“I remember. But surely you won’t begrudge me a drink or two?”
“No.”
“Or three or four,” George declared, grinning.
“Just so you behave.”
They passed other campsites. Few were occupied. At one of them, off to the west, a Scotsman called out to Shakespeare and invited all of them to visit him that evening. The frontiersman replied that they would try.
“Who was he?” Nate inquired as they continued onward.
“Sir William Drummond Stewart,” Shakespeare said. “He’s a Scottish gent who came last year as a lark. Evidently he liked it so much he came back again.”
Soon they reached the booths. Swarms of people were everywhere: trappers, traders, Indians, and half-breeds. On display, for sale or barter, were the goods brought all the way from St. Louis. There were clothes, tobacco, coffee, sugar, rifles and pistols, knives and axes, gunpowder, trade items for the Indians such as calico, blankets, pans, and beads, and much more.
Nate took Winona from booth to booth. They inspected the wares and discussed possible purchases. He saw her eyes light up at the sight of a red blanket, and although the trader had overpriced it by five dollars, he splurged and bought the thing for her. The affection her eyes radiated afterward more than compensated for the expense.
The time went by swiftly.
The booths where whiskey was being sold enjoyed the most business. There were always long lines, and men who barely were able to stand erect would stagger up to the counter for more.
Nate had just passed one such booth, and had halted to survey the activities taking place on the field beyond, when a firm hand clamped onto his left shoulder and he was rudely spun around, losing his grip on Winona.
There stood a stocky man attired in buckskins, a pistol wedged under his belt, a bottle in his left hand. A brown beard, moist around his thick lips, jutted from his chin. “Hello, friend,” he declared in a clipped accent.
Nate jerked his shoulder free. The man’s breath would inebriate a horse, he reflected. He plastered a friendly smile on his face. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, friend.”
“My mates call me Eddy. Edward Mulhare is my given name.”
“Having a grand time, are you?” Nate politely inquired, surveying the crowd. He realized Shakespeare and Crazy George were nowhere in sight.
“I’m having the best time of my life. We never had an affair like this back in England.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
“Yes. I came to America about fifteen years ago. Been on the move ever since.”
“Well, my name is Nate King and I’m pleased to meet you.”
“Share a drink with me, Nate King,” Mulhare said.
“Perhaps some other time,” Nate suggested.
“Why not now?”
“My wife and I are making the rounds.”
“That’s no reason,” Mulhare stated testily, and shoved the bottle under Nate’s nose. “You insult a man when you refuse to drink with him. So come on. Share a sip or two.”
Annoyed, but not wanting to anger the Englishman and provoke a fight, Nate reluctantly took the whiskey and swallowed. The burning liquid scorched a path down his throat and seemed to hit his stomach with the force of an exploding keg of gunpowder. He grimaced and returned the bottle to its owner. “Thanks. We’ll be moving on.”
“Have another drink.”
“Not now,” Nate responded firmly.
“I take that as an insult.”
Nate sighed and looked around for Shakespeare. The last thing he wanted was to make another enemy. He decided to be tactful and prevent trouble. “All right. One more drink.”
The Englishman grinned and handed the bottle back. “Have a go, mate.”
Again Nate swallowed, and this time the whiskey didn’t bother him as much. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and extended his arm. “Thanks. I really must be going.”
“Have another drink.”
An uneasy feeling seized Nate, a feeling that there was more to the Englishman than met the eye. Although the fellow’s breath reeked, there was nothing in the man’s manner to indicate he was drunk.
“Have another drink,” Mulhare said yet again.
“No.”
“I insist.”
“I refuse,” Nate countered, and hefted the Hawken. “Find someone else to drink with.”
“I want to drink with you,” Mulhare declared, and took a stride backward. “So take a sip or else.”
“This is foolish.”
“Foolish, am I?” Mulhare responded loudly, much louder than necessary. He cast the bottle to the ground and raised his clenched fists. “Let’s see how much of man you are, mate. Put down that bloody long gun so I can crack your skull.”
“No.”
“Suit yourself,” Mulhare said, and lowered his head and attacked.
Chapter Nine
Nate was unprepared for the charge. He barely had time to let go of the Hawken before the Englishman plowed into him, catching him about the waist and knocking him to the ground. Unexpectedly his foe released him. Nate rolled and stood, acutely conscious of the converging spectators who were eager to witness the fight.
Edward Mulhare had regained his footing and now adopted a boxing posture. He smirked and cried out, for all to hear, “This man has insulted me. I intend to teach him a lesson.”
“I did not insult you!” Nate countered.
“And I say you did. Now defend yourself, mate.” Mulhare abruptly waded in, his arms flying.
Once more Nate was taken off guard. He managed to block two swift punches, but then a third connected with his left temple and a fourth slammed him on the chin. He staggered and went down to his knees, dazed, aware of murmuring voices on all sides but unable to distinguish the words. Slowly his senses returned to normal and he saw the Englishman five feet away, waiting patiently for him to recover.
“Ready?” Mulhare asked sarcastically.
Nate struggled to his feet and imitated his foe, lifting his arms to protect his face and his midriff.
“Good,” Mulhare said. “You’ll provide a bit of sport after all.”
“Teach the pup a lesson!” bellowed someone in the crowd.
The voice sounded familiar. Nate looked and spied Gaston Cleroult, Laclede, and the other two not two feet away. All four were clearly delighted by his predicament. But where was Winona? Concerned for her safety, he failed to watch the Englishman, and a moment later paid for his mistake. A fist rammed into his stomach, doubling him over, and another pounded him on the top of the head. He fell like a rock, sprawling on his stomach, flattened and stunned.
“Give him another one, Eddy!” shouted a bystander.
Nate inhaled and shook his head, striving to regain control of his limbs, confused and angry. This had all happened so fast! One minute he’d been minding his own business, and the next a fool Englishman wanted to beat him into the ground. And all because he had declined a third drink?
“Get up, Nate!”
The prompting came from the one man at the rendezvous Nate could truly call a friend. He blinked and gazed to his left, elated to behold Shakespeare, Winona, and Crazy George. His wife held his rifle.
“Stand, Grizzly Killer!” George yelled. “Show this upstart how you earned your name!”
Placing his palms on the grass, Nate shoved erect and glared at Mulhare. “Care to try that again?”
“Gladly.”
Instead of staying rooted to the spot, Nate retreated when the Englishman came at him, deflecting a series of punches. He skipped lightly to the left, blocking more blows, impressed by Mulhare’s ability. He wondered if the Englishman had had any professional training at bare-knuckle fighting, and recalled reading an item in the paper about a certain boxing school in London that had opened in 1719 and produced a number of top fighters. His reflection almost cost him dearly, however, as the Englishman came at him with renewed vigor and almost landed a crushing punch to
the mouth that would have rendered him unconscious if it had connected.
Shouts arose from the onlooking trappers. Partisans cheered on their respective champions. Most of the enthusiastic yells were directed at Mulhare.
Nate held his own with extreme difficulty. He’d experienced his share of childhood fights, but he’d never engaged in a bare-knuckle bout as an adult. His only hope, as he saw it, was to constantly keep moving, to make himself an impossible target to hit. But to do so he was compelled to constantly shuffle his legs, and after so many weeks of sitting astride a saddle his leg muscles were sorely out of condition.
The Englishman became chagrined at his failure to down the younger man quickly. The longer they fought, the angrier he grew. His swings were wider, his jabs less focused. He began muttering curses under his breath.
So engrossed was Nate in simply evading Mulhare’s fists that he failed to keep track of his position. He didn’t realize he was in any danger until a leg lashed out from the sidelines and tripped him, sending him to his hands and knees. He glimpsed the Giant standing nearby and knew who to blame. At the moment, though, he had more pressing concerns.
Mulhare stepped in close and directed a devastating kick at his opponent’s head.
Nate ducked under the Englishman’s moccasin, flipped onto his side, and seized Mulhare’s other leg. He wrenched with all of his might, upending the stocky man, then surged erect. For the first time since the fight began he landed two solid blows of his own, smashing a right and a left to the Englishman’s face and knocking his foe flat.
“Well done, Nate!” Shakespeare shouted.
“Now bite his nose off!” Crazy George added.
Tempted as he was to plant a kick while the Englishman was down, Nate resisted the temptation and moved to the right, letting Mulhare rise.
“You’ll bloody well pay for that!”
“You were the one who started this,” Nate pointed out. “I intend to finish it.”
“You’re dreaming, boy.”
The last word, dripping with scorn, provoked Nate into a reckless flurry. He succeeded in hitting the Englishman twice, but neither blow was effective, and he received a gut-wrenching fist to the abdomen for his efforts. Another punch arced at his mouth and he dodged to the right and straightened, ignoring the agony in his stomach.
“Damn you! Stand still and trade blows like a man!”
“Maybe you’d prefer to have me tied down?” Nate taunted.
Mulhare threw all caution to the wind and closed again, his stout arms pumping, a sneer contorting his features, sweat beading his brow.
Nimbly Nate backed away, using his forearms to counter and hoping for an opening he could exploit. Seconds later the Englishman threw a right, his left held near his waist, leaving his chin unprotected. Nate moved in and drove a right hook to Mulhare’s chin, throwing his entire body into the swing.
The force of the punch lifted the Englishman off his feet and sent him sailing for over a yard to crash down on his back.
The spectators were in a frenzy.
Nate clenched his fists so tightly the knuckles ached and edged nearer to his opponent.
Blood trickling from the corners of his mouth, Mulhare sat up, groaning, clearly dazed. He gave a little growl and pushed himself from the ground, shaking his head.
Someone was bellowing a string of words in French.
Eager to finish the battle, Nate feinted with his left, then delivered a right that jarred the Englishman and made the man stagger rearward. He pressed his advantage, trying to break through Mulhare’s guard, elated that the man’s movements were much slower than previously.
A wild look came into the Englishman’s eyes, a look of haunted desperation. He sensed he was losing and he fought frantically.
The insight gave Nate added confidence. He gritted his teeth, let his fury fuel his limbs, and battered Mulhare’s arms aside. A fleeting expression of panic etched the stocky man’s visage an instant before Nate swung his right fist into Mulhare’s nose.
The Englishman’s knees buckled, but he somehow kept his footing although his arms sagged and he weaved from side to side. “No,” he mumbled weakly.
“Yes,” Nate stated, and delivered another right to the face. He followed through with a left, then a right. Left, right, left, right; he pounded and pounded, only vaguely aware of the blood splattering onto his clothes and the sudden silence that had descended on the onlookers. Not until Mulhare abruptly dropped did he desist, and even then he stood there waiting for the Englishman to rise once more.
“It’s over!”
Was that Shakespeare? Nate wondered, regaining control of his emotions. Slowly the scarlet haze dissipated and he stared down at Mulhare’s bloody, mashed face in disbelief that he could have accomplished such a feat.
“Nate?”
Almost reluctantly Nate lowered his weary arms and turned.
Shakespeare and Winona were a yard away, both regarding him with commingled concern and esteem.
“Are you all right?” the frontiersman asked.
“Fine,” Nate muttered, and looked down at Mulhare. “Better than him, anyway.”
“No one has ever beaten that rascal at fist fighting,” Shakespeare mentioned. “He finally received his due.”
A pervading fatigue filled Nate’s body. He licked his lips, feeling sore all over and wishing he could sleep for a week. His hands, in particular, were throbbing.
“I heard tell that Mulhare did some fighting over in England years ago,” Shakespeare said. “Almost killed a man once, I believe. When he’s been drinking, he’s a regular terror.”
Winona stepped forward and tenderly placed her right hand on Nate’s cheek. The affection in her eyes conveyed a world of meaning.
Suddenly they were surrounded by loud, laughing trappers, many of whom clapped Nate on the back and offered their hearty congratulations.
“Well done, Grizzly Killer!” declared a bearded man of the woods. “You’re everything they say you are. As quick as a cat and as tough as they come.”
“Yep,” chimed in another. “Thanks to you I just won forty dollars.”
“My name is Swenson,” said a third. “Feel free to visit my camp anytime. I’d like to hear about the bears you’ve killed.”
The compliments continued for a couple of minutes. Nate smiled and nodded and mumbled responses, bewildered by all the attention. He’d finally made friends, dozens of them, but at what a cost! When the crowd began to disperse he spotted his wife and best friend standing off to one side, both grinning, their expressions reflecting their pride.
“You’ll be the talk of the rendezvous tonight,” Shakespeare predicted, coming over.
“Lucky me,” Nate said. He looked around and saw Edward Mulhare being supported by the Giant and Laclede, heading to the west.
The frontiersman gazed in the same direction. “It didn’t take Cleroult long.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t think the fight you just had took place by mere chance, do you? It was no accident.”
“It wasn’t?” Nate said, his fatigue affecting his mental sharpness, making him lethargic.
“Of course not. Mulhare and the Giant are good friends. Cleroult undoubtedly persuaded the Englishman to goad you into fighting,” Shakespeare said grimly. “I’ll say this for the Giant. He doesn’t waste time in getting revenge on those he despises.”
The entire incident now made sense, and Nate’s lips compressed in simmering anger. “I’ll pay Cleroult back.”
“He’ll get his due in good time,” Shakespeare said, and studied the younger man for a moment. “We’d better get you back to the camp. Winona can tend to those bruises and that nasty cut on your chin.”
Nate reached up and touched his jaw, surprised to discover one of Mulhare’s blows had split the skin and blood was trickling down his neck. He wiped the blood on his hand.
“Let’s go,” Shakespeare suggested, motioning for them to start moving.
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“Where’s Crazy George?” Nate inquired, walking northward. Winona fell in on his right.
“Who knows?” the frontiersman said.
“Tell me. What was that business about the man who won forty dollars?”
“He bet on you.”
“Bet?”
Shakespeare nodded. “A lot of the trappers like to place wagers on the outcomes of the horse races, wrestling matches, jumping contests, and the like.”
“Does a lot of money change hands?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t describe it as a lot. They’re usually friendly wagers. Twenty dollars here. Maybe fifty there. Every now and then a couple of heavy drinkers will go overboard and bet a few hundred.”
Nate glanced to the right and left, noticing the looks cast toward him by many of the trappers, noticing their hushed conversations. He wasn’t sure if he liked all the attention. Once the story about the fight spread, he’d be widely regarded as a tough mountaineer, a man not to be trifled with. Knowing the trappers’ propensity for telling tall tales, the story would be exaggerated out of all proportion. And once the rendezvous broke up, the trappers would travel to the far ends of the Rockies and elsewhere, and the story would undoubtedly be related around many a campfire for months to come. He just might wind up with a reputation the equal of Jim Bowie’s. The thought caused him to smile.
What was wrong with that?
“I wonder when Cleroult will try again,” Shakespeare remarked.
“You think he will?”
“Of course. The Giant and those vultures that hang around with him want you to suffer.”
“Is there anything I can do to prevent it?”
“You could get on your knees in front of the Giant and beg for forgiveness,” the frontiersman said, and chuckled.
“I’d rather not.”
“Figured as much. Then your best option is to kill them.”
Nate halted. “Are you serious?”
“Never more so. Turn the tables on them. Provoke Cleroult and his bunch into a fight and slay them.”
“Just like that, huh?”
Shakespeare snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”
“Need I point out there are five of them, if you count the Englishman?”
Wilderness: Savage Rendezvous/Blood Fury (A Wilderness Western Book 2) Page 8