“Hello, Niles,” Blue Water Woman greeted him.
The trapper nodded gravely. “Pleased to see you ladies again.”
“Is something wrong?” Winona inquired.
Thompson shifted to verify no one had followed him or was paying any special attention to them. Moving closer, he spoke in a low tone. “Where’s Nate?”
“At our camp so far as I know,” Winona answered. “Why?”
“Warn him to keep a lookout for Campbell. That coon has been bragging around camp that he’s going to stomp Nate into the dirt.”
“My husband knows all this,” Winona said. “He is being very careful.”
“Does he know that Campbell intends to jump him when he least expects it? Does he know that Campbell has been hanging around with the Ruxton brothers?”
“No,” Winona replied, alarmed. The Ruxton brothers had a reputation for being two of the nastiest trappers in the Rocky Mountains. No one knew much about their past except that they had left the States in a hurry after killing a man. They had become the scourge of the mountains, slaying several mountaineers in drunken brawls, at which they were masters. Decent trappers avoided them. And no Indian woman would marry either one or sleep with them because both invariably were filthy, their clothes grimy. Rumor had it they bathed once every two or three years.
“Why is Campbell spending time with those two?” Blue Water Woman asked.
“I don’t know, but it worries me,” Niles admitted. “Nate can take Campbell any day of the week, but if the Ruxtons butt into the affair there’s no telling how it will turn out.”
“I will inform my husband,” Winona promised.
“There’s one thing more,” Niles said. “I was standing at the southeast corner of the company store filling my pipe when I heard men talking softly around the corner. It was Campbell and the Ruxtons and they didn’t know I was there.” He frowned. “I couldn’t catch all their words, but I heard enough to guess that Campbell is betting heavily on the side and the Ruxtons have bet every hide they own on the outcome of the match.”
“What do you mean by betting on the side?” Winona asked.
“Everyone at the Rendezvous knows Campbell has wagered a hundred prime pelts against a hundred of Nate’s. But he’s also bet other trappers. I’d say he’ll lose his whole catch if he doesn’t best Nate.”
Blue Water Woman gazed at a group of trappers who were butchering four slain elk. “With so much at stake, Campbell cannot afford to lose.”
“Exactly. And with the Ruxtons involved, the wrestling match might well turn into a matter of life and death. Knowing the Ruxtons as I do, you can count on there being bloodshed. They might try to kill Nate.”
“Wouldn’t Campbell have to—” Winona sought the English word she had rarely used but heard Nate explain once “—forfeit any claim to the pelts?”
“Not if Campbell licks Nate fair and square first. I figure the Ruxtons will make their play then.”
“Campbell will never beat my husband.”
“What if they have some trick up their sleeve?” Niles said. “What if they provoke him somehow? Get any man mad enough and he becomes downright careless.”
“How would they do such a thing?” Winona inquired, and insight speared through her like the razor tip of a lance. “I must get to our camp,” she said, taking a step. But that was as far as she got when a gruff voice hailed her, sending a chill shivering down her spine.
“Well, if it ain’t the wife of the mighty Grizzly Killer! Look at this, boys. Our prayers have been answered.”
Robert Campbell swaggered toward them, his big hands swinging loosely. On either side was one of the wicked Ruxtons, tall, thin men who were as dark as the dirty clothes they wore.
“Hello, Campbell,” Niles said, casually placing himself between the three men and the women. “What can we do for you?”
The voyageur’s features clouded. “You can do nothing, old man. I’m here to talk to Grizzly Killer’s wife.”
“I don’t want you bothering these women,” Niles said sternly. “The men at the Rendezvous won’t stand for such behavior.”
“Me? Bother these lovely ladies?” Campbell said in mock indignation, then leered at Winona. “Why, all I want is a little conversation.”
Chapter Twelve
Winona struggled to retain her composure. Displaying fear in front of men like Campbell, men who delighted in intimidating others, only fed the flames of their exaggerated self-importance. They viewed themselves as models of manhood as they conceived manhood to be, as tough and hard and strong enough to best anyone else. When others cowered before them it reinforced their delusions and only made them behave even worse than they normally did. She had seen a few such men before even Indian tribes had them on occasion. So now she held her chin high and said in a calm tone, “I have no desire to talk with you, Mr. Campbell.”
The Ruxtons cackled, and one of them imitated her statement in a mincing tone.
“Why not?” Campbell demanded. “Ain’t I good enough to talk to?”
Niles motioned for the trio to leave. “Let these women be, Bob. I’m warning you.”
“You’re warning me?” Campbell bellowed, and before any of them could guess his intention he hauled off and slugged Niles Thompson on the chin. His brawny hand, capped by rock-hard knuckles half the size of walnuts, had the same effect as a wooden club or a tomahawk.
Taken totally unawares, Niles buckled and sprawled in an unconscious heap, blood trickling from his mouth. Nearby trappers and a few Indians had witnessed the attack and were rapidly converging.
Appalled, Winona knelt to examine Thompson. But a rough hand seized her arm and she was wrenched to one side.
“Leave him be!” Campbell snapped. “He asked for it and he got it.”
His warm breath touched Winona’s face and she smelled the bitter scent of alcohol. Campbell wasn’t drunk, but he had imbibed enough to aggravate his belligerent nature. “Please,” she tried to placate him. “We do not want any trouble.”
Campbell took a step and grabbed her wrist. “I want your husband, missy. Where is he?”
“Right here.”
The voyageur and the Ruxtons whirled, their features betraying their surprise at beholding Nate not six yards away. Behind him, to the right, stood Shakespeare McNair. Both held Hawkens, and both practically radiated barely contained fury.
Over fifteen mountaineers had gathered in a ring and were gazing in disapproval at Campbell. More were hurrying over from all directions.
Nate took a step and suddenly pointed the Hawken at Campbell’s face, the barrel almost touching his nose. “Let go of my wife,” he growled.
Slowly, grinning maliciously all the while, Campbell released Winona’s wrist. “Now, now, King. Don’t be hasty. I’m not carrying a gun as anyone can plainly see. I’m not even toting a knife.”
Nate glanced at Campbell’s waist, where only a wide brown belt was in evidence. Without a word he extended his rifle back towards Shakespeare, who took the Hawken and then leveled the two he now held at the Ruxtons.
“Interfere and you’ll both be sporting new navels,” Shakespeare said.
“You have no call to be threatening us,” one of the Ruxton brothers complained.
“I’m not threatening. I’m promising.”
One of the bystanders knelt beside Niles Thompson, who was groaning as he slowly revived. “What is going on here? Why was Niles struck?”
“He butted into a personal matter,” Campbell replied angrily. “He should have known better.”
“So should you,” Nate said.
“What?” Campbell responded, facing him.
Nate hit him. He didn’t bother to announce his intention. He didn’t threaten. He didn’t bluster. His right fist swept up from beside his leg and hit the voyageur squarely on the chin, on the exact same spot where Thompson had been hit.
The force of the blow staggered Campbell. He tottered and started to sink to one knee, then reco
vered and shook his head vigorously. Rubbing his jaw, he grinned and said, “What will it be? Fists or wrestling or anything goes? I say we have our match right here and now.”
“Fine by me,” Nate said, removing his flintlocks and handing them to Winona. The sight of the voyageur mistreating his wife had been almost more than he could endure. He had come within a hair of shooting Campbell right on the spot, and now he couldn’t wait to tear into the troublemaker and vent his fury.
A couple of men assisted Niles in rising and helped him move to one side. Others were shouting at the top of their lungs, “Fight! Fight! King and Campbell are going at it!” to draw the rest of the trappers.
Nate paid attention to none of them. He had eyes only for Robert Campbell until a tug on his leggings prompted him to look down. There stood his wide-eyed son, who had been trailing behind Shakespeare and him while playing with the ever-present Samson.
“Are you going to beat up this man, Pa?” Zach asked. “I thought you said we should be nice to everyone.”
The question startled Nate. He realized Zach hadn’t seen Campbell lay a hand on Winona, for which he was grateful. But now he had to explain to Zach’s young, innocent mind why a grown man, his own father, was deliberately seeking a fight. “Yes, we are supposed to be nice to those who are nice to us. But not everyone you meet in life will be that way. Some, like this man, only know how to be mean and hurt others.”
Zach looked at the voyageur. “He should be taught some manners.”
“He will be,” Nate said. “Now stand aside.”
The boy moved over beside Winona.
Nate glanced at her. “Keep Samson under control. Don’t let him interfere on my behalf.”
“Be careful, husband.”
Sarcastic laughter burst from Robert Campbell. “Ahhhh, how touching!” he declared. “I swear I’m about to start crying at any minute.” He grinned at the Ruxtons. “I wonder if this squaw treats all her men the same way.”
The dam broke. A tidal wave of rage swept over Nate and he sprang, driving his right fist deep into Campbell’s midsection and doubling the man in half. A sweeping left clipped the voyageur on the chin, sending him tottering rearward.
Campbell regained his footing, touched his bruised chin, and chuckled. “Mad, are you, Grizzly Killer? Good. I want you mad, you son of a bitch.”
Again Nate moved in to inflict punishment, but this time Campbell was braced and ready. Nate’s right was blocked, his left swatted down, and then a pair of sledgehammers boxed him on the ears and the world exploded before his eyes. Dazed, he felt his knees strike the soil, and then another punch smashed into his jaw and he found himself on his side with everything and everyone swirling around and around and around. He heard mocking laugher and attempted to rise.
“Come on, Nate. At least put up a fight.”
The taunting voice brought Nate’s rage back and suddenly he could see clearly again. He lunged, his arms out, and tackled the unprepared Campbell around the knees. They both crashed down, with Nate on top, and then began grappling as each tried to get the other in an unbreakable hold.
As they wrestled one fact became disturbingly apparent to Nate. No matter how many times in the past he had defeated Campbell, no matter how inexperienced and rash Campbell had once been, all that had changed. The man had always been endowed with the strength of an ox, but now he was as coldly calculating as a wolf and as fierce as a wolverine.
Each of them applied and slipped holds a score of times. They tumbled end over end, their arms and legs intertwining as each attempted to pin the other. The trappers and Indians enthusiastically shouting encouragement were forced to back out of the way again and again as the combatants rolled almost into their midst.
Sweat caked Nate from head to toe. He got an arm looped around Campbell’s head, but was instantly thrown onto his side. Iron fingers gouged into his neck as he tried to roll to his feet, so he gripped both of Campbell’s wrists and heaved, flipping Campbell onto his back.
Nate surged upright and so did his foe. Campbell was grinning smugly, even more confident of victory now than he had been before the horse race.
“I’m going to rub your nose in the dirt,” he boasted savagely, and motioned for Nate to close with him. “Any time you’re ready, bastard.”
About to spring, Nate caught himself just in time. By allowing his anger to get the better of him he was playing right into Campbell’s hands. He must be wary and call on all the skill at his command, skill honed in many a back lot in New York City during his childhood and teen years.
Next to boxing, wrestling was one of the most popular sports among boys of all ages throughout the States. Foot races came in a close third. Nate had participated in all three frequently, much to his father’s distress. Neither of his parents had viewed such activities as fitting for a young gentleman, and every time Nate came home with torn clothes and bruises he was roundly chastised for his breach of discipline.
“Afraid, Mouse Killer?” Campbell taunted.
Nate adopted a boxing posture and circled, seeking an opening in the other’s guard he could exploit. The voyageur imitated his example, all the while continuing to smile smugly.
“I think before I’m done I’ll rip one of your ears off with my teeth,” Campbell said, and laughed. “I did that once to a man up in Canada. You should have heard him howl.”
Trying to concentrate on the fight, Nate had an inspiration. If Campbell could try to distract him with conversation, he could do the same. “Where were you born?” he asked.
Campbell paused, clearly puzzled. “Why should you care?”
“Just curious,” Nate said, circling, ever circling.
“I was born in Vermont but I left home when I was fourteen and drifted up to Canada. Became a voyageur for ten years.” Campbell stopped and studied him. “I don’t see what difference it makes.”
“You will,” Nate said, and abruptly took a step backwards and closer to Campbell, who predictably stepped to the left and inadvertently set himself up for a wide, lightning-quick right. Nate flinched as his knuckles connected on Campbell’s sturdy jaw.
Rocked on his heels by the blow, Campbell lashed out ineffectually with an uppercut. His punch was countered and a fist drove into his gut with the power of a battering ram. Doubling over, he gasped for air, and instead received another fist full on the mouth.
Unrelenting, Nate landed a jab on Campbell’s left cheek, then lashed a left above the right eye. The skin split and blood trickled down over Campbell’s eyebrow, making Campbell blink.
“Damn you!” he hissed.
Then the voyageur went berserk.
Nate barely firmed his footing before Campbell came at him like a whirlwind, fists flying. He blocked and ducked adroitly, but for every punch he avoided another hit home. In vain he tried to score, but Campbell thwarted every swing. His frustration mounting, he was forced steadily backward when without warning there came a frantic shout from Shakespeare.
“Nate! Look out! Behind you!”
Before Nate dared risk a glance something struck him below the left knee and he realized someone had kicked him. He fell, and while falling heard one of the Ruxtons whoop in triumph. The next instant Campbell delivered a devastating kick that bent Nate like a snapped twig, excruciating agony racking his chest. Stunned and weak he sputtered and tried to rise.
“Now I’ve got you!” Campbell gloated, drawing back his right foot to kick again.
DO SOMETHING! Nate’s mind screeched, and he threw himself at Campbell’s shins. The voyageur danced to one side but Nate’s shoulder smashed into him before he was clear. Campbell went down, angling at Nate, and they clinched in mutual boiling wrath. Campbell’s hate-distorted features were inches from Nate’s face, his hot breath fanning Nate’s cheeks, and it was more than Nate could endure.
Whipping his head back, then forward, Nate butted Campbell and heard a crunch as Campbell’s nose shattered. Wet drops spattered his face. He butted again, and suddenly
Campbell shoved free and scrambled to his feet.
Nate took longer to rise. His chest ached abominably and he wondered if he might not have a broken rib or two. His face pulsed with pain, and every breath was laborious. He barely heard Winona’s cry.
“Nate! Be—”
But he did hear the sound of a thud and Shakespeare’s statement.
“Don’t worry. That Ruxton won’t bother you again.”
So the brothers had tried to turn the tide once more, but failed. He began circling Campbell, whose face was red, doubly so because it was caked with crimson. Nate’s hands hurt when he balled his fists and his feet were leaden.
Campbell touched his crushed nose, his feral eyes narrowing. “I’ll kill you for this!”
There had never been any doubt in Nate’s mind that the voyageur had long since ceased to regard their bouts as friendly matches. And it was more than a matter of personal honor where Campbell was concerned. The man wanted to kill, to pound Nate to a pulp, to see Nate’s lifeblood pumping onto the grass.
And now, with a harsh snarl more animal than human, Robert Campbell attacked.
Chapter Thirteen
Much, much later, when the assembled mountaineers were gathered around various evening camp fires and swapping tales, the overwhelming majority were to agree that never in all their born days had they witnessed such a starkly brutal fight, such a primitive display of sheer savagery.
Nate certainly wouldn’t have objected to their collective opinion. Under the relenting barrage administered by Robert Campbell, he was compelled to give ground.
The voyageur punched, kicked, gouged, and clawed. When clinching he even resorted to biting. No tactic was too mean, too despicable. Uppermost in his mind was inflicting pain, and with single-minded purpose he applied himself to the chore as only a man who had been driven beyond the brink of human reason could do, with a ferocity only a man who had reverted to a bestial level could achieve.
Hawken Fury (Giant Wilderness Book One) Page 9
