Wilderness Giant Edition 6

by David Robbins

  “A man with a temper like his can turn on anyone, at any time,” Shakespeare said. “You’d do well to fight shy of this whole outfit as soon as you can.”

  Calloway tittered. “Nice try. Jasper warned me you could talk rings around a tree. But save your breath. I’m too slick to fall for any of your tricks.”

  As slick as molasses, Shakespeare thought. He attempted to swing his arms from side to side, to no avail. Chafing at his helplessness, he scanned the line of riders. They were as cold-blooded a bunch as he had ever come across. He could see it in their eyes.

  They were cast from the same mold as Jasper Flynt. Outcasts, cutthroats, the dregs of human society, men who would murder their own mothers or sisters without hesitation if there was money to be made in it. Flynt had picked well.

  A fluttering groan came from the last man in line, who rode slumped over, barely able to stay in the saddle. A dark stain marked the front of his buckskin shirt, and his lips were flecked with pink spittle.

  “Poor Spence,” Calloway commented. “He ain’t long for this world. Took one in the lung.”

  In Shakespeare’s opinion, the man got what he deserved. “Aren’t we going to stop soon to rest?”

  “When Jasper says,” Calloway responded. “He’s afeared them greasers are on our trail, so we might push on ’til nightfall. That man never tires like the rest of us. Sometimes I’d swear he ain’t even human.”

  Varga was after them? At Nate’s request, Shakespeare bet. Shifting with difficulty, careful not to slide too far to either side, he studied their back trail. All morning they had been winding deeper and higher into the Rockies. Now they were on a narrow game trail hundreds of feet up, on a slope dotted with pines and boulders.

  Not many miles to the southwest reared the snowcapped summit of Long’s Peak. The massive, stark mountain towered to the sky, scowling down at the world like an earth and stone juggernaut out of mythology. Dark clouds floated across its jagged face; clefts scarred its pitted surface.

  Shakespeare gave up looking for sign of the Spaniard’s party. The dense woodland below could hide an entire army. As he faced forward, the slope leveled off, widening into a small plateau dominated by slabs of rock scores of feet high. In the shadow of a sheer monolith, Jasper Flynt drew rein.

  “Ten minutes, boys. That’s all we can spare.”

  The cutthroats ignored McNair. Dismounting, they stretched their legs or sprawled out, some treating themselves to jerky or pemmican, others taking swigs from water skins.

  “How about me?” Shakespeare asked.

  “What about you?” Jasper Flynt demanded, ambling over. “You’ll get something to eat tonight, not before.”

  “Let me down.”

  “When buffaloes fly.” Biting into a piece of jerked deer meat, Flynt slowly chewed while grinning sadistically.

  Shakespeare was resigned to enduring more torment. “You still haven’t told me what this is all about,” he remarked. “There aren’t enough of you to wipe out Varga’s party, if that’s what you’re thinking. Sure, you could sell their jewelry and guns and horses for a tidy sum to the right buyer, but in a year or so you’d be broke again, right back where you started.”

  Flynt snorted. “Is that what you figure? That I went to all this bother just to rob that Spanish bastard?” He wagged the jerky. “Hell, McNair, you may hate my guts, but give me more credit than that. I ain’t after no measly grubstake here. I’m out to make myself and all my boys as rich as King Midas.”

  Shakespeare made a show of squinting at the azure sky. “Methinks, Diomed, that you have been out in the sun too long.”

  “Diomed?”

  “That same Diomed’s a false-hearted rogue, a most unjust knave. I will no more trust him when he leers than I will a serpent when he hisses. He will spend his mouth and promise, like Brabbler the hound.”

  Flynt stopped chewing. “Oh. I get it. You’re quotin’ that English feller. Heard you did that a lot.” Jasper chuckled. “You’re one crazy son of a bitch, you old idiot. You know that?”

  “Slanders, sir. For the satirical rogue says here that old men have gray beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging thick amber and plum-tree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams. All which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down. For yourself, sir, shall grow old as I am, if like a crab you could go backward.”

  “I ain’t no damn crab!” Flynt growled. “Stop jabberin’ that nonsense.”

  Shakespeare could not resist. “For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a god kissing carrion— have you a daughter?”

  “I’m warnin’ you!” Flynt said, lowering a hand to one of the pistols under his belt. “You think I don’t know that you’re pokin’ fun of me? Just ’cause I can’t read nor write doesn’t mean I’m stupid.” Jerking the pistol out, he pointed it squarely at McNair’s face. “I can shoot straight enough, remember.”

  “Too true,” Shakespeare conceded, and did not press his luck any further. “So if it isn’t robbery, then why? What do you reckon to gain by all this, Jasper?”

  Flynt glowered a moment, then dipped his arm. “No, I can’t kill you yet. Might need you to deal with King.”

  “What does Nate have to do with this?”

  “Everything, now that I cut out on Varga. The greaser will need your pup to help him find the lost mine. I was hopin’ to wipe both of you out and go back and beg Varga for a second chance, but King and his brood got away, thanks to you.”

  “Mine?” Shakespeare repeated, mystified.

  Flynt took another bite. “You have no notion of what I’m talkin’ about,” he said smugly. “Ain’t as smart as you like to pretend, what with those fancy quotes and all.”

  “Enlighten me. Rub my nose in my stupidity. There are no mines in these parts. Not unless ...” Shakespeare paused, recollecting a vague tall tale bandied about years ago. “Can it be? The Spanish really found gold?”

  “And Varga has a map showin’ right where to find it,” Flynt divulged. “You see, when he hired me, he was real secretive. Take me to Long’s Peak, he says. Help me find a few landmarks, he says. He let it go at that, figurin’ I was too stupid to catch on. Just like you.”

  “But you did,” Shakespeare prompted.

  “Bet your ass I did! I spied on the bastard. Went to the hotel where he was stayin’ and climbed up a spout to his window. Heard him and a couple of his sons jawin’.”

  “Pretty clever.”

  Flynt’s chest swelled. “Damn right it was. My Spanish ain’t near as good as my English, but I can get by in a pinch. I learned enough to piece together what he was up to.”

  “And you decided then and there that you wanted the gold for yourself.”

  “Why should that stinkin’ Spaniard get it all?” Flynt’s eyes lit with an inner glow. “I tell you, I went down that spout like it was greased with hog fat. It didn’t take but a few hours to round up enough boys I could count on. Had ’em dog our trail, and every so often I’d slip off and double back.”

  “Enough?” Shakespeare said, gazing at the unkempt band. “Varga’s vaqueros outnumber you four to one. And they’re tough, Jasper. Real tough. When I was down to Santa Fe, I saw vaqueros go up against Apaches. Think about that. Think about what they’ll do to you if you try to harm their patron.”

  “I ain’t scared of no greasers,” Flynt declared hotly. “And numbers ain’t everything.” He paused, then added craftily, “There are ways of whittlin’ Varga’s bunch down to size. I got me a brainstorm that you wouldn’t believe!”

  Shakespeare would not put anything past his captor. Whatever Flynt had cooked up would be unspeakably vicious. He was worried for the Vargas, but even more concerned about those he loved the most. Would Nate help Varga locate the mine if Varga asked? Possibly. And what about Blue Water Woman, Winona, and the children? They were bound to go wherever Nate did.

  Jasper Fl
ynt began to pace and talk, more to himself than to the mountain man. “All I got to do now is lay low until your pup finds the mine for the Spaniard. After that, I’ll play it by ear. Maybe let ’em dig out a few tons of ore before I make my move.” Flynt rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “That’s best. Why should we tire ourselves out when they can do the work for us?”

  “You’ve got it all planned.”

  Nodding, Flynt tore into the jerky. “My whole stinkin’ life I’ve been grubbin’ to make ends meet. Most of the time, I barely have enough in my poke to make it jingle. Soon it’ll all be different! Six months from now I’ll be livin’ in a mansion in New Orleans. Servants will wait on me hand and foot. I’ll have the best clothes, the finest carriages. And women! Pretty ones that bathe regular and smell nice. A new female every night.” Dazzled by his dream, Flynt stopped. “Folks will treat me like a gentleman. Call me ‘sir.’ I’ll be somebody, McNair.”

  “A wolf in sheep’s clothing is still a wolf.”

  Flynt spun, his lips curling back from his teeth. “Even wolves can grow fat and lazy. When I’m lyin’ in a plush bed with a naked beauty at my side, I’ll think of you, McNair. I’ll think of your fancy quotes and your high-and-mighty airs, and I’ll drink a toast to your bleached bones.”

  “We’re going too slow,” Nate King said.

  Don Manuel de Varga reined up. Taking a silk handkerchief from a jacket pocket, he mopped his sweating brow. “Would that we had wings on our feet, señor, so we could fly to your friend’s aid. We do the best we can.”

  Nate knew that. Since leaving the gully where the ambush occurred, Varga had spurred his men as fast as was prudent. Blaze marks left by three of the Maricopas had guided them ever higher into the mountains. Overhead, the sun gleamed like a gem in a diadem. On all sides the wilderness pulsed with life; birds, squirrels, chipmunks, and deer romped through a verdant paradise.

  “I can make better time myself,” Nate said. “You stick with your vaqueros and I’ll ride on ahead.” Don Varga pushed his sombrero back on his head. “I do not think that best, Señor King. I do not want anything to happen to you.”

  While flattered by the man’s consideration, Nate had McNair to think of. “At this rate, we’ll never catch up by nightfall. I’m going on.”

  The Spaniard pondered, his dark eyes inscrutable. “Very well. But I insist you take Chivari along.” The bronzed Maricopa stood a few yards away, patiently waiting to lead them on. Hours of constant climbing had not tired him one whit. Nate had the impression that Chivari could run all day and all night and be as fresh as a daisy the next morning.

  “Fair enough,” Nate said to forestall an argument. “I’ll be right back.” Bringing the stallion around, he rode down the line to where his family and Blue Water Woman were spaced close together.

  “We are going with you,” Winona said before her mate could get a word out of his mouth.

  Nate had to grin. “One of these days you’ll tell me how you do that trick. But I’d rather you stayed.” Giving a barely noticeable bob of his head toward Evelyn, he said, “You’d only slow me down.”

  Zach was quick to put two and two together. “I wouldn’t, Pa,” he protested. “I can keep up, easy.”

  “So can I,” Blue Water Woman said. She had held back long enough. Half the day had been wasted, and they were no closer to her man than they had been when the sun rose.

  Nate was naturally inclined to refuse. But what right did he have to deny her, when it was Blue Water Woman’s husband whose life hung in the balance?

  As for his son, he said, “Zach, it’s better if you stay with your ma and sister.”

  “Ahhhh, geez.”

  “No arguments, boy,” Nate said. “Watch your mother’s back, you hear? Trust no one.”

  “Does that include me, señor?”

  Unnoticed, Ignacio Varga had ridden up. Nate looked him right in the eyes and replied, “It includes everyone, mister. If anything happens to my family while I’m gone, I’ll hold you and your father personally responsible.”

  “What could happen?” Ignacio said, irritated. “What kind of men do you take my father and me for?”

  Nate did not answer. Placing his hand on Winona’s, he tenderly squeezed. “I wish there was another way. Take care.”

  “Go,” Winona urged, a knot of raw anxiety forming in her breast when he did so. Blue Water Woman gave her a smile of encouragement and she returned the favor, but she did not feel as self-assured as she pretended. Moving her mare closer to Evelyn, she waved when Nate glanced around.

  Leaving his loved ones was a trial in itself. Nate waved, then blew a kiss to Evelyn. One of the vaqueros snickered, never knowing how close he came to losing his teeth. Nate faced around and saw Don Varga and Chivari shoulder to shoulder, whispering. The Maricopa spotted him and said something. Immediately Varga straightened in the saddle.

  “Chivari is ready, señor. I told him to catch up with the other Maricopas as swiftly as he can.”

  “Just so he keeps up with us,” Nate said, and prodded the stallion into a trot.

  Blue Water Woman lashed her sorrel with the reins. She was opposed to having the Maricopa along, but since Nate had accepted it, she did not protest.

  Nate had had all morning to reflect on the attack. That it had been white men had been obvious, confirmed by the tracks of more than a dozen shod horses found in the vicinity of the gully.

  But who had been behind it?

  Nate would be the first to admit that he’d made a few too many enemies. The personal code by which he lived was partly to blame. He would not abide being insulted, or laid a hand on, or being threatened. Since he did not do any of those things to others, he required that others treat him with the same degree of respect.

  It was inevitable that Nate would clash with others who did not share his outlook. The wilderness bred hard men. Living in the mountains took a special breed who were tempered by the ordeals they daily endured until they were as hard as the land itself.

  Back in the States, such men were lions among sheep. They did as they pleased, when they pleased. They never backed down, never turned the other cheek. Like the prow of a great ship plowing through the sea, they plowed through life. Anyone who got in their way was trampled under or pushed aside.

  Nate was one of these men, but his hard exterior hid a soul more sensitive than he would ever confess. He was gentle to the core, as gentle as a kitten to everyone who treated him as he treated them. But let a ruffian challenge him, let a rowdy try to run roughshod over him, and the kitten became a raging mountain lion.

  That was why Nate had gone up against more than a few unscrupulous characters. Thieves, killers, roughnecks, even cannibals, you name it, he had taught them the error of their ways.

  The logical question for him to ask, then, was whether one of his old enemies was to blame for the ambush and the attack at his cabin. He could think of no one, mainly because ninety-nine percent of them were dead, and the few who weren’t had quit that part of the country long ago.

  That left a recent enemy. And Nate had made only one in many months: Jasper Flynt.

  Yet blaming Flynt raised more questions than it answered. The attack at the cabin had taken place before they met, so what possible reason could Flynt have had for seeking him out and trying to blow his head off? And if Flynt was indeed to blame, who were the men riding with him? It was not as if Flynt could pluck an entire band of cutthroats out of an empty beaver hat.

  The only way to answer the question was to overtake the gang of killers. To that end, Nate held to a trot where the lay of the land permitted. By two o’clock he had covered almost as much ground as Don Varga had all morning.

  The Maricopa kept up the whole way. At a tireless dogtrot, he trailed them, and when Nate finally stopped to give their mounts a breather, the horses were breathing harder than Chivari.

  “Another two hours,” Blue Water Woman guessed, judging by the hoof prints. She took it as a good omen that they h
ad not found Shakespeare’s body. Whoever was to blame wanted her husband alive. For how long, though?

  “Don Varga plans to turn back by sunset, but we’re not about to,” Nate said. “If we have to, we’ll light torches and track at night. I’m not stopping until Shakespeare is safe.”

  Blue Water Woman was jolted by the news. “Why is he turning back so soon?”

  “He’s gold hungry,” Nate disclosed. “He’s hunting for a lost Spanish mine, and he’s not about to delay any longer than he has to.”

  “I wish I had known this last night,” Blue Water Woman said. “I would not have stayed in their camp.” She had only done so because she counted on Varga’s help in tracking Shakespeare down.

  Nate felt a twinge of guilt for not sharing the information sooner. “He didn’t tell me until we were about ready to ride out,” he explained.

  “I should have seen this coming,” Blue Water Woman said. “I do not trust Varga, or his eldest son.” The sorrel fidgeted, so she stroked its neck. “I do not trust any man who treats women as they do.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Varga’s daughters told us that they cannot marry until their father says. That they must do as he wants at all times or he punishes them severely. And that if they were to so much as kiss a young man of their choice, Varga would have him cut to pieces.”

  Among most Indian tribes, Nate had learned, parents were nowhere near as strict as their white counterparts. Hitting a child was unheard of. Even raising the voice was frowned on. So by Flathead standards, Don Varga was a tyrant.

  But a person should never judge someone else’s bushel by their own peck. In Europe, where suitors flocked to pretty maidens like bears to honey, parents had to be stricter or risk having their daughters socially shamed, or worse.

  Young single women who lost their virtue before wedlock were branded as wanton, a stigma they carried with them the rest of their days. No upstanding man would marry them. They were left to fend for themselves, their prospects dim, often making ends meet by doing what had brought about the stigma in the first place.