Shakespeare would have continued, but Porter and Clark ran up to him, the former shaking a finger as if in accusation.
“What in God’s name are you doing? Those heathens will think you’re crazy.”
“That’s the general idea,” Shakespeare said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Indians have a special regard for those whose brains are in a whirl,” Shakespeare explained. “Convince them you’re addle pated and they won’t lay a finger on you.”
Clark glanced at the Blackfeet. “Will it work this time?”
“Afraid not,” Shakespeare said. He pointed at the warrior with the two feathers. “See that big one there? His handle is Raven Beak. He and I go back a long ways, and we never did cotton to one another. I was putting on a show for his benefit.”
“You’re a strange man, McNair,” Porter said.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
The Blackfeet broke out in a chorus of bloodthirsty yells, many shaking their weapons overhead. Raven Beak stepped in front, a fusee in his brawny hands.
Shakespeare faced around. “They’re working themselves into a killing frenzy,” he announced to all and sundry. “In a few minutes they’ll charge. Hold your fire until I shoot, then cut them down just as fast as you can. If they reach the barricade and we can’t hold them, fall back so I can set it alight.”
Some of the rivermen were pale, others glaring defiance. Brett Hughes and Adam Clark both looked ready to bolt. Alone among them, Zachary King stood straight and calm, a credit to his parents and their upbringing.
A strident war whoop rang out. Shakespeare looked and saw Raven Beak leading the warriors up the slope at a trot. Since every shot had to count, Shakespeare fixed a bead on Raven Beak himself. He would let the Blackfoot get a lot closer, then put a ball between his eyes.
A heavy air of dread hung over the top of the hill like thick fog. The men had their rifles ready, the women and boy too, their features etched in somber lines.
Shakespeare saw Raven Beak stop and wave the fusee, exhorting the others. The Blackfeet howled. Raven Beak half-turned, beaming confidently at his warriors, then he froze, the smile dying on his lips.
A moment Shakespeare waited, resisting an urge to squeeze the trigger sooner than he should. When Raven Beak didn’t move, he glanced up and blinked in surprise. The cries of the Blackfeet on the south side of the hill faded as more and more became aware of the new element that had been added.
A huge, swirling cloud of dust swept toward the hill like an undersized whirlwind. It raced along the shore of Black Bear Lake, billowing and flowing as if a thing alive. It was the sort of cloud a big group of horsemen might make. Indeed, moments later lots of riders did appear, vaguely visible in the midst of the dust. Rifles and pistols spat lead to a chorus of fiery shouts.
Shakespeare jumped to the conclusion that a body of trappers had heard the racket and were coming to the aid of his beleaguered party. He let out a lusty whoop. The rivermen, taking his cue, did the same.
Between the dust cloud and the reaction of the defenders, the Blackfeet were thrown into confusion. A few fired at the oncoming horsemen, the range too great for their inferior trade rifles.
Shakespeare realized the lives of those with him hung in the balance. Few trapping brigades contained anywhere near as many men as the Blackfoot war party. So whoever had rushed to the rescue was relying on the shock of being unexpectedly attacked to compel the Blackfeet into flight. So far the warriors were holding their ground, although many looked uncertainly to Raven Beak for guidance.
An extra nudge would do the trick, Shakespeare reflected. He saw that the Blackfeet on the north side of the hill had stopped their assault as word of the newcomers spread like wildfire from man to man. Most hurried around to see for themselves. They had lowered their weapons and were completely off guard.
Shakespeare seized the bull by the horns, in a manner of speaking. Spinning, he yelled at the expedition members, “If you value your hair, follow me! We have to convince these cussed devils that they’re dead if they stay!”
With that, Shakespeare shoved part of the breastwork aside, barreled through, and charged down the slope screaming like a banshee. Behind him streamed the others.
Raven Beak glanced up in consternation. He began to run up the slope, then hesitated and looked at the dust cloud. Just at that moment one of the riders fired a rifle. Raven Beak twisted, his shoulder rupturing outward. He staggered, yet didn’t go down. Some warriors rushed to help him but he pushed them off, threw back his head, and shouted: “Many more whites come! With many guns! We must go or be destroyed!”
The message was relayed from warrior to warrior. In concert, the Blackfeet sped eastward, a few firing arrows or rifles. A riverman was transfixed through the thigh and fell groaning. In retaliation, Porter gave the command to fire and a neat volley tore into the retreating Blackfeet, blasting eight of them off their feet. Added to this was another, smaller volley from the horsemen.
The Blackfeet needed no more incentive. With the wounded being helped along, the war party fled pell-mell. In the time it would take to count to ten, they were bobbing stick figures among the pines and diminishing every second.
Shakespeare shook a fist at them. “Stuff that in your pipes and smoke it!” Grinning, he faced the riders, who were slowing. “You!” he blurted in surprise.
“Me,” Nate replied. He spat dust from his mouth, then swatted dust from his sleeves. “Who were you expecting? Jim Bridger? Or Carson, maybe?”
Shakespeare had no answer. He was irritated because he’d failed to guess who it would be when it should have been obvious. He saw the weary, sweaty pack animals, all trailing ropes to which had been lashed two bundles of brush and limbs. He saw that the horses of the three men had pulled single bundles, saw the streaks in the dirt behind them. And he threw back his head and cackled.
The two New Englanders came up, their mouths dragging. “What a clever ruse!” Cyrus Porter exclaimed. “Which one of you was genius enough to think of it?”
“Señor King,” Chavez answered.
“Oui,” LeBeau added. “He turned we three into an army.”
Winona and Zach stepped close to the black stallion, neither saying anything. They didn’t have to. Their eyes spoke volumes. Nate swung down, embraced each briefly. His voice was throaty when he turned to Porter and said, “I reckon we have an hour at the most before those Blackfeet figure out we skunked them and come back thirsting for our blood.”
“How would they guess?” Porter said blandly. “We’re safe enough, I should think.”
“They’re not stupid,” Nate said.
“He’s right,” Shakespeare threw in. “I want everyone mounted and set to go in fifteen minutes.”
For once the rivermen obeyed without grumbling. The wounded man was tended by Blue Water Woman, who applied an herbal poultice. The man could ride, although he suffered severely.
Shakespeare had a destination in mind. By late afternoon they reached a river and bore northward. Five miles from the lake they passed mineral springs, some giving off the stench of sulfur. Shakespeare rode close to one to observe it bubble and boil.
Toward sunset Cyrus Porter and Adam Clark rode alongside the mountain man. Porter cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to be critical, but we’re not proceeding as swiftly as I would expect. Is it safe to hold to a walk when the Blackfeet might be after us?”
“No,” Shakespeare allowed.
“Then why are we?” Adam demanded.
Shakespeare focused on the older man. “Didn’t you tell me that the last anyone knew, your daughter and those other settlers had decided to put down roots in the Bear River region?”
“So?” Porter rejoined.
Shakespeare pointed at the river. “There it is.”
Porter sputtered, then flushed red and snapped, “Why didn’t you inform me sooner? We should be alert for evidence of where they stopped.”
“What do you
think I’ve been doing?” Shakespeare said. “And why do you think I told Chavez to stay half a mile behind us? He’s keeping his eyes peeled for the war party.”
The information was relayed. Until dark the entire expedition scoured the lowland adjoining the river. No trace of a settlement was found, not so much as the charred remains of camp fires.
At a small plain Shakespeare called a halt. He directed that the horses be tethered but the packs left on in case they had to make a quick departure in the middle of the night. Four guards were posted, with four more to relieve them at midnight and another four later.
Blue Water Woman had coffee on and was preparing antelope for supper. Shakespeare sat with a grunt, then tiredly filled his battered tin cup. “Been a long day,” he commented.
“By tomorrow night we will be at the Snake,” Blue Water Woman said. “We will be safe from the Blackfeet once we are past it.”
“You hope,” Shakespeare said. He sipped loudly, then pivoted as a rider trotted to their fire. “Any sign of them?”
“No, señor,” Chavez said. “I waited a long time, as you told me. They are not chasing us. I would stake my life on it.”
Later Nate walked over and accepted a cup, taking his black. “We need to talk,” he said after several swallows.
“About the daughter?” Shakespeare guessed.
Nate nodded. “We might as well be hunting for a needle in a haystack.”
“We tried telling Porter that before we left, but he wouldn’t listen. Since he’s the captain of this outfit, until he’s ready to quit we continue searching.”
“He’s wasting his time.”
“Would you feel the same if it was Evelyn who had gone missing? Or Zach?”
“No. And I’m not saying we should stop looking so soon.”
“Then cut to the bone.”
“How long do we stick with him? He was just jawing with my family, and he mentioned to Winona that he’ll look for two or three years if need be before hell accept never seeing Hestia again.”
A branch popped in the fire, inducing Shakespeare to pick up a stick and feed it to the flames. “He hired me to do a job, so I’m obliged to help him for a year or so. Any longer than that and he’ll be on his own.” Shakespeare was going to elaborate, but he saw someone standing in the shadows a dozen feet away, apparently eavesdropping, so he said loudly, “You there, friend! Plunk yourself down and make yourself comfortable.”
The man started to back away. “No, thanks,” he said with a hint of an accent. “I’m just stretching my legs before I turn in. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“I insist, pilgrim,” Shakespeare said, putting on a false smile of welcome. He glanced at Nate, who had a hand draped on the butt of a pistol, and gave a barely perceptible shake of his head.
The man came forward slowly, almost apprehensively, firelight highlighting his blond hair and rugged countenance.
It was Brett Hughes. Shakespeare had hardly shared ten words with the laconic loner the whole journey. On inquiring of Porter, he’d learned that Hughes had been hired to handle the supplies and to maintain a meticulous record of all expenses incurred. Shakespeare didn’t think it strange that a man as wealthy as Porter would keep track of every expenditure. Some rich men were so miserly they couldn’t stand to part with a single cent.
Nate leaned back, his hand drifting from his pistol. He lifted the coffeepot and said, “Care for a cup? Blue Water Woman makes coffee strong enough to curl your toes.”
“I suppose it can’t hurt,” Hughes said, hunkering on the other side of the fire. Although the night was warm, he rubbed his hands together as if cold and held them near to the flames.
Shakespeare did the honors, passing the cup and asking, “Care to have it sweetened?” He noted that the blond man’s hands were large and calloused, hardly the hands of someone who made a living scribbling in account books.
“No, thanks,” Hughes said.
“This your first trip into the mountains?” Shakespeare casually asked.
“Yes.”
“How do you like it so far?”
“Rather exciting,” Hughes said. “Of course, you must be used to this sort of thing, living in the Rockies as long as you have.”
“Heard about me, have you?”
“Who hasn’t? It’s rumored you’ve been out here longer than any other mountain man, that you were here before Lewis and Clark.” Genuine respect marked Hughes’s statement. “I can’t begin to imagine the things you’ve seen and done, the hardships you’ve endured.”
“It would fill a book,” Shakespeare conceded. Hughes drank and smacked his lips. “You’re right, Mr. King. This is delicious. Almost as good as tea.”
Shakespeare grinned. “I wouldn’t have taken a hardy sort like you for a tea-drinker.”
“Been drinking it all my life,” Hughes said. “Once a day, like clockwork.” He gave the impression of being about to say more, but instead he drank some coffee.
“Tea is hard to come by on the trail,” Nate remarked. “Or did you bring a supply?”
“I’m traveling light,” Hughes answered. “Which is just as well. Mr. Porter keeps me busy as a beaver from sunrise to sunup.”
“He does like to get his money’s worth,” Nate said.
“And he’s always so quick to fly off the handle,” Hughes said. “You’d think a man of his social standing would have more patience with those who work for him.”
“Money doesn’t have a thing to do with it,” Shakespeare said. “Some folks are just so soured on life they can’t get the acid out of their systems.”
“True, but he’s worse than most,” Hughes said. He leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s so bad I’m downright afraid to mention what I saw the night of the fire for fear hell go after the man without proof.”
Shakespeare’s good humor evaporated. “You saw who started it?”
“I might have.”
“Care to share with us?” Nate prodded.
Hughes acted reluctant to say anything. He sat there swishing the coffee in his cup while peering thoughtfully into space. “I suppose I can trust you. And it might help to have someone else know, just in case the man tries something else. If he is the blinking culprit, that is.”
“What did you see?” Shakespeare asked.
“Well, it was like this.” Hughes looked over his shoulder, and when assured they were alone, he went on, saying, “I couldn’t sleep very well that night so I’d gotten up to take a walk. As I was nearing the string, I happened to see one of the rivermen going into the forest. I figured he was heeding Nature’s call and went on with my stroll.” Hughes paused. “Not five minutes later the fire broke out. And when I ran to help douse the flames, I saw the same riverman come out of the trees at the far end of the camp.”
“He could well have been the one,” Nate said.
“My thinking exactly. But I must stress I have no proof, and without it we can’t accuse him.”
“So who was this coon?” Shakespeare goaded.
“Gaston.”
Nate arched an eyebrow. “Why would Gaston want to run off the horses? It’s a long walk back to the Mississippi.”
“You’ll have to question him,” Hughes said. “All I know is what I saw.” Depositing his cup, he rose. “I’m grateful for the chat. By nature I’m a solitary man who likes to keep his own company, but I don’t mind having friends. Consider me one of yours.” Smiling, he walked into the darkness.
“Interesting,” Shakespeare said, partly to himself. “What did you make of it?”
“I pegged Gaston as hotheaded, not stupid,” Nate responded. “We’ll have to watch him closely from now on.”
“You believe Hughes?”
“What reason would he have to lie?”
Not having one to give, Shakespeare fiddled with the fire, a habit of his when in deep thought. Just because he didn’t know of a reason didn’t mean Hughes didn’t have one. As much as he’d like to
believe that bastard Gaston had been to blame, a nagging suspicion gnawed at his innards, a suspicion that there was more to Hughes than the man let on. Then, too, he’d never been one to trust men who offered friendship as readily as some preachers offered salvation. Both, in his opinion, had to be earned.
Nate rose to go with a parting remark. “It’s not bad enough we have hostile tribes and grizzlies to worry about, we also have to be on guard against a renegade in our own camp. Things have been rough so far, but I have a feeling the worst is yet to come.”
“You and me, both, Horatio,” Shakespeare said. “You and me, both.”
Ten
Fort Hall on the Snake River was built in 1834 by an American named Wyeth. The enterprising type, he’d hoped to set up a trading empire but floundered and was forced to sell the fort to his British rivals, the Hudson’s Bay Company.
To say no love was lost between American trappers and the HBC would be an understatement. They were in constant competition for furs, and nowhere was that competition more intense than in the Oregon Country.
Under a treaty signed in 1818 and renewed in 1827, citizens of both countries were permitted to settle and do business in the region. This created a powder keg, with both sides suspicious of the activities of the other and each seeking to win an advantage that would prove their claim to the territory more valid.
Nate King knew all this from conversations with free and company trappers who had been there and back. So when he first set eyes on the high adobe walls, he felt edgy over the reception the expedition would receive, not relieved at reaching one of the few fortified outposts between the Mississippi and the Pacific.
Shakespeare McNair was likewise aware of the loyalties of the fort’s occupants, and he felt it prudent to make mention of the facts to Cyrus Porter, adding, “You’ll have to keep a tight rein on your men. We have to be on our best behavior the whole time we stay here.”
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