Wilderness Double Edition #7

by David Robbins

  On the bottom slope they came on a small, oval pond created by runoff from higher up. At one end grew cattails in profusion. Nate indicated the clusters of long, rigid stalks, sword like leaves, and brown seed heads, then said, “You’ll never go hungry with those around.”

  “Why, Pa?” the boy asked.

  “Because there isn’t a plant in all creation that fills a man’s belly so many ways like a cattail,” Nate said, and launched into detail. “In early spring you can peel and eat the stalks. Raw or boiled, they’re delicious. In late spring you can cut off the green heads, husk them, and throw them in a pot to boil until they’re tender. In early summer the heads are ripe enough to eat raw. Then, from the end of summer on through until the next spring, you can eat the horn-shaped sprouts that grow down at their base.”

  Zach was duly impressed. “Where did you learn all that?”

  “From your mother and other Shoshones,” Nate said. “And that’s not all. If you mash a cattail flower up, you can use it as a salve for burns and cuts. Never forget too that the leaves give off a sticky juice that kills pain.”

  “I’ll be!” Zach exclaimed, eyeing the growth at the border of the pond with new appreciation. “I could have used some the time I had a toothache.”

  Nate nodded, and moving Pegasus closer to the cattails, he reached out and tapped a brown head. “These make great tinder for starting a fire.” Bending down, he touched a stalk. “And these, in a pinch, make do as an arrow shaft.”

  “Is there anything a cattail isn't good for?” Zach joked.

  Once in the pines Nate carried on with his lesson, instructing his son in how to tell the different types of pines apart. All of them, he stressed, had parts a man could eat; the bark itself would keep someone alive indefinitely, a tasty tea could be concocted from a handful of needles if the needles were chopped up into tiny bits and boiled for about five minutes first, and the seeds were as edible for people as they were for squirrels.

  Zach paid careful attention. He knew that the skills he was learning now might make the difference between life and death at some later time in his life. Fresh in his fertile mind were the many times he had encountered the dead: free trappers who had succumbed to hunger or hostiles or the elements, warriors slain in warfare or while out hunting, women who had died during enemy raids or who had been torn apart by fierce beasts. Having seen so much death, he was the more determined not to add his own life to the Grim Reaper’s toll. The wilderness was no place for greenhorns, as his Uncle Shakespeare had so often said, so Zach wanted to learn all he could. One day, he vowed, he’d be as competent a mountain man as Shakespeare or his father.

  So engrossed did Nate become in enlightening his son about the varied bounties lying all around them that he was surprised, on gazing beyond Zach, to discover they had traveled over a mile up the side of the mountain. Facing front, he rode from the trees into a grassy belt separating the pines from the higher aspens, and as he did a tremendous gust of chill air rushed out of the north and fanned him from head to toe.

  Startled, Nate stared to the north, and was disturbed to see a few slate-gray clouds floating over the crest of an adjoining peak. If he didn’t know better, he told himself, he’d swear there might be snow on the way. But it was too early in the year for a snowstorm. The worst he could expect was a dusting, which worried him not at all. It would not be hard to locate or construct adequate shelter in which the two of them could wait out any cold snap.

  So upward they rode, Nate on the constant lookout for elk or sign of elk. In the aspens he slowed and searched diligently, thinking some had possibly bedded down there for the day. Yet it was not until the aspens were a hundred yards below them, when they were riding along the base of a serrated line of huge boulders situated close to the patches of snow at the summit, that Nate finally spied what he had journeyed so far to find.

  Three elk stood on a barren spine that split the aspens as a cleaver would meat. One was a bull, the others cows, and all three had their attention riveted on something or other down at the bottom of the mountain. They had not, as yet, heard the horses.

  Stopping, Nate beamed at his son and pointed. Zach nodded excitedly. The range, Nate estimated, was close to three hundred yards. To be certain of bringing one down he must get closer, and with that end in mind he dismounted, used sign language to direct Zach to do the same, and led the boy into a ravine that would bring them out very near the unsuspecting elk.

  Halfway along, Nate tied both horses to high bushes. His Hawken clutched in two hands, he crept lower and lower until he caught sight of the three animals. They were still staring downward. Motioning for Zach to stay close to him, he worked his way from cover to cover and reached a boulder seventy yards away and twenty yards below the elk.

  Quietly resting the Hawken barrel on a boulder, Nate cocked the piece and took a bead on the bull, aiming at a spot just behind its front shoulder. A properly placed ball would either kill it outright or pierce its lungs and so weaken it that the animal would not be able to flee very far. He was all set to squeeze the trigger when an idea occurred to him that brought a gleam to his eyes. “You do it, son,” he whispered.

  “Me, Pa?” Zach was dubious. “I ain’t never shot an animal that big before.”

  “Then it’s time you learned.”

  “But what if I miss?”

  “Every man does, one time or another. Now hurry before they walk off.”

  Gulping, dismayed at the responsibility suddenly thrust on him, Zach reluctantly stepped to the boulder and rested the tip of the Kentucky’s barrel on the upper edge. He had to lift onto the balls of his feet to see clearly the length of the gun. Wedging the stock tight against his shoulder as his father had taught him to do, he sighted on the bull. Then he hesitated. Butterflies swarmed in his stomach and his arms felt unaccountably weak.

  “Relax,” Nate whispered. “Remember to cock the hammer, and don’t touch the trigger until you’re ready to fire.” He reached out. “I have complete faith in you.” Zach felt his father’s hand squeeze his shoulder in encouragement and his nervousness drained from him, to be replaced by a budding confidence in his own ability. His father never lied. If his father trusted him to make the shot and believed he was capable of making it count, then he must be able to do it.

  Curling his small thumb around the hammer, Zach pulled back until there was an audible click. He aimed down the barrel, taking his time, wanting to be sure, to make his pa proud of him. The bull took a step, so he slid the barrel a fraction along the boulder to compensate.

  Zach recalled everything his father had ever taught him about shooting a rifle. “Hold the barrel steady. Match up the sights in a straight line to the target. Right before you’re about to shoot, hold your breath. Never jerk the trigger. Squeeze it gently.”

  A booming retort rolled out across the slope and echoed off nearby mountains. All three elk broke into a run, but the bull staggered, took several faltering strides, and collapsed in a whirl of limbs and antlers. Never slowing, the two cows fled into the aspens.

  “You did it!” Nate cried happily, and clapped the boy on the back. “I knew you could.”

  Zach gaped at the prone bull, then at the smoke curling upward from the rifle muzzle. “I did, didn’t I? I really and truly did.”

  “Come on,” Nate urged, dashing around the boulder. “The bull might still be alive. You never want to let an animal suffer any more than is necessary.”

  They chugged up to where the elk lay in a spreading pool of blood. More blood seeped from its nostrils and trickled from the corners of its mouth. The bull’s eyes were locked wide and lifeless, its tongue hanging out. No more shots were needed.

  “You did right fine,” Nate complimented Zach again. “Perforated its lungs. I couldn’t have done any better myself.”

  “My first elk,” Zach said, in awe of his accomplishment. Close up, the bull was immense, over five feet high at the shoulders and nearly ten feet long. It had a dark brown mane of so
rts under its throat and its legs were much darker than the body. The rump patch and the tail were yellowish-brown. “How much do you reckon this critter weighs, Pa?” he inquired.

  “This one?” Nate made some mental calculations. “I’d figure eight hundred pounds or better.”

  “Eight hundred!” Zach exclaimed. “Why, that’s enough meat to last us ten years.”

  “Not the way you eat.”

  “How will we get it back to the village? We can’t pack out that much on our horses.”

  “We’ll rig up a travois, just like the one we use to haul the lodge back and forth to our cabin when we visit the Shoshones.”

  “You think of everything.”

  Nate smiled and patted his son on the head. “In the wilderness a man has to. One slip, one little mistake, can cost you your life.” He motioned at the ravine. “Now why don’t you fetch the horses and I’ll start the butchering?”

  “Right away,” Zach said, whirling. But he had covered only ten feet when his father called his name. Puzzled, he halted and looked back. “Sir?”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “What?”

  “That Kentucky of yours won’t do you much good if you run into a grizzly or a panther.”

  “Why... ?” Zach began, and abruptly knew what his father was getting at. Grinning sheepishly, he set the stock on the ground and grasped his powder horn. “Always reload as soon as you shoot,” he said, repeating his father’s previous instruction. “Only an idiot goes traipsing off into the woods with an unloaded gun.”

  “You’re learning,” Nate said proudly.

  The remainder of the afternoon was a busy one. They rolled the bull onto its back, then removed the hide. The first step entailed slitting the elk open down the back of each hind leg and across the middle of its belly to its chin. Slits were also made down the inside of the front legs, from the knee joint to the belly cut. Next the hide was peeled from the body. They had to cut ligaments and muscles which held it to the carcass, and Nate taught Zach how to always keep the edge of the knife slanted toward the carcass and away from the hide to keep from cutting it.

  Nate had planned to rig up a travois and take the carcass down into the trees where they would dry strips of meat over a low fire, but the weather dictated differently. Within an hour after Zach had shot the bull the temperature had dropped some thirty degrees and kept on dropping. The azure sky was transformed into a gray slate with low, ominous clouds stretching from horizon to horizon. They could see their breath when they breathed, and the tips of their fingers were becoming numb with cold.

  Zach stuck his hands under his arms and hopped up and down. “I’m about froze, Pa. Is it going to snow?”

  “Looks that way,” Nate said, casting an apprehensive glance at the threatening heavens. He’d lived through enough winters in the Rockies to know the makings of a first-rate storm when he saw one. Every indication was there: the plummeting temperature, the northerly wind, the moisture-laden clouds. But he kept telling himself that there wouldn’t be much snowfall because it was too early in the year.

  Just as they finished cutting off the hide and set to the messy work of butchering the meat, the first flakes fell. A few initially, great, flowery flakes that resembled flower petals floating through the air. They landed here, there, and all around the father and son, growing in number with surprising swiftness until within the short span of several minutes the air swarmed as with a multitude of silent white bees.

  Nate stopped carving and glanced skyward. Flakes plastered his face, getting into his eyes. He wiped the back of his sleeve across them and straightened. Already the snow was so thick that he could barely distinguish the horses, standing not quite ten feet off. The wind picked up, blowing against his back so strongly it sent the whangs on his buckskins to flapping crazily.

  “Pa,” Zach commented, “I think we’re in for a blizzard.”

  “It won’t be that bad,” Nate assured him, although he didn’t feel quite as confident as he sounded. Suddenly an eerie howling erupted from on high, caused by the wind shrieking past the high peaks and jagged pinnacles. Mary, the mare, frightened by the din, whinnied in fright. As if to accent her fear, the snow increased.

  “What’ll we do, Pa?” Zach asked nervously.

  Nate was debating their options. The meat would keep for days if the temperature stayed low enough. Already the carcass had started to freeze, rendering the butchering job extremely difficult and making it next to impossible to complete the chore in under an hour to an hour and a half. By then they would be half-frozen themselves and the horses would be suffering terribly. Shelter was their first priority; a fire their second.

  Which way should they go? Nate wondered. He gazed down the mountain, but could see no further than a few yards. Finding somewhere down below to take cover in the driving storm would be next to impossible. Fortunately, he knew of one place, a spot they’d passed earlier, higher up. Squaring his shoulders, he jammed his knife into its beaded sheath, rolled up the hide, picked up the Hawken, and stepped to Zach’s side. “We’re going up to those boulders near the summit. Whatever you do, don’t stray off.”

  “I understand.”

  Nate took his son’s left hand and hurried toward the horses. To his consternation, he couldn’t see either one. The swirling snow formed an impenetrable white shroud. Pausing, he focused on where he thought they should be, and walked on until he nearly bumped into Pegasus. Then he quickly gave Zach a boost onto the mare.

  After tying the hide on behind the saddle, Nate climbed into the stirrups, and was set to start off when a chilling thought prompted him to reach into a parfleche hanging just in back of his right leg and take out a length of rawhide rope he always toted. One end of the rope he tied to his saddle, the other to Zach’s saddle. “This way,” he explained as he made the knots fast, “we won’t get separated.”

  “You might not ever find me again if we did,” Zach said, grinning. He was cold to the bone, but not overly worried since his father appeared to be taking the advent of the storm so calmly. Positive his pa would take care of him, he tucked his chin in and listened to the howling wind.

  Nate took the lead and gingerly picked his way down the slope toward the ravine, relying on his finely honed sense of direction since the whipping snow obscured every landmark. Once, years ago, when he was still a greenhorn, he would have been hopelessly lost had he been caught in a driving snowstorm. Now, thanks to the countless miles he’d spent crisscrossing the mountains in search of beaver, he’d developed an innate sense for telling which way was which, almost as if an internal compass guided him. Many Indians shared the same knack.

  Several times over the years, in inclement weather, he’d been compelled to rely on his instincts when there had been no other means of determining the right direction to proceed, but never had he been caught in anything so elementally fierce as the raging storm that enveloped them. It had gotten so bad he could barely see his hand in front of his face, so he relied on other factors such as the slant of his horse to confirm when they came to the bottom of the spine and were on level ground again. Turning to the right, he carefully picked his way, watchful for boulders and other obstacles that were often no more than indistinct dark shapes against the background of the falling snow. By exercising unflagging attention he was able to avoid them.

  Advancing at a snail’s pace was the only way to be safe, but Nate chafed at the delay. He wanted to get his son under cover rapidly, and he knew just the spot. As they’d been riding along the base of the huge boulders a couple of hours ago, they’d passed a wide crack in the ground between two of the monoliths. Covered by a dome of earth, the opening would be an excellent shelter in which to wait out Nature’s fury.

  First, though, Nate had to find it. An eternity dragged by as he picked his path up the ravine. Once Pegasus, despite his best efforts, blundered into a boulder, but was not seriously hurt. Eventually, when his teeth were close to chattering and his body felt
like it was covered with gooseflesh, Nate became sure they had emerged from the ravine, and guessed the boulders lay ahead and to his left.

  Nate bore onward toward his goal. An inch of snow covered the ground, and he tried not to think of what would happen should the gelding slip and fall. He and Zach would both go down. He dreaded the idea of one of them sustaining a broken neck or some other horrible injury, and redoubled his concentration so as not to invite a mishap.

  Another eternity went by. Nate began to think he’d made a mistake after all, and that somehow he had missed the long row of rocky sentinels. Then, looming black and stark in front of him, one of them appeared. Instantly another problem presented itself. He had no way of knowing if he was north of the cleft or south of it. If he picked the wrong direction, they might never find it, and vermin would be gnawing at their bones come the spring.

  Briefly Nate hesitated. Mary had halted next to Pegasus, and one look at his freezing son, hunched low against the biting wind, covered thick with snow, was enough to goad him into action. Forming a silent prayer for deliverance, he turned southward and hugged the base of the boulders.

  Here the wind was not quite as strong, the snow not quite as heavy. Still, his range of vision was restricted to ten feet straight ahead. The gelding walked briskly, as eager as he was to get out of the storm. And shortly, as welcome a sight as an oasis to a wandering soul in a blistering desert, the cleft materialized on his right.

  Nate drew rein and slid to the ground, his legs stiff, his body devoid of all warmth. The opening was wider than he had remembered, twice the width of a horse. Poking his head in, he found the interior to be as spacious as his single-room cabin and close to eight feet high.

  Delighted, Nate lost no time in leading both horses within. Mary balked, and had to be persuaded with a cuff and a sharp tug before she would enter. In a single step he reached Zach, and tenderly lifted the boy to the dirt floor. “Let me help you,” he said as he did.