Wilderness Giant Edition 4

by David Robbins

  The bull charged.

  LeBeau scrambled to his feet with the agility of a cat. He darted after his mount, which raced on across the valley. The pack animal LeBeau had been leading had stopped dead and resumed feeding, unaffected by the onrushing behemoth.

  When Nate saw the riverman go down, he flung the lead rope from him and wheeled the stallion. He had to cover more ground to reach LeBeau than the buffalo did but he made the attempt anyway.

  The bull wasn’t choosy about its target. Provoked by the rifle blast, it automatically went after the first thing it saw. And its eyesight being what it was, the bull went after the grazing pack horse.

  Not until the very last second did the horse lift its head. Nostrils flaring, eyes wide, it tried to flee, taking a long bound that would have carried it beyond the reach of an ordinary predator. The buffalo, being neither, overtook the horse in a twinkling and plowed into it with all the brutal force of a battering ram. Squealing and kicking, the horse slammed onto its side. Had it been able to rise quickly, it might yet have escaped. But its legs thrashed thin air, unable to find purchase. The bull, hooking downward, sank a horn into the soft underbelly of the horse and wrenched.

  Nate saw the animal’s innards spill out, listened to its whinny of anguish. As the bull gored again, Nate pulled alongside LeBeau and extended an arm. “Swing on!”

  Hearing the cry, the bull glanced up. Hooves flying, it came after them.

  “Hurry!” Nate urged, firming his leg muscles to bear the added weight as LeBeau jumped and caught hold. Gritting his teeth against the strain, Nate swung LeBeau up behind him, then lashed the stallion into a breakneck gallop. To his rear, ominous thunder rumbled. The bull was hot on their heels, snorting like a bellows, its driving hoofs throwing up clods of dirt in its wake.

  “Faster, mon ami!” LeBeau coaxed.

  Nate was going as fast as the stallion was capable of going. A backward look showed the buffalo fifteen feet behind them. Dark eyes blazing, horns bobbing with every stride, the monster gained bit by bit. Nate wished he had a quirt. Not thinking, he lashed the reins harder without result. It was no use.

  The bull drew closer and closer, and was on the verge of smashing into the stallion when the stallion’s greater stamina paid off. The bull tired and slowed ever so gradually.

  Encouraged but prudent, Nate sped on until he was at the end of the valley. The buffalo was moseying back toward its harem, its dignity appeased.

  LeBeau exhaled loudly. “You ride well, Monsieur King. Another few seconds and it be all over for us.”

  Rather than chide the man for firing, Nate said, “If that ever happens again, freeze until the buffalo loses interest. They seldom charge if they don’t see something move.”

  “I remember this also. Maybe I stick close to you, eh? I learn all there is to know about these beasts. Then I live long enough to see the Mississippi again.”

  Nate scanned the valley for the second pack horse, which apparently had run off during all the excitement. “We have to fetch the other one,” he said.

  “Maybe it will find its way back to camp without our help,” LeBeau said.

  “It’s dragging a rope,” Nate reminded him. “Liable to snag and strand the horse unless we find it.”

  LeBeau grinned. “Where you go, I go, non?”

  A large gray squirrel chattered at them as they rode into the forest and swung parallel to the timberline. When close to where the mountain buffalo were passing the afternoon, Nate swung wide to the west. He sought sign and soon picked up fresh hoofprints.

  The horse had been running, no doubt frightened by the gory death of its fellow. Through the pines and up into a ridge of aspens Nate rode. A jay squawked at them and a rabbit fled for dear life.

  “So many animals,” LeBeau said. “Everywhere one looks. Around St. Louis there are not so many anymore. Too many people. Kill them off.”

  Nate had seen the same happen in New York. As more and more immigrants flocked into the state, game grew scarcer and scarcer. Shakespeare claimed that one day the same would happen to the vast prairie and the sprawling mountains, but Nate regarded that as unlikely. Most Easterners hated the frontier, thought it too savage, too primitive. Thank God. So long as they had an attitude like that, Nate’s cherished mountains were safe.

  The aspens ended in firs. Here the trees were farther apart, the going easier. Nate avoided logs and boulders and reached a needle crest offering a magnificent panorama of the wilderness.

  “Magnifique,” LeBeau enthused. “I have no idea! This is almost as beautiful as Lady River.”

  “Almost?”

  “All right. As beautiful.” LeBeau shook his head in wonder. “I think I see why you live here, my friend. I think I see that you trappers not as crazy as we rivermen like to think.”

  They sat for a while admiring the spectacle. Nate would have liked for Winona and Zach to share the experience. Thinking of them made him eager to find the missing horse, so he climbed higher.

  LeBeau took a deep breath. “The air up here is so fresh, so pure. Makes a man dizzy, like good wine.” He chuckled. “My friends hear me talk like this, they want to throw me in a river so I come to my senses.”

  “What sort of work did you do in St. Louis?”

  “You mean on the Mississippi,” LeBeau corrected. “Anything and everything. I start when twelve, swabbing decks, empty pots. Then work my way up to riverboat, to steamboat. The work is hard, the pay low, the life, it is grand.”

  “Sounds like mine,” Nate said. “We have more in common than I figured.”

  Off to the left something moved. Nate reined up, ready to employ the Hawken. He spotted the missing horse trying to sneak back around them. “Tricky devil,” he muttered, trotting to intercept the animal. The horse nickered, then fled, able to outdistance them handily until, without warning, it drew up short and nearly lost its footing.

  “What happened?” LeBeau asked.

  “The rope,” Nate said.

  It had caught in the fork of a small pine and looped tight. The escape artist was doing its best to tear loose, but the rope was too strong.

  Nate stopped and watched the animal’s antics. He waited for the animal to tire, then dismounted and untied the lead.

  “All this trouble over a pesky cheval,” LeBeau muttered. “Steamboats never run off on you.”

  “And steamboats can’t keep you warm on a cold winter’s day, or let you scratch them behind the ears or give a listen when you have no one else to talk to.”

  “Touché.”

  Nate remounted, tugged, and almost lost his balance when the pack horse refused to budge. “This crock head is lucky I’m not an Apache,” he remarked.

  “Why?”

  “Apaches eat contrary horses.”

  “You would never catch me eating one.”

  “You’d be surprised. If you’re hungry enough, you’ll eat practically anything. Take my word for it. I know.”

  “You have eaten horse meat?”

  “Several times. I’ve had rattler on occasion. And dog more times than you can count.”

  “How horrible,” LeBeau said. “I would rather eat my own foot than a harmless little chien.”

  “Most Indians consider dog a real treat. What you would call a delicacy back in the States. Except the Comanches, of course. To them eating a dog is the same as eating your own mother.”

  “Your wife’s people. They are …?”

  “Shoshones.”

  “Do they eat dog?”

  “All the time. The plumper, the better.”

  “I think I will pass on supper tonight.”

  Grinning, Nate rode next to the stubborn pack horse, leaned down, and struck it a resounding blow on the head with the Hawken. The startled horse staggered a few feet, and while it was disoriented Nate hauled hard on the rope and descended.

  As before, Nate avoided the buffalo. In due course they had left the valley far behind and were striking off across the bottomland. The day was
warm, a sluggish breeze stirring the waist-high grass.

  The pack horse behaved. Nate rode slowly so as not to tire the stallion. A man never knew when an emergency might require a sudden getaway, so it was best to conserve a mount’s strength.

  Nate estimated they had half a mile to cover when he heard something that sent a tingle of apprehension down his spine.

  The mountains rang with gunfire.

  Six

  Shakespeare McNair had looked forward to the stop at Ham’s Fork. He would be spared Porter’s ceaseless chatter and have time to spend alone with his wife and the Kings. He counted on enjoying some peace and quiet, not on the fool New Englanders traipsing barefoot over prime rattler breeding ground, nor on a pair of pack animals deciding the grass was greener elsewhere. But it was the antics of the rivermen that proved most troublesome.

  Nate and LeBeau had gone off after the strays. Porter and Clark were sipping coffee, seated in folding chairs brought along so Porter wouldn’t have to “soil expensive clothes with common dirt.” Chavez was cleaning his pistols, a task he did every day whether the flintlocks needed cleaning or not. Blue Water Woman, Winona, and Zach were munching pemmican in front of a lean-to Nate had built.

  For the moment all was tranquil. Shakespeare moseyed toward his wife, his stomach growling, and happened to notice Brett Hughes watching him. Of the entire party, Hughes was the one man Shakespeare had yet to talk to. And now that he thought about it, Shakespeare would have sworn that Hughes had deliberately been avoiding him. Why this should be, Shakespeare had no idea.

  The next moment bedlam erupted.

  East of the campsite a tremendous din heralded the appearance of scores of frightened antelope. The herd was being chased by a pack of wolves, and on reaching the bank, the antelope plunged in. Poor swimmers, many floundered, the young and the old having difficulty keeping up with the rest. The wolf pack halted at the water’s edge. Averse to water, they padded back and forth, yipping and howling in frustration.

  All this happened within fifty yards of where Shakespeare stood. The animals were so preoccupied that neither the antelope nor the wolves realized there were humans close by.

  Shakespeare was content to watch. He’d witnessed many similar tableaus, part of the constant struggle for survival in the wild.

  To the rivermen, the drama was novel, more so because one of them saw a way of obtaining meat for the cooking pots and took off lickety-split toward the spot, shouting to his fellows to follow his lead.

  They dashed past McNair before Shakespeare quite surmised what they were about. “No!” he shouted after them. “Don’t!” But they wouldn’t heed. Hunger and circumstance had combined to override caution.

  The boatmen fired on the run. At the first ragged volley only one antelope keeled over. The wolves melted away, gray streaks blending into the undergrowth.

  “Stop shooting!” Shakespeare bellowed in vain, running.

  The excited rivermen fired rapidly, at random, more missing than scoring but enough scoring to fell more than a dozen antelope. In the river, the adults had gained the far shore while the small ones and the aged struggled.

  “Damn it all, stop!” Shakespeare ordered, frowning as the blasts echoed off the surrounding mountains. He caught up with a straggler and batted the man’s rifle down. “No!”

  The man glared at him, not comprehending.

  “The shots can be heard for miles!” Shakespeare explained, racing on. He passed two more who were reloading. “No more firing!”

  At the bank five of the river rats were shooting just as fast as they could reload and aim. Shakespeare pushed through them and whirled. “That’s enough! You’ve done enough harm already!”

  Confused by the intervention, the five looked at one another. A stocky man who had a habit of swaggering when he walked gestured impatiently. “Out of our way, old one. Tonight we will have a feast fit for a king!”

  Shakespeare grabbed the man’s rifle to prevent the barrel from rising. “Didn’t you hear me?”

  “Gaston doesn’t like being manhandled,” the man snapped. He tried to jerk the rifle loose.

  “Listen to the echoes,” Shakespeare said. “The sound will carry into all the neighboring valleys.”

  “So?” Gaston challenged.

  “So think of all the Indians who might hear.”

  “I’m not scared of miserable Injuns,” Gaston declared. “Now let go of my gun or else.”

  Shakespeare purposely held on. During the journey from his cabin he’d been afforded ample opportunity to study the expedition members, to note how well they worked together, to decide which were reliable and which weren’t. Of the lot, Gaston was the most hotheaded, the one most likely to take offense when none was intended, and the one least respectful of authority. Shakespeare had foreseen an eventual clash. This, he figured, was as good a time as any to put the man in his place.

  Gaston tried again to yank the rifle from the trapper’s grasp. “I don’t warn a man twice,” he said. Shifting, he kicked, driving his foot at McNair’s belly.

  Shakespeare pivoted, snatched the riverman’s ankle, and surged upward. Gaston slammed onto his back, losing his hold on the rifle, and lay there, wincing. “Had enough?” Shakespeare asked.

  “You joke, old man.”

  A snap kick caught Shakespeare on the shin and doubled him over. His shirt was gripped, and the next he knew he sailed head over heels to crash onto his side. He regained his feet to find Gaston crouched and waiting, a glittering dagger held low to thrust.

  “Now I gut you, pig!”

  The other rivermen had backed off to give them room to fight. Shakespeare dropped his Hawken and slipped his knife free of its sheath. “It’ll take more than you to put me under,” he announced.

  “We shall see.”

  Gaston took a step, but only one. He changed to stone when a loud metallic click warned him someone else had a stake in the outcome.

  Blue Water Woman had her own Hawken leveled. In a cold tone she said, “Cut my husband and the wolves will have something other than antelope meat to feed on tonight.”

  Whether Gaston would have called her bluff was never resolved, for with a drumming of hooves Nate King arrived on the scene and launched himself from the back of the stallion. His shoulder hit Gaston flush in the chest and they both went down, Nate to pounce on the boatman and punch in a flurry. Gaston, caught unawares and dazed, could do no more than feebly raise an arm to protect himself.

  A skinny onlooking riverman took a step and was taking a bead when a friendly but stem admonition stopped him.

  “Non, mon ami,” LeBeau said. “This is their affair. Gaston, he is a grown man, yes?”

  Nate blocked a blow to the groin, then delivered a pair of punches that would have shattered a plank of wood. Gaston slumped, blood seeping from a corner of his mouth. Mad as hell, Nate cocked his arm to jab but a hand seized his wrist.

  “That’s enough, Horatio,” Shakespeare said softly.

  “I should beat him senseless.”

  “If anyone has earned that privilege, it’s me. And I don’t beat a man when he’s down.” Shakespeare hauled his friend erect. He was touched that Nate had leaped to his defense but disappointed by the interference since it had left the issue unresolved and Gaston would probably act up again later on. He didn’t mention this to Nate.

  Cyrus Porter was a study in outrage. Chest puffed out, jowls quivering, he loomed over the prone riverman and shook a thick finger. “How dare you, sir! I hired Mr. McNair to guide us, and it behooves us one and all to heed him when he gives advice. If this were the Navy, I’d have you flogged.”

  It was doubtful Gaston heard. Groaning lightly, eyelids fluttering, he tried to rise but couldn’t.

  “What do you have to say for yourself, mister?” Porter went on.

  Gaston slowly recovered. Placing a hand on his jaw, he sat up and stared at McNair.

  “Did you hear me?” Porter demanded. “I want an explanation for your outrageo
us conduct.”

  “I have nothing to say,” Gaston grumbled.

  “You damned well better or I’ll have you sent packing,” Porter threatened. “I will not tolerate insubordination on this expedition, either toward myself or anyone in my employ.”

  Shakespeare scanned the rivermen. From their expressions he gathered that some sided with Gaston. Casting the troublemaker out would create a rift with potentially dire consequences. “I say we let bygones be bygones,” he proposed. “Gaston is used to life on the Mississippi, not the wilderness. He didn’t know he was making a mistake.”

  “I don’t know,” Porter said uncertainly.

  “Let’s leave it up to him.” Shakespeare stared at the riverman. “What will it be? Do you behave yourself and go on with us, or do you saddle a horse and head back all by your lonesome?”

  “A lone man would not have much chance of making it across the prairie,” Gaston said.

  “He might if he knew how to live off the land. Do you know how?”

  “You know I don’t.”

  “Not much of a decision, then, is it?” Shakespeare remarked, and was given a withering look of such burning hatred that he knew Gaston wasn’t the only man who had made a mistake that day.

  “I will go with you,” Gaston told his employer. “And from here on out I promise to watch what I do and say very carefully.”

  “Apology accepted,” Porter said.

  Several of the boatmen helped Gaston stand. Shakespeare picked up his Hawken, and as he did he saw Brett Hughes beaming like a kid who had just been given a new horse for his birthday. Hughes then glanced guiltily around and moved off. How strange, Shakespeare mused.

  The rivermen spent the remainder of the afternoon and long after the sun had set dragging antelope from the river and carving up the carcasses under Shakespeare’s direction. He showed them the best way; how to slit the hide open down the back of each hind leg, then to cut a straight line down the middle of the belly to the chin and slice up the inside of the front legs. Once done, peeling the hide was accomplished by cutting ligaments and muscles as the hide was rolled back like a worn stocking.