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

by Robbins, David

The Hawken!

  Nate gripped the barrel and rolled onto his left side. Lumbering toward him like a gigantic monster out of his most horrid nightmares came Gaston Cleroult. Nate placed his other hand firmly on the cool metal, bunched his shoulders, and rose in a rush, swinging as he did. The heavy stock smashed into the Giant’s face, rocking the man on his heels. Nate swung again and again and again, a primal ferocity lending savage strength to his limbs. On the fourth blow Cleroult pitched to the side, toward the ground.

  Only there wasn’t any ground.

  In silent amazement Nate watched the Giant go over the rim. In the heat of their combat he’d lost all track of the edge of the cliff. He lowered the Hawken, overcome with fatigue.

  “Well done, son.”

  Nate whirled.

  Six feet away stood Crazy George, his rifle leveled. “I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen you do it with my own eyes. No one has ever beaten Cleroult.”

  “What now?” Nate asked, stalling, girding his legs for a last, desperate lunge.

  “You know,” George said softly. “In a way, I regret you must die. I sort of like you.”

  Nate said nothing.

  “First I’ll dispose of you, then Shakespeare. Where is he, by the way?”

  From out of the darkness two words were pronounced with fiery passion. “Right here.”

  Crazy George didn’t move. Oddly, he laughed lightly and responded in a calm, affectionate tone. “I’m glad it will be you. I’d hate to have a stranger be the one.”

  “We don’t need to go through with this. Drop your rifle.”

  “Please, McNair, don’t insult my intelligence. Not after all we’ve been through together.”

  “Please, George.”

  “I’m truly sorry.”

  Nate saw the demented mountain man start to pivot. The cry that followed echoed from the bluff and wafted out over the plain beyond, heralding the demise of a noble soul who long ago had fought the wilderness on its own terms, and lost.

  Epilogue

  Nate stood on the south shore of Bear Lake, his right arm around Winona’s shoulders, staring thoughtfully out over the glassy surface. The lake, he reflected, possessed a quality in common with certain people; there was no telling what lurked underneath. He heard footsteps and turned.

  “Well, tomorrow is the last day of the rendezvous,” Shakespeare mentioned idly.

  “How’s your side?” Nate inquired.

  The frontiersman gingerly touched his left hand to the tender area just below his ribs. “Coming along fine. In another month I should be all healed.”

  “Have you made up your mind yet?”

  Shakespeare adopted a puzzled expression and scratched his chin. “About what?”

  “You know damn well about what.”

  “Oh. Your offer.” Shakespeare grinned and gazed at the distant mountains. “You wouldn’t want me hanging around your cabin.”

  “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked you to come with us.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “What?”

  “You haven’t had any real time to yourselves since you were married. You might like some.”

  Now it was Nate’s turn to grin. “I’ve already thought of that. We’ll set up a lean-to behind the cabin. When we want you to leave, you can sleep out there.”

  “Good Lord. I’ll be sleeping there the whole time.”

  Nate raised his head and laughed his joy to the heavens.

  WILDERNESS 4: BLOOD FURY

  Dedicated to Judy, Joshua, and Shane. And to Sign Talking Eagle, who recorded it all for posterity.

  Chapter One

  Nathaniel King heard a twig snap, and froze.

  All around him was the majestic scenery typical of the Rocky Mountains in the month of August. Caps of gleaming snow crowned the towering peaks that ringed the valley in which he was hunting. Cottonwoods, aspens, and pine trees grew in profusion along the banks of the narrow stream meandering from north to south. Ink-black ravens soared lazily high above his head. Sparrows chirped in a thicket to his left. And somewhere directly ahead, hidden in the undergrowth, was the black-tailed buck he’d been stalking for the better part of two hours.

  The strapping nineteen-year-old crouched and scanned the densest vegetation for his quarry. If he was right, if he’d learned the lessons taught by his grizzled mentor properly, then the buck should be there. Deer usually spent a hot afternoon hidden in the shade, where they could rest safe from predators until they ventured out in the cool of the evening to forage in earnest.

  Nate’s gaze strayed to the stream, which gurgled not more than a yard to his right, and he caught a glimpse of his reflection. His buckskins fit his broad shoulders and muscular frame loosely, allowing for adequate ventilation and unrestricted movement. An eagle feather bestowed on him by a noted Cheyenne warrior was tied securely to his long black hair, the quill pointing skyward. Slanted across his chest was a powder horn and a bullet pouch, and tucked under his brown leather belt were two flintlock pistols, one on each side of the buckle. On his left hip, nestled snug in its sheath, was his butcher knife.

  A crackling sound issued from the brush in front of him.

  Nate’s green eyes narrowed as he probed for movement. Always look for a hint of motion against the backdrop of plant life, Shakespeare had instructed him. Now he put the teaching to good use, and spied something twenty feet away moving from east to west.

  He raised the rifle clasped firmly in his hands, the heavy Hawken he’d obtained in St. Louis from the brothers of the same name who were just beginning to earn a reputation as makers of superb guns, and sighted on the vague form. He saw a flash of brown, but couldn’t identify the game as the buck he sought, and he certainly didn’t want to shoot something else by mistake. Especially a grizzly bear.

  The animal halted and snorted.

  Nate had heard such sounds before, and always from deer or elk. He was confident he’d found the buck, and he took a bead on a small opening in the undergrowth located a few yards from it. If he made the shot, he’d be able to transport enough meat to the cabin to last for two weeks, even allowing for the fact there were three mouths to feed counting his. He thought of how easy acquiring food had been back in New York; all it took was the correct amount of money and a person could eat whatever they desired. But in the wilderness the difference between a full stomach and starvation often hinged on the squeeze of a trigger or the twang of a bowstring. Since his wife and best friend were eagerly awaiting his return with fresh meat, he didn’t intend to miss.

  For the longest time nothing happened. The creature stayed put, apparently in no great hurry to get anywhere. A pair of robins flew into a tree above it.

  The strain of holding the Hawken steady produced moderate pain in Nate’s shoulders. He estimated five minutes had gone by before the thing finally stepped closer to the opening. Just a little bit farther, he mentally noted, and his patience would be rewarded.

  Tentatively, as if sensing an element in the forest was amiss, the animal edged westward.

  At last Nate had an unobstructed view, and there stood a magnificent buck sporting a twelve-point rack. He held his breath and aimed between its eyes, which were locked on him, then squeezed the trigger.

  The rifle didn’t fire.

  Baffled, Nate glanced down at his rifle to discover he had failed to cock it in his excitement. He hastily remedied the mistake, and looked up to find the buck on the move. Alarmed that he was about to lose such choice meat, he discarded all caution and plunged into the underbrush in pursuit.

  The deer darted deeper into the timber.

  Nate ran at his top speed, battering limbs aside with his arms and making enough noise to spook an entire herd of buffalo. He came to the opening and paused to survey the forest. Elation coursed through him when he spied the black-tail sixty feet away in the middle of a clearing, gazing over its shoulder in his direction, apparently more curious than afraid. Instantly he whipped the
Hawken up, took a fraction of a second to line up the shot, and squeezed the trigger.

  At the loud retort the buck started to turn, but the ball caught the animal in the left eye before it could take a stride. The impact jerked its head forward and the animal stumbled to its knees, tottered, and fell on its right side.

  Nate was already running toward his prize. There was always the chance the deer might rise and bolt, and the last thing he wanted to do was chase the buck for miles and miles until it dropped for good. He drew his right pistol as he closed. When still fifteen feet away he realized another shot wouldn’t be necessary after all.

  A dark crimson pool formed a halo around the buck’s head and antlers. A neat hole now existed where its left eyeball had been, and its tongue protruded from between its lips.

  Smiling in satisfaction at his marksmanship, Nate wedged the pistol under his belt and halted. He’d left his horse and the pack animal several hundred yards to the north in a stand of pines, so his first priority should be to reclaim them before any wandering Indians came by.

  Pivoting, Nate hastened off. He returned to the bank of the stream and paused to enjoy a refreshing sip off cold water, then straightened and was about to continue when his oversight checked him in midstep.

  Would he never learn?

  He grinned as he reloaded the Hawken, wondering how long it would be before he automatically did so after every shot. Although he’d been on the frontier for almost five months, he still neglected on occasion to reload immediately. One day, he mentally noted, the mistake could cost him his life.

  From deep in the woods came the hoot of an owl.

  After replacing the ramrod, he trekked briskly northward, invigorated as much by the crisp mountain air as by his success at hunting. Feeling supremely happy, he began humming the tune to “Home, Sweet Home,” a song written by John Howard Payne.

  A large yellow and black butterfly flew past his face.

  Nate gazed at the nearest peaks, thinking of his wife and the joy they had shared during the month and a half they’d been married. He’d learned more about women in that brief span than in all the years before the wedding. The thought made him laugh. How would he refer to a short Shoshone ceremony presided over by his wife’s father as a wedding? All he’d done was promise to protect her, to treat her kindly, and to stay with her in good times and bad, and just like that they were united in matrimony.

  Well, not quite.

  There had been a little matter of giving her father a horse. In effect, as he saw it, he’d bought her, and the idea still rankled him. He knew that many trappers bought Indian women for a season or longer. He also knew Indian warriors customarily offered horses and other valued possessions to the fathers of the brides-to-be. In his estimation such a practice rated as a notch above outright slavery, and he disliked both.

  Winona didn’t mind, though.

  That aspect of the practice amazed him. Indian women actually wanted to be purchased. They considered it to be a great honor. If a man wanted a woman for his wife and didn’t offer to pay, she’d be insulted.

  Nate shook his head and chuckled. How strange and wonderful life in the wild could be! If he ever returned to civilization, perhaps he would write a book on his adventures as so many of those who’d ventured West had done.

  He soon reached his horses, and proceeded to lead them back to the clearing. His mare, a frisky animal he’d purchased in New York City, became skittish as they neared the spot where the buck lay. Not until he came within sight of his prize did he discover the reason, and the sight filled him with consternation. He halted, uncertain whether he should fire or flee.

  A panther was astride the black-tail.

  Nate had never seen one of the big cats up close. Ordinarily they took great pains to avoid humans, and would run at the first glimpse of a man or woman. They were also deathly afraid of fire. Their other habits were generally unknown to the majority of trappers because they were so reclusive. Some Indians believed seeing one was a good omen.

  This one appeared to have no intention of leaving. Light brown in color, it measured six feet from the tip of its nose to the end of its twitching tail. Its rounded head was fairly small for its size, but the teeth displayed when the cat growled definitely weren’t.

  Nate raised the rifle. He reasoned the panther must be either very hungry or very old, or both, and decided to avoid killing it if at all possible. His mentor, Shakespeare McNair, had impressed upon him the Indian view of slaying wildlife: Never kill any animal unless it was absolutely necessary.

  The fierce cat snarled and swiped a paw at the intruder.

  “Go away!” Nate shouted. ‘That’s my meat!”

  A feral hiss was the response.

  Nate took a few paces, seeking to frighten it off, but both horses halted and refused to budge despite firm tugs on his part. Frustrated, he led them off to the east and securely tied both to the jutting branches on an enormous log. ‘That should hold you,” he said, and cautiously made for the clearing once more.

  The panther was still there. It had taken a bite out of the buck’s neck, and now greedily lapped at the blood flowing onto the ground.

  Resolved to recover the deer at all costs, Nate advanced steadily. As before, the cat glared at him and growled. Nate trained the Hawken on its head, never breaking stride.

  For a few moments the cat held firm, its lips curled back to expose all of its wicked, tapered teeth, its eyes flashing a raging hatred. Then it rose and swiftly sped to the southwest in prodigious bounds stretching fifteen feet or more. The vegetation swallowed the cat, leaving an unnatural stillness in the air.

  Nate beamed and walked to the carcass. He’d saved the meat! Wait until he related the story to Winona and Shakespeare. To be on the safe side, he waited several minutes before attending to the skinning, his eyes surveying the woods in case the panther should think twice about leaving the meal.

  Not so much as a leaf stirred.

  The owl vented another hoot, closer this time.

  Satisfied he was out of danger, Nate pulled his knife and squatted. He placed his rifle behind him, rolled the buck onto its back, and set about skinning it. Since the cat had already torn the neck open, he didn’t bother with bleeding the carcass. Instead, he first cut a slit from the anus to the head, beginning between its rear legs and slicing upward. He wisely avoided puncturing the stomach and intestines.

  Next, to prevent the contents of the esophagus, if any, from contaminating the meat, he tied a string around it. He did the same with the anus. His hands were coated with blood and gore, so he sat down and wiped them on the grass while admiring his handiwork. Shakespeare had taught him well.

  Nate gazed at the sky, calculating the amount of time required to complete the job. By all rights, after he removed the heart, liver, and other organs, he should hang the deer from a stout limb to let the blood drain completely and give the air a chance to cool the body. He figured there were eight hours of daylight remaining, at least. If he let the buck hang for a couple of hours, he would be able to leave the valley and clear the ridge to the east before nightfall. Since he was a full day’s ride from the cabin, the sooner he started, the better he would like it.

  The owl hooted a third time.

  Rising to his knees, Nate leaned over the black-tail, then remembered a fact Shakespeare had taught him about owls. They were nocturnal birds of prey and rarely were abroad during the day. How odd that one should be flying about in the early afternoon.

  Then it hit him.

  What if the cries were being made by something else?

  Or, more precisely, someone else?

  Intuition tingled the hairs at the nape of his neck and he spun, reaching for the Hawken, already too late because at the east edge of the clearing stood an Indian warrior armed with a bow, an arrow set to fly.

  Chapter Two

  Nate instantly threw himself to the right, holding the rifle next to his chest as he rolled over and over. Amazingly, the shaft ne
ver struck him, and he surged to his feet, bringing the Hawken up, prepared to return fire.

  Only the Indian hadn’t released the arrow.

  The warrior nodded and spoke a few words in an unknown tongue.

  Perplexed, Nate shook his head to indicate he didn’t understand. He didn’t know what to make of the situation. If the Indian had wanted to kill him, he’d most certainly be dead. But if the warrior had friendly intentions, why point the shaft at him?

  Again the man tried to communicate, speaking longer this time.

  Nate didn’t know enough yet about the various tribes to be able to determine which ones individuals belonged to at a mere glance, as Shakespeare could do. He had no idea if the man in front of him was a Shoshone, Crow, Cheyenne, or Arapaho. The warrior wore leggings and moccasins and had a knife on his right hip. There were no distinguishing marks, such as paint, on his face or body, and his hair was unadorned.

  Of one fact Nate could be certain. The Indian wasn’t a Blackfoot or Ute. Any member of either tribe would have shot him on sight. Of all the Indians inhabiting the Rockies and the Plains to the east, none caused more trouble for the trappers. Both tribes hated all whites.

  The warrior glanced at the buck, then at Nate. He slowly let up on the bowstring, easing the tension, then lowered the bow to his side. A tentative smile creased his thin lips.

  Reassured by the man’s behavior, Nate likewise let the rifle fall to his waist, although he kept a finger on the trigger. “Who are you?” he asked. “Do you speak English?”

  Now it was the Indian’s turn to shake his head.

  Nate didn’t give up hope. Winona had taught him enough Shoshone to enable him to engage in a conversation without fear of being misunderstood. He tried that language now, but the effort proved unavailing. At last he resorted to sign language, letting his hands do the talking, and saw the warrior smile.

  Almost all of the tribes relied on the silent language that had been passed down from generation to generation from their ancestors in the distant past. The origins of sign were lost in antiquity, and no one knew how the language had become so universal in extent, but its effectiveness was indisputable. Sign language enabled Indians from different tribes, who might live hundreds of miles apart and have virtually no customs in common, to establish an immediate rapport.