Wilderness Giant Edition 3

by David Robbins

  A squeal of agony was torn from the horse as its legs slammed into a submerged boulder. Shakespeare felt the jolt in both arms and wished there was some way he could steer the animal to quieter water. It resumed thrashing, more wildly this time, bucking its head and neck. A second jolt drove it into an absolute frenzy.

  Shakespeare clung onto the saddle, the Hawken wedged under his chest. He held his legs high enough to prevent the horse from kicking them but he still had to keep his eyes peeled for obstacles. A glistening mass materialized in front of him and slightly to the right so he shifted higher onto his mount and hooked his ankles on its back. It wasn’t enough.

  He absorbed the brunt of the blow. A million pinpoints of pain flared in his right thigh on impact, then they were off, swept along into another boulder, and yet another. These the horse struck with full force, driving the animal berserk. It wanted out of the river, and to that end it veered to the south, fighting the current but making scant headway.

  Shakespeare was aware of the new danger even if the horse wasn’t. He attempted to turn it back into the flow but had no more than grasped its mane when it rammed into another boulder so hard that the crack of its ribs was audible above the howling storm.

  The horse whinnied, sagged, and kicked feebly as it was borne along in the current’s irresistible grasp. Shakespeare couldn’t determine how badly it was hurt but he suspected the injury was severe.

  More jolts followed. The poor animal nickered pitiably, making Shakespeare wish he could put it out of its misery. He dared not let go to pull a pistol, though, not when surrounded by bubbling foam.

  The harrowing ordeal lasted over a minute. Then the water calmed but the current did not slacken one bit. Rain continued to pour from the sky while the wind howled unabated.

  Shakespeare tried to estimate how far he had traveled. Miles, probably. He felt the horse drift toward the north shore and kicked his legs in a vain bid to drive the animal in the opposite direction. The last time he saw the Kings they had been on the south side of the Yellowstone and if he wound up on the north he might not be able to rejoin them for days. Provided, of course, they were still alive.

  The rapid current had a mind all its own. The harder Shakespeare fought, the faster it seemed to sweep him where he didn’t care to go. Presently the eerie shapes of whipping trees silhouetted themselves against the backdrop of rain and somber heavens.

  Shakespeare bowed to the inevitable. Pulling his legs high, he watched the shoreline rush out to meet him. The bottom of the horse hit, then his knees scraped lightly, but neither caught hold. He was carried farther, into another bend, only now he was so near land that he was propelled into a newly created shallow marsh adjacent to the roaring waterway.

  With a lurch the horse slammed into a snag and stopped. Shakespeare lay on top a few moments, drinking in the cool air. He slid off into water up to his knees. Thunder and lightning united in a crescendo of unearthly proportions, the bolts brightening the landscape in intermittent flashes that enabled him to see the horse was dead, its blank upper eye fixed on the cold, drenched world that had so callously claimed its life.

  ‘‘Alas, poor Yorick,” Shakespeare quoted under his breath. He quickly stooped to strip off the sole parfleche still strapped to the animal. Both the painter meat and the other parfleche were gone, torn off by the demented Yellowstone.

  Shakespeare sloshed onto solid ground and stood shivering in the downpour. He was damned lucky to be alive and knew it. He wondered, had the Kings fared equally well?

  The far bank was lost to view in the murk, providing no clues.

  Turning, the mountain man sought shelter. Among the trees the rain slackened slightly but the risk of being targeted by a bolt from above was much higher. He weighed the two on mental scales and huddled at the base of a thick trunk, deciding creature comfort outweighed personal danger.

  Worry for the King family filled Shakespeare’s breast. For himself he had no fears since he could live off the land anywhere, anytime. Hostiles and grizzlies would be his two main concerns, the former in particular since he was now on the Blackfoot side of the river and the tribe had been after his hair for longer than he cared to remember.

  Shakespeare bent low over the parfleche and eased a hand up under the flap to check the contents. One had contained food, the other spare powder, lead balls, and other essential odds and ends. He hoped Fate had spared the powder and shot; instead he had the food.

  Making do as best he was able, Shakespeare took a bite of jerky and sat listening to raindrops pelt leaves overhead. His buckskins and beaver hat were so soaked they offered no protection whatsoever from the elements. Every so often he experienced bouts of chills that quickly subsided.

  Eventually, despite the conditions, Shakespeare dozed fitfully. Occasional thunderous peals would startle him to wakefulness and it was during one of these interludes that he saw an enormous creature. Bathed in the fading glow of lightning the beast moved through the water toward the horse.

  Shakespeare could barely make out the thing’s shape let alone any details but the little he distinguished was enough to apprise him of the creature’s identity. He thought he heard a series of guttural grunts. The beast nosed around the horse, then opened wide a gaping maw and bit down. Soon the crunch of bones competed with the other sounds.

  Keeping perfectly still, Shakespeare watched the grizzly eat and prayed it wouldn’t catch his scent or stray into the trees and blunder onto him. The Hawken and the pistols were too waterlogged to function and he had not been able to reload yet. His butcher knife still hung from his waist but he would only use that as a last resort.

  Staying awake now was no problem. Shakespeare inched backward around the tree until only his eyes and forehead were showing. The great humped bear was too engrossed in filling its belly to notice.

  In due course the storm started to taper off. First the wind dropped to a whisper, then the lightning nearly ceased, and ultimately the rain tapered to a heavy drizzle.

  The bear lingered. Oblivious to the rain and cold, it ate greedily, ripping off large chunks with a swipe of its tremendous jaws. Horseflesh was a rarity it clearly savored.

  Shakespeare’s joints grew stiff, his head ached. He yearned to seek out a sheltered nook where he might get a fire going and dry his clothes and himself. Common sense dictated he lay low until the bear was done. But as more and more time went by and it became plain the grizzly had no intention of wandering off any time soon, he threw caution to the wind, tucked the parfleche under one arm, the Hawken under another, and backpedaled, keeping the tree between them.

  A grizzly relied mainly on its keen sense of smell to detect prey and enemies. Its eyesight was average, its hearing sharper than a man’s but not as sharp as a panther’s or even a coyote’s. Its nose, however, surpassed that of most other animals.

  Shakespeare counted on the breeze not shifting in order to effect his escape. He covered a score of yards, the drizzle drowning out what little noise he made. The edge of the trees appeared. Beyond, a sea of partially flattened grass led into the distance.

  Just as McNair emerged from the strip of woodland, the breeze changed. He felt it caress his face and instantly whirled, fleeing pell-mell across the prairie. Thirty more paces he covered, his anxious gaze fixed on the trees.

  It was pure instinct that made Shakespeare flatten not five seconds before a bulky outline materialized near the plain. The grizzly had smelled him and come to investigate.

  Being stalked was always a nerve-racking ordeal. Being stalked by a monster boasting a thousand pounds of sinew and razor teeth was a nightmare brought to life. Shakespeare hugged the slick grass, his heart beating wildly, and resolved to go down swinging if the grizzly found him.

  The massive form paced back and forth, its slab of a head tilted upward to better read the air.

  Go on! Shakespeare wanted to shout. Go finish your meal, damn your bones! He held a handful of stems in front of his face so the gleam of his skin wouldn’t
give him away. When, after a while, the grizzly lumbered back toward the river, he exhaled and rested his chin on his forearm.

  Waiting another five minutes seemed a prudent move. In a crouch Shakespeare hastened to the northeast, paralleling the trees so he wouldn’t stray far from the river. He intended to find a means across at first light.

  A convenient gully offered the haven McNair needed. In the gully itself water six inches deep flowed, but part of the bank on the near side had eroded away long ago, exposing a portion of the underside of a pine tree. There a small spot had been shielded from the brunt of the downpour by the branches and roots.

  Gratefully Shakespeare clambered down and sat with his back to the trunk. The temptation to close his eyes and sleep was almost too much to resist but he did. He gathered such kindling as was available, removed his fire steel and tinderbox from his possibles bag, and set about starting a fire. It took forever and made the tiny flame that crackled to life more precious for the effort. Once the first one had been produced, building a higher blaze was no problem. All he had to do was break off roots and add them as needed.

  Outside Shakespeare’s sanctuary rain continued to fall. He rigged a crude tripod over the flames, stripped off his buckskins, and hung them to dry, shivering despite the fire’s warmth. Next he inspected his powder-horn and ammo pouch. His black powder was damp in spots but there was enough dry grains to enable him to reload the Hawken and both flintlocks.

  Jerky filled his belly. To get a drink all he had to do was move a few feet and dip his mouth to the water flowing through the gully. He was feeling quite content when he resumed his post next to the fire and felt his shirts and leggings. They were still too damp to put on.

  “Ahh, well,” Shakespeare said aloud. “It’s nothing to get all bothered about. I’m alive and that’s all that counts.” Leaning back, he gave voice to the bard. ‘‘I have neither the scholar’s melancholy, which is emulation, nor the musician’s, which is fantastical, nor the courtier’s, which is proud, nor the soldier’s, which is ambitious, nor the lawyer’s, which is politic, nor the lady’s, which is nice, nor the lover’s, which is all these. But it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects. And indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my constant rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.”

  Chuckling, Shakespeare went to poke a root into the fire when a battering ram of total shock slammed into his mind with all the force of a runaway wagon and he jerked as if struck. “My Lord!” he exclaimed in sheer horror. “Old William S.!”

  Not caring whether his clothes were dry or not, Shakespeare hastily donned them, slid the pistols under his belt, and grabbed the rifle. “Bear or no bear, I have to go see if I can find it,” he declared. A lingering look at the comforting fire hardly slowed his climb to the open plain. Pulling his hat low against the drizzle, he jogged toward the Yellowstone.

  Shakespeare knew he was violating every rule of common sense he had ever learned throughout his long, full life. He was being headstrong, rash, careless, and childish. In short, just plain stupid. But he couldn’t help himself if he wanted to and he had no desire to curb his hasty impulse. Not where this was concerned.

  “Please,” Shakespeare addressed the empty air. “Please!” Presently he gained the strip of trees and ventured to the water’s edge. Thanks to the overcast sky visibility was reduced to a few yards. Beyond that all was a blur, as he well knew. Still, he could not give up, not if there was the slightest of chances he’d locate his most precious possession.

  The Yellowstone River still raged in full flood. Hazy objects shot past: logs, branches, other things.

  Shakespeare turned to his left. Here and there floating objects had drifted into shore, fueling his fervent hope, a hope that was feeble at best because he had to concede that in all likelihood his cherished book had sunk to the bottom the moment the bundle in which it was wrapped came loose from the saddle.

  Hiking eastward, Shakespeare probed the shallows, ignoring all else in his frantic hunt. Several times he plunged a hand into matted clumps of grass or weeds which he mistook for a bundled, partially submerged blanket. He tried assuring himself that if he had lost it, the loss was not that great, but he could not deceive himself if he tried.

  Books were rare in the Rockies. Consequently they were highly valued, especially during the long winter months when trappers had little to do but gather wood, kill game when the snow permitted, and entertain themselves as best they were able. Reading was a favorite pastime. The works of Byron and Scott were highly regarded, as was the Bible and commentaries on it.

  Many folks back in the States would have been surprised to learn such was the case since they regarded mountaineers as illiterate backwoodsmen whose only diversions were Indian women and wrestling matches. Few realized that quite a few of the young men who went west were highly intelligent, innately curious souls thirsting for adventure, drawn by the lure of the unknown to challenge Nature on Nature’s terms and wrest a living from the unforgiving wilderness.

  Shakespeare had been just such a young explorer when he crossed the wide Mississippi for the first time. Like his peers he had spent many a cold winter’s day with his nose to the pages of the latest volume being circulated. And then he had found a copy of the collected works of William Shakespeare and he hadn’t been the same since.

  There had been an indefinable quality about the bard’s works that had attracted McNair like a flame attracts a moth. He had devoured play after play, sonnet after sonnet, and craved more. On learning there were no more he had reread everything, not once or twice or even three times but again and again over the years until he could quote lengthy passages as easily as most quoted from the Good Book. And somewhere along the line someone had given him the nickname that would stick with him the rest of his born days.

  Shakespeare had lugged old William S. over hill and down dale, across mountain ranges clear to the Pacific Ocean and from Mexico to Canada. A few pages had discolored and the spine had weakened but otherwise the volume had miraculously remained intact.

  Call it silly, call it childish, but McNair regarded that book as he might a good friend, a boon companion who had stuck with him through thick and thin. He’d entertained second thoughts about taking it all the way to the Mandan village but had done so simply because he could not bear to part with it for any long period. He needed his daily dose of William S. just like other men needed their daily dose of coffee or tobacco or whatever their personal vice might be.

  Now, barreling along the surging Yellowstone, Shakespeare searched high and low, single-mindedly focused on the job of finding that book no matter how long it took. He forgot all about the warm fire at the gully. He forgot all about the Kings and his anxiety over their well-being. And, most crucial of all, he forgot all about the grizzly that had made a supper out of his horse. This last oversight was remedied moments later when, on stepping over a log and skirting a thicket, he heard a rumbling growl and glanced up to discover the enormous predator fifteen feet away.

  Chapter Six

  Dawn broke chill and damp on the prairie. Bright sunshine warmed young Zachary King’s eyelids, rousing him from a sleep of utter exhaustion. Blinking in the sunlight, he yawned and stretched, then surveyed the plain and the river, searching for sign of hostiles or predators. His pa had taught him to always be on his guard when in the wilderness and he had learned his lessons well.

  Damp grass greeted the boy’s anxious gaze on one hand, the swollen Yellowstone on the other. Except for sparrows and a robin or two there was no wildlife in sight.

  Zach stood and arched his back to relieve the kinks produced by a night of leaning against the rough tree trunk. His tummy rumbled, as it always did first thing in the morning. For a few seconds he thought he must go hungry until he remembered the meat he had crammed into his possibles bag the day before.

  Opening the flap, Zach reached in, grabbed the sticky chunk, and pulled it out. His nose scru
nched up at the awful odor and he feared the portion had spoiled. Closer inspection revealed the meat was not likely to be served in any of the finer restaurants in New Orleans but would do for his breakfast.

  Zach sank his fine white teeth into the piece and bit down. Somehow the consistency had changed to a rubbery mass he found hard to bite off and chew. He forced himself to eat it, though, since he had no idea when he would next enjoy a meal and his pa had taught him that a man alone in the wild took each day as it came, eating when he could and going hungry when he had no other choice.

  Hiking to the river, Zach sank to one knee and drank a handful. The water was muddy, the taste flat. He wondered if it would be smart to boil some before drinking any more, then grinned at his silliness since he had nothing to boil the water in.

  A close scrutiny of the opposite shore turned up no trace of his folks or Shakespeare McNair. The river was twice as wide as it should have been, the current still too strong for him to attempt to swim to the other shore. Nature had trapped him on the north side and he would have to make the best of things for the time being.

  Zach saw a small stand of slender saplings and went over. He selected one the right size and used his tomahawk to chop it down, his knife to trim the thin limbs and leaves. Deftly he whittled at the thick end until he had a tapered point.

  Makeshift lance in hand, Zach felt a little better. He could defend himself now, although his puny weapon would do little good against the likes of a raging grizzly or a hungry panther.

  Hoping to find game, Zach hunted among the weeds and brush. Several rabbits were spooked into bounding off into the grass but they moved so fast he was unable to bring them down. A noisy squirrel interested him until it climbed to a lofty perch beyond his reach and chattered irately down at him.