Wilderness Double Edition 13

by David Robbins

  Mabel Coyfield introduced herself, adding as she inspected Felicity from head to toe, “Well, ain’t you a dainty bundle of vinegar and vim. We wouldn’t want to inconvenience you none. That husband of yours was lookin’ right poorly.”

  “Pay no attention to him. He’s a man.”

  Mabel’s whole belly shook with hearty guffaws. “I can see I’m going to like you, little sister. We see eye to eye where menfolk are concerned. Odd critters, ain’t they? Makes you think they was all in the outhouse when the Almighty handed out common sense.”

  Favorably impressed by the woman’s kind bearing and humor, Felicity said, “Tell you what, Mrs. Coyfield. We have more than enough to feed your whole family – if you’re hungry, that is. Care to lend a hand?”

  “Land sakes, dearie. We’re famished. And you plumb took the words right out of my mouth. I just told your husband we’d be happy to do what we can.” Mabel glanced at the bearded man who had given a start. “Hear her, Cole? Ain’t she a peach? Can’t I pick ’em?”

  “How’s that?” Felicity asked.

  Mabel gestured. “Oh, he’s of the opinion Yankees never amount to much. But I told him that folks is folks no matter what part of the country they’re from. You can’t help being born in the wrong part, so we can’t hold it against you.”

  “I should hope not,” Felicity bantered. “Now, come. We’ll talk about how terrible men are while we fix their food.”

  “Maybe we should add some poison,” Mabel said, then playfully jabbed an elbow into Felicity’s side. “A few less menfolk won’t be missed, eh?”

  “Well, I’d never go that far.”

  Simon had overheard everything. Helpless to object, he stood back as his wife and her new friends strolled inside, leaving him alone with the men. Jacob had a bulge in his left cheek the size of a walnut, dark spittle dribbling over his chin. Samuel Coyfield had leaned on a rail and was examining the cabin. He had a hawkish face etched by deep lines. His two sons and Jacob’s two boys mimicked statues, as if waiting to be told what to do.

  “So,” Simon said to start some conversation. “What do you fellows plan to do when you get to Oregon? Farm?”

  Jacob’s brows puckered. “Oregon? Oh, we figure to cross that bridge when we get to it. A man has to adapt to whatever comes along.”

  Without being obvious, Simon scrutinized the sons, seeking to identify which one it had been. It stretched coincidence to the breaking point to believe they just happened to show up the day after the incident.

  “Cole,” Jacob Coyfield unexpectedly said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re try in’ to figure out which of these lunkheads was nosin’ around your place, ain’t you? It was my oldest. Cole. We had made camp yonder” – Jacob wagged a hand at the woodland – “and I sent him to rustle up some grub. He seen your missus and followed her a spell. Not to hurt her, you understand. He’s always been shy, and he was afeared to show himself. Then you showed up.”

  “Why did he run away like that?”

  “He reckoned you might shoot him. Back where we come from, lookin’ at another man’s woman can get you kilt quicker than a bite from a rattler. So he cut out.”

  Simon looked at Cole, who was half a foot taller than he was and outweighed him by a good fifty pounds. He found it hard to imagine someone so big being so shy. “No harm done. I’m just glad I didn’t shoot him.”

  Jacob spat tobacco juice at a rail and hit it dead center. “Kilt many men have you, Mr. Ward?”

  “Call me Simon. A few, yes. A while back slavers tried to steal my wife. I had to kill some of them to save her.”

  “You don’t say?” Jacob winked at the younger Coyfields. “Hear that, boys? Even Yankees can be dangerous. You remember that. Even a rabbit will turn on you when it’s cornered.”

  For the life of him, Simon Ward did not understand why the four men burst out laughing.

  Four

  Nate King’s morning was a busy one.

  He was up well before first light. His beautiful Shoshone wife, Winona, was curled on her side, raven tresses framing her lovely face. Nate pecked her lightly on the cheek before sliding from bed, then dressed in his buckskins, armed himself, and quietly snuck to the door so as not to awaken her or anyone else.

  Evelyn and Zach were in their respective corners. Precious little Evelyn was an angel in repose. Zach snored lightly.

  Louisa May Clark slept near the table, bundled in quilts and blankets, only her nose poking out.

  There was just the one bed. The cabin was not spacious enough to accommodate more. Evelyn and Zach had been sleeping on the floor since they were toddlers. Sleeping comfortably, too, thanks to thick quilts Winona crafted, quilts as soft and warm as down-filled mattresses.

  The door creaked as it was opened and closed. At that altitude the morning air was chill enough for Nate to see his breath. The stallion was not keen on being roused so early, and Nate had to pull it from the corral. Once it was saddled and mounted, he rode eastward to the lake. The ducks and geese that called it home were out in the middle, floating quietly. Eight or nine deer were drinking close to heavy cover; they ran off when Nate appeared. He circled around to the far side, then climbed a narrow trail that led to the main pass into the valley. He dismounted, tied the stallion, and climbed higher. A winding track brought him to a rocky escarpment affording a magnificent vista of not only the valley but all the surrounding mountains, including mighty Longs Peak. Between his valley and Longs Peak lay another valley, claimed by his good friends the Wards.

  Seated on a flat slab, Nate scoured his domain for signs of smoke or a telltale pinpoint of light. His instincts told him that whoever had shot at him was still in the area. The two strangers were a threat to his family, and he was determined to eliminate that threat as soon as possible.

  Nate was a peaceable man by nature. He had no special fondness for killing, but he would kill without hesitation or qualms when his loved ones were endangered. Bitter experience had taught him the folly of offering the hand of friendship to those who would chop it off.

  He sat on the slab until a golden sun pushed above the eastern horizon. With the advent of a new day the forest below resounded to the warbling of countless birds. Creatures that had hidden in their burrows and dens to elude the legion of nighttime predators now came boldly into the light to enjoy their appointed time on earth. Squirrels, chipmunks, marmots, deer, and more appeared in staggering numbers.

  Nate returned to the pass to check for hoofprints. He found no evidence the pair had been through it. Another trail led into the valley from the north, but the only one who knew that trail existed was Shakespeare McNair, the man he thought of more as a father than a friend. The odds were slim that anyone else had discovered the route.

  Nate suspected the pair had come in through a small pass to the southwest. If so, that did not bode well for the Wards. To reach it, the two men had to pass through the valley Simon and Felicity had laid claim to.

  Deeply troubled, Nate trotted to the lake. A thorough search of the shore failed to turn up tracks other than those belonging to his own stock. He was about to go into the pines when he heard the drum of hoofs and down the trail from the cabin came his son.

  Zach King was peeved his father had not seen fit to ask him to tag along. He wasn’t a boy anymore. He could take care of himself, as the coup he had counted proved. So when he caught up to the black stallion, the first thing he said was, “Let me guess. You didn’t want me slowing you down? Or you were afraid I’d get myself killed if we met up with those vermin who shot at you?”

  Nate had to remind himself that at Zach’s age he had been just as hot-tempered. “Good morning to you, too, son.”

  Zach frowned. His pa had a way of putting him in his place that grated on his nerves. “Morning. But don’t change the subject. I’m a warrior now, Pa. I’d like it if you treated me as one.”

  “Why do you think I left you at the cabin?” Nate responded. “I was co
unting on you to watch out for your ma and the girls.”

  “Oh,” Zach felt foolish. “Sorry. I should have known better.”

  “Now that you’re here, you might as well come with me. Two sets of eyes are better than one.”

  Nate threaded in among the trees, making for a belt of grass that fringed the valley’s southern edge. Sometimes, he mused, his son was so like him it was uncanny. Watching Zach grow up was like watching himself grow up all over again. Only, there were crucial differences. Differences that had molded Zach’s character in unforeseen ways. Differences that gave Nate cause for concern.

  New York City and the Rockies were literally worlds apart, as alien from each other as the earth from the moon. Nate’s childhood had been spent in the biggest city in North America; Zach’s had been spent in one of the most remote and wild areas on the continent. Nate’s days had consisted of going to school to learn his ABCs; at the same age, Zach had been learning how to track and hunt, and when need be, how to kill. Nate had spent his free time with childhood friends, playing typical kid games; Zach was only among boys his own age in the summer when the family stayed with the Shoshones, and the games the boys played always had to do with honing skills that would serve them well as warriors.

  Where Nate learned the Ten Commandments and the Golden Rule, Zach learned to distrust whites and to look on most other Indian tribes as his mortal enemies. Where Nate had never slain another human as a child, never even thought of doing so until he was a grown man, Zach had made his first kill while still a small boy and now accepted killing as part and parcel of everyday life. Where Nate’s childhood had been civilized and tame, Zach’s had been swamped in savagery.

  Most troubling of all was Zach’s hatred of whites. Given the bigotry the boy had suffered, Nate could understand why. But the knowledge did not make the hatred any easier to bear.

  Then along came Louisa May Clark. It was said that the surest cure for hate was love, and Nate witnessed the miracle firsthand. Impossibly, his son was smitten, and almost immediately Zach changed. The hatred that had ruled Zach’s life these past few years dwindled, melting like butter under a hot sun. His son smiled more, laughed more, enjoyed life more. Nate owed the girl a debt he could never repay.

  “She’s not a girl, Pa.”

  “What?” Nate looked up, thinking his son had somehow read his mind.

  “A minute ago you called Lou a girl. She’s not. She’s a woman.’

  “Well, she is only sixteen ...”

  “So? What does that have to do with anything? We both know Shoshone women her age who have husbands and sprouts. Lou is old enough to marry if she wants. If someone were interested, that is.”

  Nate had an inkling where the conversation would lead. He prudently stayed silent.

  “Take me, for example. I care for her, Pa. I care for her a lot. I’ve never met anyone like her, and I can’t stand to think that you might make her go back to St. Louis to be with her kin.” Zach had been working up to this for days. He’d thought it would be hard to bare his soul, and he’d been right. His parents always encouraged him to come to them when he was troubled, but there were certain things a person would rather keep to himself.

  “I just want to do what’s best for her,” Nate said. “Unless you expect her to live with us the rest of her life.”

  “No. I want her to live with me.”

  Nate drew rein. “Do you realize what you’re saying?”

  Zach squared his shoulders. “Yes, I reckon I do, Pa. I’m telling you that I love her. I’m telling you that I want to marry her. I want to do like you’ve done with Ma. Have a place of our own where we can raise a family.” Now that Zach had started to unburden himself, he was afraid to stop for fear he wouldn’t get it all out. “The Wards have that valley to the south, but what about the next one down? It’s got water and some grass for forage. You could help me build a cabin. We’d have it done by winter if Simon helps, and Scott Kendall if he gets back. By next spring you could even be a grandpa. What do you say?”

  To say Nate was dumbfounded would be the understatement of the century.

  Zach took his father’s silence as a sign of disapproval. “I know what you’re thinking. That Lou and I are too young. That maybe I don’t really love her. Maybe I only think I do. But you’re wrong, Pa. I love her with all my heart. So what if we’ve only known each other a short while? How long did you know Ma before you knew you were in love with her?”

  Nate recollected the details of his own courtship, such as it was. As he recalled, they had been thrown together more by circumstance than mutual design.

  “Say something, will you?” Zach fidgeted, regretting he had let it slip, thinking it might have been best to wait awhile and to do so with his mother present. He could usually count on her for moral support. His father was always stricter, always sterner. “Are you mad? Upset? Shocked?”

  “No, son. Your mother and I have seen this coming.”

  “You have?”

  Nate chuckled. Children, even at Zach’s age, thought they could pull the wool over their parents’ eyes. They never saw how transparent they were. For example, as a boy Zach liked to sneak sweetcakes from the pantry. Nate and Winona always caught on, which never ceased to astonish him. Zach figured they were spying on him. But it was the crumbs in his clothes and bedding that gave him away.

  “So what do you say, Pa? Will you help build a cabin?”

  “Not so fast,” Nate answered. “This is hardly the time or place to chaw it over. Let’s wait until your mother and Lou can take part.”

  Zach stiffened. He hadn’t said anything to Lou yet. He preferred to have everything arranged, then ask her to be his wife. “I’d be obliged if we could keep this between us. For the time being.”

  “If that’s what you want.” Nate resumed the search for sign. “We’ll talk about it more when we get back.” It would give him time to ponder, to come up with a thousand and one reasons why Zach and Lou should put it off, why the two of them shouldn’t get hitched at their tender ages. Not that they would listen. They had an even better reason why they should get married. They were in love.

  Besides that, Nate reflected, Zach wasn’t much younger than Simon and Felicity Ward, and look at how well they were doing.

  Mabel Coyfield pushed back her plate. “I declare, missy. You make the best-tastin’ flapjacks I ever did eat. I’m plumb full.”

  Felicity Ward wiped a hand across her sweaty brow, then blew a puff of air at a stray wisp of hair hanging clear down to her chin. For the past two hours she had slaved at the stove making enough food to feed their guests. The Coyfields were bottomless pits. Mabel alone ate five helpings. Jacob outdid her by two. Practically all the flour Felicity had was gone, along with most of her prized maple syrup, which she had hoarded for special occasions.

  Mabel glanced at her oldest son, Cole. “Ain’t she a fine cook, boy? She’d make any man happy, wouldn’t she?”

  Felicity had lost track of the number of times the mother had made similar comments, always to Cole. She did not know what to make of it, but she did know she didn’t like it. “Anyone else still hungry? Speak right up.”

  No one was. Mabel, Jacob, and Samuel were at the table. Cindy Lou had claimed the rocking chair. The rest were sprawled at various spots on the floor, Mary Beth seated cross-legged like a boy. She had found a silver of wood and was picking at her teeth.

  Simon Ward would be glad to see the clan go. They were nice enough in their crude way, but he didn’t care for the insolent looks the sons gave him or how Cindy Lou winked at him every so often. As for the parents, Samuel hardly said ten words the whole meal. Jacob was the talker of the family, and he had gone on and on about their travels west, about the “critters” they had seen and the Indians they had clashed with.

  “I reckon that last bunch was Pawnees,” the patriarch was now saying, between belches. “They tried to steal our mules, but we was too smart for ’em. We have this trick we learned back in the hills,
in Georgia—”

  “I thought you said you were from Arkansas?” Simon interrupted.

  “Georgia was before Arkansas,” Jacob said gruffly, then patted his bulging stomach and belched again. “Anyhow, we have this trick, see. We dig a shallow hole and one of us lies in it all night to watch the string. Covered with grass and weeds so no one can spot us. Works every time.”

  Samuel Coyfield smiled. “Got me two scalps that night.”

  “What?” Simon said. “You took their hair?”

  Jacob had lifted his coffee cup and was staring into it as if the gallon he had already downed were not enough. “They’d’ve taken ours, friend. Ma’s and the girls’ and everybody’s. Turnabout is fair play, eh? So we took theirs instead.”

  “I like that squaw’s hair,” Cindy Lou remarked.

  The contents of Simon’s stomach churned. “There was a woman with them? You scalped her too?”

  Jacob shook his great moon of a head. “No, no. The squaw was another time. When we come on this small village. Not more than five or six tepees, there was. The menfolk were gone, off huntin’ buffalo, I expect. So we did to ’em as they’d’ve done to any whites they found. We kilt all the women and children.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Hell, man. Lice breed more lice, don’t they? What are you, an Injun lover? If’n you’d seen what those red devils do to white folks, you wouldn’t be so pussy-kitten. I had me an uncle who was gutted like a fish by the Cherokees. And a neighbor of our’n was tied to a tree and used as a target for Seminole pigstickers. Turned ol’ Walt into a pincushion, they did.”

  Simon resented the man more by the minute. “Not all Indians are vicious. If you run into any Shoshones, treat them decently. They’ve never harmed a white man. They like being our friends.”

  Sam Coyfield’s hawkish features curved downward. “Injuns are Injuns, mister. The only good ones are maggot bait.”