Shakespeare had been in love twice in his life. Love of the marrying kind. His first wife had been kind and wonderful. After she died he lived alone for years until circumstance conspired to bring him back together with Blue Water Woman.
It was strange. Here Shakespeare thought he had loved his first wife with the deepest love anyone ever felt. But his love for Blue Water Woman eclipsed his first love as the sun eclipsed the earth. The depth of his devotion to her went beyond anything he ever knew. They had a pet expression—“hearts entwined”—that described better than any other words what they meant to each other.
Now she lay at death’s door, and there was nothing Shakespeare could do but wait. Not that he had been idle. He never went anywhere without his possibles bag. In it were a fire steel and flint, a sewing needle, a whetstone, and other things he found regular use for. There were also various herbs.
To aid Blue Water Woman, first he applied a powder ground from the root of what the Shoshones called the wambona plant. It was the best of all medicines to stop bleeding.
Once Shakespeare was sure he had stopped it, he made a poultice from plantain and applied it with a cloth.
At moments like this, Shakespeare took issue with the Almighty. It seemed to him that the suffering people went through—and some folks went through a godawful lot of it—they were better off without. He wasn’t one of those who thought life should be all cream and pie, but he was prone to wonder where the sense was in people hurting and dying.
Shakespeare roused and shook his head. Feeling sorry for himself wouldn’t do any good. He rose and went into the bedroom. Blue Water Woman was as pale and still as before. He sat on the edge of the bed and placed his hand on her brow to see if she had a fever, and she opened her eyes.
“There you are.”
Shakespeare nearly jumped. “You’re awake!” He bent and kissed her right cheek and then her left, his eyes misting. “Damn, you gave me a scare.”
Blue Water Woman licked her lips. She was unbearably weak, and her head throbbed. But she didn’t dwell on the shape she was in. She saw the worry in his eyes and perceived the turmoil he was in, and did what she always did. She took his mind off his worries by asking, “Whose bed is this?”
“What?”
“A simple question. This is not ours. What kind of husband are you that you put me in a strange bed?”
“Now see here,” Shakespeare said in some annoyance, “we’re in Zach’s cabin. He went off after the Blood who took Lou. I’ve done what I could for you and tucked you in.”
“I want to be in our own bed.”
“Later.”
“I would like to go now.”
“If you aren’t the most contrary female who ever drew breath, I don’t know who is. I’ll take you to our cabin when you’re up to it and not before.”
“But—”
“Have you forgotten the knock on your noggin? Do you have any idea how much blood you’ve lost? It’s best you lie here and get your strength back.”
“Nate would take Winona if she asked him. Zach would take Lou.”
“I never,” Shakespeare said, and launched into a quote. “ ‘I will fetch you a toothpicker now from the furtherest inch of Asia. Bring you the length of Prestor John’s foot. Fetch you a hair off the great Cham’s beard. Do you any embassage to the Pygmies.’ ” He paused. “And whatever else your little heart desires.”
Blue Water Woman mustered a wan smile.
“Share the humor, why don’t you?”
“You are yourself again.”
Emotion welled up in Shakespeare. Here she was, severely hurt, and she was more concerned about him. He tried to speak but couldn’t for the constriction in his throat.
“Cat have your tongue?” said Blue Water Woman a white saying she remembered. “It must be some cat to stop yours from wagging.”
Shakespeare looked away. He coughed, then carefully embraced her and whispered into her ear, “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”
“More than you love your mare?”
“A horse is a horse. You’re mixing feathers and fur.”
“More than you love your rifle?”
“Now you’re just being silly. I’m fond of my gun, yes, because it keeps me alive. But I’d never ask it to marry me.”
“More than you love the Bard?”
Shakespeare raised his head and looked at her. “Damn, woman. When you cut, you go for the jugular. But since you have put me on the spot, I’ll confess.” He stroked the soft sheen of her neck. “I love you more than I love old William S.”
Blue Water Woman grinned. “At long last I know where I stand. I should be hit on the head more often.”
Shakespeare laughed. She was acting more like her usual self every minute, and there was a pink blush to her cheeks that bode well for her recovery. “Is there anything I can get you? Anything at all?”
“How soon men forget. I want to be in my own bed.”
“ ‘Well moused, lion.’ I will go make a travois.”
“How sweet of you. And all I had to do was twist your arm.”
Shakespeare McNair sighed.
Zach King was doing it again. He was being reckless. He knew it, but he couldn’t stop himself. The sign was fresh. The tracks showed he was close to his quarry, close to the Blood who had taken the woman he loved, close to rescuing her. So he pushed hard up the slope, goading the bay when it flagged. He was so intent on the tracks that he came out of the forest and was a few feet up a talus slope when he realized what it was, and drew rein.
Zach raised his head. The tracks led onto the talus. He pursed his lips in puzzlement. Only a madman or a fool would try to cross talus. The Blood impressed him as neither. The spike on the sapling had been the work of a shrewd mind.
The ridge above the talus consisted of more timber broken by large boulders. Nowhere was there any sign of Lou and her abductor. So they must have made it up.
Zach had a decision to make. Climb the talus, or be smart and safe and ride around it. Riding around would take longer. Since every second of delay was an eternity of suspense, he did what he knew he shouldn’t. His father would have the good sense not to. The same with McNair. But Zach jabbed his heels against the bay and started up.
Almost immediately dirt and stones spilled from under the bay’s heavy hooves. The bay snorted and stopped, and Zach urged it on again. He held his rifle low against his left leg, the reins in his right hand.
Up above, Lou was startled by a clatter. She looked down, and her heart leapt into her throat. It was Zach, coming to save her! She opened her mouth to shout a warning, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw the warrior smile.
The Outcast was pleased with himself. He had planned well. The woman would yell. The breed would forgo all caution and charge up the slope. The talus would bring the breed’s horse down, leaving the breed on foot in the open, within range of his arrows. Then he realized the woman was looking at him.
A chill rippled through Lou. She knew that if she shouted, Zach would come flying up that treacherous slope—which she now suspected was exactly what her captor wanted him to do. She saw an arrow notched to his bowstring, an arrow meant to take her husband’s life, and she acted out of sheer impulse, out of her love for the man who had claimed her heart. She threw herself at the warrior.
The Outcast was caught off-guard. He had expected the woman to shout. With her ankles bound, he’d felt she posed no threat. But suddenly she was on him, raking at his eyes with her nails, a fierce gleam in her eyes that made him think of a mountain lion protecting her kittens or a shebear, her cubs.
Lou’s one hope was to blind him. She couldn’t hope to overpower him; he was much too big and too strong. So she clawed at his eyes with both hands while driving both her knees at his chest.
The Outcast was knocked back. He rolled as he hit the ground and she clung to him like a bobcat to its prey. He wanted to hold on to the bow, but if he did she would take out an eye.
&
nbsp; Lou missed his eye but opened his cheek. He kept turning his head to thwart her. When he tried to roll on top of her, she kicked out with all her might with both legs.
The Outcast was sent tumbling. He lost the bow and the arrow and came to a stop on his stomach. Placing his hands flat, he went to push up and realized he was on the talus. He rose as high as his knees and looked up just as the white woman launched herself at him.
Lou gave no thought to her safety, no thought to the life in her womb. She thought only of Zach and what her captor would do to the man she loved if she didn’t stop him. She slammed into the Outcast’s chest so hard that it sent pain shooting from her shoulder to her hip. The next instant she was on her side and sliding.
The Outcast was sliding, too. He thrust his arm down to stop, but he was caught in a flowing current of stones and dirt.
Below, Zach drew rein in amazement at the sight of his wife and her warrior captor locked in mortal combat. He saw Lou hurl herself at the warrior and both of them tumble down the slope in a rush of broken earth. “Lou!” he bawled in alarm.
Louisa heard him. She sought to arrest her slide, but the stones tore at her palms and fingers. Her legs, bound as they were, were of little use. She remembered her father-in-law telling her once about the time he was caught in a talus slide, and how he had stayed limp and loose and let the talus sweep him along. So long as she didn’t fight it, she might reach the bottom alive.
The Outcast dug in his heels and clutched at the talus, but he might as well have clutched at sand. He couldn’t stop sliding. Worse, he was sliding ever faster and dislodging more and more talus. He was like a ball of snow sent rolling down a slope, gathering speed and growing in size. Dust enveloped him like a cloud, making him cough, making it hard to see.
Zach started to rein to Lou’s aid and stiffened. A twenty-foot section of stone and earth was sweeping toward the bottom, carrying Lou and the Blood with it—and coming directly at him. He reined around, or tried to, and suddenly the bay was kicking and whinnying as the slope gave way under it. Zach threw himself clear as the bay came down on its side. Fortunately they hadn’t climbed far. It was only a dozen feet to the bottom. Zach came to a stop and stood.
Lou swatted at the cloud of dust. She remembered her condition, and put her hands over her belly, fearing the outcome should she careen into a boulder. She glimpsed Zach down at the bottom and was glad he was safe. Then she realized she was sliding toward him, along with tons of dirt and rock, and a warning cry was torn from her throat.
Zach looked up. He ran to the bay, grabbed the reins, and tugged. The horse pumped upright and stood trembling. Quickly, Zach swung on. He reined the bay around and sought to gallop out of there, but the next second the the talus was upon them. Stones and dirt and dust eddied about the bay like water. The horse managed a few strides and was brought down again, whinnying as they were swept toward the trees.
Once again Zach flung himself clear. A spruce loomed and he tried to roll to the right, but he only partially succeeded. His ribs exploded with agony, and he almost lost his grip on the Hawken.
Lou was on her back, her heels up, praying desperately for deliverance. She had lost sight of her husband. She could no longer see the warrior. Under her, the talus moved like a living thing, bearing her with it. She was helpless in its grip, an ant caught in an earthen cataract.
The Outcast was doing all he could to stop his fall, and everything he did failed. His hands were torn, his feet battered. The quiver was torn from his back. He twisted to try to get his arms and legs under him, and was sent toppling out of control. Vaguely, he was aware of a large boulder in his path. The thud of contact caused his senses to reel and the world to dim. He shook his head to clear it in time to see another boulder. He hit it excruciatingly hard. He was conscious of flying through the air, of slamming down, of being swept along, a roar in his ears, dust in his nose and mouth and eyes.
Zach turned to look for Lou. A fist-sized rock shot at him like a cannonball and he went to duck, but it caught him on the side of the head. He cartwheeled. The sky and the ground changed places. A tree loomed. The world faded to black and he felt dirt sliding over him, and then there was nothing, save an abyss that sucked him into its inky depths.
Lou thought she would suffocate from all the dust. It made her eyes sting and water. She blinked and swiped at them with a sleeve and cleared them in time to feel the dirt give way under her and her body start to sink. Loose earth and stones flowed over her. She swatted at it but there was too much for her to stop it from covering her. She couldn’t help herself; she screamed.
As abruptly as it began, the slide was over. The scream died and the roar faded and the rock-and-dirt avalanche came to an end. In the ensuing silence, nothing moved.
The talus was empty of life.
Chapter Twelve
Indians used the travois when they moved from one site to another. It consisted of long poles lashed together and covered with a hide. Shakespeare McNair made sure the travois he rigged was good and sturdy before he covered it with a buffalo robe. Then he carefully carried his wife from the bed and out the front door. She was still much too weak, but she had recovered enough to put her arms around his neck and teasingly regard him with a playful gleam in her eyes.
“My, how strong you are. It is good to know the pots and pans will not strain you.”
Shakespeare was turning so he could lay her gently down. “Pots and pans?”
“One of us must do the cooking and wash the dishes after we eat.”
After wrapping her in the robe, Shakespeare stepped back. “There. You should be comfortable enough.”
“Didn’t you hear me?”
“Yes. I’m ignoring you. I wouldn’t let you cook anyway, in the shape your in. Nor wash clothes nor knit nor fetch the eggs from the chicken coop. Leave it all to me.”
“How kind you are,” Blue Water Woman said merrily. “I had forgotten your domestic skills. You use them so rarely.”
“‘Dost thou jeer and flout me in the teeth?’ ” Shakespeare quoted.
“Not at all.” Blue Water Woman smiled sweetly. “You would make some man a fine wife.”
Shakespeare snorted in mock indignation. “ ‘O curse of marriage, that we call these delicate creatures ours.’ ” He bent and kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, wench.”
“Pardon me?”
“You’re trying to keep me from worrying by taking my mind off that gash in your skull. But it won’t work. I love you too much.”
Blue Water Woman reached up and squeezed his hand. “As I love you, Carcajou.”
Shakespeare closed the door. He came around the travois, climbed on the mare, and started off at a turtle’s pace. “If I jostle you, I’m sorry. I’ll do the best I can not to.”
“You are most considerate.” Blue Water Woman was warm and snug. She closed her eyes and felt the motion of the travois under her.
Despite his worry, Shakespeare was optimistic. It appeared she wasn’t severely hurt. A couple of weeks to mend, and she would be her old self.
“Husband?”
“Yes, nag of my life?”
“How do you think Zach is faring?”
“That boy can handle himself better than most.” But deep down Shakespeare was worried. Blood warriors were fierce fighters. He wished he could have gone with the boy.
“Husband?”
“Yes, oh chattering chipmunk?”
“Why do you think the Blood took Louisa?”
“Maybe he hankered for companionship.” But Shakespeare doubted it.
The Blackfoot Confederacy was notorious for its hatred of whites. The last time he went to Bent’s Fort he’d been surprised to hear that several priests had gone into Blackfoot country to convert them. It struck him about as silly as trying to get a griz to give up meat.
“Husband?”
“Will you hush and rest? You talk more now than before you got that knock on the noggin.”
“I only wanted to say that after you get me home, you should go after Zachary.”
“No.”
“I will be fine by myself.”
“It’s still no.”
“Zach and Lou might need you. I could not bear it if anything were to happen to them.”
“I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.” The very thought made Shakespeare’s eyes mist. “Zach will understand. He’d do the same if he were in my moccasins.”
“May I ask you one more thing? And then I will be quiet.”
Shakespeare shifted to check that the travois was dragging as it should. Sometimes the poles came apart if they weren’t tied tight. “I’ll believe that when I don’t hear it. But go ahead. Ask away.”
“Are you sure you would not like to have a child of our own? We could go to St. Louis and adopt.”
“Are you insane? At our age?” Shakespeare laughed. “My heart might say yes, but my aching joints say no. It’s sweet of you, though.”
They were halfway to Nate’s cabin. The shore became rocky, so much so that Shakespeare reined closer to the trees, where the ground was largely rock free. He gazed at the wooded slopes to the west and spied a cloud of dust high up. The cloud grew, borne by the breeze. What caused it, he wasn’t rightly sure.
“Husband?”
“So much for your promise. You are falser than vows made in wine.”
“I insist you go find Zach and Lou. It will be partly my fault if they come to harm.”
“How do you figure?”
“If I had not been hurt, you would have gone with him.”
“Did you invite the Blood to our valley? Did you ask to be hit on the head? Quit being ridiculous.” Shakespeare shifted in the saddle. “When I get you to our cabin, you had better still that tongue of yours or I will by god sew your mouth shut.”
“You are adorable when you are angry.”
Shakespeare had a retort on the tip of his tongue, but just then the undergrowth crackled and out of the forest lumbered the last thing he wanted to run into with his wife lying helpless on a travois and the mare unable to go any faster than a walk.
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