Wilderness Giant Edition 4

by David Robbins

  “But what of Hetty? After the horrors she’s been through, wouldn’t it be wiser to return as rapidly as we can? A trip to San Francisco would take four or five more months than it would take us to return to St. Louis from here. And there’s the added time needed for the ocean voyage.”

  Porter inspected his fingernails, then said coldly, “Do you want me to put in a good word for you with my daughter, or not?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “No buts, Adam. I will not tolerate opposition. For reasons unknown to you, I must continue westward. And I would be grateful if you never bring the subject up again.”

  Clark fell silent, but he was profoundly unhappy at the prospect of extending their trek any more than necessary. He fell into a sulk and sat with his chin in his hands watching the rest of their party approach.

  Cyrus Porter rose and went to his horse. From a saddlebag he took a small silver flask which he tipped to his lips. When he lowered it, Clark was watching intently.

  “I didn’t know you had that.”

  “Knowing your weakness, do you really think I would tell you?”

  The beat of hooves prefaced the arrival of Shakespeare McNair, who had pulled ahead of everyone else. The mountain man sprang from the saddle, stalked up to Porter, and seized him by the shirt before Porter quite knew what was what.

  “Here’s where I separate you from your teeth.”

  Sixteen

  Shakespeare McNair wasn’t a violent man by nature. When forced to defend his life he became fierce, but most of the time his level-headed disposition governed his actions. There were exceptions.

  When Shakespeare had caught up with the women and seen that all three of the pack animals his wife led were wounded, when he saw that two of those Winona handled had arrows sticking from them, when he saw two shafts imbedded in Winona’s cradleboard, he’d been seized by a rare fit of rage. He thought of how close the wives had come to losing their lives because of the New Englanders, and his fury mounted.

  Blue Water Woman had sensed his mood and commented, “We cannot blame them, husband. They are not used to life in the mountains.”

  “Mountains, hell!” Shakespeare spat. “It’s basic decency were talking about. They were thinking of their own hides first. That’s cowardly in any book.”

  “What will you do?” Blue Water Woman asked.

  Shakespeare himself hadn’t known until he saw the pair up ahead. His legs pumped of their own accord. He seemed to see Porter and Clark through a red haze, as it were, and he was off his horse and had his fist drawn back to smash Porter in the mouth when a shout stopped him cold.

  “Please, husband! No!”

  Blue Water Woman had followed him. She sat her tired horse wearily, eloquent appeal in her eyes.

  Shakespeare hesitated. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t?”

  “Because I am asking you not to.”

  Cyrus Porter, speechless with shock until this moment, found his voice and barked, “Here now, McNair! What is the meaning of this outrage!”

  Conflicting emotions tore at Shakespeare. He had never wanted to punch anyone as much as he wanted to punch Porter, yet by the same token he had never refused his wife before. She wasn’t a demanding woman and seldom asked a favor for herself. Which made the one she asked now all the more special. “Damn you!” Shakespeare roared, flinging Porter to the dirt. “Thank your lucky stars that my wife is more of a human being than you can ever hope to be!”

  “What the hell has gotten into you?” Porter responded. “What are you babbling about?”

  Shakespeare bent so their noses nearly touched. “You should have let the women go first!”

  “I—” Porter said, then paused, about to lie that he had merely wanted to ride at the head of the column where the head of the expedition should ride. Instead, he said the one thing that would deflate the mountain man’s rage, blurting it out by accident, not design. “I was scared,” he said softly, so softly the only one who heard was McNair.

  Shakespeare slowly straightened. Having the New Englander admit the truth was a jolt; he didn’t think Porter had that much honesty in his soul. “It takes backbone to confess to a mistake,” he said. “Just don’t let it happen again.”

  “I won’t,” Porter said. “I assure you.”

  Soon the bulk of the expedition arrived. At Shakespeare’s bidding, Zach rustled up enough scrub brush and tinder to make a fire. The wounded rivermen were examined, arrows removed. None of the wounds were life-threatening in themselves, but there was another danger Shakespeare attended to by taking the ramrod from his Hawken and heating an end in the fire.

  Gaston, who had taken an arrow in the fleshy part of his thigh, looked up as the mountaineer walked toward him, the end of the ramrod glowing cherry red. “What do you think you are doing, monsieur?” he asked.

  “I need to poke this into you,” Shakespeare said, wagging the ramrod.

  “Over my dead body.”

  “By then it will be too late and a terrible waste of time,” Shakespeare said, squatting. He held out his other hand, which held a thick stick. “You might want to bite on this to keep from screaming.”

  Gaston couldn’t take his eyes off that cherry-red metal. “I really would rather not,” he said. “The hole is a small one. It will heal on its own.”

  “It’s not the hole I’m thinking of. It’s the poison.”

  “Poison?” Gaston said, unconsciously biting his lower lip.

  “It’s not common knowledge in the States, but Indians sometimes dip their arrow points in rattlesnake venom or the livers of dead animals. About half of those who get shot by arrows die from infection instead of the wounds.”

  “Poison,” Gaston said again, staring at the exposed hole. He had cut his pants open with his knife when the shaft was removed.

  “Come to think of it,” Shakespeare went on, “we’re lucky the Shoshokos aren’t as devious as the Comanches and some other tribes. Those wicked devils attach the barbs to the shafts loosely, so the points will come off whenever someone tries to pull an arrow out. That way, if the arrows don’t get you, infection will.”

  Gaston picked up the bloody shaft lying beside him, his stomach feeling queasy. “Were these poisoned, do you think?”

  “I can’t say,” Shakespeare said, offering the stick again. “Do you want to take the chance they weren’t?”

  “No,” Gaston said.

  Others were gathering to observe. Young Zach didn’t understand why the riverman was so anxious. Shoshone warriors treated arrow wounds all the time much as Shakespeare was about to do, and they neither hesitated nor squawked.

  Adam Clark watched until the tip of the ramrod touched Gaston’s flesh and there was a loud hiss. Eyes bulging, he clasped a hand to his mouth and hurried away.

  One by one the rivermen were operated on. To their credit, not one cried out, although a man named Jonquiere nearly fainted as the burning metal seared into his body.

  The wounded horses were not so easily treated. Twelve had taken arrows, but only a sorrel had been hit in a vital organ. Lungs filled with blood, it would die a horrible, lingering death. That thought provoked Shakespeare into drawing a pistol and stepping to the animals head. It was on its side, wheezing like a bellows. He aimed, then checked his intent. Out of the corner of his eye he had noticed young Zach watching.

  “Zach, why don’t you put this animal out of its misery,” he suggested.

  The boy glanced up, swallowed, and said, “Me, Uncle Shakespeare?”

  “You’re the only member of this expedition called Zach as I recall.”

  “But why me?”

  “Ever done it before?”

  “Shot a stricken horse? No, sir.”

  “Then it’s about time you learned.” Shakespeare handed over the pistol. “Always try to make the first shot count. Miss, and the horse will suffer worse. You have to put the ball right in its brain.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I should wait for Pa—”


  “Art thou a man? Thy form cries out thou art,” Shakespeare quoted. “Your pa ain’t here, and you’re old enough to be doing man’s work when it needs to be done.”

  “Yes, sir.” Zach cocked the pistol and extended the barrel. He would show that he was capable of doing a man’s job, and do it well. Then the sorrel looked at him, and his resolve faltered. Those big, watery eyes fixed on him seemed to plead with him not to pull the trigger. Which was a ridiculous notion, when he thought about it. His imagination was to blame, giving horses credit for emotions they didn’t have.

  “Take your time if you need to,” Shakespeare said when the boy hesitated. He didn’t want to rush it and have the experience turn sour. It was a big step for a boy Zach’s age, one of many the boy must climb on the stairway to manhood. It had to be done just right.

  Zach became aware of his mother staring at him. She wore a hopeful look, as she had that time he went off with his pa on his first elk hunt. It was important to her that he shoot. He stroked the trigger gently, as his pa had taught him.

  At the retort, the sorrel stiffened, whinnied pitiably, blubbered blood, and died gasping.

  “You did fine,” Shakespeare said, taking the flintlock. “Right in the brain, like I told you.”

  The rest of the wounded horses had to be held down while the arrows were removed. Since there wasn’t a horse alive that would hold still for having a hot ramrod pushed into its body, Shakespeare improvised. He fed grains of black powder into each hole, then applied a lit stick to the grains. The horses bucked and squealed and near went crazy with pain, but they lived.

  It was late afternoon when riders appeared to the south. Winona saw them and moved to the edge of their camp. She had been watching since they stopped, her heart yearning for sight of the man she loved. She feared he had been slain by the Shoshokos, and she imagined him riddled with arrows, lying stiff in the dust of the plain.

  The four riders materializing out of the haze brought a smile to Winona’s lips. They were letting their mounts walk, the smart thing to do in such heat. Chavez’s horse limped. LeBeau sat awkwardly in the saddle, bending slightly forward as if there was pressure on his back. She guessed why before they were within earshot. Rather than wait, she bounded to meet them. Nate rode on ahead and left his saddle on the run. She gave a throaty purr of joy when he leaped into her arms.

  “I would have been here sooner,” Nate said in her ear, “but one of the horses sprained a leg running from the Diggers, and LeBeau is riding double.”

  “I am just glad you lived,” Winona said. She squeezed him as hard as she could.

  “I couldn’t let myself be rubbed out by Diggers,” Nate said lightheartedly. “The embarrassment would be more than I could stand.”

  Shakespeare McNair had seen Nate arrive. He was rubbing dirt on his hands to get off some of the blood, so he delayed going over to offer a welcome. It was well he did, or he might have said something that would have deprived him of seeing a bastard get his due.

  It started when Zach ran over and talked urgently, gesturing at Porter now and again. Nate’s features turned flinty. They turned even harder when Zach showed him the cradleboard with the two arrows still embedded in it.

  Then came the interesting part. Shakespeare saw Nate face Winona as they exchanged words. He knew what was coming next, knew Winona had to know, but she gave no indication of wanting to prevent Nate from doing it, the way Blue Water Woman had stopped him. To the contrary, she stroked his cheek and whispered something that made Nate’s anger deepen.

  As yet, Cyrus Porter and Adam Clark were unaware Nate King had returned. They were by the fire, their backs to the plain as they sat sipping coffee, so they hadn’t seen the four riders. And since Nate had dismounted far from camp, they hadn’t heard him, either.

  Cyrus Porter was lifting a tin cup to his mouth when Nate’s hand fell on his shoulder. He looked up, tried to say something, and was yanked to his feet as if he were weightless instead of a grown man. Porter dropped the cup, gripped Nate’s wrist, and tried to push Nate’s arm aside. He might as well have been trying to budge a tree.

  Nate punched Porter on the chin. The blow sent Porter stumbling into Clark, and they toppled together, limbs locked. Dazed though Porter was, he scrambled to his knees, then stupidly tried to draw a pistol.

  The fight was no contest. Nate clubbed Porter on the temple, and when the New Englander slumped, Nate grasped his wrist and bent it backward, eliciting a yelp and causing Porter to drop the gun. Porter swung wildly, but Nate blocked and slammed a fist into Porter’s face.

  By then Shakespeare was there. He was about to grab Nate to keep him from doing lasting damage when Adam Clark chose to rise to Porter’s aid. Clark pulled a pistol and rose directly into the path of Shakespeare’s fist. The younger man hit the ground flat on his back and didn’t move.

  Shakespeare turned to see Porter in a similar position. “Well, I reckon that will teach these two some manners,” he said. “It’s a shame no one ever taught them that ladies should always go first.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t get in a racket with them after what they did,” Nate said, looking from Porter to Clark in the hope one or both still had some fight left in them.

  “I wanted to,” Shakespeare said. “Blue Water Woman wouldn’t let me.” He rubbed the knuckles of his right hand. “It’s a sad state of affairs when a man can’t thrash someone who needs a licking because his wife is getting soft in her old age.” Shakespeare grinned. “Maybe you’d like to trade? An even swap, my wife for yours?”

  The fight had drawn all those able to walk. Brett Hughes took it on himself to revive Porter and Clark by splashing water on their faces. Porter sputtered, shook his bullish head, and rose primed to explode. He would have, too, if he hadn’t seen the three riders rein up. At sight of them all else was forgotten.

  “Hestia!” Porter shouted, and ran to LeBeau’s horse. He tried to lift the blonde woman down, then realized she was tied on, and snarled, “Hurry, man! Undo this rope so I can see how she is!”

  “She is not good, señor,” Chavez warned, coming around with a knife in hand. “The Indians ...” He let the statement trail off.

  The rope was cut, and Hestia Davin slid off into her father’s arms. Porter’s features underwent a remarkable transformation, from outrage to grief. His knees wobbled, but he carried her to the fire and laid her down gently. Tears rimmed his eyes as he cupped her dainty hand in his and said, “Dear, dear Hetty! What have those heathens done to you?”

  The lovely young woman stared blankly at the empty sky, showing no recognition of her father at all.

  “Talk to me, Hetty,” Porter pleaded. “Please. You can talk to me.”

  Nate stood to one side with his family. In one respect, that of a father, he felt sympathy for Porter. No parent should live to see their children suffer so. To Winona, he said quietly, “Is there anything you can do?”

  As was typical of Shoshone women, Winona had skill as a healer. As a girl, she had sat at her grandmother’s knee and learned about the curative properties of many plants and various herbs. “I have toza chips in my parfleche. I can make her a tea, but I do not know if it will help. Her hurt is more of the spirit than of the body.”

  “Do what you can,” Nate said.

  Porter was fussing over his daughter, smoothing her hair and moistening his fingertips to wipe off the grime caking her cheeks. “You haven’t washed in ages. And look at these clothes! Didn’t those savages have any sense of decency?” He moved a palm in front of her eyes, sparking no reaction. “God. Your mind is gone. They’ve made a vegetable of you.”

  Someone groaned, but it wasn’t Hestia. Adam Clark sat up, working his jaw back and forth, and declared in ignorance of those around him, “That old man is as strong as an ox.” He went to reach for the pistol lying next to him and woke up to the fact that he wasn’t alone. “What the—?” he said, then spied Hestia.

  “Noooo!” Clark wailed, scuttling on hand
s and knees to her side. His shoulder bumped Porter and almost spilled the older man in the dirt. “Oh, no, no, no!” he cried shrilly. Placing a hand on either cheek, he shook her vigorously.

  So swiftly had it happened that for a few seconds the spectators were too astounded to move. Nate and Shakespeare reached him at the same time and pulled him away from the woman.

  “Let go of me!” Clark rasped. “Can’t you see she needs me? Why won’t she speak? What is wrong?”

  “She can’t talk,” Shakespeare said.

  “Can’t?” Clark repeated, and looked at the woman in dawning horror. “But this isn’t the way it’s supposed to happen! She and I are going to be husband and wife. Her father promised me.”

  The disgust the mountain men felt was evident to all but the distraught greenhorn. Clark tried to break loose and was shoved onto his backside.

  “You stay put until we’ve tended her,” Shakespeare directed. “If you get up before I say so, this ox will smash you on the head again.”

  Zach King, like everyone else, had been watching Clark, amazed a grown man would blubber so. He looked back at the woman’s father, who had tears streaking his cheeks. Zach remembered his doubts about Porter’s affection and felt a twinge of guilt. The man did love her, after all.

  No one noticed LeBeau. The handsome riverman had moved around to where he could see the blonde woman’s face clearly, and he stood staring forlornly at her, his sadness, strangely enough, rivaling the father’s.

  Blue Water Woman appeared, holding a spare buckskin dress. “I will wash and dress her,” she told Shakespeare, “but not with all these men around. Can you ask them to turn around?”

  “I’ll do better than that,” her husband said, drawing a flintlock. Without ceremony he fired into the air, and when all eyes were on him, he bellowed, “All right, gentlemen. The ladies need privacy. So we’ll count our supplies to learn how much we’re missing and stake out the horses so they aren’t stolen in the middle of the night.”