Their course so far had been across a flat stretch intermittently broken by thickets and small stands of trees. Now they entered a tract of virgin forest, which tested their horsemanship to its limits.
The trees were pines, tightly spaced. Nate used the reins adroitly, avoiding rough trunk after rough trunk, swinging wide around branches that threatened to snare him or injure the gelding. Again and again he had to duck low to save himself from a nasty rap on the skull.
Another log loomed directly ahead and he girded himself. True to form, Pegasus went over the obstacle as if endowed with the wings of his namesake. This time Nate was prepared and stayed aboard.
He broke from the forest only ten yards behind the black. Excited, he urged the gelding to go faster, then suddenly realized Campbell had intentionally slowed.
Why?
No sooner had the question come to mind than he saw the steep bank and the shallow creek below, a creek littered with flat, slick stones. The black went down the bank on its haunches, rose, and crossed the creek in short jumps.
The gelding was going far too fast when it reached the near bank. It was all Nate’s fault and he knew it. He attempted to rein up, but Pegasus had too much momentum to do more than plunge down the steep bank at a lurching run, a run that carried them into the stream, where Pegasus’s hoofs came down on the slick stones and the inevitable occurred.
Pegasus slipped and fell.
A blurred image of the ground rushing up to meet him prompted Nate to propel himself from the gelding. He hit hard on his right shoulder and rolled, inhaling water as he did. Pain speared through his right arm. In a heartbeat he was on his knees in the middle of the creek and staring in horror as Pegasus struggled to stand.
Ignoring the pain, Nate bounded to the gelding’s side and grasped the bridle. He tugged, helping the horse to rise, afraid it might have sustained a broken leg.
Pegasus immediately headed for the opposite bank.
Swept off his feet, Nate frantically swung on top of the surging animal. If Pegasus had been harmed by the spill, there was no indication of it. Grinning, soaking wet, he clung to the reins as the gelding vaulted the rim of the bank and cut out after the black.
Campbell now held a thirty-yard lead.
Nate was dismayed. Given the black’s strength and speed, he didn’t see how he could overtake the voyageur before the race ended. A ten-yard lead he could surmount, maybe. Certainly not a thirty-yard gap. Nevertheless, he forged onward, refusing to acknowledge defeat. He would see the race through to the end. No one had ever accused him of being a quitter and no one ever would.
They were now crossing an area cut by gullies. Not deep gullies, nor very steep, but of sufficient number to render breakneck speed impossible.
Nate saw the trapper slow down and did likewise, not caring for a repeat of his narrow escape in the creek. Pegasus sensed the need for care and took the gullies one at a time, leaping each in a single mighty jump, then trotting on to the next. Negotiating the erosion-worn ditches was a slow, arduous process, but Nate was sorry when the dangerous stretch ended because he had reduced Campbell’s lead by eight or nine yards. The black had balked at a few of the gullies until Campbell vigorously flailed away with the quirt, and the delays had proven costly.
Before them lay clear, flat land all the way to the top of the hill. Campbell lashed his mount in a frenzy, determined to regain lost ground.
Nate concentrated on staying calm and riding the best he knew how. His thighs were sore and his shoulder ached, but neither bothered him enough to ruin his concentration. As the seconds seemed to crawl by, he narrowed Campbell’s lead. And the smaller it became, the more furious the trapper became. Campbell was belaboring his poor horse like a madman.
The gentle slope of the hill posed no problems for either man. Campbell reached the rim, whirled, and started back down. As he passed Nate he cackled and shouted, “Fool! Those hundred pelts are mine!”
Not bothering to banter words, Nate galloped to the crest, turned the gelding, and raced toward the flatland. Was it his imagination or was the black stallion running a shade slower than previously? Perhaps Campbell had pushed it too hard during the first leg of the race. If so, Nate stood a chance, a slim one, of saving those hides for the fur company buyer.
The second time across the gullies didn’t take half as long. Pegasus knew what was required and took to the challenge like a frisky colt to its first run around a pasture. Those sturdy, powerful legs cleared each ditch with ease.
Much to Robert Campbell’s evident distress, his black faltered at the last few gullies, and he only got it across them by pounding the quirt on the animal’s head and neck.
Nate was elated to see the gap between them shrink to slightly over ten yards. He patted the gelding and spoke encouragement in its ear, as proud of it as if they had already won.
Campbell looked around, his features contorted in a mask of unbridled rage.
Neither animal experienced a problem at the creek, and then they were dashing through the pines. The black went to clear a log but its hind legs struck the top and it landed unsteadily, almost throwing Campbell. Cursing, the trapper resumed riding, his heels smacking into the black’s flanks.
When they burst from the forest onto the final leg, Nate was only eight yards behind his nemesis. A great cry went up from the spectators. He thought about all the trappers and Indians who must have bet on him and hopped they wouldn’t decide to get even if he lost. When drunk, trappers were highly unpredictable.
A low black shape suddenly materialized to the left of Pegasus, loping along beside the horse. Nate glanced down to find Samson shadowing him. In all the excitement he had completely forgotten about the huge dog that had lain so quietly at Zach’s side during the feast. He had opened his mouth to shout at it to go away, afraid Pegasus would be spooked, when the gelding became aware of the dog’s presence and responded in typical equine fashion.
Pegasus went faster.
Nate grinned and held on, deciding to let Samson tag along. The dog had to increase its speed to stay abreast, and when it did Pegasus compensated by increasing his speed.
Only six yards separated the two horses.
Campbell was beside himself. His quirt hit the black in a nonstop barrage of wicked swings that left welts and drew blood. He looked at the crowd in the Nez Percé village, then at Nate, and screamed at his mount, “Faster, damn you! Faster or I’ll feed you to the wolves!”
The black stumbled, recovered, and gamely raced toward the finish.
But now Nate was only two yards away. Then one. Samson still raced at the gelding’s side, which Pegasus didn’t like at all. With only a hundred yards to go, Pegasus finally pulled even with the black stallion.
Robert Campbell looked at Nate and raised the quirt as if to strike him. Apparently thinking better of the idea, he lowered his bloody prod and hit the stallion instead.
Nate focused on Otter Belt, who stood by himself in a narrow strip of open grass between two long rows of trappers and Indians. He must reach the war chief first to win. Slapping his legs against Pegasus, he smiled when the gelding nosed ahead of the stallion. “You can do it!” he urged. “Just a little bit farther!”
“No!” Campbell screeched. “No!”
The black valiantly tried to overtake the gelding. In a flurry of hoofs it drew even, and they were running neck and neck for a dozen yards. But the wellspring of strength and endurance that had carried it so far was almost empty. Legs rapidly weakening, it abruptly fell to the rear.
Nate reached the lines of cheering mountaineers and Indians. The bedlam was deafening. He swore he felt Pegasus flinch in alarm, and then they were galloping up to Otter Belt and he glimpsed Winona beaming proudly at him and Zach clapping in childish abandon. There was a pounding in his ears as he thundered past the war chief and brought the gelding to a gradual stop.
From all sides swarmed trappers, Nez Percés, Flatheads, Shoshonis, and Bannocks, all offering hearty congratulat
ions in their respective tongues or in sign language. Nate sat numbly in the saddle, inhaling deeply, and nodded in appreciation.
Only when Otter Belt forced his way up to Pegasus did the revelers quiet down.
“Grizzly Killer is the winner,” Otter Belt announced, using his hands to translate the statement in sign. He had to pause as a mighty shout shook the clouds.
A hand fell on Nate’s leg and he looked down into the loving face of his wife and son. He touched her chin and wished he could take her into his arms and kiss her passionately.
In the silence that followed the shouting, the weary plod of hoofs seemed oddly out of place.
Nate twisted and gazed into the hate-filled visage of Robert Campbell. The black stallion’s neck and forehead were caked with blood and it favored a rear leg.
“You’ve won fair and square,” Campbell declared so everyone could hear. “The hundred pelts I wagered will be brought to your camp.” Then he leaned forward and spoke in a venomous whisper. “But don’t think this is the end of it, King. We still have the wrestling issue to settle, and when the time comes I’ll break your back!”
Chapter Eleven
The arrival of the caravan on July 6th sparked a whirlwind of activity.
On being informed that the caravan was near, the Nez Percés prepared to welcome the missionaries they had heard so much about. Both warriors and women adorned themselves in their finery, with the braves tying their normally wild manes of hair and adding eagle feathers to enhance their appearance while the women braided their hip-length black hair and tied the braids with brightly colored ribbons.
The warriors applied paint to themselves and their war horses, and upon hearing that the horse carts and wagons were in sight they rushed to their animals and cut out to receive the newcomers.
In a ragged line the mass of howling braves descended on the wagon train, many firing guns while others pounded on war drums. The fur company men smiled and waved, knowing the reception for what it was, but the startled missionaries at the rear of the column were convinced they were under attack by bloodthirsty hostiles. They started to gather in their stock and the women hustled into their wagons. Panic-stricken, they watched in horror as the Nez Percés swooped around them, and only then did one of the top men in the American Fur Company, Captain Wyeth, ride back to inform them there was no cause for alarm.
The trappers enjoyed a hearty laugh at the expense of the bewildered missionaries, and then the leaders of the Nez Percé were introduced. Otter Belt and others insisted that the men of the Great Spirit stay near their village, to which Dr. Marcus Whitman agreed.
Whitman, along with his pretty wife Narcissa, and the Reverend Henry Spaulding and his wife, as well as William Gray, composed the missionary party. They were enthusiastically devoted to converting the Indians to Christianity, and while quite ignorant of Indian customs and beliefs they were all keenly eager to learn.
After Whitman had set up his camp the Nez Percé lined up their entire village for a formal reception. Every man, woman, and child filed past, the warriors shaking hands as they had been instructed was the white custom and the Nez Percé women kissing Mrs. Whitman and Mrs. Spaulding on the cheek.
On the heels of the Nez Percé came some of the Shoshonis and Flatheads. Narcissa welcomed them all in sincere friendship, and at long last the majority of the Indians drifted away and she was temporarily left to her own devices. It was then, as she went to enter her tent, that she spied two women standing off to one side as if shy about approaching her. She wasn’t knowledgeable enough about the various tribes to be able to determine to which tribe they belonged, although she suspected they hailed from different ones. Smiling, she beckoned for them to come near and said softly, “I won’t hurt you, my dears. Please don’t be afraid.”
Narcissa didn’t expect either to understand her words but she did feel they would respond in their hearts to her tone. So she was all the more surprised when the younger of the pair, a truly beautiful woman with the most gorgeous eyes Narcissa had ever beheld, answered in perfect English.
“Thank you, Mrs. Whitman. We did not know if we should impose on you or not.”
“Wherever did you learn to speak my language so fluently?” Narcissa inquired.
“From my husband, Nathaniel King,” the young woman replied. “I am Winona, a Shoshone.” She nodded at her companion, a stunning older woman who carried herself with grace and dignity. “This is Blue Water Woman, a Flathead, and the wife of Shakespeare McNair.”
“I have heard of Shakespeare,” Narcissa said, recalling a conversation she’d had with Captain Wyeth concerning some of the more colorful characters inhabiting the Rockies. “They say he is a man to ride the river with,” she added, delighted that she remembered that particular figure of speech as told to her by the same gentleman.
“We wanted to welcome you to the Rendezvous,” Blue Water Woman said, and made no attempt to hide the intent scrutiny she gave the missionary. “You are very beautiful.”
Narcissa blushed. “I thank you, my dear, for the compliment, but I’m afraid back in the States a man wouldn’t give me a second look.”
“White men cannot be so foolish,” Blue Water Woman said with a grin.
Narcissa noticed Winona was studying her too, but there was something in the younger woman’s eyes, a hint of apprehension perhaps, for which Narcissa could not account. “Is anything wrong?” she bluntly asked.
Winona stared into the white woman’s dazzling blue eyes and could barely find her voice. How could she tell about her fears? How could she reveal the terror lodged in her heart? She had became terrified by the very thought of Nate journeying to St. Louis to see Adeline Van Buren, and now she saw that her fears were justified. If Adeline was only half as beautiful as Narcissa Whitman, what chance did she have to retain Nate’s affection?
“Is anything wrong?” Narcissa repeated, and placed a gentle hand on Winona’s shoulder. “Forgive my manners, but you seem deeply troubled.”
“You are very wise,” Winona said. “I understand why you are close to the Great Mystery.”
“The …?” Narcissa began, and then caught on. “Oh. Yes. Actually, it is my husband who is the ordained minister. I simply help him in my own humble way.”
Winona felt a wave of despair wash over her and she had to avert her eyes to hide her emotional strife. Deep down she had always wondered if Nate still cared for Adeline Van Buren, and now she was certain he must. If all white women were as kind and attractive as Narcissa Whitman, how could he not love her?
Blue Water Woman knew of her friend’s feelings. Once, many years ago, she had entertained similar thoughts about Shakespeare. Now she came to Winona’s aid by changing the subject. “We are leaving for St. Louis when the caravan returns. Will all white women treat us as graciously as you do?”
Taken by surprise by the query, Narcissa was about to answer in the affirmative when her instinctive honesty prevailed. “There will be some, I am sorry to say, who will look down at you. They will regard you as their inferiors. But don’t let them spoil your stay. There are just as many white women who will be delighted to share your company.”
Winona had regained her composure and faced the missionary squarely. “Tell me, Mrs. Whitman. Could your husband ever love an Indian woman?”
Narcissa blinked, even more surprised. “My husband loves me and I know he would never stray,” she replied. She detected a fleeting flicker of fear on the Shoshone’s lovely features and suddenly sensed there was much more to the question than casual curiosity. “I would imagine,” she added slowly, choosing each word with care, “that my husband Marcus is very much like your Nathaniel. When a man takes a woman in marriage it usually means the man loves her to the depths of his soul and that he will do anything to make her life happier and easier.” She paused. “A man has certain needs, just like a woman does, and one of those is to have a woman to cherish and protect. Oh, I know there are those who say women belittle themselves by looking to me
n for protection, but so long as there is evil and wickedness in the world and there are those who delight in hurting others, there will be a need for men to protect their families.”
Having listened attentively, Winona nodded. “I know the truth of your words,” she said softly.
From Winona’s expression, Narcissa gathered that her words had done little to comfort the troubled young woman. She tried to fathom the underlying cause and ventured a personal question. “Has your husband given you reason to doubt his affection?”
“No,” Winona said quickly. “Not at all.”
“Has he been seeing another woman?”
“No,” Winona responded, and bit her lower lip. She abruptly turned. “Thank you for talking with us, Mrs. Whitman. We are very grateful.” With that she hurried off, Blue Water Woman at her side. Once she looked back to see Narcissa Whitman staring quizzically after her, so she smiled and waved. Then she walked toward their camp.
“You could have told her the truth.”
Winona glanced at her friend. “She is a nice woman but I do not know her well enough to confide in her.”
“So you will torture yourself all the way to St. Louis?”
“I have no choice. I must see for myself.”
“Nate is not like most of the other trappers. He will never leave you, not even for a white woman.”
“But so many trappers have done just that.”
“Yes, but they usually leave their Indian wives after a winter or two. Few stay on as long as Nate has stayed with you,” Blue Water Woman noted. She sighed and gestured at the fur company store where brisk trading was being conducted. “Were it any other white man but Nate, I might be worried for you. But Nate is different. He likes living in the mountains, and he has adopted many of our ways. In some respects he is more like an Indian than a white man.” She nodded at peaks to the west. “Here is his home.”
Winona reflected for a dozen yards before replying. “I have thought of all that. I have tried …” she began, and left her sentence unfinished at the sight of Niles Thompson hurrying in their direction. Something about his posture told her he was extremely upset.
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