Nate looked down to find Samson on his right, easily keeping up with him. “Fat lot of good you’re doing,” he remarked, and surveyed the plain for signs of life. He must stay alert for Indians. Earlier he’d been exceptionally lucky. The next time he encountered a band might be a totally different story. Lone white men were usually easy prey for warriors bent on counting coup.
A half hour went by. An hour. He found distinct tracks here and there that confirmed he was still on their trail. A ridge appeared a mile ahead, a mere wrinkle in the limitless flat expanse, not over two hundred feet in height at the highest spot and perhaps half a mile long. Since it would afford an excellent view of the countryside he rode right to the top, then drew rein in dismay. “No!” he blurted out.
For as far as the eye could see there existed a virtual ocean of great shaggy bulks, wicked horns, and pronounced humps. A gigantic buffalo herd was ambling south, grazing as it went, composed of thousands upon thousands of the huge brutes.
Nate leaned forward and saw several hoof prints in a patch of bare soil. The trail led straight down to the edge of the herd. In sheer exasperation he smacked his right fist into his left palm. The herd had obviously arrived on the scene after Shakespeare and the others went by, wiping out every last vestige of the tracks he had been following. Hopefully, he would be able to find the trail again on the far side of the massed beasts. But how was he to get there?
At the moment the buffaloes were placidly eating, wallowing, or resting. Given their rate of travel it would take the better part of twelve hours for the last of them to file past the ridge.
He couldn’t afford to wait that long. Nor could he afford to swing all the way around. He would lose too much precious time. An insane notion occurred to him and he absently bit his lower lip as he contemplated the odds of success. He knew that buffaloes weren’t afraid of humans. Quite the contrary. Bulls and cows alike seemed to regard men and women as inferior creatures hardly deserving of notice, much as they did deer and coyotes. Which was why Indian warriors could creep right up to a small herd and slay two or three before the rest realized what was happening. And since many buffaloes were accustomed to grazing in close proximity to wild horses, a herd might allow a rider to mingle with them unmolested if the rider didn’t use a gun or bow to bring one down. He’d heard tales of braves who had tested their courage by riding unarmed into a herd and deliberately patting the biggest bulls in passing. In his opinion such recklessness was unwarranted.
Usually. He dare not stampede them, or they might head southeast and erase the tracker he was following.
He glanced at Samson. “Try not to get gored. Zach would never forgive me.” So saying, he rode down the slope and directly into the herd.
Most of the buffaloes simply moved aside, hardly paying any attention. A few looked at the horse and rider almost quizzically, as if trying to fathom the identity of this bizarre creature. One old bull loudly sniffed the air and pawed the ground but mercifully didn’t charge.
Nate’s skin crawled. Hundreds of caterpillars seemed to be walking all over his body. A tremor rippled through his body and he had to firm his grip on the reins. The pungent odor of the brutes clogged his nostrils. He smelled their urine and their droppings. He heard them belching and grunting and listened to their short tails flick from side to side. Waves of heat rolled off their massed bodies and sweat caked him from head to toe.
He felt his mouth go dry and nervously licked his lips. Shifting imperceptibly, he saw Samson padding along a yard behind Pegasus. Smart dog. The horse would screen Samson from the buffaloes in front, and unless they picked up the mongrel’s scent it should walk through them without any problem.
He wished he could say the same for himself. Again and again a bull would eye him warily, stamp a hoof, and perhaps take an aggressive step or two toward the gelding. Always the bull stopped, pacified by the lack of hostility. But what if one didn’t?
Up close a buffalo was an imposing brute, standing roughly six feet high at the shoulder and weighing close to one ton. With its great hump, shaggy beard, and deadly horns it was like a creature out of someone’s worst nightmare. And when aroused, it transformed into a living engine of destruction formidable and nearly unstoppable.
And here he was, riding through an enormous herd of the smelly beasts with death on every hand. The slightest accidental provocation, from a toss of Pegasus’s mane at the wrong instant to a bull getting a good, clear whiff of his scent, would instigate an attack. And once one bull charged, others might join in. Bulls could be marvelously protective of the cows and calves when the need arose.
He kept his eyes on the ground in front of the gelding, ready to whip the horse aside should they be attacked, and tried not to dwell on the distance he must cover before he would be through the herd. Take it one buffalo at a time, he told himself, and he would make it in one piece.
Repeatedly his feet and legs brushed against grazing buffaloes. Except for a cow that swatted her head at his foot and missed, none of the hairy monsters paid him any mind.
The sun climbed steadily.
Beads of sweat dripped from Nate’s chin. He dearly wanted a drink but dared not make any unwarranted moves. Nor did he turn to check on Samson again. The dog was on its own until they reached the edge of the herd.
Despite his best efforts his thoughts strayed. He envisioned Adeline as he remembered her and wondered if she had changed very much. Knowing her, he doubted it. She had always been a beauty, one of those women with the kind of features every man hungered after and every woman envied. And she was aware of the reaction her mere presence provoked. She knew her charms and used them to her best advantage.
He recalled the first time he saw her, at a dance. It had been a wonder he’d seen her at all for the ring of potential suitors beseeching her to favor them. He’d watched and admired those young men for so boldly importuning such a virtual goddess, and then received the shock of his own young life when his father had taken him over to introduce him to Adeline and her father.
She had beamed, taken his arm, and whisked him onto the dance floor before he could gather his wits. The eyes of her many suitors had shot bolts of lightning, but he’d hardly noticed in his preoccupation with dancing with the loveliest woman in existence and hearing her laugh gaily at his awkward attempts at humor. Why, she had even laughed when he clumsily trod on her foot!
How he had loved her! Or believed he had. Only much later had he learned the meaning of genuine love. It involved a sharing of two souls in intimate companionship, not worshipping a woman for the perfection she supposedly personified.
A mammoth bull grunted and shook its hairy head.
Nate blinked, his reflection shattered. He stared at the bull in question, bracing for the sudden rush that would bowl Pegasus over if the horse wasn’t nimble enough. Sweat trickled into his eyes and made him blink, blurring his vision, and when it cleared a second later the buffalo was shuffling toward him with its head lowered.
He gulped and rode on. Submitting to fear would get him killed. If he could bluff the bull into believing he was harmless, he would make it. As the beast stepped ever nearer he held his breath, his palm slick on the Hawken. The rifle was next to useless since a single shot might not kill the bull. He knew of times when men put ten balls or more into a buffalo and it walked off as if it didn’t have a care in the world.
The bull approached from the left to within two yards of the gelding, then halted.
Nate could practically feel those suspicious dark eyes boring into him, and he held himself rigid, his facial muscles locked. He was afraid to so much as blink. Pegasus walked on undisturbed, and for a count of five his fate hung in a precarious balance. Suddenly the bull snorted, turned, and walked back to rub against a cow.
Five more times a similar incident transpired before at long last he glimpsed the edge of the herd ahead. His nerves were frayed, his buckskins damp, by the time he rode between a pair of dust-bathing bulls and saw open prairie. In hi
s happiness he threw back his head to whoop with joy, but prudently stayed silent. Scouring the plain for some sign of his family and friends, he saw several sleek animals not far from the buffaloes and tensed on recognizing them.
More damn wolves.
He scowled, observing the pack of five as they trotted from south to north. They were only twenty yards from the herd, probably scouting for calves or aged adults they could cull and slay. He hoped he was wrong. Should the pack pick a likely prospect and attack, they might spook the herd and
start a stampede and he still had forty yards to go before he would be in the clear.
With fewer brutes on either side he felt confident enough to ride a bit faster, going around a young bull and past a pair of cows contentedly chewing their cuds. The wolves still moved north, and he was sure he would soon be able to take a deep breath and relax. Unexpectedly, the pack proved him wrong by darting in concert at a frisky calf prancing near its mother. Both buffaloes were alert, and at a bawl from the mother they whirled and raced deeper into the herd.
That was all it took. As if a silent signal had coursed through the entire multitude in the blink of an eye, every last bull, cow, and calf spun and sped off to the southeast.
Nate put his heels to the gelding’s flanks and swung around a rushing bull, then narrowly avoided a fleeing cow. Behind him thundered the din of a million heavy hoofs, and beneath him the ground shook and shuddered as if from an earthquake. He had to wrench on the reins to evade another bull, and then he was in the open and galloping away from the herd.
After going thirty yards he halted to catch his wind and look back. A billowing cloud of dust swirled above the fleeing horde, obscuring most of them. He could see scores of bounding humps and rumps and bobbing tails, and the air vibrated to the beat of invisible hammers. He could barely hear himself think. In all the confusion the wolves had disappeared.
“Good riddance,” he said aloud, and remembered Samson. Had the dog escaped unscathed?
He twisted and saw the object of his concern sitting quietly nearby. “Doesn’t anything ruffle your feathers?” he quipped, and let go of the Hawken to stretch. His shoulder and neck muscles ached from the prolonged tension.
He was glad to be alive. Never again would he go through such a harrowing experience, not for all the gold reputed to be in the Rockies. As he lowered his arms he saw the wolves appear out of the dust cloud and regard him intently. Grinning, he raised the rifle. “Come closer,” he coaxed. “I could use a new hat.”
The largest of the pack took a few steps forward. Tilting its head to test the air, it wheeled and led its fellows to the northwest, and they were all soon lost in the dust again.
Nate lowered the Hawken and clucked in frustration. “I swear. If I see another wolf I’m going to” he began, and stopped abruptly on hearing a sound behind him.
It was the crunch of a footstep.
Chapter Eighteen
In a blur Nate twisted and leveled the Hawken, his thumb on the hammer. He was surprised Samson hadn’t growled to warn him until he saw the smirking frontiersman a few feet away.
“Jumpy cuss, aren’t you?” Shakespeare joked.
“Don’t you know any better than to go around sneaking up on folks?” Nate snapped, while inwardly a wave of relief washed through him. “You could get yourself shot.”
“Who snuck up?” Shakespeare responded. “You would have heard me if not for all the noise those critters were making.” He gazed after the departing herd. “Pity you didn’t think to shoot one before they ran off. We could all enjoy a nice, fresh steak for supper tonight.”
“Why didn’t you shoot one?” Nate retorted, gazing past his mentor.
“What? And spook them while you were smack in the middle of the bunch?”
“Point taken. Where’s my wife and son?”
“Waiting for you,” Shakespeare said, turning. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
Nate slid from the saddle and led the gelding by the reins. Samson fell in beside him. “I was beginning to think I’d never catch up,” he commented.
“So were we. Your son will be happy you found the dog. I think he’s been more worried about it than you,” Shakespeare said, and chuckled. “What the dickens kept you anyway? We figured you’d rejoin us an hour or two ago.”
“I had a run-in with some unfriendly Cheyennes.”
“Oh?” Shakespeare said, and nodded. “Might have been the same band we saw about half an hour after you rode out this morning. They were a ways west of our camp, riding from north to south, and I didn’t think they saw us, but I didn’t want to take the chance either. Not with the women and your boy along. So we packed up and lit out. I knew you’d find our trail with no problem.”
“I thought for sure I’d lose it when I came on those buffalo.”
Again Shakespeare nodded. “I thought you might too, which is why we stopped to wait.”
They walked twenty-five yards through the gently waving grass. Nate looked right and left but saw no sign of his family, and he was just about to ask his friend where they were when the grass abruptly ended at the brink of a narrow but deep gully. There were the packhorses, picketed where they could graze, and seated on an earthen shelf were his loved ones and Blue Water Woman.
Zachary glanced up, beamed, and leaped to his feet with his arms outstretched. “Samson! You came back!”
The dog sailed over the rim in a graceful bound, landed halfway down, leaped again, and came to rest in front of the boy. Zach immediately embraced it affectionately and bestowed kisses on its head while giggling in childish delight.
“Nice to be loved, isn’t it?” Shakespeare asked Nate, and stepped to a gap in the gully wall created some time ago when that particular section collapsed. He walked to the bottom. “Here he is, ladies,” he announced in grand fashion as the two women stood. “He would have been here sooner but he was busy picking ticks off of buffaloes.”
Winona’s features were composed when she came forward to greet her husband, but in the depths of her eyes lurked lingering anxiety. “I was worried,” she said simply.
“You weren’t the only one,” Nate said, giving her a hug. He smelled the aromatic scent of her hair and swore he could feel her heart beating through her buckskin dress. “I won’t go off like that again if I can help it.”
“Where did you find Samson?” Winona asked.
“He found me.”
“If you have no objections, we should push on,” Shakespeare interjected. “It’s a far piece to St. Louis and we’re not getting any younger standing around here.”
“Let’s go, then,” Nate said.
It took them five minutes to collect their stock animals, mount up, and head out. Nate let Shakespeare take the lead so he could ride with Winona and Zach. The sun beat down unmercifully and the breeze became sluggish at best.
Lulled into complacency because he was safe and sound, Nate dozed in the saddle. Each time his eyes closed and he began to sag he would snap awake with a start and gaze all around to verify the prairie was still empty. He wasn’t worried about the Cheyennes following him. If he hadn’t lost them before the buffalo stampede, he certainly had afterward. The thundering herd would have erased every vestige of his passing.
Gradually the afternoon sun traversed its heavenly circuit and sank toward the western horizon. Nate saw his shadow lengthen until it attained gargantuan proportions, as did the shadows of all the others.
“I know this stretch of prairie,” Shakespeare remarked. “We won’t strike water until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Any places to camp?” Nate inquire.
“Not where we can lay low, if that’s what you mean. Trees are few and far between, and if there’s another gully handy I don’t know of it.”
“Then we stay in the open tonight,” Nate said, wishing they’d stumble on a safer spot. They would need a fire, and no matter how small they kept it the light would be visible for miles. But search as he would, he saw no likely spot.
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br /> The sun had dipped partially from sight before they decided to halt. First the horses were picketed, then a fire was started. Winona and Blue Water Women prepared delicious biscuits and a savory stew using jerked venison and a handful of wild onions they had found. The five of them formed a ring around the fire when they ate, not so much for the warmth as to block off some of the light.
Nate ate stew until he was ready to burst. He leaned back on his saddle, patted his stomach, and gazed at the stars now dominating the sky. Out in the wilderness the nights were always clearer than they had ever been back in New York City, and once the sun relinquished its fiery perch a myriad of sparkling stars unfolded into infinity. The sight always inspired him. He would stare at the celestial spectacle in awe, convinced he was seeing the raiment of the Great Spirit in all its majestic glory.
Across the fire Shakespeare also looked on the heavens, his features downcast.
“Are you sad, my love?” Blue Water Woman inquired.
The mountain man blinked, then put a smile on his face. “Me?” he said, and began quoting the bard. “I have neither the scholar’s melancholy, which is emulation, nor the musician’s, which is fantastical, nor the courtier’s, which is proud, nor the soldier’s, which is ambitious, nor the lawyer’s, which is politic, nor the lady’s, which is nice, nor the lover’s, which is all these. But it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often ruminations wraps me in a most humorous sadness.”
Blue Water Woman glanced at Nate. “Did he say yes?”
“You’re asking me?”
“If anything is bothering you, tell me,” Blue Water Woman told her husband. “You have been behaving strangely for weeks now and I would like to know the reason.”
“It’s your imagination,” Shakespeare said.
“You have never kept secrets from me before.”
“And you wrongly accuse me of doing so now,” Shakespeare replied. He quoted again. “If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, when time is old and hath forgot itself, when water drops have worn the stones of Troy, and blind oblivion swallow’d cities up, and mighty states characterless are grated to dusty nothing, yet let memory, from false to false, among false maids, in love, upbraid my falsehood.”
Hawken Fury (Giant Wilderness Book One) Page 13
