Wilderness Giant Edition 4

by David Robbins

Zach stood to one side as the adults finished making plans. Three of them were to remain behind with his mother and Blue Water Woman to safeguard the horses while the rest crept to the camp. In the bustle and excitement, no one bothered much about him, and he was able to slip off with the men. He glanced back as darkness enfolded them and saw his mother looking all around. She’d be madder than a wet hen when she realized what he had done, but he needed to see it through.

  Fifty yards from the forts, the men halted. Shakespeare took half to form a ring around the sheltered inlet. Nate waited an ample interval, then those with him fanned out and, in military order, glided forward along the lake and then turned right, facing the camp. Zach figured out their strategy. If the Blackfeet wanted to do battle, his father’s men would have their backs protected by water. If the Blackfeet tried to escape through the woods, Shakespeare would stop them.

  Zach had stayed well back so his father wouldn’t spot him. As the line cautiously closed on the forts, he snuck next to the nearest man. The thought of being in a pitched battle made the nape of his neck prickle. His knees felt wobbly, and he had to breathe deeply to still the butterflies in his gut.

  The forts were quiet, the fire almost out. Zach tensed for the outcry sure to sound once the sentry discovered them. To his amazement, there was none, nor did anyone appear when Shakespeare bellowed in the Blackfoot tongue.

  “Ho! Blackfeet! You are surrounded! Come out with your hands empty! We will wipe you out if you do not hold your fire!”

  On Nate’s cue, the line halted. He moved to the foremost fort, careful to stay to one side. At the entrance he squatted and peeked inside.

  Zach gasped when his father went in. He dreaded hearing a shrill whoop and his pas death scream, but the night wind was all that disturbed the stillness. His father reappeared and smiled in relief.

  “There’s no one home!” Nate called.

  A thorough search confirmed that the Blackfeet were gone. Shakespeare and Chavez took torches and scoured the strip of ground between the forts and the forest. Everyone hustled over at their shout.

  Zach was no slouch at reading sign. He could tell that upwards of ten warriors had made off through the trees within the past few hours.

  “Eleven warriors, señor,” Chavez told Cyrus Porter. “Two limped and were helped by others.”

  “Were they wounded, you think?” Porter responded.

  Shakespeare answered. “That would be my guess. They must have been in a fight with someone else within the past day or two and were in no shape to tangle with a party the size of ours.” He chuckled. “A lucky break for us.”

  “Unless their village is close by,” Nate said. “Hundreds of them could be after our hair by tomorrow.”

  “Can’t be helped,” Shakespeare said. “Our animals are tuckered out. And since we can’t travel very fast at night anyway, we might as well rest up and head out before sunup.”

  “Drat,” Porter said, gazing at Black Bear Lake. “I was hoping to do some fishing before we pressed on. In St. Louis I purchased new tackle which I haven’t been able to try out yet.”

  Zach saw his father stare hard at the New Englander and wondered why until it occurred to him that Porter was supposed to be in a rip snorting hurry to find his daughter. How could the man think of wasting time when she might be in deadly danger? he asked himself.

  “Well, if that’s the way it has to be, so be it,” Porter went on. “Enough adventure for one evening. Let’s eat and turn in so we can leave early as Mr. McNair suggested.”

  The men broke up. Zach cradled his Hawken and turned to go, but a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. He gulped.

  “Hold on there, whippersnapper. Your Uncle Shakespeare wants a word with you.”

  Zach turned, grateful it wasn’t his pa.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Zachary. I truly am. I thought you were fonder of your head than this. I ought to tell your father and hand him the switch.”

  “Pa never beats me,” Zach said.

  “Ever wonder why?”

  “He doesn’t care to see me in tears, I reckon.” The mountain man sighed. “Thou hast the most unsavory similes,” he quoted, “and art indeed the most comparative, rascalliest, sweet young prince.” Lowering his arm, he walked slowly. “No, Zachary, that isn’t the reason. Your father doesn’t take a switch to you because his father took one to him more times than you could count if you started now and counted all night.”

  “Grandpa didn’t!” Zachary said, trying to cope with the image of his pa being so mistreated. “He never told me about it.”

  “And he won’t because that’s the kind of man he is. It’s important you know so you won’t hurt him by doing something like this again.”

  “How would I hurt him? I’d be the one shot.”

  “More of him anon. There is written in your brow, provost, honesty and constancy. If I read it not truly, my ancient skill beguiles me.” Shakespeare nudged Zach’s shoulder. “In other words, you’re not stupid so don’t pretend you are. You’d hurt him because he cares for you with all his heart, and it would pain him terribly to have to bury you.”

  Zach had no argument to offer. Chastised, he gnawed his lower lip as he sometimes did under stress, then said halfheartedly, “I was curious, is all.”

  “I can’t fault you for having an inquisitive nature,” Shakespeare said. “I was the same way when I was your age. Curiosity lured me from Maine to the Mississippi. And once I heard of the marvels to be seen in the Rockies, why, I had to go farther. I wouldn’t be here today if I wasn’t forever wondering about what lies over the next range.”

  “Then you understand.”

  “Yes, young coon, I do. But that doesn’t mean I approve. Take it from me. You must learn to control your curiosity.”

  “Did you ever?”

  “Eventually.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Forty-nine.”

  They shared a laugh which ended prematurely when a pair of long-haired apparitions swooped down on them from out of the night.

  “Here you are!” Winona declared, snagging Zach by a whang on his buckskins. “Come with me. Your father and I would like some words with you.”

  “And you!” Blue Water Woman scolded her husband. “You should know better than to encourage him when he misbehaves. Winona has been worried about him.”

  Zach heard his uncle protest, but Blue Water Woman gave him an earful. Which is exactly what Zach got on reaching the lean-to. He listened to his folks’ sincere warnings about needlessly risking his life, and when they were done and staring down at him, their hurt feelings as plain as the noses on their faces, he pleased them by saying, “I’m truly sorry. I won’t ever let it happen again.”

  “Good,” Nate said. “Well take you at your word, son. You’ve never lied to us before, and I know you won’t start now.”

  So with a clear conscience Zach partook of a steaming bowl of rabbit stew and settled in for the night. The many hours spent on horseback had tired him more than he anticipated, and within a very short while he was sound asleep. Vaguely, he overheard his folks discussing the next stage of the journey and got the impression his father was a bit worried.

  That was the last thought Zach had before being awakened by an uproar that startled him into leaping to his feet. Sluggish and dazed, he failed to remember where he was and cracked his head on the lean-to. The jolt brought him around. He moved into the open, rifle in hand, startled by the commotion, shouts, and whinnies.

  The horses were in a panic, this time with reason. The strip of forest bordering the string was ablaze, trees and brush crackling noisily as dancing tongues of flame consumed the growth. Zach saw men frantically untying animals to lead them to safety, and other men toting water to throw onto the fire before it could spread.

  Neither of Zach’s folks were anywhere around. He assumed they were helping out and ran to do the same. In his haste he nearly collided with someone hurrying several frightened pack horses along.
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  “Watch it, mocoso!” the man said gruffly in a thick accent.

  Zach recognized Gaston and recoiled a step.

  “Afraid, are you?” the riverman said, smirking. “As well you should be. Your father would be, too, if he knew me better.” Gaston flicked out a hand as if to playfully cuff Zach, but the blow was a hard one.

  Gritting his teeth, Zach refused to give the bully the satisfaction of seeing him in pain. He forced a smirk of his own and responded, “I’ll be sure to tell my pa. Maybe he’ll give you a taste of the medicine he gave you back at Ham’s Fork.”

  Gaston fingered the hilt of his knife. “There is nothing I would like more than to see him try, little one.”

  Further conversation was interrupted by more men hastening stock past. Gaston snickered and joined them.

  A cold wind seemed to blow down Zach’s spine. He shivered as he jogged closer to the heart of the bedlam. His father was there, helping LeBeau untie horses. There were few left. He assumed most had already been tended to when the two men from Hartford spoke.

  “How many have run off, Cyrus?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “We can’t afford to lose that many.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Porter said. “We’ll have to organize a search party at dawn.”

  “What if the Blackfeet show?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  A lone mare had straggled from the rest, overlooked in all the confusion. Zach spied it twenty yards down the lake and ran to fetch it. To his annoyance, the mare kicked up her heels and trotted another twenty yards when he was steps away from grabbing the lead rope dragging on the ground.

  “Hold still, dam you,” Zach said. He went slower this time so as not to scare her, but the mare took off again, going twice as far.

  Zach pursued. The light from the fire no longer penetrated the veil of gloom, and he moved in near total darkness. He could barely see the water ten feet to his right, while the pines to his left formed an inky wall.

  Slowing, Zach held out a hand and spoke softly to assure the mare he was harmless. She chomped at grass, as tame as a kitten until he reached for the rope. He was prepared, however, and leaped, grabbing hold. The mare tried to tear free but he held on, digging in his heels. She bobbed her head and swung her head, then apparently realized the futility of her effort and quit resisting.

  Zach stood with his back to the lake, rubbing her neck. He glanced over her shoulders and was taken aback to see something move in the woods. Thinking it was another horse, he kept quiet so it would wander over and be easy to snare. The thing in the woods stepped into a small clearing and paused to scour the vicinity. It had two legs.

  Zach ducked low so only his eyes were above the mare. He couldn’t imagine who would be skulking about while the camp was in turmoil and everyone was needed to lend a hand. He went to call out, to ask who it was, when he was bothered by the thought that it might be an Indian.

  The figure took several steps toward the lake, then abruptly wheeled and ran into the trees.

  Perplexed, Zach conducted the mare back. The fire still burned but had been contained to a small area. Men swatted flames with blankets, threw dirt, or tossed water at a frenzied rate. Among them were his father and Shakespeare. He would have joined them had his mother and Blue Water Woman not found him and told him to stay close to them.

  It took over an hour of strenuous labor before the fire was put out. The men were exhausted, their clothes smudged, their faces grimy.

  Zach smiled as his pa and McNair trudged over. “That was something!” he enthused. “You saved the whole forest from going up in smoke.”

  “Not thanks to whoever started it,” Shakespeare complained. “I’d like to get my hands on the varmint.”

  “It was set on purpose?” Zach marveled. “Who would be so addle pated?” Suddenly he recollected the figure in the pines, and he was set to tell them when a harsh cry rent the cool morning air.

  “Yonder! On that hill!”

  To the east, an orange band heralded the dawn. Under the band reared a hill barren at the top, and across the crest moved a small army of men.

  “Who are they?” Cyrus Porter wanted to know.

  “Who do you think?” Shakespeare said.

  Zach knew, all too well.

  They were Blackfeet.

  Eight

  Nate King was not one to bemoan bad fortune. While others cried out or gestured in alarm, he faced the New Englanders and said, “It’ll take the war party two hours to get here. Which gives us an hour to find our missing stock and another hour to be well on our way.”

  “Will an hour give us a big enough lead?” Porter asked.

  “It should,” Nate said. “They’re on foot, we have horses.”

  Porter wasn’t satisfied. He swung toward McNair. “Do you agree?”

  “I taught Horatio everything he knows. His words come out of my mouth.”

  “Let’s get cracking, then.”

  Leaning close to his mentor, Nate whispered, “You’ll take care of things at this end?”

  “We’ll be packed and ready.”

  “That’s not what I meant. If we’re not back—”

  “I’ll drag them off by their hair,” Shakespeare said, grinning at Winona and Zach, who were just a few yards away. “Promise.”

  Nate picked LeBeau and Chavez to go with him. A circuit of the bum area revealed that the horses had run off in two directions. Ten had gone southward, six eastward—toward the Blackfeet.

  “The smaller bunch first,” Nate said.

  At a gallop they sped through the woodland for over two miles. From a convenient bench they saw the horses grazing in a lush basin. Nate sent the tracker to one side, the riverman to the other. He took the direct route, walking the stallion so his companions would have time to get into position.

  The moment Nate showed himself, the horses fled. They’d tasted freedom and found it to their liking. In a compact mass they cantered across the basin, only to stop in confusion when Chavez and LeBeau hurtled from the brush. A sorrel cut to the right, launching into a gallop that would have insured its escape had Chavez not wheeled in close, whirling a long rope overhead.

  Nate had witnessed vaqueros at work on his visit to Santa Fe. Masters at la reata, they could do tricks that bordered on the miraculous. Chavez was in the same class. From thirty feet out, he threw a small loop, hard and fast, aiming ahead of the fleeing sorrel so that the horse ran into the noose and the rope fell around its neck in a smooth motion. Then, taking a quick turn of the reata around his saddle horn, Chavez snubbed the rope so the sorrel couldn’t pull it loose. His superb bay, trained for the job, dropped onto its haunches, anchoring the rope tight.

  The sorrel bucked and yanked but was helpless. Chavez let it weary itself, then took up the slack and brought the horse over. “Reminds me of my younger days, señor,” he remarked, smiling. “Days I dearly miss.”

  “You did this for a living, I gather,” Nate said as he shooed the runaways toward Black Bear Lake.

  “Si. South of Tucson. My three brothers and I worked hard to make our ranch a success. Our padre was very proud.” Chavez became melancholy. “Leaving them wets the hardest thing I have ever had to do. One day, soon, I will go back and take up my life where I left off.”

  The revelation sparked Nate to say, “Sounds to me as if you never should have left in the first place.”

  “Sometimes our decisions are made for us.” Chavez tilted back his sombrero. “I drifted to San Antonio de Bexar, and then north to St. Louis where a cousin lives. But the city did not agree with me. I was ready to leave when I saw a poster on a wall saying that Señor Porter wanted to hire a good tracker for high wages. So I applied. Just as soon as he pays me, I am off for Tucson.”

  “Your family should be happy to see you again.”

  A shadow flitted across the tracker’s face. “Perhaps. One can never tell.”

  Forty minutes had elap
sed when Nate placed the six horses in McNair’s keeping and turned to go. “Remember your promise,” he said.

  “Well take the river north. I’ll have a signal fire made each night.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. The Blackfeet have eyes too.” Nate gazed at his wife and son, who were busy packing and loading supplies. “I’ll find you on my own account.”

  “Keep your eyes skinned.”

  “Always.”

  The trail to the south lay along the lake shore. Where the lake ended, the hoofprints turned westward, into a long valley containing more antelope than Nate had ever seen in one place at one time. LeBeau was agog at the sight of hundreds upon hundreds of the sprightly animals bounding off with prodigious leaps. Chavez, accustomed to enormous herds of cattle, was unimpressed.

  The delay in catching the first six had given the larger bunch a considerable lead. Nate restlessly marked the ascent of the sun, and as the minutes combined into an hour and the hour became two, he grew increasingly anxious to catch the stock and rejoin his family and friends.

  They were almost to the end of the valley when their way was barred by a small herd of buffalo. Nate skirted to the north, crossed a dry wash, and discovered a notch that brought him out on the plain beyond. In the distance rose puffs of dust.

  “The caballos,” Chavez guessed.

  “Oui,” LeBeau said.

  At a brisk walk Nate pursued. Their mounts had already been ridden hard and had to be conserved. In due course he made out the shine of sweaty hips, then the full outline of the horses. The animals were tired, heads low, legs plodding. “They’ll stop at the next water,” he predicted. “We can take them without much fuss.”

  A line of cottonwoods marked the course of a stream. Scenting moisture, the runaways trotted to the bank, then drank greedily.

  The three men advanced in a line, each spaced twenty feet apart. The rambunctious horses were making so much noise drinking that none noticed.

  Nate had a rope in hand and slipped it over a big brown with no difficulty. Chavez and LeBeau followed suit. All went well, and soon nine of the ten were reclaimed. Nate moved toward the last, a gray gelding, and the horse lifted its dripping muzzle, snorted, and fled up the opposite bank.