Hawken Fury (Giant Wilderness Book One)

by Robbins, David

  “You have a reputation for being able to lick grizzlies with one arm tied behind your back. They say you’ve killed Blackfeet in droves and won’t back down for any man,” Shakespeare disclosed. “You’re the toughest, roughest man around, and when you go out you’ll be lying in a heap of foes.”

  “What harm can such talk do?” Nate asked again.

  Shakespeare nudged a dead Blackfoot with his toe. “Reputations have a way of catching up with a man. One of these days you might have to live up to yours.”

  Chapter Nine

  The celebration was in full, rowdy swing when the trouble began.

  Nearly every trapper was present, as were a good many of the Shoshonis, Flatheads, and Bannocks. Their Nez Percé hosts had prepared a lavish banquet fit for royalty. There were over a dozen tin pans measuring eighteen inches in diameter heaped high with stewed buffalo and elk meat, boiled deer meat or, as those in the States would call it, venison and even some roasted mountain sheep. Huge containers of boiled flour pudding spiced with dried fruit were also offered for consumption, as were cakes and twenty quarts of a tart sauce made from sour berries and sugar. Plenty of coffee was available, as were ample “spirits” courtesy of the mountaineers.

  When Nate’s party got there the festivities had been under way for over an hour. Otter Belt immediately sought him out and gave him the seat of honor. Nate accepted, and only then perceived the feast was being thrown especially for his benefit, which was later confirmed when Otter Belt stood and gave a short speech in the Nez Percé tongue and sign language detailing Nate’s part in saving the Nez Percé horses. When Otter Belt concluded, the trappers and some of the assembled Indians joined in a hearty cheer.

  Seated cross-legged on Otter Belt’s left, Nate smiled and tried to act nonchalant although he was extremely uncomfortable being the center of so much attention. He ignored Shakespeare who was grinning at him as if to say, “I told you so.” Thankfully, after the cheer everyone settled down to eat in earnest and he devoted his attention to cramming as much succulent elk meat into his stomach as it would hold.

  Twenty minutes later, after Nate had licked the grease from his fingers and was in the act of wiping his hands on his leggings, Otter Belt turned to him.

  “My people would like to express our gratitude for what you did earlier,” the war chief signed.

  “This feast is gratitude enough,” Nate replied, hoping they wouldn’t embarrass him by making more of a fuss over him. Indians were like that, though. As generous as could be. If they believed a white man was their friend, there was nothing they wouldn’t do for him. He knew of instances where Indians had gone hungry in order to share their last morsels of food with a visiting trapper.

  “We would be happy if you would accept a gift,” Otter Belt revealed.

  “It is not necessary,” Nate insisted.

  “My people believe it is.”

  There was no getting around it. Nate put on his best face and inquired, “What kind of gift did you have in mind?”

  Otter Belt glanced at a pair of warriors waiting nearby and clapped his hands. They promptly raced from sight around a lodge. Rising, the war chief gazed at the motley assemblage until nearly everyone had seen him and quieted down. Then his hands flew in sign and he spoke in his own language. “Friends of the Nez Percé. Never let it be said that my people do not know how to show our gratitude for those who do us a great service. Grizzly Killer honored us by coming to our aid when we needed it most. As a token of our friendship and the esteem in which we hold him, we are giving him a gift. When men see him on this gift, they will remember the fight by the Green River and how he risked his life on our behalf. And they will know that the Nez Percé do more than speak empty words when we say we are glad to share all that we have with our white brothers.”

  An expectant hush gripped the mountain men and Indians, and all eyes swiveled toward the lodge when the two warriors reappeared a few moments later leading the gift by its reins. Murmuring broke out, whispers of admiration and praise.

  Nate felt his own breath catch in his throat. It was no secret the Nez Percé were the best horse breeders in the Rockies, and perhaps the very best of all Indian tribes everywhere, even better than the vaunted Comanches far to the south. Nez Percé horses had been renowned ever since the days of Lewis and Clark, and lucky was the trapper who managed to obtain one. Few did, because the Nez Percé were understandably reluctant to part with their carefully cultivated stock. But there, standing before him, was a Nez Percé horse all his very own. And it was, without any doubt, the single most magnificent animal he had ever laid eyes on.

  A gelding, the horse was over eighteen hands high and bore pied markings, distinctive white spots admixed with darker brown patches. Its very contours spoke of endurance and speed. A healthy, glowing coat added to the impression of vitality, and a long, full tail lent an extra element of beauty.

  Otter Belt stepped to the horse and affectionately rubbed its neck. Then he beckoned for Nate to join him. “This is the best war horse in our village,” he stated matter-of-factly. “it runs like the wind and does not know the meaning of fear. It has charged into a line of Bloods and never missed a step. It has run into a fleeing herd of buffalo without flinching.” He smiled at Nate. “This is the kind of horse most men dream about owning, but never do. Any warrior in my tribe would give two hundred horses for this one.”

  Nate reached out a hand and the gelding rubbed its nose against his palm. He was tempted to tell the Nez Percé the gift was more than he deserved for the little he had done, but the sight and feel of the tremendous mount stilled his protest. Despite himself, he wanted that horse, wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything with the exception of Winona.

  By the looks being directed his way, he was the envy of practically every man present. He walked around the horse once, noting its fine lines, then, on an impulse, gripped the reins and swung onto its bare back. Jabbing his heels into its flanks, he took off at a gallop and rode along the bank for hundreds of yards beaming like a kid who had just been granted his heart’s desire.

  He took his time returning, savoring the rhythm of the horse and its powerful stride. Stroking its neck, he spoke softly into its ear, letting the gelding become accustomed to the sound of his voice. “If this don’t beat all. I’d be a fool to refuse you, and Mrs. King didn’t raise her boys to be fools. So you and I are going to go everywhere together from now on. How would that be?” He stopped and ran his fingers through its mane. “You’re going to need a name, something appropriate for a horse of your breeding.”

  They were almost to the village and a majority of the trappers had risen to meet them.

  “I know,” Nate said, recalling the many lessons on the ancient Greeks through which he had suffered while acquiring his education back in New York City, boring lessons imparted by a stern, prim teacher who always addressed the class in a dull monotone. “I read about a winged horse once that was supposed to be the best horse ever created. It’s only fair that you have his name.”

  Holding his chin high, Nate stopped at the edge of the crowd to let them admire his new animal. “Gentlemen,” he announced, “I’d like to introduce Pegasus.”

  “Pegasus?” a burly trapper said. “Now there’s a fancy name if I do say so.”

  “I bet this animal would beat anything on four legs,” another man remarked.

  Nate chuckled. “I’d bet so too.”

  From the back of the mountaineers came a harsh challenge. “Then put your pelts where your mouth is. I’ll gladly take you up on that bet right now. How about another hundred hides?”

  There were mutterings of surprise among the trappers and they parted to allow the speaker to approach Pegasus. From the rear ranks swaggered Robert Campbell, his thumbs hooked in his belt, a cocky smile creasing his face. Three friends of his trailed behind, insolence written all over their features.

  Otter Belt seemed puzzled by the confrontation. He glanced from Nate to Campbell, then stepped
between them and used sign language. “This is a peaceful gathering, white brother. Grizzly Killer is our honored guest.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Campbell quipped in English before resorting to sign. “I mean no disrespect to your people. But the mighty Grizzly Killer believes the horse you have given him is the fastest around.” He snorted contemptuously. “I say I have one that will run rings around that pied gelding of his.”

  The war chief nodded and addressed another Nez Percé. After a brief discussion, Otter Belt turned to Nate.

  “Are you willing to race this man?”

  As much as Nate would have liked to decline, he couldn’t. Campbell, who had once been a voyageur or free trapper in Canada, had always been belligerent but crafty. He’d thrown down the gauntlet in public. Nate’s honor, not to mention his reputation, was at stake. If he refused, he would be branded a man of big words but little deeds, a man of no account. He couldn’t afford to let that happen. As much as he valued the money he would get after selling his beaver hides, he valued his self-respect and personal pride even more. “I will be more than happy to have Mister Campbell eat my dust,” he declared.

  Many of the trappers burst out laughing.

  Campbell whispered to one of his friends, who ran off to the grassy area where those mountaineers who had ridden to the feast had tied their horses. “I’ve got you now, King,” Campbell boasted. “You’ve put your foot in it for sure.”

  “The proof is in the pudding,” Nate retorted for want of anything wittier. He saw Campbell’s friend returning, and to his consternation the man was leading a superb black stallion every bit as big and powerful as Pegasus.

  “I call him Jester,” Campbell said proudly, “because he makes jokes out of every horse he races.”

  Nate could well believe it. The black had the lines of a well-bred racer but the prancing air of a half-wild Indian steed. If appearances counted for anything, then that horse would be as fleet as they came. He’d had no idea Campbell owned such a mount and remarked as much.

  The voyageur chuckled. “Won him from a Crow who had stolen him from the Cheyennes. I never figured on using him to take my revenge on you, but a man learns to take advantage of opportunities as they arise, doesn’t he?” He cackled with delight.

  Nate noticed the black was saddled and looked down at the bare back of his new mount. Some Indian tribes used saddles on long trips and for special ceremonies, short leather affairs stuffed with buffalo hair and grass, saddles entirely different from the typical leather variety used by the mountaineers. Mostly Indians rode bareback, though. So if he transferred his own saddle to Pegasus, the gelding would probably object to the strange object by bucking or simply refusing to cooperate. And even if Pegasus accepted the saddle, the horse might be distracted enough not to run at its very best.

  It appeared Nate had no choice but to take part in the race bareback. And that worried him. He hadn’t ridden bareback in quite some time he couldn’t even remember the last such occasion. While doing so wasn’t terribly difficult, it did require a bit more concentration on the part of the rider. And lacking a saddle meant the rider must cling harder with his legs and thighs. A single miscalculation, especially at a full gallop in a hotly contested race, could easily result in being spilled onto the ground.

  “Is something wrong, husband?”

  Winona, with Zach at her side, stood next to his right foot.

  There’s no fooling her, Nate reflected. Sometimes he was inclined to believe she could read his innermost thoughts. He gazed into her lovely eyes and said softly so no one else could hear, “I’d hate to lose all those peltries I worked so hard to collect.”

  “We will get by if you do.”

  “You must think I’m an idiot.”

  “I would not marry an idiot.”

  Nate grinned and reached down to affectionately stroke her cheek. “I love you, you crazy woman.”

  “And I love you.”

  Zach was gaping at Pegasus in wide-eyed wonder. “Is this horse really ours, Pa?”

  “Ours and ours alone.”

  “How soon do I get to ride him?”

  “A high-spirited animal like this?” Nate responded, amused by the request. His son was a skilled rider but there were limits to what a seven-year-old could handle. Indian boys, he knew, started on ponies and gradually worked their way up to full-grown war horses. “Oh, ask me again in nine or ten years.”

  Robert Campbell had swung onto his black stallion. He grinned at Nate and slowly walked his horse in a circle around Pegasus. “First I’m going to beat you at this, then at wrestling,” he bragged. “In a few days everyone will be praising me to high heaven, not you.”

  Nate was sorry he’d ever agreed to wrestle Campbell for the first time five years ago. Such bouts were frequently conducted at Rendezvous for amusement, as were horse races, foot races, and hopping matches. Trappers were inveterate gamblers, and large wagers rested on every contest. He had wrestled Campbell to win a twenty-dollar bet and every year since, the voyageur had challenged him again in an attempt to erase the stigma of having lost. If nothing else, the man was persistent.

  “Do you see that hill yonder?” Campbell now asked, pointing at a bald hillock about half a mile away.

  “Yes,” Nate said.

  “Would you agree to race to the top and back for the extra one hundred pelts?”

  Nate hesitated. The distance would be a mile all told, a mile riding bareback over rugged terrain.

  “Well?” Campbell taunted him. “Is it agreed or are you afraid?”

  “It’s agreed,” Nate said, and the words were no sooner out of his mouth than Campbell lashed the black stallion with a quirt and was off like a shot.

  Chapter Ten

  It took all of three seconds for Nate to react to being tricked and he promptly jabbed his heels into Pegasus. The gelding responded superbly, breaking into a full gallop in the span of two strides. But by then Robert Campbell already enjoyed a fifteen-yard lead and was racing to beat the wind.

  Cheers and shouts of encouragement broke out among the trappers, as did a hasty round of betting. The spur-of-the-moment start had taken them by surprise; few had bothered to offer a wager on their favorite. Now they made up for the oversight in a flurry of yelled amounts and boisterous takers.

  Nate held his body flush with the gelding’s broad back, trying to make it easier on the horse. Pegasus flew, and there was no need to apply his

  heels again. Unlike Campbell and many Indians, he never used a quirt as a matter of personal choice. Smacking a mount to get it going had never struck him as being particularly humane or even smart when any horse that ever lived responded to human kindness with the same or better results. There were men who beat their mounts as a matter of course, liberally applying a quirt or whip. Such men, Nate believed, were essentially lazy. If they would take as much time to treat their animals with affectionate consideration as they did beating the poor creatures, their horses would do all that was demanded of them and more.

  Nate had no idea of the number of races in which Pegasus had participated, but from the energetic manner in which the gelding galloped after Campbell’s black stallion he gathered there had been plenty. Pegasus fairly flew. Head stretched, tail straight, the gelding flowed over the ground like greased lightning.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  Campbell’s black was more than equal to the occasion. Its lead fell to twelve yards and then it held steady, neither losing ground nor gaining. Campbell repeatedly glanced back and smirked, confident of victory.

  Using his thighs as much as possible to grip the gelding instead of his lower legs, Nate urged it on with words of encouragement. “Go, boy, go! Faster, Pegasus! You can do it! Faster!”

  The gelding couldn’t possibly understand the words. It could and did respond to the tone, seeming to expend more effort than before.

  Only vaguely was Nate aware of the frenzied uproar to his rear. The trappers and Indians were venting a collective
roar that rose to the high heavens. He idly wondered if Winona and Shakespeare were cheering for him, then cleared his mind of all distracting thoughts and focused on the race. Paying attention to the terrain was paramount. Otherwise he’d surely lose.

  Campbell skirted a thicket and was momentarily lost to view.

  Just before doing the same, Nate glanced over his shoulder to gauge the distance already covered. A quarter of a mile, probably less, he guessed, and swept around the thicket with the gelding’s hoofs pounding.

  A large log lay directly in his path.

  Nate’s breath caught in his throat. He started to lift the rope reins, but was on the log in a flash. Appalled, he felt Pegasus leave the ground in a great, arcing jump, and he clung to the gelding’s mane in desperation. The impact when they landed jarred him to his bone marrow. Despite his grip, his body slipped to the right, and for a terrifying instant he thought he was going to fall. Somehow, he clung tenaciously and righted himself.

  Robert Campbell was laughing in devilish joy.

  A suspicion hit Nate then, and his knuckles became white from the pressure he applied. What if that had been deliberate? What if Campbell knew this stretch of ground well and had tried to get him unhorsed? He wouldn’t put such a ploy past the wily trapper. Perhaps

  Campbell had planned to race others and had previously scouted routes that would give his black stallion an advantage. Perhaps, through a quirk of fate, Nate had played right into his hands.

  Angry, he rode with renewed vigor, molding his form to the rhythm of Pegasus. Jumping the log had caused him to lose another three or four yards. Somehow he must make up the distance and pull even with the black.

  To Robert Campbell’s credit, the man rode with flair, an expert in the saddle. Obviously he had ridden the stallion so often that man and horse were essentially one, although he persisted in using the quirt when doing so wasn’t really necessary. Every twenty or thirty feet he would lash the stallion a few times as if reminding it who was its master.