Wilderness Double Edition #7

by David Robbins

  Caked with sweat, Nate sat down on the elk and mopped his brow with his sleeve. There was still no sign of Zach. Since he had no desire to ride back up to fetch the boy when Zach was perfectly capable of saddling the mare and following the trail he had broken, Nate cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed, “Zachary! Do you hear me?”

  The words echoed off the high peak far above. Somewhere a bird squawked, as if in reply.

  “Zach!” Nate shouted. “Do you hear me?”

  Once again the cry bounced off the snow-encrusted summit and seemed to roll out across the valley below.

  “He must be playing with that mangy pup,” Nate complained under his breath, and rising, he impetuously drew one of his pistols. He had to get Zach’s attention, and what better way than with a gunshot? Pointing the barrel into the air, he cocked the hammer, waited a second to see if Zach might yet appear, and when the boy didn’t step from the cleft, squeezed the trigger.

  For the third time a sharp sound echoed off the top of the mountain.

  Nate lowered the flintlock and smiled on seeing Zach dash outside, the wolf on the boy’s heels. Beckoning with his free hand, he called up, “Saddle Mary and head on down. We have a heap of work to do.”

  Before Zach could acknowledge the yell, a tremendous rumbling erupted, coming from the upper reaches of the rocky heights. Nate glanced up and felt a chill pierce his soul. In his annoyed state he had carelessly overlooked a very real, imminent danger, and now he was about to pay the price for his rash folly.

  The blizzard had dumped three times as much heavy snow on the higher reaches of the mountain as on the lower slopes. In spots drifts twenty feet high had been sculpted by the whipping winds, and many of these massive drifts were perched precariously over steep inclines. All it would take to send them hurtling down the mountainside with the unstoppable force and deceptive speed of a steam engine were a few sudden, loud noises, as anyone familiar with the high country knew.

  Nate knew this. He was fully aware of the risk of an avalanche after a heavy snow, especially above the tree line. But his anger had prompted him to act impulsively, and here, before his anxious eyes, he saw a great crack appear in a vast bank of snow hundreds of feet above. The crack widened rapidly. Resembling distant thunder, the rumbling increased in volume until the ground itself appeared to shake, and a moment later tons of snow tumbled violently downward in a showery spray of white.

  “Take cover in the cleft!” Nate screamed at Zach, hoping the din of the onrushing snow wouldn’t drown him out. Whirling, he retrieved the Hawken and raced for Pegasus, his legs churning, the elk carcass completely forgotten.

  The avalanche was growing quickly in size and ferocity. Much as a snowball grows when rolled down a hill, the avalanche was sweeping up more and more snow and thereby adding to its monumental proportions with every passing foot. Stretching for over a hundred yards end to end, rearing thirty feet in the air, the roiling sheet of choking death cascaded over enormous boulders and dwarf trees and propelled both along with it.

  Nate reached Pegasus and vaulted into the saddle. Reining around, he put his heels to the gelding’s flanks, making for the cleft. He could see Zach gawking upward. “Get inside!” he screamed. “Inside, where it’s safe!”

  Zach, apparently, couldn’t hear him. Spellbound, the boy watched the awe-inspiring spectacle as crucial seconds ticked by. Then, when the leading edge of the avalanche was less than fifty feet above the cleft, Zach must have seen the peril he was in because he cast a terrified glance at Nate, spun, and ran for the opening.

  A heartbeat later a swirling wall of snow engulfed Zach and the cleft.

  ~*~

  “I tell you that I heard a shot,” Bobcat had insisted a minute earlier, and without waiting for his companions, who had been laughing uproariously at a crude joke told by Walking Bear, he had started up through the aspens.

  “I heard nothing,” Loud Talker said.

  “Bobcat’s ears are sharper than ours,” Walking Bear commented. “Perhaps he did hear something.”

  Little Dog, in the act of getting his horse ready to leave, gazed at the swiftly moving figure of their friend and sighed. He had not heard anything either, and he doubted very much that Bobcat had. The last thing he wanted was another delay when they were finally about to start for their own country, so he said, “Let us ride out. He will catch up soon.”

  “No,” Rolling Thunder declared. “We must stay together.” Lance in hand, he strode upward. Walking Bear and Loud Talker trailed him.

  “Wait for me,” Little Dog said with no enthusiasm whatsoever. All he wanted to do was go home. Dejected, he followed them, certain Bobcat had heard a limb break under the weight of snow, nothing more. He laughed lightly, bitterly. Except for the killing of the trapper, the whole trip had been a waste of time and energy. But he was the only one who saw it that way. The others, as they’d made clear during their discussions while the blizzard raged, saw their trip into Shoshone country as a great success. Sometimes, he reflected, his friends were utter fools. He swore to himself that this would be the last time he went anywhere with them, although in his heart he knew he didn’t mean it.

  Suddenly there was an excited shout.

  Breaking into a run, or as much of a run as he could manage in the deep snow, Little Dog soon caught up with his companions, all of whom were standing at the edge of the aspens and staring at something much higher up on the mountain.

  “It is a white man!” Bobcat exclaimed.

  “You are sure?” Rolling Thunder asked doubtfully, taking a step forward.

  Then Little Dog spotted the distant figure, but he too could not determine if the rider was white or Indian. Above the rider streaked an avalanche, and to Little Dog’s astonishment he realized the rider was heading straight for it. “What is he doing?”

  “Committing suicide,” Loud Talker said.

  “Look!” Bobcat declared. “Now he is fleeing.”

  In silent fascination they observed the tableau unfold. Being over half a mile to the south of the snow slide, they were well out of harm’s way.

  “White or not, he will never make it,” Rolling Thunder said.

  Little Dog had to agree. The avalanche was almost on the rider. Whoever the man was, he was doomed.

  ~*~

  “Noooooo!” Nate wailed at the instant his son and the cleft were swallowed by the deluge of snow and debris. Shocked by the horror he had witnessed, he rode in a daze for ten more yards, until his brain awoke to the personal peril he was in from the white maelstrom. The avalanche would soon be on him!

  Jerking on the reins, Nate urged Pegasus downward. The gelding floundered, caught itself, and barreled through a drift. Impeded by the clinging snow and the treacherously slippery ground under its driving hoofs, the horse could do no better than a lurching run, try as it might.

  Nate looked back, saw the avalanche gaining. Grimly he rode on in the vain hope that if he got low enough the avalanche might bowl him over but would leave him otherwise unscathed. In his ears was a hissing roar, as if a gigantic serpent pursued him. The air vibrated to the beat of invisible hands.

  Occasionally Nate had given thought to his own death. Often he had speculated that he would probably be killed by hostiles, or fall to the slashing claws of a great grizzly. Never once had he considered an avalanche as the possible cause of his death, and now, as he girded himself to meet his Maker, he wished it had been Indians or a bear that did him in. The end would likely have been swift, in the heat of combat, infinitely preferable to being smothered alive or having every bone in his body broken and lying helplessly paralyzed until starvation or the cold claimed him.

  Something slammed into the middle of Nate’s back, causing him to fling his arms out, and he was nearly unhorsed. Regaining control of the reins, he hunched low, twisted, and beheld a mammoth rippling wave of snow lapping at the gelding’s flying hooves. The sky was blotted out by the curling crest. A heartbeat elapsed. Two. Then, with a muted growl, the aval
anche swooped down upon him and enclosed him in its icy grasp. He went sailing head over heels and heard a terrified squeal from Pegasus. On and on and on he flew, flipping like an ungainly acrobat, his limbs flailing wildly, losing his beaver hat and his Hawken. His powder horn, ammo pouch, and possibles bag battered him ceaselessly. He had no idea which way was up, which way was down. He didn’t know right from left, or north from south, east from west. Sheathed in the roiling snow, he was totally helpless, his strength as inconsequential before the might of the avalanche as would be that of a gnat trapped in a tornado. Vaguely he was conscious of traveling a great distance. Always he plummeted downward.

  Of a sudden, Nate struck a hard object. Stunned, he tried to lift his head to see what it had been, but he slammed into something else. His vision swam. His consciousness faded. Dimly he glimpsed a glimmer of sunlight, or thought he did, and felt himself sliding over a smooth surface, or believed he was. At long, long last he coasted to a stop. Blood was on his tongue. He blinked, attempted to rise, and was sucked into a void more frightening than that of the avalanche. Then all went black.

  Nine

  “Your husband and son are both dead!”

  Winona stiffened at the belligerent declaration behind her, and slowly lowered the shirt she had been stitching to her lap. Adopting a mocking smile, she faced the lodge entrance and responded casually, “My husband is hard to die, as the white men say. He will be home soon enough, Jumping Bull, and you will have your chance to settle with him. Although”—and she paused deliberately—“were I you, I would pack up my belongings and go live in Canada for the rest of my life.”

  “Why would I want to live there?” he baited her. “Living there is better than dying here.”

  Jumping Bull bristled. “You think your weakling of a husband can slay me? With my own two hands I have strangled a Blackfoot!”

  “How many of the mighty humped bears have you killed?” Winona retorted, and hid her delight at the flush that infused the warrior’s cheeks. She had no means of preventing him from paying her a dozen visits a day, so she had decided to make each of his visits a poignant lesson in humiliation.

  “Mock me while you can, woman,” Jumping Bull snapped. “But we both know the high mountains were hit by a blizzard. Our hunters have told us as much. Can your cherished Grizzly Killer kill storms as well?”

  Fear blossomed in the depths of Winona’s soul. Touch the Clouds had informed her of the reports of heavy snow to the northwest, and she knew Nate had not packed any supplies with him because he had intended to live off the land. She shuddered, thinking of the dire consequences if he and Zach had been caught unawares, and prayed the blizzard had missed them.

  “I thought not,” Jumping Bull said, noticing, and smiled triumphantly. He crossed his legs, making himself comfortable as was his custom. “We have much to talk over.”

  “In the next life.”

  Ignoring her sarcasm, Jumping Bull asked, “Why have Willow Woman and her friends been spreading rumors about me?”

  “They have?” Winona said in genuine surprise. It was common knowledge her situation was the talk of the camp, but this was the first she had heard of her friends contributing to the general gossip.

  “You know they have. My sister, Rabbit Woman, overheard them saying I had no right to cause so much dissension among our people and that the Yellow Noses should run me off for the good of all.”

  They should! Winona wanted to say, but didn’t. The village was undergoing the worst upheaval in her memory. Men and women were taking sides, with the majority expressing their support for Nate and her, while a small but vocal minority were doing their best to convince everyone else Jumping Bull was in the right. Several heated arguments had occurred, and a pair of warriors, former best friends, had come close to blows. All this among a people who prided themselves on their ability to live together peacefully.

  “And they are not the only ones,” Jumping Bull was saying. “I do not like what Touch the Clouds, Drags the Rope, and their friends have been doing.”

  “Which is?”

  “They have been trying to decide who should take in my son after your husband returns.”

  A merry laugh came from Winona’s lips. The only reason anyone would adopt Runs Fast would be if Jumping Bull died. Touch the Clouds and the others, by going around broaching the subject when they knew what they said would get back to Jumping Bull, were discreetly putting pressure on Jumping Bull to desist before he wound up dead at Nate’s hands.

  “I do not find it humorous,” he said.

  “You would be wise to heed their warning. Or do you want your son to lose his father as he has already lost his mother?” Winona shook her head. “Your hatred has clouded your judgment.”

  “Do you think less of me because I despise the whites?”

  “I do not understand why you hate them so. They have never harmed us. The trappers are our friends.”

  “Friends!” Jumping Bull exploded. “Are they being friendly when they trap all the beaver from our streams? Are they being friendly when they kill our game? Are they being friendly when they take our women as their wives and then desert the women once they have all the pelts they want?”

  “Grizzly Killer will never desert me,” Winona said defensively.

  “Now whose judgment is clouded? Is your Nate any different from the rest? Is he more loyal than they? More decent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Waugh!” Jumping Bull said, and spat on the ground. “You are being deceived and you are too foolish to see it.” Bending forward, he eyed her craftily. “Answer a question for me.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Prove me wrong. I know your Grizzly Killer has sold many furs at the rendezvous. Tell me that he does not hoard the money he receives.”

  “He has taught me the value of saving for our future needs. What of it?”

  “Heed my words. When he has saved enough, he will take his money and leave you. The whites value their bits of paper and little pieces of metal more than they do life itself.”

  Winona stared at him in disbelief. “How is it,” she inquired, “that one who has lived so many winters, who has married and raised a young son, can be so ignorant of life? I feel sorry for you, Jumping Bear.”

  The warrior recoiled as if slapped. “I do not want your pity, woman. I want your love. And I will have it once I prove to you that I am the better warrior.”

  “If you kill him, I will hate you forever.”

  “For a while you will hate me, but in time you will come to see I was right all along. We will grow old together.”

  Once again their conversation had come full circle, and once again Winona’s loathing had been kindled to a fever pitch. She glanced down at her pistol, partially hidden by a fold of her buckskin dress, and felt, stronger than ever, the temptation to pick it up and end her woes by shooting Jumping Bull in the head. But she could not bring herself to do it. She had killed enemies before, yet always when her life or the lives of her loved ones had been at stake. And since Jumping Bull was not threatening her physically right at that moment, she could no more slay him than she could slit the throat of a newborn.

  Disappointed in her lack of resolve, Winona looked at the entrance, about to tell Jumping Bull to leave. He had saved her the trouble by having already left. But she knew he would be back.

  He always came back.

  ~*~

  “I see a hand!” Bobcat yelled, and goaded his perspiring mount across the shimmering slope to where several pale fingers jutted from the cold snow. Leaping down, sinking to his knees, he scrambled to the slack fingers and energetically set to work digging out the person to whom they were attached. In seconds he had the entire hand exposed. “Help me!” he urged. “We do not want him to die before we test his manhood.”

  “You are wasting your time,” Walking Bear said as he reined up. “No one could have survived that avalanche. The man is already dead.”

  Bobcat continued to dig anywa
y, spurred by the promise of the thrills he stood to experience if the white man was alive and could be tortured. Of all life’s pleasures, Bobcat enjoyed inflicting pain and killing the most. And above all else he enjoyed inflicting pain on and killing white men, the arrogant intruders who presumed to treat the land as if it was their very own, and who had formed alliances with long-standing enemies of the Gros Ventres, such as the Shoshones.

  In a flurry of snow Rolling Thunder arrived on the scene and leaped down beside Bobcat. “Let me help you,” he said, scooping both of his brawny hands in to the wrists. With a powerful flip of his fingers he excavated a large hole.

  “Did either of you see what happened to his horse?” Walking Bear asked. “I want it for my own.” Shifting, he studied the swath left by the avalanche, consisting of a jumbled mass of snow and boulders and shattered tree limbs. About forty yards off, Little Dog and Loud Talker were examining something partially buried in the snow. “I wonder if they found it,” he said to himself, and rode toward them.

  Rolling Thunder watched him leave, then resumed digging at a frenzied pace. He cared nothing for the stupid horse. It was the man he wanted, a man he hoped was white so he could make up for the blunder he had committed in giving the trapper’s hair to Walking Bear. Soon he had dug down to the elbow. Then the hair. Working in concert with Bobcat, he brushed the snow away from the man’s head, revealing the face.

  “He is white!” Bobcat cried.

  Touching his fingers to the man’s neck, Rolling Thunder found a pulse. “And he is alive.”

  Shoulder to shoulder, they burrowed downward until the man’s chest was clear of the snow. Then each one took an arm, gripped firmly, and heaved. Slowly, laboriously, they pulled the man out, then set him down on his back.

  “I hope he is not broken up inside,” Bobcat remarked, kneeling to give their captive a thorough going-over. He lifted a limp arm, then a leg, and let both drop.