Wilderness: Savage Rendezvous/Blood Fury (A Wilderness Western Book 2)

by Robbins, David

  “Is that one of the reasons you won’t ever live in a city again?”

  The frontiersman nodded. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to trade my freedom for weakness.”

  “I never thought of it that way before,” Nate admitted.

  “This land can open your eyes to all sorts of things you never thought about.”

  “So I’m learning.”

  “Keep learning, Nate. When you stop learning, you’re like a plant that doesn’t get any more water. You wither inside and die.”

  “I think you missed your calling. You should have been a teacher or a preacher.”

  Shakespeare chuckled. “To tell you the truth, when I was about twelve or thirteen I did give serious consideration to becoming a teacher.”

  “What stopped you?”

  “I knew I didn’t have the temperament for the job. I would probably have walloped the first student who got way out of line.”

  “How does a man know when he’s chosen the right life?” Nate mused aloud, and then saw his friend suddenly glance up, past his shoulders, clearly surprised by something. Thinking that the grizzly might still be alive and had risen, he twisted and looked to his rear, discovering the grizzly wasn’t the reason.

  There were six Indians twenty-five yards away.

  Chapter Three

  Nate forgot all about his discomfort and leaped to his feet, his hands automatically straying to his belt. Only then did he remember that the pistol under his belt had been discharged and his other pistol and the rifle had fallen to the ground when the limb knocked him from the saddle.

  Shakespeare also stood, his Hawken in his left hand. “Don’t do anything foolish,” he cautioned.

  “Are they Blackfeet?” Nate queried anxiously.

  “If they were, we’d already be dead.”

  “Which tribe do they belong to then?”

  “The Nez Percé.”

  “Are they friendly?”

  “More or less.”

  Nate abruptly thought about Winona. He looked over his left shoulder and saw her standing still, twenty feet away, a knife in her right hand. He used sign language to direct her not to move, then faced the Nez Percés.

  “Let them come to us,” Shakespeare said. He smiled and made the sign for “friend,” which consisted of holding his right hand at neck height, palm outward, with his index and second fingers held straight up. He then elevated his hand until the tips of his fingers were as high as his head.

  “Now it’s up to them. If they should attack, I’ll hold them off while you grab your guns and reload.”

  “If anything happens to me, don’t let them take Winona,” Nate said, nervously fingering the empty flintlock. How long would it take for him to learn his lesson? He already knew not to let a moment go by without having a loaded gun at his side. The previous grizzly attack had taught him the folly of spending even a minute unarmed. Now he was caught in the open, his wife in danger, all because he’d blown a slight rap from a tree limb all out of proportion. He wanted to kick himself.

  One of the Nez Percés rode forward cautiously. He was a tall Indian attired in buckskins, a bow in his left hand and a full quiver on his back. His features were composed, radiating confidence. He came to within eight feet and stopped, then addressed them.

  Nate listened intently, but the tongue was unknown to him. He almost betrayed his surprise when Shakespeare answered in the same language. His profound ignorance, at times like this, filled him with frustration. There was so much to learn! Hopefully, he’d live long enough to accomplish the learning.

  A smile beamed from the Nez Percé warrior’s chiseled visage. He stared at the dead grizzly and spoke some more.

  Shakespeare responded, using a few sign words to embellish his meaning.

  Nodding, the warrior turned his horse and returned to the rest of the band. They began talking among themselves.

  “What was that all about?” Nate asked.

  “We shared pleasantries. His name is Soaring Raven. I’ve heard of him. He counted twenty coup before he even turned twenty. All his enemies speak highly of him.”

  “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  “Praise from an enemy counts more than praise from a friend, Nate. When a friend gives you a compliment, nine times out of ten they do it because they like you and half of what they say probably isn’t even true. But an enemy isn’t about to build you up at his expense. His words are sincere. When you’ve acquired a powerful enemy who speaks highly of you, you’ll know you’ve made your mark in the world.”

  Nate shook his head. “Sometimes your logic escapes me.

  “Anyway, about Soaring Raven. There are over two hundred Nez Percé at the rendezvous. He was out hunting with friends when they heard all the shooting and came to investigate. I accepted an invitation to stop by his lodge in a few days and smoke with him. He wants you to tag along.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you’re the great Grizzly Killer, the white man who knows no fear, the man who has killed more grizzlies than most ten men kill in a lifetime.”

  “Now you’re poking fun at me.”

  “No. That’s exactly what I told him.”

  Amazed, Nate stared at the Nez Percés. “Why would you lie like that?”

  “Who says I lied? You are known as Grizzly Killer, thanks to White Eagle. And whites east of the Mississippi rarely see a grizzly, let alone kill one. I don’t think I stretched the truth at all.”

  “But now Soaring Raven will tell his friends, and they’ll spread the word among their tribe. At the rate things are going, every Indian in the Rockies will know me by that name.”

  “Good.”

  Nate glanced at the frontiersman. “Why good?”

  “Because I happen to agree with the Indian philosophy. A name should have special meaning, should stand for the man or woman who has it as a symbol of their true self. That’s the reason Indians take so much care in selecting them. They want the name to fit,” Shakespeare said, and chuckled. “For once old William S. was wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” Shakespeare quoted, and grinned.

  “Let me guess. Macbeth?”

  “Romeo and Juliet again. You really should borrow my book sometime. Apparently your schooling left a lot to be desired.”

  A retort was on the tip of Nate’s tongue, but the sudden drumming of hooves diverted his attention to the departing Nez Percés, who were riding to the east.

  “When we go to visit Soaring Raven, be sure to bring along a small gift,” Shakespeare remarked. “Indians like to give and receive gifts. To them, to the honest ones anyway, gift-giving seals a bond of friendship.”

  “Like smoking a pipe?”

  The frontiersman nodded. “But smoking is considered more important.”

  Nate turned and saw Winona still standing exactly where he’d told her to stay, and he motioned for her to advance. “I’ll help Winona skin the bear.”

  “No, you won’t. You’ll stretch out by the fire I’m about to start and rest.”

  “I don’t need rest. You told me all I have are a few bruised ribs.”

  “Which will feel a lot better tomorrow when we ride to the rendezvous if you take it easy today.”

  “Tomorrow?” Nate repeated, disheartened at the news. “Why not today?”

  “We’ll need a few hours to skin the grizzly and even longer to boil the hide for the oil. It’ll be almost dark by then. So we might as well make camp and ride to the site first thing in the morning.”

  “If you say so,” Nate said sullenly.

  “And this way the news about you killing the bear will have time to spread around the rendezvous,” Shakespeare added.

  “Why are you so determined to build me up as a mighty bear killer, when we both know I’m not?”

  “The bears don’t matter. I’d build you up as a panther killer if you’d killed a
big cat instead. The important thing is that every man at the rendezvous knows about you. You’ll have their respect.”

  “I’d rather get it honestly.”

  “This is honestly. Or as honest as the circumstances allow. Believe me, Nate. If they label you as green, they can make your life a living hell. I’m trying to spare you from embarrassment, or worse. Trappers live a rough life and they play even harder. For eleven months of the year they break their backs trying to catch beaver, always on the lookout for Indians and wild beasts. Then comes the month or so in the summer when they can sit back and relax, but the truth of the matter is that they don’t know how to relax, how to sit still and do nothing. So they gamble and womanize and go wild. Most of them are almost as broke when the rendezvous is over as they were when they got there.” Shakespeare stopped and smiled. “You’re in for a real treat.”

  “I suppose,” Nate said uncertainly.

  Winona joined them, leading the horses. She used sign language to inquire about Nate’s condition.

  The frontiersman answered in Shoshone.

  Nate understood almost all the words. He nearly objected when Shakespeare suggested to Winona that she must make him rest at all costs.

  Nodding her agreement, Winona hastened to the dead grizzly.

  “Between the two of you, it’s worse than living at home with my parents,” Nate groused.

  “Shouldn’t you be doing something besides complaining?” Shakespeare asked.

  “I don’t feel like resting.”

  “How do you feel about loading your guns?”

  “Almost forgot,” Nate muttered, and plucked the empty pistol from his belt. He glanced around, searching the grass and weeds for his other weapons. The Hawken lay directly under the limb he’d hit.

  “I’ll tend to the horses,” Shakespeare said, walking off.

  Nate stepped to his rifle and inspected it for damage, relieved at not finding so much as a scratch. Pivoting, he scoured the ground for the second pistol. He recalled holding the gun at the moment of impact, so the flintlock could have sailed over ten feet in any direction.

  Just wonderful.

  Before continuing the search, Nate reloaded the two guns he had. First came the rifle. He rested the butt on the ground, poured out the proper amount of black powder from his powder horn and fed the grains down the barrel, then wrapped a ball from his bullet pouch in a patch and inserted both into the end of the muzzle. Using the ramrod, he shoved both all the way down, gazing at his wife and friend as he finished.

  On her knees beside the enormous bear, Winona industriously worked her knife under the hide, peeling it off carefully.

  Shakespeare, mounted on his white horse, rode toward the Bear River with the rest of the animals in tow.

  The Nez Percés were nowhere in sight.

  Nate leaned the Hawken against the tree trunk and hastily reloaded his one pistol. With the gun wedged under his belt once more, he reclaimed the rifle and walked in ever-widening circles out from the limb. A minute passed, and he began to wonder if he would ever see the second piece again. A glint of metal drew him to a patch of weeds to his right. There it was, covered except for the hammer. He leaned down, his fingers closing on the barrel, listening to the sounds of the forest, the chirping of the birds and the chittering of squirrels, as the animals found their voices again after falling silent when the guns had blasted. Straightening, he reloaded the second pistol and placed it near its twin.

  Now he was ready for anything.

  Except another grizzly.

  Chuckling, Nate walked toward his wife, intending to assist her in skinning the bear despite Shakespeare’s objections. He took only four paces, however, when a strange event occurred.

  The forest fell silent again, completely, eerily silent.

  Perplexed by the unusual occurrence, and knowing from experience that the wildlife never became quiet without a good reason, Nate halted and rotated, scanning the trees. Were the creatures still jittery over the gunfire or was there another cause? The presence of a large predator might account for the hush.

  So would the presence of hostile Indians creeping through the woods.

  Nate nervously fingered the Hawken’s trigger. He looked at Winona and saw her surveying the surrounding terrain too.

  Shakespeare was almost a hundred yards away, making for the water, oblivious to the situation.

  An unusual sensation beset Nate, a peculiar feeling that unfriendly eyes were gazing upon him. He probed the shadows, alert for movement, but not so much as a butterfly stirred. Could the Nez Percés have returned? he wondered, and immediately dismissed the notion as nonsense. Soaring Raven had been friendly. The Nez Percés were long gone by now.

  Then what was out there?

  Nate casually drifted in the direction of his wife. If they were attacked, he wanted to be able to give her protection. An idea struck him, a possibility that worried him greatly. What if the bear hadn’t been alone?

  Sometimes, not often but sometimes, grizzlies traveled in pairs. Usually a mother would let a cub stick by her side for a year or so, or until she was ready to give birth again. Then she would drive the youngster off. And more rarely two males would pair together.

  Nate held the Hawken at waist height, ready to fire at the first sign of danger. He noticed his wife had stood, telltale anxiety etched in her face.

  A second later, as abruptly as it had descended, the silence was broken by the cry of a jay. More birds contributed their distinctive calls, and in short order the forest returned to normal.

  But there had been something out there. Nate just knew it. He relaxed a little and forced an unconcerned smile as he neared the woman he loved more than life itself. “Want help?” he inquired in his imperfect Shoshone.

  “No,” Winona answered. “You must rest.”

  Nate resorted to sign, telling her he felt fit and disliked being treated like a child.

  Undaunted, Winona then let him know that if he so much as touched the grizzly, she’d yell for Shakespeare. “You must rest,” she stressed, and returned to her task.

  Nate signed and turned so he could keep an eye on the woods. “We haven’t been married a month,” he muttered in English, “and already she’s ordering me around. Shakespeare’s right. Indian women are no different from white women.”

  Not comprehending the gist of his statement, Winona looked up at him, smiled contentedly, and spoke three of the first words he’d taught her. “I love you.”

  Far off to the west a wolf howled.

  Chapter Four

  The campfire danced and writhed like a thing alive. Crackling and sputtering came from the burning limbs, and tiny sparks wafted high into the cool night air. Nearby the horses were all tied to the jutting branches of a convenient fallen tree, a box elder that had been uprooted recently, probably by a severe thunderstorm, as evidenced by the green leaves still on the branches and the soft earth caking its roots.

  Nate sat next to Winona on the north side of the fire, their shoulders touching. The roasted bear meat he’d consumed for supper had been delicious, and now he leaned back and stifled a yawn, overcome by a feeling of lethargy.

  “Someone should turn in soon,” suggested Shakespeare from the other side of the blaze.

  “I don’t feel in the mood for sleep, thank you,” Nate responded.

  “I don’t blame you. You’re excited about going to your first rendezvous.”

  “Yes, I am,” Nate admitted.

  “Just remember to keep your wits about you. As I’ve told you before, the breed of men who trap in these mountains are a rough and hardy lot. They may take it into their heads to test you. Whatever you do, don’t get riled.”

  “Test me?”

  “Mountaineers are great ones for playing practical jokes. I hope your sense of humor is intact.”

  “What kind of test?”

  “There’s no telling.”

  From the southwest, perhaps a half mile away, came the low howling of a wolf.
Other wolves joined in, a communal howling that persisted for several minutes and eventually tapered off into a few mournful notes.

  “I heard a wolf earlier today,” Nate mentioned. “Do they howl often during the day?”

  “Not regularly,” the frontiersman said, his head cocked, listening. “But they do hunt during daylight hours too. And if one of them becomes separated from the pack, it’ll howl until the pack answers.”

  “What do you think caused the forest to go quiet?”

  “I don’t know. From what you’ve told me, it could have been a panther or even the wolves.”

  “Or Indians.”

  “Maybe. But the only tribe we need to worry about in this region is the Blackfeet, and I doubt they’d come this close to the rendezvous site,” Shakespeare said, then shrugged. “But you never know.”

  Nate gazed at the thick book lying next to the frontiersman’s left leg. “So what will it be tonight? Hamlet? Troilus and Cressida?”

  “Explain something to me, Nate.”

  “If I can.”

  “Why do you like me to read Shakespeare to you every night, but you won’t bother to read the book yourself?”

  Nate shrugged. “You have a knack for reading Shakespeare that makes his words come alive. Myself, I’ve never much enjoyed reading his works. Too dull for my tastes. Give me a novel by James Fenimore Cooper any day.”

  “Dull?” the frontiersman repeated in amazement. “Did you have the audacity to call old William S. dull?”

  “You must admit some of his work is drudgery to read.”

  “I’ll admit no such thing,” Shakespeare stated, and scooped up the volume. He quickly turned the pages until he came to the one he wanted. “All right. I’ll show you. See if you think this is dull.” He paused, licked his lips, and began reading. “Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun of York; and all the clouds that lour’d upon our house in the deep bosom of the ocean buried. ...”