Hawken Fury (Giant Wilderness Book One)

by Robbins, David

  “Hello, Grizzly Killer,” she replied. “It is good to see you again.”

  Nate let Shakespeare enter, then followed. “The same here. Why the visit, anyway? Did you just happen to be in this neck of the woods and decide to drop by?” he asked. Although Shakespeare was his nearest neighbor and only lived about twenty-five miles to the north, they often went weeks without seeing one another.

  “Nope. I figured we’d head for the Rendezvous together,” Shakespeare said. “There’s safety in numbers, you know.”

  Nate nodded, thinking to himself that McNair had never been afraid of anything or anyone in his entire life. Shakespeare’s newfound concern for safety had more to do with Blue Water Woman, Winona, and young Zach than his own protection. “Good idea. We can leave tomorrow or the next day if you want.”

  “There’s no rush. We have plenty of time to get there before the supplies from St. Louis arrive.”

  They took seats around the table while Winona hung a pot of water over the small fire in the stone fireplace. Lying sound asleep on the bed against the south wall was seven-year-old Zach, his thin lips fluttering with every breath.

  “Don’t tell me your young’un is still taking naps at his age?” Shakespeare said.

  “He was up most of the night after the bear paid us a visit,” Nate explained. “Now he’s catching up on his sleep.”

  “Too excited to sleep, eh?” Shakespeare said, and chuckled. “I recollect how it is when you’re that young, even if I am pushing the century mark myself.”

  “You are not.”

  “Maybe I exaggerate,” the mountain man admitted impishly, and then launched into a quote from one of the plays written by the English playwright he so admired. “But age, with his stealing steps, hath clawed me in his clutch and hath shipped me into the land, as if I had never been such.”

  “Meaning what exactly?” Nate inquired.

  “Nothing much,” Shakespeare said, shrugging. He gazed at the corner where Winona stored their food and kept their cooking utensils. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have any whiskey on hand, would you? The ride here parched my whistle.’”

  “No, we don’t,” Nate responded, surprised by the request. He rested his elbows on the table. “I never knew you were much a drinking man.”

  “I’m not, but a little now and again gets the sluggish blood in my veins flowing properly.”

  Blue Water Woman’s brow creased in contemplation. “You have been doing more drinking lately than in all the years I’ve known you.” She paused. “Too much drinking can put a man in his grave.”

  Shakespeare snorted. “By my troth, I care not. A man can die but once and we owe God a death.”

  Nate had never heard his friend speak in such a manner, and it disturbed him. There must be more to the drinking than Shakespeare was letting on, but what could it be? “Well,” Nate commented, “there will be ample to drink at the Rendezvous. Half the trappers there spend most of their time drunk.”

  “My people will be there,” Blue Water Woman mentioned. “I look forward to seeing my relatives and friends again.”

  Nate looked at Winona, who was checking the heat of the water. Her own people, the Shoshones, would also be at the gathering, as would the Bannocks and the Nez Percés and perhaps groups from one or two other tribes. Friendly Indians frequently journeyed hundreds of miles to participate in the ribald revelry and to trade for horses or guns or whatever else they wanted.

  “This one promises to be the biggest and best Rendezvous of them all,” Shakespeare said. “From what I’ve heard, the caravan will bring in enough goods to outfit an army.”

  “Just so they bring enough money to buy our peltries,” Nate said.

  “Don’t worry on that score. Beaver hides are expected to fetch between four and five dollars apiece this year.”

  Nate whistled in appreciation of the sum, and hastily calculated he would receive between twelve and fifteen hundred dollars for his haul, enough to tide his family over for quite a spell. The price the fur companies were willing to pay for prime pelts had gone up the past couple of years, which was a good thing considering there were fewer beaver around. He planned to save most of the proceeds for future use since he had no way of knowing what the next year would bring. The bottom might fall out of the market for all he knew.

  “Such high amounts won’t be paid forever,” Shakespeare remarked as if he could read Nate’s thoughts. “Sooner or later these mountains will be trapped out or folks back in the States will stop wearing clothes with beaver fur. All it will take is a change of fashion and every trapper in the mountains, both company men and free, will be looking for a new line of work.”

  “I hope the trade lasts another ten or twelve years,” Nate said.

  “If beaver trapping is still a moneymaking proposition in five years, I’ll be surprised,” Shakespeare said.

  Winona interrupted their conversation by bringing a pan of steaming water and a tin containing an herbal mixture to the table and depositing both next to Nate. “Unless you want your arm to become infected, husband, kindly remove your shirt.”

  Nate glanced at his friend’s wife.

  “It is all right,” Blue Water Woman said. “I am a Flathead, remember? The men and boys in my tribe often went around wearing nothing but breechclouts.”

  “I know,” Nate said, but the idea of undressing in front of another woman, especially the wife of the man who had taught him everything he knew about life in the wilderness, still bothered him.

  “Hurry up and get that wound dressed,” Shakespeare said. “I left our horses tied to trees and I’d like to put them in your corral for the night.”

  “I’ll gladly help,” Nate responded. He stood and swung his chair around, then sat with his back to the table and peeled off his buckskin shirt. His arm ached like the dickens, causing him to wince. The bear’s wicked teeth had torn an inch-long gash in his flesh.

  Frowning, Winona obtained a cloth and began cleaning the jagged cut. “You must take better care of yourself,” she commented.

  “I try my best,” Nate said, and tried to alleviate her concern by smiling, but she went on frowning as she continued with her doctoring.

  “You’re not doing too bad compared to all those who have come to the Rockies to live and wound up like poor Yorick,” Shakespeare interjected.

  “Yorick?”

  “From old William S.,” Shakespeare explained, and quoted the text he had in mind. “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio. A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.”

  “Oh. That Yorick,” Nate said.

  “You would do well to broaden your cultural horizons by reading more,” Shakespeare stated. “Buying that book on William S. was the best investment I’ve ever made. I couldn’t begin to count the number of hours of enjoyment I’ve gotten from reading it.”

  “I’m partial to James Fenimore Cooper,” Nate reminded him, thinking of the last book by Cooper he had read. Entitled The Last of the Mohicans, it dealt with the further adventures of Cooper’s fictional hero Natty Bumppo, woodsman supreme. He wondered if Cooper had written another book since then, and made a mental note to find out should he ever venture to St. Louis again.

  “That long-winded cuss can’t hold a candle to William S.,” Shakespeare said with a tinge of contempt. “William S. knew folks inside out and told all about their lives. Cooper writes about people as if they were puppets and he’s the one pulling the strings.”

  “Your bias is showing,” Nate said.

  “Have you read Hamlet? Macbeth? King Lear? Read any one of them and you’ll see right away that I’m right.”

  Nate knew better than to dispute the point. The aged mountaineer possessed an almost fanatical devotion to the bard who had given him his nickname, and many was the time the two of them had argued Shakespeare’s merits and weaknesses long into the wee hours of a cold winter’s night or while out setting a trap line in some distant valley. No matter what he might say, no matter how lo
gically persuasive his arguments, McNair would never accept criticism of William S. “I just thought of something,” Nate said to change the topic. “I left almost one hundred pounds of bear meat back up the trail. We’d better fetch it before some critter helps itself to a meal.”

  “While you are gone Blue Water Woman and I will prepare the meal,” Winona offered. She was applying the herbal ointment. “Don’t move yet,” she directed, and went to a cupboard, from which she took an old blanket. Securing a knife from the counter in the corner, she cut off two wide strips and brought them over to Nate. Working expertly, she tightly bandaged the gash and nodded in satisfaction. “There. If it bleeds again you must let me know.”

  “I will,” Nate promised, and hastily donned his shirt. He tucked the bottom under his belt, rose, and gazed fondly at his son, who slumbered on in blissful repose. How, he mused, could children be such devils when awake yet so angelic when asleep? He walked over, gave Zach a peck on the cheek, and stepped to the door. His Hawken was where he had left it, propped against the wall. In another stride he was outside with the rifle in hand and squinting in the brilliant sunlight.

  Shakespeare emerged and stretched. “That sun sure does feel good.”

  What a strange remark, Nate thought. He spied Shakespeare’s animals tied on the north side of the cabin and strolled over to help collect them. There were the two saddle mounts and three pack animals laden with beaver hides and supplies. He waited until they had all the animals stripped and in the corral before he brought up the matter that most interested him at the moment. “What is this about you doing a lot of drinking?”

  Shakespeare glanced at the cabin door, then replied in a low tone. “Why don’t we go get your bear meat and I’ll fill you in on the way.”

  Nate didn’t need to ask to know that McNair didn’t want Blue Water Woman to overhear whatever was said. He led the way into the forest, the Hawken in his left hand, and waited until they had gone twenty yards before giving his friend a searching look. “Well?”

  Rare worry lined Shakespeare’s face and he averted his gaze and sighed. “This old body isn’t what it used to be.”

  “Are you ill?”

  “Worse. I’m wearing out.”

  “Are you kidding me? You’re as tough and ornery as they come. You’ll last forever.”

  “I wish,” Shakespeare said softly. He walked several yards before speaking again. “Nate, even the best-made buckskin britches and shirts all wear out eventually. They usually fall apart at the seams and can’t be stitched because the leather is too weak to hold a knot. The same thing is happening to me.”

  Nate forced a smile. “Your arms still look attached to me.”

  “I’m serious, damn you. About six months ago I started having problems, and it’s getting worse as time goes on.”

  His mentor’s solemn attitude made Nate realize Shakespeare must be gravely ill. Not once in all the years Nate had known him had Shakespeare ever complained of so much as a cold. The mountain man had never been fazed by the harshest adversity, never been affected by the severest weather. Shakespeare could hike for miles on end burdened with a pack weighing upwards of two hundred pounds; he could ride tirelessly for days through the worst country conceivable; and he could outwrestle and outshoot practically any man in the Rockies, Indian or white. Nate had come to regard Shakespeare as indestructible, and to suddenly have his friend’s mortality borne home shocked him. “What are the symptoms?” he inquired. “Can you be more specific?”

  “Specific? Sure I can,” Shakespeare said, and placed a hand on Nate’s shoulder. “I’ll give it to you as straight as I know how.” He paused. “I’m dying.”

  Chapter Three

  It can’t be! Nate’s mind shrieked. He walked for over ten yards without saying a word as he tried to cope with the staggering revelation. His fondness for Shakespeare went beyond simple friendship. In many respects as a wise mentor, a dependable partner, and a caring companion Shakespeare was more like a second father than a friend. He would be hard pressed to decide which man meant more to him, Shakespeare or his father.

  His relationship with his domineering father, who had always been too busy with work to spend much time with their family, had been strained for years prior to his departure for St. Louis. The two had become virtual strangers. Except for a few polite words at meals and greetings every now and then, they had rarely spoken to one another.

  How different things were with Shakespeare. McNair was someone he could talk to about anything. More importantly, Shakespeare accepted him as a man and never attempted to dictate how he should live his life.

  “Care to fill me in?” Nate asked at length.

  “If you insist,” Shakespeare said, “but it galls me to discuss a personal problem with another gent, even if he is the best damn pard I ever had, and that includes your Uncle Zeke. God rest his soul.”

  A peculiar lump formed in Nate’s throat and he coughed lightly.

  “Six months or so ago was when it first began,” Shakespeare reiterated. “I’d wake up in the morning all stiff in my joints and it would be hard to even lift my arms. And the condition kept getting worse and worse as the weeks passed. I tried everything I could think of. Used Indian medicine, used remedies I’d heard about from many different folks I’d met through the years, and even went off by myself and dug a sweat hole. Sat in it three days running and didn’t feel a bit better when I rode back to my cabin.”

  Nate had seen such sweat holes before. They were frequently resorted to by mountaineers who had spine or muscle complaints and wanted a reliable cure.

  The afflicted usually dug a round hole about three or four feet deep and three feet in diameter. Then a fire was made in the middle of the hole and kept blazing until the earth in the hole was hot to the touch. After the fire was extinguished, a seat or log was placed in the hole and the person stripped down as far as was necessary and put a container of water near the seat. The next to last step entailed covering the hole with blankets or heavy hides.

  There the afflicted would sit, dashing water on the sides and bottom, while great waves of heat radiated from all sides and caused the sweat to run in rivers. The person stayed under the robes for as long as he could stand it, then emerged and took a dip in a cold stream or spring.

  After repeated treatments of alternating hot and cold, most people recovered from their ailments. Few were ever so bothered again. Many trappers swore by sweat holes and would use no other cure.

  “I knew I was in trouble when the sweat hole didn’t work,” Shakespeare was saying. “So I went to talk to a Flathead medicine man who is a good friend of mine and asked his advice. He supplied herbs even I didn’t know of and I tried them too.”

  “No luck?”

  “None. Then, one day, a few trappers I know stopped by my cabin. They had a bottle of whiskey along and offered to share a drink. Although I don’t make it a habit to drink now like I did in my younger days, I obliged them.”

  “The whiskey made you feel better?”

  Shakespeare nodded. “Damned if it didn’t. When I woke up the next morning my body wasn’t as sore as it usually became. They’d left the unfinished bottle with me, so that evening I drank more right before I turned in. And guess what? The next morning my joints hardly hurt at all.”

  “So you’ve been drinking regularly ever since,” Nate said.

  “Every night, leastwise. I bought a couple of bottles from old Pete Jaconetty. He always has a case of the stuff stored in his cabin. But now I’m running low and I need more.”

  “Which you plan to buy at the Rendezvous.”

  “Exactly,” Shakespeare said, and scowled. “One other thing, though. As the weeks have gone by, the whiskey is helping less and less. I don’t know why, but I’m starting to ache like the dickens again in the morning, and sometimes in the middle of the day.”

  They walked in silence for a spell. Nate put himself in Shakespeare’s place and felt overwhelming sympathy. It must be extremely f
rustrating for the aged mountain man to be so impaired. Shakespeare had always been a robust man with boundless energy. This had to be affecting his spirit as much as his body. “Why don’t you go to St. Louis and see a doctor there?”

  “I thought about it. But to tell you the truth, I’ve never been fond of doctors of our race. They’re always too ready to pour their drugs down your throat or cut into you with their little knives. Give me an Indian medicine man any day. They use natural remedies and they let a man keep his blood.”

  “What choice do you have? You might die if you don’t go.”

  “Then I die.”

  “Just like that?”

  “We all owe God a death,” Shakespeare said, repeating the quote he’d used in the cabin.

  “Maybe so, but I never took you for a quitter. If a man is still breathing, he has hope. Until they plant him in the ground and throw dirt on his face he should fight for his life with all the means at his disposal.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You’re still a young man.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Sometimes older folks see things differently. Sometimes they just grow tired of living.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Am I? Imagine a woman who has been married for forty or fifty years. Suddenly her husband dies and she’s left all alone in this hard world. She lives on a while but the loneliness eats at her soul and she gets to thinking about joining her husband in death. So she walks off into the forest without food or water, picks a spot under a tree, and sits there until she’s too weak to go anywhere and she slowly passes away.”

  “You knew a woman who did that?”

  “My mother.”

  Again they hiked without speaking, Nate disturbed beyond measure. There must be something he could say or do to convince his friend to go to St. Louis.

  “She’s not the only one I know of,” Shakespeare said after a while. “I’ve known whites and Indians who did the same thing or close to it. One old Sioux brave got so tired of hobbling around camp using a crutch to get by that he simply took off all his weapons and went out across the prairie until he encountered a grizzly bear.”