Chapter One
Winter in the Rocky Mountains.
A white blanket of snow two feet deep covered the majestic peaks that reared thousands of feet into the crisp air. Ominous gray clouds drifted sluggishly from the northwest to the southeast, threatening to litter the primeval landscape with even more snow. High in the sky over one remote valley sailed a solitary eagle, sliding just below the clouds, its wings outspread as it gracefully soared on the uplifting currents.
In the valley, clustered near a narrow stream, browsed a small herd of mountain buffalo. Their shaggy coats insulated them from the sub-zero temperatures and their stringy beards were caked with snow and ice formed by their dripping saliva. Unlike their plains brethren, mountain buffalo stayed in the forested higher elevations the year round. They were as massive as their bovid kin, with males in their prime attaining a height of six feet at the shoulders, and weighing close to two thousand pounds. Their massive heads sported horns with a spread of three feet.
Many of the mighty beasts were using their powerful hoofs to clear snow from the underlying vegetation. Some simply stood and chewed their cuds. A young bull detached itself from the herd and moved a dozen yards to the tree line to the north. It selected a suitably stout tree and commenced rubbing its horns against the bark, doing so again and again until the bark began to wear away.
The breeze suddenly shifted, now coming from the north.
A second later the young bull stopped rubbing and loudly sniffed the air. It backed up several strides, tilting its huge head upward, its nostrils flaring.
Several others in the herd looked up and tested the breeze for scent. One of the animals abruptly bolted to the south, pounding through the stream to the opposite bank and throwing up a spray of snow as it ran toward the forest. In short order the rest did the same.
Spinning around, displaying remarkable agility for so enormous a beast, the young bull managed to take two strides before the sharp blast of a rifle shattered the stillness of the woodland. It dashed another three yards, then its front legs gave out and it crashed to the ground, rolling over and coming to rest on its right side.
The shot spurred the herd to greater speed. They gained the forest and plowed deep into the sheltering trees. In less than a minute the breaking of branches and the smashing of underbrush died down and only the whispering whistle of the wind remained. That, and the wheezing of the young bull.
A figure appeared to the north of the dying bison, a broad-shouldered, bearded man who advanced toward the brute with a Hawken rifle clenched firmly in his brawny hands. He wore a heavy red and black Mackinaw coat over beaded buckskins. Sturdy moccasins constructed from dressed elk skins protected his feet from the elements. A dark handcrafted hat fashioned from beaver pelts crowned his youthful head, scarcely containing his mane of long black hair.
In addition to the rifle he was armed with a pair of flintlock pistols which were positioned on both sides of the large silver buckle on the brown leather belt that encircled his Mackinaw at the waist. A butcher knife dangled from a beaded sheath on his left hip. Tucked under the belt and slanted over his left hip was a tomahawk. Crisscrossing his muscular chest were two indispensable items no mountaineer could do without—a powder horn and a bullet-pouch.
Nineteen-year-old Nathaniel King stepped cautiously up to the young bull. His green eyes narrowed and his steely body tensed, ready for action should the beast suddenly rise. Buffalos were the most unpredictable critters on God’s green earth, and when provoked they exhibited a fierce temperament that rivaled that of grizzly bears. They were tough, hardy animals, extremely difficult to kill. He’d heard of bison being shot over two-dozen times and still eluding the hapless hunters after them. Given the buffalos’ reputation and disposition, he wasn’t about to take reckless chances.
Nate stood over the brute and placed the Hawken barrel near its head. The bull still breathed, although laboriously, wheezing like a steam engine. Its eyes were wide. Blood flecked its mouth, dribbling from one corner, and the tip of its succulent tongue protruded. He pressed the rifle stock to his right shoulder and sighted on a point a few inches above the animal’s left eye. Killing meat for the table was one thing; letting any creature suffer needlessly was another. His thumb pulled the hammer back until it clicked, then his trigger finger began to curl around the cool metal.
The bull then went into violent convulsions, lifting its head and snorting as its legs thrashed about wildly.
To avoid being gored Nate jumped back and waited for the fit to subside. In seconds the buffalo ceased moving entirely, its great head sagged onto the soft cushion of snow, and it expired with a protracted exhalation that stirred the settled flakes near its mouth.
Nate prodded the beast to make certain it was dead, then gazed skyward at the gray clouds. Soon it would snow, and unless he wanted to be caught in a blizzard he’d better hurry. Accordingly, he drew his keen edged butcher knife and set to work dressing the bull.
As he sliced open the abdominal cavity and warmed his hands in the beast’s intestines, Nate thought about his beloved wife who eagerly awaited his return back at their cabin. He also thought of the new life taking form within her—the baby now five and a half months into the making in her womb.
He found it hard to accept that it was the middle of January. Only last April—April 1, 1828 to be exact—he’d left his father and mother, his job, his friends, and another woman he’d mistakenly believed he loved, back in New York City and ventured west to make his fortune. He’d given up his dreams of becoming an accountant in a prominent metropolitan firm to join his Uncle Zeke, the black sheep of the King family, who had gone into the wilderness many years before and never returned. Zeke had written to him, promising to share ‘the greatest treasure in the world’ if Nate would only join him beyond the frontier.
“What a fool I was!” Nate reflected, then immediately changed his mind. True, he’d envisioned becoming partners with Zeke in a lucrative fur trading enterprise, or perhaps in mining some of the fabulous veins of gold or silver rumored to exist in the Rockies. And true, Zeke’s underlying intent had been to introduce Nate to the life of a mountain man, as some had taken to calling those rugged trappers and hunters who lived as the Indians did by eking an existence from an invariably hostile land. The true treasure Zeke had wanted his nephew to possess was the gift of genuine freedom, of a life where a man’s worth was measured by his character, strength, and endurance, and where the only constraints were those imposed by Nature and the will of the Almighty.
How ironic, Nate mused. If he hadn’t entertained those foolish notions of attaining great wealth he never would have wound up enjoying that true freedom Zeke had prized above all else. And now he felt the same way! He’d grown to appreciate the value of the life his late uncle had extolled. He had grown to realize that God had never meant for humanity to be cooped up in filthy cities of stone and brick where men and women suffered through lives of quiet desperation.
Such a horrible existence was no longer for him!
He inhaled the frigid air and caught a whiff of the tangy scent of the bull’s blood. This was the life. This was the way the Good Lord meant for men to live. He called no one master, had no obligations to anyone other than his wife and himself. There were no pompous politicians trying to dictate his behavior, no bosses looking over his shoulder.
In every sense of the word, he was a free man.
Nate chuckled, then paused in his busy work when a snowflake fell within an inch of his nose and landed on the ground near his knees. He stared upward and frowned, seeing many more such flakes descending. The snowfall had begun. Soon it would intensify to the point where he wouldn’t be able to see his hands in front of his face.
He had a choice to make. Skinning and dressing the entire buffalo before the brunt of the storm hit would be impossible. Either he made a lean-to in the trees and waited for the snow to stop, which could take hours, or he removed enough meat to feed Winona and himself for a week or s
o and returned home. He’d wandered less than two miles from the cabin since he began hunting, so the latter prospect was infinitely more appealing.
Nate hurriedly removed a sizeable strip of hide and carved off a thigh section of meat. He placed them to one side, then went about gathering limbs with which to cover the bull. Concealing it wouldn’t do much good where wolves or panthers were concerned, since both could smell fresh blood half a mile off if the wind was right. But the neatly arranged limbs might prevent the kill from being spotted by other animals or by Indians who might be in the area.
The snow was falling steadily by the time Nate finished and wrapped the meat in the hide. He straightened, grabbed his Hawken, and headed to the northeast. The nearest peaks were obscured by the gradually building storm, depriving him of the landmarks he ordinarily relied on to guide his steps. Consequently, he moved slower than he normally would, selecting his route with care to avoid blundering into a ravine or over a cliff.
He made relatively good progress for the first twenty minutes or so. Then the rate of falling snow dramatically increased and he could barely distinguish trees twenty feet ahead.
The Hawken in his right hand, the bundle of meat under his left arm, Nate trudged onward, determined to get through no matter what. Several more minutes elapsed.
He felt something moist drip onto his left hand, first one drop, then others, and looking down he discovered that blood had seeped through the hide and onto his forearm. He’d removed the deerskin gloves Winona had sewn for him at the onset of cold weather in order to shoot at the bull, and he now paused to take them from the pockets of his Mackinaw and gratefully eased his chilled fingers into the soft material.
Taking the rifle and bundle again in hand, Nate resumed hiking through the sea of white and traveled a hundred yards before he heard the first of the howls. He halted, listening to the distant wail, wondering if the sound might be the wind. A second howl, slightly closer, dispelled his wishful thinking.
There were wolves abroad.
He hastened off. Normally wolves posed no problems for solitary humans. The stealthy and wily carnivores would run at the sight of man. There were exceptions to the rule, however. If a single wolf or a pack had gone long without food, they would tempt fate. And in the winter, when game was scarce and bringing prey such as deer and elk down became extremely difficult even for skilled stalkers, the wolves would hunt anything that moved.
Nate had heard a story once about a trapper who lost a leg to a pack of ravenous wolves and he had no intention of suffering a similar or worse fortune. He forged diligently northeastward until he ascended a rise located less than a mile from the lake near which his cabin stood.
At that moment more howls erupted to his rear and they were much, much closer.
Hefting the Hawken, Nate increased his pace. The wolves were on his trail. They must be following the scent of the dripping blood. He considered abandoning the meat, of simply leaving the bundle for them to find and buying the time he would need to make his escape, but the thought of Winona going hungry firmed his resolve. His wife needed the food. She was eating for two and she depended on him to provide the nourishment she required. He wasn’t about to let her down.
The slope was slick and Nate nearly lost his footing several times en route to the bottom. He estimated he had another thirty feet to go when a strident howl, sounding as if it were at the top of the rise, caused him to glance over his shoulder in alarm. The snow screened the crest from his view. He derived some small comfort from the fact that since he couldn’t see the wolves, they couldn’t see him. Or so he hoped.
As Nate faced front his left foot hit a slippery spot and swept out from under him. He frantically tried to regain his balance, to no avail. Gravity brought him down onto his backside and he started to slide, gathering momentum with every yard. A small boulder loomed in his path and he threw himself to the left, hoping to roll out of harm’s way. He wasn’t completely successful.
A searing pain lanced his right leg as his shin struck the boulder with a jarring impact. Nate grit his teeth to keep from crying out. He spun, out of control, and tumbled the rest of the distance to the bottom, landing hard on his shoulders in a mound of snow.
Dazed, Nate struggled into a sitting position and took stock. He’d instinctively retained his grip on the rifle and the meat. Grunting, he tried to rise, his right leg in torment. From his rear came a low growl and he twisted to behold several dark four-legged forms gliding down the slope.
The wolves had found him.
Chapter Two
His pulse quickening, Nate surged to his feet and swung around to face the onrushing shadows. All three timber wolves halted, the nearest approximately fifteen feet off, their features shrouded by the driving snow. He could distinguish the general outline of their sleek bodies, but nothing more.
One of the beasts snarled.
Nate waited expectantly, his every nerve tingling, for the wolves to charge. He didn’t dare fire while holding the buffalo meat. Shooting a powerful Hawken accurately one-handed was next to impossible and might well result in a busted limb. But he wasn’t about to let go of the meat except as a last resort since he knew full well the wolves would be on it in a flash.
A minute went by. Two minutes. And still the wolves only stood there, silently regarding him, perhaps taking his measure in their bestial way.
What now? Nate asked himself. The longer he stayed put, the colder he’d become. His reflexes would be dulled, even sluggish. The wolves would have a distinct advantage. He couldn’t allow that to happen.
Taking a deep breath, Nate slowly backed away from the animals, ignoring the acute discomfort in his right leg. His eyes darted from wolf to wolf in anticipation of being attacked but the threesome were as still as statues. After going a dozen feet he warily wheeled and resumed his trek.
The storm intensified again, the falling snow becoming a virtual swirling white wall, obliterating the landscape in all directions. Nate lost sight of the wolves, and he paused to listen for their footfalls, but heard only the swishing snow and gusting wind. Lowering his head into the flake-laden air, he made for home, vowing not to stop again until he held Winona in his arms.
Repeatedly Nate bumped into obstacles; logs, trees, rocks, and boulders were impossible to see. His right leg pained him less with every step, leading him to believe it was only badly bruised or sprained but not broken.
If the wolves were out there, they made no sound. Once, briefly, a shadowy form materialized on the right, then just as promptly vanished.
Nate couldn’t find any points of reference and had no idea where he was. He guessed he was moving in the right direction and stubbornly forged onward, not daunted in the least at the prospect of being lost. There were trees all around him and it would be an easy task to construct a temporary shelter that would keep him relatively comfortable and safe until the snow abated.
Knowing he must only have three-quarters of a mile to cover inspired him with hope that he would find the cabin before too long. Granted, spying a lone structure in the midst of a raging snowstorm wouldn’t be easy, but he should be able to locate the lake without too much difficulty, and once he did finding the cabin would be a simple task.
Nate trudged through the forest for an indefinite period, losing all track of time. His exertion made him sweat, and the sweat in turn cooled and caused him to shiver. Oh, what he wouldn’t give for a roaring fire and a hot cup of coffee!
He skirted a huge pine tree blocking his path and stopped to rest for a moment. The instant he did, something plowed into his legs from the rear and bowled him over. Caught off-guard, he felt teeth tear into his left calf as he fell onto his back. And then whatever had attacked him was gone, evaporating like a specter into the mist of white particles.
The wolves!
Nate rolled onto his right elbow and shoved upright. A scan of the area showed only snow. He bent down to look at his calf and found blood staining his legging and moccasin.
/> What were they up to? Why nip at him and run?
He hastened into the storm, hoping he wouldn’t lose too much blood. If so, he might as well dig a hole in the ground and bury himself because he’d never reach the cabin alive.
Another streaking figure hurtled out of the snow and struck him in the lower legs.
Again Nate went down and was bitten, only this time on the opposite leg. The wolf disappeared into the storm. He swiftly rose, his other leg bleeding, and tried in vain to spot the beasts.
Somewhere to his rear one of the predators howled.
Nate turned and ran blindly, seeking to elude them and not paying much attention to the terrain. When a pine loomed in front of him he slowed, then dropped to his knees and scooted under its overhanging branches. He placed his back to the trunk, deposited the meat at his side, and gripped the rifle in both hands.
Now let them come!
Their tactics abruptly made complete sense. He’d once witnessed a pack of seven wolves kill a young moose by continually harassing it—taking turns running in and biting its flanks until eventually the moose collapsed and was easy prey for their raking teeth. These crafty wolves were trying the same devious ploy on him.
Thanks to the long tree limbs Nate could see for a few yards in all directions. The wolves wouldn’t be able to get at him without being spotted. He cocked the Hawken and impatiently awaited the next assault.
His mind strayed to thoughts of Winona. He imagined her sitting by the fireplace in their cabin, probably worried half to death about him. Just so she stayed in there and didn’t come looking for him.
What was that?
Something moved in the snow, a fleeting flicker that gave no hint of its cause.
The wolves had him boxed in. If he could only slay one of them the rest might leave. But how to accomplish the deed? He pondered the problem until an idea occurred to him that brought a grin to his lips.
Taking the bundle of meat, he slid it out until the hide sat just at the edge of the sheltering tree limbs. Then he put his back to the trunk and trained the rifle barrel on the bait. The range was only eight feet. If he stayed alert, he couldn’t miss.
Tomahawk Revenge/ Black Powder Justice (A Wilderness Double Western Book 3) Page 15
