Wilderness Giant Edition 6

by David Robbins

  Crestfallen, Blue Water Woman slumped as limply as a wet rag. She hardly gave any consideration to the lengthening shadows, or the fact that the Utes were backtracking to the ridge where their companion lay. All she could think of was Shakespeare.

  What would happen to him now?

  Evening fell. The renegades ate an early meal. There was a lot of talk about the war whoops they had heard. Everyone was of the opinion that it had to be Utes, and several wanted to investigate. They changed their minds after Jasper Flynt insulted their intelligence and their mothers, concluding with, “Only a jackass goes askin’ for trouble. Maybe the Utes were after the greaser. They sure as hell don’t know that we’re here, and we’re not about to advertise it.”

  Twilight cast the Rockies in pervading gloom. Flynt paired off six of his men and gave them instructions. They were to fan out and look high and low for distant campfires. Should they spot any, one man was to stay put while the other hurried back to the shelf.

  Shakespeare McNair stayed apart from the renegades. Out of sight, out of mind, he hoped. Only Jeb Calloway bothered to talk to him. The Alabamian waxed nostalgic about his childhood, telling of memorable bear hunts he had been on as a boy. “One fall, my pa and me killed twenty-eight black bears,” he bragged. “Lost a good hound to one of the brutes we cornered, but when we were done, we had us enough meat to last our family pretty near two years. Poor Ma about worked herself into an early grave skinnin’ and dryin’ those rascals.”

  “That’s a lot,” Shakespeare said.

  “Shucks, it ain’t hardly half as many as Davy Crockett brought down in a single season. My pa used to say that ornery Tennessean was the best damn bear killer who ever lived.” Jeb sobered. “Too bad them Mexicans had to do him in like they done.”

  The story of the Alamo had been on everyone’s lips a few years back. Even mountaineers living in the remotest stretches of the Rockies heard about the glorious battle and its aftermath.

  “Do you reckon there’s any truth to the rumor that Crockett was taken alive and executed?” Calloway asked.

  It was widely known that a handful of defenders were brought before Santa Anna after the battle and were summarily bayoneted. Some claimed that Davy Crockett had been one of them.

  “I wasn’t there,” Shakespeare said, “but I recollect hearing that Crockett had some kind of illness. They say he collapsed a couple of times when he overtaxed himself. Maybe that’s what happened in San Antonio. He fought until he dropped, then they finished him off. Either way, he died game.”

  “Maybe,” Jeb said without conviction. “But if’n you ask me, Davy went down shootin’ and clubbin’. That’s how a real hero ought to die, ain’t it?” Shakespeare did not point out that brave men seldom had a choice as to how they met their Maker. Happenstance dictated the manner of one’s passing, just as it did one’s life.

  Jasper Flynt strolled over. “Jeb, you’d best throw a saddle on that scrawny nag of yours. I want you and Fletcher to ride to the southeast.”

  “Me?” Calloway said. “But I thought I was to guard McNair, here?”

  “Galt is going to watch over him while you’re gone.”

  “But why him and not me?” Calloway complained. “I’d rather stay put.”

  “I’m sure you would, you lazy southerner,” Flynt responded. “Fact is, you’re gettin’ too damn friendly with this old bastard to suit me. Did you think I wouldn’t notice how the two of you are always jawin’ and laughin’ like the best of pards?”

  Jeb did not know when to leave well enough alone. “What are you sayin’, Jasper? That I’d turn against you? That I’d help him get away?”

  “Not even you would be that stupid,” Flynt declared. “No, what bothers me is that you’ll turn your back to him one time too many and we’ll have to plant you.”

  “McNair would never hurt me,” Calloway said, and nudged Shakespeare’s leg. “Would you, hoss? Tell him.”

  Flynt slapped the Alabamian on the shoulder. “See? That’s exactly what I was afraid of. You’re too damn trustin’. Sometimes I wonder if you ever grew up.” He poked Calloway in the chest. “Galt stays. You go. And that’s the end of it.”

  “Whatever you say, Jasper. Don’t I always listen good?”

  Shakespeare was glad that Jeb would be gone when he made his move. No one, absolutely no one, would be allowed to stand in his way. That included the Alabamian.

  A couple of stars glimmered overhead when the eight cutthroats trotted from the shelf. Their comrades lined up to watch, a few waving. A pall of silence gripped those left behind. Untold wealth would be theirs if Varga’s expedition was found, but they were too worried about roving Utes to relish the prospect.

  Shakespeare plucked a blade of grass and stuck it between his teeth. Galt waddled toward him, hitching at a wide belt that barely contained his ample girth.

  “Well, looks like it’s you and me, old man. Behave yourself and we’ll get along just fine. Don’t behave, and I’ll split your skull.” To emphasize his warning, Galt pantomimed busting the trapper’s head with the butt of his rifle.

  “I get the hint,” Shakespeare said.

  From then on, it was just a question of waiting for the ideal moment. Three of the renegades huddled to play cards. Galt honed a knife. Flynt roamed the rim, restless energy oozing from every pore like lava from a volcano.

  Standing, Shakespeare inquired, “Mind if I go for some water?”

  “Be my guest,” Galt said, stroking the blade across the whetstone. “Just don’t fall in again. I can’t swim, and I’m not about to jump in that pool to help you. You can drown, for all I care.”

  “Don’t fret yourself on that score,” Shakespeare said. “Once was enough.” Ambling to the cleft, he went sideways through the opening and sat next to the spring. No one had followed him. None of the renegades was the least bit interested in what he was doing. That included Flynt, who was too concerned about the scouts out crisscrossing the countryside.

  In the cleft it was darker than on the shelf, dark enough for Shakespeare to pry the quartz from under his moccasin without fear of being caught. Palming it, he reversed his grip and sliced at the rope binding his wrists, a painstaking chore if ever there was one.

  The sawtooth edge cut exceedingly slowly. Applying steady pressure for minutes on end in that awkward position used muscles he had not resorted to in ages. Twice Shakespeare had to stop to ease the agony in his wrists and fingers.

  Slowly, inevitably, the rawhide rope parted. He was almost done when a shadowy shape filled the cleft and Galt barked, “What the hell is keeping you so long, McNair? You could’ve drank the spring dry by now.”

  “I was just enjoying a few moments of peace and quiet,” Shakespeare said. “It’s why I came back over here so often earlier.”

  “I was afraid you’d found a way out the back,” Galt said, moving to one side. “Get your carcass out of there. From now on, you have two minutes to do whatever needs doing. Two minutes, and not a second longer. Savvy?”

  “I understand,” Shakespeare said. As he began to stand, he tucked his right leg to his chest so he could slip the quartz down his moccasin.

  “Move it.”

  The mountain man walked to where his saddle and parfleches had been placed, not far from the horse string. By holding his wrists close together, he concealed the cut he had made in the rawhide. After spreading out his blanket and covering himself from the waist down, he lay on his side.

  Galt was scratching his armpit. “Turning in a bit early, aren’t you?”

  “When you’re my age, you’ll turn in early too,” Shakespeare said.

  “It stinks to grow old, doesn’t it?”

  “It beats the alternative.”

  The heavyset cutthroat had to ponder a bit before he caught on, and laughed. “Oh. I see your point. Even so, I reckon I’d rather be blasted by a lead ball or be stuck with a quiver full of arrows than to die of old age.”

  “A shallow philosophy,” Shakespea
re commented, “born of ignorance. White hairs have a lot to be said for them.”

  Galt snickered. “Name one thing.”

  “You get to look back over your life and see all the mistakes you made. You grow to appreciate what’s really important, and what’s so much cow manure. Every dawn becomes a natural masterpiece, every night you’re grateful for the gift of another day. You look ahead to the unknown, and you thrill to the new adventure you’ll face on the other side of the veil.”

  “Spare me, old man,” Galt said. “When a body dies, they die. That’s it. Nothing else. No heaven. No hell. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

  “You don’t believe in a hereafter?”

  “No coon who can think for himself ever does. God is for those bred on fairy tales, McNair. It’s for those who wet their pants at the notion of being no better than bugs.”

  Shakespeare swept a hand at the glittering stars that bedecked the firmament. “Look up there, friend. Notice how they all have their place, how orderly they are? Think of how organized life is, how the air is just right for us to breathe, how the seasons change as regular as clockwork, how our bodies heal when we’re hurt. That should tell you something.”

  “What? That a higher power planned it this way?” Galt grunted. “It’s just how things are, McNair. Coincidence.” He plodded toward the campfire. “You go on believing in fairy tales if you like. Me, I’m going to have some coffee. Enjoy myself while I can, that’s the saying I live by.”

  Shakespeare had picked a spot far enough from the fire for him to be cloaked in shadow. Bending his legs up to his waist, he worked the quartz out and applied it to the rawhide binding his ankles. He had to be careful not to disturb the blanket and to stop whenever any of the cutthroats gazed in his general direction.

  Soon the rawhide parted. Shakespeare sliced the rest of the way through the strip binding his wrists, then replaced the quartz for safekeeping and pretended to doze. Through cracked lids he saw Galt join Flynt and the two of them stare at him awhile. Did they suspect? Or were they plotting what to do with him once they had what they were after? As if there was any doubt. They dared not leave witnesses. Anyone who could identify them must be slain.

  An hour dragged by, each second a week in itself. None of the scouts came back. Two of the card players stepped to the rim, which left a solitary man by the fire, and he had his back to the horses.

  Shakespeare reached out, gripped a parfleche, and pulled it under the blanket. Flattening it, he slid it close to his hips. He did the same with a second one, which he positioned beside his left shoulder. His saddle he pulled closer, draping the upper part of the blanket over it. The combined effect gave the illusion that he was curled up asleep.

  Crawling out from under, Shakespeare snaked toward the horses. He regretted having to leave his personal effects, but he was sacrificing them for a worthy cause: his life.

  The white mare was in the middle of the string. To reach her he would have to pass Flynt’s mount and one other. The second animal could not have been less interested in him if it tried to be, but Flynt’s was a wary critter that twisted its head to stare and nicker.

  Shakespeare stopped, thinking that the animal would lose interest. But the horse kept on staring. And staring. He feared that one of the renegades would notice. Shortly thereafter, the card players returned to the fire. Neither was very observant even in broad daylight; at night they were worse.

  Then Flynt himself walked over, giving Shakespeare’s blanket a long, searching look.

  Had something aroused Flynt’s suspicions? Shakespeare was not inclined to wait around to find out. Sliding to the rim, he crawled over the edge and into the inky night.

  Fifteen

  The Varga expedition crossed the St. Vrain at a ford Nate King selected. Like the majority of high-country waterways, the St. Vrain was narrow and fast. Countless deep pools were separated by stretches of foaming rapids. The spot Nate picked was a bend where the current slowed and the water rose no higher than a man’s knees.

  Paralleling the west bank, the expedition backtracked, traveling generally northeast until they came to a creek notable for its sandy bottom. Up this they turned, bearing to the northwest, climbing steeply. On their right towered Long’s Peak and its sister, Mt. Meeker. On their left rose a high ridge covered by thick forest.

  They rode mostly in shadow—the shadow of the ridge early in the day, the shadows of the mountains in the afternoon, the shadows of pines and firs the rest of the time.

  The air was thin and clear and should have been invigorating, but the column moved in tense silence, the profound quiet of the wilderness broken only by the dull thud of hooves, the creak of harness and saddle leather, and the clatter and jingle of supplies on the pack animals.

  Manuel de Varga insisted that Nate always ride at the head of the column with him. Nate’s hands were no longer tied, but he was denied a gun or any other weapon. It was unnerving to travel though the deep woods totally defenseless, never knowing when a painter or a grizzly or hostiles might pounce.

  Varga refused to give Nate an answer to his proposal. Bothered by a bad feeling that something was going to go terribly wrong, and not wanting his family to have any part in it, Nate badgered the man.

  Don Varga had grown increasingly tense and irritable the closer they drew to their goal. He had so much riding on the outcome that it affected his state of mind. He took to snapping at servants and vaqueros who did not perform their tasks well enough to suit him, or who were lax in obeying commands.

  Even Diego, his pride and joy, earned a rebuke when the boy wandered off alone to admire some wildflowers. In front of the whole company, Don Varga subjected his son to a tongue-lashing that turned the boy’s cheeks flaming red and caused murmuring among the vaqueros, among whom Diego was a favorite. Ignacio treated them too sternly, and Martin—well, Martin was so bland, he inspired neither respect nor dislike. Or so Nate assumed.

  The big trapper grew anxious. They were putting more distance between them and the Twin Sisters; it would take his family that much longer to reach home. With that in mind, he turned to Varga as they wound along the gurgling creek and said, “What about the proposal I made you?”

  “Which one?” Varga asked distractedly. More and more he withdrew himself, speaking only when there was a need, or when he was addressed.

  “You remember,” Nate said. “I gave you my word to go along peaceably and stick with your outfit until you’re done mining ore if you’ll agree to let my family go.”

  “Oh. That.” Varga started when a jay squawked in a nearby tree. “Damned animals,” he grumbled. “They are forever making a person jump.”

  Nate studied his captor without being obvious. The strain was taking a severe toll. Gone was the affable, easygoing patron. Varga grew more temperamental each day. They had better reach the mine soon, for all their sakes.

  “I have still not decided, señor.”

  “But it’s been days,” Nate noted. “Make up your mind now, so they don’t have so far to go.”

  Like a hissing viper, Don Varga spun in the saddle. “Who are you to tell me what to do? I am in control here! And I will make up my mind when I am good and ready, not before. Do you understand?”

  The venomous outburst still rang in Nate’s ears when the column stopped an hour later for a brief midday rest. He rode back down the line to his family.

  Winona was rummaging in a parfleche for pemmican. They were about out. She had a few pieces of jerky cached for future use, in case they were ever able to slip away.

  Don Varga was not the only one on whom the strain was beginning to tell. Winona would never admit as much to her loved ones, but she was more despondent than she could remember being in many winters. She feared not so much for herself as she did for her daughter and son and husband. They were her life. They were her reason for breathing. Should anything terrible befall them, she would not want to go on.

  For their sake Winona put up a brave front. She smiled a l
ot and offered encouragement when Zach and Evelyn were depressed. She was always there for Nate to lean on.

  But in the silent hours before dawn, when the camp was still and the wind had died and the forest itself slumbered, inwardly she wept in grating despair.

  How long could this go on? she would asked herself. How much more must her family endure? She was thankful that none of them had been harmed. But she was also aware that the violation of Ute territory would be costly, and she did not care to have her family added to the toll.

  Now, as Nate dismounted, she brought pemmican and said, “I saw Don Varga snap at you. What was that all about?”

  Nate had not told her about the offer he had made Varga, because he knew how she would react. But faced with a direct question, he could not hide it any longer. In all the years they had been together he had never lied to her, and he never would. So he told her.

  “You did what?” Winona exclaimed, stepping back in dismay. “How could you? We will never desert you, even if he were to agree.”

  “That’s right, Pa,” Zach declared, as upset as his mother. The very real likelihood of a clash with a war party had him excited to be part of it. “I’m not leaving if you don’t. You taught me better than that.”

  Nate did not hide his exasperation. “If I want you to, you’ll go. What I’m trying to do is for the best. I don’t want any of you to be hurt.”

  “How could you shame us like this?” Winona said. “A Shoshone woman always stands by her man. In good times and bad. In peace and during war.” She straightened. “I am not leaving, either. Not without you, husband.”

  “You’re being pigheaded,” Nate said. “What about Evelyn? She’s more important than your pride. We have to get her out of here before it’s too late.”