Tomahawk Revenge/ Black Powder Justice (A Wilderness Double Western Book 3)

by Robbins, David

  Struck near the ear, the grizzly lurched to the left, shaking its enormous head vigorously. It recovered in seconds, spun, and bore down on the trapper.

  Baxter, still on his back, scrambled on his elbows in a frantic effort to get behind the trunk.

  Nate had to shoot on the run. The bear was almost upon the trapper when Nate took a hasty bead on its left eye, cocked the hammer, and squeezed the trigger. The booming of the rifle seemed to have no effect on the carnivore except to provide it with a new outlet for its fury.

  Spinning with astonishing agility, the grizzly opened its mouth wide and made straight for the presumptuous human.

  Reloading or running was out of the question. Nate perceived the bear would be on him before he could do either, so he let the rifle fall and drew both pistols. Extending both arms, he pointed both barrels at the creature’s head, waited until fifteen feet separated them, and fired both guns.

  The twin balls smacked into the grizzly’s forehead and jerked the huge head backwards. Its front legs buckled and it sprawled forward, sliding several feet and stopping.

  Elated, Nate believed he’d slain the brute, until it abruptly heaved erect and stood swaying from side to side, blood pouring from a wound over its right eye. He backpedaled, debating whether to try to reload or seek the safety of a tree.

  Growling horribly, the grizzly shuffled in for the kill.

  Nate bumped into a trunk, frantically stuck both pistols under his belt, and leaped for a limb overhead.

  The bear bounded the final ten feet.

  His body tingling in anticipation of being torn to shreds, Nate’s hands closed on the limb and he wrenched his body upward in a tight arc, his legs sailing over a higher branch at the apex of his swing. Bending his knees, he looped his calves over the branch and snapped his body upward. An intense stinging sensation lanced across his left shoulder blade, and then he was perched on the limb, momentarily safe. A glance below showed him the grizzly in the act of standing. He spied another limb above him and to his left, and he vaulted from his perch. Something tugged at his right moccasin, throwing him off balance, and even as his hand wrapped around the limb his body fell sideways. Fear rippled through every fiber of his being in that terrible moment of dismaying comprehension that he would plummet to the earth. The bear! his mind shrieked. The bear will get you!

  Nate smacked into a lower branch and inadvertently somersaulted onto the ground with a bone-jarring crash. Dazed, he struggled to rise, aware of a snarling form towering above him. Vaguely he heard a shot, and then something hit his head with enough force to shatter a boulder and his consciousness swirled madly before being sucked into an inky, ethereal void.

  ~*~

  Somewhere, someone groaned.

  Belatedly, Nate realized he was the one doing the groaning, and felt his awareness returning, felt life flow along his arms and legs, and felt the most awful, painful headache he’d ever known. His thoughts shifted and danced, and for a few minutes he couldn’t concentrate.

  “He’s coming around,” someone said.

  “At last,” stated someone else.

  Both voices were familiar, and Nate knew he should be able to identify them, but his sluggish mind refused to cooperate. He blinked, and promptly regretted the movement. Dazzling, hurting light made him wince and recoil in agony.

  “Take it easy, Nate. Lie still.”

  A gentle hand touched his shoulder, and suddenly Nate recognized the speaker. “Shakespeare?” he croaked.

  “One and the same.”

  “I’m here too,” added the first man.

  “Baxter?” Nate blinked again, then squinted, his head throbbing. He licked his dry lips, peering at a bright blue sky, and saw the heads of both men materialize above him.

  “Don’t try to sit up,” Shakespeare warned.

  “What happened?” Nate asked, gradually regaining mental control. “The bear—”

  “Is dead,” Shakespeare finished. “You don’t need to worry about him.”

  “I can’t remember what happened,” Nate said. “Did you kill it?”

  “I shot last, but the thing was already dead on its feet,” Shakespeare disclosed.

  “Then what hit me?”

  “The grizzly. It fell on top of you.”

  Baxter nodded. “We had to use the horses to haul the body off of you. We were afraid we’d find you dead, crushed or suffocated.”

  “You were fortunate, son,” Shakespeare said.

  Bewildered, trying to recall the events, Nate saw the sun out of the corner of his left eye. The golden orb hung low over the horizon. “I must have been out eight or nine hours. The sun is setting.”

  “The sun is rising,” Shakespeare corrected him.

  “What?”

  Again Baxter nodded. “You were unconscious yesterday afternoon and all of last night. We took turns watching over you. McNair wasn’t able to sleep a wink.”

  “It’s morning?” Nate declared, incredulous at the news. He lifted his right hand and touched his forehead. “How bad is the wound?”

  “You were cut on the shoulder blade and nicked on the foot, but you haven’t lost much blood,” the frontiersman responded.

  “Why does my head ache so badly?”

  “You were trying to get up when the bear went down. Your head took the brunt of its weight,” Shakespeare said, and grinned. “Your head must be as hard as iron.”

  “It doesn’t feel like iron,” Nate said. “It feels like mush.”

  “Which is why you will lie under your blankets for another day, at least.”

  Lowering his chin, Nate saw his blankets were indeed draped neatly over his body almost to his neck. “What about the beaver?”

  “Thaddeus and I will take care of them,” Shakespeare said. “We’ve already caught four.”

  The man from Ohio placed his hand on Nate’s left arm. “I need to thank you again. If not for your intervention, the grizzly would have killed me. I’ve never seen anyone stand up to one of those beasts like you did. No wonder they call you Grizzly Killer.”

  “I’d rather be known as Sparrow Killer,” Nate said sincerely.

  Both Shakespeare and Baxter laughed.

  “This makes three of those brutes you’ve killed,” Shakespeare said after a bit. “Very few trappers have killed more than you. Most have the good sense to run like hell when they see one.”

  Again they laughed.

  Nate tried to grin, but the simple movement increased the agony in his head. The pounding in his temples drowned out all other sound, and he closed his eyes, intending to rest for a minute. To his amazement, when next his lids pried apart there were stars dotting the firmament. “It’s night,” he blurted.

  “Well, look who is awake,” said Shakespeare, who was still seated in the same spot.

  “Where’s Thaddeus?”

  “Sleeping. It’s my turn to keep an eye on you.”

  “How late is it?”

  “I don’t know exactly. After midnight.”

  A growling in Nate’s stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten in ages. “I could use some food.”

  “The fire is going strong. I’ll make you soup or coffee or both.”

  “I’d like something more substantial.”

  “Not yet. No solid foods until tomorrow.”

  “Why not?”

  “When someone has been severely injured, eating solid foods can make them worse. It puts a strain on the body. So if you want food, I’ll prepare bear stew.”

  “Did the grizzly leave enough meat to last us a while?”

  “No. But there was enough meat on the grizzly to last for weeks.”

  “You carved him up?”

  “Can’t let prime flesh go to waste, now can we? Would you care for some stew?”

  Nate smiled at the notion of consuming the bear responsible for his condition. “I’d love some.”

  “Then try to stay awake until I’m done,” Shakespeare said, and moved off.

  A cool b
reeze caressed Nate’s brow and he savored the sensation. If there was one lesson he’d learned living in the wilderness, it was to never take life for granted. A person never knew when he might be killed by a freak mishap. All it took was a single accident, a chance encounter with a bear, a panther, or hostile Indians, to send a hapless soul into eternity.

  Back in the cities the situation was different. The people were spared from the harsh reality of ever-present death by having their needs supplied at the mere exchange of money. Food, clothing, and shelter were theirs for a few coins. They didn’t need to worry about starving if they couldn’t track game, or going naked if they couldn’t make their own clothes, or sleeping on the hard ground if they couldn’t build a cabin or lodge. In a sense, they were denied certain basic experiences all persons should know if they were to truly understand the value of existence.

  Was that proper? Nate asked himself. If men and women were denied the realities of life, what was left? The illusions? Did some people prefer living in the cities over the country because they preferred illusions to reality? If so, what did it say about the mental state of those who shunned the truth?

  Sleepiness assailed Nate’s senses and he struggled to stay alert. Rumblings in his stomach gave him the resolve necessary. He was famished, and his mouth watered at the thought of the stew his friend was preparing. He heard the pad of footsteps and looked up, expecting the frontiersman.

  Instead, the Ohioan appeared.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “As well as can be expected. I was told you were sleeping.”

  “I can’t seem to doze off for more than a couple of hours at a time. I’m too excited about the prospect of returning to my family.” Baxter took a seat at Nate’s right. “McNair told me you’re married.”

  “Yes.”

  “To a Shoshone?” Baxter said.

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. I was surprised to hear it, is all. Most trappers take an Indian woman for a few months or even a year, but very few bother to marry them. Why did you?”

  “I love her.”

  “You weren’t motivated by religious principles?”

  “No.”

  “Do you believe, Nate King?”

  “Believe what?”

  “In the Lord?”

  “I believe there is a God, but I have no idea whether . . .” Nate abruptly ceased speaking when a strident chorus of piercing howls erupted from the nearby forest.

  Chapter Five

  “Wolves,” Baxter declared, rising and drawing his flintlock.

  Alarmed, his heart beating faster, Nate managed to prop himself on his elbows and glanced around. The light from the campfire illuminated the horses standing near the spring, their heads up, their nostrils flaring and their ears cocked. An encircling ring of murky vegetation enclosed their island of comforting warmth.

  Shakespeare was in the act of chopping bear meat into a tin pan. He promptly placed the meat on the ground and grabbed his rifle.

  The howling came from the north and west, a wavering, primitive carol that rose and fell in volume, attaining a crescendo of clamorous harmony only to drop to plaintive wails seconds later.

  “Will they attack?” Baxter called out.

  “I don’t think so,” Shakespeare answered. “They smell the bear meat. If their bellies were empty, they’d sneak up on us without a sound.”

  Nate hoped the mountain man was correct. In his condition he wouldn’t be able to fend off an ornery mosquito, let alone a pack of wolves. The nerve-racking minutes dragged past, with phantom shadows moving about in the undergrowth and their eerie cries wafting to the heavens.

  “Why won’t they go?” Baxter asked nervously.

  Suddenly a large wolf materialized at the very edge of the trees, its eyes reflecting the firelight and glowing an unearthly red, its teeth exposed in a seeming canine grin. After calmly gazing from one man to another, the gray wolf at last whirled and melted into the night and with his departure the howling immediately stopped.

  “Thank God,” Baxter said.

  “That must have been the leader,” Shakespeare speculated.

  “Why did he stare at us?” Baxter inquired.

  “Curiosity. Maybe he wanted to get a good whiff of our scent.”

  “Why?”

  The frontiersman knelt by the fire. “Thaddeus, do I look like a wolf to you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then don’t expect me to be able to think exactly like a wolf. I may know the animals of the Rockies better than most, but no matter how close a man gets to Nature, he never becomes a complete part of it. There is a quality about a man that forever separates him from the animal kingdom.”

  “His soul.”

  “And his will. Never forget the human will,” Shakespeare said, and launched into a quote from his favorite author. “’Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are gardens; to the which our wills are gardeners: so that if we will plant nettles or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up thyme, supply it with one gender of herbs or distract it with many, either to have it sterile with idleness or manured with industry, why, the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills. If the balance of our lives had not one scale of reason to poise another of sensuality, the blood and baseness of our natures would conduct us to most preposterous conclusions.”

  “I’m not certain I understand your meaning,” the Ohioan said.

  “Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man,” Shakespeare quoted again, and chuckled.

  Baxter glanced at Nate. “Does he go on like this often?”

  “He has his spells.”

  “Do you understand him?”

  “I don’t try.”

  Shakespeare started stirring the contents of the tin with his butcher knife and sang out loudly, “Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble.” He threw back his head and cackled uproariously.

  “I’m glad I’m only staying a month,” Baxter said, and moved off to be by himself.

  Grinning, Nate sank down and observed the celestial display. He sympathized with poor Baxter; sometimes he was at a total loss to explain his friend’s occasionally quirky behavior. Perhaps the reason for Shakespeare’s bizarre sense of humor lay in the life the man had led, over four decades of living in the wild in the almost exclusive company of animals and Indians. Such an existence was bound to change a person.

  A meteor streaked across the sky, leaving a glowing trail in its wake.

  Nate’s thoughts strayed to his wife, and he prayed she was faring well by herself. He’d been sorely tempted to bring her along, but Shakespeare had warned him they were venturing into Ute territory and had graphically detailed the bitter treatment she could expect from the Utes.

  Far away a panther screamed.

  Drowsiness assailed Nate, and he started to doze off once more. His eyes snapped open when he heard footsteps and smelled the delicious aroma of the stew.

  “Here you are,” Shakespeare said, squatting.

  “I’m so hungry I could eat a bear,” Nate joked, and smiled merrily.

  The frontiersman shook his head, then slid his left arm under Nate’s shoulders. “Let me help you sit up.”

  “I can manage.”

  “I’ll help,” Shakespeare said.

  Nate allowed himself to be propped in a sitting position, and the tin was placed on his lap. Even through the blankets he felt the heat.

  “Eat it slow,” Shakespeare advised. “Chew on the bits of bear meat first, then sip of broth. If you eat too fast, you’ll be sick.” He offered his knife.

  “I’ll use my own,” Nate stated, and pulled it out. He began eating slowly, convinced he’d never tasted such an exquisite meal.

  “If you keep the stew down, you can have all you can eat for breakfast. By tomorrow afternoon I may even let you go for a walk.”

  Nate looked into the older man’s ki
ndly eyes. “I’ll miss you when you go.”

  “Don’t bring that up again.”

  “I can’t help how I feel. Why, in many respects you’re closer to me than my own father.”

  “Your father never taught you the proper way to trap beaver.”

  “Don’t mock me.”

  “I’m not. I’m simply pointing out that we’ve shared experiences your father never could, experiences that have drawn us close together in a special bond of friendship. You’re being too hard on your father.” Shakespeare paused, his brow creased, deep in contemplation. “It’s not my habit to give advice unless someone asks, but in your case, since I care for you as if you were my own son, I’ll make an exception.”

  Nate waited expectantly, astounded the mountain man would admit his affection.

  “You should make the effort to go back to New York City one day,” Shakespeare stated. “The ghosts of your past still haunt you, and the only way you’ll put them to rest is by confronting them.”

  “I’ll never go back there.”

  “All I ask is that you consider the idea.”

  “I will, but I’ll never go back.”

  “Stubborn mule,” Shakespeare muttered, and walked to the fire.

  Shrugging, Nate bent to his meal, relishing every morsel. When he was done a pleasant warmth filled his belly and made him irresistibly sleepy. He deposited the tin pan at his side, reclined on his back, and within seconds drifted into a peaceful sleep.

  ~*~

  Bright sunlight on his eyelids awakened him and he sat up to find the sun hovering above the eastern horizon and his companions gathering their equipment to go check the trap line. His head felt much better, and without thinking he tried to stand. Dizziness brought him down again, and he pressed his palm to his forehead and groaned.

  “Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn,” Shakespeare chided him. “I saw that. Stay put. I’ve already made coffee and several cakes, so you can relax and eat while we go freeze our feet.”

  “You used some of the flour?” Nate asked in surprise. Normally, the frontiersman reserved their meager supply for special occasions.

  “I figured you need proper food, not just salty jerky.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll fetch your meal,” Shakespeare said, and stepped closer.