”

  Nathaniel stiffened in the saddle. “They were?”

  “Calm down, nephew. Not all Indians are hostile. The main ones to worry about are the Blackfeet, the Arikara, the Sioux, and the Cheyenne. That’s just on the plains. If you ever head to the Old Southwest, down Santa Fe way, you’ll have to guard your scalp against the Comanches, Kiowas, and the Apaches.”

  “Have you fought many Indians, Uncle Zeke?”

  “More than I care to remember.”

  “How do you feel about them?”

  “Feel about them?”

  “Yes. Do you hate the Indians?”

  Ezekiel glanced at his kin. “Now why would I hate them?”

  “There have been a lot of stories in the press back east about what to do with the Indians. Some folks think we should let them live on their lands in peace. Others, those who seem to despise the Indians, want to force them out of the way by having the government relocate them,” Nathaniel mentioned. “Andrew Jackson, who’s running for President again, says the Indians are an inferior race and that we have an obligation to reorganize them according to our way of doing things.”

  “Jackson said that, did he?”

  “Yes. I read about it in the paper. A lot of people agree with him.”

  Ezekiel gazed westward and sighed. “I know about Old Hickory, Nate. Why do you think he acquired a nickname like that? Because he’s an unyielding bastard who can not abide another point of view than his own. He always believes he’s right and the rest of the world is wrong. Mark my words. If that pompous ass is elected, there will be hell to pay with the Indians.”

  Nathaniel pondered those words as they rode onward. Five days later he encountered his first tribe when they rode to the sloping crest of a low hill and there, encamped near the Republican river, were dozens of Indians.

  “Otos,” Zeke declared.

  “Are they friendly?”

  “As friendly as they come.”

  Reassured but still anxious, Nathaniel retained a firm grip on his rifle as he followed his uncle down to the Indian camp. He saw that the tribe lived in pole huts covered with straw and dirt. The women hung back while the men advanced to meet Zeke and him. There were few guns in evidence, and most of the men wore little more than a buckskin loincloth, if that. They impressed him as being a poor clan, not one of the great warlike plains tribes he had heard so much about.

  A stocky Indian stepped in front of the rest and moved his hands and arms in a peculiar series of gestures.

  Nathaniel was about to inquire as to the meaning when his uncle responded with a similar sequence. Perplexed, he surveyed the Otos, relieved to see none of them displayed the slightest hostility.

  Ezekiel dismounted and walked to his pack horse. He extracted a hunting knife and presented it to the stocky Indian. After a few more hand gestures he climbed aboard his stallion, smiled and nodded, and rode through the clan.

  Amused, Nathaniel observed the stocky Indian proudly displaying the hunting knife. He stayed on his uncle’s heels and didn’t speak until they had passed the village. “What was that all about, Uncle Zeke?”

  “Their chief wanted us to smoke with them.”

  “Smoke?”

  “Smoke a pipe, nephew. Do you know how to smoke?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’d best learn. Every Indian tribe I know has a smoking ceremony. When an Indian offers to smoke with you, it means he has no intention of doing you harm. The ceremony is supposed to mean that your hearts and minds are one.”

  “Why didn’t you smoke with him?”

  “Because of those sons of bitches after us. I told him there were bad white men on our trail and we couldn’t afford to stop. To show I was sincere and not offering an insult, I gave him that knife.”

  “You talked to him with your hands?” Nathaniel inquired in amazement.

  Zeke nodded. “They call it sign language. Every Indian uses it. Learn sigh language and you can parley with any tribe on the plains, no matter what language they may speak.”

  “Who taught sign language to you?”

  “Shakespeare. And I’ll teach you. By the time we reach my cabin, you’ll be an old hand at it.”

  “How long will it take us to reach your cabin, anyway?”

  “If we’re lucky, about four weeks. Maybe a bit less. We’ll follow the Republican to within seventy-five miles or so of the Rockies. Then we have quite a haul up to the high country. We could shave time by cutting straight across instead of sticking with the river, but there’s more game this way,” Zeke explained, and smiled. “And I wouldn’t want you to starve to death before you see the treasure.”

  “I can hardly wait,” Nathaniel admitted.

  “We won’t be spending much time at the cabin when we get there,” Zeke remarked.

  The statement surprised Nathaniel. “Why not?”

  “Because if we don’t run into any problems, if we don’t get sick or snake-bit or scalped, I want to push on to the rendezvous.”

  “The what?”

  Ezekiel stared at his young nephew and shook his head. “It’s hard to believe I was as green as you once. The rendezvous is held each summer. Practically everybody involved in the fur trade shows up for a month or so of the wildest goings-on you’ll ever see. This year the rendezvous is to be held at Bear Lake, up in the same neck of the woods as the Great Salt Lake.”

  “I read about the Great Salt Lake in the papers.”

  “You sure must read those newspapers a lot.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Newspapers are like a gabby gossip. They’re just so much hot air.”

  In another mile they came to a stand of thick cedar and pine trees. Zeke took a faint trail running along the bank of the river, and when they passed the trees he suddenly wheeled his mount. “This will do,” he announced.

  “Are we making camp already?”

  “No,” Zeke said, and rode into the thickest part of the stand. He dropped to the ground and secured the reins to a firm limb.

  Nathaniel followed suit, wondering what his uncle could be up to now. He tied his horses, then walked with Zeke to the Republican.

  “Water, nephew, is the key to survival in the wilderness. Learn to sniff out water and you’ll never need to worry about thirst or starvation. Every living beast needs water to survive. Deer, elk, buffalo. Find the water and you find them,” Ezekiel stated, and stared at the surrounding plains with admiration reflected in his eyes. “Some folks happen to think that game is scarce in these parts, but it isn’t unless you’re with a big party that scares every living critter within miles into hiding. The Otos and the Caws make a living hereabouts, and so can a white
man if he learns their secret. The Indians learned to live the natural way ages ago, and they have a lot to teach us if we’ll just give a listen.”

  “Are we going to fish here?” Nathaniel inquired, watching the sluggush flow of water.

  “No.” Ezekiel faced east. “I asked the Oto chief to delay those three varmints trailing us as long as he could. If they smoke with him, they’ll be hell-bent for leather to catch up with us. They’ll come along our back trail as fast as they can, and they won’t be as cautious as they might be otherwise.”

  “If the Otos are going to delay them, shouldn’t we be making tracks? Maybe we can lose them.”

  “We’re not going anywhere. Nate,” Zeke said slowly. and motioned at the trees. “We’ll wait right here until those snakes-in-the-grass show their ugly faces, and then we’ll put all that target-shooting you’ve been doing every time we stop to good use.” He grinned. “We’ll kill them.”

  Chapter Nine

  “We can’t just kill them, Uncle.”

  “Watch me,” Zeke said, walking into the trees.

  “But we don’t really know that they’re after us,” Nathaniel said, staying one step behind. “They could be on their way to the Rocky Mountains, same as us.”

  “They’re not.”

  Nathaniel took hold of his uncle’s right arm and swung Zeke around. “You don’t know that!”

  “I know it,” Zeke maintained obstinately.

  “I can’t believe you would murder someone in cold blood.”

  “Better I do unto them before they do unto me.”

  His anger mounting, Nathaniel glanced eastward, relieved the trio weren’t in sight, then tore into his uncle again. “How do you plan to kill them? Shoot them from ambush?”

  “I’ll ask them to turn around and smile before I squeeze the trigger,” Zeke said sarcastically. He frowned and studied the younger man for a minute, noting the set of Nate’s jaw and the fire in his nephew’s eyes.

  “If you do this,” Nathaniel warned, “I’ll return to St. Louis.”

  “All by yourself?”

  “With or without your assistance.”

  Ezekiel rested the barrel of his Hawken on his right shoulder. “You’d go back without seeing the treasure?”

  Nathaniel nodded.

  “Then this must mean more to you than I figured,” Zeke said. “How would you feel if I can prove those men aim to kill us or rob us?”

  “I’d stand by your side come what may.”

  “Fair enough,” Zeke said, and scrutinized the lay of the land. He pointed at two cedar trees growing close to one another 30 feet to the south. “Those trees should do you.”

  “For what?”

  “As a shield. Hunker down in the grass behind those trees and wait until they go for their guns.”

  Nathaniel glanced at the trees. “What do you have in mind?”

  “You don’t trust me, Nate, and that cuts me to the quick. If you won’t accept my leadership now, what are you going to do later, when we run into unfriendly Indians or some other danger? I can’t afford to argue with you every time there’s killing to be done. Out here, killing is just part of staying alive.”

  “You still haven’t told your plan.”

  “It’s simple. You’ll wait behind those trees and I’ll wait by the river. When those three upstanding citizens catch up with us, we’ll play it by ear. If they’re friendly, as you claim, then we won’t raise a hand against them. But if they’re not, if they try to kill me, I’ll be counting on you to back my play.”

  “Shoot them?”

  “You can club them to death for all I care. Just don’t let them do me in.”

  Nathaniel licked his lips, nervousness seizing him, and fidgeted. “I don’t know if I can,” he confessed.

  “Now is a hell of a time to turn Quaker on me.”

  “I’ve never shot anyone before.”

  “I know. You told me, remember? Well, nephew, as the saying goes, there’s a first time for everything,” Zeke said, and chuckled. He strolled toward the bank. “Now remember, if one of those rascals takes a bead on me, you can pretty much take it for granted he doesn’t have peaceful intentions.”

  “Uncle Zeke, let’s keep riding,” Nathaniel urged.

  “Another rule to remember is this, nephew. If you can’t avoid a fight, then be damn sure you get in the first lick. A word to the wise,” Zeke stated. He reached the bank and squatted down, facing to the east.

  Stunned at the likelihood of imminent violence, Nathaniel shuffled to the cedar trees and knelt in the soft grass to their rear. He fingered the Hawken and gulped. Despite the seasoned reasoning of his uncle, he couldn’t shake a gnawing, growing feeling of outright fear. Not fear for his personal safety, but fear over the inner consequences of slaying a fellow human being. He knew he wasn’t the most devoutly religious person on the continent, but his parents had raised him to attend church every week and to respect the Ten Commandments. And one of those commandments was as plain as the nose on his face: Thou shalt not kill.

  Not ever.

  So what would happen to his soul if he slew one of the three men, even if they were robbers or killers? What were the eternal consequences of violating the commandment not to take a life? His uncle had taken the lives of two men back in St. Louis and had hardly given the matter a second thought. And Tyler, the gambler, had been all too ready to take Clancy’s life on the field of honor. But they were grown men. They’d already made their peace with the world, or at least they had rated their priorities and adhered to their own personal code of conduct.

  But what about me? Nathaniel asked himself. He would be 20 in November. By Eastern standards he was already a man. By the values practiced on the frontier he was still a green kid, wet behind the ears. He’d already taken the first step toward manhood by asserting his independence. Over what mysterious threshold would killing another man take him? Did he automatically become a man by the standards of the West if he participated in bloodshed? Jim Bowie was widely considered to be a brave man, and yet what was he most noted for? Killing with his famous knife. Andrew Jackson had acquired a reputation as a fearless man. And how? By killing Creek and Seminole Indians in the South, and by killing the British at New Orleans. Killing one’s enemies, it seemed, constituted a badge of courage in the eyes of most men.

  But was it right?

  Nathaniel touched his pistols, working them up and down under his belt to ensure they were loose and ready to be used. His mouth felt extremely dry and he craved a sip of water.

  “Here they come!” Ezekiel suddenly called out.

  Startled, Nathaniel glanced to the east. Through the trees he glimpsed them in the distance, riding hard, approaching rapidly. Even at that range he recognized them as the same three hulking riders he had seen at Westport Landing, and a chill rippled down his spine. He promptly drew his pistols and placed them to his right, then flattened and extended the Hawken between the cedar trees.

  Ezekiel stood and cradled his rifle across his waist. He watched the trio draw ever nearer, his visage calm, his hands steady.

  How does he do it? Nathaniel marveled, and placed his right thumb on the hammer, his finger already lightly caressing the trigger. He heard the sound of hooves drumming on the hard earth, and the sound grew louder and louder. Then the cadence abruptly slackened off.

  The three riders had spotted Ezekiel. They immediately slowed to a walk, less than 100 yards from the stand of trees, and began conversing animatedly.

  Nathaniel pressed the Hawken to his shoulder and glued his eyes to the three scruffy men, breathing shallowly, his pulse quickening.

  After a brief discussion the trio advanced in a line with the largest man in the middle. All three carried rifles and had pistols stuck in their belts. All three appeared capable of giving a baby nightmares.

  Please let them be peaceful! Nathaniel thought, his abdomen tightening into a knot. When they were 20 yards from his uncle, so close that he could see the nostrils of th
e large man’s horse flare, he cocked his rifle.

  Displaying an attitude of complete unconcern, Ezekiel smiled and gave a little wave with his left hand. “Howdy, strangers!” he hailed them. “Am I pleased to see you.”

  Nathaniel saw the three men exchange glances, and the one on the right grinned slyly for a few seconds until he realized what he was doing and sobered. The grin was a bad omen. Nathaniel’s instincts told him that his uncle had been right, that the trio were up to no good, and he realized there would be violence without a doubt. The certainty shook him.

  “Hello, friend,” the large rider declared when the trio was 40 feet from Ezekiel. They approached to within two yards before stopping. All three were glancing every which way, as if they suspected a trap. “This is a bad land in which to be afoot.”

  “You’ve hit the nail on the head there, stranger,” Ezekiel agreed, just as friendly as a minister.

  “Where’s your horse?”

  “Wouldn’t you know it?” Zeke said and laughed. “My horse and my pack animal both lit out. I’d stopped for a rest and they were spooked by a damn snake.”

  The large man gazed into the densest section of the trees. “Are you alone, then?”

  “No,” Zeke replied. “My partner is out trying to round up the horses.”

  “Which way did your horses run?” the large man inquired.

  Ezekiel pointed to the west. “In the direction I want to go, but unfortunately without me in the saddle.” He laughed again. “I’m hoping you’ll be kind enough to lend my partner a hand. I hate to be standing about in Indian country.”

  “I know what you mean,” the large man agreed. “My name is Gant, by the way.”

  “My friends call me Zeke.”

  “Well, Zeke, we wouldn’t want to leave you alone in your time of need. My partner here, Madison, will head out and help your friend while we stay here in case any Indians should show up.” Gant nodded at the man on his left, who urged his animal past Zeke and rode off at a leisurely pace.