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

by Robbins, David

  “Will you be staying through the rest of the rendezvous?”

  The frontiersman answered before Nate could reply. “Maybe we will, maybe we won’t.”

  “It is a good gathering this year. They say over four hundred white men are present. Magnifique, eh?”

  “I suppose,” Shakespeare said noncommittally. “We’d like to go see for ourselves. Why don’t you move aside and let us pass?”

  “Certainment, mon ami.” Laclede moved his horse to the left while the others moved theirs to the right.

  Shakespeare rode forward between them.

  His left hand holding the reins, his right on the Hawken, Nate slowly did likewise. He waited until he came abreast of the man with the lewd aspect, then suddenly leaned to the right and swung the heavy Hawken in a vicious arc.

  None of the three men anticipated the move. The man smirking at Winona awakened to his peril too late. He grunted when the barrel slammed into his mouth, splitting his lips and jarring his teeth, and catapulted to the ground, his rifle flying. An audible thud sounded when he landed hard on his back. For a moment he lay there, dazed, then tried to rise. He froze when he saw the rifle pointed at his head.

  “Not so much as a twitch,” Nate warned. He glanced around and saw Shakespeare covering Laclede, then focused on the man he’d hit.

  Astonishment had been replaced by fury, and the lecher’s face was now a crimson hue. Blood trickled from his lips. “Why the hell did you strike me?” he demanded, and began to rise.

  Nate cocked the Hawken, causing the lecher to freeze. “I won’t tell you again. Don’t move unless you want to die.”

  “Fou! You’re crazy!”

  “I’ve never been more serious.”

  “What did I do, bastard?”

  “You know damn well what you did,” Nate said, the words clipped and low.

  “I do not,” the man protested.

  “Hey, Grizzly Killer,” Laclede interjected. “Around here men do not take kindly to being treated like a mongrel.”

  “And I don’t take kindly to any man who looks at my wife the way your friend just did,” Nate responded.

  “Maybe you imagined it, eh?”

  Nate looked at the weasel. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  Laclede seemed about to give a sarcastic retort until he gazed into the younger man’s eyes and changed his mind. “No,” he said. “I would not call you a liar. If you say Henri showed disrespect to your wife, then he did.”

  “What?” Henri exploded. “Whose side are you on?”

  “Be quiet or I’ll shoot you myself,” Laclede stated. “Everyone knows you have a fiery passion for the ladies. Too often your eyes roam where they shouldn’t roam.”

  The man named Henri gingerly touched his lips and glared at Nate. “You have the advantage for now, monsieur.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “I never threaten a man who is aiming a rifle at me,” Henri stated.

  “Let’s go, Nate,” Shakespeare said.

  Reluctantly, still angered by the man’s effrontery, Nate motioned for Winona to precede him, and once she had ridden past with the pack animals in tow he urged the mare after her, keeping his gaze on the trio all the while.

  The frontiersman angled his white horse closer and rode to the left of the mare.

  None of the three men so much as moved for a full fifteen seconds. Then the injured lecher stood and commenced arguing with Laclede.

  “You’ve made an enemy there,” Shakespeare mentioned softly, looking over his left shoulder. “Maybe three enemies.”

  “Did I handle myself properly?”

  “Yes, and no.”

  “Explain,” Nate prompted, also watching the trio.

  “Well, you did right by defending Winona’s honor. I saw how he stared at her and I almost taught him some manners myself. But you did wrong by leaving him alive.”

  “Are you saying I should have shot him?”

  “You’d have saved yourself a lot of aggravation if you had. Mark my words. That man won’t rest until he’s taken revenge. You’d be wise to keep one eye over your shoulder at all times. Any way he can cause you misery, he will.”

  “I couldn’t just up and shoot him, no matter how much he deserved it.”

  “True. But you could have goaded him into trying to shoot you, then killed him in self-defense. That’s what I would have done.”

  Nate looked back one last time. The lecher and Laclede were still quarreling. He hoped the frontiersman was wrong about future trouble, but realistically he knew Shakespeare was speaking the truth. Already his first rendezvous had been tainted by the prospect of impending violence. For that matter, life in the wild seemed to be an unending chain of one violent incident after another. As if having to worry about Indians and beasts wasn’t enough, he also had to be on his guard with other white men.

  “Thank you, husband,” Winona interrupted his reflection, using proper English.

  Employing sign language, Nate let her know he’d simply done as any husband would do.

  Winona’s hands flew as she praised him for having the courage to defend her honor. There were some men, she maintained, who would not stand up for their wives no matter what.

  “She’s right,” Shakespeare chimed in. “Some men don’t know the meaning of the word backbone. They’re weak in more ways than one. Sometimes it’s not their fault, though. They’re bred that way by parents who spoil them when they’re young, who spare the rod and spoil the child. Too much kindness can be as bad as too little.”

  Nate recalled many sermons he’d listened to at church. “But what about turning the other cheek?”

  “The Good Book says to turn the other cheek if someone slaps you on the face. It doesn’t say to lay down and let the other fellow stomp you to death.”

  “I never thought of it that way,” Nate said, and chuckled. He abruptly remembered the Hawken and eased down the hammer. “Have you read the Bible, Shakespeare?”

  “Yep. Once.”

  “Do you believe in all you read?”

  “Let’s just say I believe in more than I practice.”

  “Did you understand all that you read?”

  The frontiersman glanced at his friend, noticing the earnest expression cast his way. “Any man who claims to understand every word in the Bible is a fraud.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because no one man can claim to know all there is to know. Haven’t you ever wondered why there are so many religions? It’s because a dozen men will read the Bible and come up with a dozen different ideas about what it means. Oh, they’ll all agree on the essentials. But they’ll find enough to argue about so that they wind up at each other’s throats instead of loving one another like the Good Book tells us to do.”

  “I’ve never read the whole Bible,” Nate said. “But my parents took me to church once a week whether I wanted to go or not. I have all the Commandments memorized. One of them seems to have no meaning whatsoever for men living out here, and that bothers me.”

  “Thou shalt not kill?” Shakespeare said.

  “How did you know?”

  “Because you take after your Uncle Zeke. When he first came West, he was bothered by the same thing. After living all his life in New York City, where a person can go a whole lifetime and never have to kill a soul, it took some time for him to adjust to the conditions out here. He asked me about all the killing once, and I’ll tell you the same thing I told him,” Shakespeare stated. “First of all, the Indians know nothing about the Ten Commandments. Where an enemy is concerned, a warrior knows just one law. Kill or be killed. And in the case of the Blackfeet, they generally kill almost everyone else because they regard everyone else as enemies. They hate white men in particular.”

  “Why is that?” Nate interrupted.

  “Some folks attribute their hatred to the Lewis and Clark expedition, although I’m inclined to doubt that was the cause.”

  “What did Lewis and Clark do
?”

  “Lewis, not Clark. In 1806, on their way back from the Pacific Ocean, they separated for a while so Lewis and a few other men could explore the Maria’s River country. A band of Blackfeet tried to steal the guns and horses of Lewis’s party, and Lewis was forced to shoot one of them in the belly. Another man stabbed a Blackfoot to death. Ever since, the Blackfeet have been out for white blood.”

  “Why do you doubt that incident is the reason the Blackfeet hate all whites?”

  “Because the Blackfeet were a contrary tribe long before Lewis met up with them. They love to make war, plain and simple.”

  Nate pondered the disclosure and stared to the north. They were almost past the last of the Flathead lodges. Before them lay a wide field packed with trappers and Indians engaged in various activities. Some were merely talking. Others were taking part in horse races. Mainly the trappers were also engaged in foot races, wrestling matches, hopping contests, tossing a ball, and sundry sports. “Is there another reason a man should accept all the killing and the violence as just the way of life for those living in the wilderness?”

  “Yes. The best one of all.”

  “Which is?”

  “You can go to sleep at night with a clear conscience.”

  The frontiersman’s irrefutable logic made a profound impression on Nate. When he’d slain his first man the feat had bothered him for days. He’d been unable to sleep and eat. And he still hadn’t fully reconciled himself to the need to shed blood now and then. In New York City, as Shakespeare had noted, citizens were rarely compelled to slay other people. Apparently there were benefits to civilization, after all.

  A raucous din filled the air, the whoops, cheers, and oaths of the participants.

  “Does this go on throughout the entire rendezvous?” Nate inquired, having to raise his voice to be heard.

  Shakespeare nodded. “Doesn’t let up for a minute until the last day.”

  “They must need eleven months to rest up for the next one,” Nate joked.

  Just then a piercing shriek arose from a lean man astride a black stallion. Attired in buckskins, a big wool cap on his head, the man waved a rifle overhead and galloped straight at them. “Shakespeare McNair, you mangy son of a bitch!” he bellowed. “I’m going to skin you like the polecat you are!”

  Chapter Seven

  The frontiersman suddenly goaded his white horse toward the man, voicing a wild whoop and wagging his own rifle.

  Bewildered by the unexpected development and thinking that Shakespeare was being attacked, Nate raised the Hawken to his shoulder and took a bead on the man in the wool cap. He hesitated, not wanting to commit a rash act, and felt a hand grip his arm.

  “No, husband,” Winona said.

  Nate glanced at her. “Why?”

  “Friend,” Winona answered. “Much friend.”

  “He is?” Nate responded skeptically, lowering the rifle. He saw the two men race to within yards of each other, then both abruptly hauled on the reins and stopped with their mounts nearly touching shoulders.

  “Shakespeare!” the other rider shouted, smiling broadly.

  “You crazy bastard!” the frontiersman replied.

  The two men hugged heartily, pounding one another on the back in the bargain, both laughing uproariously as if they’d just heard the funniest joke in the world.

  “If they’re not friends, then they’re the strangest pair of enemies I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Nate commented, and made for them.

  “Not understand,” Winona said.

  Using sign language, Nate attempted to translate the statement. The fact that she didn’t so much as crack a smile indicated he’d not quite succeeded. He idly gazed to the east and saw a half-dozen men involved in horseracing. The race was already under way and an Indian on a brown horse had a substantial lead. About twenty spectators were cheering on their respective champions, and many of the onlookers held liquor flasks or bottles.

  “Here’s a fine-looking couple! Not too plump and not too thin. I bet they’d be delicious with the proper seasoning.”

  Nate faced forward to find the grinning thin man regarding him intently. “Are you a cannibal?” he inquired in jest.

  “Maybe I am,” answered the thin man, and cackled crazily. “I’ve been called worse.”

  Shakespeare turned his animal so he could see them all without having to bend his neck. “Allow me to introduce everyone.” He nodded at the character in the cap. “This is Crazy George. He and I go back a long ways.”

  “Yep,” agreed the thin man. “We shared the same cradle until I got tired of him stealing my diapers.”

  Nate offered his right hand, leaning over the pommel. “I’m Nathaniel King. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Crazy George looked at the hand for a moment, then cast an accusatory gaze at Nate. “Do you realize, young man, that you have dirt under your fingernails?”

  “I do?” Nate said, and withdrew his arm to inspect his hand.

  “Green as grass,” Crazy George stated, and laughed.

  “He’s not as green as you think,” Shakespeare said, coming to his protégé’s defense. “And I don’t want you to spread any tales around to the contrary.”

  “Who, me?” Crazy George retorted. “I’m hurt, kind sir, to hear you make such an unflattering mockery of my noble name.”

  “Noble?” Shakespeare repeated, and erupted in unrestrained mirth.

  “Pay no attention to him,” Crazy George said to Nate. “He’s a bit touched in the head.”

  “Me?” the frontiersman declared. “You’re the one known far and wide as the loon of the Rockies.”

  Grinning at their antics, Nate extended his right arm again. “I’m still pleased to meet you, loon or not.”

  “Then it’s a fair shake I’ll give you,” the thin man stated, and did so vigorously. “Did you teach this young man his manners?”

  “I can’t take the credit. His parents gave him a proper upbringing back in New York City.”

  “That den of iniquity?” Crazy George said, grimacing. “It’s Sodom and Gomorrah combined, a vile nest of vipers where rats breed like rabbits.”

  “I seldom saw a rat in New York City,” Nate mentioned.

  “I was referring to the two-legged variety.”

  “Shakespeare shares your estimation of big cities,” Nate noted. “He wouldn’t live in one for all the money in the country.”

  Crazy George nodded. “McNair is a wise man, sir. You’d be well advised to head his words of sage advice. Next to me, he’s the smartest man in the Rockies.”

  “Listen to him. You’d think he was the only man to ever win a debate in the Rocky Mountain College,” the frontiersman said.

  Nate had heard the term before. An unknown trapper had invented the title less than two years ago. It applied to the arguments, debates, and general yarn spinning conducted during those long winter evenings when the frigid weather prevented the trappers from plying their trade, confining them to their cozy cabins or lodges. They would stay up until the wee hours of the morning engaged in earnest philosophical dialogue every bit as lofty as the debates held at prestigious universities back East.

  Crazy George looked at Winona and politely doffed his cap. “Since this handsome maiden is too young for a grizzled old coot like McNair, she must be your wife, Nathaniel.”

  “Call me Nate. And yes, Winona is my wife.”

  “Keep a close eye on her, son.”

  “I always do.”

  The thin man’s dark eyes darted to the left and the right, and he lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I’m serious, Nate. There are those who might try to take her from you.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t say,” Crazy George whispered. “Maybe later.”

  Nate smiled at Winona, then stared somberly at George. “I’d like to see anyone try to take her. I’ll put a ball in their brain for their effort.”

  “Now there’s an attitude I admire.”

  “We should
find a spot to make camp,” Shakespeare interjected, glancing to the north. “We want to get settled before we make the rounds.”

  “It just so happens there’s a nice spot near my camp,” Crazy George revealed. “It’s right on the south shore of the lake. You’d have all the water you need at your fingertips, and there’s a stand of cottonwoods not far off where you can gather all the wood you need.”

  “Why isn’t such a choice site already taken?” Nate inquired absently.

  “I’ll tell you why,” Shakespeare replied. “The other men tend to give George a wide berth. They don’t want to be too near him if he’s been drinking.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he becomes as belligerent as a female grizzly with cubs,” Shakespeare said, and looked at the thin man. “I want your word that you won’t cause us any trouble if we camp next to you.”

  Crazy George squared his slim shoulders. “You have my promise I’ll behave myself.”

  “I hope so,” Shakespeare said. “I heard how you shot two toes off Frank six months ago. If you try any of your antics on my friends, I’ll be obliged to shoot you myself.”

  “Understood.”

  Nate studied George as the man replaced his cap. “Was Frank an enemy of yours?”

  “No. He’s one of my best friends.”

  “And you shot his toes off?”

  Crazy George shrugged. “So he claims. But I was drunk at the time and don’t remember doing it. For all I know, he accidentally shot his own toes off and then had the audacity to blame me.”

  “If he’s your friend, as you say, why would he blame you for something you didn’t do?”

  “As a practical joke.”

  “In that case, your friend must have a strange sense of humor.”

  “He sure does,” Crazy George said. “Frank isn’t the sensible type, like me.” At that he threw back his head and cackled on and on.

  Shakespeare sighed and gestured for them to resume their ride to the north.

  “You certainly have some unusual acquaintances,” Nate remarked with a smirk.

  “Just remember that you’re one of them.”

  Chuckling, Nate observed the activities taking place all around them. Of special interest was a dance off to the left. A husky man wearing Scottish attire, including a kilt, provided a lively tune on bagpipes to which over a dozen men were whirling about and stomping their legs with all the enthusiasm of cavorting youngsters and all the gracefulness of a gaggle of geese. Half the dancers were paired off and had their elbows hooked, spinning just as fast as they could go.