“You speak as if you were an old man,” Winona said, “and you have not seen much more than thirty winters.”
“Sometimes I feel older than I am,” Nate admitted. “It’s this life we lead.”
Shakespeare had been listening and picked that moment to interject. “Wrong. It’s not life but the way we live it that makes us feel old or young. Attack life like you would a haunch of venison when you’re starved, and you’ll always feel young.”
“As usual you lead us on a word goose-chase,” Nate commented. “We don’t eat life. We live it.”
“Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, I have done,” Shakespeare quoted, “for thou hast more of the wild-goose in one of thy wits than, I am sure, I have in my whole five.”
Nate was trying to figure out if he had been insulted or not when Two Humps came flying back along the trail and pointed out across the broad river.
“Canoes.”
Sure enough, a pair of canoes were making their way inland, hugging the opposite shore. Each was filled with warriors, but since the far bank now lay hundreds of feet away, it was impossible to tell whether they were Kelawatsets.
“If they are,” Shakespeare voiced the thought uppermost on all their minds, “they’ll be back once they overtake their friends and learn what happened. We’d better travel faster.”
Except for a brief halt to rest and water the horses, the expedition pushed on through the remainder of the day, covering at least five more miles than they ordinarily would. Since they didn’t care to have the Kelawatsets spot their camp, Shakespeare directed a cold camp to be made. They ate jerky and pemmican and sat huddled under their blankets.
All the men took turns keeping watch. All, that is, except for Cyrus Porter. He would neither eat nor drink and simply laid down on his side once they had called a halt, refusing to talk to anyone.
Zach was elated when his father asked him to take a turn at standing guard. He had never been asked before, and he considered the request a token of his father’s faith in his ability, yet another step on his long road to manhood. He was so excited, he couldn’t sleep a wink between nightfall and his shift at midnight. When he heard LeBeau coming for him, he jumped up so suddenly that LeBeau was startled.
“You have a snake in your pants, young one?”
“No, sir,” Zach answered, grinning. “I’m raring to go, is all.”
“So I see. Be careful you not shoot yourself, eh?”
It wasn’t until close to two in the morning that Zach heard or saw anything unusual. He was making his fiftieth circuit of the remaining horses, his Hawken cocked in case he should be jumped, when a twig snapped in the forest to the south. It was just one twig, and it might have been broken by an animal or even the strong wind that blew down the Columbia gorge at night, but Zach suspected differently. He crouched and listened, straining his ears until he thought they would burst, yet he heard nothing else. He pondered whether to wake his father and decided against it. His father needed rest, and he would feel like an idiot if he sounded an alarm and there was no cause for concern.
Zach felt differently the next morning when he did mention the incident. He thought he’d done the right thing, but it was apparent by the look his father gave him that he had made a mistake.
“I thank you for thinking of how tired I was,” Nate said sternly, “but the safety of all of us is more important. It might have been a hostile Indian. Or a grizzly. We should have gone to see.”
“I’m sorry,” Zach said. “I won’t ever let it happen again.”
The very next night Zach had an opportunity to test his vow. He had been on watch for only an hour when he heard rustling in the high grass bordering the river. They were camped on a wide strip of flat land abutting a barren bluff, which made approach from any direction difficult. Uncle Shakespeare had been quite pleased with the site, and his father too, so Zach hadn’t expected anyone would try to sneak up on them. That is, until the grass rustled.
Zach was between the grass and the horses. He promptly crouched low as his father had taught him. Moving figures at night were easier to spot from ground level than when erect, and he was able to see the tops of the grass bending ever so slightly as if to the pressure of a body snaking along close to the water. Was it a prowling beast? Zach wondered. He aimed the Hawken, and when the rustling stopped, he crept nearer. But he only went two steps when he thought of his promise. If he was right, and if there was something lurking out there that might threaten all their lives, his first duty was to tell his father.
Nate came instantly awake when Zach’s hand fell on his shoulder. He glanced at Winona, who slept soundly with Evelyn nestled in her arms, then whispered, “What is it?”
“Something, Pa. Over by the river.”
Grabbing his rifle, Nate padded on his son’s heels to a spot halfway between the string and the shore. Zach pointed. Nate nodded, motioned for the boy to stay there, and advanced alone. He hadn’t said anything to the others, but he was extremely worried about the Kelawatsets. Shakespeare had told him enough about the tribe for him to know they would never leave the deaths of those warriors unavenged. Even if the warriors had brought their fate on themselves.
Nate stopped every few feet to look and listen. His ears registered the various sounds, identifying them; the fluttering gusts of wind, the gurgling rush of the water, the swaying of the grass. He suspected that Zach had seen the grass bend under the wind and assumed a living creature had been responsible. A moment later he saw the bump.
Nate couldn’t quite make it out, at first. But poised above the stems, off to the right perhaps twenty feet, was the dark outline of something that didn’t quite fit. It resembled nothing so much as an oversized bump on a log.
Although Nate couldn’t distinguish any features, he had a gut feeling that unseen eyes were on him. His skin crawled of its own accord. Were they the eyes of men or a roving predator? He hefted the Hawken, then stalked forward slowly, body in a crouch. Ten feet from the strange shape he began to think his mind was playing tricks on him and there must be a perfectly natural explanation.
Suddenly the bump dipped from sight. The grass moved, bending swiftly as whatever it was moved with lightning speed toward the Columbia.
Nate rose and ran, the rifle tucked to his shoulder. He was still yards off when he spied a long, slender form slip into the water and disappear under the surface. In the dim light he couldn’t be sure what he had seen. He stopped a yard shy of the edge in case it tried to spring out and seize him. The water bubbled briefly, then rippled as something made off underwater, moving parallel with the bank.
Nate gave chase, treading carefully since a misstep might plunge him in the icy river. The grass ended, replaced by a gravel strip. His moccasins crunched as he sprinted. He came to the end of the gravel and drew up short. Belatedly, he realized the ripples had vanished.
Whirling, Nate scanned the glassy surface. He thought he saw a few bubbles farther out, but they were swept away before he could be certain. Then a stick poked out—at least, it appeared to be a stick—and was carried off by the flow, soon blending into the darkness to the east.
Puzzled by the occurrence, Nate walked back. Zach met him at the grass.
“What was that thing, Pa? I didn’t get a good look.”
“You’re not the only one.”
“Want me to stand guard by the river for the rest of the night in case it comes back?” Zach asked eagerly.
The question gave Nate pause. He was going to say yes, confident his son could handle the chore, but a vague premonition made him change his mind. “I was the one who let the thing get away, so I figure I should be the one to keep watch for it. You go get some rest.”
Zach turned, then glanced back. “Pa, you’re not shooing me off because you think I can’t handle myself, are you?”
“Never,” Nate said sincerely. “If I’ve learned nothing else on this journey, it’s that I have to start thinking of you as a man and not as a little boy.”
He could tell his son was downcast, so he elaborated. “You have to understand, son. Fathers love their children just as much as mothers do. We might not say it as much. And we might not show it like women do. But the fact is, we do. I care for you so much that sometimes I hurt inside.” Nate gestured at the Columbia. “This has nothing to do with whether you can handle the job or not. It has to do with me not wanting any harm to come to you. Do you understand?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ll take your word for it.”
Nate watched his son hasten off and smiled in the heartfelt satisfaction only the proud fathers of sons can ever know. He went in search of the other guard and found a riverman standing close to the barren hill. It was Gaston. “Quiet over here?” he asked casually.
“Quiet enough,” the riverman answered sullenly.
Since the battle, Nate had not shared three words with Gaston. They seldom talked as it was, due in part to Gaston’s resentment of the beating he had suffered that day he attacked McNair. Nate thought to mend fences and said, “You’ll probably be glad as can be when you see the Mississippi again.”
“More glad than you can imagine,” Gaston said in his heavily accented English. There was no hint of friendliness in his voice.
Nate gazed at the camp and saw LeBeau and Hestia Davin sleeping close to one another. They had become inseparable, and Nate fully expected them to marry at the earliest opportunity. “I know someone else who will be happy to reach civilization,” he remarked. “LeBeau probably can’t wait to set up house.”
Gaston’s tone, surprisingly, hardened. “Oui. He is the only one who has come out of this nightmare with a prize worth the hardships. Or he thinks he is the only one.”
“What does that mean?” Nate asked. “Nothing.”
Gaston strolled off, leaving Nate perplexed. He suspected there had been more to the comment than the riverman let on, but he had no idea what it might be. The sinister growl in Gaston’s tone troubled him. He chalked it up to jealousy; Hetty was a beautiful woman and Gaston was envious that she had taken a fancy to LeBeau and not to him.
The rest of the night passed quietly. Shortly before noon of the next day, as they came to the crest of a high hill opposite a gigantic rock, they saw in the dim distance a great shimmering haze and a wide expanse of water.
“The Pacific Ocean,” Shakespeare announced with reverence.
“Really?” Zach was elated. “How much longer before we reach it, Uncle?”
“Three or four days at the most,” Shakespeare said, “if we don’t have any more trouble.”
No one needed to ask what kind of trouble. The reminder bothered Nate, for it brought to mind the strange occurrence of the night before. He moved closer to the Columbia as they continued on, studying the opposite shore and the forest behind them. He became so engrossed, he fell a little ways behind the column but didn’t realize he had done so until one of the pack horses whinnied.
Lifting the reins, Nate prepared to catch up. He looked to the left and held still. Over in the trees stood two figures. At first he suspected they were Indians spying on the expedition, but then a stray shaft of sunlight streaming through the branches bathed both, revealing Cyrus Porter and Gaston. It shocked Nate to see them together, since they cared little for one another.
As Nate watched, unseen, they talked in low tones. Or argued, would be more to the point, because Gaston was gesturing sharply and Porter was shaking his head. They had a heated exchange, Porter as red as a beet. For a moment Nate thought Porter would strike the riverman. But no such thing happened. Instead, Hetty’s father nodded, and the two men shook hands. With furtive glances, they hastened after the column, moving their mounts apart.
Nate was confused and greatly alarmed. Porter and Gaston acted as if they were up to no good, but what could it be? And why then, of all times? Weren’t they all in enough danger without those two adding to their woes? He had half a mind to ride up to each of them and demand to know what was going on, but he knew he’d be wasting his time. They’d deny his accusation, and short of beating the truth out of them, there was nothing he could do.
For the rest of the day, though, Nate kept them both in sight. They didn’t speak to one another again. Indeed, it seemed to him as if they went out of their way to avoid each other, which strengthened his suspicions.
That evening, as everyone sat around eating a buck Two Humps had brought down with his bow, Nate strolled over to where Shakespeare and Blue Water Woman sat. McNair had charge of assigning guard shifts to the men, so to McNair Nate said, “What time does Gaston pull his shift tonight?”
“Two in the morning,” Shakespeare disclosed, his brow knitting. “Why?”
“I’d like to share it with him,” Nate said. He didn’t care to elaborate until he had proof.
Shakespeare scratched his beard a moment. “How now. Mighty strange that you should ask such a thing. Last I heard, Gaston rated you on a par with rancid polecat meat.” The mountain man leaned forward to whisper. “What’s this all about, young prince?”
“I can’t say as yet.”
“Why not? Don’t you trust me?”
“With my life. But this is something I’d rather take care of myself. If I’m wrong, then no one is offended. If I’m right—” Nate didn’t complete the statement because he had no idea what would happen if he was right.
“In the reproof of chance lies the true proof of men,” Shakespeare quoted. “As for Gaston,” he said, and quoted again, “a false-hearted rogue, a most unjust knave. I will no more trust him when he leers than I will a serpent when he hisses.”
“That makes two of us,” Nate assured him. He saw Porter off by himself, eating a steak. Gaston was with the other two rivermen, acting perfectly ordinary.
“I hate it when someone keeps a secret from me,” Shakespeare said. “Makes it downright hard for me to sleep.”
“Do your best,” Nate said, and walked off before McNair quizzed him to death. He plunked down beside Winona, who promptly handed Evelyn to him.
“Here, husband. It has been so long since last you held your daughter, she has forgotten what you look like.”
Evelyn squealed in delight and grabbed Nate’s chin, tugging on his facial hair. He smiled, pecked her on the forehead, and held her high over his head. She giggled, her little legs waving.
“Do you ever wish we had another child?” Winona asked out of the blue.
Nate glanced at her. “Are you—?”
“No. Sometimes I want to be. I would be happy to bear you another one.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Nate said, marveling that she could think of such a thing at such a time. “We’ll see if you still feel the same when we’re home.” He didn’t add that for all they knew, none of them would see their cabin ever again.
They went on talking until dark claimed the land. Nate lay with Winona cuddled in his arms but was too high strung to sleep. He stared at the sparkling stars, so many they filled the heavens, and listened to the men making their rounds of the camp. Against his will he drifted off.
Approaching footsteps awakened him. Nate sat up slowly so as not to disturb his wife and children and looked at Chavez.
“Your turn, amigo.”
“See anything unusual tonight?” Nate asked as he rose.
“I thought I saw a light across the river, to the northwest. It might have been a camp fire.”
“This coon will keep his eyes skinned,” Nate promised. Some of the sleepers were snoring loudly as he made his way to the string and verified that the horses were tethered. He looked around for Gaston but saw no trace of him. Disturbed, he headed back toward the knot of prone forms to see if the riverman was among them. He spotted LeBeau and Hetty, closest to the trees, then Shakespeare and Blue Water Woman.
A slight noise behind Nate made him spin and raise the Hawken. Gaston stood a few yards away, grinning.
“You have bad nerves tonight, King. That is not good. You might shoot me by mistake.”
�
��I’d never put a ball into you by mistake,” Nate said.
The riverman walked off toward the horses, so Nate went to the bank of the Columbia and sought sign of the light Chavez had seen. Every fifteen to twenty minutes over the next two hours he checked again. He had about given up on ever seeing it when, sometime around four in the morning, he spotted a flickering glow miles off. Halting with his back to the encampment, he stared intently at the distant fire, so intently he didn’t sense that someone was behind him until a fraction of a second before a heavy object slammed into the back of his head. He fell forward, pain lancing his skull, dropping the rifle as he sagged. A second blow to the small of his back sent him flying—right into the river.
Twenty-Two
Nate King owed the Columbia River his life. For no sooner did he sink under the surface than the cold water revived him with a jolt. He gasped, and nearly drowned. Water poured into his mouth, into his throat. Although he closed his mouth promptly, he had precious little air in his lungs.
Above Nate the surface glistened dully. He pumped his arms and legs, kicking furiously as he was swept along by the strong current. His face broke free and he sucked in air. Twisting, he was astounded to find he had been swept fifteen yards from the camp in just the few seconds he had been under.
Weighted down by his buckskins and moccasins, Nate struck out for the shore, a mere ten feet away. It might as well have been ten miles. The current fought him every inch of the way.
For every foot he gained, he was carried another three eastward. Suddenly fate smiled on him. Nate’s feet made contact and he was able to stand and resist the pull of the mighty river.
Slowly feeling his way with his toes, Nate reached the shore and collapsed on the bank. He had only been in the water a minute or two, yet it seemed like an eternity. He was soaked to the skin and so exhausted he could do no more than lie there panting. Then he thought of the blows that felled him.
Had it been Gaston? Or a hostile Indian? That question spurred Nate into pushing up off the ground. He swayed, feeling as chilled as ice, goose bumps breaking out all over. Marshaling his strength, he headed for the camp. His legs refused to work at first, and he had to compel them through sheer force of will.
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