Wilderness: Savage Rendezvous/Blood Fury (A Wilderness Western Book 2)

by Robbins, David

  Shakespeare glanced at Nate. “Do you know how to dance?”

  “Never had much practice. I’m fair at slow dancing, though. Adeline used to compliment me all the time on my waltzing.”

  “You won’t find much waltzing done here. Just hope no one picks you as a dancing partner.”

  Crazy George came up from behind and rode on the frontiersman’s left. “Say, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Where the hell is Zeke?”

  A cloud seemed to descend on Shakespeare’s face. “Dead.”

  “No! How?”

  “A Kiowa warrior did him in.”

  “Damn! There was a fine man, the salt of the earth,” George stated. “I’m proud to have known Zeke King.” He suddenly blinked a few times, then stared at Nate. “King. King. Didn’t you tell me your name is King?”

  “Zeke was my uncle.”

  “Were you with him when the end came?”

  Nate simply nodded.

  “How did he die?”

  “What does it matter? He’s gone and that’s all that counts,” Nate said gruffly.

  The thin man recoiled as if struck. “Sorry, young fellow. I didn’t mean to rub a nerve.”

  “Let’s not talk about it.”

  “Fair enough. But first tell me this. Did the Kiowa bastard get away?”

  “No.”

  “Zeke got him?” Crazy George smiled. “That would be just like Zeke. Full of fire to the very end.”

  “Zeke didn’t kill the Kiowa. I did.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll show you his scalp later, if you want.”

  “Would you? Thanks,” George said, then gazed around them, his expression furtive. “Speaking of scalps, have you gentlemen heard the news?”

  “What news?” Shakespeare queried.

  “About the killings?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  George lowered his voice when he said, “The killing of the three trappers here at the rendezvous. Each one lost his hair.”

  Twisting in his saddle, Shakespeare regarded the thin man skeptically. “Is this another of your wild stories?”

  “When have I ever told wild stories?” Crazy George rejoined.

  “At least once a day.”

  “Name one.”

  “How about the time you claimed you went all the way out to California with three Frenchmen?”

  “I did. I did,” George said, bobbing his chin.

  “And you claimed you saw a new type of tree out there. What were they called again?”

  “The Spanish had a funny name for them. I called them stone trees because the wood was just like rock. You couldn’t cut it if you tried.”

  “Stone trees,” Shakespeare stated sarcastically. “And if I recall correctly, you told us there were stone birds in those trees, and those birds laid stone eggs.”

  George adopted a sheepish countenance. “Well, I may have exaggerated a bit to make the story more interesting.”

  “You never went to California and you know it.”

  “I did so,” George declared angrily. “I’ll take you there to prove it.”

  “I might get out there one day yet,” Shakespeare said. “But I’ll be damned if a man who is touched in the head is going to lead me.”

  “You’ve hurt my feelings, McNair,” the thin man responded, sounding genuinely distressed.

  “Excuse me,” Nate said, interrupting them. “I’d like to hear about the three trappers.”

  “Will you believe me if I tell you?” George asked.

  “Every word.”

  “Really?”

  “But stick to the facts.”

  “I will. The first man, Kevin Hughes, was found dead the second day of the rendezvous. Someone slit his throat from ear to ear, then lifted his hair,” George detailed. “And that wasn’t all. Hughes had sold four hundred ten pelts the day before, but there wasn’t any trace of the money on him or with his belongings.”

  “The killer must have taken it,” Nate speculated.

  “Most likely.”

  “Could Indians have been responsible?”

  It was Shakespeare who answered, his interest now fully aroused. “No. Not if, as I take it, Hughes’s personal effects weren’t touched.”

  “They weren’t,” Crazy George confirmed. “His guns, blankets, horses, and everything else was right where he left them.”

  “No Indian would ever pass up plunder like that,” Shakespeare said thoughtfully. “Horses and blankets mean more to an Indian than a handful of money. They have no appreciation of money’s value. They’re traders by nature. When they want something from white men, they trade for it.”

  “What about the other two trappers?” Nate inquired.

  “They were killed a few days ago,” George related. “Like Hughes, they’d just sold their furs and had close to two thousand dollars apiece.”

  “Who were they?” Shakespeare wanted to know.

  “Aaron Hersch and Jimmy O’Connor.”

  “Damn. I knew O’Connor. He was an old hand and as decent as they come,” the frontiersman said.

  “Were their throats also slit?” Nate questioned.

  “No. O’Connor took a knife in the back, and Hersch had his neck broken.”

  “It must take a strong man to break another person’s neck,” Nate commented.

  “Not really,” Shakespeare said. “All it takes is one good twist if you know how to apply the pressure.” He paused, looking at Crazy George. “No one found a clue to the killer’s identity?”

  “Not so much as a hair. Of course, it’s easy for a man to hide his tracks if he’s of a mind. Some of the trappers are of the opinion that Hersch put up a bit of a struggle before his neck snapped.”

  “Didn’t anyone hear the fight?” Nate asked.

  “Not a soul. But then, they’d gone off a ways by themselves. Pitched camp in some trees near the Bannock lodges. Someone told me they were planning to buy a couple of Bannock women and celebrate their earnings,” George disclosed, and frowned. “Poor devils.”

  Nate looked at Shakespeare. “Has anything like this ever happened before?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “All of the trappers are on edge,” Crazy George mentioned. “The main topic of conversation is the murders. No one goes anywhere without a loaded gun. And you don’t want to walk up behind anyone without letting them know you’re there, or you’ll wind up with a ball in your brains.”

  Raucous laughter erupted from a group of trappers off to the left.

  “‘They don’t seem very concerned about the murders at the moment,” Nate observed.

  “Of course not, young fellow. It’s daylight,” George responded. “Besides, most of the men here are accustomed to life in the wild. I’d say the majority have lived in the Rocky Mountain region for at least a year, and quite a few have been out here for two or three. They deal with Indians and animals all the time, so they’re not the kind to scare easily.”

  “What if the killer strikes again?”

  George shrugged. “What if he does?”

  “Has anyone thought to post guards at night? Maybe all the trappers should sleep in the same general area. That way the killer would find it harder to attack his victims.”

  “Got it all figured out, have you?” Crazy George said, and laughed.

  “The trappers would never agree to such an arrangement, Nate,” Shakespeare stated. “They’re too independent-minded. They’d rather take their chances than do anything that might give the impression they’re afraid.”

  “Doesn’t make sense to me,” Nate said, and turned to the thin man. “You told us two trappers were killed near the Bannock camp. Where was the third man slain?”

  A mischievous grin curled George’s mouth. “At his camp, right on the south shore of the lake, not far from a stand of cottonwoods.”

  Nate and Shakespeare exchanged glances.

  “It wouldn’t happen to be the same spot where you want us to pitch camp, wo
uld it?” the frontiersman inquired.

  “As a matter of fact, it would,” Crazy George answered. “But don’t worry. All of the blood has seeped into the ground by now.” So saying, he tossed back his head and roared.

  Chapter Eight

  Against Nate’s better judgment he allowed Shakespeare to persuade him to avail themselves of the site near the water. The ground was flat and grassy, ideal for the horses. Their nearest “neighbors” were two Irishmen located thirty yards to the east, three men from Pennsylvania about the same distance to the west, and Crazy George approximately forty yards to the south.

  Several hours were spent in arranging the camp to their satisfaction. Winona tended to the animals, unpacking them and letting the horses drink from the lake before hobbling their legs so they couldn’t stray far. She also gathered wood and proceeded to get a fire going on the exact spot where the slain trapper had had his.

  Nate decided not to tell Winona about the murderer stalking the rendezvous. He saw no reason to alarm her needlessly. The killer was obviously after men who had recently sold furs, and since neither Shakespeare nor he had any to sell, he doubted they were in any danger.

  The frontiersman went with him to the Shoshone encampment, and they tried to find a warrior willing to part with the buffalo hides needed to construct a small lodge. Only one Shoshone had a teepee cover he could spare, but it was old and torn and would have fallen apart at the first heavy rain.

  “I wish we could have found one for Winona’s sake,” Nate commented as they rode back toward the lake.

  “Face facts. You’ll just have to kill a few buffaloes and chop down the saplings you’ll need for the poles.”

  “Can we do it today?”

  “There’s no rush. And I’d like to mingle, visit the booths and such.”

  “So would I,” Nate said. Earlier they had skirted the crowds flocking around the booths so they could reach the lake that much sooner. Now his eagerness to mingle and see the sights fought with his sense of duty to his wife, and he came to the conclusion that an extra night or two spent sleeping on the ground wasn’t too great of an inconvenience. “We’ll go with you. I can always hunt buffalo tomorrow.”

  They were passing the stand of trees to the west of their camp. Ahead were the horses and possessions belonging to the trio from Pennsylvania, none of whom were around. Nate smiled as his gaze roved over the items, marveling that they had been left right out in the open. Back in New York City such an act would be the equivalent of sheer stupidity; the possessions would be gone before the owners returned. Out in the West, though, things were different. The people subscribed to a personal code of honor, a morality that prevented them from stooping to petty robbery.

  Well, almost all the people.

  There were always exceptions like the killer.

  “What the hell!” Shakespeare unexpectedly exclaimed, and galloped eastward.

  Nate took one look and did the same, his pulse quickening, the Hawken clutched in his right hand. There were four riders at the camp. He recognized one of them right away.

  Laclede!

  What were the weasel and his cohorts doing there? Nate wondered. As he drew rapidly closer his gaze was drawn to the largest of the quartet, a veritable giant of a man on a brown stallion. Well over six feet tall, the man was endowed with a bronzed, muscular physique. This giant wore no shirt. Deerskin moccasins covered his feet, and he wore leggings constructed from the hide of the same animal. He also wore a breechcloth, Indian fashion, on the outside of the leggings. Tucked under the belt girding his waist was a tomahawk, and resting across his huge thighs was a rifle.

  Crazy George stood facing the four men. Behind him, near the fire, squatted Winona.

  Alarmed for his wife’s safety, Nate urged the mare forward and caught up with Shakespeare. The frontiersman had a grim visage, grimmer than Nate could ever remember seeing. In less than ten seconds they closed the gap and reined up hard.

  “What the hell do you want?” Shakespeare gruffly demanded.

  The big man had calmly watched their approach. He nodded and said in a deep voice, “’Allo, Carcajou.”

  “You didn’t answer my question, Cleroult.”

  “I don’t know if I like your attitude, McNair.”

  Shakespeare turned his mount so the barrel of his rifle was angled in the direction of the four men without actually pointing at any of them. “I didn’t invite you to our camp. Since the last time we met we nearly came to blows, I know this isn’t a social visit.”

  “There’s where you’re wrong,” Cleroult stated smugly. “I came to pay my respects and welcome you to the rendezvous. If I don’t show you there are no hard feelings now, mon ami, I may never have the opportunity. A man your age might not make it to the next gathering.”

  “Don’t you worry about my age. And I’ll tell you the same thing I told Laclede. I’m not your friend and I don’t want you spreading it around that I am.”

  Cleroult’s eyes narrowed. “You always were too touchy for your own good, Carcajou.”

  Crazy George stepped closer to Shakespeare’s horse. “He told me he came here to see Nate.”

  “Is that a fact?” the frontiersman said.

  Nate suddenly found himself the object of the quartet’s attention. He returned Cleroult’s gaze without flinching. “Why were you looking for me?”

  “I understand you had a disagreement with my good friends here,” the big man said, an edge to his tone.

  For a moment Nate hesitated. He noticed Shakespeare and Crazy George both glance at him, and he reasoned that a lot rode on his response, that Cleroult was trying to intimidate him into displaying a trace of fear. He saw Laclede smirking, and the one he had struck, the lecher named Henri, was grinning broadly despite his split lips. Adopting an air of casual indifference, he spoke calmly, yet firmly. “Disagreement, hell. They came close to being planted in the ground. You should pick your friends more carefully.”

  Gaston Cleroult squared his shoulders, his lips twitching. “Do you know who I am?”

  “I’ve heard of you,” Nate admitted. “The Giant, I believe you’re called.”

  “Oui.”

  “And the Indians refer to you as the Bad One.”

  “Oui,” Cleroult said again, grinning.

  “Which isn’t a compliment, in my estimation,” Nate stated, and was gratified to see the Giant’s countenance harden.

  “The Indians have a tendency to exaggerate.”

  “And here I thought they’re basically honest.”

  Cleroult looked down at his rifle, then at Shakespeare and George, before settling his gaze on Nate again. “You smashed Henri in the mouth.”

  “He’s lucky I didn’t shoot him. No one takes liberties with my wife, not even with their eyes.”

  “You can’t stop a man from thinking.”

  “What he thinks is his business. It’s when he shows it that I object.”

  The giant stared at Winona for several seconds. “Shoshone, isn’t she?”

  Nate merely nodded.

  “I had a Shoshone wife for about six months once. She couldn’t cook worth a damn. Sleeping under the same blanket with her was like sleeping with a log,” Cleroult said, and glanced at Nate. “I hear all Shoshone women are the same way.”

  The obvious attempt to provoke him almost prompted Nate to laugh. Instead, he kept his voice level as he said, “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never slept with a log.”

  Cleroult glowered for a moment. “You have much to learn, Chipmunk Killer.”

  “That’s Grizzly Killer.”

  “Whatever,” the Giant said. He turned his horse and started off, glancing back as he did. “Je ne vous oublierai pas.”

  Laclede, Henri, and the third trapper wheeled their animals and trailed Cleroult to the south.

  “What were his last words to me?” Nate inquired when they were out of earshot.

  “He said he won’t forget you,” Crazy George translated, and tittered. “He must
be in love.”

  “You did well, Nate,” Shakespeare said. “I couldn’t have handled him better myself.”

  “I’m surprised he left without trying to thrash me within an inch of my life.”

  “If he caught you alone, he would have,” Shakespeare declared. “He just didn’t like the odds.”

  “That big bastard won’t leave you alone now,” George mentioned. “He doesn’t back down for any man, and he’ll figure he owes you something. You’d better watch your back all the time.”

  Sighing, Nate dismounted. “I thought one of the best things about coming to a rendezvous was making new friends?”

  “It is,” Shakespeare said.

  “You could have fooled me. All I seem to make are enemies.”

  The frontiersman beamed and slid down from his own animal. “We’ll worry about Cleroult when the time comes. Right now we should take a stroll over to the booths.”

  “I’m for that,” Nate concurred. He walked over to Winona and used sign language to explain about the fruitless search for the hides and poles necessary to build a lodge.

  Winona responded that she was in no great hurry. She would be content to wait until things worked out.

  Reassured, Nate proceeded to strip his saddle from the mare and tied her near the other horses. Taking Winona’s hand, he joined Shakespeare and Crazy George and together they strolled toward the heart of the rendezvous. The air was filled with shouts and oaths, laughter and music, plus the periodic retorts of guns.

  Crazy George took a deep breath. “Ahhhh, this is the life, gentlemen. A man feels so alive at a time like this.”

  “Except the three men who have been murdered,” Shakespeare noted.

  “Why spoil everything by bringing them up?” George asked testily. “This is a day to frolic and do what comes naturally.”

  “Just remember my warning about having too much to drink,” the frontiersman said.