Although the wolves had to know the buffalo meat was there, they made no attempt to claim it for their own.
Nate wondered if the animals were trying to wait him out. Sooner or later he’d grow drowsy, perhaps doze off. Stealing the bundle would then be child’s play. He reminded himself not to underestimate the intelligence of the three creatures.
Sure enough, lethargy set in and his eyelids fluttered and drooped. He forced himself awake and examined his wounds. Both were bleeding profusely, which must be weakening him considerably.
Nate shook his head and went to yawn. A vague shadow popped into sight near the buffalo meat and he froze, his finger touching the trigger.
Ever so cautiously the wolf came forward.
He could see its head now, its mouth curved back in a feral snarl and a hungry gleam in its eyes. The wolf was lean, nearly gaunt, and had long been without food. Under different circumstances he might have been moved to pity the animal, but his wife’s need took precedence over the wolf’s.
Nate sighted along the barrel, fixing a bead on the beast’s sloping forehead. He resisted the temptation to fire until the wolf stood right beside the bundle, about to bite into the hide, and then he squeezed the trigger.
The sharp retort was amplified by the limbs overhead. At the sound the wolf sprang backwards, or tried to, but got only a foot before crumbling in the snow, a neat hole smack dab between its eyes.
Nate lost no time. He hastily reloaded, placing the rifle butt on the ground and pouring sufficient black powder from his powder horn into the palm of his left hand. He fed the grains down the muzzle, wrapped a ball in a patch, then used the ramrod to shove the ball down on top of the powder. Replacing the ramrod under the barrel, he scoured the vicinity for the remaining wolves.
Given the well-known fact that wolves, like most animals in the Rockies, were notoriously gun shy, Nate concluded that the pair had fled. A nagging doubt, however, rooted him in place for five minutes. Finally he moved to the dead wolf, debating whether to take its skin, and decided his first priority was to reach Winona.
Clasping the bundle under his left arm, Nate slid out from under the pine tree and tramped into the storm. Both legs were stiff and sore. After walking a bit they loosened up but hurt terribly. His eagerness to reach the cabin mounted with each stride he took.
So intent was he on finding his home, he failed to watch his back trail, so the first inkling he had of impending danger was the throaty growl of a charging wolf to his rear. Whirling, he dropped the meat and attempted to level the Hawken, but the barrel was still slanted toward the ground when the two wolves hurtled through the air and slammed into his chest.
Nate was knocked down hard onto his shoulders with a pair of snapping jaws within inches of his face. He released the Hawken and grabbed a hairy throat in each hand, digging his fingers into their flesh, striving to hold them at bay.
The wolves were in a primal fury. They clawed at his coat and bit at his head, their combined weight and strength formidable.
It was all Nate could do to hold on. One of the wolves snared the tip of his chin, its tapered teeth digging in deep. In dread of having one of them bite into his neck, Nate frantically threw himself to the right and heaved, then tried to regain his footing.
Both wolves recovered instantaneously and scrambled to their feet. The larger of the duo sprang.
In a virtual blur Nate drew his right flintlock and snapped off a shot, the tip of the pistol barrel almost touching the wolf’s nose when it discharged a small cloud of smoke and lethal lead. The ball bored into the animal’s skull, the impact flipping it onto its back. The last wolf never even paused. Growling, the beast leaped and chomped down on the extended arm.
Nate almost screamed from the agony. The flintlock fell from his grasp and he arched his spine, then dropped his left hand to the butcher knife. His fingers closed around the hilt and he swept the razor-edged blade up and in, sinking it into the wolf’s exposed chest.
Snarling savagely, the wolf opened its jaws, darted to the left, and closed in again.
Swinging the butcher knife in an arc, Nate cut a furrow in the wolf’s face, nearly taking out an eye. The beast bounded out of his reach and crouched, its teeth exposed. He lunged, swinging recklessly, and drove the animal farther back.
For a moment the two adversaries eyed one another.
Then the wolf came in fast and low, going for the legs.
Nate twisted to the left and speared the knife at the wolf’s back. He scored, slicing its fur open. In a twinkling the animal pivoted and pounced, burying its teeth into his left leg.
The pain! Never had Nate known such excruciating torture. He cried out, dropping the knife, and endeavored to jerk his leg lose. The wolf held firm, however, and in desperation he drew his other flintlock, pressed the barrel to the top of the animal’s cranium, cocked the hammer, and fired.
Its body going limp, the wolf collapsed on the spot, blood and bits of gray matter spurting from the hole in its head. But even in death the beast’s jaws stayed locked on Nate’s leg.
Squatting, Nate stuck the flintlock under his belt and gripped the wolf’s jaws, trying to pry them apart. He strained for all he was worth, his face becoming red, his veins bulging. With a supreme effort he managed to wrench the teeth from his flesh and sank back on the snow, exhausted.
But Nate realized this ordeal was far from over. He grit his teeth and sat up to inspect his wounds. The amount of blood he was losing appalled him. He couldn’t waste precious time in recuperating. He had to get on his feet and get to the cabin or he would surely die.
Spurred by the realization of his own mortality, Nate collected his weapons, tucked the prized meat under his left arm, and hastened in what he hoped was the direction of the cabin and the lake. He felt blood trickling down his arm and legs and tried not to dwell on it. Keep going, he prodded himself. Just keep going. You’ll reach the cabin.
Countless snowflakes swirled around him and caked his hat, coat, and moccasins. He trudged ever forward, his shoulders hunched, shivering more and more as time wore on. His legs became progressively weaker. He bumped into objects, recovered his balance, and pressed on.
I’m coming, Winona! he wanted to shout.
Nate’s senses swam. He had no idea how far he traveled or how much time had elapsed. It took all of his concentration merely to move one foot ahead of the other. Left. Right. Left. Right. With single-minded purpose he plowed toward the woman he loved.
I’m coming, Winona!
Numbness set in, creeping up his legs to his thighs, an odd tingling compounded by his now constant shivering. He wished he could lie down and rest. A few hours sleep might restore his vitality.
What was he thinking? Nate chided himself for his momentary weakness and walked on. His vision blurred and he was startled when he smacked into a tree and fell to his knees. Grimacing, he willed his legs to straighten so he could continue but they refused to obey his mental command. He tried again with the same result.
This couldn’t be happening.
He couldn’t die now, not when he’d found the greatest happiness any man had ever known.
Nate swallowed and felt nauseous. He tried a third time to stand. Instead, a strange wave of black emptiness engulfed his consciousness and he began to pitch onto his face. In that final second before the void claimed him, he raised his head and called out the name of the woman who meant more to him than life itself, shouting at the top of his lungs in defiance to the wilderness that had bested him: ‘‘WWWHINNNOOONNNAAA!”
Then he struck the ground. The last sensation he experienced was the soft snow against his skin.
Chapter Three
He seemed to be at the bottom of a murky pool. Far above him lay the shimmering surface. He pushed off from the bottom and swam with even, strong strokes toward the beckoning light. Oddly, for every stroke he took the surface receded the same distance. He made no headway. His lungs began to ache.
With a start he reali
zed that he wasn’t in a pool. Water didn’t envelope him; a heavy, moist air did, a palpable substance unlike any he’d ever known or heard about. He stroked harder, kicking his legs but still he made no progress. His lungs began to ache.
Somewhere someone shouted, a muffled cry he barely heard. He flailed his arms and pumped his legs with all his might, yet the surface mocked him by receding farther. Something materialized above him, a huge mass that swept down toward him and blocked out the light. He opened his mouth to scream and felt his wind cut off.
“Nate! Nate! It’s me!”
The urgent voice, so intimately familiar, penetrated to the core of his being, stirring his very soul, and Nate became instantly wide-awake. His eyes snapped open and he looked around him in confusion, fearing he’d dreamed hearing her. “Winona?” he blurted, then saw her seated beside him on the right. They were both on the bed in their cabin.
“I am here, husband,” his wife stated, using her native tongue, the musical language of the Shoshone tribe.
“Thank the Lord,” Nate breathed in English, his eyes drinking in her beauty. He knew she would understand him. They each spoke the other’s language with a fair degree of fluency, although he would be the first to admit that she spoke more English than he did Shoshone. Frequently they conducted conversations in both tongues, as much to keep in practice as anything else.
Like most women in her tribe, Winona possessed high, prominent cheekbones that served to accent her natural loveliness. Hip-length, luxurious black hair and lively brown eyes imbued her with an aura of innate vitality. A beaded buckskin dress, bulging at the abdomen, covered her otherwise supple figure.
“The Great Mystery was indeed watching over you,” Winona said softly, reaching over to tenderly stroke his brow. “If I hadn’t heard you yell, you would have died in the blizzard.”
The blizzard! Nate’s memory of shooting the young bull and the attack by the wolves returned in a rush and he went to sit up. Searing pain in his right arm made him wince and look down at himself. All he had on were his leggins and they had been slit from their bottom edges to his thighs to afford access to his wounds.
“Please stay still,” Winona urged. “The wolves you fought tore you very badly and you’re weak. I put herbs on the bites to help them heal.”
“Thank you,” Nate said gratefully. He frowned as he studied the ragged gashes in his body; there were two on his left leg, one on his right, a nasty laceration on his right arm several inches above the wrist, and the injury to his chin. Small wonder he ached from his head to his toes. “How did you know it was wolves?”
“You talked in your sleep,” Winona said.
Nate looked at the window, at the narrow space between the sill and the flap, and saw snow still falling outside. From the amount of subdued light it must be daytime. “How long was I unconscious?”
“Most of yesterday and all night. It’s morning now.”
“What?” Nate said in surprise. To him it was as if mere minutes had elapsed. He keenly appreciated owing his life to her. Had she not found him, he’d be in the spirit world, as the Indians liked to say. “You heard me call your name?”
Winona nodded. “You were only twenty steps from the rear of the cabin when you collapsed.”
“And you carried me inside by yourself?” Nate asked in alarm.
“No,” Winona said, and grinned. “A black bear helped me.”
“This is no joking matter,” Nate said. “You shouldn’t be lifting something as heavy as I am in your condition.” He touched her bulging belly. “You took a great risk.”
“Don’t be silly. I couldn’t leave you there to die.”
Nate gazed affectionately into her eyes. “I’m sorry for the trouble I caused you.”
“Yes, you were a lot of trouble,” Winona stated in mock seriousness. “I can’t wait to tell my people how the mighty Grizzly Killer let himself be beaten by a few hungry wolves.”
Her cheery laughter a second later prompted him to join in. He could readily imagine the mirth her story would provoke in the Shoshones, who possessed a keen sense of humor.
The mighty Grizzly Killer! Nate recalled the Cheyenne Warrior called White Eagle who had bestowed the name on him months ago after he’d tangled with his first brown bear, as some of the mountaineers referred to that most savage denizen of the Rockies. Somehow, the title had stuck. Perhaps the fact he’d been compelled to slay three of the fierce brutes since leaving the States had something to do with it, for now the Cheyennes, the Shoshones, the dreaded Blackfeet, the Bannocks, Utes, Nez Percés, and Flatheads all knew him by his Indian name.
To Nate’s amazement, tales of his presumed exploits were being told around many a campfire from the Mississippi to the mountains. He could partially understand being a topic of conversation for the trappers, who spent every evening enjoying fireside chats about the latest news and gossip. But he’d been stunned to learn that word of his exploits had passed among the various Indian tribes gathered for the rendezvous last year at Bear Lake, or Sweet Lake as some called it.
Winona herself had told him that her people were boasting to all who would listen of their friendship with the famous Grizzly Killer. The white man who could kill a Grizzly with a mere knife, the free trapper who had saved their tribe from the Blackfeet had married one of their prettiest maidens.
Nate often found his spreading notoriety embarrassing. If he wasn’t careful, he’d soon be nearly as famous as Jed Smith, Jim Bridger, or Joseph Walker.
Or Shakespeare McNair.
Thinking of the wise old mountain man who had been his mentor after the death of his Uncle Zeke, Nate smiled and wished Shakespeare was still staying at the cabin. He missed his friend’s companionship, missed Shakespeare’s wit and insights. If he lived only half as long and acquired only half as much wisdom as McNair, he’d be two times as smart as the average person.
“Would you care for some buffalo stew, husband?” Winona inquired.
Nate stared at the corner of the cabin where the pots and pans were kept, then at the stone fireplace he’d built shortly before winter set in. A heavy pot purchased at the rendezvous hung over low flames. “You brought in the bundle I was carrying too?”
“I couldn’t pry your fingers off it,” Winona revealed. “And after all the trouble you went to in bringing the meat back, I had no intention of leaving it to rot.”
The prospect of food caused Nate’s stomach to growl loudly. “Yes, I’d like some stew very much. Even better, I could eat a thick, juicy steak.”
“You’ve been without food for too long to eat steak now,” Winona cautioned him. “A few days of soup and herbs will restore your strength. Then you can have steak.”
Nate pretended to pout. “I had no idea wives could be so much like mothers.”
Rising, Winona placed a hand on her stomach. “Motherhood comes naturally to women.” She stepped around the end of the bed and walked toward the fireplace.
Settling back, Nate fondly watched her stir the contents of the pot. Despite his wounds and the attendant pain, he was supremely content. Simply being alive made him thankful. Having the most wonderful wife on the North American continent was an added gift. To think, if he’d stayed back in New York he might have wound up married to Adeline!
Adeline Van Buren was the exquisitely cultured—some would say exquisitely spoiled—daughter of an extremely wealthy man in New York City. Because Nate’s father had known her father, they’d become acquainted. Her charm and radiant good looks had mesmerized Nate and he’d fallen head over heels for her. To his utter astonishment, Adeline had reciprocated. They’d even discussed marriage. Acutely aware of his financial shortcomings, Nate had eagerly jumped at the chance to share in his uncle’s wealth in an effort to provide Adeline with the many luxuries to which she’d grown accustomed.
How strange fate could be, Nate reflected. He’d left New York with every intention of returning to Adeline a rich man. Now he didn’t care if he ever went East or saw her a
gain, although infrequently a twinge of guilt bothered him. One day, maybe, he would take a trip back and explain everything to her. He owed her that much, at least.
“I dried and salted most of the meat,” Winona announced, interrupting his contemplation. “We have enough to last until the new moon.”
“The cold should preserve the rest of the kill,” Nate mentioned. “In two or three days I’ll go get more.”
“You will not go anywhere until you are healed.”
Nate chuckled. “I thought Indian wives always go along with whatever their husbands want.”
A spontaneous laugh erupted from Winona’s lips. “Where did you ever hear such a crazy thing?”
“Here and there.”
“Indian women are taught to always obey their husbands, yes. But we also speak our minds when the need arises. If our husbands behave like idiots, we tell them so,” Winona said, and smirked. “Although not in public.”
Nate thought of all the newspaper stories he’d read about Indians back in New York and frowned. Most had contained dreadful inaccuracies and exaggerations. Many editorialists had claimed that all Indians were savages who deserved to be forced off their lands to make room for the whites. And no less a personage than Andrew Jackson, the hero of the Battle of New Orleans who was running for President of the United States, had gone so far as to state the Indians were an inferior race.
The fools. What did they know about Indians, about Indian values and the Indian way of life? Nate would like to line up every one of the bigots and personally put a ball between their eyes. He wondered if Jackson had won the election and reminded himself to ask the next trappers he encountered. If so, it did not bode well for Indians everywhere.
“Nate?”
He looked up to find her regarding him solemnly. “Yes?”
“May I ask you a question?”
“Since when does an Indian woman need her husband’s permission to ask a question?” Nate quipped.
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