Season of the Warrior (A Wilderness Giant Edition Western Book 2)

by Robbins, David

  Nate was replacing the ramrod when he heard the patter of footsteps, and glancing up he beheld one of the Utes charging toward him with an upraised war club. Nate clutched at the pistol at his feet, but already the warrior had gained the crest of the gully, and as Nate’s fingers closed on the gun, the Ute uttered a piercing whoop and launched himself into the air.

  The brutal impact bowled Nate completely over and sent him tumbling to the bottom of the gully. Disoriented and dazed, he struggled to his hands and knees just in time to see the warrior spring at him. Nate threw himself backwards, the war club just missing his head. His right hand brushed against his tomahawk, and in a heartbeat he had it out and up to deflect another swing of the war club.

  The blow jarred Nate clear down to his shoulder. He rolled to the right, heard the club thud into the soil within inches of his head, and heaved upright to meet the next assault. The warrior wasted no time, leaping and aiming a vicious swipe at his forehead. Only Nate’s finely honed reflexes enabled him to counter the swing.

  Quickly Nate drove his tomahawk at the warrior’s unprotected legs, but the man was cat-like and skipped out of reach. Separated by a mere two yards, they circled, each seeking an opening.

  Nate tried not to think of the last Ute, the bowman, who might be aiming at his back at that very moment. The distraction could prove fatal.

  He must take them one by one and hope the last Ute was still concealed in the trees.

  The Ute with the club grinned, feinted, then lunged, trying to bash in Nate’s head. Nate stepped to the side and retaliated by sinking his tomahawk in the warrior’s thigh.

  A screech born more of rage than pain tore from the Ute’s lips and he staggered rearward, blood pouring down his leg. He glanced down, his features contorted into a mask of sheer hate, and then he closed, delivering a clout that would have caved in the skull of a grizzly.

  But Nate’s head was not there to receive it. He dived to the left, landed on his shoulder, and rolled again, but toward his adversary, not away. The bloody tomahawk glistened in the fading sunlight as it cleaved the air and bit deep into the Ute’s leg, so deep Nate was unable to yank it loose before the unexpected transpired. The warrior sprawled on top of him, and a fraction of a second later Nate felt the man’s fingers gouging into his throat.

  The tomahawk was forgotten as Nate grabbed the Ute’s wrists and tried to pry the man’s hands apart so he could breathe again. Hate-filled eyes blazed into his. The warrior’s warm breath fanned his face. Nate bucked, striving to pitch the Ute off, but the man clung tenaciously to his neck. Nate twisted from side to side but failed to dislodge his foe.

  Nate had the feeling his throat was about to be pried apart like an overripe melon. In desperation he drove his right leg up and in, between the warrior’s out-flung legs. His knee connected, and with a gurgling whine the Ute went momentarily slack.

  Seizing the initiative, Nate arched his spine, hurling the man from him. Surging upright, he reached out and wrenched the tomahawk from the rising warrior’s leg. In a flash he swept the tomahawk on high and brought the keen edge crashing down just as the Ute looked up. Like a log being splintered for firewood, the warrior’s brow split down the middle and his brains and gore gushed out, dribbling over his wide eyes, across his nose, and into his gaping mouth. The only sound he uttered was a feeble groan. Then the Ute fell backwards.

  Still clasping the tomahawk handle, Nate was nearly pulled off his feet. As it was, he stumbled forward and had to fling out his other arm to maintain his balance. Inadvertently, the movement saved his life, for as he stumbled he heard a whizzing overhead and something brushed his hair. Straightening, he saw an arrow embedded in the dirt a few feet from the slain Ute.

  Without bothering to look around, Nate took a step and dived. As he came down another shaft smacked into the soil near his elbow. Flipping onto his back, he clawed at the pistol under his belt and hastily aimed at the bowman, who stood atop the gully and was notching another arrow to his buffalo-sinew bowstring. Before Nate could fire, the Ute disappeared as if swallowed up by the earth itself.

  Free from danger for the moment, Nate headed up the side of the gully to retrieve his other flintlock and the rifle. With both pistols again snug at his waist and the heavy Hawken in his hands, he snaked to the crest for a look-see.

  The two horses were still there, one of them the animal bearing his buck, but the Ute was nowhere to be seen. In the quiet aftermath of the savage conflict, Nate realized his heart was pounding wildly in his chest and his pulse was racing madly. Taking deep breaths, he tried to calm his frayed nerves. Another close call like that would turn his hair gray!

  Looking to the right, up the gully, Nate caught a hint of swift motion out of the corner of his eye. One of the Indian mounts, he thought, until he glanced around and saw that it wasn’t the horse that had moved, but someone behind the horse. Suddenly a Ute bowman stepped from concealment and took aim at Nate.

  When the Ute released his arrow, it streaked straight at Nate’s face.

  Chapter Two

  An hour earlier a well-built man had ridden out of the mountains to the northwest, riding easily in the saddle, his shoulder-length hair, flowing beard, and long mustache all a striking white, the same color as his horse. Lake-blue eyes alertly studied the terrain below as he descended into a lush valley. In common with all his hardy breed, he wore buckskins. A brown beaver hat crowned his head, while crisscrossing his chest were a powder horn, an ammo pouch, and the ubiquitous possibles bag.

  Shakespeare McNair was his name, and among the free and company trappers that name was legend, an honor Shakespeare had earned by living in the Rockies longer than any other white man alive. None knew the mountains better than he did, not even men like Jim Bridger or Joe Meek. Whenever a disagreement arose concerning anything having to do with the wilderness, Shakespeare was the man the trappers consulted for the straight truth.

  Close to the valley floor, Shakespeare reined up and gazed in annoyance at a thick column of smoke spiraling skyward from a large camp located on the bank of a sluggish stream. It was the smoke that had drawn him here, a mile out of his way, and he was not in the least surprised at what he found.

  “Damn greenhorns,” Shakespeare muttered, and spat. “If they want to get themselves killed, it’s no business of mine.” He had lifted the reins to resume his journey when the tinkle of gay feminine laughter fluttered on the wind.

  “A woman!” Shakespeare exclaimed, thunderstruck. “Tarnation!” He paused, then quoted from the man who was his namesake. “How brief the life of man runs his erring pilgrimage!” His knees nudged his horse. “Get along, there, you mangy bundle of bones and hide, and let’s go take a gander at these pilgrims.”

  Down into the valley Shakespeare made his determined way until he stopped across the stream from the bustling camp. He counted ten in the party all told, nine men and a stunning young brunette. “Idiots,” he addressed his horse. “Each year this world gets more filled up with idiots. One of these days they’ll take over and there won’t be a sane person left anywhere.”

  A shout from the camp indicated one of the men had finally noticed the newcomer, and there was a general commotion as men gathered up their arms and dashed to the water’s edge. In the lead ran a dashing man of twenty-five or so attired in what was probably the latest sartorial splendor.

  He held a polished English-made rifle that he threw to his shoulder and pointed at McNair.

  I wouldn’t do that if I was you,” Shakespeare called out, “unless you’re not particularly fond of living.” Across his thighs rested his trusty Hawken, which, by tilting slightly, he had trained on the man with the gun.

  “I say!” the pilgrim declared, lowering his rifle. “You speak the Queen’s English, so you can’t be a bloody savage.” He offered a friendly smile and beckoned. “Come on across, my dear fellow. Never let it be said any white man was refused hospitality by the son of the Duke of Graustark.”

  Against his better
judgment, Shakespeare clucked his horse into the stream and forded to where the group waited. He scanned the faces of the rest of the party and didn’t see a seasoned mountaineer in the bunch. “No wonder,” he said.

  “No wonder what?” the Englishman responded, inspecting McNair minutely.

  “No wonder you dunderheads built your fire so big every Indian within ten miles knows you’re here,” Shakespeare elaborated.

  “The fire?” the pilgrim repeated, glancing quizzically at the offending blaze. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Shakespeare snapped. “Most shallow man! Thou worms-meat, in respect of a good piece of flesh indeed! Learn of the wise, and perpend.”

  Amazement etched the other’s face. “I know that quote. It’s from William Shakespeare’s As You Like It.”

  “There’s some hope for you yet,” Shakespeare said, swinging down. He reached out and patted the bulky roll tied behind his saddle. “I never go anywhere without old William S. He’s been whispering in my ear since before you were born.”

  “Are you claiming to have the body of Shakespeare rolled up in that blanket?” the Englishman asked incredulously.

  “Something better. A book of his complete works.”

  A grin creased the duke’s son from ear to ear. “Oh, that’s jolly good! What a wit! You’d have me believe a frontier ruffian totes the works of the greatest dramatist of all time all over these bloody mountains? How stupid do you think I am?”

  “You really don’t want to know,” Shakespeare said harshly, and stepped up so close to the Englishman their noses were practically touching. “And since you asked, don’t make a habit out of calling me a liar. It’s not good for your health.”

  Clearly flustered, the young man backed up a stride and declared, “Now see here! I don’t know who you think you’re talking to, but I won’t stand being abused by a commoner.”

  “That tears it,” Shakespeare growled. With a flick of his wrists he extended his Hawken until the tip of the barrel touched the Englishman’s chest. “One more insult and you’re worm food.”

  For the span of five seconds no one moved. Then some of the other men turned their weapons on the mountain man, and a bewhiskered giant in an odd cap commented, “Go easy there, mate, or well have your guts for garters.”

  Although Shakespeare didn’t quite understand the unusual expression, he got the general drift and responded with, “The choice is this pilgrim’s. I rode in here to offer some advice, not to look for trouble.”

  None of the men answered him. None of them lowered their rifles or pistols. And it was at that moment, when the air itself seemed to crackle with the mounting tension, that a musical female voice stated, “For the love of God, William. Enough of this childishness! Invite the man to tea and let’s find out what he’s about.”

  Shakespeare gazed past the ring of men and firearms and spotted the brunette and another man, who was dressed in the same fancy manner as the duke’s son, standing apart from the rest. She wore an expression of amused interest, he one of reserved dignity. Slowly Shakespeare let his rifle droop, and the others did likewise. “I’m obliged, ma’am,” he said. “I hate to waste good lead on greenhorns.”

  “Pay no heed to my brother,” she answered. “Poor William couldn’t be civil if his life depended on it.”

  “It does in these parts,” Shakespeare informed her, and without another glance at the fool he shouldered his way through the men to her side. “The handle is Shakespeare McNair, ma’am, and I’m right pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “I’m Diana Templar,” she revealed.

  “Lady Graustark,” interjected the man beside her in a tone that implied the name held some special significance.

  “Who might you be, mister?” Shakespeare asked.

  “Eric Nash, at your service, sir,” Nash said, performing an exaggerated bow that made Diana

  Templar giggle girlishly. He sported a shock of black hair and had eyes the hue of sparkling emeralds.

  “And what might you be? A prince or something?”

  Nash grinned and shook his head. “Sadly, sir, I’m a commoner like yourself, an artist by trade, a vagabond by nature, a lost soul by design.” He encompassed the snow-crowned mountains with a sweep of his arm. “I’ve journeyed to your fair country to capture on canvas raw, elemental Nature and her illustrious denizens.”

  “And folks hereabouts claim I talk funny,” Shakespeare marveled.

  “Because you quote old William S., as you so quaintly call him?” Nash asked, and when the grizzled frontiersman nodded, he sighed. “Eloquence, my friend, is a dying art. Most people, out of a false pride that licks the dust they trod, secretly scoff at anyone who uses words of more than one syllable. My hat is off to you, sir, for having the courage to exercise your intellect.”

  Now it was Shakespeare’s turn to grin. “I do believe I’m taking a liking to you, son. This old coon hasn’t met too many real thinkers in his time, and I’m about convinced that two thirds of the human race have right puny noggins.”

  Both Nash and Lady Graustark laughed uproariously; then the latter looped her dainty arm through Shakespeare’s and nodded at a red and white canopy that fluttered atop four straight poles. “Come into the shade and have some tea. I made it myself.”

  “In that case how can I refuse?” Shakespeare replied, cradling his Hawken in his other elbow.

  His eyes alertly roved over the camp, missing nothing, not the three dozen horses that were as fine a bunch of animals as he’d ever seen, not the many huge piles of varied supplies, enough to outfit an army, nor the dozen large trunks that must contain personal effects. “You folks fixing to settle in these parts?” he casually inquired.

  “Good heavens, no!” Lady Graustark bubbled merrily. “We came to America on holiday, and as a lark decided to take a tour of these grand mountains.”

  “Didn’t anyone tell you these mountains can be a mite dangerous?” Shakespeare inquired as they arrived under the canopy where a small mahogany table and six matching chairs had been set up. He touched one and shook his head in disbelief.

  “Oh, there were some army officers who tried to convince us we were making the biggest mistake of our lives.”

  “They were speaking with straight tongues, Lady Graustark,” Shakespeare admonished.

  “Call me Diana,” she requested.

  “You don’t know what you’re letting yourselves in for,” Shakespeare went on. “These mountains are crawling with hostiles. If the Blackfeet, Piegans, Bloods, or Gros Ventres find out you’re here, there ain’t a one of you who will make it back to the States. And that’s a fact.”

  “Surely they wouldn’t attack a party our size.”

  “Ma’am, there are thousands of them and only ten of you. How do you expect to hold them off if they decide they want to add some scalps to their collections?”

  “We have guns.”

  “And so do they. Not many, mind you. Fusees, they’re called, cheap trade guns the Indians get in exchange for beaver pelts and such. Half the time they burst or misfire, so most of the warriors don’t much care for them. They’d rather use their bows. And you should know, ma’am, that in the time it takes a white man to load and fire his rifle an Indian can get off twenty arrows. From a hundred yards out they could hit one of your pretty buttons without half trying.”

  “I had no idea,” Diana said, her pale brow furrowed.

  Shakespeare had opened his mouth to elaborate on the intricacies of Indian warfare when William Templar stormed onto the scene, moving between Shakespeare and the woman.

  “That will be quite enough! I heard what you’ve been saying, and I resent you trying to scare my sister with your outlandish exaggerations.”

  No one there saw the mountain man’s arm move. One moment he was standing quietly in front of the irate nobleman. The next moment William Templar lay on the ground, dazed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

  “I war
ned you once,” Shakespeare said.

  The duke’s son sat up slowly, rubbing his chin. A finger touched the blood and he looked at the red drop, aghast. Primal fury transformed his finely chiseled features into an ugly mask. He put his hands down to shove to his feet, exploding with, “You insufferable cretin! I’ll” But he got no further. His body had risen mere inches when the razor tip of a large butcher knife pressed lightly against his throat, freezing him in place.

  “You don’t learn very fast, do you?” Shakespeare said Softly. “This isn’t England, you uppity son of a bitch. You’re in the wilderness now. The nearest civilization is five hundred miles east of here. In these mountains men make their own laws. You can’t go around insulting folks without paying the price.” He moved his hand, lightly running the blade over Graustark’s trembling throat without breaking the skin, and quoted, “How long will a man lie in the earth ere he rot?”

  Eric Nash took a step toward them. “For love of God, forbear him,” he declared.

  Shakespeare glanced up in mild surprise. “So you also know old William S.” Lips pursed, he straightened. “All right. For the lady’s sake I won’t spoil her tea party. But if this pup doesn’t mind his manners, I won’t be responsible for the outcome.” The knife went into its sheath and he took a beat, careful to lean the Hawken against his leg so it would be handy.

  Diana Templar, Lady Graustark, gazed in bewilderment at the buckskin-clad apparition who had twice in as many minutes threatened the life of her brother. By all rights she should be outraged and indignantly insist McNair leave, but she could not bring herself to utter the words. She liked this brash, untamed hooligan, with his bronzed, weathered visage, greasy hair, and smelly buckskins, and she flattered herself that she saw through his gruff exterior into a heart of solid gold.

  Her brother, William, didn’t share her sentiments. As Nash assisted him to his feet, William averted his face from McNair so the mountain man wouldn’t detect the smoldering resentment he harbored. Twice now the ignorant savage had upbraided William in front of others, and the humiliation was almost more than William could bear. Had they been in England, William would have had the scoundrel locked in leg irons and tossed into jail.