Wilderness Double Edition #10

by David Robbins

  A small Crow detached himself from the throng and walked over. Nate glanced at Gray Badger, tapped the steel, and signed, “So much for the Invincible One.”

  “He will never rise again?”

  “Not in this life.”

  “No one will miss him. His medicine was as bad as his heart. What good can be said about a man like him?”

  “In the end, he got what he deserved.”

  Epilogue

  It was one week later that Nate King, Shakespeare McNair, and Tim Curry rode from the Crow village with all their horses and their possessions intact. McNair and Curry had shown up the day after the death of the Invincible One, after Shakespeare had spotted Nate strolling about the village as if he owned the place. And in a sense, Nate did.

  The Crows could not apologize often enough to suit them. They did their best to accord him all hospitality, and assured him again and again that they were staunch friends of the trappers and the Shoshones.

  To make matters perfect, on the second evening after the fight, Two Humps rode in from the south, dejected because he had failed to find his son. The reunion brought tears to many an eye. And with Pierce’s deceit proven, Two Humps s public esteem rose higher than ever.

  Now, with the sun shining down on the verdant countryside, Nate reined up on a hill for a last look at the village. “I suppose it was all worthwhile in the end,” he commented.

  “If nothing else, we’ve shown those Crows that not all whites are no-account, murdering sons of bitches,” Shakespeare said.

  “This nightmare has taught me something as well,” Tim Curry said. “I hope you won’t be upset, but I plan to head on back to the States and take up where I left off in Maine. There’s a nice, safe job waiting for me there, and I can take a walk in the woods whenever I want without having to worry about being parted from my hair.”

  Shakespeare chuckled. “Do you mean to tell us you’d give up all the excitement of wilderness living for a plain, safe, civilized life?”

  “Do you hold it against me?”

  “Not at all, young Troilus.” Shakespeare patted his parfleche. “If there’s one thing old William S. has taught me, it’s this.” He paused to sort through his memory. “This above all, to thine own self be true.”

  WILDERNESS 20

  WOLF PACK

  One

  Jeremiah Sawyer had lived in the Rocky Mountains for over five years. He knew them as well as he knew the palms of his hands. The ways of the wild beasts, the ways of the various Indians tribes—they were all familiar to him.

  So when a red hawk soaring high to the southeast uttered a piercing cry, Jeremiah looked up from the snare he was in the act of setting along a rabbit run.

  Hawks made different sounds. There were the low whistle-like cries made by mating pairs as they whirled in aerial ballet. There were the occasional throaty cries of challenge issued by males. And there were those piercing cries of warning such as Jeremiah had just heard.

  Straightening, the burly free trapper scanned the adjacent mountain slopes. He saw a few mule deer to the south, several mountain sheep on the craggy heights to the north. Other than the hawk, which had sailed to the east over the entrance to Jeremiah’s little valley, nothing else moved.

  Jeremiah sank to one knee to finish the snare, then froze, deeply troubled. He’d learned to rely on his gut instincts during his years of wilderness living, and his intuition was telling him to get back to his lodge as quickly as possible. Scooping up his rifle, he adjusted his possibles bag under his left arm and took off at a trot.

  The hawk might have seen riders coming, Jeremiah reflected. Visitors were rare to the remote valley he called home. Every now and then some of his wife’s people, the Crows, would stop by. And every blue moon another mountain man would show up to share a drink or three and a plug of chaw.

  There was another, more disturbing possibility.

  Jeremiah’s sanctuary was nestled along the border of Crow country. To the south lived Utes, perennial enemies of the Crows. To the east lived Arapahos and Cheyennes, who sometimes raided deep into Crow land. And well to the north lived the Blackfeet, who were at war with all tribes not belonging to their confederacy.

  Jeremiah had long lived with a secret dread of the valley being found by an enemy war party. He had picked the isolated site because it was so far off the beaten path that getting into a racket with hostiles was unlikely. But a man never knew when fate would rear its ugly head.

  The sun hung high in the afternoon sky. Soon, Jeremiah knew, Yellow Flower would begin making supper. She and the girls had spent the morning gathering berries and roots, and the last Jeremiah had seen them, they had been pounding stakes into the ground so they could stretch out the hide of a black bear he had killed the day before and scrape the hide clean of tissue and hair.

  If anything ever happened to them, Jeremiah did not know what he would do with himself. Before he met Yellow Flower, he had been a wanderer and a bit of a rake. Now, she was his anchor, the source of the greatest happiness he had ever known—a happiness so deep and so intense that he gave thanks every day for the blessing of her love. Together with his daughters, she gave his life meaning.

  Suddenly the air was rent by a faint scream, punctuated by a gunshot.

  Fear rippled down Jeremiah’s spine. He poured on the speed, running as fast as his legs would fly. In his mind’s eye he imagined his family being set upon by Blackfeet or Bloods. Yellow Flower was fearless and a fair shot, but she was no match for a war party of seasoned warriors.

  The high grass lashed Jeremiah’s legs. He could see the stand of pines in which the lodge was located, but as yet was unable to catch a glimpse of the clearing where it stood. His possibles bag and ammo pouch slapped against his chest as he ran, and he had to keep one hand on his pistol or risk having it slip out from under his belt.

  Jeremiah was within fifty yards of his goal when another shot rang out. He thought he heard gruff laughter, but couldn’t be sure.

  Convinced hostiles were definitely to blame, Jeremiah slowed as he neared the trees. It would do his loved ones no good if he were to blunder in among his enemies and be slain outright.

  He cocked his rifle when he entered the pines. Gliding from trunk to trunk, Jeremiah strained his ears to catch more sounds, but heard only a vague rustling. Then he saw the lodge, awash in a beam of sunlight, and in front of it were seven horses he had never seen before.

  Jeremiah halted behind the last trunk to survey the clearing. A thin tendril of smoke wafted from the top of the lodge, as it always did when Yellow Flower cooked a meal. The flap hung open. As he watched, a shadow flitted across the opening.

  The next moment a tall man emerged.

  To say that Jeremiah was surprised would be an understatement. The visitor was a fellow trapper, a company man, an employee of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company. Jeremiah had run into him at the last rendezvous. Holding his rifle level, Jeremiah boldly strode into the open. “Lassiter?”

  The tall man turned, a smile creasing his rugged features. “So there you are. I was wondering where you had gotten to, hoss. After I came all this way just to see you, I was afeared you were off on a gallivant and wouldn’t be back for weeks.”

  “I never leave my family except during trapping season,” Jeremiah said. He glanced at the lodge, then at the horses. “Who are you with? Where are the others? What was all the shooting about? I thought I heard a scream.”

  “My, my, aren’t you a bundle of questions?” Lassiter said. He sat down on an old stump and rested his rifle across his thighs. “Have a seat, friend. We have some talking to do.”

  “I’d rather check on my family first,” Jeremiah said, moving toward the tepee.

  Lassiter made a clucking sound. “Maybe your ears are plugged full of wax. I want to palaver and I want to do it right this minute.”

  Jeremiah didn’t care for the man’s tone. “I’ll do as I damn well please, thank you. You can just hold your horses a minute or two.” At the
opening he lowered his rifle, bent at the waist, and went to enter. The next moment he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun held by a huge man in greasy buckskins.

  “I’d do as Lassiter says, mister, were I you.”

  Caught flat footed, Jeremiah backed away, careful not to elevate his rifle. The huge man squeezed through the gap, revealing a shock of black hair as greasy as his clothes.

  “Don’t plug him, Bear,” Lassiter said. “We need him alive.”

  From out of the pines came more strangers, five in all. Three wore garb typical of mountaineers. One appeared to be a half-breed. The last, incredibly, was a Blood Indian.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Jeremiah demanded. “Where’s my family?”

  “You’ll see them soon enough,” Lassiter said smugly. “Provided you cooperate with us, hoss.”

  “Cooperate?” Jeremiah said. He could not help but notice that the other men had fanned out to form a ring around him. He was completely hemmed in and dared not lift a finger or he would be instantly cut down.

  Lassiter scratched the stubble on his chin. “Let me explain, Sawyer. At the last rendezvous I heard tell that you always trade a goodly number of your plews for gold coins. The word is that you have a big stash cached somewhere. I want them.”

  The audacity of the man would have been laughable if not for his six menacing companions. Jeremiah tried a bluff. “I don’t know what in the hell you’re flapping your gums about. If I had a stash of gold, I wouldn’t be living in the middle of nowhere in a buffalo-hide lodge. I’d be back in the States, set up proper in a fancy mansion with servants at my beck and call.”

  A cruel grin creased Lassiter’s mouth. “I didn’t say that you were as rich as old King Midas. The story is that you have a few thousand socked away, is all.”

  “And who fed you this lie?” Jeremiah said. “Someone three sheets to the wind, I reckon.”

  “His name doesn’t matter,” Lassiter said. “All that need concern you is giving us the money. Do it now and spare yourself a heap of grief.”

  “You just waltz in here and steal me blind, is that it?”

  “More or less.”

  Jeremiah flushed with anger when several of the men snickered at his expense. “Are all of you company men? What do you think will happen when your employers find out what you’ve been up to?”

  “Really, Sawyer. Are you dunderhead enough to think that I still work for the Rocky Mountain Fur Company?” Lassiter shook his head. “It wasn’t for me. Long hours and working like a dog for a pittance. No thanks. I’ve found a better way.”

  “You’ve turned to robbery.”

  “Among other things.”

  The sinister tone the man used sparked raw fear in Jeremiah. Not for himself, but for those he cared for most. Shifting, he tried to peer into the lodge but he was at the wrong angle.

  “Drop the rifle,” Lassiter said abruptly. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the other five trained their weapons on Jeremiah’s chest. “And do it nice and slow unless you re partial to the notion of being turned into a sieve.”

  Reluctantly, Jeremiah obeyed. He was so furious he could barely think straight. All he wanted was to get his hands around the bastard’s throat.

  “That’s being smart,” Lassiter said. “Now tell us where we can find this gold of yours?”

  Without hesitation Jeremiah squared his shoulders and said, “I don’t have any.”

  “Think again. Believe me when I say you don’t want us to pry the information from your lips.”

  “I’d like to see you try,” Jeremiah said, poised to draw the flintlock if a single one of them came toward him. He would rather die fighting for his life than submit meekly like a weakling.

  “Suit yourself,” Lassiter said, and he made a gesture with his right hand.

  Jeremiah was tensed to strike. Years of wilderness living had turned his body into iron whipcord, and he was certain he could draw and fire before any of the cutthroats reached him. He glanced from one to the other. The one called Bear took a step toward him and Jeremiah whirled, his hand clawing for the polished butt of a smooth-bore pistol. Too late he realized it was a ploy, a trick to divert his attention.

  Like a pair of striking serpents, the Blood and the half-breed pounced, closing from different directions as one. Out of the corners of his eyes Jeremiah saw them coming and tried to turn to confront them but they were on him in an instant. Steely fingers seized his. He winced as his arms were savagely wrenched behind his back. A moccasin flicked out and caught him across the shin. The next thing he knew, he was on his knees in front of a smirking Lassiter.

  “Some folks just have to learn the facts of life the hard way.”

  “Go to hell!”

  Lassiter slowly rose, his lean form resembling that of a rattler rearing to strike. “I’m afraid you’ll be suffering the fires of damnation long before I will. For the last time, Sawyer, where’s your gold?”

  Jeremiah preferred to die than reveal the secret. But he had his wife and daughters to think of. Rather than keep up the pretense, he asked bluntly, “What about my family? If I tell you, will you let them go?”

  Some of the ruffians laughed.

  “You still haven’t seen the light, have you?” Lassiter said. “You’re going to tell us one way or the other. As for your family, they’re not worth fretting yourself over.”

  The sadistic gleam in the tall man’s eyes caused an icy knot to form in Jeremiah’s breast. “What do you mean?”

  “Show him, boys.”

  Bear came over and grabbed hold of Jeremiah’s hair. The Blood and the breed held onto his arms. Between the three of them, they hauled Jeremiah over to the lodge and Bear pushed his head low enough for him to see the interior clearly.

  At the sight of the three bodies, each lying in a spreading pool of blood, Jeremiah was overcome by dizziness and his limbs turned to mush. Bitter bile filled his mouth. It was all he could do to catch a breath.

  Yellow Flower was naked, lying on her side by the fire she had started. Her torn beaded dress lay nearby. There was a bullet hole in her left breast.

  The two girls were at opposite sides of the tepee. The oldest had been knifed, slit open from navel to chin. The youngest had been shot in the stomach. Both girls, mercifully, were clothed.

  Harsh, grating mirth shattered Jeremiah’s daze and brought him back to the land of the living. A potent rage gripped him, rage such as he had never known, and without thinking, he twisted and slammed his right foot into Bear’s left knee even as he whipped the Blood into the breed.

  Jeremiah found himself free. He could have turned, wrested a gun from one of them, and tried to slay Lassiter before the rest made wolf meat of him. But he was too canny for that. He wanted revenge on all of them. So the moment they let go, he streaked around the lodge and into the trees while to his rear Lassiter bellowed.

  “After him, you jackasses! Don’t let him get away!”

  Limbs snatched at Jeremiah’s face and hands. He didn’t care. Blood flecked his cheeks and wrists. It didn’t matter. In all the world only his vengeance mattered.

  Then the lead started to fly.

  Two

  Nathaniel King was on his way home after a successful hunt. Packed on the three extra horses he had brought along were the remains of an elk he had picked off at two hundred yards. He was rightfully proud of the shot, made in heavy timber when the bull was on the move. Few men could have made it.

  Nate was a member of the trapping fraternity, a man who caught and sold his own hides rather than work for a fur company.

  Typical of his hardy kind, Nate wore buckskins and moccasins. A Hawken rested across his saddle. A pair of matching flintlocks adorned his waist, as well as a long butcher knife and a tomahawk. He was armed for bear, as the saying went, and with good reason.

  A lone white man never knew when he might wind up beset by Indians or animals determined to deprive him of his life. The rate at which trappers peris
hed was fearsome. In any given year, out of scores who ventured into the wild to make their fortune laying traps for beaver, a quarter of them fell victim to the random perils so common in the mountains.

  Only the toughest survived for more than two or three seasons. Exceptional were those who lasted longer, men like Nate King, men who became as hard as their surroundings.

  On this day Nate rode along a spine connecting two high country slopes. He had chosen the high lines so he could keep his eyes skinned for movement below. It paid for a man to have eyes like an eagle, as his mentor Shakespeare McNair so often said.

  Thinking of McNair brought a smile to the big man’s face. It had been a spell since last he saw his best friend, so a visit was long overdue. It would do their wives good to get together, and Nate’s kids never tired of the antics of their Uncle Shakespeare.

  The black stallion that Nate rode pricked its ears and swung its head to the west. Nate looked and immediately reined up.

  Crossing the next valley were four riders. At that distance it was impossible to note details. Nate recognized them as Indians though and drew into the shadows to keep from being seen.

  They might be friendly Shoshones, Nate’s adopted tribe. They might even be Crows. But it had been Nate’s hard experience never to take anything for granted. The warriors might just as well be unfriendly and he didn’t care to tangle with them if it could be avoided.

  Nate observed them carefully. They rode in single file, Indian fashion, two on pintos, another on a bay, the last on a sorrel. Their angle of travel would take them south of the spine and put them between him and home.