Table of Contents
IN A FLASH THE RATTLESNAKE COILED ...
Recent books in the Wilderness series:
Title Page
Dedication
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
IN A FLASH THE RATTLESNAKE COILED ...
Acting on pure instinct, Nate grabbed at his pistols. His left moccasin stepped on a loose rock and he tripped, starting to fall backwards onto the very stones the rattler had been concealed under.
The venomous reptile’s tail began to buzz loudly.
Nate came down hard on his back, wincing when the sharp edges of several jagged rocks lanced into his body. He pulled the pistols free and cocked them at the same instant the rattler struck.
The snake speared its head at his right foot.
As if in slow motion, Nate saw the rattler open its mouth, saw the snake’s long, hooked fangs ready to tear into his skin, and he jerked his leg away from that deadly maw. He saw the reptile miss by the merest fraction, and then he had the pistols extended and pointed at the rattlesnake. His fingers tightened and both guns cracked and belched smoke. For several seconds he couldn’t see the serpent.
Had he hit it?
Recent books in the Wilderness series:
#40: SCAR
#41: BY DUTY BOUND
#42: FLAMES OF JUSTICE
#43: VENGEANCE
#44: SHADOW REALMS
#45: IN CRUEL CLUTCHES
#46: UNTAMED COUNTRY
#47: REAP THE WHIRLWIND
#48: LORD GRIZZLY
#49: WOLVERINE
#50: PEOPLE OF THE FOREST (Giant Edition)
#51: COMANCHE MOON
#52: GLACIER TERROR
#53: THE RISING STORM
#54: PURE OF HEART
#55: INTO THE UNKNOWN
Dedicated to...
Judy, Joshua, and Shane.
And to all those in the black powder fraternity who know that shooting a Hawken ranks right up there with wild onions and fresh venison.
A LEISURE BOOK®
April 2008
Published by
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If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 1990 by David L. Robbins
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Chapter One
“Indians,” the lead rider said softly.
Both men immediately reined up.
The second rider, the younger of the duo, sat anxiously astride his mare and took a firmer grip on the Hawken in his right hand. He scanned the surrounding forest, his keen eyes scouring every shadow and possible place of concealment, the northwesterly breeze stirring his long black hair. Like his companion, he wore buckskins. A knife with a 12-inch blade rested in a sheath on his left hip. Slanted across his broad chest were his powder horn and bullet pouch. Tucked under his belt were two pistols. “Where?” he asked.
“Over yonder,” the first man said, and nodded at the mountain slope to the southwest. In contrast to his youthful companion, the lead rider sported shoulder-length hair, a beard, and a mustache that were all as white as the snow capping the towering peaks to their rear. His eyes were a striking sea blue. A brown beaver hat adorned his head, and cradled in his big arms was a Hawken.
“I don’t see them,” the younger man commented.
“Keep looking, Nate.”
His eyes narrowing, Nate scrutinized the slope carefully, estimating they were at least a half mile from the mountain in question. Large boulders dotted the slope, interspersed with stands of evergreen trees, typical terrain for the west slope of the Rocky Mountains. “I still don’t see any Indians, Shakespeare.”
The older man chuckled. “You’re just like your uncle was when he first came out to the Rockies, Nathaniel King. You’re blind as a bat and have the ears of a worm.”
“Worms don’t have ears.”
“You’re learning.”
Nate started to smile, but he froze when he detected movement on the mountain slope and spied the five Indians riding at a leisurely pace from west to east, apparently using a narrow trail running from the top of the mountain to the bottom.
“Don’t move,” Shakespeare advised. “They haven’t seen us yet. If we’re lucky, they won’t.” He paused. “Those Devils are Utes.”
The name jarred Nate’s memory. “My uncle told me the Utes kill every white man they come across.”
“And Zeke was right.”
“What do we do if they see us?”
“Tuck our tails between our legs and cut out.”
His skin tingling, Nate watched the five Utes ride lower down the mountain. The distance was too great for him to distinguish the details of their dress and the weapons they carried, but he had no doubt that each warrior was well armed.
“They’re probably heading over the Continental Divide to the Plains,” Shakespeare mentioned. “Going to do a little buffalo hunting, or maybe raid the Cheyennes or the Arapahos.”
“Will they use the same pass we did?”
“Most likely.”
“Then they’ll see our tracks in the snow.”
“So? By the time the Utes reach that pass, we’ll be long gone. And even if they do try to trail us, they won’t follow us very far,” Shakespeare predicted.
“Why not?” Nate asked.
“Because they’re not stupid. They’ll figure that we’re white men because that horse you bought in New York is shod. Then they’ll work it out in their heads that we must be heading for the rendezvous at Bear Lake.”
“The Utes know about the rendezvous?”
Shakespeare snickered. “Every tribe in these parts knows about the get-together of all the trappers and the fur traders. A lot of the tribes sends groups to the rendezvous to trade, sell their women, and such.”
“And the Utes won’t follow us there?”
“No. For two very important reasons. First, they’d be shot on sight. Second, we’ll be passing through the Green River country, and no Ute in his right mind wants to go there.”
Nate saw the five Utes disappear behind a cluster of trees. “Why not?”
“Because the Blackfeet roam that area.”
That name sparked another memory. Nate glanced at his companion. “Uncle Zeke told me that the Blackfeet are one tribe I should avoid at a
ll costs.”
“And Zeke spoke the truth, as always. The damn Blackfeet are the most warlike tribe west of the Mississippi. They fight everyone. Even the other tribes think they’re war crazy and that says a lot because most tribes like going to war.”
“They do?”
“Sure. Why, there’s hardly three tribes in the whole Indian Country that are friendly to one another, except for the Cheyennes and the Arapahos. They just can’t get along. And the Blackfeet are the most feared of the lot,” Shakespeare disclosed.
“Have you ever run into them?” Nate inquired.
“A few times.”
“What happened?”
“Let me put it this way. The Blackfoot warrior who hangs my scalp in his lodge will be the envy of the tribe.”
Aligning his Hawken across his thighs, Nate surveyed the mountain slope. “I don’t see the Utes.”
“We can keep going,” Shakespeare said, and rode onward. “I want to cover as much ground as we can today.”
Nate followed. “How long will it take us to reach Bear Lake?”
“About a week, if we’re lucky and push it. The rendezvous will be in full swing when we get there. I’m taking the shortest route I know of. If we’d had the time to spare, I would have gone up the Sweetwater Valley and then over the Divide at South Pass. It’s a lot easier that way, but we’d miss almost all of the rendezvous,” Shakespeare detailed.
Nate glanced over his right shoulder at the rim of snow-covered peaks behind them, to the east. “What was the name of that pass we used?”
“It doesn’t have a name. Not many folks know it exists. The Indians do, of course. You and me. And Zeke did.”
The mention of his uncle brought a frown to Nate’s face and he stared glumly at the terrain, thinking of the man who had lured him to the West under false pretenses, the man he had grown to care for as much as he did his own father. By all rights he should despise Zeke for the dirty trick he had played on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel angry, not when the six weeks or so he had spent in Zeke’s company had been the six happiest weeks of his entire life.
Nate shook his head in disbelief. Had it only been about three months ago that he had departed New York City in response to the letter sent by Ezekiel? The time seemed longer. Much, much longer. So much had happened. He’d nearly been robbed and killed. He’d crossed the prairie in company with his uncle, surviving encounters with cut-throats, a grizzly bear, and a war party of Kiowas. He’d made it all the way to the uncharted vastness of the Rocky Mountains, to his uncle’s cabin high up in the rugged wilderness, only to see his uncle slain at the hands of an avenging Kiowa warrior.
Ali that, and for what?
For a treasure that never existed, at least not in the way he had anticipated.
Zeke’s letter had hinted at great riches. His uncle had extended an invitation to meet him in St. Louis, and promised to share “the greatest treasure in the world.” Believing that Zeke had found gold or made a fortune in the fur trade, hoping to use his share of the wealth to woo his beloved Adeline Van Buren, Nate had decided to take Zeke up on the offer.
How was he to know the offer had been a sham?
Nate sighed and watched a squirrel scamper from branch to branch in a nearby tree. He’d traveled almost a thousand miles to St. Louis and met his uncle, only to have Zeke inform him that he must venture all the way to the Rocky Mountains if he wanted to see Zeke’s “treasure.” The prospect of being away from Adeline for a year had troubled Nate immensely, but he had justified going with Zeke on the pretext that the wealth he would obtain would make the separation and hardships entailed worthwhile.
But was that the real reason?
Quite often of late, Nate found himself speculating that there might be another, underlying reason why he had allowed himself to be duped. True, he’d genuinely liked Ezekiel. True, he had wanted to impress Adeline by acquiring riches beyond her wildest dreams. Also true, however, was the fact that he had been thrilled at having the opportunity to journey into a savage realm few white men had ever penetrated. In his youth he had read countless stories about the fierce Indians and the wild beasts inhabiting the unmapped lands beyond the frontier, and had often imagined the adventures he would have if he was to go west.
Now his dreams were coming true.
Nate’s reflection was interrupted by a question from his companion.
“Did you bring that scalp along?”
The comers of Nate’s mouth curled downward slightly as he thought of the Kiowa warrior he had slain, the Indian whose scalp he had taken to fulfill a promise made to his dying uncle. He glanced at the pack horse he was leading, at the blanket in which he had rolled up the scalp, then looked at Shakespeare. “I brought it.”
“Good.”
“What’s good about it?”
“The Indians and quite a few of the whites out here place a lot of stock in taking the hair of an enemy. It marks you as a man.”
“Have you taken any scalps?”
“Thirty-two.”
The number staggered Nate. He’d taken the Kiowa warrior’s hair in the heat of a burning rage over his uncle’s death. Without that fury to act as a stimulus, he doubted whether he could have performed the grisly task. “I don’t know if I can ever take another one,” he commented.
“You will.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“To be, or not to be. That’s the question. Whether it’s nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them,” the white-haired mountain man replied.
“Shakespeare again?”
“Sort of.”
“Why do you like him so much? I struggled through some of his works in school, and I never could understand half of what I read.”
“Old William S. was one of the wisest mothers’ sons who ever lived. I picked up a book of his plays about thirty years ago, and I’ve been reading him ever since. It’s gotten so that I’m a fair hand at quoting him. I reckon that’s why everyone now calls me Shakespeare.”
Nate stared at the roll tied behind Shakespeare’s saddle, where the frontiersman kept his book on the English playright, and thought of his own affinity for the works of James Fenimore Cooper. “What’s your real name?”
Shakespeare unexpectedly halted and twisted. “Let me give you a word of advice, Nate. You’re the nephew of the best friend I ever had, and I’ve made it my business to teach you how to survive out here. One thing you must never do is pry into another man’s personal affairs. If a man volunteers information about himself, about his past or whatever, all well and good. But don’t go poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong or someone is likely to try and shoot it off.”
“All I did was ask your name,” Note noted defensively.
“And if I ever figure I can trust you enough, I’ll tell you my name,” Shakespeare said.
Nate’s forehead furrowed in confusion as he mulled the implications of the other man’s remarks. What possible motive could Shakespeare have for not revealing his own name? Was he embarrassed by it, as some people occasionally were? Or could there be a darker motive? Was Shakespeare wanted by the authorities somewhere? Did the mountain man have an evil secret buried somewhere in his past he wanted no one to know? “Sorry I asked,” he commented. “I meant no offense.”
“None taken,” Shakespeare said, and resumed riding in a northwesterly direction.
Nate lapsed into silence, mentally debating whether he had made another mistake by deciding to remain in the West for a spell instead of returning to the States. After Zeke had died, he’d spent a sleepless night sitting out under the star-filled firmament, pondering the course he should take, weighing the pros and cons, trying to gauge the consequences of both options.
One factor had stood out above the others. He had informed Adeline that he would be acquiring great wealth. In the letter he’d composed to her before leaving New York City, and
again in the epistle he’d sent from St. Louis, he’d related Zeke’s pledge to share the “treasure” and promised to return to New York incredibly rich. What would Adeline think when she learned the truth? How would she react when she discovered he had been duped? How would she feel towards him when she found out there never had been any gold or silver or money garnered in the lucrative fur trade? Would she think him a fool, or worse?
He couldn’t blame her if she did.
How was he to know that Ezekiel King’s treasure wasn’t anything material, wasn’t anything he could hold in his hands or hoard at the bank? He could still vividly remember the earnest expression on his uncle’s face as Zeke lay dying, and the words Zeke spoke that seared into his brain and struck a responsive chord.
“Take a good look at this valley, Nate,” Zeke had said. “Look at the wildlife, at the deer and the elk and the other game. Think about the fact that all this is now yours. My cabin, my rifle, my clothes, everything I leave to you. And I leave you with one more thing. The greatest treasure in the world. The treasure that I found when I came out to the Rockies. The treasure I wanted to share with the only relative I give a damn about. The treasure I wanted to share with you, Nate.”
“What treasure?” Nate had asked.
“Freedom.”
The one word had provoked a peculiar response. Nate had later gazed at the majestic mountain peaks ringing the valley, at the abundant wildlife, at a sparkling lake situated not far from his uncle’s cabin, a lake swarming with ducks and geese and fowl of every description; he had stared overhead at the brilliant blue sky, and inhaled the crisp, invigorating high-altitude air; and for a brief, insightful moment, a few seconds of lucid contemplation, he had actually felt that distinctive, transcendent freedom his uncle had alluded to, the pure, pristine freedom of a soul unfettered by the restraints of civilization.
Nate cherished that feeling, an exquisite sensation he had never known before. How could he return to New York now, after tasting a morsel of genuine freedom? New more importantly, how could he return to Adeline without the wealth he had promised? How could he go back a failure? Both reasons for remaining in the Rockies vied with one another for dominance, and he had yet to resolve his true motivation for staying and for deciding to go to the rendezvous. He had—
Lure of the Wild (Wilderness, No 2) Page 1
