“There must be something about you that draws the beasties like rancid meat draws flies,” Shakespeare commented thoughtfully.
“I like your comparison.”
“Now don’t get all cantankerous on me.”
“I’m never cantankerous,” Nate grumbled.
The mountain man studied his young companion a moment. “I’ve got it! Maybe it’s your scent.”
“What are you raving about now?”
“Your scent! It must set the animals off, sort of drive them into a frenzy the way catnip does cats.”
Despite himself, Nate broke into a grin and shook his head in amusement. “I swear. The older you get, the crazier you get.”
“Though this be madness, yet there is method in it.”
“Hamlet again?”
“Good memory,” Shakespeare said. “God’s bodykins, man, much better.”
“Weren’t you fixing to fetch my wife before I bled to death?”
Shakespeare stiffened in mock indignation. “My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, and makes as healthful music.” He jabbed his heels into his mount and dashed off through
the woods, the grin he wore belying the fear he felt on recalling how very close Nate had come to meeting his Maker. Had he not shown up just when he did, Nate would now be dead and Shakespeare would have two grieving souls on his hands.
Sometimes Shakespeare worried greatly about his impetuous friend. Nate was too headstrong for his own good. And the only thing that kept Shakespeare from taking Nate to task was the fact that Shakespeare remembered being the exact same way when he was in his mid-twenties.
Winona and Zach were anxiously waiting. Shakespeare noted their worried looks and promptly relieved their anxiety by announcing as he reined up, “He’s sliced up some, but it’s not serious.”
“Take us to him,” Winona directed.
“You really should have a talk with that man of yours,” Shakespeare said, turning his horse and falling into step beside hers. “He should have let me tag along instead of riding off to face the painter himself.”
“He wanted you to be able to look after us if something happened.”
Shakespeare smirked. “Figured that out, did you?”
“I know how his mind works. He is always ready to sacrifice his life for ours, whether we want him to or not.” Winona’s eyes sparkled with pride. “It is yet another reason why I love him so deeply.”
“He’s a lucky man.”
“As are you. Blue Water Woman is a wonderful woman.”
Nodding, Shakespeare gazed at the western horizon and was taken aback to find a roiling bank of ominous black clouds had replaced the gray ones. He also realized the wind had gained even more strength, and there was no longer any doubt about the moisture in the air. “We’re in for a storm,” he remarked.
“Yes. We must tend to Nate, then find somewhere to take shelter,” Winona said.
Little Zach, who had been listening to their conversation, now spoke up, “I like storms, Ma. All that thunder and lightning is exciting.”
“Not if our horses get spooked and run off and we wind up afoot,” Shakespeare said. “It would take us half a year or better to reach the Rockies.”
Winona placed a hand on her huge belly. Bothered by the thought, she hurried on until she came to where Nate was kneeling by the river, naked from the waist, washing his wounds. She slid down, removed her medicine bag from a parfleche, and ran to him.
Nate stood, grinning self-consciously, held out his arms, and embraced her. “Got nicked up a bit, but at least we have fresh meat for supper.”
“I see the panther almost made fresh meat out of you,” Winona said, gingerly touching the fang marks in his shoulder. They were inches from his throat. Her heart fluttered and she gave him a tight squeeze. “Please be more careful in the future.”
“You know me.”
‘‘Which is why I want you to be more careful.”
While Winona prepared an herbal poultice for her husband’s wounds, Zach rode off to find Nate’s mount and Shakespeare pulled out his butcher knife and went to work carving up the panther. In short order he had the hide off and the best cuts of meat wrapped inside it.
The whole time Shakespeare kept one eye on the western sky and did not like what he saw. A massive wall of black blotted the heavens, creeping steadily nearer like a gargantuan ethereal monster. Occasionally the inky curtain was rent by vivid bolts that briefly illuminated the churning belly of the building tempest.
Shakespeare had lived through his share of fierce storms in his time, but this one promised to be the granddaddy of them all. He mentioned as much as he lashed the painter meat to the back of his horse.
Nate strode over, fully dressed, Winona at his side. “I’m ready to go.” He glanced around, his brow knitting. “But where’s Zach? Hasn’t he returned yet?”
The three adults exchanged shocked looks. They had been so involved in their own tasks that they had completely overlooked the boy’s absence. Together they shouted Zach’s name over and over, but there was no answer.
In the distance, faint rumbles of thunder pealed.
Chapter Two
Fifteen minutes earlier Zachary King had been tracking his father’s sorrel westward along the south shore of the sluggish Yellowstone River. He was thrilled at having been asked to fetch the horse. Like many his age, he was eager to show his father that he could be trusted to handle such chores. In his view, all too often his folks and other adults tended to treat him as if he was still a child of seven or eight instead of a grown boy of ten.
The chestnut had fled at a full gallop for over a mile, then slowed to a trot. Zach had no problem finding tracks in the soft soil. He came to a spot where the horse had stopped to drink, and from the depth of the prints he knew the animal had stood there a while gazing at the opposite shore.
“You wouldn’t, you dunderhead,” Zach muttered and forged on. Presently, though, he discovered that the sorrel had indeed waded into the river at a narrow point and forded to the north shore.
“Blackfoot country,” Zach said aloud. He had the habit of talking to himself when alone, a quirk shared by his father and many other mountain men.
“Now what do I do?” Zach wondered. The fierce reputation of the Blackfeet was well known to him, a reputation reinforced by the several occasions the Blackfeet had attacked his family. If he ventured across the Yellowstone, he ran a very real risk of running into a band of the most dreaded warriors west of the Mississippi.
Flicking the reins of his bay, Zach plunged into the river and felt the water rise up around his knees. His father wouldn’t think too highly of him if he shirked his duty. He had a job to do, and by thunder he was going to do it, come what may.
The water rose an inch higher, leading Zach to worry the river was deeper than expected. Thankfully, in short order the level dropped, and within another minute he was safe on a gravel bar projecting from the far bank.
Here Zach found more tracks. The sorrel had left the Yellowstone and gone straight through the bordering strip of trees and brush to the open prairie.
Zach reined up and searched the grassland. Far to the northwest a single creature could be seen running off, and although the distance was too great to make identification possible,
Zach knew it had to be the chestnut and he immediately gave chase.
It was fun to give the bay its head, to feel the wind whipping his hair and tugging at his beaver hat. Zach held his Kentucky in his left hand and pumped his legs to urge the bay on. With a little luck, he figured he could catch the sorrel and be back with his folks inside of half an hour.
Not much time had gone by, however, when Zach realized the sorrel was faster than his bay. Much faster. He fell farther and farther behind, and at length the sorrel was no more than a speck barely visible in the gloom from the approaching storm.
The dark clouds didn’t worry Zach at all. Nate had taught him well. The boy knew that a lone rider on the ope
n plain was an inviting target for lightning, so if he was caught in the storm, he’d simply dismount, force the bay to lie down, then lie beside her until the bad weather passed. He’d get soaked, but otherwise he’d be fine.
Besides, as Zach had mentioned earlier, he’d always loved thunderstorms. He liked to sit at the window of the King cabin high in the Rockies and watch crackling bolts dance around the towering ramparts. And he liked high winds, the way they shrieked through the trees, bending the stoutest of limbs. To his way of thinking, being caught in a thunderstorm would be a lark.
So on and on the boy rode, paying little attention to the massive black curtain descending on the stark landscape All that mattered to Zach was the sorrel. Eventually he lost sight of it but he didn’t stop and go back. He had a job to do.
The wind had increased steadily. At first, Zach was tickled and turned his face to the west to feel the full brunt of the chill blast. Then the wind grew so strong it threatened to tear his hat from his head, and when he faced westward he had a hard time taking breaths. He heard thunder in the distance and guessed the rain would soon commence.
Zach slowed and glanced behind him to see how far he had traveled from the Yellowstone. He was mildly shocked on finding the river nowhere to be seen.
A large drop of rain struck the boy on the temple, and when he tilted his head to check the sky more splattered on his face. Except for a pale band to the east, black clouds now dominated the heavens.
To the southwest a vivid streak of saw tooth light shot to the ground. Seconds later thunder boomed. The bay fidgeted nervously, and Zach had to speak softly and pat her neck before she calmed down.
Breaking into a gallop, Zach sought to outflank the storm. He figured if he could ride far enough north, the worst of the weather would be behind him and he could concentrate on locating the sorrel.
It soon became apparent the plan was founded on false hope. There was no end to the clouds, and more and more rain fell every minute. The lightning now lit up the atmosphere without letup, several of the bolts coming so close the bay nearly panicked and bolted.
Zach finally drew rein, slid off, and tried to get the horse to lie down. He’d taught the trick to his own mount over a year ago, but his horse was being tended by Shoshone kin in the Rockies. This was a Mandan animal given to their party by a grateful chief named Mato-tope, and it balked. Tugging on the reins, he pushed against its front leg and shouted, “Down, girl! Down!”
The bay snorted, jerking back, her head bobbing. Zach grabbed her mane for extra leverage and hung from her neck, thinking his weight would do the trick. It only served to agitate her more and she began running with him clinging on for dear life. “Whoa!” he cried. “Stop!”
Suddenly the bay came to a gully. She took the slope too fast, slipped on the slick grass, and fell. Zach saw the ground rushing up to meet him and let go, pushing off from the bay’s neck to keep from being crushed underneath her. His shoulder smacked the earth, something slammed into the small of his back, and he hurtled end over end.
The rifle flew from Zach’s hand. A gut-wrenching impact brought him up short, dazed and winded. He heard the bay whinny, heard the drum of her hoofs. Alarmed, he struggled to sit up and glimpsed the horse as she disappeared over the top of the gully, heading to the northwest.
“No!” Zach shouted, his yell drowned out by a clap of thunder. He pushed to his feet and managed to take a few halting steps. Then a bolt of lightning struck so close that it lit up the landscape as bright as day, followed instantly by a deafening thunderclap. His hair stood on end, and he felt as if a million tiny needles were pricking his flesh. An acrid odor assailed his nostrils as his knees buckled and he slid to the bottom of the gully.
Zach hugged the grass and listened to the storm rage on all sides. Going after the bay might well get him killed so he decided to wait out Nature’s tantrum. It wouldn’t be long, he told himself, and he’d be on his way.
The rain now fell in torrents. Thunder roared without cease. Zach was certain the ground trembled from some of the blasts and he put his hands over his ears to shut out the din. Water dribbling down over his cheeks caused him to realize his hat had flown off somewhere along the line. He reminded himself to look for both his hat and the Kentucky once the downpour ended.
Time passed, the seconds becoming minutes, the minutes, hours. But the deluge showed no indication of letting up. Zach was drenched to the skin and took to shivering uncontrollably every so often. The continual barrage of lightning and thunder numbed his senses.
In due course the boy heard a new sound, a strange noise that he didn’t recognize at first. Lifting his dripping head, he listened to a loud gurgling hiss. It made him think of a nasty incident involving a rattlesnake and he looked all around in panic although he knew full well no snake could be so loud. And he was right.
Visible up the gully was a writhing sheet of white water that swept toward him with all the power of a rampaging juggernaut. Zach’s breath caught in his throat when he saw it. Leaping up, he bolted, fleeing up the south side of the gully, attempting to get high enough to escape.
Flash floods were the scourge of the mountains and the plains. All it took was an extremely heavy rain to transform dry washes and gulches into frothing maelstroms of rampaging current. Many times Nate had warned Zach to stay out of such places when it rained. Now the boy was learning his lesson the hard way.
Zach was still a yard shy of the rim when the flood hissed down upon him and coiled him within its liquid grasp. He tried to keep his footing but was plucked from the slope as he might pluck a strand of straw. An invisible clammy fist enclosed him within its wet grasp and he was yanked under.
At the last second Zach was able to take a deep breath. He felt cold water seep into his ears, into his nose. Flailing his arms, he fought to regain the surface, but his strength was as nothing compared to the might of the current. He began to sink, despair welling up in his young heart as it occurred to him that he might die.
Then there was a bend in the gully, and as the flash flood swept around it, the seething water catapulted him against the earth bank. For a fleeting moment he was able to dig in his heels, but it was enough to add to his momentum and propel him upward.
Zach’s face broke into the clear and he gratefully gulped fresh air. He was still helpless to resist the surging flow, but by paddling he could keep his head up.
There seemed to be no end in sight. On a serpentine coursed the boy was hurtled farther and farther into the night. Gradually Zach’s limbs tired. He began having a hard time pumping his arms as he should and no amount of mental prodding would get them to cooperate.
Without warning, the gully took another turn, the sharpest of all. Zach was close to the north side, and as the flood swept him around the bend he was tumbled along like a helpless tumbleweed, his battered body smacking the bank again and again.
A dark object loomed in Zach’s path. He saw a tree trunk and low-hung limbs and instinctively lunged upward. His desperate fingers closed on a branch and clamped fast. The current tried to rip him loose but he was able to hold on and slowly, painfully, claw his way higher. In his ears the water hissed angrily, threatening to plunge him into its depths if he failed.
Gritting his teeth in determination, Zach climbed until his moccasins pulled free. He relaxed for just a second and nearly sealed his doom as his weary fingers began to give way entirely. With one last effort he hauled himself up onto the limb and sat with his back to the trunk, staring at the flood waters in an exhausted stupor.
Unexpectedly the tree itself gave a sharp lurch. Jolted, Zach looked down and was horrified to see the bank under the tree being rapidly washed out, exposing its root system. With a sinking feeling in his heart he realized the tree could not stand for long. Shoving up, he scrambled around the trunk, seeking another limb that would lower him safely to the ground.
The tree lurched again, tilting steeply toward the gully. Zach threw caution to the wind, tensed his legs, and
leaped just as the roots parted with a tremendous crunch and the tree toppled into the water.
There was a scary moment when Zach thought he would do the same. But his soles smacked down on firm earth and he immediately ran, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the gully.
A lancing bolt out of the sky reminded Zach of other perils. Convinced he had gone far enough, he flattened and cringed as the storm continued to pummel the prairie. How long? he asked himself. How much longer?
The answer to that was all night.
Pink tendrils graced the eastern sky when the last of the pelting rain stopped and the somber clouds began to break up. Much to Zach’s amazement, he had dozed off in the wee hours of the morning, only to be awakened by the chirp of a bird.
Sitting up, the boy stretched and winced as his sore body protested the movement. His clothes clung to him like wet rags, and he was cold clear to the marrow. Rising unsteadily, he gazed around in awe at the flattened grass that stretched for mile upon mile.
“Where am I?” Zach asked himself. He gazed to the south but did not spot the Yellowstone. By his reckoning, though, he should be within a few miles of the river and south of the spot where he had last seen his ma and pa.
Zach had a decision to make: Should he head on back or go after the horses? Since they were probably many miles away and he had no way of catching them, his best bet was to rejoin his parents and report what had happened.
There was only one problem. The water in the gully had not gone down, not enough, anyway. It contained about half as much as before, yet the current appeared twice as strong. Zach didn’t dare try to cross for fear of suffering a repeat of his nighttime ordeal.
Turning westward, the boy paralleled the gully, seeking a narrow or shallow point where crossing would be easy. He was so tired his eyelids drooped, and his once boundless energy had dwindled to next to nothing.
When the sun finally broke through the clouds, the heat invigorated Zach. His teeth had started chattering, and no matter how he rubbed himself he was unable to keep warm. The flood waters had dropped a little more but still not enough to satisfy him.
Wilderness Giant Edition 3 Page 2
