Wilderness Double Edition 14

by David Robbins

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Johnson looked up. “He’s my friend.”

  “That’s the only reason?”

  “It’s enough.”

  As the sun dipped lower and lower, the tension on the shelf became thick enough to cut with a Green River knife.

  The face of Gold Mountain underwent a sinister change. Low down the shadows lengthened, spreading like a plague of locusts, devouring all in their path. Yet on the shelf, and higher up, daylight hadn’t faded. Anyone who stepped near the edge was silhouetted against the sky.

  The Utes stirred, taking up their weapons and preparing for battle. They fanned out in a crescent moon a hundred yards from tip to tip. Then they climbed, darting from boulder to boulder with the agility of mountain goats.

  “Dying time is here,” Elden Johnson said gravely, taking up his rifle.

  “And it’s too light to run off the horses,” Vince Kendrick said. “They’re doing just like the ’breed said they would. Well, let’s give the bastards hell, boys. We’ll keep them pinned down until dark.”

  The whites formed in a short skirmish line. At a word from their leader, they fired a volley that caught several members of the war party by surprise. Ed Stark and Ira Sanders cheered when the Utes fell, but it was a hollow, fleeting triumph. From then on the warriors rarely showed themselves. And each time one did briefly appear, it was closer to the shelf.

  “They’ll be in among us before we know it,” Ed Stark said. “God, I don’t want to die!”

  Hardly had the words been uttered when a loud whizzing was heard and the feathered end of an arrow blossomed between Ed Stark’s shoulder blades. Stark half rose, half turned, amazement lining his features. His lips moved like those of a fish out of water, then he tottered toward Kendrick, declared, “I’ll be damned!” Just like that he keeled over, dead before he stopped moving.

  The three other whites whirled and sought targets higher up, but there were none. Zach, farther back from the edge, need not worry. Yet.

  Ira Sanders was in the grip of rampant fright. “We can’t stay here, Vince! They’ll pick us off one at a time! I want a fighting chance.”

  “All we have to do is hold out until sunset,” Kendrick reiterated.

  “We don’t have that long!” Sanders sprinted to the horses, untied his, and forked the saddle. He saw neither Kendrick nor Johnson had moved. “What’s gotten into you two? Do you want to die!”

  Elden Johnson was on his stomach, sighting down his barrel. “You won’t get thirty feet, Ira. It’s best if you stick with us.”

  “Not on your life! Look me up in St. Louis if you live!” Sanders went over the crest at a gallop, angling to the northwest.

  Zach ran to the rim to see how far the scarecrow got. It wasn’t far at all. Not even thirty feet. Shafts rained down, piercing Sanders again and again. He never got off a shot, his rifle landing beside him in the dirt.

  Warriors rushed to claim both the horse and the dead man’s weapons. In doing so they exposed themselves to Kendrick and Johnson, who wounded two. But that did not stop the rest. To the Utes, a rifle was a prize worth any cost. Seven broke cover, eager to be the one to own it.

  “Kill them!” Vince Kendrick snarled. “Kill them all!”

  It was then, with the attention of the Utes diverted, that Zach went over the rim himself. But on foot, low to the ground, and to the southeast. Kendrick and Johnson were so busy picking off warriors, they never saw him leave.

  A gully cloaked in shadow was Zach’s goal. From there he could work his way lower in relative safety. Could he reach it? Or would he end up like Sanders? As if in answer, an arrow sprouted in the earth on his right. Another did likewise on his left.

  Zach zigzagged, bounding like an antelope. Arrows fell fast and furious, some missing him by inches. Off to the left a warrior yelled.

  Only fifteen feet remained when Zach slipped on the steep slope. He crashed onto his back, Ins momentum carrying him almost to the gully. Scrambling onto his hands and knees, he was shocked when a familiar broad-shouldered figure reared up, grabbed hold of him, and bodily heaved him over the side. In a spray of dust and dirt Zach came to a stop—and there were his dun and the mare and the most beautiful girl in the world, beaming at him with tears of pure joy in her eyes.

  “Pa! Lou!”

  “Mount and ride!” Nate King directed.

  The trio swept down the gully and disappeared around a bend. Up on the shelf only one rifle still boomed, amid a bloodthirsty chorus of war whoops.

  Another hour, and the mountain lay peaceful and still under twinkling stars. The three people who raced into the night were safe. And, at that particular moment, they were three of the happiest souls alive.

  WILDERNESS 28

  THE QUEST

  One

  The frantic rider did not see the beauty of the world around him. He did not see the sterling blue sky, the china white clouds. He paid no attention to the lush, virgin woodland through which he raced. Startled deer bounded from his path, but he never realized they were there. Smaller creatures, rabbits and chipmunks and squirrels, scattered at his thunderous approach, their presence ignored.

  Part of the reason the man was blind to everything had to do with the tears streaming from his eyes. A greater part could be blamed on the raw terror that encased his hammering heart in an icy sheath. He was scared, this man. Scared to the depths of his soul. Scared not for himself but for others.

  As the rider burst from the woodland and shot off across a grassy valley, he groaned. More a wail of abject despair, it wavered on the breeze like the spectral moan of a tormented spirit. Shaggy buffalo grazing nearby heard it and looked up in alarm. A huge bull snorted and pawed the ground, challenging the newcomer, but the distraught rider was rapidly rushing away and the bull saw no need to attack. It snorted again, grumbling as males of all stripe are wont to do when annoyed, and returned to feeding and eyeing a cow.

  The rider never saw the buffalo. Had the bull been a grizzly, the man would have been in dire peril. Under his breath he said to himself, “No! No! No!” Only he knew why, although the tears and the fear lining his features were a clue.

  Buckskins clothed the rider’s rugged frame. Like most of his hardy breed, he had a powder horn and ammo pouch slung crosswise across his chest. Slung over his back was a heavy Hawken, which jounced and swayed with the motion of the sorrel.

  Ahead a creek appeared. Beside it, on a low bank, stood a tidy cabin with a small flower garden in front. As the rider neared the homestead, the front door opened and out strolled a young woman in a homespun dress, carrying an empty basket. She heard him and whirled, fearing hostiles. Recognizing her visitor, she smiled and waved and called out, “Scott! This is a surprise! What brings you—”

  The woman stopped. She saw the tears and his expression. “Scott? What is it? What’s wrong?”

  He was well within earshot, but he did not reply. Instead, he sped on around the rear of the cabin without so much as a glance in her direction. The young woman took a few quick steps, hiking an arm.

  “Scott? Please! What’s the matter? Simon will be home soon! We can help, whatever it is!”

  Her words, or her yell, registered. The rider raised his head and shouted, “Nate! Need Nate!” And with that he galloped on across the valley, leaving a cloud of dust and a mystified woman in his wake.

  No sooner had the man shouted than he shut everything from his mind except the task he had set for himself, a task that meant the difference between life and death for the two people he most adored. Under his breath again he repeated the name, “Nate! Nate! Nate!” in a tortured tone, as if it were his sole hope of salvation. And in a very real sense, it was.

  “Please be there!” the rider declared, and sniffled. He blinked to shed the tears, but new ones welled up to replace those trickling down his ruddy cheeks.

  “Please be there!”

  Life was good.

  Or so Nate King decided as he swung hi
s ax in a glittering arc. The keen edge sliced into the branch on the ground in front of him, cleaving the pine cleanly. Beside him was a pile of freshly chopped firewood that rose as high as his waist. A big pile, because Nate King was a big man. Tall, broad-shouldered, wide of chest and narrow of hip, his powerful physique radiated strength and vitality like the sun radiated heat and light.

  Nate was on a knoll not far from the family’s cabin. Down at the lake his son and his son’s betrothed were fishing. In a field to the north his wife and small daughter were gathering roots. It was a tranquil scene, the lake a pristine blue, their remote high-country valley ringed by majestic peaks crowned by glistening snow. Their “private paradise,” was how Nate liked to think of it.

  At moments like these, when all was right with the world, when his family was in good health and everyone was happy and enjoying rare moments of pure leisure, Nate was supremely content. “It doesn’t get any better than this,” he commented aloud.

  The bay tethered a few yards away nickered and stamped a hoof. Nate chuckled, shaking his head, and said, “No. I’m not done yet. Be patient.”

  Nate had been chopping wood for most of the morning, a chore he relished. Stripped to the waist, he was caked with sweat, his raven hair matted. Now he wiped a brawny hand across his brow and hefted the ax anew. Another half an hour and he would be done. Tomorrow or the next day he would add the pile to the small mountain of firewood close to the cabin, enough to last them most of the winter unless it was particularly severe.

  Some folks might think it silly of Nate to cut wood in the middle of the summer. But in the wilderness it wasn’t smart to leave any job to the last minute. Laziness was a luxury only those who lived in cities dared indulge. In the wilds it was equivalent to certain death. The man who failed to plan ahead never lived long enough to plan anything.

  By autumn Nate had to have enough wood, jerky, pemmican, and other essentials stocked to see his family through to spring. So here he was, in ninety-degree heat, burying the ax in another downed limb. He liked the sensation, the feel of the smooth handle, the ripple of his muscles, the cool layer of perspiration. And it was great exercise.

  Although close to twenty years had gone by since Nate left the hustle and bustle of New York City for the Rocky Mountains, he still remembered how life there had been. How men and women spent most of their waking hours at jobs where their only exercise was scribbling with quill pens. How lacing their shoes or boots was the most strenuous thing they did all day. As a result they grew overweight and sluggish, sort of like bears about to den up for the winter. They had more fat than sinew, and the simple act of walking around the block left them puffing for breath.

  In the wilds it was different. Those who were out of shape paid for their sloth with their lives. The creatures who were plumpest were the first to be preyed upon.

  To survive, a man must always be alert, always mentally sharp, always at his best. His reflexes had to be honed to a razor’s edge. Thankfully, Nate was kept so busy from dawn to dusk, month in and month out, that becoming a sluggard was the least of his concerns. Constant activity had hardened his muscles to a steely temper. His stomach was solid rock, his chest, his shoulders corded tight. And his senses were as sharp as those of a bird of prey or a panther.

  So it was that the faintest of sounds brought his chin up a second time. Swiveling, Nate scoured a high ridge to the south. He cocked his head and listened intently. The bay’s ears pricked, confirming that the muted pounding he heard wasn’t his imagination.

  Nate leaned the ax against a pine and retrieved his Hawken. His pistols lay on his buckskin shirt, along with his possibles bag. Letting them lie there for the moment, he stepped to the left for a clearer view of the ridge. Whoever was coming up the other side had to be either a skilled horseman or a lunatic. Both slopes were treacherously steep and littered with talus. Anyone who tried to go up and over was taking their life into their hands.

  Wreathed by a shimmering halo of dust, a rider materialized on the crest. The man flew on down without a moment’s hesitation, and the instant his mount hit the incline they were in trouble. Talus spewed out from under the horse. It tried to steady itself by bracing its forelegs but trying to stay upright on a sliding layer of loose earth and stones was like trying to walk on greased glass. It couldn’t be done.

  Nate saw the rider haul on the reins and seek to veer to the left, but it was too late. The horse tossed its head and pumped, tilting as momentum and gravity got the better of it. More dust billowed skyward.

  The rider was practically standing in the stirrups, doing all he could to keep the animal erect. Even at that distance Nate heard its squeal of terror. Both were almost horizontal, the man straining with all his might to avoid the inevitable. In a violent spray of dirt and rocks they crashed onto their sides and were swept downward like twigs caught in the grip of an avalanche. The man was sent flying from the saddle to roll like tumbleweed as loud rumbling echoed off surrounding peaks.

  Even before the talus came to a stop, Nate King was in motion. He spun and ran to the two pistols. His loved ones had stopped what they were doing and were gazing toward the ridge. He fired first one flintlock into the ground, then the other, and at the signal his wife and son headed for the cabin at a run. Wedging the pistols under his wide brown leather belt, he swiftly donned his shirt and bounded to the bay.

  The slope below the ridge was largely still except for random rolling stones and shifting currents of dirt. At the bottom was a high mound, tendrils of dust rising like so much smoke. Of the rider and his mount there was no sign.

  Nate galloped southward, dreading the worst. There was something about the rider that was vaguely familiar. The man had been too far off to note facial details, but obviously it was a white man. Few Indians used saddles. Nate weaved into a belt of firs, losing sight of the ridge for the time being.

  A strong urge to stop and reload both pistols came over him, which was understandable. One of the most important lessons a frontiersman learned, often at great cost, was to never, ever venture anywhere with unloaded guns. To do so was to court death; too many menaces lurked in the shadowed glens and murky forest depths.

  When Zach was younger, Nate had spent months impressing on the boy that as soon as he fired a rifle or pistol he must immediately reload. Now here Nate was, violating the most basic of wilderness tenets. But Nate felt that if he didn’t, that if he delayed reaching the slope by even a few minutes, the delay would result in the rider’s death. Provided he wasn’t already dead.

  Nate hoped he was wrong, that when he emerged from the trees the rider would be on his feet. It was the horse, though, he spotted first. An exhausted, badly bruised and severely shaken sorrel, stumbling among the littered debris. There was still no trace of the man. Nate reined up at the base, where the dust was thick enough to choke on. Vaulting down, he swatted at the gleaming particles and climbed, the footing treacherous, the talus sliding out from under his moccasins with every step. Much like shifting quicksand, it threatened to suck him in or pitch him off balance.

  Suddenly Nate halted and glanced at the sorrel. He knew that horse! “Scott?” he called out. “Scott Kendall? Can you hear me?”

  Silence mocked him, punctuated by the rattle of small rocks and the hiss of loose dirt. Nate forged higher, wary of spots that oozed like watery rivulets. A low rumble from above caused him to stiffen. One slide might easily trigger another, and if that happened, he’d be caught in the path of tons of hurtling earth.

  Seconds later the rumbling stopped. Using the Hawken for extra support, Nate continued higher. He hollered Kendall’s name over and over, but the man didn’t answer.

  Nate hated to think his friend was dead. They had met before Nate’s daughter was born, and now she was almost nine. Many an evening they had sat around campfires in the high country or at tables in their respective cabins swapping tall tales over steaming cups of coffee or glasses of whiskey. They shared a special bond born of hardships overcome an
d dangers defeated.

  Sweeping his gaze from right to left, Nate was about to go higher still when a crooked object caught his eye. It jutted from the talus like a busted branch. It was a leg clothed in torn buckskin, bent limply at the knee. Darting toward it, Nate nearly lost his footing when the section of talus on which he stood abruptly streamed down. Flinging himself onto a patch of stable stones, he crouched and waited for the movement around him to cease. Every second was precious, and he chafed at the delay, but it couldn’t be helped.

  At last the talus settled. Nate hurried on, treading lightly, gingerly, as if on eggshells. Kendall’s leg hadn’t moved, a bad omen. Reaching it, Nate set the Hawken down. His friend’s other foot was visible, barely enough for him to latch a firm grip with both hands and pull. Slowly, resisting mightily, the other leg appeared, and once it did, Nate gripped both, steadied himself, and heaved backward.

  The strain was tremendous. It felt as if Scott Kendall weighed a ton. Nate bunched his shoulders and tried again. He succeeded in pulling Kendall halfway out, but no farther.

  Gritting his teeth, Nate braced himself for another try and threw all his weight and strength into the effort. With excruciating slowness Kendall’s body rose higher, steadily higher. Nate was making headway, but his friend had been without air for minutes and must surely have suffocated.

  Nate rocked back on his heels, challenged to his limit, the veins on his temples bulging in stark relief. “Come on!” he fumed, tugging and wrenching. The body rose some more, past the waist to the chest. Then it stuck fast and wouldn’t budge.

  “Damn it!” Nate said, refusing to be beaten. Hunkering, he wrapped his arms around Kendall’s hips, clamped hold, and surged upward as if striving to uproot a tree by sheer brute force. For terrible moments it appeared Nate had failed. The body refused to yield—until, with a jolt, it popped from the talus like a cork popping from a bottle and Nate was thrown onto his rump. Quickly, he scrambled to Kendall’s side and bent low. As he’d dreaded, his friend wasn’t breathing.