When Abrams passed through the curtain, Jenny held her finger to her lips. She didn’t want Paddy to see her.
Abrams nodded, picked up a crowbar, and went out the back of the store into the alley.
Jenny stepped to the side of the doorway, where she could remain concealed while still able to see into the front part of the store.
“Mort’s been in a foul mood ever since you told him Elspeth McNabb double-crossed him,” Sally said. “It’s good to have an excuse to stay away from him for a few minutes.”
Jenny leaned closer to the edge of the doorway. What was Sally saying about Elspeth?
“Sure, and ye’ve got that right, Sally, me love,” Paddy said.
“I’m not your love, and don’t you forget it!”
Paddy cackled. From Jenny’s viewpoint she had a view of his broken, rotten teeth.
“If you and that prissy lass had pulled off stealing the count’s money, like you should have, we’d all be better off. Will Braddock should be leading the count’s hunting party into Green River soon. It’ll be something to see when Mort gets his hands on Elspeth.”
Abrams came through the back door from the alley with a medium-sized wooden box in his arms. He glanced sideways at Jenny, then brushed on through the curtains into the front of the store. “Here it is, Miss Whitworth.”
“Well,” Sally said. “Don’t just stand there, Paddy. Take the box.”
Jenny watched Abrams pass the box to the skinny Irishman.
“Oomph!” Paddy groaned. He almost dropped the box when the weight was transferred into his arms.
“Thank you, Mr. Abrams,” Sally said.
“Good day, Miss Whitworth,” Abrams replied.
The door bell jingled, followed by the slamming of the door, causing the false, wooden front to shake.
Jenny selected a ham and stepped out through the curtain, shaking her head. What has Elspeth gotten herself into now?
CHAPTER 50
The sunlight above him seemed to flicker, diffused as through a white sheen. The rhythmic sound of fluttering canvas enhanced the shifting rays of light that he saw dimly through half-opened eyes. Muffled voices surrounded him. Will forced his eyes to widen. He lay stretched out beneath the protection of a tent.
“He’s coming around.” Will identified Homer’s voice.
A hand pressed a cool, damp cloth against his forehead. “Will? Can you hear me?” That was Elspeth’s voice. It must be her hand that held the soothing cloth.
“Yes,” Will croaked. “What happened?”
He raised up, but a gentle hand pushed him flat again.
“You mustn’t move,” Elspeth said. “You’ve lost blood and need to rest.”
“Where am I?”
“You’re in the count’s bed, in his tent,” Elspeth said.
“How’d I get here?”
He struggled to recall the moments after the death of the big grizzly. He vaguely remembered Lone Eagle and Conrad Eichhorn struggling to carry him down the steep slope. The count had carried all of the weapons. The three men had hoisted him up onto Buck and Lone Eagle had ridden behind him to keep him in the saddle.
“They brung you back here after that bear took a swipe at you,” Homer said.
Those words concentrated Will’s mind and he felt the throbbing in his chest. He looked down and saw a white, frilly cloth bound around his ribs. Stains of red showed where he’d bled through the bandage.
“It’s one of my petticoats,” Elspeth said. “We didn’t have any regular bandages big enough to wrap you with.”
Will gazed into Elspeth’s blue eyes. He hadn’t noticed before how much darker they were than Jenny’s. The light shining through the roof of the tent shown off Elspeth’s blonde curls, forming a halo effect. She looked like an angel.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Are you hungry?” Elspeth asked.
“A little.”
Homer stepped closer to the bed and handed Elspeth a cup. “I made you some broth. Be good for you. Help get your strength back.”
Will recalled trying to get Bullfrog Charlie to drink some broth after the bear had mauled the mountain man. Will knew he must drink some of the liquid to start the healing process.
Homer raised Will’s head and Elspeth added another pillow behind him. Then she sat on the edge of the bed beside him and held the cup to his lips. Will sipped a little of the warm brew.
“Where’s everybody else?” Will asked.
“They went back to get the bear and the elk,” Homer said. “Rupert is outside setting the supper table. And I’se got to get back to cooking, cause those three hunters are going to be mighty hungry when they gets back. You lets me know, Miss Elspeth, if you needs more of that broth.”
Homer left the tent and Elspeth helped Will take another sip.
“I can’t stay here . . . in the count’s bed,” he said.
“You most certainly can,” Elspeth said. “Wolfgang insisted that you be brought in here. You saved his life.”
“Saved his life?”
“Yes, Wolfgang told me how you stepped in front of him and shielded him when the bear attacked.”
Will forced his thoughts back to that moment. He’d instinctively moved between the bear and Count von Schroeder when the count had frozen upon hearing the roar of the attacking beast.
“Halloo the camp!” The sound of hooves announced the return of the hunting party.
A moment later the count entered the sleeping portion of the tent. “How’s the patient?” he asked.
“He’s awake now,” Elspeth answered, “and taking some nourishment.”
“How do you feel, Herr Braddock?” he asked.
“All right, sir, unless I breathe. Then it hurts.” He chuckled and wished he hadn’t.
“Thank you, Herr Braddock, for saving my life.”
Will did not know how to respond, so he just nodded his head. “Sir,” he said, “I can’t stay in your bed.”
“Oh, but of course you can. I’ll sleep in the sitting portion of the tent. There will be no argument about this.”
“Sorry you had to make the extra trip to recover the bear and the elk, sir,” Will said.
“I certainly was not going to abandon those magnificent specimens. Not after all the trouble we went through to bag them. That bear will be mounted in the entryway to my castle. I can see it now rearing on its hind legs, threatening with outstretched forelegs ending in those ferocious claws, its jaws wide exposing fearsome teeth. The only thing missing will be the roar. But I will remember that sound every time I see that grizzly. Most frightening noise I ever heard. Yes, I will remember it.”
Will raised up and tried to swing his feet off the bed. Elspeth and the count both pushed him down.
“And just what do you think you are doing?” the count asked. “I have already decided you are staying here in this bed.”
“We have to get ready to travel on tomorrow, sir,” Will said.
“Not tomorrow. Not for a couple of days, most likely. You need rest to stop the bleeding. We will hunt the mountains around here while we wait. Maybe I can find a better example of a bighorn sheep.”
“Wolfgang’s right, Will,” Elspeth said. “If you move too much now, the bleeding will start again. You have four big gashes across your side where those claws dug in. We don’t have anything to stitch the wounds together, so my petticoat will have to do.”
Will remembered the difficulty he’d had trying to stop Bullfrog Charlie’s wounds from bleeding. Elspeth spoke the truth. He needed rest. He closed his eyes.
CHAPTER 51
“There it is!” Count von Schroeder halted his horse on the crest of a hill and surveyed the broad valley that spread out before him. “Just like the painting.”
Elspeth reined in beside the German aristocrat. “What painting, Wolfgang?” she asked.
“Your great American artist Alfred Jacob Miller painted this scene thirty-one years ago. In fact, he may have been working from this v
ery spot with his canvas and paints. In the painting, the valley was entirely covered with tepees and horses and Indians and fur trappers.” The count pointed toward the valley. “Right there, where Horse Creek flows into Green River, is the site of the mountain men’s 1837 rendezvous.”
The other members of the hunting party drifted up to join the count and Elspeth. All seven sat their mounts side by side, admiring the green expanse that lined the banks of the two streams. A little to the south of where the creek joined the broader river, a small cluster of tepees hugged the far bank. In the distance, the snow-capped peaks of a mountain range formed an impressive backdrop.
“That would be Fremont Peak,” the count said, “the tallest peak in the center of that range. It is as if we had stepped into the painting.”
Will leaned forward and patted Buck’s neck, immediately wishing he’d done so more slowly. This was the first time he’d ridden the horse. The four previous days, he’d been towed on the travois Paddy had stolen from Lone Eagle’s cabin. The day following Paddy’s attempt at stealing the count’s money, both Lone Eagle and Will had recognized the abandoned travois as the one Bullfrog Charlie had built when he rescued Will from the freezing water of the North Platte River. The count’s party had kept the travois to help haul specimens as the hunt progressed. They’d been able to transfer those specimens to a pack horse after several days of consuming foodstuffs originally hauled by a horse, and Will had then ridden aboard the crude sled as a passenger for the second time this year.
Will gritted his teeth to keep from groaning from the stab of pain Buck’s movement brought to his chest muscles. The petticoat bandage around his rib cage helped control the discomfort as long as he sat upright. It was difficult enough to keep the deep gashes from reopening without his twisting unnecessarily. He blew out his breath to compose himself. “You sound like you’ve been here before, Count,” he said.
“This is one of the reasons I came to America, Herr Braddock. Oh, I wanted to get specimens for my museum, of course, but seeing this place has been a dream of mine since I was a boy. I accompanied my father on a visit to Lord William Stewart’s estate in Scotland when I was about ten. The castle’s walls were covered with the magnificent paintings Miller had created to commemorate Lord Stewart’s participation in that 1837 rendezvous. I promised myself someday I would see it in person. And so I am. Isn’t it spectacular, Herr Eichhorn?”
The Austrian gunsmith guided his horse closer to the count’s. “Ja, it is, mein Count.”
“Are those friendly Indians?” asked Rupert, whose mount stood next to Eichhorn’s.
The count looked beyond Will to Lone Eagle. “Who are they, scout?” he asked.
“Shoshones. They may be the band our constant companions belong to.”
The half-dozen warriors who had observed the count’s attempt to shoot the white buffalo had made repeated appearances throughout the hunting party’s journey.
“I will ride down to talk with them,” Lone Eagle said. “Where is your bear claw necklace, Will?”
“In my haversack. Why?”
“Put it on. The Shoshones will be impressed that we have a great hunter with us who has slaughtered a grizzly.” He grinned.
“You’re serious?” asked Will.
“Yes. The Shoshones will probably remember my father. I will tell them you tried to save his life, and the claws you wear are from the bear that killed the great Bullfrog Charlie Munro.”
Will shrugged, reached into his haversack, and took out the bear claw necklace.
Lone Eagle kicked his pony and descended the slope toward Green River.
“Stay close to me, Elspeth,” the count said. “Herr Eichhorn, you bring up the rear.”
Eichhorn handed the count one of the Winchesters, then turned his string of horses back and took up a position behind the group. He led four pack horses loaded with museum specimens, as well as ammunition and assorted weapons. It was an assignment with which the Austrian was not particularly happy, but Will’s injury prohibited him from being able to struggle against the tug of the animals that had been his normal responsibility.
Elspeth rode beside the count as he led the party slowly toward the riverbank. Will wheeled in beside them. Homer followed leading Ruby, the mule loaded with the kitchen supplies and the last few bottles of champagne, and four pack horses burdened with the count’s tent and folding furniture. Rupert preceded Eichhorn at the rear of the procession with his string of horses, the last of which bore a freshly killed elk carcass. The other horses hauled the rest of the museum collection.
Far ahead, Lone Eagle trotted toward a ford that showed years of repeated crossings by mountain men, Indians, and the soldiers who had been battling the Shoshones for the past dozen years.
Will watched Lone Eagle cross the river with his hand raised in peaceful greeting to an increasing crowd of Indians who emerged from the two dozen tepees. The count halted his group fifty yards from the ford. There they waited and observed the animated discussion Lone Eagle conducted with an elderly Indian, evidently the band’s chief.
A few minutes later, Lone Eagle turned his pony and rode back to the shallow river crossing, splashed through, and trotted to the count’s party. “They are Shoshones,” he reported. “Their chief is White Shadow. I met him when my father brought me to Green River on a hunting trip when I was young. They are the band of our recent observers, who have already reported to the chief that you did not kill their sacred white buffalo. Hunting has been poor this year, but the chief says you are welcome to come in and share what they have.”
“What if we gave them the elk we shot this morning?” The count pointed to the pack horse burdened with the kill.
“That will please them,” Lone Eagle said.
“Homer,” the count said, “follow Lone Eagle with that elk carcass. Give Ruby and your horses to Rupert.”
“But, your Excellency,” Rupert said, “that mule does not like me.”
“Just for a short time. The Indians will probably keep the pack horse, as well as the elk. I do not want the Shoshones to think they can have Homer’s mule and the other horses, too.”
Homer followed Lone Eagle back to the camp, leading the single pack horse. After handing the reins to the chief, Lone Eagle motioned for the others to cross the ford.
The count directed Rupert and Homer to pitch the tent and kitchen fly along the riverbank, not far from the cluster of tepees. Once the camp was established, the count told Rupert to unpack their remaining four bottles of champagne and display them prominently on the folding dining table.
“Lone Eagle,” said the count, “invite the chief and his braves to have a drink.”
“Are you sure?” Lone Eagle said. “Things could get out of hand if they have too much to drink.”
“Little chance of that. This is the last of the liquor. I am honored to share it with them. They cannot get drunk on what little we have.” The count checked his Winchester and propped it in a conspicuous position in a camp chair, which he positioned at his side.
Conrad Eichhorn stood behind the count, cradling his rifle in his arms. Will, Homer, and Elspeth remained under the shade of the sleeping tent’s front fly, Will’s carbine within reach against the tent wall.
Lone Eagle gathered the camp’s two dozen warriors and led them to the count. The chief stepped directly up to the table, while the others spread out behind him.
“Count von Schroeder,” Lone Eagle said, “This is Chief White Shadow.”
“Honorable Chief White Shadow of the Shoshones,” the count said, “Welcome.” He nodded, clicked his heels, and withdrew a hunting knife from his belt sheath.
The chief’s head jerked back, his brows furrowed as his eyes concentrated on the knife blade. A low growl emanated from the warriors, who closed in tightly behind their chief.
“We thank you for your hospitality in allowing us to join your encampment. Allow me to reciprocate by offering you some refreshment.” He picked up one of the bottles an
d deftly whacked the stopper with the knife blade. The cork shot out of the neck with a bang, followed by a spray of warm champagne.
The braves laughed and grunted their approval, pushing toward the table with extended tin cups and gourds. Rupert poured, as the count lopped the corks off the remaining bottles.
The bubbly wine disappeared in minutes and several of the warriors became vocal in demanding more. The count spread his hands wide. “Sorry, that is all.”
Lone Eagle translated for the gathering, then turned back to the count. “Show them the packs,” he said, “so they can see for themselves that you speak the truth.”
Rupert invited the men to inspect the bundles he’d taken from the pack horses. Some of the more belligerent warriors tossed pots and pans on the ground and managed to break several dishes and cups as they rummaged through the stores. Finally satisfied, they dispersed.
Rupert shook his head. “What a mess. Maybe we should not have done this?”
“They might have taken the liquor with force had we not given it to them,” the count said. “Better that we control the situation.”
“Ja, you are probably right. Homer, help me clean this up.”
Homer joined him in gathering up the scattered supplies. Elspeth pitched in and assembled the unbroken dishes and cups. Conrad Eichhorn moved back beside Will beneath the tent fly where the two of them maintained a vigilant position until the last of the warriors returned to camp.
CHAPTER 52
Later that afternoon, Lone Eagle brought an older Shoshone woman up to Will, who sat beneath a cottonwood tree alongside Elspeth.
“Will,” said Lone Eagle, “this is Moon Woman. I have asked her to look at your bear claw wounds.”
“Why? Elspeth keeps checking the bandage.”
“The wounds need to be stitched.”
Will looked from Lone Eagle to the woman and back again. “Stitched? Is she a doctor?”
“She is a shaman . . . a medicine woman.”
The woman, the top of whose head only reached to Lone Eagle’s shoulder, looked up at him and spoke in Shoshone for a couple of minutes.
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