Repeatedly bruised and battered and cut and scratched, Nate was pressed to his limits as he tried to counter and evade Campbell’s blows. He never would have believed Campbell had it in him. With his forearm he blocked a punch that would have caved in his face, then swung a right, going for Campbell’s jaw. But Campbell easily deflected the counterpunch and arced a fist into Nate’s stomach.
For a second Nate thought he might be sick. His gut tossed and churned, bending him in half. A leg swept out of nowhere and a foot caught him flush on the cheek, catapulting him onto his back. He placed both palms on the grass, trying to rise, when another kick speared into his ribs. Everything spun. A ringing filled his ears. Only vaguely was he aware of being violently gripped by the front of his buckskin shirt and of being hauled upright.
“This time there’s no escape!” Campbell gloated.
Mustering his strength, Nate attempted another head butt. A rough hand slapped his head aside.
“No you don’t. I’m wise to your tricks,” Campbell said, and began to slap Nate senseless.
Was there nothing he could do? In a fog of torment he felt his foot bump against Campbell’s and instinctively he raised that foot and slammed it down on his adversary’s instep, throwing all of his weight into the stomp.
Campbell yelped and limped backwards, his face distorted with anguish.
“Keep swinging, Nate! Don’t give up now!”
Was that Shakespeare? In Nate’s befuddled state he couldn’t tell. Suddenly he saw a fist pound Campbell in the mouth. Then another. Grinning idiotically, he wanted to shout for joy and urge whoever had come to his aid to keep on going until, with a start that returned his clarity of mind, he realized he was the one giving Campbell a thrashing.
Robert Campbell retreated a few yards, dug in his heels, and wouldn’t be moved come what may. He boxed with obstinate persistence, refusing to be budged or beaten.
All of Nate’s previous experience now proved profitable. Elemental instinct seized control of every fiber of his being, and he battled without a sole conscious thought. Hit. Duck. Hit. Twist. It was almost as if his body had a mind of its very own and he was a casual spectator.
Granite-hard knuckles crashed into Nate’s chin and he tottered. He saw Campbell swing again, and this time he gripped Campbell’s wrist, whirled, and heaved. The voyageur shot over his shoulder as if out of a cannon and thudded to the hard ground.
Campbell took his time getting up. Every square inch of skin on his face was covered with blood. His lips were pulverized beyond recognition. One eye was swollen and his nose was a mess. But still he stood.
Nate met him with all the force of a hurtling bull, ramming a right and left combination to
Campbell’s jaw that turned Campbell into a board and set him up for the punch to end all punches. Nate could feel his shoulder and back muscles rippling as he brought his fist from behind in a vicious half-circle and hit Campbell so hard that for a few seconds he believed he had broken his hand. But it was worth it.
Robert Campbell, arms extended and flapping wearily like the wings of a ungainly bird striving to become airborne, staggered, buckled, and toppled onto his back to lie completely still, out to the world.
Gasping for air, Nate shuffled next to his nemesis and waited for Campbell to rise. He was certain Campbell would. The man wasn’t human; he was akin to a force of Nature, unstoppable as an avalanche. Nate tried to speak and found his throat strangely constricted. Coughing, he spoke in a strangled croak that hardly resembled his normal voice. “Get up, you bastard! Get up and finish it!”
Dimly he became aware of a tremendous din on all sides. A hand clapped him on the shoulder and he glanced around to see Shakespeare regarding him kindly. “What?” he blurted out. “Step back until it’s over.”
“It is over.”
Shocked, Nate stared at Campbell and belatedly appreciated the truth. The man was a wreck, a demolished imitation of his former self. “I did that?” he asked in disbelief.
“You surely did,” Shakespeare said.
A pervading weariness engulfed Nate like the black waters of a flash flood and he sagged, his knees giving out. A strong arm encircled him and he was held erect.
“Are you all right? Can you stand?”
Nate nodded, although he had no idea whether he could or not. Straightening his knees, he swayed, then held steady. A warm hand slipped into his and Winona was there, smiling proudly, Zach beside her, holding tight onto Samson, and equally happy.
“You taught him, Pa.”
“I guess I did,” Nate mumbled, amazed at how thick his lips seemed and how sluggish his mouth worked.
“We should leave, husband,” Winona said. “You need much doctoring.”
“I’m not the only one,” Nate responded, thinking of McNair.
Winona, misunderstanding, gazed at Campbell. “True. But he is not much worse off than you are.”
“I’m that bad?”
“Your own mother would not recognize you.”
The statement brought unbidden memories of Nate’s mother, fond memories because for all her stuffiness she had loved him dearly and treated him as best she knew how. Dimly, he felt someone else take hold of him on the other side and heard Niles Thompson’s voice.
“Not to fret, Nate. Your friends are all around you. The Ruxtons won’t dare try a thing.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t stop the one who kicked you,” Shakespeare commented. “There were too many men all moving around at once. But I stopped him the second time.”
Niles chuckled. “He gave that Ruxton a lump that will take a month to go down.”
“Thanks,” Nate muttered, and then he was moving, being propelled through the throng. He glimpsed Winona, Zach, Samson, and Blue Water Woman to one side, and other trappers, all men he knew well, had surrounded the entire party.
“Listen to me, Nate,” Niles said. “The Ruxtons lost heavily. They won’t take this lying down. You must be on your guard constantly. Do you understand?”
A numb nod was all Nate could manage. Raw fatigue ate at every nerve in his body. His eyelids felt as if they weighed a ton and he kept his eyes open only with the greatest effort.
“A bunch of us will take turns watching over the camp at night until you’re on your feet again, and there will always be two or three of us handy in the daytime too,” Shakespeare said, and hissed like a striking snake. “I wouldn’t put it past those Ruxtons to try and sneak up on you after dark to slit your throat.”
Niles nodded. “I’m afraid to say it, but sooner or later you and the Ruxtons will tangle. It’s inevitable. Now that you’ve bested their champion and made them lose so heavy, they’ll want to nail your hide to a tree.”
“Let them try,” Nate said, barely able to speak.
“That’s the spirit,” Niles responded, smiling.
Shakespeare laughed. “What else would you expect from the mighty Grizzly Killer?”
For three days nothing happened.
Nate spent the entire time in his camp, resting to let his body heal and eating and drinking as much as he could to fortify his strength. His many bruises started to go down, his cuts started to heal. Only his ribs continued to bother him, and Shakespeare helped in that regard by binding his chest tightly with strips of cloth. It hurt to move, but not so badly he couldn’t get around if he had to.
Winona hovered over him like a mother hen over one of its brood, supplying his every want. She rarely left his side. No matter when he opened his eyes she was right there, ready to comply with any request. Under her tender ministrations he mended swiftly.
Niles brought word that Robert Campbell was holed up in a dense stand of trees well south of the Rendezvous proper. Evidently Campbell had relocated his camp there after the fight. The Ruxtons and two other men were staying with him, and the rumor making the rounds was to the effect the Ruxtons had sworn to make Nate pay for their losses with his blood.
But Nate had many friends, and they proved their loy
alty by showing their support in his time of need. Seldom did an hour pass that there weren’t three or four trappers seated near his lean-to. At night two or three men would patrol in ceaseless circles. If the Ruxtons had intended to strike then, their plans were thwarted.
By the afternoon of the third day Nate had persuaded Winona to let him walk about. It felt good to use his legs again, to stretch his aching muscles. Niles and four more mountaineers were near the fire, drinking some of Winona’s delicious coffee and listening to Shakespeare recite selected passages from the bard:
“Full many a glorious morning have I seen flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, kissing with golden face the meadows green, gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy. Anon permit the basest clouds to ride with ugly rack on his celestial face, and from the forlorn world his visage hide, stealing unseen to west with this disgrace. Even so my sun one early morn did shine with all-triumphant splendor on my brow. But, out, alack! He was but one hour mine, the region cloud hath masked him from me now. Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth. Suns of the world may stain when heaven’s sun staineth.”
One of the trappers shifted his lean legs. “They sure were pretty words, McNair, but what do they mean? I confess I have a hard time following your trail sometimes.”
Shakespeare grinned. “let each man find the meaning in his own soul. My meanings are mine and might have no meaning for you.”
The trapper laughed. “I swear you could talk a beaver out of his hide without ever having to set a single trap.”
They all smiled.
Nate took the opportunity to speak up. “Niles, I appreciate all that you and the others have done. But I feel a mite guilty lying around while all of you are risking your lives on my account. So, since I think I’m well enough to protect my family if need be, there’s no need for any of you to keep putting yourselves out on our behalf.”
“Did he say something?” Niles asked Shakespeare.
“He’s been mumbling a lot ever since he tangled with Campbell,” McNair answered. “Don’t pay any attention to him.”
“You know darn well what I said,” Nate said.
Shakespeare winked at him. “Good sir, why do you start, and seem to fear things that do sound so fair? I’ the name of truth, are ye fantastical, or that indeed which outwardly ye show? My noble partner you greet with present grace and great prediction of noble having and of royal hope, that he seems rapt withal. To me you speak not. If you can look into the seeds of time and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear your favors nor your hate.”
“What does that nonsense have to do with anything?” Nate demanded, peeved he was being ignored. “Sometimes I suspect you make this stuff up as you go along.”
“How dare you, sir. Old William S. is hardly stuff.”
Knowing further argument would prove pointless, Nate stepped to the lean-to and sat down. In the corner Zach played with Samson, repeatedly offering a large stick to the huge dog, which it accepted and tugged on until the boy squealed with laughter and let go. “Having fun?”
“Samson is the most wonderful dog there is,” Zach responded, and gave the beast an affectionate hug.
“Would you be upset if we were to leave him behind when we go to St. Louis?”
Zach’s mouth dropped open. “Leave Samson? Never!”
“It was just a thought,” Nate said. He had grave reservations about taking the dog to such a big city. Samson, after all, was still partially wild at heart and wild creatures seldom fared well in human jungles where the natural law of the survival of the fittest was modified some would say perverted by the laws of men.
“Which reminds me,” Shakespeare said. “Winona tells me you’re planning to go back with the caravan. If that’s the case, you won’t need me along to help ward off hostiles. I’ve changed my mind about going.”
From a dozen yards away, where Winona and Blue Water Woman sat in conversation, came the stern voice of the Flathead woman.
“We are going to St. Louis, dearest, and that is final.”
The mountaineers did their best to conceal their smirks.
“Women!” Shakespeare muttered. “If I ever figure out why the Good Lord created them, I’ll die a happy man.”
Blue Water Woman blew him a kiss.
Chapter Fourteen
The American Fur Company caravan started for the borders of distant civilization on July 18th. The horse carts and beasts of burden that had packed in supplies were now laden with the prime beaver furs collected by the fur company from their own mountaineers and purchased from the free trappers. As on the trip out, Tom Fitzpatrick served as commander of the caravan.
Instead of heading straight for St. Louis, the caravan leisurely followed a preplanned route that took them to Fort William on the mouth of the Yellowstone River. From there they made across the prairie toward Bellevue.
Nate rode with his family, Shakespeare, and Blue Water Woman near the head of the long column so they wouldn’t be forced to breathe the dust swirled into a thick cloud in the caravan’s wake by the passing of the cart wheels and the stock animals. Now that he was finally on his way, he was impatient to reach St. Louis. He kept asking himself the same questions over and over. What if Adeline had grown tired of waiting and returned to New York City? What could have brought her to St. Louis in the first place? Why had she sought him out after so many years?
The plodding progress of the carts ate at Nate’s nerves. In his mind’s eye he envisioned their location on the rolling plains, well northwest of St. Louis and heading roughly due east toward Bellevue, a frontier outpost approximately four hundred and fifty miles from the city where Adeline waited. If he was to strike off on a beeline to St. Louis he would arrive there at least two weeks before the slow caravan.
That night, their tenth since leaving the vicinity of Green River, Nate cleared his throat and looked across the camp fire at his wife and best friends. “I have an idea,” he announced.
“We’re in trouble,” Shakespeare said.
“What is it?” Winona asked.
“I’d like to shave some time off our trip by going straight to St. Louis instead of staying with the caravan.”
No one said a word for over a minute. Shakespeare and Blue Water Woman shared knowing looks.
Winona looked down at the flames lapping at the wood she had gathered earlier and said softly, “We run a great risk if we leave the safety of the caravan.”
“I’ve been talking to Fitzpatrick and some of the men driving the carts. They say no one has seen any sign of the Sioux or the Cheyenne in this region for a couple of months. The Sioux are supposed to be north of here, the Cheyenne hunting buffalo off to the south. We should be safe if we push hard and stay alert.”
“Should be,” Shakespeare said.
“You don’t want to do it?” Nate asked, aware of the chilly reception his idea had received.
“I’m just thinking of your family and my wife,” Shakespeare responded.
“And you think I’m not?” Nate bristled.
“I didn’t say that,” Shakespeare said. “I’ll do it if you insist, but I have grave reservations.”
“Winona?” Nate prompted.
She lifted her head and gazed at him with the strangest expression he had ever beheld on her face. Her mouth curved downward for a fleeting interval, and then she squared her shoulders, took a breath, and answered. “I will do whatever you wish, my husband. As always.”
“Fine, Then I’ll inform Tom Fitzpatrick,” Nate said, rising. He hastened away.
Winona watched his broad shoulders disappear in the darkness. She rose, glanced at her sleeping son, and walked a few yards from the fire to be alone with her thoughts. She knew the reason Nate was in such a hurry and it upset her beyond measure. He was eager to see that woman from the great city! All of her fears formed into a single wave of panic that washed over her heart and made her tremble uncontrollably.
“Car
e to talk?”
“Thank you, no, Blue Water Woman,” Winona replied, keeping her back to her friend so Blue
Water Woman wouldn’t see the moisture rimming her eyes.
“It means nothing.”
“Does it?”
“He was close to her once. His feelings are only natural. Just remember he loves you.”
“Does he?”
“You know he does.”
Winona kept quiet, struggling to maintain her composure. She heard Blue Water Woman move back to the fire and she stepped farther into the night, her arms folded across her chest, feeling chilly despite the warm temperature. She wished she could dig a hole, crawl into it, and pull the earth over her. For years she had dreaded losing Nate, and now her anxiety threatened to blossom into reality. For the life of her she didn’t know what to do.
Should she go on as if nothing out of the ordinary were occurring? Should she behave as she always had on the assumption nothing was changed between Nate and her? Or should she confront him with her fears and see how he reacted? She could even demand they call off the trip and go back to their cabin. But what would he do if she gave him an ultimatum? Would he become angry? Would he leave her for this white woman?
She sighed, overcome with sadness, and rued the day she had ever been born.
The next morning at first light they rode off, bearing southeast. A few of the cart drivers and stock tenders waved.
“Good luck!” Tom Fitzpatrick called.
“The same to you!” Nate replied, and took the lead, his Hawken draped across his thighs for instant use. While he was glad to be striking off on his own, he was puzzled by his wife’s sullen behavior. All last night and since awakening she had been unusually reticent, refusing to speak unless spoken to. With one exception. Around Zach she was her normal, cheerful self.
He tried putting himself in her place. What did she have to be upset about? Leaving the caravan? Or was she still disturbed over Adeline? He couldn’t believe it was the latter. She must know by now that he loved her and her alone. The only logical conclusion left the caravan. She was mad because he was hazarding all of their lives to shave off a few weeks’ travel time, an unreasonable attitude in his estimation. Being with the fur company caravan was no guarantee hostile Indians wouldn’t bother them. Sometimes roving bands refused to permit the caravan to pass until the warriors received a certain amount of merchandise as a token of the whites’ friendship. And there was always the danger of encountering a war party of Blackfeet, although those demons generally confined themselves to the mountains and the northern plains.
Hawken Fury (Giant Wilderness Book One) Page 10