“How odd,” the New Englander said as the clatter of hooves receded. “Is your friend always so impetuous?”
“Shakespeare McNair is the most level-headed man you’ll meet this side of the grave,” Nate said. He would have liked to explain but dared not with so many river rats right there, listening. It wouldn’t do to antagonize them any more than they already were if they were to travel hundreds of miles together.
Porter abruptly cursed. “He never said whether he’d help me or not!”
“Ask him again when we reach his place,” Nate suggested, inwardly adding, “And pray to high heaven his wife is all right or your missing girl will be the very least of your worries.” Rummaging in a parfleche, he came across his tin cup. Steam rose from the coffee when he poured. The heady fragrance was unlike any he had ever smelled. “Delicious,” he remarked after taking a sip.
“A special Colombian brand I’m fond of,” Porter said, staring after the absent mountain man.
“You might as well sit and enjoy some,” Nate said. “First light will be here before you know it, and we have a heap of riding to do today.”
~*~
So did McNair. He drove his horse to limits that would have ruined most mounts, stopping for ten minutes every three hours and for half an hour every six. Sleep was banished, eclipsed by anxiety for his wife’s welfare.
Shakespeare was no greenhorn. He’d been most everywhere, seen most everything. Including the tempestuous melting pot known as St. Louis, a bustling city that reveled in satisfying the baser human urges, especially along the waterfront district where there were more taverns and bawdy houses than a man could visit in a month of Sundays.
Men who worked the river frequented those dives regularly. Lusty men these were, ready to fight at the drop of a hat, ready to make love on the whim of the moment. They honored no masters save themselves, bowed to no one for no reason.
On occasion mountain men visited St. Louis. Being for the most part as carnal as the river rats, they often wound up in riotous battles with the river men. In Shakespeare’s younger days he had been in a few brawls and learned the hard way that the boatmen were as wild and woolly as any Nature’s son who ever donned buckskins.
He tried not to dwell on their lusty side as he galloped madly to the southeast. He tried assuring himself Blue Water Woman was a full-grown female and could handle herself as well as any man. Yet in the end his mental assurances counted for naught. Worry nagged at him like a red-hot poker.
By dawn Shakespeare was exhausted, but he shook off a bout of drowsiness and pushed on.
By noon he was hungry enough to eat the proverbial bear but paid no heed to his stomach’s rumbling.
By evening both rider and mount were soaked with sweat and racing pell-mell without a conscious thought between them. Their minds had shut down. They were at the point where a weary body resigns itself to the inevitable and performs the motions mechanically.
Three days of this they endured. On the afternoon of the third day Shakespeare crested a ridge and spied the familiar outline of his home in the verdant valley below. He saw no movement, no sign of anyone.
Shakespeare flew down the slope and nearly lost his horse when it misjudged and stumbled in a rut. Righting itself, the animal took to the trail as if wings adorned its ankles. In no time they pounded up to the front of the cabin and Shakespeare jumped down before his mount stopped moving.
The door stood ajar. Within, silence reigned.
Cocking the Hawken on the fly, Shakespeare barreled inside. His worst fears were realized when he discovered the furniture in scattered disarray and household items littering the floor. “Oh, God!” he cried, then dashed back out into the sunlight.
“Blue Water Woman!”
The whispering wind mocked him.
Shakespeare bent low to examine the soil. Too much time had passed, and the jumble of old tracks only added to the difficulty. He moved in steadily widening circles, ascertaining where the four river men had been camped and where the pack animals had been tethered. He counted thirty, a surprising number. All loaded with goods for the trek, goods an enterprising river rat could sell in St. Louis or elsewhere for thousands of dollars.
“Porter, you’re a jackass,” Shakespeare said.
On the trail leading southward were the freshest prints. Shakespeare galloped after them, his heart heavy, his blood roaring for vengeance. He’d taken the trails so frequently, he knew every bend, every dip, from memory. No one else could have ridden as fast.
Shakespeare figured he would overtake the river rats in three or four days. So he was mystified when he beheld a column of smoke ahead and simultaneously electrified by the faint notes of a wavering scream. It could only be one person, he reasoned, and thundered on with bloodlust in his eyes.
Three
At the very moment that one mountain man bore madly down on those who had abducted his wife, another rode at the head of a column of men and horses listening to a smug New Englander justify his actions.
“Hetty and I were always close until that damned Oliver Davin came along,” Cyrus Porter declared. “He turned her against me, made my own flesh and blood see me as some kind of ogre.”
“The two of you didn’t cotton to one another?” Nate said idly. He had no real interest in their squabbles, but it was all Porter wanted to talk about. The man was downright fanatical on the subject.
“You must be joking!” Porter responded with a bitter, dry laugh. “What could the two of us possibly have in common? Davin was a nobody, a clerk my daughter met at a dry goods store, of all places.” Porter muttered under his breath. “She could have taken her pick from any eligible bachelor in Hartford, in the whole damned State, yet she picked someone who pushes pencils for a living!” He muttered some more. “I wouldn’t have minded half so much if Davin possessed a smidgen of blue blood.”
Nate decided then and there that he disliked the highborn Hartforder, immensely. The thought of spending months in Porter’s company was enough to sour him on the proposed trip.
The aggrieved father continued. “What Hetty sees in him, I will never know. Davin is so ordinary, he’s worthless. He’ll never amount to much, in my opinion.”
“In your opinion,” Nate deliberately emphasized.
Porter glanced around. “I don’t want you to misconstrue my attitude, Mr. King. I’m not one of those doting fathers who are unwilling to let go when it’s time for their brood to leave the nest. I would love for my Hestia to marry the right man and bring a whole flock of grandchildren into the world.”
Ordinarily Nate refrained from sticking his nose into others’ affairs. Among those who made their living by trapping, there was an unwritten Eleventh Commandment: “Thou shalt mind thy own business.” But in this instance Porter had brought the subject up and wouldn’t let it drop, so Nate commented, “Your daughter must believe this Davin is the right man.”
“Then she’s mistaken.”
“I see. Father knows best,” Nate said, an edge to his tone. Porter reminded him a lot of his own father, sparking memories better left to gather cobwebs in the inner recesses of his mind.
“In this case, yes,” the New Englander insisted. “I can look at the situation in a detached, logical manner, while dear Hestia is a victim of her immature heart. She let a handsome rascal sweep her off her feet when she would have been smart to wait for a man of more substance.”
Adam Clark, who rode a horse as listlessly as he did everything else, interjected, “I’m a man of substance but she didn’t want me.” He sniffed in indignation. “I wasn’t good enough for her.”
Porter clucked like a mother hen. “You were doing just fine, son, until Davin came along. After the drudgery he’s put her through, I’d wager my bottom dollar that she’ll greet you gladly. And with a bit of persuasion, maybe we can convince her to forsake that cad for you.”
Nate had to look away so they wouldn’t see his resentment. It rankled him that Porter had the gall to think he was b
etter qualified to pick Hetty’s husband than she was. He dropped the subject, though, so as not to antagonize his new acquaintances.
Twenty-five yards in front of the main body rode the Mexican, a rifle slanted across his thighs. His horse was a superb bay, its coat as sleek as glass. Man and mount moved as one, the horse prancing as if putting on a show.
“That Chavez sure can ride,” Nate said. “What?” Porter replied absently, then gazed ahead. “Oh. The greaser. Yes, he can. Fine rider, fine tracker. I get my money’s worth out of him.”
“He’s too much the loner for my tastes,” Adam Clark said. “He hardly ever talks to anyone.” Nate could understand why, given their sentiments and those of the clannish rivermen. Since the horses under his charge were being handled by a pair of the latter, he was free to apply his heels to the flanks of his stallion and overtake Chavez. “Mind some company?”
The tracker betrayed surprise but regained his composure and answered, “Not at all, señor.”
“The air back yonder is getting a mite whiffy,” Nate said, jerking a thumb at the column.
Chavez digested that awhile. “You do not like Señor Porter’s company?”
“Let’s just say I’d rather hug a polecat and let it go at that,” Nate said, grinning.
The Mexican did the same. “I think I like you, hombre. We have much in common.”
“Then why do you work for him?”
“Dinero, señor. Money. I need a lot of it before I can go home again, and he has agreed to pay me more than I could make in two or three years if I will go with him to this Oregon Country.”
“Seems to me a man can go home any time he wants,” Nate said. “Money ought not to be a factor.”
“It depends on one’s situation,” Chavez responded cryptically.
Nate didn’t press. He stared at the tracker’s rifle, a brand new Hall’s breechloader in .52 caliber. Indeed, all of Porter’s men had been armed with similar rifles, a contingency against hostiles. From a distance, at night, the long guns could readily be mistaken for lances, as Nate and Shakespeare had done. “Do all of you get to keep your rifles, too?”
“Those who stay with Señor Porter until his hija, his daughter, is found, yes.” Chavez pointed at Nate’s Hawken. “I have heard much of the Hawken brothers and their guns. Excellente, it is said. I hope you will let me fire yours sometime, and I will let you shoot mine.”
“You have a deal.”
A series of steep switchbacks required their full attention. Once at the bottom they reined up to observe the progress of the rest.
Chavez pushed back his sombrero and pulled a leather pouch from under his short embroidered jacket. “Care for a cigarillo, señor?”
“No thanks,” Nate replied. He waited while the tracker’s slim fingers adroitly handled the paper and tobacco. As Chavez took his first puff, Nate indicated the twin pistols. “Speaking of excellent guns, those pistols of yours are without a doubt the finest this coon has ever set eyes on.”
“A gift from a very special person,” Chavez said proudly, giving one an affectionate pat. “These are dueling pistols. English made, maple stocks with silver decoration, in .60 caliber.”
“May I handle one?” Nate asked.
Chavez hesitated, only a moment. He neatly plucked out the left-hand pistol, gave it a little flip to reverse his grip, and handed it over butt first.
Nate was a far cry from an expert but he knew an outstanding sidearm when he saw one. It was exquisitely crafted, with superior balance. A smoothbore, like his pair, but five times as expensive. The trigger was thinner and shorter than his by half.
The tracker noticed Nate’s puzzled features and stated, “It is called a hair trigger, señor. A tiny tap and the gun will fire.” He grinned. “After it is cocked, of course.”
“Of course,” Nate said, returning the pistol. The idea struck him that Caesar Chavez was probably slicker than hot grease with those guns. He tried to judge the man’s age but couldn’t. Chavez had the smooth skin of a man in his twenties yet his eyes were old and haunted.
By this time the main party had descended and Cyrus Porter came up. “I don’t pay you to smoke on my time,” he told the tracker. “I want you on point. There’s no telling when we might run into a pack of savages.”
“Yes, señor,” Chavez said, then trotted off.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about chancing upon a war party,” Nate said. “We’re in Crow country and they’re friendly. In a few more days we’ll be in Shoshone territory, and they’re even friendlier.”
“I was led to believe that the Blackfeet roam all over these mountains as they damn well please.”
“True, to a point—” Nate began.
“Then don’t tell me not to worry. I have too much at stake. If anything happens to me, what will become of sweet Hetty?”
Nate saw no need to point out that as far as they knew Hetty was alive and well. Any number of reasons could account for her absence from the Bear River region, and the whole expedition might well turn out to be a monumental waste of energy and money.
Adam Clark cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t mind meeting a few of these Blackfoot hooligans I’ve heard so much about.” He wagged his rifle. “I’d teach them to pester their betters.”
Sighing, Nate fell into step alongside them. More than ever he sorely missed his mentor’s company and hoped McNair had found Blue Water Woman safe and sound. A glance at the somber rivermen hinted otherwise.
~*~
Many miles eastward, Shakespeare McNair burst from the forest into a lush meadow and spotted the thirty heavily laden pack horses clustered at the far end, with others. The scream was repeated as he let his mount have its head. This time he realized it was a man, not a woman.
A number of Indians were gathered in a circle near the pack horses. Shakespeare recognized them as Flatheads, his wife’s people, some of whom turned as he pounded to a stop and leaped among them. Shouldering his way to the center, Shakespeare was vastly relieved to see his wife standing to one side. She uttered a joyful cry and sprang into his open arms, her warm breath fanning his neck.
“Husband,”’ she said softly in her precise English.
“Wife,”’ Shakespeare said huskily.
“I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
The Flatheads had fallen silent and stopped what they were doing. Shakespeare stepped back from Blue Water Woman and saw four rivermen bound hand and foot, on their knees, in a row.
A tall warrior wearing fine buckskins, his braided hair flecked with gray, smiled and beckoned with the bloody knife clutched in his right hand. “You have come just in time, Wolverine,” he said in the Flathead tongue, referring to McNair by the Flathead name McNair had earned. “We caught these whites mistreating Blue Water Woman and have decided to punish them.”
Lying on the ground in front of the first captive was a severed tongue. The river rat slumped, drooling more blood and spittle.
“This one,” the tall warrior said, tapping the man’s head and causing him to jump, “would not stop calling us foul names and insulting our mothers. Anyone who cannot control his tongue has no use for it.”
Shakespeare reverted to Flathead and asked his wife, “What happened? I know all about Porter paying you a visit and leaving these four to watch his horses. Take it from there.”
Blue Water Woman bobbed her chin at the quartet. “There is not much to tell. They behaved themselves until yesterday. Then they took me against my will and were stealing the pack animals when Buffalo Horn happened by.”
“We were out on the prairie, hunting buffalo,” the tall warrior said when she paused. “A dream told me to stop, so I did.”
“Thank you,” Shakespeare said hoarsely.
“They did not hurt me, husband,” Blue Water Woman said, “except for the one with no beard. He slapped me and tried to reach under my dress.”
“Did he now?” Shakespeare said. Without warning he drew a flintlock, wal
ked to the offender, and put a ball through the river rat’s head. The man barely so much as flinched when the shot rang out.
Immediately the two scoundrels as yet untouched cowered and pleaded in pidgin English mixed with liberal French for their lives.
“Please, monsieur! Je regrette! We meant no real harm. Comprenez-vous?” one wailed.
The members of the hunting party said nothing. Because it had been Shakespeare’s wife who had been abused, he had the right to seal the offenders’ fate as he so wished. He stalked to the next boatman and slowly unlimbered his other flintlock.
“Have mercy, monsieur!” pleaded this one. “I did not lay a finger on your wife! I swear, as God is my witness!”
“You can lie to Him in person if you want,” Shakespeare said coldly while lifting the pistol. He wasn’t deceived for a minute. The river rats were going to spare his wife until they were safely away; then they would have used her and disposed of her. They didn’t dare leave a single witness.
“What have I done?” the man protested.
“You broke the trust of the man who hired you. You stole. You kidnapped another man’s wife. Need I go on?”
“But I don’t deserve death! Please let us talk this over. Maybe we can be friends, non?”
“No,” Shakespeare said, and shot him, too. That left the man who had lost his tongue and one other. Shakespeare tucked both spent pistols under his belt and pulled his tomahawk. The object of his attention had marshaled some courage and squared his shoulders.
“Do your worst, pig of a trapper! I spit on you, your squaw, these filthy heathens, and the sow who gave birth to all of you!”
The man opened his mouth to add more insults, but Shakespeare’s arm flicked out and the flat side of the tomahawk struck the river rat on the temple, felling him on the spot. “Such bad manners,” Shakespeare said in the Flathead language, eliciting laughs from several of the warriors.
Blue Water Woman materialized at McNair’s elbow. “Don’t you think that you have done enough?”
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