Winona pulled alongside her daughter, urging, “Go, child! Go!” As they pounded by her husband, shots rang out above. Lead spanged off rock. A horse whinnied, and she heard McNair roar like a wounded bear.
Shakespeare had been hit. He was raising his rifle when a gun blasted directly overhead. Pain seared his thigh as he snapped off a shot at the man who had shot him. The dark shape dropped, but whether Shakespeare had scored a hit or the figure had ducked was impossible to say.
Blue Water Woman brought her rifle to bear, aiming at a squat form that reared above her. At the crack, a man screeched. Putting her heels to the sorrel, she came abreast of her husband. “Let us go!” she urged.
“You first!” Shakespeare directed, unlimbering a pistol. “I’ll bring up the rear!”
The sorrel flew along the wash, Blue Water Woman sliding onto the off side as her father had taught her to do when she was eight winters old. Guns boomed, balls zinged, but none came close to her or the sorrel. Reaching the mouth, she swung on top of her mount and sped off into heavy timber in the wake of the Kings. “Hurry, husband!” she cried, the crash of brush to her rear reassuring her that he was following.
Nate King swatted at limbs that tore at his face and neck. Shouts and curses testified to the frustrated fury of the ambushers. Fretting that the killers would give chase, he kept an eye cocked to their back trail. Thankfully, no pursuit materialized.
Winona was in the lead, flanked by her children. What did all this mean? she wondered. Now there had been two attempts to wipe out her family in just two days. Were the Spaniards to blame? If so, why? What did they hope to gain?
Hair flying, Winona jumped a low log, her body gracefully adjusting to the flow of her mount. She looked over a shoulder but could not see her mate. Worried, she reined up when a clearing broadened before them.
Little Evelyn’s heart pumped madly. She had never been so scared, not even that time she had been out collecting wood for the fireplace and a rattlesnake had risen up a few feet away, its tail rattling furiously.
Zach drew rein and turned, half hoping their attackers were after them so he could count coup. It had all happened so fast that he had not thought to fight back.
Blue Water Woman galloped into the open. Breathless, she said, “Is everyone all right?” Assured they were, she swung her mount around as Nate King arrived. Peering beyond him, she sought her husband.
Nate began to reload, fingers flying, a drill he had practiced so many times, he could do it blindfolded if he had to. He sorely wished that he had gotten a good look at the figures on the rim.
“Where is Shakespeare?” Blue Water Woman asked.
“What?” Nate said. Scanning the clearing, he realized his mentor was missing.
“I thought he was behind me, but it was you,” Blue Water Woman said. “Something must have happened to him.” She lifted her reins.
“Hold on,” Nate said. “I’ll go take a look-see.”
“Why you? He is my man.”
Nate had to think fast. “My stallion is faster than your horse, and it blends into the dark better.” He uncapped his powder horn.
Winona nudged her mare closer. “If you are going, we will all go.”
“Evelyn too?” Nate used his trump card. “No, it’s best if the four of you lay low. Once I find Shakespeare, we’ll rejoin you.”
“I am going,” Blue Water Woman insisted.
Nate tilted the horn to pour powder into the palm of his hand. “What if they jump Winona? She’ll need help protecting the kids.”
“I’m no kid!” Zach objected.
Blue Water Woman bit her lower lip. She was torn between her love for her husband and her friendship for the Kings. What should she do?
“Besides, one person can move more quietly than two,” Nate pointed out. Prudently, he did not mention that he did not want the added burden of having to watch her back as well as his own.
“Very well,” Blue Water Woman said. But she did not like it. Not one bit.
“Wait for us where the plain begins,” Nate said, yanking the ramrod out of its housing. “For all we know, the Vargas were in on this. We can’t trust them until we learn the truth.”
“Be careful,” Winona cautioned.
With a nod, Nate was off. When he was within a hundred yards of the dry wash, he stopped to listen. The forest was unnaturally still. No voices. No drumming of hooves. As edgy as a critter in a slaughterhouse, he ever so slowly advanced.
The dark mouth of the wash loomed like the maw of a gigantic creature. Overhead, stars sparkled. Twilight had been replaced by night, and the wind had increased, making it more difficult to hear faint noises.
Stopping again, Nate slid off and tied the big black. After stroking its neck to keep it from nickering, he crept toward the wash, placing each foot down as if he were treading on broken glass.
No sound broke the stillness. Nate pressed against the north wall and did not move for the longest while.
He did not like to dwell on his mentor’s absence. Either Shakespeare had become separated and was somewhere off in the woods, which was highly unlikely, or one of the bushwhackers had done what certain tribes had been trying to do for more years than Nate had been alive.
McNair dead. The thought provoked a shiver. Shakespeare had always been there for him. As if it were yesterday, he vividly recollected when he first ventured to the Rockies. He had been as green as grass. Every day had been a trial, every week a test of endurance and resolve. And through it all, Shakespeare had always been there with a kind word or a pat on the back.
Nate could not imagine life without McNair. In many respects, Shakespeare was more of a father to him than his own father had been. He had never respected anyone more.
Creeping to the slope that led to the rim, Nate crouched and climbed. Suddenly dirt rattled out from under his right moccasin. He froze, braced for the crash of a gun or the yelp of an enemy.
His fears were unfounded. After a suitable interval, Nate went on. At the top, a gust of wind hit him full in the face. He flattened and crawled to the base of a pine. With it to shield him, he rose to his knees.
In the wash, the wind moaned. Or was it Shakespeare? Casting caution aside, Nate prowled the rim like a painter seeking prey.
Their attackers were gone. No bodies had been left behind. But twenty yards farther, Nate noticed a wide black spot that had a dull sheen to it. Bending, he touched his fingertips to the center. Sticky blood clung to them.
So at least one of the bastards had been made to suffer! Nate found no more blood, even though he hiked to the far end. Going over the side, he slid to the bottom and moved down the middle of the wash itself.
He had a vague recollection of where he had last seen Shakespeare. Nothing marked the spot, nor did he find any sign to indicate what might have occurred.
Nate hastened to the stallion. He didn’t imagine their attackers would cart Shakespeare’s body off if McNair had been slain, so there was hope he still lived.
Mounting, Nate commenced a search. Fifteen minutes of fruitless zigzagging convinced him that it would be best to return at first light. Despondent, he turned the stallion eastward.
What would Blue Water Woman say? What would she do? He had failed her. Worse, he had failed McNair.
It tore at his guts to ride off without knowing Shakespeare’s fate. But what else could he do? He had the women and children to think of, as well.
Nate threaded through the woodland until he glimpsed the pale plain through the boles. Ahead, a horse whinnied lightly. Before he could prevent it, the stallion answered. As he leveled the Hawken, a whisper pierced the gloom.
“Pa, is that you?”
“You’re lucky it is,” Nate said. Guided by the sound to where his family and Blue Water Woman were huddled, he climbed down. “Haven’t I taught you better than to call out like that when you don’t know who might be out there?”
Zach bowed his head. It was a mistake unworthy of a Shoshone warrior. His
only excuse was his worry over his father’s welfare. And his uncle’s. “Where’s Shakespeare?” he said to change the subject.
Blue Water Woman pushed between Winona and Evelyn. “That is what I would like to know.”
“I didn’t find him,” Nate said, then had to grab the Flathead so she wouldn’t vault onto the sorrel and race off. “Hear me out! I hunted and hunted, but there’s no sign of him. Our best bet is to wait for the sun to come up.”
“I am not waiting!” Blue Water Woman said, tugging from his grasp.
Winona stepped in front of her friend. “Please, heed my husband,” she pleaded. “What can you do in the dark?”
“Whatever I can,” Blue Water Woman said. “Move aside.” Her self-control had long been the envy of those who knew her best, but now tears of mingled outrage and frustration misted the corners of her eyes.
“No,” Winona refused. “I will not let you go off and get yourself killed. There is strength in numbers. We must stick together.”
Turmoil whirled Blue Water Woman in its petrifying grip. Logic warred with emotion. Love battled common sense. As she hung on the cusp of indecision, the matter was decided for her by the startling appearance of four spectral shapes that seemed to rise up out of the very ground.
Nate’s instincts warned him a split second sooner.
Spinning, he pumped his rifle to his shoulder, but he did not shoot, for he saw who it was. “You!” he blurted.
“Pa!” Evelyn screamed.
Winona and Zach were beside her in a bound, guns cocked. A cold hand clutched at Winona’s heart, inspired by the profiles of the swarthy men she faced. They were similar to Apaches, disturbingly so, reminding her of the terrible nightmare she had gone through in New Mexico when the Chiricahuas captured her during a raid on the Gaona hacienda.
The Maricopa called Chivari raised a hand and said in broken English, “Not enemy, white-eyes. We friends, remember?” He gazed at the others. “Where white-hair? Where one speak our tongue?”
“That’s what we’d like to know,” Nate said. Was it coincidence the Maricopas had shown up now, of all times? Or had the four been with those who ambushed them?
“Don Varga worry why you not come. Send us keep watch,” Chivari said, as if he were privy to Nate’s thoughts. “We hear many shots. Find you.” One of the other warriors, the surly Maricopa named Azul, barked at Chivari in their own tongue. An argument ensued—over what, Nate could not guess. The upshot was that Chivari turned and said, “We take you Don Varga, yes?”
Nate balked. His family was safe enough where they were. At the camp, they would be hopelessly outnumbered. “Tell the Vargas that we cannot make it. We’ll break bread with them another time.”
“Eh?” Chivari said. “You not come, white-eyes?”
“No.”
The Maricopas consulted. Presently, the tallest jogged off toward the distant glow. “Him bring big man,” Chivari said. “You tell Varga no come. Not us.”
They were afraid to do it themselves, Nate suspected. His opinion of Don Varga had dropped considerably after finding out that Varga forced the warriors to serve as scouts against their wishes. Now this. He regretted ever making the man’s acquaintance.
Winona was also having regrets. Deciding to accept the Vargas’ invitation had been a mistake. She pulled Nate aside to whisper, “I do not like this.”
“You think I do?”
“We must leave while we still can.”
Would the Maricopas let them? Nate mused. “Mount up, everyone,” he directed. Slipping a foot into a stirrup, he gripped the saddle to pull himself up, but a bronzed form attached itself to his arm.
“You not go, white-eyes. Wait for big man.”
So there it was, as plain as day. Nate glanced at the women. They were watching him, ready to back his play. So was Zach. One word, one gesture, and there would be a bloodbath. But the Maricopas might not be the only ones to go down. Chivari’s brow was knit, as if he were suspicious, and the other two were uncomfortably close to Evelyn. Dared he give the signal?
“We’ll wait for the Vargas,” Nate announced. It pacified the Maricopas, who stepped to the edge of the clearing and hunkered.
Winona was far from pleased. “Why did you change your mind? On our account?” She held her chin high. “I am Shoshone, husband. I am not afraid to die.”
“And how do you feel about maybe losing your daughter or son?” Nate said so only she could hear.
That quelled her protest. Winona would rather have burning coals placed on both eyes than sacrifice her children. “We will stay,” she said, hanging her head.
Their wait was not as long as Nate figured it would be. Hammering hooves heralded the arrival of Ignacio Varga and fifteen vaqueros. Rude as ever, without introducing himself, Ignacio snapped, “King! Why have you not arrived at our camp yet? The food will burn if we delay much longer.”
“We were attacked,” Nate explained. “My friend, Shakespeare, has disappeared.”
“Attacked by who? Savages?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Nate answered. Probably better. “We prefer to stay here until dawn, then search for sign.”
“Nonsense. Remain here alone? With women and children?” Ignacio motioned and the vaqueros parted, opening a path to the prairie. “My father must hear of this. Come with us.” Leaning on his saddle horn, he smirked. “And I will not take no for an answer.”
Seven
There had once been a time when no one could take Shakespeare McNair by surprise. In his younger days, in his prime, he had tangled with the likes of Apaches, Comanches, Blackfeet, and Bloods, surviving more violent scrapes than he cared to count, and always with hardly a scratch.
How did he manage it? Friends claimed that he must live a charmed life, that his guardian angel was always watching out for him, that he had more luck than most ten men.
The truth of the matter was that Shakespeare had a finely honed sixth sense, intuition, if you will, that never let him down. When enemy eyes were on him, he could feel them. Even though there might be no outward evidence, he always knew they were there.
A typical instance occurred back in ’06, when he had been leading a party through the northern Rockies. They had entered a wide canyon, a peaceful place where birds had been singing and chipmunks scampered about. There had been no sign of hostiles, none at all. Yet the moment Shakespeare rode into that canyon, he had known unseen eyes were watching.
The other members of the party had been flabbergasted when Shakespeare said they were to turn and take the long way around. They had argued. He was imagining things, they said. He was spooking himself. They insisted on going on.
Shakespeare practically begged them not to. He hung back as, one by one, they filed past, chuckling and grinning at his expense. He called out, warning them over and over, but they would not listen. “You’re being childish, hoss,” one man had said flatly.
Did those men still think he was childish when scores of Bloods rose up from hiding on top of the canyon walls? Did those men regret their stubbornness when arrows rained down as thick as hail? Did they curse their stupidity as they were transfixed again and again? What was on their minds as they toppled from their terror-stricken mounts, bristling with shafts like human pincushions?
Shakespeare was the only one to make it out of that canyon alive. He shot two of the Bloods, then fled before he joined his hapless companions in the Hereafter.
Time after time, his uncanny sixth sense warned him of impending danger. Even when he grew older and his sinews lost some of their steely strength and his senses began to dim, he could always count on his infallible intuition.
Until this night.
Shakespeare had no inkling that any enemies were within a hundred miles of the dry wash. When Nate fired and shouted, Shakespeare was as startled as the rest. Bedlam broke out. He was hit in the thigh, and he fired at the man who shot him.
Blue Water Woman came alongside. “Let us go!” she urged him.
“You first!” Shakespeare said, drawing a pistol. “I’ll bring up the rear!”
His intent was to cover the others as they escaped into the woods. Galloping wildly down the wash on his wife’s heels, he slowed when a target presented itself. His pistol belched smoke and lead, but at the very moment his trigger finger tightened, the mare swerved, throwing off his aim.
Shakespeare jammed the spent flintlock under his belt and produced the other one. The end of the wash was a dozen yards off. His wife rushed past it, Nate swinging the stallion in close behind her. Both were so intent on getting away that they did not look back.
Spiking his heels into the white mare, Shakespeare skirted a boulder. He was almost to the opening when five or six figures charged down the north slope and raised rifles to shoot at the unprotected backs of his wife and Nate King.
Shakespeare bellowed like a mad grizzly and cut on the reins. In a twinkling he was among them, the mare scattering half of them, his pistol clubbing two more. As he wheeled to plunge into the vegetation, a grasping hand closed on his ankle. He kicked, but the hand would not let go.
“Get him!” someone hollered.
“I’ve got the horse!” cried a man who caught hold of the mare’s bridle.
Shakespeare bent to hit the polecat over the head, but as he did, two others leaped, seizing him around the waist and the shoulder. He swung, landed a glancing blow, and struggled to straighten. His right foot was yanked free of the stirrup. He smashed the pistol into a sneering upturned face, then had his gun arm gripped in an iron vise. His pistol was ripped from his fingers.
“Tear him off the nag, you jackasses!” someone raged.
Shakespeare felt himself being yanked from the saddle. Three men hurled him to the ground and sought to pin him. He punched, he kicked, he bit. Blows hammered him, but he was barely aware of them. His knuckles crunched against a nose. His left fist found a mouth.
“Damn it all!” shrieked the apparent leader. “He’s just an old man! Hold him!”
Not for nothing had Shakespeare acquired the name Carcajou. Although puny in size compared to grizzlies and buffaloes, wolverines were renowned for their unbelievable savagery and utter lack of fear. They fought with a berserk fury that was awesome to behold. And they were Shakespeare’s namesake.
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