“Allow me to introduce young Troilus,” Shakespeare responded. “His heart is in the right place but he left his mind back in Maine.”
“Troilus?” Pierce repeated, then frowned. “Oh. More of your nonsense. Well, the coons at the next Rendezvous will be spared from having to listen to your silliness.”
“You’ve gone that far over the line, have you?”
“All the way and then some.”
Tim Curry was rising to his knees, his cheek scraped from his fall. Complete confusion dominated him. He had no idea what to make of the cruel trapper’s attitude and actions. “Why did you do that to me?” he demanded. “I haven’t done you any wrong. We should be sticking together. The real enemies are the heathens.”
Jacob Pierce laughed, a low, rumbling mockery of the greenhorn’s remarks. “You’re more of a jackass than I thought, hoss. Don’t be fretting over the Crows. They’re not the ones you have to worry about. I am.”
“You?” Tim said in bewilderment. “But you’re white, like us. Surely you don’t want us to come to any harm.”
“Just because someone has the same skin color as you doesn’t make him your brother,” Pierce said. “Out here in the wilderness it’s every man for himself, boy. The stupid and the slow don’t last long.”
“I still don’t understand. Why would you hurt us?” Tim asked. “Why would any sane man want to hurt another?”
“Bootle.”
“What?”
“Come with me. I’ll show you.”
Shakespeare followed the other two out. The Crow women and children were gathered to the right, waiting expectantly. In front of the lodge two dozen warriors had arranged themselves in two long parallel rows about eight feet apart, each man holding a war club or tomahawk or knife. At sight of them, Shakespeare involuntarily tensed. “Damn you, Pierce,” he said.
The Invincible One only chuckled. “As last words go, they’re not very original.” He walked to the next teepee, a larger dwelling, and opened the flap. “Take a gander, Troilus,” he told the greenhorn, “and maybe then you can go to your grave knowing why you have to die.”
Curry tentatively stepped to the opening. Inside were stacked bales of beaver fur, a fortune in plews nearly filling the bottom of the lodge. “My word,” he blurted. “There must be hundreds!”
“Thousands,” Jacob Pierce corrected. “A few more seasons and I’ll be one of the richest men on the continent.” He bent and touched one of the hides, stroking the fur as if caressing a lover. “A lot of hard work went into raising these plews, and not one lick of it was mine.”
“Then how …?” Tim began, and stopped, the awful implication hitting him with the force of a physical blow. “Sweet Jesus! You're killing trappers and stealing their catch!”
“At last! To think, I thought you were dumb!” Pierce put his hands on his hips and roared.
Shakespeare had taken all of the abuse he was going to tolerate. He squared his shoulders and announced, “If you re fixing to kill us, you turncoat son of a bitch, then do it. I’m sick of listening to you crow just to hear yourself flap your gums.”
Pierce’s humor vanished in a twinkling, to be replaced by scarlet wrath. “As you wish, McNair,” he said gravely. “Although if I was in your shoes, I wouldn’t be in such a hurry to meet my Maker.” He motioned at the twin rows of stalwart warriors. “Have you ever seen a man run a gauntlet before? It’s not a pretty sight. By the time you reach the end, if you live that long, you’ll beg me to put you out of your misery.”
“I’ve never groveled in my life,” Shakespeare countered. “And as you pointed out, I’m too blamed old to start now.” He wagged his arms. “Cut me loose and let’s get cracking.”
“McNair, no!” Tim butted in, aghast. Shakespeare faced the greenhorn.
“When a man’s time comes, son, he has to meet it squarely, with all the gumption he can muster. Dying with dignity is one of the few graces afforded us, and I for one don’t aim to pass up the chance to show I’ve learned more from life than not to sit downwind of men who have eaten beans for supper.”
Pierce grinned. “And you had the gall to claim I like to hear myself talk! Have you ever listened to yourself, old-timer? At the Rendezvous you go on for hours reading that miserable book of yours aloud.” He glanced at a third lodge, where all of the plunder the Crows had confiscated was stacked for his inspection. “Come to think of it, that damn book must be in one of your bags. It will make dandy kindling.”
“You’re lucky I don’t have a gun,” Shakespeare responded, “or I’d show these Crows that you’re about as invincible as a bowl of mush.”
“Am I indeed?” Pierce laughed, then gestured at a knot of warriors, among them Two Humps, who hurried to do his bidding. Seizing McNair and the greenhorn, the Crows hauled the pair to the end of the gauntlet. Both had their bounds removed, at which point the Crows formed a small ring around the two trappers and leveled rifles or drew knives.
“Just in case you get any crazy notions about trying to get away,” Pierce said. He stood with his brawny arms folded, his brow knit, for half a minute. “It occurs to me, McNair, that I ought to demonstrate why the Crows gave me the name they did. You see, I once raised beaver in the same valley where Whirlwind Hawk found you. Then a war party trapped me, and I figured I was a goner for certain. But when they shot me, I wasn’t hurt. Not so much as a scratch. That convinced them I was something special, so they brought me back for everyone else to see. Put me to the test, you might say.”
“And you’ve had them wrapped around your finger ever since,” Shakespeare said. “It must be a whopper of a trick you have up your sleeve.”
“Oh, it’s no trick,” Pierce said. “You couldn’t kill me if you wanted to.”
“Care to let me prove you wrong?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” Pierce unexpectedly drew one of the pistols at his waist. “But I’m not about to turn a gun over to a crafty bastard like you. Let’s have your idiot friend show you I’m speaking with a straight tongue.” He offered the flintlock to Curry. “Take this and shoot me.”
The young man from Maine gaped at the piece, then at the madman who held it. Nothing in Tim’s prior experience had ever prepared him for a situation so outlandish as this. He wished he was dreaming, wished he would wake up and find he had been slumbering in his own bed at his parents’ home in Maine. “I’ve never killed anyone before,” he said meekly.
“Then here’s your chance,” Pierce said, shoving the pistol at him. “Hell, everyone should kill somebody at least once just to know what it’s like.”
“You re insane.”
Taking a short step, Jacob Pierce rammed the flintlock into the greenhorn’s stomach. Tim Curry doubled over in excruciating torment and felt his stomach start to heave. Shakespeare moved to help, but a rifle muzzle blossomed in front of his nose.
“Now then, boy,” Pierce said, grabbing Curry’s chin. “You’re going to do exactly as I say without any more of your guff or I’ll have one of these Crows put a ball through your private parts. Savvy?
Tim could scarcely breathe. He gulped in air, nodding briskly when Pierce raised the pistol to strike him again. “I’ll do whatever you want,” Tim said, and suddenly had a thought that electrified him into recovering swiftly. Pierce was the one responsible for killing and robbing trappers. Therefore, if he killed Pierce, the Crows might be willing to permit Shakespeare and him to depart unmolested. He listened to Pierce bark words at the Crows in their tongue.
“Take the gun,” the murderer ordered.
Dutifully, Tim obeyed and put his thumb on the hammer.
“Don’t cock it until I say,” Pierce directed. “If you do, the Crows will make wolf meat of you.” He backed up a half-dozen long paces, then held both arms out from his sides. “Now pull back the hammer.”
Tim did.
“Aim at my heart.”
Tim did, annoyed when his hand shook uncontrollably. He tried to steady his nerves through sheer for
ce of will. Several of the Crows had trained rifles and bows on him, which didn’t help his state of mind any.
“Come on, you dunderhead,” Pierce taunted. “You can do it. Just think of me as your worst enemy.”
Tim had no trouble in that regard. At length the shaking subsided and he took deliberate aim, centering the bead on the middle of the rogue’s chest. Sweat broke out on his palm and his mouth abruptly went dry.
“When I count to five, squeeze the trigger.”
Nodding once, Tim licked his lips and stilled the fluttering of his heart. He was so high-strung he nearly jumped when McNair spoke.
“What happens if he kills you, Pierce?”
“He won’t.”
“But what if he does?” Shakespeare said. “I want you to tell these Crows of yours to let us collect our fixings and leave if you go under.”
“I hold all the cards here, McNair. Not you.”
“Do you?” Shakespeare responded. “The only reason you want Troilus to shoot you is so you can prove to the Crows that not even other whites can kill you. This stunt is a big show you’re putting on for their benefit. Survive, and they’re liable to think you’re all-powerful, a god in human form.” Shakespeare took a step toward the greenhorn. “But if we don’t do as you want, they might get the notion into their heads that you’re not as high and mighty as you make yourself out to be. It might give a few an incentive to test your invincibility on their own.”
“You always were a clever son of a bitch,” Pierce said. “Too damn clever for your own good.” He sighed. “All right. If I’m killed, you can go. My word on it.”
“Tell them,” Shakespeare said, and paid close attention as Pierce relayed the order. He was strongly tempted to make a grab for the flintlock in Curry’s hand, but knew he’d be shot dead before he could. The greenhorn was pale, yet radiated a somber air of resolve. Shakespeare knew Curry would do it, and he had to admit that he was intensely curious to learn how Pierce pulled the chicanery off. Because it had to be deception of one kind or another. No man could live after being shot in the heart at such close range.
Pierce motioned impatiently. “Now can we get this over with? Shoot, boy, before I lose my temper and have the Crows separate you from your hair.”
Tim closed his eyes for a moment and reached deep within himself for the spark of willpower needed to take the supreme step. He aimed again, then touched his finger to the trigger. Flame and smoke belched from the flintlock.
Jacob Pierce was flung backward, his arms flapping, to smack hard onto the ground. A great, collective gasp went up from the assembled Crows, and a number of warriors hastened toward him. They all stopped dead when Pierce abruptly sat up, a hand pressed to his chest, pain etching his features. He looked down at himself, at his bloodless hand, and smiled in personal triumph.
The greenhorn gawked, unable to accept the reality of the tableau.
And Shakespeare McNair so forgot himself as to snatch the empty pistol from Curry’s grasp so he could sniff the barrel. There was no denying the gun had contained plenty of powder. “You didn’t put in a ball,” he guessed. “That’s your secret, Pierce. You put in powder but no bullet.”
“Think so, do you?” Pierce glanced at one of the warriors. “Let him load the pistol using your powder horn and ammo pouch. Keep a close eye on him. If he tries anything, kill him.”
Shakespeare took the proffered items and set about reloading. First he added the right amount of powder. Too much, and the barrel would burst. Too little, and the bullet wouldn’t penetrate. Then he wrapped the ball in a patch and tamped both down on top of the powder using a rod handed him by another Crow. When he was done he looked up and saw Jacob Pierce standing fifteen feet away, waiting.
“I’ve heard tales about your marksmanship, McNair. They say you can shoot the eye out of a chipmunk at three hundred yards. Here’s where you prove them right.” Pierce slowly turned and spread his arms out. “Let’s see if you can put one through my heart from the back. Put your shot smack between my shoulder blades.”
Shakespeare straightened and cocked the flintlock. He wanted nothing more than to put an end to Pierce’s bloody spree, but he had never shot anyone in the back and wasn’t inclined to start. “Turn around. I’d rather see your face when I pull the trigger.”
“No, you’ll do it through my back or not at all.”
Everyone was watching intently. Shakespeare sighted halfway between Pierce’s shoulders. In his mind’s eye he envisioned the ball shattering the spinal column, ripping through Pierce’s flesh into the heart, and exploding out the chest in a spray of blood and gore.
“I don’t have all day.”
Shakespeare hesitated. It went against his grain to shoot an unarmed man, no matter how vile the man might be. He had to remind himself of all the trappers Pierce had wiped out, all the innocent lives destroyed in the name of blatant greed. Then he stroked the trigger.
Jacob Pierce hurtled forward, stumbled to his knees, and collapsed. Shakespeare took a few steps, confident a spreading red strain would dampen the back of the renegade’s shirt. To his consternation, no blood appeared. He saw Pierce twitch, then put both hands on the ground and push to his knees. Wearing a smile of pure evil, Pierce slowly turned.
“Nice shooting, McNair. If I was an ordinary man, I’d be gone beaver.”
“Impossible,” Shakespeare breathed. “I loaded the pistol myself.”
“And you shot me yourself,” Pierce bated him. “Maybe now you see why the Crows think I’m so special. They don’t want to rile a man with medicine as strong as mine.” He rose unsteadily, took a few deep breaths, then walked back. “Still, that packed quite a wallop. I hurt like hell.”
Shakespeare stared at the flintlock in his hand. For the life of him he couldn’t figure out how Pierce still lived. Could it be, he wondered, that the man actually was invincible? The very notion seemed preposterous, yet what other explanation was there? The next moment one of the warriors snatched the pistol from him and handed it to Pierce.
“I should thank you and the greenhorn, McNair. Now that the Crows have seen with their own eyes my medicine works on whites too, they’ll be more agreeable to doing my bidding than ever before.”
“And a lot more trappers will die,” Shakespeare said bitterly.
“Another ten or twelve ought to give me enough plews to set myself up for life,” Pierce boasted. He nodded at the plunder taken from McNair, King, and Curry. “The three of you hardly had any. I keep telling the damn Crows to only capture whites who have a lot of hides, but they can’t seem to get it through their thick skulls. Twice now they’ve brought back trappers who hardly had a plew to their name.” He tucked the spent pistol under his belt, beside another flintlock. “Now let’s end this so I can get on to other things.”
“End it?” Tim said, dread piercing him like a lance. For a while there he had forgotten all about the fate awaiting them. “You mean, kill us.”
Pierce stepped to the gauntlet and bobbed his chin at the aisle between the rows of Crows. “Which one of you wants to go first? I can flip a coin if you can’t make up your minds.”
Tim glanced at the glittering knife in the bronzed hand of the first strapping warrior, and gulped. “What if we won’t cooperate? What if we refuse to run?”
“Then I’ll shoot you dead myself and have your bodies dumped in the woods for the coyotes and vultures to feast on,” Pierce said.
Shakespeare boldly moved to the aisle and halted, his shoulder almost brushing Pierce. The warriors covering him likewise moved, two taking up positions on his right, the others behind Pierce. One of those on his right was Two Humps.
“I knew you’d be the noble sort and let the greenhorn go last,” Pierce said sarcastically. “And to show you I can be just as noble, I’ll grant a last request. Would you like a smoke? A chew? A cup of coffee?”
“I’d like a minute to make my peace with the Good Lord, if you don’t mind,” Shakespeare said.
Pie
rce’s eyebrows arched. “I never took you for the religious type. Thought you had more sense than most.” He shrugged. “If that’s all you want, be my guest.”
Folding his hands at his waist, Shakespeare bowed his head as if to pray and closed his eyes, but not all the way. Through cracked lids he watched those around him. He saw the Crows relax a bit, saw the pair with rifles lower the barrels a few inches. He saw Pierce shift to sneer at the greenhorn. And it was then, while they were all off guard, that he sprang into action, spinning and grabbing Pierce’s second pistol before Pierce could think to stop him and whirling and shoving the cocked flintlock against Two Humps’s temple before Two Humps or any of the other Crows could so much as move. “Lift a finger against us and he dies!” he shouted in their language.
A woman in the crowd screamed. Some of the warriors had started to lift their weapons and close in, but they halted on Perceiving the consequences. They looked uncertainly at one another, and at the Invincible One.
Pierce had not batted an eye. Acting more amused than angry, he held out his hand. “Save us all some trouble. Give me the gun, McNair, and run the gauntlet.”
“I’m not bluffing,” Shakespeare bluffed.
“What do I care if you shoot him? He means nothing to me.”
“But he means something to the Crows,” Shakespeare said. “He’s one of their chiefs, so he must have a lot of friends, a lot of influence. Let him die, and what will they think?”
Pierce’s humor faded. “You keep trying to turn the tribe against me. Haven’t you learned yet that I have them eating out of the palm of my hand?”
“Only so long as you keep them happy with fixings and baubles stolen from trappers. And only so long as they don’t have to pay a high price in Crow blood.” Shakespeare stepped behind Two Humps, who had not moved a muscle since being taken by surprise. The warrior held a knife, which Shakespeare plucked loose. “I want three horses brought over, Jacob. Then I want everyone to stand back or you’ll have a heap of explaining to do as to why your medicine wasn’t powerful enough to keep the chief from being killed.”
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