Hawken Fury (Giant Wilderness Book One)

by Robbins, David

  So he concluded he would say nothing to Winona. He knew her well enough to know it would intensify her anger, while if he let the storm pass she would be her old self before two or three days went by.

  Or so he thought until six more days elapsed and she hadn’t changed at all. Near him she invariably was morose. Where once he could get her to laugh with ease, now she wouldn’t even smile. Neither Shakespeare nor Blue Water Woman offered any advice, although both were aware of the situation.

  Late on the afternoon of the sixth day he was riding twenty feet in front of the others when Pegasus suddenly nickered and gazed off to the southwest. He looked in the same direction, his pulse racing upon discovering a large group of Indians riding over a low hill, heading westward. Instantly he reined up and raised the Hawken, fearing the worst, but the group disappeared moments later.

  Shakespeare hurried up. “I saw them too, but I couldn’t tell which tribe they belonged to.”

  “If they saw us and they’re hostile, they’ll try to get around behind us to attack,” Nate said. “We’ll play it safe and swing eastward for a while.” By doing so they would put more distance and a few hills between the Indians and themselves.

  “I could go check their tracks,” Shakespeare suggested. “Might give us a clue.”

  “What if they’re waiting for us to do just that?”

  “They might be,” Shakespeare said. “Indians can be tricky devils when they put their minds to it.” He swung his white horse. “East it is then.”

  For the better part of an hour they pressed on, until Nate was satisfied they had nothing to fear from the band. He angled to the southeast once more, seeking a likely spot to make camp for the night, preferably somewhere sheltered from the constantly blowing wind and where their fire wouldn’t be seen for miles around.

  The sun sank ever lower.

  Just when Nate had about resigned himself to making a cold camp on the open prairie, he spotted a line of trees indicating the presence of a creek. Rifle in hand, he rode closer. Other than a rabbit that bolted into the brush, there was no sign of life.

  The creek was a thin ribbon of sluggish water that would probably dry up by September. A few pools of five or six inches in depth proved perfect for the watering of their mounts and their pack animals. Their camp was established under the trees on the east bank where a circle of undergrowth served to screen the campfire from view.

  “We were fortunate today,” Blue Water Woman remarked as she helped Winona prepare the evening meal.

  Nate didn’t care to dwell on the subject since it would only fuel Winona’s anger. “I wonder how much St. Louis has changed since last any of us were there,” he remarked.

  “Quite a bit, I’d imagine,” Shakespeare said wryly. “But not enough.”

  “How so?”

  “Once a city springs up, stopping its growth is about as easy as stopping a raging forest fire. So St. Louis must be bigger than either of us recollect. I’d also wager there are more footpads, pickpockets, and killers prowling the streets and alleys than there ever were before. Imagine it. Over fifteen thousand people crammed into that one area on the west bank of the Mississippi like so many sheep in a pen, just waiting to be fleeced by the wolves in their midst.”

  Nate saw a pensive expression on Winona and promptly responded, “I’ve been there, remember? It’s not as bad as you would paint it.”

  “No. Worse.”

  Nate was all set to launch into an argument to soothe Winona’s fears when a welcome interruption transpired.

  “Pa, Samson hears something out there.”

  All eyes turned to the huge black dog, resting on its haunches next to Zachary. It was staring to the north, its ears pricked, its nose flaring as it loudly sniffed the air.

  “Could be any kind of critter,” Shakespeare said. “Nothing to fret over.”

  As if to prove the mountain man wrong, several of the horses whinnied nervously and stamped the ground.

  Rising, Nate scooped up his Hawken and cautiously moved to the edge of the firelight. Shakespeare was at his side. He saw nothing, heard nothing. Which meant nothing. There were nocturnal creatures capable of moving soundlessly and unseen when the occasion required, fierce beasts such as panthers, wolves, and grizzlies. And there were always Indians, although they rarely raided at night.

  “I have a bad feeling,” Shakespeare said softly.

  “A panther, you reckon?”

  “Could be. Could be worse.”

  Nate placed a finger on the trigger and his thumb on the hammer. If it was a wild animal, he counted on the camp fire to discourage an attack. Few beasts, including grizzlies, would venture too near crackling flames, perhaps out of a primitive,

  instinctive fear developed ages ago by their bestial ancestors.

  Shakespeare abruptly crouched and tucked his rifle to his shoulder. “Something is out there,” he whispered.

  “You saw it?”

  “Yes. Low to the ground about a hundred yards out.”

  Straining his eyes, Nate failed to see whatever lurked in the dark. Long ago he had learned never to discount his mentor’s exceptional sight and hearing. Time and again he had been amazed by Shakespeare’s abilities. And here was another example. How in the world Shakespeare saw anything perplexed him. All Nate could see was a dozen yards or so of trees and grass, then a shroud of total blackness effectively blanketing the landscape in an impenetrable veil.

  Pegasus neighed and tried to pull the picket stake loose.

  “One of us will have to watch the horses while the other one protects our loved ones,” Shakespeare said.

  “I’ll calm the horses,” Nate offered, hastening to the stock. Deep down he would much rather have been closer to his family, but Shakespeare could protect them as well as if not better than he could. And with Shakespeare ill, it was only fair for Nate to tackle the more physically demanding chore.

  All of the horses were upright, most bobbing their heads in their anxiety, some stomping their front hoofs. No two of them were looking in the same direction.

  That fact worried Nate more than any other. The camp must be completely surrounded. But by what?

  “Samson!” Zach suddenly cried as the dog rose and took several strides away from the fire, a growl budding in its barrel of a chest.

  “Stay!” Nate directed, hoping for once the dog would obey. It was then he heard the chorus of howls that shattered the night, and identified the creatures he now saw swarming toward the horses in a snarling mass of exposed teeth and sleek bodies.

  They were wolves.

  Lots and lots of wolves.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It didn’t matter that by all rights the wolves should be deathly afraid of the camp fire. It didn’t matter that wolves rarely attacked humans. It also didn’t matter that wolf attacks on the camps of Indians and trappers during the summer months, when game was most abundant, were practically unheard of. All that mattered to Nate King was that a large pack intended to deprive him of the horses he needed to get his family safely to St. Louis, and he wasn’t about to stand idly by while the wolves crippled and killed his stock.

  Rifle in hand, Nate ran to intercept the nearest wolves, a huge pair closing on Pegasus. He snapped the Hawken up, aimed hastily, and fired. The muzzle spat flame and smoke and one of the wolves stumbled and rolled headlong for a half-dozen yards, the ball lodged in its brain.

  He heard Shakespeare’s Hawken boom, then one of their wives got off a shot. But he didn’t dare glance around to see if either had scored because the foremost wolves were on him and among the horses in a feral rush. In desperation he swung the Hawken like a club and knocked a hurtling beast aside. A frenzied whinny spun him around to see a wolf snapping at the legs of Winona’s mare. His right hand was a blur as he drew a flintlock, cocking the piece even as his arm leveled. The pistol blasted, the wolf toppled, and already there was another there to take its place.

  Nate dashed in swinging the pistol and the wolf fled.
On all sides the horses were neighing and snorting and kicking their long legs at lupine adversaries. A few wolves were down, their skulls crushed or their ribs caved in. Pegasus, in particular, was giving a tremendous account of himself, his mighty hoofs flailing like sledgehammers.

  Another shot cracked. Somewhere a wolf yipped in agony. Releasing the rifle, Nate drew his tomahawk and pounced on a wolf trying to rip open the belly of a lunging packhorse. The keen blade cleaved the wolf’s neck as if the muscular flesh were mere wax and the beast staggered off, blood spurting from the cavity.

  Whirling, Nate saw a wolf leave the ground in a magnificent leap, spearing at his face. He twisted, countered, and tore a nasty gash in the wolf’s side. The nocturnal predator landed and turned for another try, but Nate was ready. In a single bound he planted the tomahawk in the top of the brute’s cranium, then wrenched it free as the wolf fell.

  Something struck Nate low down, below the knees, and he toppled over backwards, flailing his arms in a vain effort to stay erect. His shoulders hit and he rolled to his right, sweeping into a crouch just as a wolf rammed into his chest and razor teeth gnashed at his exposed throat. The impact bowled him over and he heaved, dislodging the wolf. In a flash it was on him again, going for his neck. He got an arm up and felt the wolf’s jaws crunch down. Scrambling backwards, the wolf tenaciously clinging to him, he rose to his knees and swung the tomahawk. The blade sliced into the animal a few inches below the ear and the wolf let go and ran off into the swirling melee.

  Nate felt his wounded arm become clammy with blood. He grimaced as he stood, and thought to glance toward the fire where his loved ones had been when the battle began. Winona and Blue Water Woman had Zach behind them and their backs to the fire. Both held knives, but neither, thankfully, was being attacked. The wolves were concentrating on the horses and displayed no interest in the women and the child.

  “Look out!”

  Shakespeare’s bellow saved Nate’s life. Instinctively, he pivoted, seeking the source of danger, and a wolf jumped past his face. His mentor raced up wielding a blazing firebrand and shoved it into the eyes of the startled wolf, which immediately turned and sped into the darkness.

  Nate looked around, expecting to be charged again, but to his relief the fight was winding down. Seven or eight wolves lay still or convulsing on the ground. Several were limping off. The rest were in full flight.

  “Damn, that was close!” Shakespeare muttered.

  Their horses were still agitated, bobbing their heads and twitching their tails as they stamped the earth. Most had sustained injuries. A stock horse was down, its throat a gory mess, thrashing wildly as it tried to regain its footing. A few had pulled their picket stakes out but had not gone far. Pegasus stood untouched, his muscles quivering from excitement, his proud, aggressive posture showing he was prepared to fight again if need be.

  “I never saw the like in all my born days,” Shakespeare commented, lowering the firebrand. “Niles will never believe me when I tell him.”

  Nodding absently, Nate looked at the women and his son. “Are the three of you all right?”

  “We are not hurt,” Winona answered. “None of the wolves came near us.”

  “Where’s Samson?” Zach asked in wide-eyed excitement, his features flushed. “I saw him go after a big wolf.”

  “We’ll find him,” Nate said, hoping he was telling the truth. If the dog had waded into the pack, outnumbered as it had been, it might be lying out on the prairie torn to ribbons.

  “Your mongrel can take care of itself. We have to worry more about the horses,” Shakespeare remarked, and stepped to the dying pack animal.

  “This one is a goner, I’m afraid. We should put the poor thing out its misery.”

  “Give me a minute,” Nate said. He quickly reloaded the spent pistol, then reclaimed the Hawken and reloaded it. Walking over to the feebly thrashing horse, he touched the tip of the rifle barrel to its forehead. “I hate killing a good horse,” he mentioned, and did exactly that. The shot seemed to ripple off across the benighted plain.

  “Do you think the wolves will return?” Blue Water Woman inquired.

  Shakespeare shook his head. “Not likely, my dear. Critters have more sense than humans. They know enough to light out when they’re licked.”

  Busy reloading again, Nate looked at his wife. “Stay close to the fire just in case. Zach, especially you, son.”

  “I want to find Samson,” the boy protested.

  “We will. Be patient.” Nate walked to Pegasus and examined the gelding from its forelock to the end of its tail, from the mane to the fetlocks, but found no wounds, not so much as a nick. Two dead wolves attested to the gelding’s courage when aroused.

  “Most strange,” Shakespeare said, prodding one of the bodies with a toe.

  “What is?”

  “This makes twice we’ve tangled with wolves since I came to your cabin. An Indian medicine man would be inclined to say it’s an omen.”

  “Buffalo chips. It’s bad luck, is all.”

  “Maybe,” Shakespeare said, and grinned. “And maybe it’s your guardian angel’s way of letting you know you should forget all about going to St. Louis.”

  “My what?” Nate asked, scanning the black blanket of the prairie. Nothing moved. Not so much as a puff of breeze stirred the high grass.

  “Your guardian angel. The angel that watches over you from the cradle to the grave. Didn’t they teach you anything in Sunday school?”

  “They taught me a lot. And you can forget about trying to scare me into changing my mind. You gave me your word and I’m holding you to it. We’re going all the way to St. Louis.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you can be an obstinate cuss at times?”

  Ignoring the sarcastic comment, Nate set to work gathering the horses that had pulled their picket pins out, and used the blunt end of his tomahawk to pound the slender stakes back into the ground at appropriately spaced intervals. Then he went from animal to animal and examined all of the packhorses and their personal mounts. Other than Pegasus, all bore minor wounds.

  He realized how fortunate they had been in losing only one of their original thirteen horses. Not that they needed eight pack animals any longer. With their furs disposed off, two packhorses would suffice to tote all of their supplies to and from St. Louis. But there hadn’t been time to take the extra packhorses back to their respective cabins, and rather than burden one of their many friends at the Rendezvous with looking after them, Shakespeare and Nate had decided to take all of their stock to St. Louis.

  The fire was roaring at twice its original size when Nate finished ministering to the last of the horses and wearily sat down with his back to the flames so he could keep an eye on the surrounding prairie.

  Winona brought over a steaming cup of coffee. “I thought you might like this.”

  “Thank you,” Nate said, gratefully taking a swallow. He saw Zach sleeping and smiled. “This has been a night he’ll remember the rest of his life.”

  “He is very worried about Samson. I’m surprised he fell asleep.”

  “I’ll search for the dog come first light,” Nate said, bending his neck to relieve a slight cramp. He took a deep breath and inhaled the pungent odor of the burning dried buffalo droppings Winona and Blue Water Woman had utilized for fuel. The women had gathered a substantial supply shortly before they halted for the night. He found the scent oddly pleasant.

  It was strange, he mused, how the years changed a person. Back in New York City he would have laughed at the primitive notion of using buffalo chips to feed a fire. New York, after all, relied on wood, coal, and to an ever-growing degree, natural gas.

  One city in his home state, Fredonia, had already set the trend for the rest of the country by converting all of the street lamps to natural gas and announcing plans for private homes to be likewise fueled. Natural gas was being touted by the press and the scientific community as the discovery of the ages, an economical means of one day provid
ing all the lighting and cooking needs of the entire populace. And here he was relying on buffalo manure.

  Nate smiled and stretched. He saw Shakespeare and Blue Water Woman had spread their blankets off to one side, near the horses, and were already snuggled close. Earlier he had agreed to take the initial watch, and he wondered if he could keep his leaden eyelids open long enough.

  “Husband,” Winona said softly.

  He glanced at her.

  “You should not discount Shakespeare’s idea about the Great Medicine giving you an omen.”

  “Now don’t you start.”

  “Hear me out, please. You know my people are very religious. We all believe in the Great Spirit, as your people call the source of all that is. And like some of your people, we believe that every man and woman has a guardian spirit who can guide them in all their actions.”

  Nate listened patiently. He was intimately familiar with Shoshone beliefs, as his wife well knew, and he was curious to see where the discussion was leading.

  “To us, the spirit world is more important than this world in which we live because the spirit world controls us and everything around us. Few things take place by accident. When we see or hear something, it is for a reason. If someone sees an owl, that owl was sent to let the person know they would have good fortune. If a snake crosses your path, it means there are hard times ahead.”

  “Winona,” Nate said, trying to forestall a detailed recital of the significance of sighting every animal known to her tribe.

  “Allow me to finish. Twice now you have encountered wolves. You say it means nothing. But a medicine man in my tribe would not agree. And while I am not gifted as a prophet, I can make a guess as to why you have encountered them.”