Zach and Louisa were huddled by the fire, his arm over her shoulder.
They had enjoyed a fine meal. Zach had shot a squirrel shortly before the sun went down and Lou skinned it, chopped the meat into chunks, and dropped the chunks in the pot, along with wild onions, cut green beans they had brought along, and flour. The result was a tasty stew rich with delicious broth. Zach had washed his meal down with coffee, Lou with water, and now they were savoring the quiet of the early night.
“This is nice,” Lou commented.
Zach drowsily nodded. He had been up most of the night and needed six or seven hours of solid sleep. But the gleam in his wife’s eyes told him he might not get it.
“You don’t regret coming up here with me, do you?”
Zach stalled by refilling his tin cup with steaming coffee. If he answered yes, he would be in the doghouse until the cows came home, and they did not own any cows. “That is the silliest question you have ever asked me.”
“But do you?” Lou persisted. “I don’t want to force a baby on you.”
“Have you ever known me to do anything I don’t want to?”
“The old Zach, no. But the new Zach has me scratching my head.” Lou lightly pressed her lips to his. “Not that I don’t appreciate your concern for my well-being.”
I should hope to blazes you do, Zach was about to tease her, when the peaceful night was shattered by a howl such as few human ears ever heard. Instantly he was on his feet with a pistol in each hand.
Lou was a shade slower. Unlimbering her flintlocks, she exclaimed, “It’s here! It followed us down!”
Zach mentally cursed himself for making camp in the clearing. They were surrounded by tall firs, rank after rank of tightly spaced trunks. The howl had seemed to come from their right, but the creature could be anywhere.
“What do we do?” Lou whispered. She peered into the firs until her eyes hurt, but all she saw was black. “We can’t stay here in the open like this.”
Zach disagreed. “That is exactly what we should do. If it rushes us, we’ll see it.”
All three horses began nickering and prancing. Nostrils flaring, they stared at the south edge of the clearing.
“It’s there,” Zach said, gesturing with a pistol. Thumbing back the hammer, he took a step, only to have his arm gripped.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I might spot it.”
“Not on your life,” Lou urged. “We stick together. Let it come to us, like you said.”
Zach’s every instinct was to go after the thing, but common sense prevailed. Animals could see better in the dark. If the beast jumped him, he might need to resort to his bowie. Bowies were formidable, but at close quarters so were fangs and claws.
A twig snapped to their left.
Was the creature circling them? Zach wondered. “Let’s stand back to back,” he directed. “You watch that side, and I’ll watch this side.”
Lou was quick to comply. She felt her shoulder blades brush him and pressed closer, deriving strength from the contact. The night had gone quiet again. The wildlife seemed to be holding its collective breath. “What do you think?” she whispered.
“That you should hush.” Zach was listening for the stealthy tread of bestial paws but heard only the breeze. Suddenly bending, he grabbed a burning brand from the fire.
“What are you doing?”
“Watch my back,” Zach said, and ran at the firs to their left, holding the torch on high. He thought he saw something dart away from the light, but he couldn’t be sure. The temptation to give chase was almost overpowering.
“Get back here!” Lou cried. She had as much grit as the next woman, but she would be darned if she would let him leave her there alone.
Zach backpedaled, the torch in front of him in case the creature attacked. But it was wily, their stalker. The creature did not come after him.
“I have an idea,” Lou said.
“Let me hear it.” Zach was open to any brainstorm that would keep their hides intact.
“We set the woods on fire.”
Zach glanced at her. “Sure. As dry as everything is, we can burn down the entire valley while we’re at it.”
“No. Just these trees,” Lou said, with a bob of her chin at the firs. “It should drive the thing off.”
“We can’t control a fire that big.” To Zach the notion was preposterous. “And we don’t want to drive it off. We want to lure it in so we can kill it.”
“We do?”
The packhorse suddenly whinnied and rose onto its hind legs. As it came back down a front hoof struck the wooden picket pin, which broke with a loud crack. Another moment, and the pack-horse bolted into the firs.
Zach lunged in a vain bid to stop the animal from fleeing, but he missed and had to watch in helpless vexation as the horse vanished in the gloom.
It did not get far. There came a sound, a loud thud, as if the horse had collided with a tree. Then there was the crash of underbrush and a strident whinny cut short by another thud.
The two remaining horses were shaking with fear.
Lou flicked her tongue over her dry lips but had no spit with which to moisten them. To the south, a dark shadow darted between trees. She spun, taking swift aim. But the shadow was gone before she could shoot. “What is it? A bear?”
Zach was wondering the same thing. It distracted him when he could ill afford to let his attention lapse, a mistake that proved costly.
“Look out!” Lou screamed, pointing.
Zach glanced up.
Eight
Zach’s reflexes had been honed on the whetstone of necessity. He had lived in the wilds his whole life. On countless occasions, whether he lived or died had depended on how quickly he reacted.
But this time Zach was a shade too slow. He glanced up, saw what was arcing toward him, and started to dive to his right, knowing in the split instant he moved that he would not leap clear in time. The melon-sized rock would crush his skull like an eggshell. But even as she shouted, Lou shoved him with all her might.
Zach came down on his hands and knees. There was a thud behind him. He turned, about to break into a smile and thank Lou for saving him. The smile died.
Louisa was on her side, her eyes closed, the rock next to her, a large gash above her ear streaming blood.
For a span of heartbeats Zach was paralyzed with horror. Then he was on his feet, his blood roaring in his veins. “Lou?” he yelled. A short step, and he was on one knee, reaching for her to cradle her in his lap.
The crack of a twig warned him.
Zach looked up and beheld a large dark something bounding through the firs toward them. The thing growled as it charged, its forelimbs windmilling, claws glinting dully in the glow from the fire. He could not see it clearly, but he did not need to. He pointed at the center of the bulk, steadied his arm, and fired.
At the blast, the creature lurched to a stop. It looked down at itself and roared. Then it was gone, vanishing abruptly and silently. One moment it was there; the next it wasn’t. The crash of underbrush testified to its flight.
Zach set both pistols down and tenderly slid a hand under Lou’s head. He examined the wound while feeling for a pulse. Her heartbeat was strong and regular. He carefully lifted her, moved closer to the fire, and sank down next to the full water skin they always kept handy. He tenderly placed Lou across his legs. He opened the water skin and applied the cool liquid to Lou’s gash. Then he cupped more water and slowly let it trickle between her parted lips.
Groaning and coughing, Lou blinked her eyes and gazed about in confusion. “Where—” she began, and abruptly sat up, or tried to. Clutching her head, she sagged against his chest and groaned.
“Stay still,” Zach said.
“The animal?” Lou weakly asked.
“I shot it, and it ran off.” Only then did it hit Zach. He stared at the rock smeared red with his wife’s blood. “I’m not so sure it is an animal.”
Lou swall
owed, her gaze swiveling up to him. “What do you mean?”
“Animals don’t throw rocks.”
“It can’t be human,” Lou said. “You saw the tracks. They are more like those of a bear than a person.”
“Don’t talk,” Zach said. She was ungodly pale. It occurred to him that there might be internal damage. Fear flashed through him, raw, potent, nearly immobilizing fear. If she were to die … He could not finish the thought.
Moving slowly so as not to jar her, Zach placed her on her back on a blanket and pulled a saddle over for a pillow. She started to prop herself up on her elbows, and he quickly slid his arm under her shoulders.
“Let me.”
“Thank you.” Lou was becoming more alert. She scanned the firs and said, “Are we safe? Is that thing still out there?”
Zach placed her pistols in her hands. “If you see it, give a holler.” Hurriedly, he opened a parfleche and took out a small pouch that contained medicines prepared by his mother. They never went up into the mountains without it, not after the incident with the wolverine.
Few whites were aware that Indians had remedies for practically every ill under the sun. Dogwood bark was boiled in water and the tea used to strengthen the heart and as a general tonic. Clematis was used to treat fever. Juniper berries were good for the kidneys. Elderberry helped reduce inflammation. In this instance, after dabbing at the gash with a cloth until the bleeding nearly stopped, Zach applied a plantain poultice. To protect the wound from dirt and possible infection, he cut a strip from a blanket and wound it around her head, tying a knot to hold it in place.
“Thank you,” Lou said when he was done.
“It will have to do until I can get you to my mother.”
“I’m fine,” Lou said.
“Fibber.” Zach reclaimed his flintlocks and reloaded the one he had fired. He wedged them under his belt. Placing both rifles next to Louisa, he said, “I must go over to the horses. Watch my back.”
Gripping a pistol in each hand, Lou went to rise.
“No.” Zach put a hand on her shoulder. “From where you are.” He did not want her to move about. It could set her wound to bleeding again.
Lou twisted as he moved away from her, saying, “They look fine to me.”
“I’ll only be a minute.”
The horses were only twenty feet away, but it seemed a lot farther. Zach’s main concern was the picket pins. With all the rearing and stamping the horses had done, the pins might come loose. They had already lost one horse; he preferred not to lose another.
It was good he checked. The picket pin Lou’s mount was tied to was secure, but the one to his own was half out. He pounded it back in, gave each rope a tug, then returned to his wife.
“I’m fit to ride if you want to leave,” Lou said.
“Daybreak we’ll head out,” Zach told her. To do so in the dark invited disaster. He scooped up his Hawken. “You try and get some rest. I’ll wake you when the sun comes up.”
“I can help keep watch,” Lou offered. “You haven’t had much sleep the past few days.”
“I’m not the one wearing a turban,” Zach joked.
“If you’re not sleeping, I’m not sleeping.”
Lou tried. She really tried. But bit by bit her eyelids drooped and her chin fell to her chest. She struggled to raise her head, but the demands of exhaustion and her wound would not be denied.
Zach was glad she had succumbed. She needed the rest. Rising, he made a circuit of the clearing, probing the firs for telltale sign of the creature. But there was none. Either it was biding its time and cannily lying low until it could jump them, or it had gone.
Zach did not care to encounter it a third time. As soon as the sun was up, they were heading down the mountain. With Lou in the shape she was in, they could not travel very fast. It would take them an extra day or two to reach their cabin.
Zach hoped he had inflicted a mortal wound. He hoped the thing had crawled off to die and they had seen the last of it. But premonition told him his hope was in vain. Whatever it was, it would come back, probably when they least expected.
He sat down close to Lou. The fire had dwindled, so he added fuel and placed the coffeepot on to boil. There was nothing like scalding hot coffee to help stay awake.
The night was unnaturally quiet. In all that vastness, not so much as a coyote yipped.
Zach looked at Lou. She was so beautiful in repose. So much for starting their family, he reflected. Their high country lark had turned into a trial. He was genuinely worried—not for himself but for Louisa. He kept on staring at her, barely aware when his own eyelids drooped.
The rider brought his pinto to a stop and smiled at Nate and Winona. He clasped his hands together, the back of his left hand to the ground. In sign language it meant peace. Then he raised his right hand in front of his neck, the first two fingers extended, and brought the tips of the fingers up near his head. In sign talk, it was friend.
“Neota!” Winona exclaimed in surprise.
The tall warrior swung down. A powerfully built man, he wore buckskins typical of his people. A bow and quiver were slung across his back. At his hip hung a bone-handled hunting knife. His black hair was marked with streaks of gray that had not been there the last time they saw him, and his handsome features bore the stamp of indelible sorrow.
Nate was as surprised as his wife. Neota was a widely respected Ute, high in the councils of his tribe. He was also one of the few Utes who regarded Nate as a friend. In sign language Nate said, “We have plenty food. My heart happy friend here.”
There was no sign for of or is, just as there weren’t signs for a lot of English words. With a little imagination, though, Nate could mix and match the hundreds of signs he had learned to make himself understood on just about any subject.
Once, years ago, he had asked Winona exactly how many sign gestures there were and been taken aback to find out she did not know. The best she could estimate was eight to nine hundred, although some of her people pegged the total at well over a thousand.
“Question,” Winona now signed to their visitor. “To what do we owe this honor?”
This was not exactly what she asked: Nate mentally filled in the blanks. He was curious, too, since their valley was not in Ute country proper, as their former homestead had been.
“I want come many sleeps,” Neota signed. “Much sad over Niwot.”
Nate understood, partly. Niwot had been Neota’s nephew. The young warrior had taken a shine to Nate’s daughter, Evelyn, and come courting, Indian fashion, every chance he got. On one of those visits Niwot had been slain by a hostile tribe. Several times since, Neota had shown up, stayed a day or two, and left again without doing much more than walking along the lake. Nate suspected that Neota somehow blamed himself for his nephew’s death, but so far Neota had not confided in them.
Neota’s hands flowed in sign. “Question. What you do?”
“We listen,” Nate signed, and pointed to the northwest, in the direction of the glacier. To his amazement, Neota took a step back, his face reflecting some sort of inner turmoil.
The howling had stopped.
Winona stepped to the doorway and signed for Neota to enter. “You always welcome our lodge.”
When Neota, still staring with a stricken look to the northwest, hesitated, Nate motioned and smiled to reassure him. He followed Neota in and went to close the door. He almost had it shut when he thought he heard something and yanked it open again to poke his head out and tilt his ear toward the glacier.
Winona noticed. “What is it, husband?”
Nate drew his head in and shrugged. “I’m not sure. I thought I heard a shot.”
Neota was standing by a chair, politely waiting to be invited to sit. It was on his last visit that he tried a chair for the first time. Prior to that he always sat on the floor.
“Please,” Nate said in English, pulling the chair out.
Neota unslung his ash bow and quiver of arrows and placed them o
n the table. His back as rigid as a broom, he slowly sat. He said a few words in Ute.
Winona, always better at languages, remarked, “Something about it being ‘the time’.”
“The time for what?” Nate asked, sinking into the chair at the end of the table.
“Let me pour some coffee and we can ask.”
Nate was torn between his curiosity over their guest’s late arrival and unusual behavior, and a desire to go outside and listen for more sounds from the glacier. He was worried, keenly worried, although he had no real reason to be. They had heard the mysterious howls scores of times and nothing ever came of them. But none of his loved ones had ever gone up to the glacier before.
Neota might as well have been carved from wood for all the life he showed. Unblinking, he stared at the wall. Nate had the impression the warrior’s gaze was directed inward.
Winona brought over a tray. On it were three china cups brimming with coffee, the sugar bowl, and three spoons.
Neota did not so much as acknowledge the cup was in front of him, not until Nate reached over and tapped it with his spoon. As if coming out of a daze, Neota shook himself, then carefully slid both hands under the cup and raised it to his mouth. He sipped noisily, smacked his lips, and set the cup down again.
Nate waited for the warrior to sign to them, but when a few minutes had gone by and Neota went on staring at the wall, Nate coughed to get his attention, then asked in sign language, “Question. Why you here?”
“Question. Remember last visit?” Neota signed.
Nate and Winona swapped glances. The last had been about a month ago. They had talked about Niwot, as they always did, about how he had been a fine, upstanding young man, and wasn’t it a shame that he had been killed before he could take Nate’s daughter for his wife?
Nate glanced over his shoulder at the door to Evelyn’s room. She had turned in an hour ago and was no doubt sound asleep. Which was just as well. Neota’s visits troubled her, in no small part because she had never intended to marry Niwot, and had been telling him that when Niwot was slain.
Winona signed that yes, she remembered, and that she also remembered telling Neota that the time for tears was long since past and they should get on with their lives.
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