Relief seeped into Winona. The creature clearly wasn’t more than two feet high at the front shoulders, and she was confident she could dispatch the animal with a single shot if it should attack. To her surprise, the thing appeared about to do just that by moving a few feet toward her and giving voice to a growl that would have done justice to an enraged grizzly.
She saw more of it now, observing a heavyset body held close to the ground, apparently dark brown in hue and covered with the densest of fur. There also seemed to be a rather short tail. Those beady eyes blazed at her without once blinking. The breeze briefly shifted then, and she smelled the faintest of foul odors.
Then she knew. Her fear resurfaced, stronger than before, as she cried out “No!” in Shoshone. Her voice had a surprising effect; the creature started, whirled, and ran into the woods, its passage marked by much crashing of the undergrowth.
Winona was safe for now, but she still felt weak at the knees. The thing she had encountered was far worse than any grizzly or panther, far deadlier than any other animal. Its voracious appetite and tenacity were legendary among all the tribes, and few were the warriors who had ever bested one in battle. Elusive, fearless, and the most powerful animal in existence for its size, the mere mention of its name inspired utter dread.
Such was the reputation of the wolverine.
Chapter Sixteen
The moon was well past its zenith when Shakespeare led them to the top of a hill and reined up. “This is as far as we go on horseback,” he announced, first in English, then in the Flathead tongue.
Nate didn’t need to ask why. Visible a quarter of a mile away, resembling a large, pale mirror, shimmering with reflected moonlight, was Still Lake. Dismounting, he tied the reins to a nearby tree and faced his companions.
Shakespeare was scanning the area around the water. “I don’t see any campfires, but we’ll play it safe anyway. Slow and quiet is the way we’ll do this.” He started forward.
Doing the same, Nate looked over his shoulder at their Flathead friend. Wind In The Grass had not uttered a word since departing the village. He imagined the warrior was thinking about Flower Woman and Roaring Mountain, troubled by the prospect of never seeing them again. And Nate couldn’t blame him one bit.
They flitted down the hill like ghosts through a cemetery, their footfalls virtually silent as was the forest all around them.
Nate didn’t like the quiet one bit. There should be animal sounds, he mused, the many snarls and growls and squeals that regularly arose from the wilderness during those hours when many of the predators were abroad. But there was nothing save the wind rustling in the trees to even hint at the existence of life in the inky realm. Oddly, the wolves and coyotes were also silent and had been for some time.
Shakespeare demonstrated an uncanny knack for seeing in the dark, leading them around thorny thickets, over logs, and around other obstacles with the agility and fluid motion of a twenty year old. Every now and then he paused to listen and sniff.
What did he think he would smell? Nate wondered, grinning. Sometimes his mentor displayed eccentric behavior he found almost comical. Maybe the reason could be attributed to Shakespeare having lived for so many years in the wild among the animals. Anyone who lived with wild creatures long enough, Nate reflected, might well take on some of their mannerisms after a while.
Several times Nate glanced to his rear to verify Wind In The Grass still followed. The Flathead was exceptionally stealthy, his moccasin covered feet flowing effortlessly over the ground, his head cocked, an arrow notched to his bow string.
Nate held himself bent at the waist, his finger caressing the Hawken’s trigger, treading in Shakespeare’s footsteps. The lake grew nearer by the minute, but there were still no campfires in evidence. Even if the Blackfeet had retired to their forts hours ago, there should still be enough smoldering embers to mark the locations of those fires. But a shroud of black covered the landscape.
Shakespeare stopped more frequently now, glancing right and left. Suddenly he pressed a hand over his nose and mouth and motioned for them to do the same.
Not understanding, Nate hesitated, and a moment later the awful stench hit him with the force of a physical blow, making him gag and almost stagger backwards. He clamped a hand over the lower part of his face, barely inhaling, and gazed past his mentor to behold the source of the revolting stench.
A rotting corpse lay a dozen feet away.
They went around it. Nate was unable to take his eyes from the grisly legacy of the battle. He guessed it had been a Flathead. Stripped of all clothes and weapons, the body had suffered a fate typical of those who fell during Indian warfare. Most of the hair was gone, taken by a Blackfoot no doubt. The face had been mutilated, the nose and lips sliced off and the eyes gouged out. Both arms had been chopped off at the elbows and the legs below the ankles. Animals had been at the flesh, tearing off strips of skin to get at the juicy meat underneath. The gory remains disgusted him, and he felt bile rise in his gorge. He swallowed hard, refusing to be sick.
As they continued, they encountered more bodies, all in similar ghastly condition. The Blackfeet had butchered the fallen Flatheads just as the Flatheads had previously butchered the fallen Utes.
By breathing shallowly, Nate was able to avoid inhaling most of the odor. Still, his stomach was queasy by the time they came to the tree line. Before them were the forts, dark and apparently empty. He crouched behind a tree and studied the structures.
Shakespeare came over and squatted, then gestured for Wind In The Grass to join them. “I’m fixing to swing around to the west and come up on the forts from the rear. The two of you sit tight until I give you a signal.”
“I’ll go with you,” Nate proposed out of concern for his friend’s safety.
“I need you to cover the entrances in case there is someone inside, which I doubt,” Shakespeare whispered. He spoke to Wind In The Grass for half a minute, then hastened off, vanishing in the undergrowth.
Nate trained the Hawken on the forts and impatiently waited for the mountain man to reappear. A stray cloud passed in front of the moon, plunging the landscape into total gloom, and he could barely see the end of his barrel. He glanced at the cloud, trying to will it to go faster, fearful Shakespeare would be attacked and he wouldn’t be able to help because he couldn’t see targets to shoot. Thankfully, the cloud drifted eastward before too long.
Focusing on the forts, Nate was surprised to see McNair was already there, creeping from the forest like a stalking panther. He steadied the rifle and cocked the hammer.
Wind In The Grass took a stride forward, elevated the bow, and partially drew back the string.
Moving rapidly, Shakespeare entered the first structure. He promptly emerged and went to the second, then the third. Finally he came out and waved.
Glad the Blackfeet were gone, Nate rose and hurried over.
“The varmints have skedaddled,” Shakespeare declared, sounding disappointed. “They must be well on their way back to their own country with all their booty.”
“White Eagle will be glad to hear the news,” Nate said, letting the hammer down. He lowered the rifle, turned, and stared out over the tranquil lake, feeling extremely fatigued, the nap not having refreshed him as much as he had hoped. Now they could return to the village and get some real rest. A pinpoint of flickering light in the distance, at the base of a mountain range approximately four miles off, arrested his attention. “What’s that?” he asked, knowing the answer but hoping he was wrong.
His companions turned.
“It’s a campfire,” Shakespeare said.
Nate’s elation immediately evaporated. “The Blackfeet, you reckon?”
“Maybe,” Shakespeare replied. “Maybe other Indians. Or it could be white men, for all we know.” He walked toward the forest. “There’s only one way to find out.”
Disappointment turned to resentment as Nate hastened to their horses. With each passing hour his conscience bothered him more and
more. He wanted to return to Winona, and it angered him that yet another delay barred his departure. There was nothing to prevent him from simply riding homeward whenever he wished—except his devotion to Shakespeare, and he couldn’t bring himself to desert his best friend—yet. But if things didn’t come to a head soon, if the Blackfeet hadn’t truly left and if Shakespeare didn’t resolve his dispute with Standing Bear, he would be forced to make a most distasteful decision, to chose between his beloved wife and his mentor.
~*~
Winona came awake with a start and sat bolt upright in bed, her mind racing as she struggled to become fully alert. Something had awakened her, but what? She glanced around, listening intently.
All appeared to be in the order. A single charred log still glowed reddish-orange in the fireplace; otherwise, the interior was plunged in darkness. A faint breeze stirred the flap covering the window. Outside, silence ruled. Not even the horses were stirring.
So what could it have been?
She swung her legs around and touched her bare feet to the floor. The cool air from the window faintly fanned her left cheek while the heat from the fireplace warmed her right. Perhaps, she reasoned, a dream had been responsible for interrupting her slumber, although for the life of her she couldn’t recall having dreamed anything since falling asleep.
Very unusual.
Winona grinned at her foolishness and went to lie back down. Then, from near the door, came a loud scratching noise repeated three times.
An animal was clawing at the cabin!
She knew who the culprit must be, and a paralysis sparked by sheer fear glued her to the bed. The loaded rifle was propped against the wall near the entrance, but it might as well be on the next mountain. She was simply too scared to go get it.
A growl broke the silence and the animal renewed its assault, its claws tearing into the wood with rhythmic precision as first one paw, and then the other, ripped in vertical strokes.
The wolverine had returned.
Taking a breath, Winona compelled her body to stand. Perhaps the glutton, as many called the beasts, had never left. Perhaps it had been lurking in the woods, waiting for her to go to sleep, for the lights to go out and quiet to descend, before approaching the cabin.
She took a few tentative steps toward the rifle. Staring at the front of the cabin, she realized the creature wasn’t trying to claw its way through the wall; it was concentrating on the weaker door. How did it know to do that? she wondered. Then she figured it had observed her come inside earlier and its rudimentary brain had compared the open doorway to the open holes of the burrows of some of its victims.
Wolverines would eat anything they could find and slay. They were known to prefer carrion, but the most knowledgeable Shoshone hunters also claimed wolverines would eat birds, squirrels, badgers, and a host of smaller game. They had also been known to kill deer, elk, and moose bogged down in heavy snow. Hunters had witnessed encounters between wolverines and grizzlies in which the wolverines drove the mighty bears from their kills and claimed the carcasses as their own. Wolverines would even readily fight the big cats.
Winona was most worried about another aspect to wolverine lore. Many times wolverines had raided lodges or cabins temporarily vacated by their owners and consumed every edible morsel within while systematically destroying every possession. It seemed this particular wolverine entertained a similar intention.
What was she to do?
She girded herself and tiptoed to the rifle, watching the door tremble as the beast clawed at the bottom. Once her hands closed on the weapon she felt somewhat better. Moving back a few paces, she pointed the flintlock at the door.
The wolverine stopped clawing.
Had it heard her? Winona reflected. Loud sniffing ensued, arising from the narrow crack between the floor and the door. She took another step backward, aware it was trying to pick up her scent.
Voicing a growl that would have done justice to the largest grizzly that ever lived, the wolverine tore into the door with extra vigor.
Winona swallowed hard. The thing knew she was there, and her intuition told her the wolverine wasn’t all that interested in the contents of the cabin. It wanted her.
The door shook violently now. Occasionally the tips of a few claws would jut under the bottom, trying to get a firm purchase.
Desperate to drive the beast off, Winona shouted as loud as she could in Shoshone. “Go away, destroyer! Leave this place in peace!”
The clawing ceased.
Winona waited, her body tingling in anxious anticipation, hoping the yell had driven the monster off. The time dragged by and nothing happened. Encouraged, she crept to the door and pressed her right ear to the upper half.
In an explosion of fury the wolverine attacked the door once more, its paws pumping in a frenzy, its lethal claws biting into the wood like ten slender tomahawks, slowly chopping the stout door to bits.
Caught off guard, Winona jumped backwards, her limbs quivering in fright. She closed her eyes, directing her concentration inward, striving to control her surging emotions. This was no way for a Shoshone woman to behave, she berated herself. Shoshone women were raised to be worthy of the men they married and to be a credit to their people. Her behavior so far had been almost cowardly, and it was time she lived up to the standards of her tribe and the teachings instilled in her from childhood by her mother, her grandmother, and other women who had lived to ripe years and knew the way of wisdom all women should follow.
Kneeling, Winona cocked the flintlock and placed the end of the barrel within a hand’s width of the door, aligning it with where she felt the wolverine stood. For all she knew, she might miss or merely wound the beast, which would only increase its rage and place her life in graver jeopardy, but she had to try something before it got through the door. Once the wolverine broke inside, she would be easy prey.
She willed her arms to hold steady, glanced at shadowy claws that materialized under the door, took a breath as Nate had taught her, and squeezed the trigger.
Chapter Seventeen
Nate hauled on the reins and brought his stallion to a stop. He glanced around in confusion, bothered by an acute sensation of imminent danger, but all he saw was Stygian forest. The feeling intensified, filling him with inexplicable dread, and he raised the Hawken halfway to his shoulder in case it should be needed.
“What’s wrong?” Shakespeare asked. He had halted a dozen feet ahead and was gazing back in perplexity.
“I’m not sure,” Nate replied.
“Did you see something?”
“No.”
“Did you hear something?”
“No.”
“Did you smell something?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why in the world are you all set to shoot anything that moves?” Shakespeare asked in exasperation.
“I don’t rightly know,” Nate admitted, unable to find anything menacing them. “I have a strange feeling, is all.”
“Oh?” Shakespeare said, and surveyed the woodland. “What kind of feeling?”
“I don’t rightly know.”
The mountain man made a puffing sound. “If anyone ever accuses you of being a fount of information, tell them they’re off their rocker.”
As suddenly as the strange feeling came over Nate, it dissipated. He slowly lowered the Hawken and commented, “I’m sorry. I just don’t know what to make of it.”
“Maybe it was supernatural,” Shakespeare suggested with a straight face.
“You’ve been in the saddle too long,” Nate responded. “All the bouncing up and down has addled your brain.”
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” Shakespeare quoted, and then altered his voice to a crackling whine. “Double, double toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble.”
“Is that supposed to mean you’re quite serious?”
“Quite, and rather eloquently too, if I do say so myself,” S
hakespeare said, leaning toward him. “Do you still have the feeling?”
“No, it’s gone.”
“And so are we unless it should return,” Shakespeare said, and continued toward their destination.
Picking up the reins, Nate rode onward. The campfire still blazed and was now less than half a mile distant, leading him to question the wisdom of drawing any closer on horseback. They were in thick forest, hemmed in by underbrush, causing their animals to make more noise than he believed prudent.
Several hundred yards farther on, Shakespeare lifted his arm to signify they should rein up.
Nate gladly did so, then secured the stallion to a tree. He studied the campfire, which was now glowing dully as if burning itself out. With Shakespeare on his right and Wind In The Grass on his left, he advanced warily. As the distance narrowed, it became apparent the camp was situated at the base of a steep cliff, hidden among a cluster of enormous boulders. Through a narrow crack between two of them the fire could be seen.
He realized he’d been lucky in spotting it. Whoever was in there had gone to great lengths to conceal their presence. If not for some of the firelight reflecting off the boulders and intensifying the illumination, he would never have seen the campfire.
The forest ended seventy-five yards away, and a grassy stretch of open land spread out before them.
Shakespeare stopped at the tree line and squatted. “If they’ve posted a guard, we’ll never make it across.”
“Do we wait until daylight?” Nate asked.
“Might be our best bet,” Shakespeare said.
Wind In The Grass spoke up, conversing with the mountain man at length. Then he placed his bow on the ground, unslung his quiver, and drew his knife. Easing to his hands and knees, he quickly crawled into the high grass and was swallowed by the darkness.
Nate almost reached out a hand to stop him, but he guessed where his host was going and knew there was nothing he could say that would change the warrior’s mind. “Is he doing what I think he’s doing?” he whispered.
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