“Quite a hideaway you have here,” Kendall said, embracing the verdant park with a sweep of his brawny hand. “Your own personal Garden of Eden.” He stared at the waterfowl, and sighed. “I wouldn’t mind finding a little valley of my own like this somewhere. But I can’t bring myself to put my wife and daughter at risk. That’s why we’ve lived at the fort for so many years.”
Nate sympathized. Planting roots there in the middle of nowhere had been one of the hardest decisions he’d ever made.
“I hear tell the Utes give you grief from time to time,” the other mountain man mentioned.
“They used to,” Nate said. The valley was located very close to territory the Utes claimed as their homeland, and for years after Nate settled there, the tribe had done all in their power to drive him off.
Several winters earlier, however, a dispute had broken out between the Utes and Nate’s adopted people, the Shoshones, over a site both tribes regarded as sacred. Nate had wound up arranging a truce, and ever since, the Utes had left his family alone.
“What about the Blackfoot Confederacy?” Kendall asked. “Do they ever bother you?”
Nate shook his head. “They never come this far south.” Which was a good thing. The Blackfeet were the most powerful tribe on the northern plains, and they hated whites. Together with the Bloods and the Piegans, they had formed a formidable alliance.
“Did you hear what they did to Art Bishop?”
“No. What?”
Young Zachary perked up. He loved to hear the latest news. Unfortunately, visitors to the homestead were few and far between, so his passion for gossip went largely unindulged.
Kendall frowned. “Bishop and two others weren’t having much luck up Yellowstone way, so they sneaked on north into Blackfoot territory. Probably figured they could get in and out without being noticed if they stuck to the deep woods.”
“What happened?” Nate knew Bishop fairly well and was surprised the man had been so foolhardy. But then, beaver were becoming scarce along the front range. Each season trappers had to foray farther and farther afield to find prime peltries.
“What else? A hunting party stumbled on them. Bishop and the others were scared hell west and cooked, but they didn’t get far. The Blackfeet trapped them in a box canyon, then sent runners to a village. Before long a war party of two hundred had them hemmed in.”
It was a story Nate had heard many times with only minor variation. Mountaineers who bucked the Blackfeet invariably bit off more than they could chew.
Zach listened in breathless anticipation. He had been a captive of the Blackfeet once for a short while and had grown to respect them, in spite of himself. How could he do otherwise when they had treated him so decently? A prominent warrior had even wanted to adopt him.
Kendall went on. “Bishop and his friends held out for as long as their ammunition lasted. They saved three balls for themselves. But before they could do the deed, a bunch of Blackfeet sneaked up on them.”
Nate glanced at his son, debating whether the boy should hear the rest. Blackfeet were fond of torturing captives—not out of any mean streak, but as a test of courage. Figuring that Zach shouldn’t be sheltered from life’s grimmer realities, he kept quiet.
“One of Bishop’s friends had to run a gauntlet and was hacked to bits. The other was stripped, tied to a tree, and skinned alive. His eyeballs were gouged out, then forced down his throat.” Kendall happened to look down at his side and gave a little start on seeing Zach. Coughing as if embarrassed, he said, “There was more, but you get the idea.”
“How did you hear all this?”
“From Bishop. He showed up at Bent’s Fort shortly before I left, on his way back to Ohio. He says that he’s had enough of the wilderness to last him a lifetime.”
Zach waited to hear how Bishop had escaped, and when a minute elapsed and their guest failed to elaborate, he said, “Tell the rest, Mr. Kendall. How did Bishop give those Blackfeet the slip?”
Kendall glanced at Nate, who snickered. “They saved him for the next day, son, and during the night he wriggled out of the ropes they had tied him with and helped himself to a war-horse. It raised a ruckus, so he had to light a shuck. Those Blackfeet chased him clear to the Missouri River before they gave up.”
“He was lucky to get away,” Zach said.
“That he was.” Nate said to impress on his son the folly of courting death. “Anyone with half a brain knows not to set foot in Blackfoot country.” Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Kendall give him an odd glance.
“You have a point,” the other mountaineer said. “But it’s a crying shame that some of the best trapping grounds left happen to be north of the Missouri.”
At that moment, they rounded a bend in the trail that linked the lake to the cabin and a childish squeal of glee drew their attention to a lively bundle of buckskins and curls that hurled herself into Kendall’s arms.
“Pa! Pa! Evelyn has a doll almost the same as mine!”
“Does she, now?” the proud father said. “Imagine that. Girls with dolls. What will they think of next?”
Nate laughed, then turned as two women and another child emerged from the cabin. Tiny Evelyn tottered toward him, saying, “Papa! Papa!”
He swept her up and pecked her on the cheek. “How’s my big girl?”
“Just fine, thank you,” the woman with raven tresses who followed Evelyn said. Winona King was Shoshone. She favored buckskin dresses and beaded moccasins that were somehow all the more alluring for their simplicity. Radiating vitality, she molded herself to Nate and brushed his mouth with her warm lips. “We have missed you, husband.”
“Good.”
Winona’s dark eyes sparkled. She never tried to hide her affection for her man, as some women were inclined to do. “I see by the pack animals that the mighty Grizzly Killer managed to find a buffalo, but lose a horse,” she said in precise English born of long practice.
“The horse lost itself.” Hooking the arm holding the Hawken in hers, Nate ambled toward their home.
Little Evelyn nuzzled his chin. “You itch me, Papa.”
“I’ll trim my beard in the morning.”
Nate’s daughter never had taken a liking to it, and of late he had been half tempted to shave it off. Winona wouldn’t mind, he was sure.
Scott Kendall had his own arms full with his daughter and wife. Lisa greeted Nate. Then the beaming parents introduced their pride and joy, Vail Marie, who surprised Nate with a blunt question.
“My pa says the Indians call you Grizzly Killer. Is that so?”
“It is,” Nate said. The name had been bestowed on him on his initial trek west after he slew a grizzly using just a knife. It had been a once-in-a-lifetime event. But the name had stuck. Since then he’d had occasion to slay grizzlies, but never because he went looking for them. Sheer chance had repeatedly pitted him against the ferocious carnivores; sheer chance had enabled him to live through each conflict.
“Do you like that name?” Vail Marie asked with the typical innocence of a child.
“I never really gave it much thought,” Nate said, “but I suppose I do. It’s better than Silly Goose or Ornery Duckling.”
The girl giggled. “You’re poking fun! Indians don’t have names like that.”
“True. But they do have names like Big In The Center, Don’t Know What It Is, and Made Himself Like The Man In The Moon. I’d rather be called Grizzly Killer.”
Kendall and Zach gave Nate a hand stripping the packhorses and carting the packs into the cabin. Winona and Lisa busied themselves cooking while the girls sat in a corner and played with their dolls. Soon the tantalizing aroma of roasting buffalo haunch filled the single room, making Nate’s stomach rumble with hunger.
No more was said about the reason for Scott Kendall’s visit until after the meal, which consisted of sweet cakes, boiled roots, fresh bread, a pudding made from berries, and two pots of scalding hot coffee.
Nate ate with relish. He was an excellen
t cook in his own right, but in his humble opinion no one else on the entire planet could whip up meals as delicious as those his wife prepared. Treating himself to a second sweet cake and his sixth cup of black coffee, Nate leaned back in a chair he had built himself, and beamed. “This is the life.”
“It doesn’t get much better than this,” Kendall said. “The only thing that would beat it is having ten bales of prime plews ready to sell at the next rendezvous.”
“Dream on, friend,” Nate said. “No one has collected that many at one time in years. Jeb Smith was the last, I think, and he’s long since gone on to his reward.”
Kendall propped his hands on top of his beaver hat. “It could be done if a man knew where to find the beaver.”
“Most of the streams in the central mountains are trapped out,” Nate said.
“Who said anything about the central mountains?”
Nate paused in the act of taking a bite of sweet cake. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re leading up to something?”
The man from Massachusetts chuckled. He had an easygoing way about him that Nate admired, a flair for taking life in stride. “Because I am, that’s why.” Kendall leaned forward. “Remember that coon from New York I told you about? Ashworth? Well, he might be as green as grass, but he has a plan to raise more plews in two seasons than anyone has raised in the past ten years.”
“And you’re throwing in with him?”
Kendall nodded with enthusiasm. “My wife and I have talked it over long and hard, and we think it’s the right thing to do. Ashworth promises that every man who goes along with him will earn at least two thousand dollars, which is more money than my family has seen at one time in a long while.”
Nate was intrigued. Winona and he had a tidy nest egg stashed away, but it was hardly enough to keep them in trade goods for the rest of their lives. “How many men is this Ashworth fellow taking along?”
“Sixty.”
Unsure if he had heard correctly, Nate said, “Why, that’s an entire fur brigade!”
Kendall took a swig of coffee and smacked his lips. “That it is, my friend. A brigade the likes of which no one has seen since old Jim Bridger and company roamed these mountains.”
Fond memories of his first meeting with Bridger and the early efforts of the trapping fraternity washed over Nate. “Those were the days. Too bad they’re gone for good.”
“Who says they are?” Kendall asked. “Ashworth has invested thousands in outfitting a new brigade, and in two weeks, we leave for country where the beaver have never been trapped, where they’re as thick as fleas on an old hound dog.”
“I envy you,” Nate said.
“Why not join us?”
The question brought instant quiet to the cabin. Zach King looked up from his chair by the fireplace where he was sharpening his butcher knife. His heart beat faster at the thought of going on an expedition to unknown country, of seeing new sights and meeting new people.
Winona King also glanced up, but her emotions were markedly different. She knew her man well enough to know that the prospect would tempt him, knew him well enough to worry that he might agree without taking time to think it over first.
Nate King rested his hands on the edge of the table. “Is that why you’ve come? To give me an invite?”
“From Richard Ashworth himself,” Kendall said. “He needs a reliable man to be his second-in-command, and he’s offering the job to you.”
A feather could have floored Nate. “Me? Why not you or one of the other sixty?”
“The others are good men,” Kendall said, “and I’ve done my share of trapping. But everyone knows that you’re one of the two or three best trappers alive. The only one I can think of who might top you is Shakespeare McNair, who happens to be off visiting the Flatheads.”
“I know,” Nate said absently. McNair was his best friend and mentor, the man who had taught him everything he knew.
“So what do you say? Do you like Ashworth’s proposal.”
Nate did, but he was not about to commit himself unless he knew a lot more than he did at that moment. “Slow down, hoss. This is a big dose to take all at once. How do I know this Ashworth isn’t a few cards shy of a full deck? Where in God’s green creation does he think he’ll find enough beaver to fill the pokes of every member of his brigade?”
“North of the Missouri.”
“But that’s Blackfoot country!”
Scott Kendall grinned. “Exactly.”
Three
The early afternoon sun beat down relentlessly on the prairie. It was uncommonly hot. Beads of sweat dotted Nate King’s brow as he reined the black stallion to a standstill and scanned the clear space in the high grass where he had left the cache of dried buffalo meat and the cow’s hide.
“It’s all gone.” Scott Kendall said.
The two mountain men had ridden down from the cabin for the express purpose of retrieving the cache. In particular, Nate was desirous of reclaiming the hide, which Winona needed to make a new robe for herself. Letting the lead rope to the pack animal he had brought along drop, he slid from the saddle and sank to one knee to examine the ground.
Unshod hoofprints provided a clue to the culprits. Partial moccasin tracks and scuff marks showed where the packs and hide had been distributed among five mounted warriors. Another four had sat their horses nearby.
“A hunting party, you reckon?” Kendall said.
It was hard for Nate to say. The warriors might have been out after buffalo. Or it might have been a war party seeking to count coup on their enemies. None of the prints were clear enough to enable him to identify the tribe.
“You can head on back,” Nate said as he climbed onto the stallion. “This isn’t your affair.”
Kendall snorted. “What sort of coon would I be if I turned tail at the prospect of getting in a racket with a few Indians?”
“Nine is more than a few,” Nate said. “And I don’t want you rubbed out on my account.” Clucking to the black, he trotted off in the direction the band had taken, to the northeast. In moments Kendall was matching his pace alongside him. “I see you don’t listen worth a hoot.”
The bigger man showed teeth. “You know, my missus is always saying the same thing. She likes to tell everyone how she hitched up with the only man in all creation whose head is harder than a redwood.”
“That’s nothing,” Nate said. “Winona claims my noggin was an anvil before someone stuck it on my shoulders.”
The two trappers rode on in fine spirits for over an hour. Beside a ribbon of a creek that would be dry in another month they came on the camp site the Indians had used the night before.
“Well, lookee here,” Kendall said, nodding at a clear footprint at the water’s edge. “Are they Pawnees?”
Nate took a look. “Cheyennes,” he said, his brow knitting.
He harbored no ill will toward the tribe. They had left him in peace over the years, even though they knew his family occupied the high valley. It must have been ten years since he had gone hunting one morning and happened on tracks left by a large party of Cheyennes who had spied on the cabin for at least half a day, yet never attacked. Ever since, Nate had made it a point to do nothing that would antagonize the tribe.
“Well, let’s get after them,” Kendall said, striding to his sorrel. “If we push real hard, by sunset tomorrow you should have your things back.”
Nate reflected on whether going on was the right thing to do. By rights, he should forget about the stolen items and go on home. A few bundles of jerked meat were hardly worth their lives. But that hide was another matter. He had been promising one to Winona for weeks. He doubly hated to lose it after having put so much effort into hunting the small herd of buffalo down and carefully skinning the cow so as not to mar the hide in any respect. Somehow, Nate had to get that hide back without tangling with the warriors.
“Why the long face?” Kendall asked.
“There’s something you should know,” Nate said, t
hen explained as they resumed riding. The other trapper didn’t criticize his decision or mock him as being foolish. “If that’s the way you want it, that’s the way it’ll be.”
Twilight found them well out on the vast plain. In a basin that offered shelter from the wind and prying eyes, they made a cold camp. Until midnight, they talked about their respective pasts, Nate telling about the father who had ruled him with an iron fist and later despised him for becoming, as he saw it, a worthless vagabond.
Kendall’s childhood had been tame by comparison. Reared by loving, religious parents, he had almost become a minister. The lure of adventure had drawn him to the mountains, and once there, he had never wanted to go back.
A pack of coyotes on a nearby knoll was competing with another pack far to the north to see which could howl the loudest—or so it seemed to Nate as he rose and went to the packhorse. Agitated by the din, it pranced and tugged at the picket pin. He stroked its neck and spoke softly until it quieted down. By then, the howling had tapered to a few plaintive cries.
Scott Kendall was asleep when Nate stretched out on his blankets. So only Nate witnessed the spectacular descent of a flaming meteor that disappeared over the horizon in the same direction Nate and his companion happened to be traveling.
Most Indians, Nate knew, would have taken the sight as an omen. A meteor was considered bad medicine, a sign that something awful was going to happen. Nate hoped that they were wrong as he closed his eyes and slipped into a fitful sleep.
At first light the two mountaineers were in the saddle. The band had made no attempt to hide their trail, so Nate had no problem tracking them to a tributary of the South Platte River. The moment the winding belt of cottonwoods and willows hove into sight, Nate drew rein. A thin column of smoke rose from among the trees.
“We did it,” Kendall said. “But what now? How do we snatch your effects without being snatched ourselves?”
It was a good question. Retreating to a gully where they secreted their mounts, Nate and Kendall snaked through the tall grass to a vantage point several hundred feet from the smoke.
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