Wilderness Double Edition #10

by David Robbins

  “Damn you, McNair!”

  “The horses. Now.”

  Pierce snapped commands and three mounts were promptly produced. Shakespeare had the greenhorn climb on first, then Two Humps. He moved the third animal, a stallion, next to the chief’s horse and swung up while keeping the barrel pointed at his hostage. Many warriors fingered weapons but none proved foolhardy.

  “We’ll ride out slowly,” Shakespeare said in both English and Crow. He walked the stallion alongside Two Humps until they were past the lodge circle. Looking back, he spied three boys talking to Pierce. Crow men were running every which way to fetch their war horses.

  “What now?” Tim Curry asked.

  “We ride like hell,” Shakespeare said, and had Two Humps do just that, keeping pace beside him. They were a quarter of a mile from the encampment when a horde of wrathful Crows poured out in hot-blooded pursuit.

  Chapter Eight

  Jacob Pierce was fit to be tied. Just when he thought he had proven to all the Crows that his medicine was greater than any man’s, and shown the few remaining doubters among them that his invincibility was beyond question the genuine article, Shakespeare McNair had turned the tables and made him out to have no medicine at all and the brains of a turnip to boot. By getting the better of him, McNair had demonstrated that he could be beaten, and it might give some of the warriors who opposed him the wrong ideas.

  So Pierce had one thing and one thing alone on his mind as he swept out of the village at the head of the ravening horde. He was going to kill the old mountain man in the most painful manner he could devise, and thereby show the Crows the fate of any who dared oppose him. By the time he was done, no warrior would dare think of crossing him.

  Far to the east were the fleeing figures of the three men. Pierce whipped his horse with his reins and drove his heels into its flanks to goad it to go faster. There were so many Crows behind him, the combined thundering of countless hoofs was almost deafening. He tried not to think of the result should his mount trip and go down before the unstoppable wave of horseflesh.

  And as if Pierce did not have enough to worry about, there was the report of the three boys who had been out shooting birds with bows. They claimed to have seen another white man in the vicinity of the village, a white man who had ridden westward after encountering them. Pierce had thanked them for the information, but had decided not to act on it until after the McNair affair was settled. First things first, as the saying went. Besides, a lone trapper was hardly cause for concern.

  As time passed and Pierce realized he wasn’t gaining on his quarry, his anger steadily mounted. He wanted to kick himself for not making the two trappers run the gauntlet sooner. Had he not seen fit to put on a grand performance for the Crows, he wouldn’t be in the fix he was in.

  Presently the trio entered heavy woodland. Pierce slowed when he came to the spot, and called for the best trackers to come forward. Five warriors were soon following the sign eastward as rapidly as they could, but not rapidly enough to suit Pierce. It soon became apparent McNair was as canny as an old fox. The trail led through thorny thickets and over the rockiest of ground, often doubling back on itself. Time and again the whole party had to sit and wait while the trackers scoured the ground for prints.

  Pierce chafed at the delays, but the thought of giving up and turning back never entered his head. He didn’t dare, not until McNair and the greenhorn were stone-cold dead. If either escaped and spread word of his activities, every trapper in the Rockies would be after his skin. He wouldn’t live out the month.

  The sun gradually dipped ever lower in the blue vault of sky and hovered above the pink horizon. Pierce grew correspondingly more anxious as twilight approached. The Crows wouldn’t ride at night, so unless McNair and company were caught soon, Pierce must resign himself to a fitful night spent sleeping on the ground and would have to resume the chase at first light. Neither prospect appealed to him.

  Just when the outlook seemed bleakest, he had a lucky break.

  ~*~

  A short while earlier, Shakespeare McNair had galloped down the slope of a ridge to the edge of a shelf. He fully expected to keep on going to the bottom of the low mountain he had crossed, but when he was yards shy of the rim he discovered to his chagrin that the shelf ended abruptly in a sheer drop-off over sixty feet high. At the bottom, buried in shadow, lay a murky lake.

  “There’s no way down!” Tim Curry wailed.

  “We’ll find one,” Shakespeare said, reining to the right and trotting along the rim. Several small rocks rolled out from under his mount’s hooves and plummeted over the precipice. So intent was he on locating a way of reaching the bottom that he didn’t notice the Crow come up on his right side.

  “Wolverine, there is a trail not far from here that will take you to the lake.”

  Shakespeare glanced at him. “Why tell me? You should want us dead after what I did.”

  Two Humps smiled. “A man who intends to shoot another man usually puts his finger on the trigger of his gun.”

  “Noticed, did you?”

  “I wanted to be ready to jump aside if you started to shoot. The others were all watching you, not your hand.” Two Humps paused. “You have great courage, white man. I hope you get away from the butcher who has led my people astray. Then they will see he is not as mighty as he claims.”

  A sudden thought made Shakespeare slow down. “Speaking of getting away, you have a son in need of your help. Swing wide of the village and head southwest until you reach the valley where your people first found Invincible One. Your boy should be somewhere in that area.”

  “You will permit me to ride off?”

  “I will chase you off if you delay any longer.”

  The Crow’s face betrayed baffled amazement, and something deeper. He leaned over to put a firm hand on McNair s shoulder. “From this moment on, we are brothers. Whatever I have is yours. You are welcome in my lodge any time, and your enemies are my enemies.”

  “Does that include Invincible One?”

  Two Humps never hesitated. “It does. I have held my tongue long enough. After I find Gray Badger, I will appeal to my people to cast Invincible One out. He might be bullet-proof, but he cannot stand up to all of us at once.” He lowered his arm. “May the Great Spirit permit your moccasins to make tracks in many snows.” With that, he tugged on his reins and galloped off into the timber.

  Tim Curry was quick to draw abreast of McNair. “Why the devil did you let that heathen go? Now what will we do if Pierce catches us?”

  “Fight.”

  The greenhorn muttered something.

  “What was that, young Troilus?”

  “My name is Curry,” Tim snapped, “and I said that I’m sick and tired of all you crazy mountaineers. Each and every one of you doesn’t care a whit whether you live or die.”

  “On the contrary, I wouldn’t have all these white hairs if I wasn’t extraordinarily fond of breathing,” Shakespeare disagreed. “But when a man’s back is to the wall, he has to give as good an account of himself as he can, not for posterity’s sake, mind you, but on his own behalf.”

  “What the hell are you raving about now?”

  “Dying, Tim.”

  “A gloomy subject, and one you talk about a lot.”

  “Only because out here dying is part and parcel of our lives each and every day,” Shakespeare said. “Until you come to terms with how you’re going to go out, you won’t be able to deal with the wilderness on its own terms.” He paused. “You came out here expecting paradise, and instead found that life in the raw demands hard work and constant attention. It’s not for the weak or the squeamish or those who’d rather spend their time strolling about in cities than in virgin forest.”

  “Are you saying I don’t fit in, that I might as well go on home?” Tim asked.

  “I’m saying ...” Shakespeare began, and froze when his gaze drifted to the ridge above them where scores of lances and rifles glittered dully in the fading sunlight.
“Damn my stupidity,” he said.

  Tim twisted, sucked in air. “Oh, God! We shouldn’t have slowed down! They have us now!”

  “Maybe they do,” Shakespeare said, facing the drop-off, “and maybe they don’t.” He reined up and rose as high as he could for a better view of the cliff. It was sheer, the aquamarine water below unmarked by the shadows of submerged boulders. “We just might make it.”

  “Make what?” Tim said. He saw where the older man was looking, and recoiled as if someone had just suggested that he shoot himself. “You’re crazier than I thought if you expect me to do what I think you expect me to do.”

  “It’s either that or let the Crows lift your hair.”

  “I can’t, I tell you!”

  A tremendous outcry erupted across the ridge as the Crows hefted their weapons and vented war whoops. With Jacob Pierce in the lead, they swarmed down the slope in bloodthirsty glee.

  “Oh, Lord!” Tim bawled.

  “Follow my lead,” Shakespeare said, turning his horse toward the onrushing Crows. He galloped twenty yards, then reined up in a spray of dust. Higher up, rifles popped, and bullets thudded into the nearby earth. Shakespeare wheeled his mount and galloped straight at the rim. The horse, accustomed to obeying without hesitation, was flailing air before it quite awakened to the peril in which he had placed it. Wind whipped Shakespeare’s hair as he pushed off from the animal’s broad back and fell free. He saw the surface of the lake growing larger and larger until it seemed to be the whole world, and then he hit, feet first, and cleaved into the water like a blade into flesh, sinking so fast he was completely enveloped in a frigid liquid cocoon in the span of mere heartbeats. The effect was like having a cold fist rammed into his gut, and he almost made a fatal blunder, almost opened his mouth to cry out.

  The horse had hit at the same time, the explosion of its impact like the blast of a cannon. Shakespeare saw it above him and to one side, kicking and straining to regain the surface. His momentum had slackened enough that he could do the same, so he drove his legs and arms in short, steady strokes to propel himself upward.

  Shakespeare marveled that his bones were still intact. The plunge had rendered the pistol useless but he held onto the gun anyway in case he found a use for it later. The murky depths gave way to lighter water with terrible slowness. His lungs began to ache, and it was all he could do not to gulp in water.

  Just when Shakespeare thought he might expire, his head broke through and he gratefully inhaled crisp fresh air. The horse was close by, swimming toward shore. From on high wafted the pop of rifles. Shakespeare glanced up, wondering if the greenhorn would have the gumption to make the jump, and a shadow fell across his upturned face.

  With a start, Shakespeare bent at the waist and dived, swimming frantically downward at a sharp angle. He hadn’t gone nearly far enough when a second explosion rocked the lake. An invisible hand buffeted him seconds before something more tangible slammed into his shoulder and sent him spinning out of control. He lost all sense of direction. When the spinning stopped, he looked around, trying to determine which way was up. He saw a human figure drifting limply toward him and swam to it. Draping an arm around the greenhorn’s chest, he rose to the surface a second time.

  Tim Curry came to life, sputtering and wheezing. He coughed in racking sobs and spat water. “Damn you!” he railed. “I nearly got killed!”

  “Hush!” Shakespeare warned, letting go. “Follow me. And don’t dawdle! We’re not out of the woods yet.” Instead of making for land, which both horses were now doing, he swam to the base of the precipice and hugged the wall.

  The greenhorn paddled up beside him. “What the hell are we doing this for? The shore is in the other direction.”

  “Keep your mouth shut and take a gander at the rim,” Shakespeare said softly.

  Tim looked, but saw nothing. He was about to wade into McNair for being the biggest fool in all of creation when over a dozen coppery faces appeared, scanning the lake for sign of them. Tim instantly pressed flush with the smooth rock surface and whispered, “Do you think they’ll spot us?”

  “Maybe not,” Shakespeare said. “We’re in the shadow of the cliff. If we’re lucky, they’ll figure we drowned.”

  Prominent among the faces was one crowned by a dark beaver hat and wreathed by a bushy beard.

  “There’s Pierce!” Tim whispered, terrified at the thought of falling into the renegade’s clutches again.

  “What I wouldn’t give for a rifle,” Shakespeare said.

  The Invincible One and the Crows were most persistent. For ten minutes or better they scoured the lake, only giving up when the setting sun brought darkling twilight to the wilderness. When they disappeared, Tim started to swim out from the cliff wall.

  “Not yet,” Shakespeare cautioned. “We’ll wait another five minutes to be on the safe side.” Treading water, Tim looked landward. “I don’t see the horses,” he commented. “What if they’ve gone on back to the village?”

  “Then we have a heap of walking to do. But I doubt they’ve gotten far. A fall like that would have rattled them so badly they’ll stay close for a spell.”

  “At least the savages are gone.”

  “Not far, they haven’t.”

  “What? Why not? Are they still looking for us?”

  “No. Some tribes, the Crows included, think it’s bad medicine to be traveling at night. They’ll make camp close by and head on back come daylight.”

  The answer brought home to Tim yet again how very little he knew of the wild and the ways of its inhabitants. Back in Maine he’d often roamed the woods and flattered himself that he was a competent woodsman. His trek westward had been illuminating in that it had demonstrated his ignorance far exceeded his knowledge. Where the Rockies were concerned, he was a virtual babe in the woods. He had grown to doubt the wisdom of his decision to become a free trapper, and thought longingly of the simple, safe life that was his for the asking in the States.

  From the forest across the lake wafted a feral shriek that echoed eerily off the cliff. Shakespeare paid it no mind, but Tim Curry glanced at the trees in alarm.

  “Was that a mountain lion?”

  “Bobcat.”

  “Are the horses in any danger?”

  “Not unless they’ve shrunk to the size of colts since we saw them last.”

  Quiet minutes went by, broken only by periodic gusts of wind and the lapping of water against rock. When Shakespeare was satisfied the Crows were long gone, he stroked toward shore at a point where thick brush sloped to the lake’s edge. By then a few stars had blossomed in the heavens and the water was as black as pitch.

  Tim tired swiftly. His drenched buckskins weighted him down as though they were made of lead and not deer hide. He was vastly thankful when his feet at long last brushed the gravel-strewn bottom. Panting heavily, he shuffled into the undergrowth and sank down beside the older man, who had squatted to wring water from his clothes.

  “Once we find the horses, we’ll head north, then swing westward until we reach the village.”

  Astonishment brought Tim up off the ground in a crouch. “I was wrong about you. You’re not crazy. You must want to die if you’re so all-fired eager to go back into the lion’s den.” He gestured irritably. “What could possibly be important enough to justify the risk? Our supplies? We can replace them. Our rifles and pistols? We’ll manage until we can buy others.”

  “I don’t care a lick about any of that stuff. It’s Nate King I’m thinking of,” Shakespeare answered, and rose to search the immediate area for their horses.

  “But he got away.”

  “And so have we, but Nate’s probably not aware of it. And Hamlet isn’t the kind to rest until he’s freed us. Even as we speak, he might be spying on the Crow village, waiting his chance to sneak on in. He’ll be endangering his life for no reason.” So we’re going to find him before he does.”

  “Maybe he saw us ride off.”

  “I can’t take it for granted he
did. That boy means too much to me.”

  “He’s a grown man, not a boy. He can take care of himself,” Tim commented. He didn’t like the idea of going anywhere near the Crow village no matter what the reason might be, and if not for the fact he’d be next to helpless on his own without provisions, he would have parted ways with McNair on the spot.

  Shakespeare faced the Easterner and replied gruffly, “Get one thing straight, Troilus. Nate King means more to me than you and all the other free trappers put together. I tend to regard him as the son I wish to hell I’d had, and I’d gladly throw my life down for him. He’d do the same for me, for both of us if it came down to it. He’s the best there is.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Forget it,” Shakespeare said, working hard to smother his vexation. The greenhorn’s whining and contrary attitude were getting to him, a sure sign he needed rest and recuperation. He walked into the woods, moving silently in order not to spook their mounts. Curry trailed along, and from the racket he made he was doing an outstanding job of stepping on every dry twig in their path.

  Movement off to the right drew Shakespeare’s interest. A large shape materialized, moving to intercept them. The dull plod of heavy hooves assured him it wasn’t a bear. He stopped until the horse halted in front of him, its head hanging. “There, there, feller,” Shakespeare said gently. He rubbed its neck and bent to examine its front legs. Neither were broken. Nor were the back ones. The rope reins dangled on the off side, and seconds later he had grabbed them and hooked a leg over the animal’s back.

  The greenhorn stood gazing forlornly up at him, the perfect picture of city-bred incompetence.

  “Here,” Shakespeare said, offering a hand. He pulled Curry on behind him, then turned and commenced a systematic hunt of the area around the lake for the other horse. After half an hour he had to concede the animal had strayed off or headed for the village.