And her frankness wasn’t the only source of distress.
Nate stared at her left hand. Thin strips of soft hide had been wrapped around the tips of her first two fingers to keep out the dirt and prevent infection.
How could she do such a thing?
To her, Nate realized, such a barbaric act was perfectly normal. She had lost her father and mother to the Blackfeet. Shoshone custom dictated that when a woman lost a member of her family or a dear friend, as a public show of mourning and proof of devotion she had to cut off a finger at the first joint. Nate had seen a few elderly women in the Shoshone camp who were missing the tips of each finger. The males also subscribed to the practice, although not as extensively, but they never sliced the ends off all their fingers for a very practical reason; the first two fingers on the hand they used for drawing a bow were never touched. Even though he knew how devoted the Shoshones were to their customs, Nate still could scarcely believe his wife had actually mutilated herself. Especially after he’d warned her not to do it.
How could she?
Shakespeare unexpectedly reined up. “Let’s rest for a bit,” he proposed.
“Now?” Nate responded in surprise. “When we are so close to the rendezvous site?”
“Now,” the frontiersman stated emphatically. “Fifteen minutes more won’t make a difference, will it?”
“No,” Nate said rather reluctantly. He was eager to reach their destination, but he’d learned not to question his friend’s judgment in such matters.
“The horses can use some water,” Shakespeare explained, nodding at the river several hundred yards to the east. “We can brush some of the dust from our clothes and get set for the rendezvous.”
“I’m already ready,” Nate said.
Shakespeare stared reproachfully at the younger man. “I wasn’t necessarily thinking about you or me.”
Stunned by his own stupidity, Nate looked at his wife. “Oh. I didn’t think it would matter to her.”
“In certain respects Indian women are no different from white women. They both like to put on their best dresses from time to time and sashay around for everyone to take a gander. If you want my advice, you’ll stop regarding your wife as an Indian and see her as the woman she is.”
“I do regard her as a woman.”
“Perhaps. But you still have a lot of foolish Eastern notions about Indians floating around in that dense skull of yours. Get rid of that nonsense and you’ll be much better off.”
“The voice of experience,” Nate said, wishing he had a third of his friend’s wisdom.
Shakespeare touched the hair hanging over his right ear. “Where do you think I got all this gray from?”
Laughing, Nate signed for Winona to dismount. “I’ll take the horses to the river,” he offered.
“My old bones thank you,” the frontiersman replied, and slipped to the ground.
“Your old bones can run rings around most men a third your age,” Nate pointed out.
Inhaling deeply, Shakespeare watched a hawk circle above a stand of pine trees to the south, then gazed at a herd of elk munching in a meadow to the southwest. “Living in the Rockies hardens a man, Nate. Makes him as tough as leather. If I’d spent my whole life in one of those big cities back East, where the only exercise most folks get is walking to their carriages each day, they would have planted me six feet under years ago.”
“You’re exaggerating, as usual.”
“Am I? You lived in New York City most of your life. Did you happen to notice anything peculiar about the air you were breathing?”
“It’s common knowledge the air there can be unhealthy at times, particularly on cold winter days when all that coal and wood is being burned. The papers were always full of stories about how bad the situation was, but no one had a solution.”
The frontiersman indicated the crystal-clear atmosphere overhead, then motioned at the pristine forest. “This is the solution.”
Nate knew better than to argue. Shakespeare’s logic could be irrefutable, especially when the topic concerned the relative merits of civilization and the wilderness. Deep down, Nate happened to agree. He’d breathed in the sooty air of New York City on many a day. He’d contended with the widespread carriage congestion. He’d been caught up in the frantic pace of life, in the frenetic drive to amass a fortune no matter what the cost, even if the work itself should be total drudgery. He was intimately familiar with all the dubious benefits of cultured society. And now, after having lived in the admittedly savage wilds and experiencing firsthand the genuine freedom enjoyed by those who had deliberately forsaken civilization’s constraints, he tended to regard life in New York City as a veritable prison where men and women had their minds and souls enslaved by greed.
“Are you planning to take the horses today or tomorrow?” Shakespeare asked.
With a start, Nate realized he’d been sitting there reflecting for over a minute. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and leaned down to take the reins to the white horse from his friend.
“Let the animals drink their fill,” Shakespeare advised. “They’ve earned it.” He stepped up to the side of his horse and removed some jerked meat.
“Save some for me,” Nate said, and turned his mare so he could collect Winona’s animal and the three pack horses. His wife had already taken a seat on a nearby log and was busy running a hairbrush through her long tresses. A porcupine’s tail had been used to construct the brush. It had been sewn over a long stick, then the quills trimmed until an inch and a half in length. To cover the seam, beadwork had been applied, resulting in an attractive brush every bit as serviceable as the most expensive variety found at the most fashionable shops.
Winona smiled up at him.
Returning her loving gaze, Nate heard the frontiersman cough loudly, and decided to attend to his task. He headed for the river, five horses in tow, his heart filled to overflowing with happiness. At that moment, there was nowhere else in the world he would rather have been than right where he was. He swung to the left to skirt a dense thicket, humming softly, and had covered ten yards when nature again reminded him that he could not afford to relax his vigilance for a second.
With a mighty growl, a grizzly lumbered from the copse.
Chapter Two
Of all the wild creatures known to exist in the vast tract extending from the Mississippi to the West Coast, absolutely none were more feared than the grizzly bear. Specimens over eight feet in length had been taken, and they were known to weigh up to fifteen hundred pounds. The most unpredictable and dangerous of all the bears, grizzlies were generally given a wide berth by Indians and whites alike. When aroused, the ferocity of the grizzly knew no bounds. They were incredibly strong and powerfully built, and their mouths were filled with huge teeth capable of crunching bone to splinters. And their wicked claws, which could be over four inches in length, could split a man open with a single swipe.
Nate halted, the nape of his neck tingling, the breath caught in his throat. He recalled vividly his previous encounter with a grizzly, at the Republican River, when his left shoulder had been torn open and he’d been fortunate to escape with his life. Dread seized him. He almost employed the Hawken, but he knew the shot might only enrage the beast instead of killing it. Reports were common of grizzlies being shot five, ten, even fifteen times with no apparent effect.
The bear had stopped and now stood sniffing the air, not fifteen feet off.
Had the beast seen him? Nate wondered. Surely, at such close range, it had. But there was no telling if the bear could distinguish him from his horse. Grizzlies possessed poor vision, which was more than compensated for by their superb sense of smell. He hoped his human scent was disguised by the scent of the six horses.
Grunting, the monster took several ponderous steps forward, its broad head swinging from side to side.
Nate gripped the Hawken so tightly his knuckles hurt. He could call out to Shakespeare for help, but both his mentor and his wife were likely to
come running and both would be easy pickings for the bear since they were on foot.
The grizzly, an enormous male with a brownish coat, the tips of the fine hairs tinged by the gray color that gave the species its name, cocked its head and intently regarded the intruders into its domain.
Please let it just go away! Nate prayed. He kept his right thumb on the Hawken’s hammer, his right forefinger on the trigger. If the beast charged he would use the rifle first, then bring the pistols into play. When trying to kill grizzlies, the only fairly certain method involved shooting them through the brains. Unfortunately, such a shot wasn’t easy. For one thing, there were two large muscles that covered both sides of the bear’s forehead, tough muscles difficult for a ball to penetrate. For another thing, the thickness of the cranial bone itself could deflect most shots.
Unexpectedly, the bear started to turn.
A sigh of relief issued from Nate’s throat, but it never reached his lips. The tales concerning grizzlies included many in which the monsters would move off at meeting with humans, as if they had no intention of attacking, and then suddenly whirl and rush at their intended victims full-out.
Which was exactly what transpired.
The bear went only five yards before spinning in a surprising display of agility and charging straight at the mare.
It took all of Nate’s self-control not to flee pell-mell. He whipped the Hawken to his shoulder, took aim at the center of the beast’s skull, and fired. The booming of the rifle produced a small cloud of smoke, but not enough to prevent Nate from seeing his ball smash into the bear above its right eye.
The grizzly stumbled, its front legs buckling, momentarily stunned.
Giving Nate the chance he needed. He wheeled the mare and shouted, driving the other horses off, aware they could hardly afford to lose one. Next to a good gun, the most precious commodity a man possessed was his horse.
A tremendous snarl rent the air to his rear.
Nate urged the mare into a gallop, looking over his right shoulder as he did.
The bear was closing rapidly and would overtake the mare within seconds.
Instantly Nate’s left hand streaked to the corresponding pistol and he drew the flintlock, one of a matched set of smoothbore single-shot .55-caliber weapons his Uncle Zeke had purchased for him back in St. Louis. They had limited range, but close in, packed a hefty wallop. He cocked the one in his hand, hastily pointed it at the bear, and fired.
The ball took the bear in the left nostril.
Nate kept riding, his eyes on the beast. He jammed the used pistol under his belt and drew the second.
Slowed by the second hit, the bear vigorously shook its head, spraying blood from its ruptured nose, then faced straight ahead and bore down on its quarry again.
Only one shot left, Nate thought to himself, and gulped as he envisioned those terrible claws tearing into his flesh.
He swung his arm around, taking better aim this time, and waited for the bear to get much closer.
Somewhere, someone was shouting.
The grizzly narrowed the gap swiftly. Although they were not built for long-distance endurance running, they could cover short distances faster than a horse.
Keep coming, you devil!
Nate smiled grimly and held his arm as steady as he could under the circumstances. He tried to take a bead on the bear’s right eye, but on a racing horse the feat was akin to shooting a pea from a pod while swinging from a rope.
Almost within striking distance, the grizzly opened its mouth wide, exposing its horrid teeth, elevating its head ever so slightly and inadvertently offering a better view of its eyes.
For a fraction of a second the tip of the barrel and the bear’s right eye seemed to be in perfect alignment, and Nate promptly squeezed the trigger.
The ball did the rest. Bursting the right eyeball in a spray of crimson gore, it apparently bored deep into the grizzly’s skull, because the very next second the beast crashed to the ground, rolling end over end for a dozen yards before coming to rest on its left side.
Elated, Nate faced forward, about to rein up. In startled shock he realized he was heading straight for a tree, and he hauled on the reins in an effort to turn the mare. A stout limb seemed to leap out at him, catching him squarely across the chest, and he felt his body leave the saddle and sail through the air, his senses swimming. His shoulders hit first, sending waves of agony pounding at his consciousness, and he slid for a few feet, then lay still on his back.
Oh, Lord, it hurt!
“Nate!”
Nate dimly heard Shakespeare’s cry. He struggled to remain awake, aware of a great pain in his ribs, feeling as if the tree had fallen on top of him.
What if he was all busted up?
The nearest doctor was over a thousand miles away. Serious wounds and injuries in the wilderness, which might have been successfully treated in civilization, frequently proved fatal. Many a trapper had been shot or mauled and succumbed to infection instead of the wound itself. Indian remedies were highly regarded by the old mountain men, but many involved the use of herbs which very few whites knew how to obtain.
Nate tried to lift his head, and sank down again when assailed by severe dizziness. He thought of his family back in New York City, and wondered if they would grieve when they heard the news. His mother would. But knowing his stern father as well as he did, and knowing how his father could hold a grudge for years, unrelenting and unrepentant, he doubted very much tears would be shed by the King patriarch.
“Nate!”
This time the voice was Winona’s. His name had been the first English word she had learned.
“Winona?” Nate croaked, wishing she could be spared the sight of his caved-in chest. He blinked a few times, his vision clearing, and saw her beautiful face appear above his. Her warm fingers touched his cheeks and his neck. “Where’ s Shakespeare?”
“Right here,” came the immediate reply, and the frontiersman knelt next to his friend. “How bad is it?”
“I feel as if all my ribs are broken.”
“Let’s have a look,” Shakespeare proposed, and began gingerly running his rough hands over Nate’s chest.
“Is the grizzly dead for certain?” Nate inquired weakly.
“As dead as they come. That was some shooting.”
Nate grunted and winced.
“Two grizzlies in two months. Not a bad record for a beginner. I know a fellow by the name of Old Jake who bagged seven grizzlies in two weeks once, but he was an experienced hunter,” Shakespeare related, increasing the pressure of his hands.
“I don’t care if I ever see another grizzly again.”
“You will. This country is crawling with them. They won’t last long, though, once the white man begins to push west of the Mississippi. For that matter, neither will the buffaloes or the Indians.”
Nate would have laughed if he wasn’t in so much anguish. “There must be hundreds of thousands of buffalo.”
“Millions,” Shakespeare corrected him.
“Then how can you say they’ll all be killed off? It’s impossible.”
“Mark my words. The forests in the Eastern states once teemed with deer and elk, yet look at them now. There are very few elk left east of Ohio, and the deer have been drastically reduced in numbers. Give the white man a chance and he’ll do the same thing to the buffalo,” Shakespeare said, and stopped probing with his fingers. “You can stand up now.”
Nate blinked a few times. “Stand? In my condition?’
“All you have are a few bruised ribs. None of them appear to be broken.”
Feeling supremely stupid, Nate raised his head and looked down at himself. The pain was still exquisite, but he felt relieved at discovering his chest to be intact.
“Congratulations,” Shakespeare said, grinning.
“For what?”
“You’re the only man I know who can kill a grizzly and almost kill himself all at the same time.”
“Thanks.” Nate
rose onto his elbows and smiled at his wife. She launched into a string of sentences in the Shoshone language, speaking too swiftly for him to follow her train of thought. His brow knit in perplexity.
The frontiersman noticed. “She says she is happy to have a husband who kills grizzlies so easily,” he translated, the corners of his mouth crinkling. “Now she knows why you were named Grizzly Killer, and she can’t wait to tell all the Shoshones about your battle.”
“I hope she leaves out the part about the tree,” Nate said dryly.
Winona abruptly rose and hastened toward the horses, which had stopped thirty feet away, whistling happily.
“Where is she going?” Nate inquired, sitting up slowly, a pang lancing his right side.
“To get her butcher knife. She’ll take care of skinning the bear for us.”
“Why bother with the bear when we’re so close to the rendezvous? Who needs it?”
“We do,” the frontiersman said, and gazed at the monster. “That coat is prime, Nate, and will fetch a pretty penny. Bear meat is delicious once you acquire the taste for it, and that one is packing several hundred pounds on his big frame. We’ll smoke it and use some for trade. Then there’s always the oil.”
“Oil?”
Shakespeare looked at the younger man and snorted. “I keep forgetting how much you have to learn yet. A person can get five to eight gallons of oil from a bear, depending on the size of the animal and how much time you’re willing to spend boiling it down.”
“In New York City I could buy oil at the mercantile,” Nate remarked.
“In the big cities you can buy everything nowadays,” Shakespeare stated bitterly. “City life is unnatural. A man tends to forget what life is all about if all he has to do is walk into a store and plunk down money for the necessities. That’s too easy. Life was meant to be hard, meant to be a struggle from cradle to grave. Hardship breeds character.” He stopped and took in the hills and mountains with a sweeping gaze. “Out here you learn the truth. You learn that only the strong survive. Nature has a way of weeding out the weaklings, whether they be rabbits, deer, or men. Cities, on the other hand, are breeding grounds for the weak. If a man wants to be a man, he has to get away from the cities.”
Wilderness: Savage Rendezvous/Blood Fury (A Wilderness Western Book 2) Page 2
