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

by Robbins, David

  What a difference genuine freedom made in a man’s life! Nate reflected. He owed no one, was beholden to no one. All the decisions that affected his life were made by him and him alone. He had total responsibility for his existence, and instead of quaking with fear at being thrown on his own resources, he was daily exhilarated by wrestling with the realities of life. Struggling and hardship brought out the best in people, made them better than they had been. Total dependence on others, on the other hand, brought out the very worst in human nature and made people slaves to their baser instincts. Or so he firmly believed after giving the matter considerable thought.

  Nate patted the stallion and strolled back toward the cabin door. Somewhere far across the valley an elk bugled, which was unusual at that time of year since normally a person only heard a bull elk in the fall, during rutting season. He saw several sparrows frolicking in a nearby tree, and smiled.

  Back in New York City he would have been breathing air filled with soot from burning coal and wood. He would have had to contend with garbage in the gutter, refuse in the alleys, and the reek of human waste. Crossing a street was a hazardous undertaking due to the volume of carriage traffic. And the only “wildlife” to speak of were hoards of stray dogs and cats that only added to the general stench.

  And now look! The air was sparkling fresh. The only scents were those of pine and musty earth, and occasionally a hint of mint from the patch Winona had planted by the cabin. There was no one trying to run him down, and nary a dog or cat in sight. Just the wolf.

  Nate stopped and watched as the cub, sporting a bright patch of white on its chest, trotted out of the brush and up to his legs. “Good morning, Blaze,” he addressed Zach’s pet. “You were out all night again and Zach was worried.” Squatting, he scratched under the wolf’s tapered chin, and was licked on the face in return. “Just what I need to start the day. A bath of wolf slobber.”

  “We could go for a swim so you can wash the slobber off.”

  Nate glanced around. Winona, bundled in a heavy buffalo robe, was framed in the doorway, her disheveled hair adding to her incomparable beauty. “Forget the swim. Let’s go off in the woods and fool around.”

  Her smile was devastating. “We fooled around plenty last night, as I recall. And me as big as a basket!”

  “Don’t blame me,” Nate said, rising. “I was lying there minding my own business until these hands started roaming all over me. What was I supposed to do? Bite my tongue and whimper a lot?”

  Winona, laughing, walked into his arms and they embraced, their lips locked. Eventually she pushed him back and said in mock anger, “Keep doing this every day and we will wind up with fifteen children!”

  “What’s wrong with that? When they get old enough they can do all the work around here while you and I take it easy.”

  She clasped his hand and headed for the lake, the robe slipping down to reveal her shapely shoulders. “You tossed and turned a lot last night. Is something bothering you?”

  “No,” Nate said. But after going a few more yards, he confessed, “Well, maybe. I have this nagging feeling that Shakespeare might be in trouble, although I know darn well there isn’t a problem he can’t handle. He hasn’t gotten all that white hair by being careless.”

  “Perhaps he will arrive today and put your fears at rest.”

  “I hope so.” Nate stared northward. “I sure as blazes hope so.”

  Shakespeare McNair had not slept a wink. He hadn’t tried to. As he’d told Diana and the rest, he doubted very much the Piegans would attack before dawn, but since he couldn’t be one hundred percent certain of that, and since he was certain that when the Piegans closed in they would be able to sneak right up to the perimeter without the greenhorns being the wiser, he deemed it prudent to stay awake and alert.

  First light was not far off. Already a faint rosy streak rimmed the eastern skyline. Shakespeare halted beside a pile of provisions and gazed at the hill screening the Piegan camp from view. He thought he might detect some evidence of their coming, but all was peaceful. Close at hand a guard dozed. Across the camp two men were whispering and casting bitter glances at the slumbering marquis.

  From the snatches of conversation Shakespeare had overheard during the long night, he gathered that most of the men despised William Templar.

  They stayed in the marquis’s service out of devotion to his sterling sister, not to him. Some of them, apparently, had worked for the family for many years under the duke himself. One was their butler and back in England, another was William’s valet, and another some other sort of manservant. They were good men, and they’d been through severe trials during their many travels with the Templars, but they were hardly competent enough to fend off seasoned warriors despite William’s boasts to the contrary.

  Shakespeare hadn’t said anything to any of them, but he was sorely perplexed by their willingness to be a servant to any man or woman. Servitude smacked of slavery, and Shakespeare never had been partial to that institution. Back in the States a sharp division had arisen between States in favor of the practice and those against it. Some, like Pennsylvania and New York, had banned the slave trade. The years ahead promised to be rife with discord over the issue.

  “Morning, mate.”

  So unexpected was the greeting that Shakespeare nearly jumped. He hadn’t heard anyone approach, which was quite extraordinary given his acute senses. Spinning, he looked into the twinkling eyes of the giant. “Make that a habit and you’re liable to get your head blowed clean off.”

  Jarvis chortled and rested the stock of his rifle on the ground. “Sorry, guv. A soldier’s training is hard to break.” He leaned on his gun and surveyed the scenery. “Right pretty country you’ve got here, Mr. McNair. I haven’t seen the like since Tibet.”

  “I hear tell they’ve got a few sizeable mountains there,” Shakespeare allowed.

  “A few,” Jarvis said, grinning. “One, they claim, is the highest in the world. The natives call it Chomolungma.” Raising a huge finger, he scratched his right whisker. “I got to climb it partway. Took a shot at a snow leopard and missed. Pity too. It would have looked fine mounted over my fireplace.”

  “You like traveling around the world with the Templars, do you?”

  “Yes, sir, I truly do. Started when I was in the Dragoon Guards, and I’ve never regretted my urge to roam,” Jarvis said wistfully. “I’ve seen the Himalayas and the Alps. I’ve watched the sun rise over the Ganges and set on the Tiber. I’ve eaten yak and hippopotamus, which isn’t hard to swallow if you hold your nose.” He glanced at the mountain man. “You must be able to understand.”

  “Better than you think,” Shakespeare said. “Do you ever get the itch to settle down?”

  “Not yet, but a body never knows. Maybe one day I’ll meet a bit of goods who will get her claws into me and never let go. Until then, I want to enjoy what life has to offer.”

  “Let’s hope the Piegans don’t end your traveling days,” Shakespeare remarked, scanning the valley. The eastern sky was now aglow, the stars fading.

  “Are they really the devils you make them out to be?”

  “When their dander is up there’s no stopping them this side of the grave.”

  Jarvis stared at the tent containing Diana

  Templar. I would hate to see anything happen to her. She’s such a sweet little thing. There isn’t a nasty bone in her body.” Shifting, he scowled at William. “Which is more than can be said of her brother.”

  “And Mr. Nash?” Shakespeare inquired.

  “He’s a mystery, mate. A nit could tell he’s sweet on Lady Templar, but I don’t think she’s quite as sweet on him. She is his patron, though, which gives him an excuse to stay close to her.”

  “His patron?”

  “You do know he’s a painter? Well, most painters and poets and sculptors and the like are so busy creating their art, as they call it, that they’d forget to eat if they didn’t have a patron to pay their bills and keep food on the table.”


  “She gives him the money to live on?”

  “Enough for him to make ends meet. Thousands and thousands of pounds each year. But don’t mistake her purpose. Most of the money she spends to buy his paintings, and although I’m not much on culture, I will admit his works are inspiring. Very true to life. One day he might even be famous.”

  “Interesting,” was Shakespeare’s comment.

  To the west a jay shrieked, the first bird to hail the new day.

  At the sound the giant stiffened and raised his rifle. “Was that the real thing, Mr. McNair?”

  “Call me Shakespeare. Yes, it was.”

  Jarvis nodded. “I’ve heard that these Indians use bird and animal cries to signal back and forth.”

  “That they do. And it takes years before a man can tell the difference.” Shakespeare heard a loud yawn. Turning, he saw the marquis sitting up in his blankets, which had been positioned directly in front of Diana’s tent. Beside William, Eric stirred.

  “I’d best see to the men before his lordship gets up,” Jarvis said. “If they’re not all at their posts he’ll have a bloody fit.” He hurried away.

  The timing was perfect. Shakespeare had been about to make that very suggestion since a golden halo framed the horizon, portending the imminent rising of the sun. He moved along the west side of the barricade, scouring the tall grass and the nearest slopes. Either he was slipping in his old age or the Piegans were in no great rush to attack.

  Soon Jarvis had every man up and ready to meet the onslaught. The marquis insisted on having a silver basin set up in front of a mirror so he could wash and shave. Eric Nash tarried around the tent until Diana emerged, looking absolutely resplendent in a stunning blue dress adorned with frilly lace at the throat and at the ends of both sleeves.

  Fully ten minutes after the sun rose, as Shakespeare stood pondering the situation, the three came toward him.

  “So where are the heathens?” William demanded while still yards off. Gesturing angrily at the mountains, he declared, “Obviously, you got us all worked up for no reason! Because of you I had terrible nightmares all night long.”

  “How did you sleep?” Shakespeare asked Lady Templar.

  “Well enough under the circumstances,” Diana answered. “I woke up several times and looked out, and each time I saw you walking the perimeter. You must be quite fatigued.”

  “I’ll get by.”

  “Really, sis,” William said. “If I didn’t know better I’d swear you care more about his welfare than mine.” He jabbed a the finger at the trunks, supplies, and brush comprising the barricade. “Since this whole affair has been a false alarm, I say we pack up and head north to Canada as we originally planned. These savages are really timid at heart, and this delay has been unnecessary.”

  “Don’t you ever get tired of being wrong?” Shakespeare asked.

  “Your impertinence, sir, is resented.”

  “Tell that to them,” Shakespeare said, and pointed at the crown of the hill where over a dozen warriors were silhouetted against the sky, the tips of their lances glittering in the growing light of the rising sun. The Piegans had materialized moments ago. Strangely, they were making no move to come any closer.

  “My word!” the marquis exclaimed. “They certainly are wicked-looking blighters!” He faced McNair. “I owe you an apology, sir. My outburst was uncalled for. Please forgive me.”

  A grunt constituted Shakespeare’s assent. He was too preoccupied by the Piegans to pay much attention to Templar, although in the back of his mind he did wonder why William was being so charitable with his apologies all of a sudden.

  “Is it normal for them to stand and stare like they’re doing?” Eric Nash asked.

  “No,” Shakespeare said. “Frankly, I don’t know what to make of it.”

  “Perhaps they have decided to leave us alone,” Diana suggested.

  “Hardly. They’re bloodthirsty as sin where whites are concerned. If they’re not attacking, they have a damn good reason.”

  “What could it be?” Diana wondered.

  “I’ll be dogged if I know. But it’s a cinch we’re not going anywhere until they show their cards. Keep everyone inside the barricade and have them eat at their posts. When the attack does come, we might not have much warning.”

  “We could charge them,” William proposed. “I can take half the men and drive the savages off without working up much of a sweat.”

  Shakespeare shook his head. “You go charging through that high grass and none of your men will reach the hill alive. There are more warriors hidden out there just waiting for us to pull a stupid stunt so they can pick us off one by one.”

  “So it’s a stalemate, then,” William said. “So be it. In the meantime, I’m famished. I’ll have our man cook an extra portion for you, McNair.”

  The mountain man paid no heed. He focused on adjacent hills and mountains, seeking anything that might explain the behavior of the Piegans. “A gloomy peace this morning with it brings,” he quoted distractedly. “All we can do is wait them out.”

  An uneventful hour went by. Breakfast for the men was distributed by Jarvis, while the marquis, his sister, and Nash sat at a table near the tent and partook of a fare seldom seen in the Rockies: kidney pie left over from the night before, biscuits, sweets, and tea.

  Shakespeare was invited to sit at the table with them, but politely declined. He stayed at the barricade, munching on the cold kidney pie, the taste of which he found he liked even though it couldn’t hold a candle to roast venison or panther meat. The Piegans, the whole time, stayed in plain sight on the hill. Some were seated with their backs to trees or boulders, others standing. Now and again one or another would glance off toward the northwest, and it was this that caused a sinking feeling in Shakespeare’s gut. He had a hunch why the war party was lounging about and he prayed he was wrong.

  By mid-morning the men were much more relaxed, convinced their show of strength had given the Piegans second thoughts. This attitude was fostered by the marquis, who made the rounds and boasted that “the overrated heathens are scared to death of us.” Some took to shouting challenges at the Indians, daring the Piegans to prove their mettle.

  Toward noon, as Shakespeare leaned on a trunk in the company of Diana, Eric, and Jarvis, the Piegans all stood, vented hearty whoops, and shook their weapons overhead. Shakespeare quickly spotted the cause of their jubilation marching in single file into the west end of the valley.

  “More of them!” Eric exclaimed.

  “Yep,” Shakespeare said grimly. “This is what they’ve been waiting for. The ones who have kept us pinned down here were part of a much larger war party, and last night they sent a runner to bring the rest here.”

  No one said anything else as the new arrivals spread out across the valley floor and were joined by those from the hill. Soon their purpose became apparent; they were forming a ring around the whites.

  “I count thirty-five of them,” Eric said.

  “And there are more in the grass yet,” Shakespeare mentioned. Catching Jarvis’s eye, he advised, “Have your men check their pieces. Instruct them not to fire until the braves are so close they can’t miss. And if any of the Piegans get inside the barricade, have them use their knives instead of their guns. A wild shot could hit one of us.”

  “Sound advice, mate,” the giant replied as he left.

  A pall of deathly silence hung over the valley. Two thirds of the enveloping ring had been completed when Lady Templar excused herself to go to her tent, and no sooner was she gone than Eric Nash touched the mountain man’s shoulder.

  “Should I save a ball for Diana?” he whispered.

  “We won’t let them get her.”

  “But you can’t guarantee they won’t. And there are horrid tales of what they do to white women.” Eric bit his lower lip and looked askance at the rifle in his hands. “I should tell you, McNair, I’m not much of a fighter. My experience with fire-arms is severely limited, and I doubt I
hit what I aim at one time out of ten.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll do better today.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because you’ll be fighting for your life. It’s one thing to set up a target and try to hit the mark when you don’t much care if you do or not, and it’s another to take aim at a man you know is going to bury a tomahawk in your brain if you don’t bring him down. Necessity makes mediocre marksmen better than they ever figured they could be.”

  “I regret our association has been so fleeting, Shakespeare. I find your frontier insights quite appealing.”

  “We’ll palaver again after we teach these Piegans a lesson in humility.”

  “Your optimism, sir, is outrageous.”

  Further conversation was forgotten as the circle of Piegans voiced a collective series of war whoops while waving their weapons, and then to a man they swarmed toward the barricade.

  Chapter Six

  Shakespeare McNair had been in more fights with Indians than most men alive, and he had the scars to prove it. He’d been stabbed with a knife, struck by a tomahawk, pierced by a lance, and transfixed by arrows. He’d been jumped from ambush numerous times, caught in raids on villages in which he happened to be staying, and gone on raids himself with friendly warriors. Few whites knew as much about the varied aspects of Indian warfare.

  So when Shakespeare saw the Piegans brazenly surrounding the camp he knew the war party was confident of victory and would never retreat once the attack began. Indians much preferred to have the element of surprise in their favor in any conflict. They’d rather strike from concealment, sneaking up on their enemies and pouncing when their foes were distracted. That the Piegans disdained doing so indicated they held the whites in utter contempt.

  As the warriors raced forward through the waving grass, Shakespeare was the first to fire. Given his proven marksmanship he didn’t have to fear wasting the lead, and true to form, his initial shot dropped a Piegan forty yards out.