Wilderness Double Edition 14

by David Robbins

  “Of course you didn’t. You had your hands full with that griz.” The man kneed his horse closer. “Name’s Bartholomew Dunne, sonny. Earlier I spotted a war party northwest of here and managed to slip on by them. But I figured it’d be smart to lay low and was resting up when you came along. What might your handle be?”

  The man was friendly enough. “Lou,” she answered. “Lou Clark.”

  “Right pleased to make your acquaintance.” Bartholomew scratched his beard. “Betwixt bears and Indians, it isn’t hardly healthy for white folks hereabouts.”

  “A war party, you say?” Lou envisioned her beloved falling into their clutches.

  “Utes, most likely. Mind you, I didn’t go up and ask. But their faces and horses were painted. And unless you’re a greener, you must know what that means.”

  “A war party, sure enough,” Louisa agreed. She eased down the hammer and slid the pistol under her belt.

  Bartholomew stared past her, then to the east. “What in God’s name are you doing all by yourself, boy? If you don’t mind my sayin’ so, you’re a mite young and a mite puny to be traipsing around by your lonesome.”

  No one liked to be called “puny.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Lou responded. “And I’m not by myself. I’m toying—” She stopped, about to say “to save the man I’m going to marry.” Instead, she finished with “—to catch up with the trapping brigade I belong to. I was separated from them this morning.”

  “A trapping brigade?” Bartholomew Dunne chuckled. “Damnation. You are greeners. The days of the brigades are over, boy. Haven’t you heard?”

  “We’ll do all right,” Lou hedged.

  “Like hell. The beaver are plumb trapped out. I should know. I’ve been a trapper for going on nigh ten years.” Bartholomew grew wistful. “When I came to the Rockies, there were beaver aplenty. My first season I made over three hundred dollars. And until two or three seasons ago, I was still making fairly good money. But then the beaver got harder and harder to find. I had to go farther and farther back into the mountains. Now there’s hardly enough left to make a decent rug.” He nodded at the peltries on his pack-horse. “Those there are the last of the prime hides.”

  “Be that as it may, I still have to catch up with my friends.” Anxious on Zach’s account, Louisa lifted her reins.

  “Hold on. What’s your rush? They’re bound to wait for you, aren’t they?”

  “They’re quite a ways ahead, and I want to rejoin them before dark.” Lou didn’t mean to be rude, but she wished the man would be off about his own business.

  Bartholomew had no such desire. “It’s been a coon’s age since last I jawed with white men. I’d like to tag along, if you don’t mind.”

  “You would?” Lou would rather he didn’t. She’d have to go more slowly than she wanted.

  “What’s wrong with that? I can save your friends from wasting all their time and energy on a fool’s quest. There just aren’t any beaver to be had.”

  To refuse might arouse suspicion. So as much as Lou was against it, she said, “There’s nothing wrong. I’m just in a hurry. Come along.”

  They rode from the trees, Lou masking how upset she was. She noticed Dunne scrutinizing her.

  “How old are you, boy, if I can ask without getting your dander up?”

  Lou told him.

  “You don’t say. Why, there’s hardly a whisker on your chin. How is it you haven’t started to shave yet?”

  “Smooth chins run in my family,” Louisa said, hoping it wasn’t too far-fetched.

  “Ah. I knew a family back in Indiana who were that way. The men folk couldn’t grow a decent beard if their lives depended on it. They used to be a laughingstock until they all married some of the prettiest fillies in the county.” Bartholomew scratched his beard again. “Beats me why any gal would marry a fella who didn’t have a decent head of hair. I’m proud of mine, even if I do have a problem with lice now and then.”

  Lou made a mental note to not let him get within a foot of her.

  “How many men are in this brigade of yours?”

  “Nine, counting me.” Lou thought of something that might dissuade him from coming along. “What about that war party? Aren’t you worried about the Utes?”

  “Hell, they’re miles off by now. And if they’re not, there’s safety in numbers. I’m better off with you and your friends.”

  Lou resigned herself to sharing his company and hurried on. So immersed was she in sweet thoughts of Zach, she didn’t pay much attention to her newfound companion. Had she, she would have noticed the many secret glances he cast at her, perplexed glances, probing glances.

  They did not bode well.

  A spectacular sunset blazed the western sky when Vince Kendrick raised an arm and brought the line to a halt.

  “This is it,” Ben Frazier said.

  Zach was afraid he agreed, and afraid for the old man. Kendrick had been glaring at the trapper all afternoon, working himself into a funk, and now the dam was about to burst. Zach lifted his head, grimacing at a kink in his neck. Which was the least of his many aches and pains. “Remember. Don’t provoke him.”

  Frazier snorted. “Shows how much you know about human nature, sonny. He made me eat crow, remember? But by gum, he won’t make me eat it twice.”

  “Listen to me. If we work together, we can live through this.”

  The trapper smiled and said softly, “Damn if you aren’t a chip off the old block. Your pa has a reputation for being as honorable a feller as ever lived, and I reckon it must run in the family.”

  No one had ever compared Zach to his father before. He did not know what to say.

  “I always wanted a boy of my own,” Frazier said rather sorrowfully. “Had me a Nez Perce woman once, the finest female who ever lived. She talked about havin’ sprouts, but before she could get pregnant, the Bloods raided our village and she took an arrow meant for me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Such is life,” Frazier said. “If it ain’t chickens, its feathers.”

  Kendrick and Stark approached from the head of the column, Johnson and Sanders from the rear.

  Zach tried one last time. “Did you ever think that if you let them kill you, they still might find the gold? They’re not about to give up. Kendrick will spend years hunting if he has to.”

  “Now, that would sorely vex me. I’d rather give it all to a politician than let it fall into the hands of these scum.”

  The quartet reined up, and Kendrick waded right in. Leaning on his saddle horn, he said harshly, “I warned you, old man. I made it plain as could be what would happen if we didn’t reach the gold by nightfall.”

  “Go ahead, Vince! Cut off a finger,” Ed Stark coaxed. “We’ll hold him for you.”

  Frazier was as calm as a toad in the sun. “And I made it plain we might not get there today. But since you coyotes are all het up, I might as well break the good news.”

  “What are you dithering about?” Kendrick said. The trapper pointed. “See that ridge yonder?”

  “What about it?”

  “Look past it and tell me what’s there.”

  Vince Kendrick rose in his stirrups. “A peak. A small mountain. Is that a landmark?”

  “It’s Gold Mountain, as I call it. That’s where we’ll find what you’re after.”

  Four sets of eyes glinted with greed. “If you’re pulling our leg, old-timer,” Kendrick said, “I’ll take up where I left off with that brand last night.”

  “Unlike some people I can think of,” Frazier retorted, giving each of them a meaningful stare, “I’ve got enough brains to grease a skillet. And being tortured once in my lifetime was enough.”

  “Gold Mountain,” Ed Stark said in awe, then sobered and faced Kendrick. “Now that we know, what use do we have for gramps here? I say we put a ball between his eyes so we don’t have to listen to him jabber anymore.”

  “Go right ahead,” Frazier said glibly. “But before you do, k
eep in mind that mountain might look small from here, but up close it’s as big as they come. Without knowin’ exactly where the gold is, you could search for months and never find it.”

  “He has a point,” Elden Johnson said.

  Kendrick had not been listening. He was mesmerized by the peak. “So close, yet so far. But hell. It can’t be more than fifteen, twenty miles. If we pushed, we’d be there by the middle of the night.”

  Johnson turned. “And then what? Climb it in the dark? Stumble around looking for gold we can’t see? It’s wiser to get a good night’s sleep and an early start.”

  Once again the human anvil’s logic couldn’t be denied. Kendrick glowered, though, and said, “Have I ever told you how much of a pain in the ass you can be? Don’t you ever get tired of always being right?”

  “No.”

  Zach was glad the old man would be spared, but they’d only bought him another day of life, at most. Once the greenhorns had their hands on the gold, they’d have no further use for him.

  By then, Zach might be dead himself. This was his second day without food and without much water. He was growing weaker by the hour and would soon be in no shape to escape even if he could shed his bounds.

  His plight was growing desperate, his hope waning. He kept looking for sign of Louisa. Even though he didn’t want her to endanger herself on his account, she might be his only hope. Where was she? When would she try to free him? If she waited too long he would be too weak to lift a finger, let alone mount a horse. She would sacrifice herself in vain.

  Zach couldn’t let that happen.

  The broad-shouldered frontiersman on the magnificent bay had spied the bluff from a long way off. Soon he would be at its base, and soon thereafter the sun would set and he must stop for the night. It was not to his liking.

  The two he sought were in trouble. Its exact nature was a mystery, but irrelevant. When a member of his family was threatened, he would uproot heaven and hell to protect them. As would any man worthy of being a father. His family was everything to him. Once, he wouldn’t have thought so. In the ignorance of his youth, he had put himself before all else and based his decisions on whether they were good or bad for him. Only later, after taking a wife and becoming a husband, did he see that the world wasn’t made for his use alone. Having others to think of gave him new insight into the scheme of things, into how caring for those who depended on him was the measure of a man’s true worth.

  The love a husband showed for his wife, the affection a father showed for children, was a direct reflection on his own nature. A mature man nurtured that love as if it were the most priceless treasure anyone could possess—which it was.

  Now two of his own needed him, and he would not fail them.

  But then the frontiersman came to a talus slope and saw where the dun and the mare had traveled westward, while the party his pride and joy was with had gone up a game trail to the top.

  The mountain man reined up. The tracks revealed that the dun had returned alone. It had been walking slowly and nibbling at every tuft of grass that caught its fancy, which it would only do if it weren’t being ridden. Human tracks added to the puzzle. One of those he was after had gone up the slope on foot. Why? What had happened to the mare? He rode on.

  Near some boulders the bearded man found where the mare had bolted into the woods. He glanced at the crest, then at the vegetation. “I’d best be sure,” he said, and entered the trees.

  “You don’t want to make a fire?”

  Bartholomew Dunne’s surprise was warranted. No one ever made a cold camp unless it was absolutely necessary. Such as when hostiles were nearby, or there was no means to set kindling to blaze.

  Louisa May Clark didn’t want one, because the men who had taken Stalking Coyote might see it, but she couldn’t explain without sparking a hundred and one questions better left unanswered for the time being.

  “Why would you want to go without, sonny?” Bartholomew asked. “I have enough coffee and sugar for both of us.” He wagged the coffeepot he had taken off his packhorse. “Sure you wouldn’t like some?”

  “Sure I would,” Lou said, “but we can’t advertise where we are with an Ute war party in the area.”

  “Oh, hell. Is that all?” Bartholomew set down the pot. “We’ll keep the fire small. No one will spot it.” They had stopped in a dry wash within a stone’s throw of the tracks left by Zach’s abductors. Their horses were hobbled so no one could make off with them during the night. Lou spread out Zach’s saddle blanket for her bed, then helped gather wood.

  Dunne had become awful quiet the last hour or so, and twice she caught him giving her strange looks. When they were done, they piled their armloads of dry branches. From his possibles bag Bartholomew took a fire steel and flint, and in short order had a fire going. It gave off little smoke. Even so, he swatted at the slender wisps to disperse them before they rose any higher.

  Lou portioned out pemmican for the two of them and gave the man his share.

  “I thank you, sonny.” Bartholomew, chomped off a mouthful, chewed a moment, then said, “A Shoshone made this. Am I right?”

  Impressed, Lou asked, “How did you guess?”

  “Guessing had nothing to do with it. No two tribes make pemmican exactly the same. Some add more fat, some add different kinds of berries. Some like it sweet, some like it tart.”

  Dunne chewed some more, staring at her so hard, Lou grew uncomfortable and wouldn’t look at him. She wondered if she had made a mistake in letting him join her. Stalking Coyote’s pa had warned her many times never to take anyone at face value. And to never trust a soul unless they earned her trust by their actions.

  “So, if I’m not snooping, how is it that you got hold of Shoshone pemmican?”

  “We ran into a hunting party and they had some to trade,” Lou said.

  “Friendly devils, those Shoshones. They’re one of the few tribes that like whites. Last time I stayed at one of their villages, they went out of their way to make me feel at home.”

  “They’re decent people. Salt of the earth.” Warming to the topic, Bartholomew prattled on with his mouth crammed with pemmican. “So are the Flat-heads and the Nez Perce. I can’t recollect a single instance where either ever harmed a white. The Crows are friendly, too, but they’re also thieving rascals who will steal the clothes off your back and leave you buck naked if they think they can do it and get away with it.”

  Lou was not aware her cheeks had flushed with color, but they must have, because Dunne gave her a peculiar look.

  “What did I say? Why did you blush?”

  “Must be the fire,” Lou suggested.

  “Most likely. Where was I? Oh. The Crows. Years ago they were a lot worse than they are now. Then one day it dawned on them that our guns would come in handy against their old enemies, the Blackfeet. So all of a sudden we became their best friends.”

  “My soon-to-be father-in-law says that our coming has changed the Indians forever. That even if all the whites in the mountains were to pack up and go home, we can’t undo the harm that’s been done.” Lou figured Bartholomew would ask what kind of harm, but he was more interested in something else.

  “You’re fixing to get married? When?”

  “The date hasn’t been set yet.”

  “What’s your gal like?”

  Lou hesitated. What would a guy say? What female traits did men most like to talk about when no women were around? How intelligent they were? Their dispositions? “She’s real sweet.”

  “Sweet?”

  “Kind. Nice. Considerate. That kind of sweet.” Lou couldn’t understand why Dunne chortled.

  “That’s not exactly what I meant.” Bartholomew winked, then raised his hands to his chest and cupped his palms as if he were holding melons. “Does she have udders big enough to use as pillows?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “My Flathead woman did. Lordy, she was a natural wonder.”

  “I really don’t think this is f
it to talk about.”

  “Why not? What harm is there? It’s not as if I asked if you’ve measured them.” Bartholomew ripped off more pemmican. “You haven’t, have you?”

  Lou felt her face grow warm. “I should say not! Gentlemen don’t do things like that. And men certainly shouldn’t share intimate details about the ladies they love.”

  “We shouldn’t? Since when?”

  Lou was irate enough to chuck a stone at him, but she refrained. So this was how men were when alone? Randy satyrs who took boyish delight in talking about sexual matters! Who would have thought it!

  Dunne was gazing into the distance, but he was lost in memory. “I remember what I was like at your age. Womenfolk were all I ever thought about. Kissing them, holding them. Smelling them, tasting them. Yes, indeedy, I couldn’t get enough.”

  Lou tried to divert him to a different subject. “Yet you came west to live all alone as a trapper?”

  “Sounds scatterbrained, doesn’t it? But I’d heard all about Indian women. How they’re much more open about sex than whites. And how a man doesn’t have to marry one to sleep with her—”

  “That’s enough.”

  Bartholomew scratched his beard some more. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those prudes who thinks so much as touching a female is wrong? Hellfire, if that were the case, the human race would come to a quick end, wouldn’t it?”

  Lou refused to dignify his lewd comments with a response. She gazed into the fire, expecting him to take the hint. But he didn’t.

  “My mother was that way. It always amazed me I was even born. My father must have knocked her out one night so he could take advantage, otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here.” Dunne laughed. “People are so contrary. It’s a wonder we can even get along.”

  “I’m going to turn in,” Lou announced.

  “What? This early?”

  “I want to head out at first light,” Lou explained. “And I’ve hardly had any sleep in the past twenty-four hours.” She had propped Zach’s saddle at the edge of the blanket to use as a pillow, and now she turned her back to the trapper and lay down. But not before filling her right hand with a pistol and her left hand with her knife. “We should take turns standing guard. Wake me when the night’s half done.”