Hawken Fury (Giant Wilderness Book One)

by Robbins, David

  “Are you saying my love is false?”

  “Never, dear heart,” Shakespeare answered, tenderly taking her hand in his. “Your love is my anchor and as true as life itself.” He paused, his brow creasing. “But to be frank, and give it thee again. And yet I wish but for the thing I have. My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep. The more I give to thee, the more I have.” He paused once more and, lowered his head.

  Alone among those present, Nate knew the reason for his friend’s uncharacteristic sorrow and introspection, and he was annoyed with himself for not giving more thought to Shakespeare’s illness. Once they arrived in St. Louis he would escort Shakespeare to a doctor without delay.

  Adeline would have to wait.

  The rest of the evening passed peacefully. Winona prevailed on McNair to quote a few sonnets. Zach was the first to fall asleep, and the women soon did the same. Nate and Shakespeare took turns on guard, dividing the night between them, and it was Nate who sat by the smoldering embers when the pink fingers of dawn started to push the night aside.

  Day after day passed in a similar manner. Once they saw a smaller herd of buffalo, and three times they came on Indian sign but no hostiles. One day Nate shot a deer. Another time Shakespeare bagged an antelope.

  The closer they drew to St. Louis, the quieter Winona became. Blue Water Woman too was less talkative than usual, and stayed by her husband’s side. Only Zach laughed and played in innocent ignorance, Samson his constant companion.

  Nate grew more excited every day but never showed it. Winona, he figured, would only become moodier. He went out of his way to avoid upsetting her, and did everything in his power to reassure her that all would go well in St. Louis. All his attention seemed to do little good.

  By Nate’s estimation they were a week out of St. Louis when they stopped to rest at midday in a stand of trees bordering a shallow creek. “I’ll water the horses,” he volunteered, and took the gelding and the rest of their mounts over to the edge of the rippling water. He would do the pack animals next.

  South of the creek lay scattered trees and a knoll. To the west and east pristine prairie. A hawk soared on the high currents and a rabbit nibbled on a plant fifty yards distant.

  He leaned the Hawken against a tree and knelt to splash cool water onto his face. Reflected back at him was the face of a man badly needing a shave and a haircut. He looked down at his buckskins and noticed the grease and dirt stains he had come to take for granted. Good Lord! Before he could pay Adeline a visit he must make himself presentable. A bath and a shave were definitely in order, and new clothes wouldn’t hurt either. It had been years since he wore store-bought garb, and he wondered if the styles had changed much.

  Pegasus nickered loudly and Nate looked up, his hands immersed in the creek. Since so many days had elapsed without mishap, he wasn’t expecting trouble and had permitted his attention to lapse. But trouble was what he found in the form of a huge panther slinking toward the horses, apparently coming from behind the knoll. Already the creeping cat was within a couple of yards of the creek.

  Surprise caused Nate to hesitate for a second. Then he came to life and swept upright, clawing for both flintlocks. The Hawken was behind him and useless. If he turned his back the panther might well leap on him. His fingers closed on the pistols and they swept out from under his wide leather belt. But he realized with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach that he was too slow by far.

  The sudden movement had caused the panther to pick new prey. Rather than the motionless horses, it leaped at the figure it saw rising and cleared the creek in a terrific spring.

  Nate was leveling the flintlocks when the big cat crashed into him, knocking him backwards. Razor claws bit into his shoulder and chest and the panther’s tapered teeth were inches from his face. He went down, the panther on top, and fired both pistols without thinking. Whether he scored or the booming sound scared the cat, he didn’t know. But the panther bounded off him and he rolled onto one knee, releasing the right flintlock to grab for his butcher knife. Again he was too slow.

  A hurtling tawny battering ram struck him in the shoulder, smashing him onto his side. Pain seared his ribs and he twisted to see the panther bite into his upper arm.

  Someone nearby was shouting.

  He instinctively swung the left flintlock, bashing the panther on the nose. The cat jumped back, giving him an opening, and he surged into a crouch and swept his knife out of its sheath. Vaguely he was aware of Shakespeare yelling for him to move, that Shakespeare didn’t have a clear shot. There was no time, though. The panther was on him in a rush, a rush he met head-on, grappling as he plunged his knife to the hilt in the cat’s belly again and again and again.

  The world spun as they rolled and thrashed. He knew he was being ripped and torn. He knew he should push back and give Shakespeare that shot. But he was afraid in so doing he would give the panther an opportunity to employ those wicked claws to even better effect. As long as they were body to body the cat couldn’t make the most of its powerful legs. So he stabbed, stabbed, stabbed, pumping his arm without cease.

  Water splashed all over him and he realized they had rolled into the creek. He swallowed some and sputtered. An intense stinging sensation seared his forehead and blood promptly flowed over his eyes. He couldn’t see! In desperation he shoved away from the savage beast and wiped a sleeve across his face.

  Somewhere a rifle blasted.

  His vision cleared and he expected to find the panther dead. Yet the cat was attacking once more, reaching him in a single mighty vault. He thrust a hand up to prevent the panther from tearing into his throat and wound up flat on his back in the creek. Something sliced into the side of his neck. His senses swam and he couldn’t concentrate. Dimly, he suspected he must be dying. A shapeless inky cloud engulfed his mind, and the last thing he remembered before emptiness claimed him was the shattering sound of thunder that eclipsed any thunder ever known.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The doctor sighed and raised his hand from Nate’s hot forehead. He thoughtfully chewed on his lower lip for a minute, then pivoted and regarded his audience somberly. “I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can do. His life is in the hands of a higher power than mine.”

  Winona, seated in a chair between Shakespeare and Blue Water Woman, with Zachary rigid on her lap, averted her eyes and swallowed hard. A peculiar lump obstructed her throat and she experienced difficulty breathing.

  “We appreciate all you’ve done, Doc Sawyer,” Shakespeare responded, rising.

  “I just wish it could have been more,” Sawyer said, and frowned. “He’s lost more blood than any person can dare afford to lose.”

  The mountain man nodded, then stepped over to the bed. “We did the best we could. Rode day and night to get here.”

  Sawyer looked at Winona and Blue Water Woman. “The dressings these ladies applied did a world of good. Probably kept him alive until you arrived.” He ran a finger over his drooping black mustache. “Perhaps they would be willing to share their secret sometime. I’m always open to Indian remedies. I’ve found they often work better than the cures touted by my learned colleagues back East.”

  “We will write the herbal ingredients down for you and give them to you the next time you visit,” Blue Water Woman said.

  “Thank you,” Doctor Sawyer said, and stooped to pick up his large black bag. He stared one last time at Nate King’s terribly lacerated features, grimaced, and walked to the doorway. “If he does by some miracle pull through,” he told Winona, “he’ll be scarred for life. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t care about scars,” Winona said softly. “I only want him to live.”

  The physician mustered a wan smile and departed.

  For a while no one else uttered a word. It was little Zach who finally broke the silence.

  “Is Pa going to die, Ma?”

  Tears filled the corners of Winona’s eyes and she pretended to be extraordinarily interested in her moccasins.


  “Will he, Ma?”

  Blue Water Woman stood. “No one can say, young one.” She leaned down and lifted Zach in her arms, grinning bravely. “Why don’t you come with me and I’ll let you have more of the pudding I made last night?”

  “Could I?” Zach asked eagerly.

  “Your mother won’t mind,” Blue Water Woman said, moving off.

  “Thanks.”

  “Thank my husband. He was the one who taught me how to prepare it. Dried-fruit pudding is one of his favorites.”

  They were almost out the door when Zachary glanced at the grizzled frontiersman. “Shakespeare can cook?”

  Then they were gone.

  “Nice kid,” Shakespeare muttered. “Takes after his old man.”

  Winona fought to prevent the tears from flowing. The women of her tribe prided themselves on their courage in the face of adversity and their ability to stoically endure any hardship. No warrior in his right mind wanted a wife who was weak in that respect, who whined and cried like a pampered child, and every Shoshone maiden worked hard at cultivating the proper emotional maturity. She had been reared to believe there was a proper time and place to express sorrow, and this was most certainly not it. Not with Nate needing her and Zach depending on her. She must be strong now, stronger than she had ever had occasion to be.

  Shakespeare came over. “I’m going shopping with Tricky Dick and his wife. Care to tag along?”

  “I will stay here.”

  “Suit yourself,” Shakespeare said. “Is there anything you need?”

  “No.”

  “Anything for the boy?”

  “No,” Winona said, but remembered something as Shakespeare walked away. “Wait. Yes. Nate promised to buy him some candy. Would you?”

  “Consider it done,” Shakespeare said, and glanced at the prone figure of his friend covered to the neck by a thick quilt. “Tell you what. If you want, I’ll take Blue Water Woman and Zach along. Give you some time alone with him. What do you say?”

  She looked at him, her face reflecting her gratitude.

  “I figured as much,” Shakespeare said. He hurried from the bedroom.

  Standing, Winona stepped lightly to the side of the bed and gently sat next to her husband. She reached out and tenderly touched his cheek, appalled at how his skin burned to the touch. The white bandage on his neck and the bandages on his arm, shoulder, and side were clean and fresh, changed by Sawyer ten minutes ago. She stared at the five deep gashes on Nate’s forehead, at the stitches holding the severed skin together, and vented a low groan of despair.

  If she lost him, what would she do? She couldn’t conceive of life without him. Until she met Nate her life had been pleasant enough but empty. She had done her best to be a dutiful daughter and to make her parents proud of her accomplishments in the womanly arts. She had learned to sew and weave and cook and prepare animal skins, to find medicinal herbs and forage for edible plants. She had excelled in everything a Shoshone woman needed to know. But deep down she had always felt a certain emptiness, as if part of her were missing.

  The many braves who had courted her had not interested her in the least. Not even the son of a prominent chief who had offered her father sixty horses for her hand. She had stood under a blanket with many and let them talk on of their deeds and possessions, but none had stirred her heart, none had touched the core of her being where every woman desired to be touched by the man she would marry.

  And then along came Nathaniel King, a white man no less. She still vividly recalled the very first time she saw him, when he charged to her rescue during a Blackfoot attack. How brave he had been! How magnificent! The moment she had locked her eyes on his would always be etched in her mind. At that instant it had been as if her heart tried to fly from her body and stick to his. Her blood had raced, and she had felt a strange warm flush all over.

  She touched a finger to his lips and felt his warm breath. If he died she didn’t want to live. If not for Zach she would be inclined to put an end to her life as other Shoshone women who had lost their husbands had done, by venturing off unarmed and without food or water into the wilderness until hostile Indians or wild beasts put an end to their misery. But she had her son to think of. Nate would expect her to carry on, to rear Zach as they had planned. She must not fail him.

  The Harrington cabin was quiet and she wondered if everyone else had already gone. Pulling a chair up to the bed, she sat down and took Nate’s limp hand in hers. Fatigue tugged at her senses and her eyelids fluttered. For three days she had seldom left the comfortably furnished bedroom and eaten scarcely enough to fill a raven. She needed rest but she didn’t want to give in, not yet, not until she knew Nate was going to recover.

  Minutes dragged past.

  Winona heard Nate’s breathing and watched the quilt over his chest rise and fall. She closed her eyes to rest for just a little while. A few minutes, at most. That was all. A few peaceful minutes. A few ...

  Her intuition flared as her eyes snapped wide and she knew something was wrong. She sat up, blinking, annoyed that she had fallen asleep. In front of her Nate still slumbered. A glance at the window showed the sun shining brilliantly so she couldn’t have slept for very long. Suddenly she sensed they were no longer alone, and she twisted in the chair to gasp in surprise as a shiver ran down her back.

  Framed in the doorway was a beautiful blond woman dressed in the finest clothes money could buy. Sunlight from the window struck her golden hair in such a manner that it ringed her head in a shimmering halo. Her striking blue dress perfectly matched the hue of her eyes. She advanced without saying a word, her lovely face betraying no emotion whatsoever, and studied Nate intently before turning. “I came as soon as I heard.”

  Winona couldn’t seem to find her voice. She stared in astonishment at this vision, icy fingers freezing her soul, and nervously licked her lips. “Who are you?” she finally inquired, knowing the answer before she asked.

  “Adeline Van Buren. And you?”

  “I am Winona,” Winona responded, then thought to quickly add, “Mrs. Nate King.”

  The woman smiled but the smile didn’t light her eyes. Her features were totally devoid of human warmth. “So. Yes, I had heard. Pity.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Winona said, struggling to control the turmoil in her breast. She placed both hands on the arms of the chair and rose slowly.

  “That man Gordon and my other informants told me he had married …” Adeline said, and paused, then finished her statement distastefully. “An Indian woman.”

  “Informants?” Winona said, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” the woman responded, and rested her hand on Nate’s shoulder. “All that matters is he’s here and everything will be wonderful again. Everything will be just as it was.”

  Winona felt the first jealousy she had ever known, a bitter surge of raw resentment that made her yank the white woman’s hand off her husband. “What do you think you are doing? Why are you here?”

  Adeline Van Buren stiffened and rubbed her wrist. “To claim what is rightfully mine,” she said coldly.

  “Nate is my husband.”

  “Of course he is, dear,” Adeline said with the condescending air of an adult addressing a vexed youngster. “And who can blame him for marrying you? He’d been off in those dreadful mountains for so long. He needed companionship on those cold winter nights.”

  Winona couldn’t believe the woman was talking to her like this. She had heard there were many whites who despised Indians, but she had never met anyone like this woman who wore her hatred on her sleeve, as it were. She keenly resented Van Buren’s attitude, and it was all she could do not to slug the white bitch in the mouth. “I want you to leave,” she declared.

  “We will shortly.”

  “We?”

  Adeline Van Buren took a seat on the edge of the bed. “You must try to comprehend my position. I’ve expended a great deal of money and time in tracking Nate King do
wn. I’ve come all the way from New York City to this wretched city that doesn’t know the first thing about culture, and where it isn’t safe for a woman to walk the streets alone after dark. And I have no intention of returning empty-handed.”

  Winona stepped between the woman and the door. “Nate is in no condition to go anywhere, and he would not go with you even if he were.”

  The woman laughed. “So you would like to believe. But given a choice between the two of us, which one do you think he would prefer?”

  There it was. The very question Winona had worried over for weeks. For years. Would Nate pick her or this other? Did Nate truly love her? She gazed at him, thinking of all the happy times they had shared, thinking of their joy-filled life at their cabin high in the Rockies, of all he had done for her during their marriage, and of the love she saw frankly reflected in his eyes every time he looked at her. “He loves me,” she said. “Not you.”

  “Perhaps he thinks he does. But all that will change with time.”

  “How dare you,” Winona bristled, clenching her fists. “I want you out of this house this instant.”

  “I’m leaving, but I’m taking Nate with me.”

  “I will kill you first.”

  Adeline Van Buren smiled again, this time with real pleasure. “I came prepared for such a contingency.” She gazed past Winona. “We dare not waste more time, Rhey. Yancy won’t be able to delay McNair and Harrington forever.”

  Shifting, Winona saw a man enter the room, a thin man with angular features and dark eyes. From head to toe he wore black: black jacket, black shirt, black trousers, black boots, and a black hat. He was clean shaven, his skin unusually pale as if he rarely was abroad during the daytime. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, suppressing a flutter of fear.