Nate bowed his head. The old warrior must have been incredibly courageous to do such a thing. Could Shakespeare be right? Was he incapable of understanding? After all, he was young and healthy and vibrant with life. He had no true idea of what it must be like to be ill for months or years on end or to have his body betray him by becoming progressively weaker with age. And although there had been times when he had been alone, he’d never experienced the abject loneliness such as Shakespeare’s mother had known.
“It’s not that I want to die,” the mountain man remarked wistfully. “I was looking forward to a long life with Blue Water Woman.”
“Then go to St. Louis and be examined by a physician,” Nate urged.
“I’d rather not.”
“What harm can it do?”
“No.”
“You’re being stubborn,” Nate said in exasperation.
“You’re absolutely right. I’ve been a mule-headed cuss all of my born days and I’m too old to change now. So forget about St. Louis.”
“You might find a cure.”
“Drop the subject.”
“But”
“Drop it, I say!” Shakespeare snapped.
Startled, Nate faced forward. His friend had never spoken to him so sternly before and it shocked him. There had been a tinge of something else in Shakespeare’s tone, an indefinable quality that if he didn’t know better might have been a trace of fear. But such a notion was ridiculous. Shakespeare wasn’t afraid of anything on God’s green earth.
After a spell Shakespeare cleared his throat. “Sorry, Nate. There was no call for me to lash out at you like I did. I appreciate your concern.”
Nate had a thought. Perhaps Shakespeare was leery of traveling such a great distance because he might perish along the way. The prospect of becoming too weak to travel and lying helpless on the prairie while hostiles or wild beasts closed in would dissuade any man. “I’d even go with you,” he volunteered. “I’d like to see how much St. Louis has grown since I was there last.”
“I’m not going and that’s final.”
“We could take our wives and Zach with us,” Nate said, trying one last tack.
Shakespeare grunted in disapproval. “And you have the gall to call me stubborn! When you sink your teeth into something you don’t let go come hell or high water.” He chuckled. “You would have made a dandy wolverine.”
For the next mile neither man spoke.
Nate’s mind raced as he tried to think of a means to help his mentor. There must be something he could do. Some of Winona’s people were well versed in the healing arts and might be able to help. So might medicine men from other friendly tribes such as the Crows or the Pawnees. Shakespeare was partial to the Flatheads but they weren’t the only tribe who boasted skilled healers.
Nate ceased his contemplation to survey the ground ahead, recalling landmarks he’d passed
during his mad run to the cabin. Instead of sticking to the trail he’d simply made a frantic beeline, and he recollected passing a certain boulder with a jagged upper rim shortly after stashing his makeshift pack. Once he located the boulder, finding the right tree would be child’s play.
It took several minutes until the boulder appeared.
Nate lifted an arm and pointed, about to make mention of the fact to Shakespeare, when from up ahead there arose a series of feral growls and snarls. Instantly he crouched, the Hawken in both hands, and peered through the vegetation to try and glimpse the animals responsible.
“Wolves,” Shakespeare whispered, down on one knee.
“They must have found the cache!” Nate exclaimed softly, and rose without thinking. After all the trouble he had gone to in obtaining the bear meat, he wasn’t about to stand idly by and let a pack of wolves consume it. He dashed forward, treading as lightly as possible, angry but not foolhardy.
Wolves rarely attacked humans. Quite often they would gather in the darkness around a flickering campfire and gaze in curious wonder at the men who had made it. Frequently they would sit there and howl as if they might be trying to converse in their eerie, primitive fashion. Only when they were rabid or starved were they dangerous, as Nate had found out some years ago when he’d nearly been slain by a small pack.
A thicket reared between him and the tree where the bear meat was cached. Stepping on the balls of his feet, he glided soundlessly to the right until he could view the tree and the snarling wolves.
There were seven, all told, five adults and two young ones. Their coats were gray, their sleek bodies rippling with muscles as they padded in circles around the trunk of the pine. The meat rested securely in a fork over eight feet above the ground, and now and again one of the adults would take a flying leap and try to snare the bear hide in its teeth. So far they had failed, but several times the largest of the pack came close enough to snip off fragments of bear hair.
Nate squatted and debated. Given time the wolves would drift elsewhere if they couldn’t get the meat. But knowing their vaunted persistence, he realized hours might elapse before they admitted defeat, hours he was not willing to waste in waiting.
He could see what had attracted them. Blood had dripped out of the hide, trickled down the trunk, and formed a tiny puddle at the base of the tree. No doubt the wolves had caught the airborne scent of the blood and come to investigate. A wry grin curled his lips. At least he should be thankful a grizzly hadn’t picked up the scent.
His thumb resting on the hammer, he held still and watched. The leader of the pack was a huge brute, about the same size as Samson, in the prime of its life. He didn’t want to shoot it if he could avoid such an eventuality since he had an aversion to killing any game unless he needed food or a hide. He could always sew together a wolf skin cap from the pelt, but he already owned a few hats and had no desire for a new one, even if the wolf skin variety was quite the fashion rage among the trapping fraternity.
Perhaps he could scare them off. Wolves, like most wild creatures, possessed an instinctive wariness of humans. Even grizzlies, on occasion, would wheel and flee at the sight of a human, although such timidity was the exception rather than the rule.
Girding himself, Nate stood and advanced a few strides. Immediately the wolves froze in their tracks and glanced at him. Not one displayed the slightest fear. He waved the rifle at them and yelled, thinking the sound of his voice would rout them. “Go! Get lost! That’s my meat and you’re not going to have it!”
Instead of fleeing, the huge male snarled and sprang.
Chapter Four
Nate tried to bring the rifle to bear, but the wolf was on him before he could level the barrel. It crashed into the gun, its jaws ripping at his throat, its heavy weight staggering him backwards. Hot breath fanned his neck, and then he lashed out with the stock and clipped the beast a solid blow on the side of its skull.
The wolf fell and with uncanny coordination landed on all fours. In a twinkling it crouched, bracing its leg muscles for another jump.
From the right and left other wolves closed in.
Stepping back, Nate lifted the rifle to his shoulder. He’d get one with the Sharps and possibly another with a pistol. After that he must rely on his long butcher knife and count on Shakespeare to come to his aid. Where was McNair, anyway? He saw a bush to the south tremble and expected
his friend to dart into the open with his rifle blasting.
Out of that bush came something, all right, but it wasn’t the mountain man. A snarling black brute of a dog streaked into the midst of the wolves, its massive jaws tearing every which way in savage abandon. The ferocious momentum of its attack scattered the pack, all except for the leader. It spun to meet the dog and their shoulders collided. The wolf, which weighed a hundred and forty pounds or better, was bowled over by the impact but promptly scrambled erect.
And then a battle ensued such as few men had been privileged to witness. Nate stared in anxious fascination as the two beasts fought in a swirl of flashing limbs, white teeth, and throaty growls. T
hey moved too fast for the human eye to follow, and he marked the progress of the clash with difficulty. He saw both animals tear chunks of fur and flesh from the other. Often they were pressed muzzle to muzzle, rolling over and over, back and forth. An instant later they would be upright, their mouths darting out with snakelike speed.
He glanced once at the other wolves. The rest of the pack had gathered under trees a dozen yards to the north, observing the conflict in typical stoic lupine silence. None made a move to interfere. This was a fight to the death between their leader and the black dog, a fight as primal, as elemental, as their existence itself. Nature had endowed them with a primitive code of conduct that prevented them from taking sides in personal disputes. And to them this was just such a dispute. In their eyes the leader had been challenged for leadership of the pack, and he must prove himself fit to hold that post or forfeit his life for his failure.
Several times Nate tried to help the dog, to snap off a shot, but the constant whirl of motion made a certain hit impossible and he wouldn’t risk hitting the dog. So he impatiently waited for the outcome, which came so abruptly he was caught unawares.
The dog and wolf were spinning and biting in a dizzying display of speed and agility when there arose an agonized yelp and for a moment they were still, the wolf’s broken front leg held in the iron grip of the big dog’s teeth. Shifting, the dog let go of the leg and swept its mouth up and in. Those wicked teeth closed on the wolf’s exposed throat and bit deep. Blood spurted. The wolf stiffened and vented a plaintive howl of despair, then desperately attempted to free itself. In so doing, it only tore its own throat wider still, spraying a crimson geyser onto the grass.
Rumbling like an enraged grizzly, the dog worried the throat back and forth in its jaws until the wolf sagged. For another minute it held on, its teeth grinding ever deeper. Finally, satisfied the wolf was dead, the dog released its hold and turned to face the pack.
The wolves waited expectantly.
Advancing a stride, with a harsh snarl the dog sent them running. They vanished into the undergrowth like shadowy ghosts from a goblin realm.
“Thanks, Samson,” Nate said softly.
The dog turned and padded up to him. Blood from a score of wounds matted its sides and back. There was an especially nasty gash on its neck where the wolf had nearly succeeded in obtaining a death hold, and above one eye hung a flap of partially severed skin.
“You always know right when to show up, don’t you?” Nate commented, squatting so he could examine the wounds carefully. None were life threatening but there always existed the chance of infection. The gash and the torn skin should be tended as soon as possible.
“Remind me to never raise my voice at you in that dog’s presence.”
Nate looked back and saw Shakespeare nearby. Grinning, he stroked Samson, watching so he didn’t accidentally touch a wound. “Samson knows you too well to harm you.”
“So you say,” Shakespeare responded. “But I’d rather not learn you’re wrong the hard way.”
The dog licked Nate, its slick tongue rasping over his right cheek. Gingerly, Nate gave it a hug and stood, his memory straying to the time years ago when he’d first encountered Samson in Crow territory. The dog had been a stray, and it had taken to him like a duck takes to water. Since then he had kept it as a pet and allowed it to sleep indoors whenever it was so inclined.
“I’ll fetch the bear meat,” Shakespeare offered. He walked to the pine and poked the pack with his rifle barrel until the bear hide slipped out of the fork and fell. With a deft snatch he caught it, his knees bending from the strain. “Lord! How much did you wrap in here?”
“Ninety pounds or so.”
“The next time warn a man, will you? It about broke my back.”
“Want me to carry it home?” Nate asked.
Shakespeare bristled at the innocent request. “No, thank you very much. I may be ill, but I can still do my share of the work here or anywhere else.”
“For how long?” Nate inquired. “How long before Blue Water Woman discovers your condition?”
“She never will if I can help it.”
“She will, though. One day you’ll wake up and be too weak to move. How do you think she’ll feel once she learns you didn’t confide in her? She might think you don’t love her as much as you claim.”
Shakespeare glowered and took a step forward. “If any other man made such a remark to me, he’d be eating his teeth.” Pivoting, he headed toward the cabin. “You would make me very happy if you would never bring the subject up again.”
“But ...” Nate protested, unwilling to let the matter rest when his friend’s life was at stake. There had to be something they could do. There had to be!
The mountain man paused to glance at him. “Please. For me.”
Sighing reluctantly, Nate merely nodded. He thought of the Rendezvous and the experienced mountaineers who would be there, men such as Jim Bridger and Joe Meek and others, wise men who knew all there was to know about the mountains and the various Indian tribes, who knew even more than he did. Perhaps one of them could offer advice that would save Shakespeare’s hide. If not, he could always give Shakespeare a rap on the skull, tie him up, and head for St. Louis.
Samson limped slightly as they walked, and Nate stopped to examine the dog’s right front leg. There were teeth marks in the skin but the underlying muscles and tendons appeared to be fine. Evidently the wolf had nipped the leg but had done no real damage.
He walked faster to catch up with Shakespeare. “So how about if we leave for the Rendezvous tomorrow? I can have everything we need packed and set to go by nightfall.”
“What’s your rush all of a sudden?”
“No rush. But why wait when our wives are looking forward to seeing their own people again and we both have prime peltries to sell?” Nate rejoined, deliberately maintaining a bland expression.
The mountain man shrugged. “Suit yourself. I suppose it would be better to get an early start so we can take our time. We can ride north along the foothills, then cross at South Pass and head for Fort Bonneville.”
“Sounds good,” Nate commented. The route would be easy on the horses and there would be plenty of game, principally buffalo, along the way. Should hostiles appear on the prairie, there would be adequate cover in the foothills.
They went half a mile without speaking. Then Shakespeare idly glanced at the bear hide in his hands and drew up short. “Damn. I almost forgot.
There’s some news I figured you should know.”
“News?”
Shakespeare nodded and resumed walking. “It’s the talk of the country, from what I hear.” He paused. “Niles Thompson and a few friends of his stopped at my cabin a while back. They were on their way into Crow country after paying a visit to St. Louis. Thompson needed a new rifle. Dropped his old one when he was scaling a cliff.”
Nate heard loud chattering and looked around to see a large squirrel protesting their presence in no uncertain terms.
“Anyhow, he heard the news while he was there and he found a couple of old newspapers to bring back and show everyone. He left one with me and I have it in my possibles bag.”
“Are you fixing to tell me or do I have to wait until I see this newspaper?” Nate asked impatiently. He gathered from Shakespeare’s attitude that it must be something important. His friend seldom displayed any interest in news from the States unless it related to the trapping trade.
“Jim Bowie is dead.”
“What?” Nate blurted out, and halted in amazement. Ever since his late teens he had followed the exploits of the knife-wielding firebrand with more than a casual interest. Thanks to the many tales of Bowie’s exploits reported in every newspaper across the land, Bowie had become a genuine living legend in his own time.
Every schoolboy knew about the many fights Bowie reputedly engaged in. There was the famous “Sandbar fight” of 1827 in which Bowie had slain his bitter enemy Major Morris Wright despite having been sev
erely wounded twice by gunshots. In 1829 Bowie bested Bloody John Sturdivant in a knife fight in which the two participants sat across one another at a table with their left hands lashed together. Sturdivant survived and later hired three assassins to ambush Bowie. They did, and were thus added to the long list of those who presumed to tackle the best knife-fighter ever known.
And there were other confrontations. Bowie once fought a duel while seated on a log facing his opponent, both with their buckskin breeches nailed to the log. On another occasion he fought a Mexican armed with a poniard. In New Orleans one night he entered an unlit room armed with his knife, while his Creole foe went in carrying a sword. When the door was opened, only Bowie was still alive.
“That’s not all,” Shakespeare said. “Davy Crockett is dead too.”
Nate stared at his friend in disbelief. Crockett was another frontiersman who had attained prominent national status. He had fought in the Creek War under Andrew Jackson. Noted for his skill as a peerless hunter and his uncanny marksmanship, Crockett reportedly killed a hundred and five black bears in seven months time, a prodigious feat by any standards. He later parlayed his likable personality and first-rate storytelling into a political career. Several books had been written about him, and a popular play that toured the country featured a lead character based on Crockett’s exploits.
“Have you heard about the situation in Texas?” Shakespeare inquired.
“I recall hearing there was a push on for independence from Mexico,” Nate said.
“Well, that push came to shove and the Texans have their independence. But it cost them. There was a battle back in March at an old mission called the Alamo and every last man was killed, including Bowie and Crockett.”
“They were fighting together?”
Hawken Fury (Giant Wilderness Book One) Page 3