Wilderness Giant Edition 5

by David Robbins

  Nate rose in the stirrups to catch sight of Little Soldier, but the warrior was nowhere to be seen. Moving on, he fought shy of any brute that acted the least bit belligerent. Twice he had to swing wide of wallows where bulls were rolling over and over in an effort to get some relief from the insects that plagued them.

  Buffalo gnats were the bane of the buffalo’s existence. Resembling animated black beads, the gnats would swarm over the great beasts, burrowing into their hides and causing large sores to form.

  The wallows reeked of bull urine. Nate made it a point to hold his breath when going past.

  Threading through the herd made for slow going. Nate developed a crick in his neck from constantly twisting it right and left. He smiled when the last of the beasts appeared.

  Little Soldier had headed to the northeast once more. Nate brought the stallion to a gallop. A sea of high grass stretched before them as far as the eye could see. To the north, a pack of gray wolves shadowed the herd, waiting to pick off the sick and the aged.

  Once, that would have bothered him. When Nate first had come to the mountains, he had been horrified by the constant violence, by the daily battle for survival every animal endured, by the unending struggle to keep from being killed for food.

  Big insects and fish ate little insects. Birds ate the big insects. Eagles and ospreys ate the fish. Bobcats ate the birds. Larger predators, such as panthers and wolves, preyed on deer, antelope, and buffalo. Grizzlies ate anything and everything.

  It had bothered Nate that the whole purpose of existence seemed to be for creatures to slay one another. Even humans got into the act, with Indians and whites killing one another at the drop of a feather.

  Back in New York City, where Nate’s every want had been provided by markets and stores and tailors and barbers, he had somehow come to the conclusion that the natural state of man was one of comfort and ease. Having his every need provided on a silver platter, as it were, had blinded him to the truth that in the natural, scheme of things it was dog eat dog.

  City life did that to a person. It warped his thinking, made him believe that the world owed him a living when the frank truth was that the world didn’t owe him a damn thing.

  A dot on the horizon brought an end to Nate’s musing. “Little Soldier,” he said for the benefit of the others.

  “Reckon he’s seen us, Pa?” Zach asked.

  “I doubt it,” Nate said, but slowed anyway. It was best if they take the crafty Crow by surprise. “We’ll hang back until dark and jump him after he’s made camp.”

  The sun arced steadily higher. The temperature climbed.

  “Are they what I think they are?” Allen inquired, pointing.

  Rising up over the rim of the world materialized three buttes. They were harbingers of an area where the prairie gave way to arid ravines and gorges. And wafting skyward from one of those gorges were tendrils of smoke.

  “A campfire,” Nate said unnecessarily. The others could see for themselves. He scoured the terrain for the Crow, but the only things moving were a pair of antelope heading in the opposite direction.

  Taking cover behind boulders the size of a Shoshone lodge, Nate rummaged in one of his parfleches and came up with his spyglass. Trappers relied on them, a practice started by Lewis and Clark, who had packed a few on their famed expedition.

  Nate swept the wasteland from north to south. The gorge was bordered by brush and boulders, enough to conceal them but not their mounts. “We’ll get as close as we can with the horses, then investigate on foot,” he directed.

  In a gully seventy yards from the gorge, Nate tied the stallion to mesquite. Climbing to the rim, he pretended to be part of the landscape for almost ten minutes until he was convinced no one had spotted them. Then he zigzagged to a weed-choked slope that brought them to the top of the gorge.

  Flattening in the shadow of a rock monolith, Nate peered over the edge. He expected to find the Crow settling down early. Instead, he saw a half-dozen warriors, armed to the teeth. At his elbow there was a soft intake of breath.

  “Bloods!” Zach whispered. By some accounts, they were more fierce than their allies, the Blackfeet and Piegans. When he’d been much younger, his father and Shakespeare McNair had nearly been rubbed out by a Blood band, and Zach had never forgotten how scared he had been listening to his Uncle Shakespeare relate their narrow escape.

  Nate saw a small spring. It explained why the band had stopped there. Six painted horses were tethered nearby, as well as five others. Several warriors had coup sticks, from the ends of which dangled scalps. Dry blood on a few marked them as recently acquired.

  The Tennessean leaned toward Nate. “It’s a war party on their way home after a raid on the Sioux.”

  “I wonder if Little Soldier knows they’re here,” Nate whispered.

  The very next second Zach stiffened. “Pa, look across the gorge!”

  A head and shoulders had risen above a row of weeds. The Absaroka was intent on the six Bloods. He watched them for the longest while before vanishing in the growth.

  Henry Allen sighed. “Too bad. I was hoping they’d add his hair to their collection. Come to think of it, the Bloods probably aren’t partial to fleas.”

  Nate grinned. “We still have a job to do. So let’s get to it. We’ll fetch our horses and circle around to pick up his trail on the other side.”

  “Not so fast, hoss,” Allen said, nodding.

  Little Soldier had reappeared, only lower. Exercising skill worthy of an Apache, he was working his way down the gorge toward the Bloods.

  “What in the name of all that’s holy is that idiot Injun up to?” Allen said. “Even he can’t be fool enough to think he can defeat six Bloods by his lonesome.”

  Nate was mesmerized. It was insane for the Crow to tempt fate, yet Little Soldier didn’t stop until he had reached a clump of scrub trees a stone’s throw from the war party. Nate had a clear shot but he didn’t take it. The Bloods were bound to come on the run, and he had no hankering to trade lead with them.

  Little Soldier observed the warriors go about various tasks. One man, an unstrung bow resting in a quiver slung across his back, began to gather wood for the fire. His hunt brought him ever closer to the Crow’s hiding place. Little Soldier inched toward him.

  “I do believe that mangy Absaroka is sun-struck,” Allen whispered. “It’s too bad the Bloods will have the honor of gutting him. I was looking forward to stuffing his innards down his mouth and making him eat them.”

  Zachary glanced at the Southerner, trying to tell if he was serious or not. He went to ask, then was glued to the tableau below as Little Soldier unexpectedly jumped up and trained the rifle on the Blood carrying the wood.

  “Dumber than a buffalo chip,” Allen quipped.

  The other Bloods had seen and started to dash to the aid of their companion, but they stopped short at a yell from the Crow. Little Soldier strode into the open, motioning for the Blood in front of him to drop the dead branches. Then he marched the warrior at gunpoint back to where the others stood.

  To Nate, it was total madness. The moment Little Soldier dropped his guard, the Bloods would be on him like a pack of ravenous wolves on a buffalo calf. The Crow wouldn’t stand a prayer.

  “Well, look there!” Allen whispered. “Up the gorge a way! This is fixing to get mighty interesting.”

  A seventh Blood was on his way back to camp, a pair of dead rabbits in his left hand, a lance in his right. He reached a bend in the wall and saw his fellow warriors. Stopping, he set the rabbits down, then slunk along with his back to the wall. Taking two or three steps at a time, he closed in on the unsuspecting Crow.

  Nate was stupefied when Little Soldier lowered the rifle and held it in the crook of an elbow to free his hands for sign language. The angle was all wrong for him to see what the Crow said, but the expressions of the Bloods left little doubt that it had not gone over well with them. Little Soldier addressed them again, his hands flying, unaware of the seventh warrior who
had slanted toward him and was almost within hurling range.

  “I wish Jenks were here to see this,” Allen said. “He always claimed that ornery Crow has eyes in the back of his noggin.”

  The seventh warrior proved Clive Jenks wrong. Rather than throw his lance, he sneaked up behind Little Soldier, planted himself, and rammed the butt of his lance against the Crow’s head three times in as many seconds. Little Soldier crumpled.

  Henry Alley chuckled. “So who says there isn’t any justice in this world of ours?”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Nate proposed. “They’re bound to check to see if Little Crow was alone.”

  The three of them sped to their horses, walked the animals until they were far enough from the gorge to mount without being spotted, and trotted westward. No outcries rang out.

  “We can breathe easy now,” the Tennessean commented.

  Nate hoped so. But a tiny voice deep inside warned him not to take anything for granted. Where there were seven Bloods, there might be more.

  Nineteen

  Nate’s misgivings seemed to be unfounded. They reached Fort Ashworth without incident. When the news spread among the mountaineers that their hated enemy had fallen into the merciless hands of the Bloods, there were whoops and cheers, and a number of trappers discharged their guns into the air.

  Richard Ashworth was in his quarters, relishing a sip of his precious Scotch, when the first shots sounded. Sitting upright so abruptly that he nearly tipped his chair over, he hastily capped his flask, slid it into a pocket, and bolted outside, fearful that the fort was under attack. He was stunned to see his men beaming and hollering and jumping up and down like young children.

  Ashworth, spying King and Henry Allen, hailed them. “Good heavens! What is this all about?”

  Nate was tired and hungry and anxious to see his wife, but he took the time to relate what had happened. He had gotten so used to Emilio Barzini being at Ashworth’s shoulder all the time that he didn’t give the Sicilian’s presence a second thought.

  Henry Allen laughed when Nate mentioned Little Soldier being taken by surprise by the returning Blood. “Ain’t it grand?” he declared, his Southern drawl more pronounced than usual. “That coon won’t be plaguing us anymore. No, sir!” He slapped his thigh in glee. “Maybe we should hold us a frolic!”

  “A what?” Ashworth said.

  “A regular rip-snorting jollification,” Allen clarified.

  Ashworth still didn’t understand. But Nate lit up like a shelf full of candles. The idea was so wonderful that Nate was almost sorry he hadn’t thought of it himself. “Hoss, you are a shrewd one! A frolic is just what we need. It’ll give the boys a chance to let off some steam before they settle down for the long trapping season ahead. And the women will be tickled silly.”

  “See here,” Ashworth interjected. “What exactly are we talking about?”

  “Celebrating,” Nate said. “Holding a party.”

  Ashworth blinked. “Is that wise? I mean, what if the Blackfeet should hear us?”

  “We won’t be making any more noise than we did constructing the fort,” Nate noted. “And our hunters have been shooting off guns for weeks now without being discovered.” He gazed out the gate at the vista of valley and mountains. “We’re so far into the Bitterroots that it’s doubtful the Blackfeet will find out were here for a long time. I reckon a frolic might be just what the sawbones ordered.”

  Ashworth could see that the frontiersmen were thrilled, but he didn’t share their enthusiasm. “We’d be taking a great risk,” he pointed out.

  Nate was already thinking of the tasty eats the women would whip up. “Haven’t you ever heard that all work and no play is bad for the soul? A body needs to his let down his hair now and then or his innards can get twisted into knots.”

  Ashworth had heard some feeble arguments in his time, but King’s homespun wisdom was atrocious. “Listen. I really regret having to do this, but I’m afraid I must put my foot down. There will be no celebration. And that’s final.”

  Nate glanced at the Tennessean, whose disgust was transparent. “Don’t you trust my judgment any longer?” he asked the greenhorn.

  “Of course,” Ashworth said. “It’s just that I have too much at stake to endanger our enterprise with a few hours of needless carousing.”

  “Needless?” Nate countered. “When was the last time these people had a chance to relax and enjoy themselves?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Ashworth said, annoyed that the mountain man was making an issue of it. “I hired them to work, not to indulge themselves.”

  Emilio Barzini had listened to the exchange with interest. He didn’t give a damn about the grungy trappers and their heathen women. The dispute, though, gave him an opportunity to put Nate King in his proper place. Stepping up beside Ashworth, he said brusquely, “You’ll do as Mr. Ashworth wants, whether you like it or not.”

  Nate stiffened. “No one asked for your opinion.”

  “It’s not mine that counts,” Emilio said smugly. “It’s Mr. Ashworth’s. And if he says no, the only celebrating that will be done will be over my dead body.”

  Henry Allen’s right hand, unnoticed by anyone else, had fallen onto a flintlock. “That can be arranged, you walking slab of meat! Lift a finger to try to stop us and you’ll be the only man in camp with a nose in the middle of his forehead.”

  Ashworth saw the Sicilian start to lift his right arm and remembered the stilettos Barzini carried up each sleeve. He quickly stepped between them. “Enough of such talk!” He couldn’t believe that two grown men were ready to kill each other over such a trifle.

  Emilio almost disobeyed. He’d meant to antagonize Nate King into doing something rash. It had never occurred to him that the Southerner might challenge him. “I don’t like being threatened,” he said.

  Nate resented the giant’s attitude. “Then maybe you should learn to keep your mouth shut until someone asks your opinion,” he stated.

  An insult was on the tip of Emilio’s tongue, his right hand inches from the hilt of the blade up his shirt.

  “Enough!” Ashworth practically screamed. Without thinking, he turned and gave Barzini a push to get the Sicilian to back down. It was like trying to push a building. The giant didn’t budge. “Must I keep reminding you that the Brothers would not take kindly to your rank disobedience? You will desist this instant!”

  Emilio stared at Ashworth’s bobbing Adam’s apple. He couldn’t wait to squeeze it between two fingers until it popped like an overripe fruit. “As always,” he said, making no attempt to conceal his sarcasm, “your every wish is my command.”

  Nodding, Ashworth faced the trappers. “It’s obvious you’re determined. Very well. Against my better judgment, and to preserve harmony in our camp, I will accede to your request.” He paused, positive he was making the biggest mistake of his life, but at a loss to know how else to deal with the situation. Widespread unrest might result otherwise. “You may hold your frolic.”

  Word spread like wildfire. A mountaineer by the name of Fester, who never went anywhere without his cherished fiddle strapped to his back, was picked to organize the music for the affair. Winona volunteered to see to it that the womenfolk made enough sweetmeats and cakes.

  Shortly after sunset, the festivities commenced. Richard Ashworth perched on a crude bench in front of his quarters to watch. Accustomed as he was to formal parties where elegance was the byword, he was dumbfounded by what followed.

  First, the band practiced awhile. It consisted of two fiddles, a flute, a bearded rowdy who pounded away on a pair of small Indian drums, and a set of bagpipes furnished by a mountaineer of Scottish extraction.

  Ashworth almost cackled when they started playing. He compared the sound to a legion of cats with their tails caught in meat grinders. But as the mountain men warmed to the task, their music took on a pounding beat that somehow struck a resounding chord in his breast. He caught himself tapping his toe to the rhythm and immediate
ly stopped.

  As the expedition members gathered in a large circle, Ashworth saw several men passing out jugs. When one came near him, he called out, “Say, my good fellow! What is that you have?”

  The man, acting as sheepish as a thief caught in the act, slowly came over. “The handle is Bowen, sir. Rufus Bowen.” He held out the jug. “You’re welcome to keep it if you want. We had to make do with berries and roots, but it goes down real smooth after six or seven swallows.”

  With that, the trapper was gone, melting into the crowd before Ashworth could think to stop him. Puzzled, Ashworth pulled the cork and put his nose to the hole. A scent reminiscent of red wine made his mouth water. “They couldn’t have,” he said to himself, and tipped the jug to his lips.

  Ashworth had never tasted liquid fire, yet that was exactly the sensation he had as the contents burned a scorching path down his throat. His stomach flip-flopped. His eyes watered. His nose felt as if it were being pricked by a thousand pins.

  He tried to take a breath and swore that his lungs had collapsed. A massive hand, smacking him squarely on the back, jarred him back into possession of his faculties.

  “Are you all right?” Emilio asked. The man looked as if he just swallowed a goose egg.

  “Fine,” Ashworth sputtered, his voice suddenly like sand paper. Shaking his head, he gawked at the jug. “How could they?” He had given specific orders that no alcohol of any kind was to be consumed so long as the mountain men were in his employ. Scott Kendall, and later Nate King, had told him that he might as well try to stop the mountaineers from breathing as get them to give up liquor, but he had insisted. Sobriety bred efficiency, in his estimation.

  Emilio overheard the question and answered. “It explains all those baskets of berries the women brought back from the woods. I wondered why there were so many.”

  Ashworth didn’t bother to mention that the Sicilian had misunderstood. He, too, had seen women bearing large baskets crammed to the brim with small reddish berries of a type he was unfamiliar with, and other baskets containing long roots, equally as unknown back in the States. It had never occurred to him that they would be put to use in the way they had. The ingenuity involved staggered his perception of the mountain men as unschooled louts.