“I didn’t realize you’re so political-minded,” Nate said.
Shakespeare’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you ever insult me like that again. Implying a man is like a politician is as bad as calling him a liar and a thief. There’s hardly a politician alive worth his salt, and rare are those who knowing the true meaning of the word honor.” He paused.
“Mine honor keeps the weather of my fate: Life every man holds dear, but the dear man holds honor far more precious-dear than life.”
“Let me guess. More of your William S.” Shakespeare nodded. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about politics, Nate, except when some dignified, vote-begging leach tries to take my freedom away. Then I can get riled.”
“I’ve never paid much attention to politics,” Nate mentioned.
“Good. Don’t. The more you think about it, the more agitated you’ll become,” Shakespeare predicted. He placed his hands on the hard ground and pushed to his feet.
“Going somewhere?”
“Nature calls. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Nate watched his companion walk to a cluster of huge boulders to the south. Moments later Shakespeare disappeared among the rocks. He squinted up at the bright sun, then stood and stretched. After all that riding a little exercise seemed to be in order. He turned and strolled casually along the edge of the spring, gazing idly into the crystal-clear water while finishing his dried venison.
How strange fate could be.
Who would ever have thought that one day he would be standing next to a spring in the heart of an unexplored wildnerness? Or that he would be traveling with an old man who was as tough as leather and who could quote Shakespeare by the hour?
Nate grinned.
Who would ever have thought that he would have the courage to leave New York City and venture into the Great West? Who would ever have guessed that in the breast of an accountant lurked the heart of an adventurer? Which brought a pertinent question to mind. How far was he willing to go, both physically and personally? How much longer would he remain in the wilderness? What about beautiful Adeline, awaiting his return? How long could he reasonably expect her to wait for him? He’d told her in his letter from St. Louis that he would be gone about a year. Did she possess the patience to hold out for a year? Or would she grow lonely and bored and seek out other male suitors?
The realizataion sobered him.
He had to face facts. Adeline could have her pick of practically any man in New York. In the States, for that matter. And he wouldn’t be justified in blaming her if she did acquire a new beau, not after he had up and left her without more than a day’s notice.
What had he done?
Upset by his train of thought, Nate stopped and licked his dry lips. The water beckoned, and he knelt and dipped his right hand in the cool liquid. That jerked meat had made him extremely thirsty. Eager to drink, he flattened on his stomach and touched his mouth to the spring.
A strange rattling noise arose on his right.
Nate took a sip, puzzled by the rattling. He glanced at a pile of fair-sized stones within inches of his right arm, and froze.
Lying coiled under a large flat stone, its stout body tensed and ready to spring, its wide head hovering motionless, its eerie eyes with their vertical pupils fixed on his neck, was an enormous rattlesnake.
Petrified, Nate didn’t move a muscle. He scarcely breathed, his gaze riveted on those alien, wicked eyes. What should he do? Would the rattlesnake strike if he tried to rise and flee? Would the reptile slither away if he simply stayed glued to that spot?
The rattling continued unabated and the snake remained coiled, its long, forked black tongue flicking out and in.
Nate’s initial panic began to subside. He concentrated on keeping perfectly still. Sooner or later, he hoped, the reptile would leave. He’d heard somewhere, probably in school many years ago, that a rattlesnake wouldn’t strike unless directly threatened, and he had no intention of posing the slightest possible threat.
A minute elapsed.
Two.
Sweat formed on Nate’s brow and trickled down his back. He ignored the sensation. Don’t move! he told himself over and over. Don’t twitch a muscle!
The peculiar buzzing from the snake’s rattles abruptly ceased.
Nate almost forgot himself, almost smiled in triumph. The rattler must be about to slide off to hunt or return to whatever hole it used as a den. He saw the reptile begin to glide forward. Elated, he watched the rattlesnake carefully, expecting it to turn to the left, away from the spring.
Instead, to his utter horror, the rattler came straight toward him!
Nate’s terror returned in a rush, and only with a supreme effort could he prevent himself from trembling. The rattlesnake angled at his head, and for a heart stopping instant he thought it would bite his face. But the reptile slid up and over his neck, moving slowly, its cool scales rubbing against his flesh.
Dear God!
Nate wanted to scream. He gritted his teeth until they hurt and clenched his fists, wishing the rattler would pass completely over him quickly and go on its way.
The snake unexpectedly stopped.
No! No! No! Nate shrieked in his mind. Keep going! He could feel the weight of the reptile on his neck. The strain on his nerves was tremendous. What was it doing? Why had it stopped? He detected a flickering motion out of the comer of his left eye, and without moving his head he swiveled his eyes and caught sight of the cause.
The rattlesnake had turned. Its squat head was now near the water, its tongue continuing to dart out and back again.
What was it doing? Nate nearly bolted, but he willed himself to relax, to remain calm, certain the reptile would leave soon. The seconds dragged by. Beads of sweat dribbled down his cheeks and dripped from his chin. The pistols were gouging him in the abdomen. If only he dared make a grab for them!
A second later the rattler began to move away, its head weaving from side to side.
Nate felt the scales scraping his skin.
In another few seconds the snake would be gone!
A tingling sensation suddenly developed in Nate’s nostrils and he experienced an urge to sneeze. Not now! He wiggled his nose, trying to suppress the impulse, to no avail. The tingling grew more intense. He went to lift his right hand, to clamp his fingers on his nostrils, but he was too late.
The sneeze, to his agitated mind, sounded like a gunshot. Nate tensed and glanced at the rattlesnake, his blood racing when he saw the reptile snap around and stare directly at him. He expected to hear the rattling again, but the snake was motionless except for the constant flicking of its forked tongue.
What now?
Had the rattler realized he wasn’t a log or a rock? Would it strike without warning? A quick roll to the left might enable him to escape. It also might trigger an attack. So his best bet appeared to be to stay still and do nothing.
The snake, apparently, had other ideas.
It started to crawl toward him.
Nate’s eyes inadventently widened and his breath caught in his throat. If the rattler sank its fangs into his face, he’d be a goner within minutes.
The rattlesnake glided slowly nearer.
Goose bumps erupted all over Nate’s body. He watched the reptile draw to within six inches of his face, then stop, and he became acutely conscious of the rattler’s eyes boring into his own. It knew! It knew he was something alive! Perhaps the snake was puzzled because he hadn’t moved. Another thought occurred to him.
Maybe the rattlesnake was sizing him up before striking.
Nate decided he couldn’t afford to lie still any longer. The rattler wasn’t coiled, which should give him a few seonds of precious time to get out of the way before it could attack. Unless the rattlesnake didn’t need to coil before launching itself, in which case he would be dead soon and Shakespeare would bury him just as he’d buried his uncle.
Shakespeare!
Where was he?
The rattler edged forward again.
Nate felt something rough pass over his neck and then the weight of the snake was gone. Unable to endure another moment of suspense, his nerves stretched to the breaking point, he uttered an inarticulate bellow and shoved upward, scrambling away from the reptile as he moved.
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 the 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 anxious seconds he couldn’t see the serpent.
Had he hit it?
He listened for the buzzing, but the rattles were no longer shaking. Bracing his elbows against the rocks, he rose to a sitting posture and peered intently at the last spot where the snake had been.
The breeze dispersed the smoke.
And there lay the snake, its head severed from its body, the tongue jutting from its thin lips, those unnatural orbs still fixed in his direction.
Nate slowly stood, feeling suddenly limp. That had been too close for comfort! He licked his lips and took a step, then became aware of someone standing off to his left. Startled, he spun.
“Not bad,” Shakespeare commented, his arms folded across his chest. “I couldn’t have done better myself.”
“How long have you been there?”
“A few minutes.”
“A few minutes!” Nate snapped angrily. “Why didn’t you do something?”
“What could I do? That snake was too close to you for me to risk a shot.”
“You could have tried!” Nate declared.
“And deprive you of that valuable experience? I should say not,” Shakespeare said, clucking his tongue. He strolled over to the rattler.
Nate wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly. “Experience?
I was almost killed.”
The frontiersman turned a kindly gaze on his protégé. “You have a lot to learn about life in the wilderness, Nate. The best teacher I know of is experience.” He nodded at the reptile. “Now you have experience with rattlesnakes.”
“But I could have been killed!” Nate reiterated.
“No one ever claimed the lessons you have to learn would be easy.”
Nate glanced at the snake’s head and inadvertently shuddered, his indignation beginning to dissipate.
“No hard feelings?” Shakespeare asked.
“I guess not.”
“Good.”
“I’m just glad I already have experience with grizzlies.”
Chapter Four
Over the next few days they continued on their northwesterly course. They left the barren canyons far behind and entered country where the mountains were covered with thick stands of pine and the valleys were verdant. Game abounded. Buffalo, elk, deer, and antelope were everywhere. Bighorn sheep were visible on the higher rocky peaks. Eagle and hawks soared on the air currents.
Nate gradually forgave Shakespeare for the rattlesnake incident, but he vowed to keep a watchful eye on his companion in the future. If the older man had it in his head to teach a few more lessons, there was no telling what might be in store.
They were crossing a low knoll one afternoon when Shakespeare made an announcement. “We’ll be at the rendezvous the day after tomorrow.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“Are you?”
Nate’s eyes narrowed at the peculiar tone Shakespeare used. “Shouldn’t I be?”
“Just be on your guard.”
“Why? What could happen to me?”
“If you’re not careful, I could be riding back alone.”
“You’re kidding me,” Nate declared.
“Am I?”
“Quit talking in riddles.”
“Fair enough,” Shakespeare said, watching a raven wing to the north and listening to the swishing beat of its flapping wings. “Any old hand at the rendezvous will mark you as a greenhorn the moment they lay eyes on you. Most of the men will accept you and leave you alone. But there are a few troublemakers who may take it into their heads to test you.”
“Test me?”
“Test your mettle. See if they can rile you. If they find they can get your goat just once, you won’t know a minute’s peace.”
“Their behavior sounds childish to me,” Nate commented.
Shakespeare grinned. “If you’re going to survive the rendezvous, I’d better fill you in on what to expect.” He paused. “To understand the goings on, you have to understand more about the life of a trapper. For an entire year these men are roaming the West, traveling from stream to stream, catching as many beaver as they can and getting their peltries ready for the annual get-together. Except for those who take up with a squaw, they live a pretty lonely life. They work from dawn to dusk every day when the weather permits, and you don’t know what real work is until you spend most of the day working a trap line in ice-cold water and lugging around beaver that can weigh up to sixty pounds until you skin them.”
Nate listened attentively.
“A trapper has to always be on the watch for hostiles. If caught, he’ll be subjected to indescribable tortures. Things like having his ears and nose cut off, or his privates. Or maybe he’ll be scalped and stuck in the ground up to his neck for the animals to finish off.”
Imagining the fate of such a hapless man, Nate grimaced.
“And if the Indians aren’t enough to worry about, there are always the grizzlies. They’ve torn many a trapper up beyond recognition and left him to bleed to death. Then there’s the chance of being caught in a flood or a snow-slide.”
“It sounds like a dangerous life,” Nate acknowledged.
Shakespeare snorted. “Now there’s an understatement if ever I heard one. Did you know that a couple of years ago over one hundred trappers left Santa Fe to spend a year in the mountains, and only sixteen made it back?”
“Sixteen?” Nate repeated in surprise.
“So now you have some idea of the life a trapper leads. And you can see how much they look forward to the rendezvous. After a year of doing without, a year of facing hardship after hardship, they’re definitely ready to celebrate. To tell you the truth, most of them live for the few weeks each summer when they can drink and brawl and brag to their heart’s content,” Shakespeare related.
“How many of these rendezvous have you been to?”
“Three.”
“That’s all?”
“There’s only been three.”
“Oh.”
“A gent by the name of Ashley started them back in ’25. The first one was at Henry’s Fork on the Green River. In ’26 it was held at Cache Valley. Last year was at Bear Lake, the same as this year.”
“How many trappers will be there?” Nate inquired.
“Depends. Somewhere between one and two hundred.”
Nate blinked a few times. “Two hundred?”
“And that doesn’t count the breeds—”
“Breeds?” Nate interrupted.
The aged mountain man sighed. “Half-breeds. Born of white and Indian parents. I feel sorry for most of them.”
“Why?”
“Because both the whites and the Indians tend to look down their noses at the mongrels. The breeds know better than to try and mingle in polite white society, and most of the tribes don’t treat them much better.”
“That
’s not fair.”
“How green you are and fresh in this old world,” Shakespeare quoted. “Who ever claimed life is fair? Is it fair for a fawn to be torn to pieces by a pack of starving wolves? Is it fair for trappers to be caught and mutilated by the Blackfeet? Is it fair for the owners of the fur-trading companies to get rich off the sweat and labor of honest trappers?”
Nate said nothing.
“Life is seldom fair,” Shakespeare stressed. “Now where was I? Oh, yes. There might be upwards of two hundred trappers at the rendezvous, half as many breeds, and a goodly amount of Indians. The Snakes, the Flatheads, the Nez Perce, the Crows, and the Bannocks will likely show up. Maybe a couple of thousand, all told.”
“I had no idea.”
“What did you expect? A dozen old farts sitting around telling tall tales about their adventures in the Rockies?”
“No,” Nate said defensively.
“Keep your eyes and ears open at the rendezvous and you’ll learn more in a couple of weeks about life out here than I could teach you in a month.”
“I will.”
They rode in silence for over five miles, paralleling a stream winding through a wide valley.
“Can I ask you a question?” Nate inquired.
“Go ahead.”
“It might be too personal.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not about to snoot you for prying into my personal life,” Shakespeare said, and grinned.
“Have you ever bought an Indian woman?”
Shakespeare glanced at the younger man, his brow furrowed. “That bothers you, does it?”
“A little,” Nate conceded.
“Why?”
“I regard buying an Indian woman the same as buying a Negro slave. You might have heard that the state of New York abolished slavery last year. There are a lot of people back in the East who consider slavery an abomination. The minister at our church called slavery a moral and spiritual evil.”
“Do tell.”
“That’s right. I just don’t think it’s decent to treat another human being like a piece of property.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t most of those Negroes brought to the States on ships from some far-off country like Africa?”
Lure of the Wild (Wilderness, No 2) Page 3
