Wilderness Giant Edition 4

by David Robbins

  Nate navigated by instinct. There was no moon, only starlight. The camp fire had burned so low that mere fingers of flames were all that remained. He sought movement, listened for sounds, seeking anything that would pinpoint his attacker’s whereabouts.

  All seemed quiet enough. The horses were undisturbed, some grazing, some dozing. And the expedition members still slept, still snored, their hump-shaped silhouettes a lighter shade against the inky backdrop of the night.

  Nate stopped in confusion. If an Indian had been responsible, the warrior would have stolen a few horses or dallied to slit the throats of some of the sleepers. Yet neither had happened. And it made no sense for Gaston to have hit him, since what could the riverman hope to gain?

  Abruptly, a shadow moved, detaching itself from the trees on the south side of the clearing and creeping toward the slumbering couple nearest the forest. In the shadow’s hand something shone palely.

  The truth shocked Nate into action. He had no time to retrieve the Hawken, no time to reload the wet pistols. Pulling his tomahawk, he bent low and stealthily hurried to intercept the shadow before it struck. He recognized the bulky form long before he saw the man’s features.

  Gaston stood over LeBeau, a knife clutched in his right hand. He glared at the younger man, then glanced at Hetty as if to assure himself she slept soundly. Raising the knife overhead, he tensed to plunge the blade into LeBeau’s chest. One stroke was all it would take, and then Gaston could whirl and dart into the trees before Hetty opened her eyes.

  Nate was six feet from the riverman when he made his move. “Gaston!” he roared, and charged, swinging the tomahawk in a tremendous downward arc that would have split Gaston’s head like a rotten melon had Gaston not spun and parried the blow with the knife. Nate backed up, swung again. Gaston skipped to one side and slashed at his wrist, but Nate was too fast for him.

  Pivoting, Nate drove the tomahawk at the over man’s chest. Again Gaston danced aside, his features contorted in hatred. Rumbling like a bear, Gaston flicked his long knife twice, trying to stab Nate in the torso. Nate swerved, felt the razor tip nick him, and rammed the flat of the tomahawk into the riverman’s head.

  Gaston was staggered but didn’t go down. He had the constitution of a bull and the temper to match. Mad now, he swung wildly.

  All around them shouts erupted. People were rushing toward them. But neither paid any attention. To suffer a lapse in concentration was a death warrant.

  Nate blocked a thrust at his throat, ducked under a swing aimed at his face, and lashed out at Gaston’s midsection. The riverman screeched in agony as his stomach was ripped open from hip to hip.

  Behind Nate there was a commotion, the sound of a scuffle, then the thud of a body hitting the ground. Nate dared not look. Gaston was still on his feet, still holding the knife. Uttering a feral cry, the riverman made a desperate leap, the gleam in his eyes the gleam of unbridled rage. Gaston was going to kill Nate with his dying breath if he could.

  Nate was ready for him. He had the tomahawk up to weird off any blows and could easily have sidestepped the over man’s clumsy attack. But apparently someone didn’t think so because an instant later a rifle cracked and Gaston was flung backward, a new hole in the center of his forehead. Gaston hit the ground hard and lay still.

  Slowly straightening, Nate turned. He thought he would see one of his family or Shakespeare or even LeBeau holding the smoking gun that had laid Gaston low, but to his astonishment the only one with a smoking rifle was Cyrus Porter.

  Winona and Zach hurried up, Winona with Evelyn in her arms. “Are you all right, husband?” she asked.

  “Did he hurt you, Pa?” Zach threw in.

  “Just a scratch,” Nate said mechanically, unable to make sense of Porter’s intervention.

  Shakespeare also walked over, his own Hawken in hand. “I tried staying up to see what would happen, but damned if I didn’t doze off. These old bones aren’t what they used to be.” He nodded at Porter. “Hard to believe he actually had the gumption to shoot someone.”

  “Yes, isn’t it?” Nate said. He noticed another of the rivermen unconscious nearby.

  “The rascal tried to help Gaston,” Shakespeare said. “I guess no one ever told him that heads weren’t made to be pounded on by rifle stocks.” LeBeau joined them, a pistol in one hand, a knife in the other. “What be happening here, mon ami?” he asked. “Why did you fight?”

  “Gaston was set to kill you,” Nate revealed. He turned to the body, then squatted. The knife Gaston had used lay in the damp grass at his feet and he picked it up.

  “But why would he try to kill Armand?” This from Hestia Davin. “I’ll admit they weren’t very close, but they were both rivermen. They shared a bond of sorts.”

  Nate slowly rose, the answer in his left hand. “He tried to make wolf meat of your man because your father offered him a lot of money to do just that.”

  A stunned silence greeted the revelation. All eyes fixed on Cyrus Porter, who stood as calmly unruffled as if he were back in Hartford at one of the exclusive clubs he patronized. “That’s perfectly absurd,” he said. “King must have been hit on the head during the altercation.”

  “I know what I’m talking about,” Nate said. Hestia stepped forward, an odd look about her. “You’ve made a monstrous accusation. I know my father is capable of many things—but murder? Do you have proof?”

  “I saw your father talking to Gaston earlier today, off in the woods where no one would see them,” Nate said.

  “So they talked?” Hetty challenged him. “That hardly constitutes proof.”

  Nate was surprised by her attitude. She was the last person he’d expect to defend her father. Evidently, as the old saw went, blood was thicker than water. Or maybe, in this case, it was simply a matter of her not wanting to believe her father guilty. “Gaston also talked about some sort of prize he was getting out of the expedition. I think he meant the large amount of money your father promised to pay him.”

  “Again, you’ve failed to show us definite proof,” Hetty said. “Perhaps you were wrong about Gaston trying to kill Armand. Perhaps you only thought he was, and attacked him without cause.”

  “Gaston meant to kill LeBeau, all right,” Nate insisted.

  LeBeau appeared skeptical himself. “How can you be certain?” he demanded.

  Nate held up the knife, a Kelawatset knife with the hilt carved from an elk horn and the crude blade fashioned from a sheet of metal no doubt obtained in trade from whites. Then he pointed at Gaston’s own knife, the knife Gaston had carried with him ever since leaving the Mississippi, clearly visible on the dead riverman’s hip. “Why do you think he bothered to take this knife from a dead Kelawatset? Why did he keep it hidden until just a few minutes ago? I’ll tell you why. He planned to kill you with it so the Kelawatsets would get the blame.”

  “Sounds reasonable to me,” Shakespeare said on Nate’s behalf. He believed every word but could see that the daughter still doubted.

  “I don’t know what to think,” Hetty said. Suddenly turning on her father, she said, “Tell me it isn’t so. Look me in the eyes and give me your solemn oath that you didn’t hire Gaston.”

  Porter shifted from one foot to the other. “I’ve already said the very idea is absurd. That ought to be enough.”

  “I need more,” Hetty said, stepping close to him and gripping his arm. “Please, father. For both our sakes. Swear before God that everything Nate King claims is wrong.”

  “The Bible says not to swear by the Lord’s name,” Porter said, “so I’ll do no such thing.”

  “Then swear by the memory of my mother,” Hetty said, “the kindest, most beautiful woman who ever lived.” She shook his arm. “Swear it, father, or so help me, I’ll never utter another word to you for as long as the two of us shall live.”

  Everyone there saw Cyrus Porter squirm, saw him lick his lips and avert his gaze. He opened and closed his mouth twice before he responded, and when he did reply, he stared at t
he ground, not at her face. “I swear by the memory of my sainted wife that I never did any such thing.”

  Hestia Davin went pale right before their eyes. Her arm dropped limply at her side and moisture filled her eyes. “Oh, father. How could you?” she said softly.

  Porter’s head snapped up. “What do you mean?” he asked. “I swore, just as you wanted me to.”

  “You did it,” Hetty said, each word laden with sorrow. “You really did it.”

  “Are you as insane as the rest of these barbarians?” Porter huffed, grabbing her wrist. “You asked me to swear and I did. What more do you want?”

  Hetty fixed her sad eyes on him and declared with unexpected vehemence, “I want you to shoot yourself. But kindly have the decency to go off by yourself when you do it to spare us from having to watch your crowning act of cowardice.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  Porter wasn’t the only one shocked by her request. LeBeau gaped, Shakespeare whistled, and Nate King looked in bewilderment at Winona, who stared solemnly at the younger woman.

  “I have never been more serious about anything in my life,” Hetty said, turning her back on Cyrus. “And those are the last words I will ever speak to you.”

  “Please, Hetty!” Porter said, trying to swing her around to face him. “Don’t act this way in front of everyone else. It’s childish and embarrassing.”

  Hetty jerked her wrist free and walked to LeBeau, who put his arm over her drooping shoulders. Together they walked toward the river, Hetty’s shoulders shaking ever so slightly.

  “Hestia Porter!” Porter snapped. “You come back here this instant! I won’t be treated this way, not by you or any other person.” He paused, his countenance showing a hint of panic as it began to sink in that she had meant every word. “I’m your father,” he said, trying another angle. “I helped raise you, damn it. I went for medicine when you were sick, at least once that I can recall. And I let your mother hold those silly parties on your birthdays. I think I’ve earned some respect!”

  Nate tossed the Kelawatset knife down and took Winona’s arm. He had seldom felt such revulsion toward another human being as he did toward the leader of their expedition. Walking off, he fell into step next to McNair and Blue Water Woman. Shakespeare, for once, had no comment to make, no quote to share.

  Porter wasn’t done trying. “Please, Hestia!” he called out forlornly. “You’re all I have left in this world. My sister died last year, and with your mother gone, the house feels so empty. Please come back with me, and I promise not to hold any of this against you.” He took a few steps after her. “Say you’ll come, and you can bring your riverman with you. He can stay in the servants’ quarters until we sort this affair out and you regain your senses.” There was a pregnant pause. “Please!”

  A pall fell over the camp, and even young Zach was affected. No one spoke unless spoken to. And everyone, without exception, shunned Cyrus Porter. Gaston was buried near the Columbia by his two surviving companions, and one other. When the pair began digging, LeBeau went over and took a turn working the shovel. No one said any words over the grave.

  The next day dawned gray and overcast. A drizzle fell as they ate breakfast and showed no sign of letting up as they loaded their packs and resumed their arduous trek. The tracker and the Nez Percé took the lead. But before they walked off, Two Humps stared at the sky, then at the river, then at them all and announced, “This day will be bad day.”

  Two hours of travel brought them to a hill from which they could see a long stretch of the river to the west. The Columbia widened, the current grew stronger. From the water marks left on the bordering rocks it was plain that there were pronounced high and low tides.

  “It’s a sign the ocean isn’t far off,” Shakespeare commented. He pointed at several sea gulls winging out over the water. “There’s another.

  Until noon they rode, and then McNair called a halt to rest the horses. They were on a narrow strip of land between the river and a formidable ridge, hemmed in by water and rock. There was grass, though, enough for their needs.

  Nate and Shakespeare were about to dismount when LeBeau and a riverman named Pierre trotted up.

  “We have trouble,” LeBeau told them.

  “What else is new?” Shakespeare said wearily. “What is it now?”

  “Francois and five of the horses are gone.” Nate rose in the stirrups to scan their back trail. Francois was the third remaining riverman, the same one who had tried to interfere the night before. “Where could he have gotten to? Surely he wouldn’t have gone off by himself, not out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  “We’ll go look for him,” LeBeau offered. Shakespeare shook his head. “No, you stay with your sweetheart. Pierre, you watch the rest of the horses. Nate and I will hunt for him. We shouldn’t be gone long.” He lifted his reins, then bent so only the two rivermen could hear. “If we’re not back in an hour, head for the Pacific just as fast as you can. Two Humps can lead you to Astoria. You’ll be safe there.”

  Nate verified that his Hawken was loaded, then followed McNair. He waved to his family, who appeared upset that he was going off. “I’ll be back soon,” he called out to reassure them, and then promptly wished he hadn’t. Knowing McNair as he did, they weren’t about to stop until Francois had been found, and there was no way of telling how long that would take.

  At a trot the two mountain men covered a quarter of a mile. They rode with their rifles braced on their thighs for ready use.

  Shakespeare half suspected the riverman of stealing the pack horses, a notion he dismissed because they were so far from civilization.

  Nate worried about hostiles, and felt sure Francois had fallen to them. The last time he’d seen the man, Francois had been riding last in the column. It would have been child’s play for enemy warriors to pounce on him and slit his throat before he could utter a sound.

  Almost half a mile from where they had left the expedition, they came to a point in the trail where it hooked around the bend of a towering cliff. Shakespeare was in the lead, and he heard the heavy beating of large wings first. Slowing to a walk, he leveled his Hawken and eased forward until he could see around the bend. The sight he beheld chilled him to the marrow even though he had witnessed similar atrocities many, many times.

  Nate pulled alongside his friend, then sharply drew rein and exclaimed bitterly, “Damn. I knew it. I just knew it.”

  Francois the riverman lay on his back in bare earth, his arms at right angles to his body, his legs bent at the knees. His chest bristled with arrows, so many it seemed as if he lay in a patch of river reeds. Both hands and both feet had been chopped off. His eyes had been cut out, his tongue chopped in half. And as if that had not been enough, his attackers had castrated him. Five ungainly black buzzards were feasting on his intestines, which they had pulled from his sliced abdomen.

  “One arrow would have been enough,” Nate commented bleakly.

  “It’s their way of saying they’re out for our blood,” Shakespeare said. “They won’t stop until every last one of us is dead.”

  “The Kelawatsets, you reckon?”

  “Or another tribe friendly to them.” Shakespeare turned the white mare. “Let’s get back to the others express.”

  “You don’t want to bury him?” Nate asked, although he had no such desire, himself.

  “What I want to do and what we need to do are two different things,” Shakespeare said. “The band that did this must be shadowing the expedition. With us gone they might think they’d have a better chance of wiping out the rest.”

  Nate hadn’t thought of that, and it left him cold inside. “Hurry, then. What are you sitting there jawing for?” He lashed his reins as McNair loped westward, hoping he wouldn’t hear gunshots before they got there. If his loved ones were rubbed out he didn’t know what he would do with himself. Probably avenge them as best he could before being killed himself.

  Shakespeare was upset, but for a different reason. Since
Cyrus Porter had crawled into a shell and wouldn’t speak to a soul, Shakespeare had become the man everyone else relied on. When decisions needed to be made, he made them. When anyone had a problem, they came to him. He was responsible for all their lives, and as such he should have kept a better watch and noticed the second Francois disappeared. Had he done so, the riverman might still be alive.

  The pair covered hundreds of yards. Nate glanced across the river, then to his left at a ridge. A tingle ran down his spine, for standing in plain sight, watching them, was a swarthy warrior. He blinked, and the man was gone. “Shakespeare!” he called out.

  “I saw him,” McNair replied. “Ride, son! Ride!”

  They flew now, riding recklessly. At times their horses were so close to the water’s edge that a single misstep would plunge them in. At other times the forest on their left closed in so close that a lurking foe could have stuck a knife into them as they flashed past.

  Nate felt more and more uneasy the farther they went. He swore unseen eyes were on them every foot of the way. His imagination got the better of him. Every bush hid a bloodthirsty warrior waiting to pounce; every tree hid two or three. His skin crawled and he tried looking in all directions at once in anticipation of being set upon.

  A large boulder with a deep cleft at the top appeared. It was a landmark Nate recollected seeing about a minute after he had waved to his family. Seeing it again cheered him, for it meant he would soon be reunited with them. Whatever danger awaited, they would face it together. He wouldn’t die alone, as Francois had.

  Then the arrows streaked out of the air, three of them having long shafts and barbed points. They thudded into the stallion, two above the front shoulder, the third into the ribs. Before Nate quite knew what had happened, his horse had died under him and pitched forward into a roll that could prove fatal to him if he were to be crushed underneath it. He threw himself clear a heartbeat before the stallion would have smashed down on him. Rolling on one shoulder, he pushed to his feet, the Hawken at his waist.