Wilderness Double Edition #10

by David Robbins

  From the ridge Nate descended into a verdant valley where a small herd of shaggy mountain buffalo grazed. Deer moved among the trees. Ravens soared with outstretched wings on uplifting air currents.

  Nate reveled in the grandeur. He took a deep breath, and heard a horse trot up next to his.

  “Pa, I wanted to thank you for bringing me along,” Zachary said. “It means a lot to me.”

  “So I gathered,” Nate said. “I suppose I’d better get used to having you do more and more as you get older. It’s hard though, son. I can’t stand the idea of you coming to harm, so I try to protect you more than I should.”

  “Do all fathers feel the same way?”

  “Most do, I expect,” Nate said. “My pa was the kind who never let me do anything for myself. I always had to do things his way, whether I liked it or not. Why, I was ten before he’d let me go to the store alone.”

  “You’re joshing.”

  “I wish I was,” Nate said. He pulled his beaver hat lower so the wind wouldn’t snatch it off at an inopportune moment.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Zach said. “Last night ma acted upset when you mentioned going to visit this Zeigler feller. Doesn’t she like him?”

  “She’s never met the man.”

  “Then why was she so bothered?

  “There are some who say Old Bill isn’t quite right in the head.”

  “How so?”

  Nate looked at his son. “Some folks claim he’s a cannibal.”

  Four

  Zachary King had heard of cannibals, of course, but he had never in his wildest imaginings suspected he would actually meet one.

  Tall tales were a staple of the mountain men; swapping yams around a campfire was a favorite entertainment. Most of them had to do with living in the wild. Trappers told of vicious beasts they had slain, of narrow escapes from hostiles, of which streams were best for catching beaver and which were trapped out.

  Now and then, however, the talk had nothing to do with the mountains. Men spoke of the places they hailed from, the varied sights they had witnessed in their travels. Several of the trappers had been seafaring men before they took to raising beaver for a living, and their exotic and thrilling accounts were some of Zach’s favorites.

  One night in particular Zach had never forgotten. It had been at the rendezvous, four years earlier. A lumbering slab of a man by the name of Gristle Jack had riveted the boy with chilling stories of outlandish peoples in other lands.

  “Let me tell you about Africa,” Gristle Jack had said, his eyes alight with the reflection of dancing flames. “I was there once, you see. On board a slaver. And the things I saw and learned, you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Tell us,” a trapper said.

  “Well, why do you think everyone calls Africa the Dark Continent?” Gristle Jack said. “It’s the natives. There are as many black men in Africa as there are whites in this country. More, I’d say. And they’re as different in their ways as we are in ours. Some are as civilized as we are. They’re the ones who sell slaves to plantation owners in the South. Others run around half naked and carry spears and clubs. They’re the ones a man has to watch out for.”

  “How so?” someone had asked.

  “Why, some of the tribes are cannibals. They like to plunk their captives in huge pots and boil the poor souls until the flesh is nicely cooked. Then they all sit down to a fine feast, chewing away with their pointed teeth.”

  “Pointed teeth?” a scoffer said.

  “As the Lord is my witness,” Gristle Jack said. “I heard that they file their teeth to make them as sharp as daggers. And some of them stick bones through their ears or else through their nose. I swear! I saw them with my own eyes!”

  Now, four days after leaving the cabin, Zach gazed anxiously down on the narrow, shadowy valley where Bill Zeigler lived and felt a shudder go through him. He pictured Old Bill with filed, tapered teeth and bones in his pierced ears and nose, and he wondered if the old man had a huge pot in which to cook his victims.

  “Are you all right, son?” Nate asked.

  Zach glanced around and self-consciously cleared his throat. He was embarrassed that his father had seen the worry on his face and tried to explain it away by saying, “I was just thinking that maybe we should go down there alone, Pa. It might not be safe for ma and sis.”

  Winona overheard. “I was taking care of myself long before you were born. If Old Bill is not careful, you will see how capable I am.”

  It was a continual source of amusement and irritation to Winona that the males in her family treated her as if she were a fragile flower that would fall to pieces at the slightest touch. Shoshone warriors never regarded women so.

  Having mulled over the matter at length, Winona had reached the conclusion that Nate did not think of her as inferior in any way. Time and again he had admitted that she was a fine shot, a skilled rider, and a competent provider.

  No, her husband’s attitude stemmed from his upbringing. Winona had questioned him and learned most white men shared his view. At an early age the idea was instilled in them that women were in need of constant protection. It was ridiculous.

  Winona knew that her husband tried to see her more as a Shoshone warrior would, but it was hard to break habits so old, so ingrained. Unfortunately, at times Zach seemed to be afflicted with the same attitude. She could only hope that one day they both came to their senses.

  A few yards in front of her, Nate stood in the stirrups to survey the valley closely. He had never been there before, but he had been told how to reach it by a trapper who had. Mountain men routinely swapped information having to do with routes of travel, the locations of streams and lakes, and more.

  Bill Zeigler had chosen a forbidding spot in a remote chain of stark peaks. If it was privacy he craved, he had found it. There was no more isolated valley in all the Rockies.

  Thanks to the high summits ringing Zeigler’s sanctuary, it lay in shadow most of the day. A game trail meandered to the valley floor through densely packed pines standing like silent sentinels along the pathway.

  Nate assumed the lead, the Hawken propped on his thigh. According to an acquaintance of his, Frenchy Smith, Zeigler lived in a dirt dugout on a knoll overlooking a deep stream. Nate was on edge. He didn’t like taking his family down there but he would be wasting his breath if he tried to persuade them to stay on the slope.

  As Nate rode, he recollected the story told about Old Bill. Ten or twelve years earlier—no one could remember exactly when—Bill and his partner, Yerby, had gone off after beaver and been trapped in the high country by the first heavy snow. They had ended up being snowbound all winter. Came the spring, and only Bill made his way down to the rendezvous. Many asked about Yerby and were told that he had died in an avalanche.

  Somehow, whispers got started. Loose lips speculated that maybe Yerby had died differently, that maybe the sole reason Old Bill had survived was too ghastly to be believed.

  Nate had never taken the tale seriously. Old Bill wasn’t the first to be branded a cannibal. Every so often it would happen, and in nearly every instance, the rumors turned out to be nothing more than the gory handiwork of mountaineers with too much free time on their hands and too much alcohol in their systems.

  Still, Nate felt uneasy. He wasn’t a friend of Zeigler’s, and Old Bill was known to be touchy about people dropping in on him out of the blue. Zeigler might be inclined to shoot first and learn who they were later.

  The pines were eerily quiet. The wind whispered through the jade-green needles, but the birds and beasts who dwelt in the forest were as quiet as the great slabs of rock on the heights above.

  Halfway down, Nate spied the stream, flanking a mountain to the north. To reach it, he had to cross a lot of open ground. They would be exposed, vulnerable.

  So intent was Nate on the grassy flatland, he almost missed hearing the faint tread of a human foot to his right. Almost, but not quite. Twisting, he saw a buckskin-garbed figure hurtle a
t him from out of the brush. He tried to bring the Hawken to bear but the figure had already leaped atop a small boulder and from there sprang straight at him. He heard Zach’s cry of warning even as his attacker slammed into him. The rifle went flying when he was bowled from the saddle.

  Nate shoved free of the man’s clutching grasp as he fell. He hit on his right shoulder and rolled into a crouch, his left hand stabbing for a pistol. His assailant pounced before he could draw and they both went down. A knife glittered above him.

  Thrusting his arms out, Nate sought to prevent the blade from sinking into his flesh. He finally saw the craggy, grizzled face of Old Bill Zeigler poised against the backdrop of foliage, his features aglow with bloodlust, his eyes gleaming with demonical intensity. For a harrowing moment Nate thought that the tales must be true, and he braced himself as the older man’s arm tensed to arc downward.

  Then there was the drum of flying hooves and from out of nowhere swept the smooth stock of a rifle. It caught Zeigler on the side of the head and toppled him into the weeds.

  In a flash Nate was on his feet, a flintlock filling each brawny hand. A few feet away stood Zach’s calico, the boy holding the Hawken he had used to brain old Zeigler.

  “I’m obliged, son,” Nate said.

  Zach swelled with pride. He had acted without thinking, doing the first thing that came to mind. His mother, he noticed, was gazing fondly at him in that way she often did when she was enormously pleased by something he had done.

  When a low groan emanated from the weeds, Nate strode over to the shabby pair of patched moccasins jutting into the open and whacked one with a foot. “Get up and explain yourself.”

  The groan was repeated, louder and longer. Old Bill Zeigler slowly sat up, both hands pressed to his head, his eyes squeezed tight shut. “Oh, Lordy. My achin’ noggin. What the devil happened? Did a tree fall on me?”

  “You tried to kill me, damn you,” Nate said. Zeigler lowered his arms, revealing a nasty knot where the stock had slammed into him. He cocked his head and squinted at the four of them, focusing on Nate. “I know you. Met you at the rendezvous, as I recollect. King, ain’t it?”

  “Nate King.”

  “This must be your family,” Old Bill said pleasantly. Shaking his head as if to clear cobwebs, he pushed upright. His knees nearly buckled and he swayed a few seconds, then cackled and slapped his thigh. “Which one of you walloped the daylights out of me?”

  “I did, sir,” Zach said nervously. He felt a little guilty having hurt the man until he reminded himself that his pa’s life had been at stake.

  “You’re a dandy walloper, lad,” Old Bill said without a trace of malice. “You must go around whippin’ the tar out of grizzlies in your spare time.”

  Zachary laughed, pleased there were no hard feelings. “No, sir. My pa is the one they call Grizzly Killer. He’s rubbed out more than any man alive, white or Indian.”

  Old Bill shifted his attention back to Nate. “That’s right. Kilt about a hundred, I heard tell.”

  “Hardly,” Nate said dryly. The old-timer had dropped the knife and wasn’t armed with pistols or a tomahawk, so Nate felt safe in wedging his flintlocks under his wide leather belt. “Now suppose you tell us why you tried to bury that pig sticker in me.”

  The grizzled mountain man looked down at the ground and shuffled his feet from side to side as if embarrassed. “I’m plumb sorry about that, King. To tell the truth, I mistook you for hostiles.”

  “In broad daylight?” Nate said skeptically. “I’ll admit that a greenhorn might mistake me for an Indian, but a seasoned mountaineer like you should be able to tell the difference.”

  “Should be,” Old Bill said, frowning. “I don’t rightly know if I should let the cat out of the bag, but I guess it can’t do no harm.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “My peepers.” Bill raised a finger to his eyes. “They’re not what they used to be. Why, once I could see a sparrow on the wing half a mile away. Nowadays I’m lucky if I can make out a darned elk at twenty feet.” He mentioned at the trail. “When I first spotted you folks, you were all a blur. I figured you must be some of those pesky Utes who have aggravated me something fierce over the years.” Bill paused. “I’m just glad I didn’t have my rifle. I’m not the shot I once was, but I might have hit one of you anyway.”

  The mention of a rifle set Nate to searching for his Hawken. He found it lying a few feet away. “I’m sorry to hear about your problem,” he said. A man needed all his senses intact to survive in the wild. “If you’re that bad off, maybe you should give some thought to moving down out of the mountains.”

  “And do what? Live at one of the forts? I’d go crazy being cooped up all the time. And I’m sure as blazes not going back to the States. I’m not about to spend the rest of my days sitting on some street corner, begging for pennies. I may not have much, but I’ve got my dignity.”

  Nate saw the knife lying seven feet away and retrieved it for the man. “Here.”

  “Thanks.” Old Bill wiped the blade on his leggings, then shoved it into a sheath that had seen better days years ago. His buckskins were also in dire need of mending. “Listen. What say I make it up to you by having you folks for a meal? I managed to bring down a buck yesterday so there’s plenty of fresh meat. It’s early yet, I know, but I don’t often get company. And the older I get, the less I object to having people stop by.”

  “We’d be grateful,” Nate said, although he would have preferred to ask a few questions and be on his way. There was a touch of melancholy about the older man that tugged at his heartstrings. He looked at Winona for confirmation and she nodded.

  “I’m the one who’s grateful.” Old Bill brightened. “I haven’t had a soul to talk to in weeks.” Nate opened his mouth to glean more details but the old mountain man moved off down the trail as quickly as a jackrabbit.

  “Come on! Don’t dawdle! I’ll scoot on ahead and have the coffee on before you get there. Just follow the stream west a ways. You can’t miss my place.”

  “There’s no need—” Nate said and stopped. Bill was moving with remarkable speed for someone who couldn’t see very well. In moments he rounded a bend and was gone.

  Zach chuckled. “He sure is excited about having us to vittles. Do you reckon he’s awful lonely, Pa?”

  It was Winona who responded. “He must be. Men and women are not meant to spend their days alone. That is why my people prefer village life to going off by ourselves, as your fathers people do.” She clucked her mare into motion. “There are many things about whites I do not understand, husband, but liking to live alone has always puzzled me the most.”

  “Do tell,” Nate said while mounting. In all the years they had been together, she had never once mentioned it to him. “Maybe it has something to do with having different natures, sort of like buffalo and bears. Buffalo like to live together in great herds; bears like to live alone in dens.”

  “Which is the right way for folks to be?” Zach asked.

  Nate urged the stallion and packhorse into following them. “It’s not etched in stone, son. It all depends on the person. You have to do what is right for you and not care what anyone else thinks.”

  “I don’t think I’d ever like to live all by myself,” Zach said. “I’d need a family, at least, just like you, Pa.”

  They fell silent until they reached the gurgling stream, which ran surprisingly deep and swift. A clearly defined trail pointed the way to the knoll, hundreds of yards off. Situated at the tree line, it blended into the wall of vegetation as if part of it. A casual observer would never suspect that someone lived there.

  Bill Zeigler was as good as his word. On reining up in front of the dugout, Nate smelled smoke and saw a thin tendril wafting from a small hole atop the knoll. As he tethered the horses, part of the slope swung outward and there stood Zeigler, framed in a doorway.

  “Howdy again, folks!”

  Zach gawked in astonishment at the cleverly conceale
d door. “I declare! I’ve never seen the like in all my born days!”

  “An old cuss like you?” Zeigler said. He gave the planks a whack. “Came up with this idea all by myself. I had a heck of a time gettin’ Wyeth to bring me some metal hinges from St. Louis. He claimed I was the only trapper in the Rockies who had ever ordered hinges, and there wouldn’t be any profit in it since he only had to bring three.”

  “That sounds like Wyeth,” Nate said, referring to the trader who had once supplied provisions at the rendezvous and later built Fort Hall. “That man won’t do anything unless there’s a profit in it.”

  Old Bill propped the door open with a stick he kept handy for the purpose and beckoned. “Come on in, folks. Make yourself to home and we’ll chaw a while.” He stepped aside to permit them to enter, then did a double take on seeing the cradleboard. “A sprout! Land sakes! I didn’t know you was totin’ a young’un, ma’am.”

  “Evelyn is her name. I’m Winona.”

  Zeigler was taken aback when she offered her hand. He took it gingerly, as if afraid he’d break it if he squeezed too hard. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I can see your husband is a man who likes women of quality.”

  Winona stepped inside and promptly wished she hadn’t. A rank odor assailed her nostrils, and the interior was as filthy as it was possible to be and still be habitable. Piles of hides, some half rotten because they had not been cured properly, lined both walls. A bundle of blankets and robes at the far end served as the bed. In the center sat a small table and two stools, a stove, and a bench littered with tools and traps.

  “Don’t mind the mess,” Old Bill said. “Every two or three years I give the place a thorough cleaning. I reckon it’s about due.”

  “So it would seem,” Winona said politely.

  “Sit anywhere you like,” Old Bill said. “I’m not fussy at all.”