Lure of the Wild (Wilderness, No 2)

by David Thompson

  “It appears I’ve miscalculated a mite,” Shakespeare intruded on Nate’s rumination.

  “How so?”

  Shakespeare pointed to the southwest. “Here come the Utes.”

  Chapter Two

  Nate shifted and glanced to the left, and there were the five Ute warriors bearing down on them at breakneck speed. Even as he spied them, his eyes widening in alarm, they uttered loud war whoops and one of them foolishly snapped off a rifle shot.

  “Stay close!” Shakespeare bellowed, and took off to the right, angling across the narrow valley they had been following, his white horse throwing up clods of earth with its hooves.

  Expecting to feel an arrow penetrate his back at any moment, Nate kept as close to Shakespeare as he could, his mare pounding under him, the pack horse only a few feet to the rear of his mount.

  The piercing shrieks of the Utes rose in volume.

  They’re gaining! Nate realized, and swallowed hard. He saw that his companion was making for a stand of trees several hundred yards off, and he risked a hasty look over his left shoulder to determine the position of the warriors.

  Riding as if they were born on the back of a horse, their animals flying over the ground, the Utes were approximately five hundred yards to the southwest, waving their weapons and bellowing in anticipation of slaying the intruders into their territory.

  Nate rode as he had never ridden before, his body rising and falling with the rhythm of his mare, his left hand holding the reins, his right hand clutching the Hawken and the lead to the pack animal, his blood coursing through his body even faster than the mare was running. He concentrated on the stand of trees, struggling to suppress the panic welling within him, knowing if he lost his head he would lose his life.

  The Utes whooped and hollered, giving the impression there were scores of them instead of only five.

  Shakespeare glanced back once, a devilish grin creasing his visage.

  What did he find so humorous? Nate wondered, licking his dry lips, remembering how his Uncle Zeke had demonstrated the same peculiar, lighthearted attitude when confronted with danger, as if a life-and-death situation were a mere game of some sort. He doubted if he would ever understand these rugged, individualistic men who inhabited the unknown regions of the West. They seemed to possess an outlook on life that differed greatly from their cultured cousins in the States.

  For a tense minute the race continued, the Utes doing their utmost to close on their quarry before the mountain men could reach the trees, but they were still a hundred yards away when the white-haired man reached the stand, practically leaped from his horse, and whirled.

  Nate saw Shakespeare whip the Hawken up and fire, apparently without taking deliberate aim, and yet when Nate glanced back he beheld one of the Utes pitching to the ground.

  Shakespeare voiced a whoop at his own.

  And now Nate smiled as he reined up and vaulted to Shakespeare’s side. “Nice shooting,” he commented, keeping his voice as calm as he could. He raised his Hawken and took careful aim, not wanting to waste the shot, sighting on the Indian riding on the right, scarcely breathing. He waited several seconds to be certain, then fired.

  Eighty yards out the Ute threw his arms in the air and toppled backwards.

  “We’ll teach those savages a thing or two,” Shakespeare remarked, in the process of reloading, his practiced fingers performing the task with astonishing speed.

  Nate began to reload his rifle.

  The three remaining Utes were still coming on strong. One of them unleashed an arrow.

  “Watch out!” Shakespeare warned, and gave Nate a shove.

  Startled, Nate looked up in time to see the arrow hurtling out of the blue. The shaft whizzed through the air and thudded into the ground at the exact spot where he had been standing.

  “Quills are for porcupines,” Shakespeare quipped, and aimed at the Ute with the bow. An instant later his rifle cracked and belched a ball and smoke.

  The bow-wielder was in the act of drawing back the buffalo-sinew string when the shot hit him high on the chest and flung him over his mount’s rump. In concert the remaining pair of warriors swung to the left, hunching low, glaring at the whites, racing for cover.

  Nate finished reloading and lifted the Hawken to fire again.

  “Don’t bother,” Shakespeare advised, watching the Utes depart. “We don’t want to kill them all.”

  “We don’t?” Nate declared in astonishment. “But they were trying to kill us.”

  Shakespeare glanced at the younger man and chuckled.

  “Bloodthirsty son of a gun, aren’t you? No, we don’t want to kill all of them and I’ll tell you why.” He paused and stared at the fleeing Indians. “Out here, Nate, a man’s reputation is as important as the man himself. Those two will go back to their tribe and report that they tried to take the hair of old Carcajou and failed. They’ll embellish the story a bit, and make me out to be a fire-breathing demon who can down an enemy at a thousand yards. Now that will add considerably to my reputation, and the next time some Utes stumble across me they’ll likely think twice before attempting to take my hair. Understand?”

  “I believe so,” Nate said. He observed the Utes vanish in the forest. “What was that name you mentioned? Carcajou?”

  Shakespeare nodded. “If you live out here long enough, and if you become acquainted with the friendly Indians, you might acquire an Indian name of your own. Long ago the Flatheads gave me the name Carcajou.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It’s another name for the wolverine.”

  “What’s a wolverine?”

  The frontiersman looked at Nate and laughed. “You’ll learn soon enough.”

  Puzzled by the answer, Nate cradled his rifle. “I already have an Indian name of my own,” he mentioned.

  “You do?” Shakespeare responded in surprise.

  “Yes. A Cheyenne named White Eagle gave it to me.”

  “I know him. He’s a member of their Bow String Society.”

  “Their what?”

  Shakespeare chortled. “You have so much to learn, it’s pitiful. Most of the tribes living on the Plains have what they call soldier or warrior societies. They’re a lot like those fancy, exclusive clubs for the rich back in the States, only the soldier societies have as their members the bravest men, the best fighters. The Cheyennes, as I recollect, have six societies.” He paused, then began counting them off on his fingers. “The Bow String, the Crazy Dogs, the Red Shields, the Fox Soldiers, the Elk Soldiers, and the Dog Soldiers.”

  “So White Eagle must be an important man in their tribe?” Nate inquired.

  “I’ll say. He’s one of their top war chiefs.”

  The news staggered Nate. He recalled the first time he’d seen White Eagle, shortly after being mauled by the grizzly that had surprised him when he wasn’t carrying his rifle. He’d managed to plunge his butcher knife into the bear’s head, and his uncle had finished the bruin off with a well-placed shot from a Hawken.

  Later, during the battle with the Kiowas war party, White Eagle and other Cheyennes had arrived and rendered assistance. Before riding off, White Eagle had bestowed a gift and the name on Nate, and only now was he truly beginning to appreciate the significance of both acts. “I had no idea,” he mumbled.

  “What name did White Eagle give you?” Shakespeare asked.

  “Grizzly Killer.”

  The comers of Shakespeare’s mouth started to curl upward, and he looked as if he was about to burst out laughing. He scrutinized Nate for a moment, then suddenly sobered. “You’re not pulling my leg?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” Shakespeare said, his brow knitting. “A true knight, not yet mature, yet matchless, firm of word, speaking in deeds and deedless in his tongue, not soon provoked nor being provoked soon calmed, his heart and hand both open and both free.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” Shakespeare replied. He scanned the distant tree
s, ensuring the Utes were indeed gone.

  “White Eagle also gave me an eagle feather,” Nate mentioned.

  “Where is it?”

  “In my pack.”

  Shakespeare regarded his companion carefully. “Why aren’t you wearing it?”

  “I removed the feather from my hair after the first day because I couldn’t sleep with it tied behind my head,” Nate explained. “I haven’t worn the thing since.”

  “I’m not one to offer advice unless asked, but if I were you I’d consider wearing the feather. They’re marks of distinction for an Indian, and in some tribes you can’t wear one unless you’ve killed an enemy,” Shakespeare commented, his eyes narrowing. “Who did White Eagle see you kill?”

  “A Kiowa warrior.”

  Shakespeare nodded. “White Eagle must regard you highly. If you’re ever in Cheyenne country again, you’d best wear that feather. If you bump into him and you’re not wearing it, he’ll be offended.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Nate promised. He glanced down at the arrow imbedded in the earth and bent over to pull the shaft out. “Another second and I’d have been a goner,” he commented.

  “Never underestimate an Indian with a bow,” Shakespeare admonished. “They learn to shoot while standing, running, or from horseback when they’re young boys, and they’re accurate at over a hundred yards.”

  Nate studied the shaft thoughtfully.

  “Not only that,” Shakespeare went on, “they can fire arrows faster than you or I can load and fire a rifle. I saw a contest once between a trapper, a fellow who could shoot an acorn off a limb at fifty yards, and a Crow warrior. In the time it took the trapper to fire, reload, and fire again, that Crow got off twenty arrows.”

  “Twenty?” Nate repeated skeptically.

  Shakespeare nodded. “And about ten years ago I spent some time in a Mandan village. The Mandans had this game they played, where the warriors tried to see which one of them could keep the most arrows in the air at the same time. Their best bowman, the best damn archer I ever saw, could keep nine arrows in the air all at once.”

  Nate whistled. The more he learned about the prowess of the Indians, the more amazed he became that any white men managed to survive in the wilderness.

  “Let’s mount up and skedaddle,” Shakespeare suggested. He walked to his horse, which stood patiently nibbling at grass several yards away.

  “You’re certain those Utes won’t try to circle around and ambush us?” Nate asked, moving toward his mare.

  “As certain as I was they hadn’t spotted us earlier,” Shakespeare said, and laughed.

  “Well, now I’m relieved,” Nate quipped.

  Minutes later they were mounted and riding to the northwest across an open, grassy expanse stretching to more mountains ten miles away.

  “Let this incident be a lesson to you,” Shakespeare said after they had traveled a quarter of a mile without seeing any sign of the Utes.

  “Let me guess. I should never turn my back on an Ute.”

  “No. You should always trust your own instincts, no matter what someone else with more experience might tell you. Go with your gut, as I like to say. My gut has saved my hide more times than I care to recollect.”

  “But your instincts didn’t warn you about those Utes,” Nate noted.

  Shakespeare chuckled. “Which brings to mind another saying I’m fond of. Most folks have no more brains in their head than they do in their elbow.”

  “I like that,” Nate said cheerfully, beginning to relax, already filing the fight with the Utes in the back of his mind as just another wilderness memory.

  “That saying is taken straight from old William S.”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “Nope. Troilus and Cressida. Act Two, Scene One.”

  Nate shook his head in astonishment. “You sure know your Shakespeare.”

  “I guess I do. Who would ever have figured I’d acquire such a classical education in the Rocky Mountain College.”

  “The what?”

  “The Rocky Mountain College. That’s the term us mountain folk use to describe all those long winter nights when it’s too cold to trap and we’re sitting around the fire in our toasty lodge debating everything under the sun.”

  “Zeke didn’t tell me about it.”

  “Your uncle didn’t have time to tell you about every aspect of life out here before he died. Give yourself a while. In a few years you won’t be a greenhorn any longer.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll stay out here that long,” Nate confided.

  “You will.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “You’re a King.”

  “So? I have brothers back in the States who will never venture out of New York.”

  Shakespeare glanced at Nate. “You’re different. You’re like your uncle was, filled with the urge to roam, to see new lands and have adventures. That’s what brought me out here ages ago.”

  “Ages?”

  “It seems that long, sometimes,” Shakespeare said wistfully. “The years are longer when you cram them with experience, when you live life to the fullest like the Good Lord intended. In the States, especially in the cities, most people go from day to day doing exactly the same thing they did the day before. They get up at the same time every morning, go to the same job each day, come home to the same house at night, and sleep in the same bed under the same covers. Their lives streak past like a shooting star, and before they know it someone is dropping dirt on their coffin and they haven’t experienced one damn thing life has to offer.”

  “I never thought of it that way.”

  “You’ll see. In a year from now you’ll agree with me.”

  Nate thought of the Utes, the Blackfeet, and the Kiowas. “If I live that long.”

  Chapter Three

  Several days later, after crossing another mountain range, they came to a remarkable expanse of arid, steep canyons totally different from the Rockies. Columns of red sandstone reared everywhere. Game became scarce and vegetation virtually nonexistent.

  Nate took advantage of the trip to pepper Shakespeare with countless questions concerning the wildlife, the Indians, the general known geography of the land west of the Mississippi, and any other subject he could think of, adding substantially to the lore he had learned from Zeke. The aged frontiersman was a virtual fount of knowledge and wisdom, and Nate soaked up the information like a human sponge.

  Shakespeare continued in a northwesterly direction, pushing their mounts as hard as he dared, eager to reach the rendezvous.

  Nate found the older man’s uncharacteristic hurry amusing. In every other aspect to Shakespeare’s life, the man never displayed the slightest inclination to rush, but he was bound and determined to reach the annual gathering of trappers, traders, and friendly Indians while it was still in progress.

  On the third day after the incident with the Utes, Shakespeare called a midday halt at a spring situated at the base of a steep plateau. They watered their animals and sat down to enjoy strips of jerked venison.

  “Do you realize that not five white men in the whole world have been within ten miles of this spot?” Shakespeare asked. He took a bite of jerky and chewed vigorously.

  “Really?” Nate responded absently, gazing out over the barren terrain.

  “Prime beaver country is north of here. Few trappers ever bother to pass through this region because it’s a waste of their time.”

  “Reminds me of a desert.”

  Shakespeare snorted. “If you want to see a real desert, you should travel into the territory west of the Great Salt Lake. There isn’t a drop of water to be had anywhere, and your throat becomes so parched you drink your own sweat just to survive.”

  “You’ve been there?” Nate inquired.

  “A few times.”

  “Is there any part of the land between the Mississippi and the Pacific you haven’t seen?”

  “There’s more country I haven’t seen than cou
ntry I have,” Shakespeare said. “And some of the parts I have laid eyes on were downright amazing.”

  “For instance?”

  Shakespeare tilted his head and pondered for a full ten seconds. “Well, the most amazing wonders of all are located north of here a ways. There are boiling mud holes, geysers that shoot hundreds of feet in the air, and natural hot springs where the water is hot enough to scald you.”

  “Boiling mud holes?” Nate repeated skeptically. “Geysers?”

  “Don’t you believe me?”

  “Of course. I know you’re not one to invent tall tales. But still, boiling mud holes, you must admit, seem a little preposterous. I hope I see them myself, one day.”

  The frontiersman regarded the younger man for a minute, then broke into a grin and nodded. “Yep. If I hadn’t of seen those geysers and mud holes, I’d probably say the same thing. I hope you do get to see them, Nate. If the land gets into your blood, you will.”

  “Into my blood?”

  Shakespeare gestured at the far horizon. “The wilderness has a way of growing on a man. Those who come out west intending to spend a year or so trapping wind up staying four or five years. Some stay longer. Once you start traveling and beholding all the marvels, once you can live off the land like an Indian, and once you realize that life in the States is akin to being penned in a cage, you can’t leave.” He chuckled. “Once you’ve tasted genuine freedom, it’s a mite hard to settle for anything less.”

  “There’s that word again,” Nate commented.

  “Which word?”

  “Freedom. Uncle Zeke said practically the same thing.”

  “He knew what he was talking about. Out here, where you don’t have to answer to anyone, where you don’t have taxes to pay or the government breathing down your back, where you don’t have politicians trying to tell you how to live, is where you find the freedom our forefathers fought and died for.”