“I’ll help you.”
“Five to two. I still don’t like the odds.”
“But you like the idea?” Shakespeare probed, intently scrutinizing Nate’s features.
“I’ll be honest. I do.”
“Then there’s hope for you after all,” Shakespeare said, beaming.
They returned to their camp by the lake. Winona gathered cool water in a pan to use in tending Nate, then ministered to his minor wounds while Shakespeare went fishing for their supper.
Seated on a blanket, idly observing the sun on its westward descent and admiring the majestic scenery, Nate manfully resisted the urge to grimace when Winona’s cloth touched his bruises. Despite the fight, he felt supremely content and relaxed. The wilderness life appealed to him, had a fascinating allure he found irresistible. He even had to admit to himself that the ever-present element of danger added a certain spice to living. Not once since he’d ventured west of the Mississippi River had he experienced the boredom that typically beset him in New York City.
Winona finished tending him and sat down. Her hands moved gracefully as she described her feelings during the fight. She expressed her happiness at his victory, and also her fear that the Bad One would make more trouble for them. She wondered if it might not be wiser to move their camp.
To where? Nate signed.
To the Shoshone encampment, Winona replied, where they would be safer.
Nate informed her he wasn’t about to run from the trouble. To do so would only delay the inevitable. Sooner or later the Bad One would strike, and he would rather it occurred when he was prepared.
Reluctantly, Winona acceded to his wishes.
An hour later Shakespeare strolled back, a string of large bass and perch dangling from his left hand, whistling happily. “I’ll do the honors tonight,” he offered. “You haven’t tasted delicious fish until you’ve eaten mine.”
“My mother can cook tasty fish too,” Nate mentioned.
The frontiersman snorted and deposited his rifle on his saddle. “Let me give you some advice. If you intend to stay out here, you’d better learn to cook for yourself.”
“I can cook,” Nate said defensively.
“Oh, you roast venison well enough. But I’m talking about really cooking, about learning to season your food with herbs and salt when they’re available, about turning your meals into feasts fit for a king.” Shakespeare paused, then laughed at his inadvertent pun.
The rest of the afternoon and early evening was spent in leisurely fashion. True to his word, Shakespeare prepared a savory meal that would have done justice to the finest cook in the States.
Nate took his first bite and let the soft meat rest on his tongue, relishing the taste.
“Well?” the frontiersman queried impatiently. “What’s your verdict?”
“Not bad.”
“Not bad!” Shakespeare exclaimed. “Why, you wouldn’t know flavorful food if it jumped up and bit you.”
Laughing, Nate dug into his meal in earnest.
Gradually the light diminished and stars dotted the firmament. All around were campfires, scores and scores of them, and the aroma of burning wood wafted on the breeze.
Winona arranged the bedding a few feet from the fire.
“I’m surprised George didn’t pay us a visit,” Nate commented.
“I’m not,” Shakespeare said. “He’s probably indulging in his favorite pastime. He’ll wander into his own camp about midnight, drunk as can be.”
“If you dislike his drinking so much, why do you tolerate him as a friend?”
“You’ve got it backwards. Because he is a friend I tolerate his drinking. A few bad habits don’t make a man bad. And George didn’t always drink so much. At one time he was the most sober man around. Then his wife lost her life in a flood. Ever since he’s been trying to drink himself to death without much success.”
“I didn’t know,” Nate said lamely.
“Judging other people is another dangerous habit. No one else can quite measure up to our own standards of right and wrong.”
“Never gave the matter much thought,” Nate confessed.
“Most don’t,” Shakespeare said. “More’s the pity.”
The soothing sounds of a bagpipe drifted from the south, a slow, almost melancholy song that rose and reduced in volume like waves lapping against a seashore, a haunting melody that seemed in keeping with the natural setting, with the immense, glassy lake and the ring of towering peaks.
Nate listened and felt his soul stirred. He asked Winona if she was ready to retire, and she responded that the events of the day had put her in the perfect mood for sleep. They got under their blanket and Nate lay on his back so Winona could rest her head on his chest. He draped an arm around her and gazed up at the stars. Never, ever, had he felt so happy.
After a while Shakespeare turned in. The entire countryside became quiet, the voices and the music tapering off as the men of the mountains took their nightly repose.
Nate had difficulty sleeping. He thought of the confrontations with Laclede and the Giant, and reviewed in his mind’s eye the fight with the Englishman. The day had been eventful from dawn to dusk, but then every day in the wild was the same, filled with new experiences and never a boring moment. His eyes began to droop and he felt himself on the verge of slumber, when suddenly a sharp snap came from somewhere off to the south.
What was that?
Nate came abruptly awake, straining to catch the faintest noise. The snap had sounded like the breaking of a twig, which meant someone must be moving about.
Who?
And why so late at night?
He twisted his neck and stared into the night. Most of the campfires were already out or little better than flickering embers. Even their own fire produced few flames.
An inky figure moved from east to west, perhaps twenty yards away.
Nate was all attention. Whoever it was, the person had to be between their camp and Crazy George’s. He watched with baited breath, perplexed by the figure’s stealthy movements.
What if it was the killer?
The shadowy wraith moved steadily toward the camp of the three Pennsylvanians.
Alarmed, Nate gently eased Winona from his chest and slid out from under the buffalo hide, his right hand closing on his rifle. He crouched, uncertain of what to do.
It might just be a trapper returning to camp.
A dreadful, intuitive sensation came over him, a belief that it wasn’t a trapper. He rose, bending at the waist, and tiptoed for a good ten feet to avoid waking Winona and Shakespeare. If the figure should turn out to be an innocent trapper, he’d feel like a fool if he’d needlessly awakened them. Once he had gone far enough so they wouldn’t hear his steps, he broke into a run and hastened in pursuit.
The nocturnal prowler had disappeared.
Nate increased his speed, covering twenty yards, over half the distance to the Pennsylvanians’ camp.
From up ahead a shrill scream pierced the darkness.
Chapter Ten
Nate straightened and ran all out. The feeble sparkle of a dying fire pinpointed the exact location of the trio from Pennsylvania, and in the dim glow he detected a struggle taking place, two men locked in mortal combat.
Shouts arose to the east and south. Men were calling out, demanding to know who had screamed.
To the rear a deep voice bellowed, “Nate? Where are you?”
“Here!” Nate cried. “This way!” He hoped he would be in time to aid the three men, but a glittering hint of metal and a horrified wail indicated he might not be. He deliberately yelled again, thinking that the attacker might flee. “Shakespeare! There’s someone in the Pennsylvanians’ camp! Hurry!”
More trappers were now adding to the clamor.
Nate had ten yards to go when he spotted someone slinking off to the southwest. “Halt!” he ordered, but the person paid no attention. He whipped the rifle to his shoulder, then hesitated.
What if it was
n’t the killer?
Annoyed at himself, he sprinted to the camp and stopped, aghast at the grisly sight. Two of the Pennsylvanians were dead in their blankets, their throats slit, blood pouring down their necks. The third had resisted their attacker. He lay near the fire, on his back, a butcher knife jutting from his chest.
Dear Lord!
Nate took four strides, probing the night. He spied someone moving quickly away, almost at the limits of his vision, and he impulsively raised the Hawken, sighted, and fired.
The next moment the figure vanished.
Had he hit him? Nate swiftly reloaded, listening to the shouts of the aroused trappers.
“Who the hell fired a gun?”
“What’s going on?”
“Someone said it’s the Pennsylvanians’ camp!”
“Where the hell are they?”
“By the south shore of the lake.”
Men were converging rapidly, many bearing torches, dozens of them from the west, south, and east.
Nate heard heavy footsteps just as he finished reloading, and spun, relieved to see Shakespeare on the other side of the fire.
“Was that you doing the shooting?” the frontiersman asked, gazing at the corpses.
“Yes. I saw the killer.” Nate walked over.
“Did you hit him?”
“I don’t know.”
Trappers arrived from all directions, with more right behind them. They stared in shock at the three dead men. One trapper placed his hand over his mouth and ran off.
“Son of a bitch!” a tall man exclaimed.
“Not again!” declared another.
“Did anyone see who did this?” asked a third.
“I did,” Nate volunteered. “A glimpse of him, anyway.”
“And who might you be?” demanded one of the crowd.
“Nate King.”
“Never heard of you.”
“Some people call me Grizzly Killer.”
“Oh.”
A commotion ensued as several men shoved their way to the forefront of the trappers. One of the new arrivals towered over everyone else.
“What have we here?” snapped Gaston Cleroult. On his left stood Laclede. On his right, glaring at Nate, was Edward Mulhare.
“The killer has struck again,” a trapper said.
“So I see,” the Giant responded. “It’s getting so a man can’t close his eyes at night. Did anyone see the killer?”
“Grizzly Killer did,” someone mentioned.
“Is that a fact?” the Giant said, and regarded Nate coldly. “You claim you saw the bastard?”
“I don’t claim nothing,” Nate retorted. “I was the first one here, and I did see him. Just a glimpse, but I know it was the one.”
“How convenient, eh?”
“What are you implying?”
“That maybe you didn’t see the killer at all. That maybe you are lying to protect yourself. That maybe you’re the killer.”
Nate took a step toward the Giant. “That’s ridiculous!”
“Is it?” Cleroult replied. “You admit that you were the first one on the scene. How do we know you didn’t kill them, then simply stayed here until the rest of us came?”
“How dare you accuse me,” Nate said angrily. He hefted his rifle, about to smash the stock into the Giant’s face.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Cleroult,” Shakespeare interjected. “As usual.”
A number of trappers laughed lightly.
The Giant, surprisingly, didn’t take offense at the remark. “I would expect you to vouch for the boy, McNair. He’s your friend, after all.”
“Indeed, mon ami,” Laclede joined in. “Perhaps you are lying to protect him.”
Before anyone quite knew what was happening, Shakespeare had taken two long strides and rammed his rifle barrel into Laclede’s abdomen, doubling the man over.
The Giant made a move as if to grab the frontiersman and suddenly found himself looking down the same barrel.
“Go ahead,” Shakespeare said. “Make me happy.”
None of the trappers moved. All eyes were on the mountain man.
“No one calls me a liar,” Shakespeare stated in a flat, menacing tone, his gaze locked on Laclede. “Either you own up to it or get set to eat crow.”
“I didn’t call you a liar,” Laclede said weakly, inhaling raggedly. “I said perhaps you lied.”
The rifle barrel swung in a short arc, slamming the weasel in the temple and dropping him to his knees.
“That’s the same thing,” Shakespeare said, and backed away a pace. “Whenever you’re ready.”
At that moment another commotion occurred as more men arrived and made their way through the assembled trappers. One of them tapped the Giant on the shoulder and said politely, “Excuse me.”
“Who the hell,” Cleroult declared testily, and glanced over his shoulder.
Nate expected the voyageur to tear into the newcomer. Instead, to his amazement, the Giant quickly moved aside.
“Bridger! I didn’t know it was you.”
The object of such unexpected civil treatment unconsciously projected an air of indisputable authority. Six feet in height and muscularly proportioned, he wore a flannel shirt, brown pants, a buckskin jacket, and a wide-brimmed black hat. His grave expression was accented by high cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and a high forehead. He glanced at Laclede, then faced forward. “Hello, Shakespeare.”
“Hello, Gabe.”
“Having a bit of trouble?”
“You know how these two are.”
“What now?”
“Laclede saw fit to call me a liar. And they’re both trying to accuse my friend here of being a killer,” Shakespeare said, nodding at Nate.
“And who might your friend be?”
“Where are my manners?” Shakespeare commented with a grin. He gestured at each of them in turn. “Nate King, I’d like you to meet Jim Bridger, a big man in the Rocky Mountain Fur Company and the most honorable man in the Rockies.”
“Mr. Bridger,” Nate said dutifully.
“Call me Gabe,” the man in the black hat responded. He stepped forward and knelt to examine the Pennsylvanian who had taken a knife in his chest. “Not again,” he remarked grimly, then stared at Cleroult. “You’ve made a serious accusation against Shakespeare’s friend. Do you have any proof?”
“He was the first one here,” the Giant answered defensively. “Even admitted as much.”
“Which hardly constitutes proof,” Bridger stated. He motioned at the dead men. “I think you’ll agree they were all killed with a knife.” He looked at Nate. “Do you have a butcher knife?”
“Right here.” Nate handed the implement over.
Bridger held the knife aloft so the light from the torches reflected off the blade. “Not a trace of blood,” he said.
“That doesn’t prove a thing,” the Giant said. “He could have carried two knives and used the spare to do the murdering. When everyone showed up before he could sneak off, he left the spare in that poor bastard’s ribs.”
Sighing, Bridger straightened and returned the knife to Nate. “How long have you been at the rendezvous?” he inquired.
“We got here today.”
“We?”
“Shakespeare, my wife, and myself.”
“Just got here today,” Bridger repeated, as if to himself, and pivoted, looking at Shakespeare. “So none of you were here when the first killings took place.”
“We were with the Shoshones. Find Drags the Rope. He’ll verify we were with his band.”
“I don’t need to talk to Drags the Rope,” Bridger said, and glanced at Laclede. “Only a fool would try to label you a liar. Every trapper knows you’re as good as your word.” He shifted his attention to the Giant. “And since they weren’t here when the first killings took place, it’s highly unlikely that Nate King is responsible for these.”
“He could have done it,” Cleroult stubbornly persisted.
The Giant appeared about to dispute the issue until Mulhare nudged him. He glanced down at the Englishman, who jerked his thumb to the rear. Cleroult twisted to find scores of openly hostile faces fixed on him. “It would appear most everyone agrees with you, Bridger.”
“Have you anything else to add?”
“No,” the Giant snapped, and assisted Laclede to stand. “I know better than to buck you.” He cast a hateful gaze at Shakespeare. “This isn’t finished yet. Not by a long shot, Monsieur McNair.”
“Anytime.”
Cleroult, Laclede, and Mulhare departed, shoving through the crowd, eliciting curses in their wake.
“Thanks for backing us, Gabe,” Shakespeare said.
“I wouldn’t have backed you if I didn’t believe your friend is innocent,” Bridger replied. He moved to another of the dead Pennsylvanians. “Has anyone checked to see if they were robbed?”
“No,” said one of the trappers.
“I doubt the killer had time,” Nate mentioned. “I chased him off and took a shot at him.”
“Did you miss?”
“I don’t know,” Nate said. He pointed to the southwest. “He was heading that way. I could barely make him out when I fired.”
Bridger glanced at a burly trapper. “Williams, take a dozen men and scour the area. Check the ground for blood.”
The burly man nodded, quickly selected the others, and together they hastened off.
“These men sold some prime furs a few days ago,” Bridger divulged as he knelt and began to examine one of the bodies. “Between them they were probably carrying five or six thousand dollars.”
“This sort of senseless violence is common in the big cities,” Shakespeare said. “I never expected it to happen here.”
“Whoever is responsible should be skinned alive,” suggested one of the trappers.
“If we catch the son of a bitch, he’ll be sorry,” vowed another.
Jim Bridger held his left hand up, displaying a brown leather pouch. “What have we here?” He lifted the flap and peered inside. “Money. I’d estimate close to two thousand. So thanks to Nate, the killer didn’t get what he was after.”
Wilderness: Savage Rendezvous/Blood Fury (A Wilderness Western Book 2) Page 9