The tall warrior was examining her rifle. Lou grinned to herself, pointed at the gun, then at the leader. “Like that, do you? It’s yours if you’ll lend me a hand.” She tapped the saddle, then her father’s shoulder. “Give my pa a boost.”
Clearly perplexed, the warrior did not budge.
“My rifle for helping me,” Lou stressed, repeating the pantomime. A gleam of comprehension lit the leader, and he laughed as if it were a joke. But he helped. He came over and without half trying flung Zebulon over the saddle like he would fling a sack of potatoes.
“I’m obliged,” Lou said. She was going to climb on Fancy, but a stocky, scarred warrior seized the dun’s bridle and spoke angrily. Another heated dispute resulted in the stocky warrior letting go, but he was not happy about it. Sullen as a riled bear, he glared as Lou hooked a foot in a stirrup and swung lithely astride her animal.
She lingered a fleeting second, sadly contemplating the hides that had meant a new life for her pa and her. Those pelts would have insured that she would attend a fine Eastern school. Now her long-nurtured hope of becoming a genuine lady was shattered. Without those peltries, there would be no fine home or lavish carriage or expensive dresses and bonnets. Her special dream would never come to pass.
None of the Indians tried to stop them from leaving. Most of the warriors were busy rummaging through supplies or admiring plews. One man had found the sugar tin, and was dipping a finger in and licking it.
Seizing Old Jake’s reins, Lou jabbed her heels against Fancy and broke into a trot. She anticipated an arrow between the shoulder blades, but the Indians were content with their plunder. Why they had spared her, she had no idea. Maybe the leader had taken pity on her. Or maybe they did not believe it fitting to make war on a woman.
A woman? Louisa nearly laughed aloud. Who was she trying to fool? She was only sixteen. A girl, by any standard. But a girl who had done things no other girl her age ever had. Such as traveling far from Virginia, to the remote, majestic Rockies. Such as living in the wild vastness of the high peaks for over a year. Such as surviving encounters with silvertips, to say nothing of summer drought and fall floods and snowstorms that buried whole mountains.
Her mother would have been proud, Lou liked to think. Marcy Bonham Clark had been an independent spirit who did as she dam well pleased, the opinion of others be hanged. She’d married Zeb against the wishes of her parents. She’d lived in the deep woods instead of the city, to the dismay of all her kin. And she had encouraged her husband’s hankering to live as a free trapper, despite the hardships. More the pity that Marcy had died before Zebulon headed west.
Or was it a blessing in disguise? Lou wondered. For had her mother been at the camp when the war party struck, she would surely have resisted. And been part of the bloodbath.
A groan reminded Lou of her uppermost responsibility. She dared not slacken the pace, though. Not yet. “Hang on, Pa. As soon as we’re out of danger, I’ll treat that wound. You’ll be all right. Wait and see.” He had to be all right. Without her father, Lou had a snowball’s chance in July of staying alive long enough to reach St. Louis.
Zebulon could not answer. Light-headed, nauseous, disoriented, he shut his eyelids tight and prayed for the awful sensations to go away. The pain, surprisingly, was much less. He took that as a good sign, as an omen he was not severely hurt. He had to live, for his daughter’s sake.
On through the verdant woodland they hurried, Louisa angling toward the pass that linked their pristine valley to the outside world. Small wonder beaver had been abundant. It was doubtful other whites had ever set foot there.
She thought fondly of the many months spent in their sanctuary. The work had been grueling, what with having to scrape and prepare hide after hide. But the evenings had been delightful. Snugly nestled an arm’s length from the crackling flames, she had coaxed her father into talking about her mother, about their courting days, about anything and everything that had to do with their life together. And in the process she had grown closer to him than she had ever been.
On through the pines Louisa went. They covered half a mile, and although her intuition warned they were not yet safe, she reined up and slid down. “Pa,” she said tenderly as she carefully eased Zeb off the saddle and gently lowered him onto his back. Shock gave way to horror. His buckskins were drenched, his face as pale as a sheet of paper. “Oh, Pa.”
Zebulon heard, and drifted up through a clinging fog into the rosy light of day. “Lou?” Her visage seemed to float above him like a disembodied ghost. “I could use some water, girl. And a blanket. I’m so cold. Why did the temperature drop?”
Louisa noted the beads of perspiration on her father’s forehead. How could he be cold and burning up at the same time? The stream was a couple of hundred yards to the north, and the only blankets they had were their saddle blankets. “I’ll do what I can. In the meantime, you lie here and don’t utter a peep.” She started to stand, but his fingers clamped onto her wrist.
“Stay with me.”
“But you just—
“I know what I said,” Zebulon said, cutting her off. The cold inside of him was expanding at an alarming rate. He was no fool. He knew what it meant. Mustering his waning strength, he went on. “I don’t have much time. You must listen.”
“Don’t talk like this. You’re going to be fine. I’ll get the arrow out and have you on the mend in—”
Again Zebulon interrupted. “Hush! This is important. Do you remember the Rendezvous we went to last July?”
“Of course. Up to Green River. Not many traders came, and that white-haired man who liked to quote Shakespeare told us it might be the last.”
“Do you remember that other nice fella we met? The big man? The one who won the wrestling contest?”
How could Lou forget? He was the only man who had ever beaten her father. And every other trapper, to boot. “Nate King. What about him?”
“I hear tell the Kings live in the vicinity of Long’s Peak. They have an honest-to-goodness cabin. Find them. They’ll help see you safely to the States.”
The full import of what her father was imparting made Louisa feel faint. She had to put both hands flat on the ground for support. “Now you hush. I won’t listen to this silliness. Let’s dig that arrow out and I’ll get a fire started.” She gripped the hilt of her knife.
Zebulon Clark stiffened. An ominous black fog was eclipsing the sun and the sky, and his daughter. ‘Please, no.” Zeb moved his lips, trying to form the words, “I love you.” But the only sound that escaped his throat was a pitiable whine. Then the swirling fog swallowed him whole and he pitched into an inky abyss.
Louisa May Clark trembled, fighting back tears. Her father was gone! She was alone in the heart of the wilderness! Alone, with only her pistols and her possibles bag!
Heaven help her.
Two
He was eager to kill and get it over with.
Zachary King had been in the saddle since dawn. It was now the middle of the afternoon, and he was impatient to conclude the hunt. From a shelf thousands of feet up a mountain he gazed out over a magnificent vista. Jagged peaks thrust skyward like spears, many crowned with glistening white mantles. A sea of trees, mostly pine, covered lower slopes in rolling waves. In the distance a bald eagle soared on outstretched wings.
Regal Nature, in all her stirring beauty. The sort of scene that would awe a city dweller. But not young Zach. He had lived in the wilderness all his life. The Rockies were his home. Mammoth earthen giants that reared miles above sea level did not impress him.
Zach glanced down at the tracks he had been following. The bull elk, although stricken, showed no sign of flagging. Occasionally, drops of blood confirmed that Zach’s shot had indeed scored.
“Just my luck the bull moved when I fired,” Zach mused aloud, and was immediately upset. Talking to oneself was a white trait. His father did it now and then. Uncle Shakespeare did it all the time. And while he loved them both dearly, he did not care to
imitate them. He did not care to act as whites did.
It was a recent development, this dislike of his father’s people. Zach knew it upset his parents, but it couldn’t be helped. Years of abuse at the hands of complete strangers had left him bitter, resentful.
Zach had the supreme misfortune to be born half white, half Indian. Or, as most whites preferred to brand him, a breed. And the majority of whites did not like breeds. They looked down their noses at him and his kind. All because of an accident of birth over which he had no control. It was grossly unfair.
When he was younger Zach had not been bothered by the bigotry. Largely because he had not noticed. Quite naturally, he’d spent most of his time doing what children everywhere did, playing and getting into mischief. It was not until his early teens that he began to realize how widespread the hatred was.
His awakening, as Zach liked to call it, had taken place at a Rendezvous three years before. His father and Shakespeare had been swapping tall tales with other free trappers. His mother had been visiting Shoshone kin. So he had ambled off alone, roaming the encampment. While threading among the booths set up by the traders from St. Louis, he had been suddenly seized and thrown roughly to the ground.
“Damn you, breed! Where’s the knife you stole?” Bewildered, Zach had gawked up at a skinny man in homespun clothes who shook a fist in his face. Before he could reply, the man had hauled off and kicked him, hard. Anger had spurred Zach into declaring, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister. I never steal.”
“You lyin’ breed! The knife was on the counter a few seconds ago. Now it’s gone! And you’re the only one who was nearby.”
Stooping, the man had grasped Zach by the front of his hunting shirt and violently jerked him erect.
“I want my knife, breed. Or so help me, I’ll tar you within an inch of your life.”
“Let me go!” Zach had protested. He’d pried at the trader’s fingers, but he’d been no match for a grown man.
“Where is it?” Enraged, the trader had shaken him as a panther might shake a fawn, shaken him until his teeth crunched together and his bones were fit to break. “Fess up, breed!”
A crowd had gathered. Zach had wished his father were there to teach the brute a lesson. But Nate had been clear across camp, unaware of what was happening. Zach had been on his own.
Since brawn would not help, Zach had tried to reason with his assailant. Hadn’t his Uncle Shakespeare always claimed that most disputes could be talked out if everyone involved gave it half a chance? “Calm down, mister. I can prove I didn’t take your knife. Just search me. Go ahead.”
The man had patted Zach’s buckskins, then grunted. “Where’d you hide it, boy?”
“I didn’t take it, dam you!”
“Don’t sass me, breed.”
It was then that the trader had drawn back a calloused hand and slapped Zach across the face. Furious, Zach had punched at the man’s arms, kicked at the man’s leg, but his blows had had scant effect, earning him another slap, which had set his ears to ringing and his vision to swimming. Dimly, he’d heard someone intervene.
“Let the boy go, Evans.”
The trader had snorted. “Leave us alone, Kendall. This isn’t your affair.”
“I’m making it mine. That boy’s father is a close friend. Put him down. Now.”
Zach’s head had cleared. Blood was trickling from his mouth and his lower lip was split. He beheld his savior clearly; Scott Kendall, a stocky, muscular, flame-haired frontiersman who had visited their cabin many times. The spectators were looking from Kendall to Evans and back again in keen anticipation.
The trader hesitated. His grip slackened, but not all the way. “I tell you this damn breed stole from me. Either he returns what he took or I take it out of his hide.” Scott Kendall casually rested a hand on the smooth butt of a pistol tucked under his wide leather belt. “I won’t ask you again.”
The threat caused Evans to drop Zach as if he were a hot coal. “Now see here! You have no right to interfere! What’s this world comin’ to when an honest businessman can’t stop a scruffy breed thief from makin’ off with valuable merchandise!”
“Honest?” Kendall said, and several of the men in the crowd snickered. “I suppose you are. You’ve never cheated anyone outright. Unless you count marking up your trade goods three hundred percent just to rob us of every hard-earned penny.”
“I have a right to make a profit!”
“An honorable profit, yes.” Kendall strolled to the booth, studied the items arranged on the counter, then moved around the far end and scrutinized the grass.
“See here,” Evans said. “No one is allowed back there except me and my helper.”
Kendall doubled over, and when he straightened he held a folding knife in his right palm. “Is this what you claim the boy took?”
“My word! Where was it?”
“On the ground. Where it landed when you probably bumped it off.” Kendall came back around. “You owe Zach King an apology.”
“King?” Evans had gulped like a fish out of water. “Did you say King?”
“Didn’t you know? Zach is Nate King’s boy. You must know Nate. Everyone does.” Kendall leaned on the counter. “Don’t you recall the time Farley Grant trifled with Nate’s wife, Winona? Farley was drunk, sure, but that’s no excuse for forcing himself on a married woman. Remember what Nate did when he found out?”
The trader coughed.
“No? Well, I sure do. I was there. Nate walked right up to Farley and hit him in the mouth. Never threatened. Or blustered. Just punched him. Once. Broke Farley’s jaw and seven teeth besides.” Scott Kendall sighed. “It wasn’t Farley’s lucky year. About the time his mouth healed, the Blackfeet got ahold of him. Fed him to their dogs, the story goes. In bits and pieces.”
Evans fidgeted. “As God is my witness, I didn’t know the boy is Nate’s son.”
Kendall was thoughtfully rubbing his beard. “Can you imagine how strong a person has to be to bust a jaw with one punch?”
“I don’t want any hard feelings.”
“Oh?” Scott Kendall nodded at Zach. “Then I suggest you start to make amends by apologizing to the one you wronged.”
“Sorry, boy.”
Zach nodded, mad but pacified. His father’s friend, to his surprise, was far from satisfied.
“You call that an apology? Really, Evans. Put some feeling into it.” Kendall snapped his fingers as if at an inspiration. “I have it! Why don’t you get down on your knees and beg forgiveness?”
“I’ll do no such thing!”
Kendall shrugged. “Suit yourself. Come on, Zach. Let’s go find your father. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when you report what happened.”
To Zach’s astonishment, the trader dropped onto his knees, clasped both hands together, and said, “I’m sorry, boy. Honestly and truly! Sometimes I let my temper get the better of me. Forgive me, will you?”
No one laughed. Everyone, in fact, focused on Zach, awaiting his reaction. It rankled him, but he forced out, “I forgive you, mister. Mistakes happen, I reckon.”
Evans grabbed Zach’s hand and pumped vigorously. “Thank you, boy! Thank you! Tell you what. To further make amends, you’re entitled to anything in my booth at five percent off. How’d that be?”
Scott Kendall bellowed like a lanced buffalo. “You call that making amends? Damn, man. You just never give up, do you?” Smirking, he dangled the folding knife between a thumb and forefinger. “If you’re in earnest, why not let Zach have this as a token of your repentance?”
“You mean – give it to him?”
“I do.”
“For free!”
Zach did not understand why so many onlookers erupted in mirth, or why Kendall’s expression resembled that of a lynx about to pounce on prey.
“Were you born a skinflint, Evans? Or have you had to work at it over the years?” The brawny trapper flipped the knife straight up into the air, then idly caught
it. “Yes, for free. And if you keep raising a fuss, maybe you should throw in an ax and some blankets.”
“No, no, no. The knife will do.” Evans jumped to his feet, snatched the knife, and shoved it into Zach’s palm. “Take it, boy. We’re even now, hear? There’s no need to go bawlin’ to your pa that I mistreated you, eh? We’ll let bygones be bygones.”
The incident ended. The crowd dispersed. Scott Kendall escorted Zach back to camp and stuck around until Nate and Shakespeare returned. Zach never mentioned the occurrence to his pa, but he later learned Kendall did, and that his father paid the trader a visit late that very night. It was the last year Evans attended the Rendezvous.
As for Zach, the memory of that day burned in his brain ever after, festering like a rank sore. He could not forget how unjust the man had been. Nor how many times Evans had referred to him, in contempt, as a “breed.”
It was a revelation.
Zach got to thinking back. He recollected many instances when white men had treated him with barely concealed dislike. Concealed, no doubt, because they feared the wrath of his father. And other times when whites had called him a breed to his face, but did so wearing false smiles. As if that would lessen the hurt.
Deeply troubled, Zach had gone to Shakespeare McNair. He often found it easier to talk to Shakespeare than to his parents. McNair always listened without criticizing. That night the white-maned mountaineer had explained the “wicked ways of the world,” to use McNair’s own words.
“It’s always the same old story, Zachary. Since the days of Cain and Abel, folks have hated each other for hate’s sake. They hate what they don’t understand. They hate whatever they fear. They hate anyone who is different. There are whites who hate Indians for being Indian, and Indians who hate whites for being white.”
“And they hate breeds, too,” Zach had said.
Sorrow had gripped the old mountain man, and he had tenderly placed a hand on Zach’s shoulder. “Children of mixed heritage suffer the worst of both worlds. Whites despise them because they’re part Indian, and Indians distrust them because they’re part white. I’m afraid you’re in for a rough haul, son. Slings and arrows and the like.”
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