“Which means he’ll likely be bound and determined to try again,” Shakespeare speculated.
Bridger stood and walked to a tall man in buckskins. “Dan, I’d like you to take care of the bodies. Collect all their personal effects, and give them a proper burial. See if you can find addresses of relatives back in the States so we can send the money and the belongings to them.”
“Will do, Gabe.”
Turning, Bridger smiled at Shakespeare. “Why don’t I walk your friend and you back to your camp?”
“We don’t mind helping out here,” the frontiersman said.
“I’d prefer to walk,” Bridger stated with a forceful emphasis.
“Whatever you want, Gabe,” Shakespeare responded, his eyes narrowing.
Nate fell in behind the two men as they departed. The trappers moved aside to let them pass, and once they were beyond hearing range Bridger clasped his hands behind his back and spoke softly.
“I was fixing to pay you a visit tomorrow morning, but I might as well warn you now.”
“Warn me about what?” Shakespeare asked.
“About the Giant and his friends.”
The frontiersman chuckled. “I know they’re out to get Nate and me. I’ll keep my eyes open. Don’t worry.”
Bridger looked at the aged mountain man. “Cleroult isn’t a man to be trifled with.”
“So long as I don’t turn my back on him I’ll be all right.”
“No, you won’t. That’s my whole point. The Giant and his bunch have been spreading stories around about how they’re going to get even for the way you’ve treated them. They’ve been telling anyone who will listen that you’re crazier than Crazy George and twice as dangerous. They’re also trying to convince everyone that Nate is a cold-blooded troublemaker. They claim he started the fight with Mulhare.”
“That’s a damn lie!” Nate snapped. “I did everything I could to avoid the fight.”
“Figured as much,” Bridger said.
“Why are you so concerned about Cleroult, Gabe?” Shakespeare inquired. “We’ve both handled bullies like him before. You know how cautious I am. I won’t take unnecessary chances.”
“I know. But from what I’ve heard, the Giant has something particularly nasty planned for Nate and you. A friend overheard a couple of acquaintances of Cleroult’s talking. They were drunk and joking about how the Giant is going to set a trap for you using special bait.”
“Special bait?”
“Those were their exact words. My friend didn’t learn the details. I’m convinced Cleroult has a clever scheme up his sleeve. He won’t take you lightly. Whatever he has planned will be well thought out.”
They walked in silence for several yards.
“Thanks for the warning,” Shakespeare said. “We’ll take extra precautions from now on.”
“Why don’t you move your camp? I’d welcome the company.”
The frontiersman smiled. “Thanks again, but this is our affair. We’ll see it through to the end.”
Bridger placed his hand on Shakespeare’s shoulder. “Just make sure the end isn’t your own.”
Chapter Eleven
Nate slept fitfully, shifting from side to side, repeatedly awakening with a start and gazing at the glittering vista of stars overhead in anxious expectation, his heart pounding, certain that someone was about to plunge a knife into him. Once he heard Shakespeare snoring lightly and marveled at the frontiersman’s ability to take everything in stride. Toward dawn he dozed off yet again, and he would have sworn he’d only been asleep a few minutes when an object touched the tip of his nose. He absently swatted at it, thinking a fly or mosquito to be the culprit. His fingers smacked something hard, something smooth.
Someone tittered.
Jolted rudely awake, Nate’s eyes snapped open and he found himself staring down the barrel of a rifle. For a moment dread engulfed him and he believed he was about to be shot. Then his gaze drifted to the face looming above the barrel, to the grinning countenance of Crazy George, and anger supplanted the dread. “You dunderhead!” he exclaimed, and swatted the rifle away.
The trapper cackled.
“How dare you!” Nate declared, rising, his fists clenched. “I should knock a few of your teeth out for that idiocy!”
“Be my guest,” Crazy George said, slapping his thigh in mirth. “I’m already missing four. What’s a few more?”
Furious at the trapper, Nate gave George a shove, his right palm hitting the man’s left shoulder. He didn’t use all of his strength, and he expected George to stagger backward a few feet, not even fazed by the blow.
Instead, Crazy George clutched at his shoulder and doubled over, grimacing in pain. “Damn!” he snapped. “There was no call to do that!”
“What’s the matter? I hardly touched you.”
“Some months back I fell off my horse and busted my shoulder. It healed okay, but it’s been sore as the dickens ever since,” George explained.
“You fell off your horse?”
“Yep. I was a bit intoxicated at the time.” Crazy George straightened and abruptly walked off, heading toward his camp. “I’ll see you later,” he said, and glanced down. “Morning, Shakespeare.”
Nate saw the frontiersman sitting up.
“Let me have a look at your shoulder,” Shakespeare said.
“That’s not necessary. I’ll be as good as new in a little while,” Crazy George said, hurrying off.
Shakespeare stared at the retreating back of the trapper for a moment, then faced Nate. “I didn’t know he’d broken his shoulder. He’s one of the most secretive gents around when it comes to his personal affairs.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” Nate stated apologetically. “I’m afraid I lost my temper.”
“It wasn’t your fault. I woke up just as you were knocking his gun aside. The fool should never play stupid tricks like that.”
“One of these days he’ll get himself shot,” Nate predicted. He turned to check on Winona and found her already up, standing silently not a foot from him. She beamed.
“Good morning, husband.”
“Good morning, beloved.”
A protracted sigh came from Shakespeare. “No wonder I keep having this urge to read Romeo and Juliet.”
The three of them began the new day by rolling up their blankets, then washing their faces and hands in the cold lake water. Shakespeare attended to rekindling the fire while Winona prepared a meal of dried venison strips supplemented by tasty roots she had collected several days before.
“What do you have in mind for today?” Nate asked the frontiersman as he chewed heartily on a bite of venison.
“I thought we’d spend the morning buying the supplies we need, then use the afternoon to visit with friends of mine.”
“Sounds fine to me.”
“One thing, though. Until the rendezvous is over, you and I should stick together for protection.”
“Are you worried about the Giant and the others?”
“Not worried so much as I am realistic. I know they’ll try something sooner or later, and it makes good sense for us to cover our backs. Look at what happened to you yesterday with Mulhare.”
Nate nodded and touched a bruise on his cheek. “Okay. Where you go, I go.”
“Except when nature calls,” Shakespeare said, grinning.
Winona suddenly pointed to the southwest and spoke in the Shoshone tongue.
Several men were approaching. In the lead, distinguished by his black hat, walked Jim Bridger.
“A bit early for a visit, isn’t it?” Shakespeare called out good-naturedly.
Bridger waited until he came within ten feet before replying. “It’s only early if you’ve been to bed.”
“You haven’t?”
“No.” Bridger stepped over to the fire and held out his hands, warming them, his gaze on the tranquil surface of Bear Lake. The two men with him stood nearby.
“Why don’t you sit awhile?” Shakespeare sugge
sted. “I’ll make some coffee. We have a little left.”
“I wish I could,” Bridger responded. “It’s been a long night and it promises to be a longer day.” He paused and looked down. “Actually, I came to give you the news.”
“What news?”
Bridger nodded at Nate. “Apparently Grizzly Killer is a good shot. We think the killer is wounded.”
Shakespeare stiffened. “You found blood?”
“Not much, but enough to have us believe the ball probably nicked him.”
“Serves the bastard right. Too bad Nate didn’t drive a ball into his head.”
“We found addresses for relatives of the Pennsylvanians, and I found someone trustworthy who will take the money and the belongings to St. Louis. From there they’ll be mailed to the families.”
“Good,” Shakespeare said, studying his friend. “But I get the impression something else is bothering you.”
“You always did have the eyes of a hawk,” Bridger said dryly. “As if we didn’t have enough to be concerned about, what with the killer still on the loose and reports of hostile Indians in the area—”
“Hostile Indians?” Nate said, interrupting. “I thought they stayed away from the rendezvous.”
“A few like to prove how brave they are. Five days ago a Frenchman was attacked by a band northeast of here.”
“Blackfeet?” Shakespeare guessed.
“He wasn’t able to identify them. The incident took place twelve miles from the lake.”
“That’s a little too close for comfort.”
“I know,” Bridger said. “And now a man who went out two days ago to hunt is missing.”
“Who?”
“McClinden. Know him?”
“Believe we’ve met once or twice.”
“He told his friends he’d only be gone for six hours or so. We’re organizing search parties now. Care to join one?”
“Sure,” Shakespeare said.
“We’re sending out three groups this morning, then three more this afternoon. If you’re willing, Nate and you can ride with one of the later search parties.”
“Fine. Just let us know when they’re leaving. We’ll be all set to go.”
“I knew I could count on you,” Bridger said. He nodded at Winona, then turned and walked in the direction of the booths. “I’ll send a man around to tell you when and where to meet the others,” he told them over his shoulder. The two men with him kept pace on his right.
“First a killer, now a war party,” Shakespeare remarked. “This rendezvous is turning out to be more memorable than the last couple of get-togethers.”
“I know I’ll never forget it,” Nate commented.
They finished eating and ambled to the south, Winona staying so close to Nate that she bumped into him now and then. There was no sign of Crazy George at his camp, and they continued on until they reached the booths. Although it was still early, many of the traders were already open for business, eager to reap the hefty profits they garnered every day of the rendezvous.
Shakespeare took Nate and Winona to booths managed by traders he knew personally, men who out of the kindness of their hearts would reduce the price of their goods a few cents. They purchased coffee, sugar, ammunition, trinkets and blankets to use for trading with Indians, and various other items.
The sun had almost reached its zenith by the time they concluded their transactions and returned to their site by the lake.
Declaring that he could make the best cup of coffee on the North American continent, Shakespeare proceeded to make good on his boast.
Nate sat a yard from the fire and inhaled the delectable aroma. He draped his right arm around Winona’s shoulders and gazed at her lovely features. Using sign language, he told her all about the missing trapper and the band of unfriendly Indians believed to be responsible for the man’s disappearance. He explained about the search parties and advised her not to expect Shakespeare and him back until nightfall, possibly later.
Winona tenderly touched his cheek, then responded that she had complete confidence in his ability and wouldn’t worry in the least while he was gone. She asked if it would be all right for her to visit friends in the Shoshone camp to the west of the lake.
Not feeling very pleased at the prospect of leaving her alone, Nate gladly urged her to visit her friends and encouraged her to stay there as long as she liked.
Smiling, Winona thanked him and promised to have their evening meal prepared by the time they came back.
All the while they conversed, Shakespeare rested and stared to the south, his brow creased, deep in thought.
“What’s on your mind?” Nate inquired when he concluded his chat with his wife.
“Nothing much.”
“You don’t fool me. I know that look by now. What is it?”
“I’d rather not say yet.”
“Why are you being so secretive?” Nate pressed him.
The frontiersman sighed and plucked at a blade of grass. “Very well. If you must know, I’ve been pondering the nature of madness.”
Nate almost laughed until he noticed the serious expression his friend wore. “I don’t understand.”
“And I don’t expect you to know what I’m talking about,” Shakespeare said. “Read Hamlet sometime. Then you will.”
“What does Hamlet have to do with anything?”
“Everything,” Shakespeare responded, and launched into a quote from his favorite author. “‘That he is mad, ’tis true: ’tis true ’tis pity, and pity ’tis ’tis true: a foolish figure; but farewell it, for I will use no art.’”
Shaking his head in bewilderment, Nate leaned back on his palms. “Have you gone mad, then?” he joked.
“‘Though this be madness, yet there is method in it,’” Shakespeare quoted again.
“If you’re an example of the effect reading Shakespeare has on a man, I’ll stick to James Fenimore Cooper,” Nate said, grinning.
“‘There’s the rub,’” the frontiersman stated, and laughed.
Nate gazed idly to the southwest and spied four men approaching on horseback. “We have company coming,” he announced, and stood.
Shakespeare took a sip, then rose slowly. “I don’t know any of them,” he said.
The quartet came closer and reined up. All four wore buckskins. One man, the tallest, nodded and smiled. “You two must be Shakespeare McNair and Grizzly Killer.”
“That’s us,” Nate replied.
“Gabe sends his compliments. He was going to have someone ride over and tell you where to meet us, but I figured we’d save time by coming ourselves. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Shakespeare said. “And who might you be?”
“The name is Bannon.”
“Give us a minute to saddle up and we’ll be all set to—”
“I’d like to make a request first.”
“Oh?”
“I know a lot about you, McNair. You know this country better than I do. I’ve only been out here five years. All of us already talked it over and we’d like you to lead this search party,” Bannon proposed.
“I have no objections,” Shakespeare stated.
“Good. Then we’re ready when you are.”
Nate and the frontiersman quickly saddled their respective mounts. Winona gave them both dried venison to take along, then stood back and waved as they rode off to the east.
“Don’t look so miserable,” Shakespeare told his young companion. “You’ll see her again.”
“I know. I just feel . . . strange.”
“Can you be more precise?”
“I wish I could.”
Bannon and the others were a few yards behind them. The tall man raised his voice. “The trapper who has been missing was last seen riding to the northeast.”
“Wasn’t that Frenchman attacked northeast of here?” Nate queried.
“Sure was,” Bannon confirmed.
The uneasiness Nate felt intensified as he gazed across Bear La
ke at the mountains beyond. Why was he so apprehensive? he wondered. Simply because he would be separated from Winona for seven or eight hours? Or was his intuition trying to warn him about impending danger? If so, from what source? The Blackfeet? He chided himself for being needlessly anxious and squared his shoulders. There was a job to do and he intended to see it through.
Come what may.
Chapter Twelve
They rode along the shore, maintaining a steady gallop, until they reached a point northeast of the lake. With a wave of his right hand Shakespeare led them across a narrow field and into the forest beyond. As a precaution should they be attacked, they strung out in single file. Mounted men were easy enough targets as it was; bunched together they were sitting ducks. Shakespeare took the lead, his keen eyes roving over the terrain, sitting relaxed in the saddle yet as alert as a panther on the prowl.
Nate rode second in line, his Hawken cradled in his right arm. He saw squirrels and birds and a few deer during the early going, but nothing out of the ordinary.
None of the men spoke. Except for the thudding of the hooves and an occasional snort from a horse, their passage through the forest was conducted in prudent silence.
The ground sloped gradually upward. A few elk spotted them and fled. They crossed a series of progressively higher hills, drawing ever nearer to the towering peaks glistening with snow.
Nate absently swatted at a pesky fly and wiped his hand across his brow. He glimpsed a raven soaring far overhead, then focused on the rough ground ahead. His mare was her usual perky, energetic self, and he had to hold the reins tightly to prevent her from moving up alongside Shakespeare’s animal.
The miles went by quickly. They entered a broken, rugged region where there were fewer trees. Large boulders dotted the landscape.
Nate detected movement on a mountain off to the east and stared at the slope just below the snow line. Dozens of white forms were moving nimbly about on the sheer rock face, displaying extraordinary agility. He recognized them as mountain sheep, or bighorns as some of the trappers referred to them. The animals appeared to be fearless. They stood on tiny rock outcroppings thousands of feet above the ground with the same casual air of a man sitting on a log. And they could leap incredible distances from outcropping to outcropping, their hooves landing on a patch of rock no more than several inches square, their balance and coordination superb.
Wilderness: Savage Rendezvous/Blood Fury (A Wilderness Western Book 2) Page 10