Wilderness: Northwest Passage/Apache Blood (A Wilderness Double Western #6)

by Robbins, David

  Pierre Chevalier wagged his gun at Nate and smirked. “So we meet again, mon ami! But not as you would like, eh?”

  Everyone was frozen in place. William Bent was the first to recover and he rose in indignation, snapping, “What the hell is the meaning of this, Chevalier? You were warned to stay away from this post.”

  “So we were, Bill,” Pierre said. “And I intended to do as you so unjustly wanted.” He took a step closer to Nate. “But then I was watching through my telescope, waiting for this pig to leave the fort so we could finish the business between us, and I saw him talking to Becknell. Now why would he do that? I asked myself. And I wondered if maybe he was planning to hook up with the caravan and travel to Santa Fe.” The voyageur scowled. “I couldn’t take the chance of that happening. Getting close to him then would be too hard to do what with the men of the caravan ready to shoot at anything that moves.”

  “So you snuck back in here?” Ceran St. Vrain said. “How dare you!”

  “It was quite easy. All we had to do was blend in with one of the groups from the caravan and your lookout never spotted us.”

  Bent jabbed a finger at the front door. “Leave, now, and there will be no hard feelings.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” Pierre said, focusing on Nate. “This is just between the two of us. My friends will make certain no one interferes.”

  Nate, holding a cup of coffee in his right hand, stared down the barrel of Chevalier’s rifle and wished he was sitting straighter so he could get at his flintlocks. Keeping his voice level, he asked, “Are you going to kill me without giving me a chance to defend myself?”

  “Not at all,” Pierre answered. “This will be a fair fight, I assure you.”

  It was then that Francisco Gaona stood, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. “Pardon me, señor, but this man is a friend of mine and I cannot stand by and do nothing while you impose your will on us.”

  Chevalier looked at the Mexican as if he was inspecting a new animal species for the very first time. Snorting, he said with contempt, “No one asked your opinion, greaser. Sit down and keep your mouth shut until this is over.”

  Gaona’s features darkened perceptibly. He glanced at the men on either side of Chevalier and an odd smile creased his lips. “I do not like having guns pointed my way. Kindly have your amigos lower theirs or suffer the consequences.”

  The voyageurs exchanged glances and laughed. “What can you do?” Chevalier asked disdainfully.

  “This,” Francisco said, and moved, his hands invisible as he swept both pistols from his sash, cocking them as he drew. The two shots boomed as one. Chevalier’s friends were hit, each in the shoulder. Both staggered and dropped their rifles as the balls ripped through them. Both clutched at their wounds, one falling to his knees.

  Belatedly, Pierre uttered a bestial growl and pivoted to aim his gun at Francisco, but as if by magic Francisco had transferred his right-hand pistol to his left and a smaller pistol had blossomed in its place, pointed at Pierre’s head. Pierre turned to granite.

  “You will be so kind as to drop your rifle, por favor,” Francisco said.

  Chevalier hesitated. His thumb, which rested on the hammer of his rifle, twitched for all to behold. Everyone knew he was tempted to shoot. All he had to do was cock that hammer and fire. Then he took a good look at Gaona’s smaller pistol and saw that it was already cocked. His face crimson with suppressed rage, he lowered his rifle to the floor, then straightened. “Now what, you bastard?”

  “What happens next is up to Señor King,” Francisco responded.

  Nate slowly rose, all eyes on him. He set down his cup and stepped clear of the chair. Since he was the one Pierre had challenged, what happened next was entirely up to him. He could ask Bent to have Pierre thrown off the fort again, but doing so would leave the greater issue unresolved. And as sure as people loved to gossip, there would be talk. The trappers and others would learn what had transpired and they would spread the word to those they met. Within a few months everyone living in the Rockies would know that he had refused to stand up to Chevalier and his courage would come into question. He dared not let that happen. Of all human virtues, the Indians and the mountain men alike valued and respected courage the most. If he wanted to be able to hold his head up at the Rendezvous, he had to answer the challenge in the only way possible. “How do you want to do this?” he asked.

  The voyageur smirked and reached behind his back.

  Out came a large butcher knife, the blade gleaming in the lantern light. “Will this do?”

  Nodding, Nate removed his pistols and placed them on the table beside Winona. For an instant her gaze caught his. He could practically feel her soul reaching out to him and his resolve faltered, but only for a second. Pulling his knife, he confronted his adversary. “Ready when you are.”

  “Now just hold on!” Bent declared. “Since I’m part owner of this post, I have a say in what goes on here. And one of our ironclad rules is that there will be no fighting on the premises.”

  “We can make no exceptions,” St. Vrain added.

  “Very well,” Pierre said. “First take care of my friends. Then let’s take this outside the walls where we’ll have all the room in the world. How say you, King?” Nate nodded.

  Soon a mass exodus ensued, with word of the fight spreading like wildfire among all those at the fort and, thanks to swift runners, those at the wagons and even in the Cheyenne village. Scores and scores of people poured through the gates and streamed from the camps and the lodges. They formed into a gigantic crescent with the open end at the front of the fort. Inevitably, bets were placed, with men shouting back and forth as they offered and accepted odds.

  Of all this activity Nate was barely conscious. He was thinking of Winona and Zach and what would happen to them should he lose. And lose he might. Pierre Chevalier was not to be taken lightly. No matter how well Nate fought, a single slip or mistake could cost him his life. What would happen to his loved ones then?

  Such worry wasn’t new to him. A free trapper never knew from one day to the next whether he would be alive to greet the following dawn. Every time he ventured forth on a trapping trip, he couldn’t help but speculate on whether he would see his cabin again. The grim nature of life in the often-savage wilderness dictated that every man must stay constantly on his guard or risk forfeiting the life he held so dear. Hostiles, grizzlies, disease, accidents, they all claimed trappers at an appalling rate. Some old-timers claimed that out of every five men who boldly ventured into the Rockies, only one would ever make it out again.

  His only consolation was that should he perish, life would go on. Winona and Zach would eventually recover enough to get on with their lives. Winona, unfortunately, would be compelled by necessity to remarry. Single women were at a decided disadvantage in a warrior-dominated society; only the men were permitted to hunt buffalo, the staple of Indian life.

  Nate bowed his head, girding himself, banishing his morbid thoughts. Long ago he had learned that if a man wanted to win a fight, he had to believe he was going to win it with every atom of his being. Attitude was all-important. As with every aspect of life, a positive outlook invariably meant the difference between success and failure.

  A hand fell gently on his shoulder, and he looked up into the kindly face of his mentor. They knew each other so well, they had been through so much together, that words weren’t needed. The hardships they had endured had forged their friendship into an unbreakable bond. Still, Nate spoke. “If anything should happen to me, watch over Winona and Zach.”

  “Do you think I’d do otherwise?”

  They were standing just outside the gate. Nate surveyed the crowd and felt self-conscious. He hadn’t meant for the dispute to become so public an issue. Off to one side were Bent, St. Vrain, and Becknell in earnest conversation. Chevalier stood waiting a dozen yards away. “Keep your eyes on the crowd,” Nate said. “Pierre might have other friends.”

  “Don’t fret. If anyone so much as
touches a weapon, he’s dead.”

  Nate steeled his will and strode forward. He heard Zach calling his name, but he refused to look back. Now, more than ever, he mustn’t weaken.

  Pierre also heard. “Isn’t that your brat, King? Don’t you care that soon he’ll be crying over your grave?”

  “Go to hell.”

  “One day, Grizzly Killer, I undoubtedly will. But today it is your turn. And maybe, afterward, I will stop by to see your wife.”

  Right then and there Nate would have attacked, but the three traders suddenly joined them.

  “We want several things made clear,” Bent declared. “None of us approve of this feud. You’re setting a bad example for the other trappers, and I wouldn’t be surprised if in the future we have to work a lot harder to maintain order.”

  “You make me want to cry, mon ami,” Chevalier said in mock sorrow, then roared with laughter.

  “I fail to see the humor,” Bent stated testily.

  “So do I,” St. Vrain said, and looked at Nate and the voyageur. “Must you resort to this drastic step? Can’t we sit down like gentlemen and discuss the matter? Perhaps we can avoid bloodshed.”

  “Save your breath, Ceran,” Pierre snapped. “This is a matter of personal honor with me. If you had fire in your veins instead of ice, you would better understand.” Nate knew the traders were wasting their time if they hoped to prevail on Chevalier to change his mind. He was going to tell them as much when a lean, gray-haired stranger dressed in homespun clothes walked from among the spectators and came toward them.

  “Who is this?” Pierre asked.

  “Crain, a trader in dry goods,” Becknell revealed. “This is his first trip to Santa Fe.”

  The lean man smiled and nodded at each of them, then turned to the wagon master. “Bill, what is going on here? I’ve just been informed that these two men will fight to the death with knives. Surely such a barbaric practice won’t be countenanced.”

  “I’m afraid it will,” Becknell replied.

  “We can’t permit it, I tell you. We’re civilized men, not primitives like those Indians over there.”

  “Get back with the rest, Mr. Crain,” Becknell advised. “If you don’t care to watch, return to the wagons. There’s nothing you can say or do that will alter matters.”

  “But whoever wins will be guilty of murder! We have a legal right to stop this atrocity before it goes any further,” Crain declared. “Gather enough men and we can lock these two up until they’ve cooled down.”

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken about our legal authority in this case, Mr. Crain,” William Bent interjected. “You see, there is no law here, not in the sense of an organized legal system such as exists back in the States. There isn’t a law officer within hundreds of miles of this spot.”

  “But ...” Crain began.

  Bent held up a hand. “Let me finish. You’re like a lot of men when they first head out this way. You mistakenly think that the same rule of law applies west of the Mississippi that applies east of it, and you’re wrong. Out here a man is his own law.”

  “That’s anarchy!” Crain blurted.

  “It’s freedom, sir. True freedom. Back in the States a man gives up his right to do as he pleases. In exchange for false security, he lets the government run his life, lets himself be ruled by the dictates of politicians instead of the dictates of his own mind and heart.” He paused. “If these men want to settle their dispute with knives, out here they have that right.”

  “I’ve never heard such foolishness,” Crain said in disgust, and glanced at Nate and Pierre. “If you two simpletons are so intent on killing yourselves, go ahead.” So saying, he stomped off, his back as stiff as a board.

  Chevalier grinned. “There are jackasses everywhere, it seems.” Sobering, he hefted his knife and faced Nate. “But enough talk, eh, King? Let us, as they say, get down to business.”

  Then, unexpectedly, Pierre attacked.

  Chapter Six

  Nate had expected the voyageur to wait until the three traders were out of harm’s way before beginning the fight, so he was taken unawares when Chevalier suddenly lunged and stabbed at his chest. Only his pantherish reflexes saved him. He threw himself to the right, sweeping his knife up, and barely managed to deflect the thrust. Their blades rang together. Continuing to move, to circle, he sought an opening.

  Bent, St. Vrain, and Becknell were walking rapidly away.

  “I almost had you, Grizzly Killer,” Pierre said cockily, lowering into a crouch and holding his knife close to his waist. “And we’ve only just begun.”

  Refusing to respond, to break his concentration, Nate circled and waited. He did as Shakespeare had taught him, fixing his eyes on Chevalier’s knife. When it flicked out, he backed up. When it slashed at his body, he twisted and dodged. When it arced high, he ducked low. And all the while he looked for his chance.

  Many of the onlookers were yelling and cheering. To the trappers this was the equivalent of high entertainment, of the sort they frequently witnessed at the Rendezvous and other gatherings when men who had too much to drink took offense at an imagined or real slur. Only, those fights were usually conducted with fists or as simple wrestling matches.

  By their very natures, the trappers and mountain men—those old-timers who no longer trapped for a living but made ends meet as best they could whether living by themselves in a remote cabin or among whichever Indian tribe they happened to favor—were a lusty, hardy bunch. They lived hard, loved hard, fought hard, wringing the most life had to offer out of each and every moment. Regret wasn’t in their vocabulary.

  So Nate took no offense at the playful shouting and goading of the bystanders. He shut out the noise, focusing on Chevalier, his knife extended, edge out, for a quick swipe. But he purposefully didn’t swing as often as he could have. He gave the impressions of being timid, of being unwilling to overextend himself and risk injury. There was a reason behind his behavior, which soon became apparent.

  Pierre grew increasingly confident the longer the fight went. He grew bolder, darting in closer and closer in his eagerness to bury his blade into Nate. His swings weren’t quite as controlled, his movements a bit less precise.

  Still Nate held back. Several times he might have scored, but he passed up the opportunities. He craved a decisive win. If he merely nicked his foe, the voyageur would become cautious and be more difficult to defeat.

  “What’s taking you so long, Chevalier?” someone in the throng called out above all the rest.

  Pierre’s cheeks reddened and he growled. Taking a step rearward so he was beyond Nate’s reach, he snapped, “Did you hear that, King? That’s what I get for going easy on you.”

  “We can still lower our weapons and shake hands,” Nate said, breaking his silence.

  “Never.”

  Nate stopped circling. He had to be certain. “Tell me, Chevalier. What happens if I should only wound you? Will you let bygones be bygones? Can we go our separate ways in peace?”

  “You will never know peace as long as I’m alive!”

  “That’s what I was afraid you’d say,” Nate said, and feinted. Pierre countered, Nate evaded the knife, and they resumed circling. A lightning strike at Nate’s right wrist would have connected if Nate hadn’t leaped out of the way.

  The voyageur’s eagerness was giving way to impatience, and impatience was wedded to recklessness. Pierre attempted to disembowel Nate. Failing, he cursed, shifted, and drove his knife at Nate’s neck.

  Gliding in and under the blow was child’s play. In front of Nate was Chevalier’s unprotected abdomen, and with a swift thrust Nate ripped the man’s buckskin shirt and the skin underneath, but not severely. Pierre, horrified, pressed a hand to the wound and backed away, shock slowing him down.

  Nate took another long stride and saw the voyageur’s knife sweep at his neck. Jerking aside, he felt a puff of air as the blade flashed past. Then, pivoting sharply, he whipped his knife upward and plunged it into Pierre’s kni
fe hand.

  Chevalier howled. His weapon fell as he wrenched his hand loose, causing blood to spray all over him and the ground. Agony etching his features, he tried to flee.

  But Nate wasn’t going to let him. He pounced, raining the knife down on Pierre’s face, using the hilt not the blade to batter the voyageur’s cheeks and lips. Chevalier staggered, then raised his arms to ward off more blows.

  Nate was relentless. He slammed his left fist into Pierre’s stomach, and followed through with a left to Pierre’s chin. Down the man went, crashing onto his back, stunned yet not out. Pierre rose on an elbow and grabbed at Nate’s legs with his good hand, which was a mistake because in so doing he exposed that hand to Nate’s knife, and paid for his oversight when the bloody blade pierced his palm.

  Arching his spine, Chevalier wailed like a wounded wolf. “No more! No more!”

  Heedless of the appeal, Nate tore his knife free and stood over his enemy. He gripped the front of Pierre’s shirt and elevated the butcher knife overhead for a death stroke. Pierre froze, eyes wide in terror. The crowd fell deathly still. All Nate heard was a roaring in his ears, the roaring of his blood as it raced through his veins. He had Chevalier right where he wanted him. All it would take was a single stroke and the voyageur would never bother anyone else ever again. His arm was poised and tensed for the kill.

  Suddenly a single voice broke the silence, the plaintive call of a young boy in turmoil. “Don’t, Pa!”

  Tense seconds passed. Slowly Nate’s muscles relaxed and his arm dropped. He shoved Pierre flat on the ground, then straightened. “You can thank your lucky stars, fool, that I’m raising him to believe there’s a God in Heaven.”

  “What?” Pierre blurted out weakly, not comprehending. “What’s that you say?”

  Nate felt an odd weariness flood through him, and with it a feeling of immense satisfaction. Turning away, he saw his wife and son and stepped toward them. The great cheer that burst from scores of lips stopped him, and the next moment he was inundated by people pressing in from all sides to congratulate him and clap him on the back. He nodded numbly and let them buffet him this way and that, until abruptly a white-haired raging bull, pushing through to his side, scattered those in front with a warning.