Winona was gone, permanently, and he must give some thought to his future. Young and healthy as he was, sooner or later he would be ready to seek a new wife and rear a new family. And since Adeline had waited eight years she might be inclined to wait a few more.
He could do worse.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Shakespeare heard the door open and turned expectantly, a mug of coffee in his right hand. He took one look at the lean man who had just entered the house, and knew by the man’s dour visage that all had not gone well. “Any luck?”
Tricky Dick Harrington morosely shook his head. “No, damn it! I’ve got every friend I have searching and asking around, and so far there hasn’t been any word. It’s as if the earth opened up and swallowed him whole.”
“Did the earth shoot Winona?”
“No, of course not,” Tricky Dick said, moving to the fire. He leaned his rifle against the wall and began pouring himself some coffee. “How is she, anyway?”
Shakespeare glanced at the closed bedroom door. “Sawyer is in with her now. He told me
the slug missed her vitals and he took it out without causing infection, so he’s optimistic she’ll recover.”
“Thank God.”
McNair gazed at the other bedroom door. “The boy is sleeping at the moment. Your missus is sitting in there with him in case bad dreams wake him up again.”
“Ruth has a way with young’uns. She’ll comfort him if they do.”
Shakespeare took a seat at the kitchen table and placed his mug down. “I’d like to get my hands on the son of a bitch who shot her and abducted Nate.”
“Mrs. Flaherty says she saw a man and a woman,” Tricky Dick reminded him. “They put Nate in a cart and cut out as if the Devil himself was after them.”
“Too bad she didn’t pay more attention to them,” Shakespeare said, and took another swallow. The slight movement provoked anguish in his right shoulder and he had to set the mug down again. His joints and muscles were much worse than they had been even a week ago, and he dreaded the thought of how badly he would deteriorate over the next couple of months. Alcohol would help deaden the pain, but Blue Water Woman was already suspicious and would interrogate him intently if he took to drinking more and more. And he needed his head clear in this time of crisis. He wasn’t going to rest until he had found Nate and paid back the bastards responsible.
He stared at his friend, Dick Harrington, who had trapped in the Rockies for over two decades before giving up the wandering life to marry a fine woman and settle down on the western outskirts of St. Louis in a large cabin. Harrington had acquired the nickname Tricky Dick by once outwitting the fierce Blackfeet. A war party had slain his two friends and taken him captive, then given him his choice of deaths. He could either be skinned alive and staked out in the sun, engage in a trial by combat with their best warrior, or run a gauntlet. Dick had picked the gauntlet, and when the Blackfeet arranged themselves in two long rows and commanded him to run between them, he had whirled and raced in the opposite direction. Always fleet of foot, he had outdistanced the irate braves, and eventually made his way to a friendly village of Crows. Since then the trapping fraternity always referred to him as Tricky Dick, the man who outwitted the Blackfeet.
“St. Louis is a big city,” Harrington was saying. “Even if Nate is still here we might never find him. Personally, I figure whoever took him is long gone. Probably went east.”
“Perhaps, but I doubt it,” Shakespeare said. “Something tells me he’s still in the area.” He scratched his chin through his beard. “What puzzles me is why he was kidnapped. It defies all reason. The only enemies he has, so far as I know, are back in the Rockies.”
“What else can we do?”
“You’ve done all you can,” Shakespeare said. “Passing the word among the taverns was a help.
If any of the trappers hear anything they’ll let us know.”
“I just hope Nate is still alive,” Tricky Dick said.
So do I, Shakespeare reflected, and scowled. Seldom had he felt so helpless. He despised being unable to do anything for two precious people he cared for more than anyone with the singular exception of his wife. Since coming back the other day and discovering Winona on the bedroom floor, he had been unable to get more than a few hours’ sleep at a time. Anxiety ate at his innards. He loved Nate as more than a friend; Nate was a son, a replacement for the son he had had many years ago who was taken by the fever.
Who would want to abduct Nate? Why? Why shoot Winona, who had never harmed anyone who didn’t deserve to be harmed? And how had the culprits learned Nate was staying at Tricky Dick’s cabin?
On second thought he realized that last question was easily answered. The night after bringing Nate to the city, he had gone with Tricky Dick to a tavern. They had imbibed a bit too much and shared the latest news with several acquaintances. Those men, as was the custom in a society where rumors and gossip were of interest to everyone, had spread the word to their friends, who in turn had spread it to theirs, and within twenty-four hours the information had been passed along until there were few souls in the entire city who didn’t know that the famous Grizzly Killer had been attacked by a panther and might not pull through.
The bedroom door opened and out walked Doctor Sawyer. Deep in contemplation, he stepped to the fire and helped himself to coffee.
“How’s she doing, Doc?” Tricky Dick inquired.
“She’s asleep again. Don’t wake her up. She needs all the rest she can get,” the physician said, joining them at the table.
“Don’t worry. None of us will bother her,” Tricky Dick promised.
“She would recover faster if she knew her husband was safe,” Doctor Sawyer commented. “The worry is weakening her resolve to live.”
“We’ll find him,” Shakespeare said. “It’s only a matter of time.”
“Which he doesn’t have much of unless he’s been treated by another doctor,” Sawyer said. “He was in no condition to be moved, and I pray the couple who took him exercised care in his transport.”
“If they didn’t they’ll be sorry.”
Sawyer looked at the aged mountain man. “I know how you feel. I’d feel the same way if I were you.”
For a minute none of them uttered a word. Each sipped his steaming coffee in profound silence.
“I’ve been doing some thinking about this affair,” Sawyer remarked. “It seems to me whoever took Nate didn’t want him dead or they wouldn’t have bothered to take him alive.”
“So?” Tricky Dick said.
“So if they wanted him alive they would do their best to keep him that way. And if they were half as smart as I suspect they are, then
they would have called in a physician of their own to take care of Nate.”
Shakespeare sat up. “Which means if we questions all the doctors in St. Louis we might learn Nate’s whereabouts!” He beamed. “Doc, that’s a terrific notion. How many of you medical types are there in this city?”
“Three, counting myself.”
“Is that all?” Shakespeare said, and then remembered that doctors were few and far between on the frontier. A city the size of St. Louis would have half a dozen physicians in the more settled sections of the country. But fewer doctors were willing to forgo the chance to make a substantial income by setting up their practice in locales where the majority of the people were dirt poor and would rather pay off a bill with a goat or a pig instead of with coins or hard currency. If there were only three, the job could be accomplished in no time. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go visit each and get the one who is treating Nate to ‘fess up.” He began to rise.
“No so fast, my friend,” Doctor Sawyer said, grasping McNair’s wrist. “It’s not as simple as that.”
“Why not? You know them, don’t you?”
“Of course. We are all colleagues in the same profession and we frequently share drinks and discuss our cases.”
Shakespeare nodded. “Then you know whe
re to find them. Lead the way.”
The doctor removed his hand. “Permit me to explain. Only one of them has an office and he is seldom there. The same is true for the rest of us. Speaking from experience I can assure you that our days and most of our nights are spent visiting patients. There are times when I am on the go until near midnight.”
“How can we track them down then?”
“I know where each lives. I’ll make a point of stopping by and leaving a message. By tomorrow night or the next day I should have an answer for you.”
“If that’s the best you can do,” Shakespeare said, annoyed at the impending delay.
“I’m sorry,” Sawyer said, and gave the mountaineer a probing scrutiny. “I have another appointment, but first I’d like to examine you.”
“Me?”
“Right now,” Sawyer said, standing.
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Shakespeare said defensively.
“Then why have I noticed you favoring your right arm on several occasions? Or is it your shoulder?”
“I’m fit as a fiddle, I tell you.”
“Let me be the judge of that. Kindly stand and remove your shirt.”
Shakespeare hesitated. The last thing he wanted was to have his worst fears confirmed. Not only that, Blue Water Woman had gone out to buy food and would come back at any moment. If she saw the doctor poking and prodding him she would know something was terribly wrong.
“I don’t have all day,” Sawyer said.
“I’m fine, damn it,” Shakespeare groused. “Go tend someone who is really ill.” He saw the doctor frown and start to turn, apparently having
decided it was useless to argue, and knew he’d won. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Tricky Dick Harrington looked at Shakespeare. “Why don’t you tell Doctor Sawyer the truth?”
“What?”
“Tell him what you told me the other night at the tavern,” Tricky Dick said.
“I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was saying.”
“You weren’t that drunk,” Tricky Dick said, and faced the physician. “He said his joints have been bothering him something awful and his muscles ache a lot.”
“How interesting,” Sawyer responded, bestowing a triumphant smile on McNair. “My hunch was right. I can’t leave now without examining you.”
“Yes, you can.”
“Are you familiar with the Hippocratic Oath, Mister McNair?” Sawyer asked.
“Can’t say as I am,” Shakespeare allowed, wondering what the doctor was getting at and whether to shoot Tricky Dick now or wait until there were no witnesses.
“Hippocrates was a Greek who lived thousands of years ago. He is called the father of modern medicine because he was the first physician to rely entirely on facts and not superstitions.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“Every doctor is required to take the Hippocratic Oath before establishing his practice. Part of it goes like this,” Sawyer said, and quoted the section he had in mind. “Into whatever houses I enter I will go into them for the benefit of the sick and abstain from every voluntary art of mischief and corruption.” His expression became benign. “So you see I can’t leave without ascertaining your problem. And since I don’t have all day I would appreciate it if you would behave like a grown man and take off your shirt.”
Tricky Dick snickered.
Chagrined, Shakespeare reluctantly stood. Further protests would prove unavailing. His best bet was to get the examination over with quickly, before Blue Water Woman came back. He removed his pistols, his belt, and his buckskin shirt.
“Thank you,” Doctor Sawyer said, stepping up to him. He touched the tips of his fingers to Shakespeare’s right shoulder, then inspected the left shoulder and both elbows. “Hmmmmm. How long has this condition persisted?”
“Six months, give or take a couple of weeks,” Shakespeare admitted.
“And how have you been treating it?”
“Oh, a little of this and a little of that.”
“Be specific please.”
“Three horn drink.”
Sawyer paused in his exam. “I’m not familiar with the phrase.”
“He means rum and whiskey, Doc,” Tricky Dick translated. “He’s been getting whiskey-soaked plumb near every chance he can.”
“Ahhh,” Sawyer said, and gave Shakespeare a look that implied he expected better behavior from a man of advanced years. He had Shakespeare bend both arms, then carefully felt the swollen areas to satisfy himself as to their extent
and severity. Five minutes later he sighed and stepped back. “You may put your shirt back on.”
“Give it to me straight,” Shakespeare said. He had borne the indignity in stoic resignation, and now that it was over he wanted the truth. “How long do I have to live?”
“Live?” Sawyer repeated quizzically.
“Yep. I’ve never felt this poorly in all my life so I know it’s serious as can be. And it keeps getting worse and worse. I figure by Christmas I’ll be wrapped in a dirt overcoat.”
“Perhaps you will, but not from the gout.”
“Gout?”
“Yes,” Sawyer said, smirking. “In your case advanced gouty arthritis, brought on by having too much meat in your diet and not enough fruits and vegetables. The decades of improper eating have taken their toll. I’ve treated a number of trappers who have shown the same symptoms.” He nodded at the right shoulder. “I can’t cure you, but if you’ll change your diet according to my instructions the swelling will go down and you’ll hardly be bothered by it.”
“It’s just gout?” Shakespeare asked again, amazed and mortified. All this time he’d believed he was going to keel over any day!
“As long as you’ve been up in those mountains stuffing yourself on buffalo and elk meat, I’m surprised you haven’t come down with it sooner. You must have the constitution of an ox.”
Tricky Dick Harrington couldn’t resist the opening. He cackled, slapped his thigh, and bellowed, “And the brains!” Then he had to duck a punch that would have taken his head off.
Momentarily irate, Shakespeare saw the doctor grin, and started to laugh at his own stupidity. Then he thought of Nate and Winona and promptly sobered. There would be time enough to laugh later. First he had a son to save.
Chapter Twenty-Five
At first Nate had no idea what had awakened him.
He lay still, his body tingling with that pleasant lethargy that was often an aftermath of restful slumber, and listened. How long had he been dozing? From the bright sunlight streaming in the window he gathered it hadn’t been very long.
Then it happened. A light tap-tap-tap on the window that was repeated several times, a furtive tapping as if the person responsible was afraid of being detected.
Who could it be? Nate wondered, and sat up. Both flintlocks were still tucked under his belt, and he cautiously wrapped a hand around the smooth butt of the right one as he slid off of the bed and stepped lightly to the window. He saw the hedges, the bushes, the flowers, and the greenest of grass, but not a soul anywhere. Suddenly a hand rose from below the window at the south corner and tapped again.
A slender black hand with long fingernails.
Perplexed, he edged closer and peered down. Lying to one side was a young black woman in clothes that qualified as rags. She was gazing fearfully out over the garden, her top teeth clamped on her lower lip, and as yet had no idea he was standing there.
He checked the grounds, saw no one, and quickly opened the window. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you want?”
Instead of replying, she pushed herself off the ground and stepped into the room, brushing past him as she glided to the right, where she pressed her back to the wall. Her breaths issued in fluttering gasps. She was in a state of abject fear, and the gaze she turned on him was like that of a terrified fawn about to be devoured by a ravenous panther. “Please, sir,” she pleaded in English that contained a pecul
iar clipped accent. “Shut window. They see Tatu, they kill her.”
Nate hesitated, then glimpsed the gardener moving about at the west end of the garden. He complied with her request and drew the curtains as an added safety measure. She seemed to relax a bit and slumped, her legs quivering from nervous agitation. “Your name is Tatu?” he said.
“Yes, sir. I hear you talk to Master Yancy. You sound like good man. Tatu hope so. You her last hope.” Her face became pitiably downcast. “You her only hope.”
“I don’t quite understand. Can you explain?”
“Tatu hear you talk about Sadiki. You sound like you not like.”
Comprehension dawned and Nate nodded. “Oh, yes. The horse thief who was beaten yesterday.”
Hatred replaced the sadness on Tatu’s face. “Sadiki not horse thief! Him not steal ever. The bad men beat him because Sadiki sneak away from cabin. Him not like being slave.”
The very word filled Nate with intense revulsion. Years ago, on his trip west to St. Louis to join his Uncle Zeke, he had encountered several runaway slaves from Mississippi who had been recaptured and were on their way back in shackles. The enlightening experience had embittered him against the institution, and he wasn’t alone in his dislike of designating a certain race of human beings as inferior to all others and thus deserving of involuntary servitude. There was a rising tide of sentiment against slavery sweeping the nation, and a number of states, including New York, Rhode Island, Illinois, and Pennsylvania, had banned the practice. In the Southern states, however, slavery flourished. “There are slaves here?”
“Yes, sir. Many, many men and women brought from Africa on big boat. Sadiki and Tatu come one month ago. We told Master Debussy sell us to good man who take care of us, but we not want to stay in this country.”
So now Nate could account for Jacques Debussy’s fabulous wealth. The slave trade was tremendously lucrative for those daring enough to break the law. Back in 1807 the United States had decreed that further importation of slaves was illegal, but all that had accomplished was to force the slave importers to go underground, to operate a clandestine network all along the Gulf and southern Atlantic coasts. Authorities in the South, most of whom were openly partisan, made no serious effort to stem the trade, nor were they overly helpful to those conscientious Federal officials who were trying to identify and arrest the importers.
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