The young trapper glanced from one to the other, then stepped to the water’s edge. He failed to see what all the fuss was about. The clerk who had sold him his rifle had spoken eloquently of the gun’s stopping power, saying that it could kill “any animal this side of the veil.” Buffalo, panthers, bears, it mattered not. One shot from his flintlock and they were as good as dead.
Shakespeare noticed the look on the greenhorn’s face, but said nothing. Cockiness, in his opinion, went hand in hand with youth.
Nate also noticed, and almost took Curry to task for doubting him. He held his tongue, though, since he had already given the youth a hard time once and didn’t want to make a habit of it. Removing his beaver hat, he ran a hand through his tousled hair and gave his head a vigorous shake. The wind felt cool on his neck.
“Say,” Tim Curry spoke up. “Why do you wear that feather? Is it because of your wife?”
“No.” Nate reached behind him and touched the feather. “This was given to me by a Cheyenne warrior named White Eagle as a token of his respect after a fight I had with some Kiowas.”
“Cheyennes. Kiowas. Shoshones. How do you keep them all straight?” Tim wondered.
“Irish. Scots. Italians. How do you keep them all straight?” Nate retorted. “All Indians aren’t the same. Get that through your head and spare yourself grief later on.”
“How so?”
“If you don’t learn to tell the Sioux from the Piegans or the Mandans from the Pawnees, your scalp is liable to wind up hanging from a coup stick or a lodge pole.” Nate hunkered down, cupped his left hand, and lowered his fingers into the chill water. He was lifting the hand to his lips when he spied a stake beside his left foot, buried so deep only the top showed. He swallowed, then said, “What have we here?”
Tim moved closer for a better look. “I don’t see anything,” he stated.
“This,” Nate said, brushing dirt and grass from around his find. “Strange that a trapper would go off and leave his stakes behind. Good ones can be used again and again.”
“Maybe he was in a hurry,” Tim suggested.
“Or maybe he was killed,” Shakespeare said. Nate had exposed the uppermost inch. He dug further, trying to find a chain. If the trap was still there, it meant the former owner had met an untimely end. Traps cost twelve to sixteen dollars apiece, depending on the kind, making them far too costly to be carelessly left behind. Not to mention that they were essential to a trapper’s livelihood. Without them a man couldn’t earn a cent.
Tim Curry had stepped to one side and was peering into the water. He abruptly cried out, “Look! I’d swear that’s a coffeepot!” And then he stepped into the water.
“No!” Nate and Shakespeare warned simultaneously, but they didn’t yell in time. The greenhorn suddenly arched his back and screamed in abject agony. As well he should. In his haste, Tim Curry had stepped on an abandoned trap.
Chapter Two
Nate King reached Curry in two long strides, sending a spray of water in all directions. He reached for the youth, but Curry doubled over and began hopping on one foot while trying to get at the trap clamped on the other. Spurting blood turned the stream a dusky crimson. “Hold still, dam you!” Nate said. “Let us help.”
Tim heard the words, but they were eclipsed by the incredible pain shooting up his leg. The pain was all he could think of. It obliterated conscious thought. He wanted to tear the trap off, but couldn’t get a grip on the slippery steel. The sight of the blood made him nauseous, but even that could not take his mind off the pain.
Shakespeare had started into the stream, then stopped so as not to get in Nate’s way. “Pull him out,” he directed, “or he might bleed to death before we can get him stitched up.”
Nodding, Nate swooped in close, looped an arm around the greenhorn’s waist, and bodily lifted Curry clear into the air. The young man thrashed and squealed, his fingers slapping ineffectually at the muddy trap. In his anguish he dropped his rifle, which would have sunk to the bottom had Nate not snatched it up.
“Set him here,” Shakespeare said, motioning at the bank and stepping backward to get out of the way. He could appreciate the young man’s torment, but he was more interested in the trap. All beaver traps were not the same. Some were small, some were quite large. Some were barely strong enough to hold an adult beaver, others strong enough to hold a bear—or a man. Some had razor-sharp teeth, others did not. He was relieved to see that the one fastened to Curry was not the toothed variety. However, it was a big one, five pounds or better, with enough force to crack a leg bone as if the bone was a mere twig.
Nate took a step toward shore and was brought up short by the heavy chain. He glanced down and saw that most of the chain still lay imbedded in the muck at the bottom. “Here,” he said to McNair, and tossed his mentor the rifle. Then, seizing hold of the chain, he wrenched to rip it loose, but in doing so he inadvertently caused the trap to bite deeper into Curry’s ankle and the greenhorn screamed louder than ever.
Nate was stymied. He didn’t dare set the young man down in the waist-deep water, nor could he reach the bank so long as the chain stayed buried. Bending, he gripped the slimy links closer to where they protruded from the mud, bunched his shoulders, and heaved. He could feel the mud loosening its grip, but before he could yank the chain completely loose he had to release his hold to deal with Curry, who was kicking and struggling in a frenzied panic. “Calm down,” Nate urged, without effect. He gave Curry a shake to get the greenhorn’s attention. Curry only struggled harder. Exasperated, Nate did the only thing he could think of to calm the youth. He slugged Tim Curry on the jaw.
The greenhorn went as limp as a sack of potatoes. Quickly Nate bent to the chain again. He had to gouge mud from several links before his handhold was adequate. Then, muscles rippling, he pulled until his face turned beet red and the veins in his neck bulged. The clinging mud was reluctant to give up its prize, but ever so slowly the chain slid free. Finally he had enough lose links to loop them around his wrist for extra purchase. Within a minute the battle was won, and Nate strode from the water and placed the unconscious youth at McNair s feet. “What do you think?”
Shakespeare knelt to inspect Curry’s leg. The knee-high moccasins had been sheared clean through on both sides, as had Curry’s socks. The jaws had bitten half an inch into his flesh, but a careful inspection showed that the bone wasn’t broken. “He was damned lucky,” Shakespeare remarked.
They carried the greenhorn to the clearing and propped him on his saddle. Nate got a fire going while Shakespeare filled a pot with water and cut strips from a blanket to use as bandages.
Curry didn’t revive until the fire was blazing. He groaned, then his eyes snapped wide and he sat up with a start. “What happened?” he blurted out, staring at his naked lower leg. “Now I remember!” He look at Nate. “You struck me!”
“It was either that or let you bleed to death.”
Tim Curry was about to give King a piece of his mind when a fresh wave of pain washed over him. He cried out and pressed his hands to his leg above the ankle. “Oh, Lord! It hurts!”
Shakespeare checked the pot to see if the water was boiling, then fixed a critical eye on the greenhorn. “If you intend to earn the respect of others out here, you can’t go around blubbering like you do.”
“You wouldn’t be saying that if it had been you the trap caught,” Tim responded. “I bet you’d be acting the same as I am.”
“In the first place,” Shakespeare said, “I know enough not to go traipsing into water near a trap stake. In the second place, I’ve been hurt far worse than you and as a general rule I didn’t blubber. Pain is part and parcel of life. Accept the truth of that and you won’t be so bothered by little accidents like this one.” He picked up one of the strips and dipped it in the bubbling water, mindful of his fingers.
“Little?” Tim grumbled. “I nearly lost my foot!”
“You didn’t even come close,” Shakespeare said. “Had it been a bear trap
, that would be a whole different story. We’d be cauterizing the stump right about now.”
Tim hugged his leg to his chest, appalled by the mental image of his foot being severed. “How was I to know a trap was there? Neither of you told me.”
Nate was in the act of changing from his wet leggings to a spare dry pair. He looked up and said, “We tried, but you walked out there too fast. You have to learn to look before you leap in these mountains, or one of these day you’ll be sorry.”
“Who would have thought stepping into a stream would be so dangerous?” Tim whined.
Shakespeare pulled the soaked strip out. “You just don’t get it, do you, young coon? Everything you do in the wilderness can be dangerous if you don’t pay attention. Something as simple as putting an edge on a knife could cause you to lose a finger if your hand slips. Or you might be loading your rifle and accidentally blow your head off. Or maybe you’ll go into the bushes to heed Nature’s call and forget to take a gun and a grizzly will spot you and decide you look right tasty.”
“Surely you exaggerate,” Tim said. “It can’t be as bad as all that.”
“I don’t blow about words when someone’s life is at stake,” Shakespeare said with rare irritation. “I’m trying to help you, you dunderhead, but your head is thicker than most.”
“I’d listen to him, Tim,” Nate threw in. “The only reason I’m alive today is because I took his advice to heart.” He stood, fully clothed again. “I know it goes against the grain to think you don’t know it all, but you don’t, hoss.”
Tim elected to say nothing. He was mildly upset with himself. He’d tagged along with them to learn, yet here he was giving them such a difficult time. What was the matter with him? Didn’t he have the brains God gave a turnip?
Shakespeare moved nearer holding an end of the strip in each hand. “This will smart some,” he announced. “You might want to bite down on a stick.”
“Do what you must,” Tim said, resolved to show them he wasn’t the pampered coward they thought he was. “I can handle it.” He gritted his teeth and tensed, prepared for the worst. Or so he thought. The scalding-hot material seemed to sear right through his skin and sent bolts of fire boiling up his leg. He involuntarily squawked, then choked it off by biting his lip.
“If you’d used the stick, Troilus,” Shakespeare casually remarked as he wound the strip around the gash, “your lip wouldn’t be bleeding.”
“What did you call me?” Tim grunted through clenched teeth.
“A character from one of old William S.’s plays,” Shakespeare said.
“Any reason you picked him?” Tim asked in order to take his mind off the discomfort.
“The two of you have a lot in common.”
“Such as?”
McNair finished looping the material and dipped a second bandage in the scalding water. “Troilus and you”—he paused to swirl the fabric before quoting—”are weaker than a woman’s tear, tamer than sleep, fonder than ignorance, less valiant than the virgin in the night, and as skilless as unpracticed infancy.”
“That’s an insult,” Tim huffed.
“It just means you have a lot of growing to do,” Shakespeare said, unruffled. “As do we all.”
Nate walked off to tether the horses. His mentor’s bluntness surprised him. Usually McNair was much more tactful in dealing with those unfortunate enough to be suffering from the lingering effects of civilized society. But he could understand why McNair wasn’t mincing words. Young Curry had to learn fast or he wouldn’t last out the season.
Every horse had to be tethered for the night. Trappers who failed to tie their animals invariably spent most of the next morning rounding up their stock. It wasn’t bad enough that horses strayed off on their own accord. Any loud noises, such as the caterwauling of panthers or the roars of grizzlies, might spook them into terrified flight. And there was always the constant threat of Indians, who accorded high honors to warriors brave enough to steal mounts right out from under the noses of their enemies. As a result of all these factors, the trappers had a popular saying: “It’s better to count ribs than tracks.” Which simply meant it was better to tie a horse and be able to count his ribs the next day instead of the tracks the animal made as it fled or was led away.
Nate took his time. When done, he strolled to the fire and sat down to enjoy a cup of steaming black coffee. Tim Curry lay on his back, resting, while McNair read from his book of Shakespeare. Overhead, the firmament was liberally sprinkled with sparkling stars. A strong breeze rustled the treetops and fanned the flames. Off in the distance an elk trumpeted. The tranquil setting brought a sigh of contentment to Nate’s lips.
“It looks as if Troilus will be laid up for a day or two,” Shakespeare announced. “One of us will have to set his traps for him.”
“I'll go out first,” Nate said, eager to venture abroad after so many days in the saddle.
“I’ll let you,” Shakespeare said. “It’ll give me a chance to catch up on my reading.”
“You’ve already read every play three times over.”
“I’m working on the fourth.”
Nate settled back, looking forward to a nice, restful night. He should have known better. For from the mountain slope across the stream came a guttural grunt that caused all the horses to prick their ears and some to fidget.
“I was hoping it hadn’t seen us,” Shakespeare said.
“What?” Tim asked, propping himself on his elbows. He’d heard similar grunts before, but had never been able to learn what made them. Wild pigs, he’d assumed. “What’s out there?”
“That grizzly we saw earlier.”
Tim sat up and placed a hand on his pistol. “Will it bother us, do you think?”
“There’s no predicting how grizzlies will behave,” Shakespeare said. “They’re some of the most cantankerous, fickle creatures in all of God’s creation. No two ever act the same. Some will run if they so much as catch a whiff of man scent. Others will go out of their way to hunt a man down.” He tossed a new log on the fire. “All we can do is hope this one has never gotten a taste of human flesh.”
“Why’s that?”
“Once they do, they can’t seem to get enough. Maybe we’re tastier than most other creatures. Or maybe we’re just easier to kill. Whatever, it’s a known fact that once a grizzly has filled its belly with human flesh, it craves more.”
Tim Curry suddenly felt more frail and vulnerable than he ever had before. In his condition he wouldn’t be able to run very far or very fast and would be easy prey for any predator. He stared at the gloomy wall of darkness ringing them and longed for daylight so nothing could sneak up on them unnoticed.
The grunt was repeated, only much closer. Nate took his Hawken and walked to the edge of the clearing nearest the stream. The brush on the far slope was so thick a man would be hard pressed to move through it without making noise, yet the huge grizzly didn’t break so much as a twig.
Nate went all the way to the bank and knelt, cocking the Hawken. Although he waited for ten minutes, the grizzly never gave its location away. He convinced himself the bear had opted to find game elsewhere and rose to return. It was then, in a thicket directly across from where he stood, that a bush shook as if with the ague. He crouched and tucked the stock to his right shoulder.
A vague shape materialized in the night, a massive form that blotted out the bush and the lower third of a sizeable pine tree. Nate wanted to fire, but held off because he couldn’t pinpoint the bear’s head and anything less than a fatal head shot would bring the monster down on him in a flash. The beast moved a few feet and Nate heard loud sniffing. A second later it turned and lumbered into the vegetation, making an exceptional amount of noise.
Nate followed its progress and determined that the bear was moving northward parallel to the stream. He hoped it would cross, since its silhouette against the lighter backdrop of the water might give him a reasonably clear shot. The grizzly plodded on, though, still creating a rack
et, almost as if it was deliberately stomping the underbrush for his benefit. Then, of a sudden, the forest fell silent.
Puzzled, Nate shifted position a few feet to the north. He remained motionless for minutes on end, until certain the grizzly had gone elsewhere. Lowering the hammer on the Hawken, he walked toward the fire, vastly relieved. But his relief was premature.
A tremendous splashing broke out in the vicinity of where Nate had last heard the bear. Spinning, he dashed to the stream and beheld an enormous shadow disappearing into the pines on his side of the stream. Instantly, Nate raced for the camp, shouting, “Shakespeare! It’s coming! It’s coming!”
Nate ran for all he was worth. He saw McNair leap erect, rifle at the ready. Tim Curry lifted a pistol, which was as useless against a grizzly as a slingshot. The horses had caught the bear’s strong scent and were rearing and kicking while neighing loud enough to rouse the dead. Nate went past them on the fly and stood by McNair. “See it yet?”
“Not hide nor hair,” Shakespeare replied, moving so they were back to back and could cover both sides of the clearing. “But I’ve heard him once or twice.”
A loud snap accented the statement. Nate concentrated on fir trees to the east, and observed several shake even though the wind had temporarily died. Flicking firelight danced on the limbs, lending the woods an ominous aspect. He thought he glimpsed a hairy mass moving slowly southward and deduced the beast was circling them. The fire was keeping the bear at bay for the time being, but might not do so for long.
Tim Curry glanced every which way, his arm shaking a little as he tried to hold the flintlock steady. “Where is the thing?” he whispered.
Nate was too busy trying to spot the bear to bother answering. McNair was equally occupied. The horses were becoming more and more frantic, apparently sensing the grizzly had drawn closer to them. Nate was worried that some might break free, so he took a few paces in their direction, thinking he should attempt to calm them down.
Tim Curry was a nervous wreck. He saw shaggy behemoths in every flickering play of light. The fact that neither of the mountain men had answered him only served to confirm his conviction the situation was desperate. So when another crisp snap shattered the nerve-racking stillness, he spun, thought he saw the bear peering at them from under a pine, and fired.
Wilderness Double Edition #10 Page 3
