Wilderness Giant Edition 3

by David Robbins

  Suddenly White Calf and the tall warrior began arguing, the tall brave raising his voice and shaking a fist at the medicine man who merely smiled like a cat about to devour a canary. Another warrior, young enough to be the tall man’s son, ran up to him and whispered in his ear. The tall one subsided but he was obviously displeased and simmering with resentment.

  Here was the moment Nate wanted. No one was talking so he went to address them in sign. To his dismay, White Calf barked orders and several of the band closed in on his horse and led him toward a lodge nearer the river. Nate looked back and saw the tall warrior stalking off, the young one dutifully following. White Calf and the chief were in earnest conversation.

  Damn it all! Nate fumed in frustration. Now he must bide his time until morning and then plead his plight. The chief had impressed him as an honorable man, and he felt sure that if he could only explain he might be permitted to leave, perhaps given a horse and enough jerky or pemmican to last him until he reached the Yellowstone River. He suspected White Calf had deliberately spirited him away but he couldn’t imagine why. Nothing made sense.

  At the lodge the warriors hung back, gesturing for Nate to go in. Sliding off, Nate stepped to the darkened doorway and scrunched up his nose in disgust at the awful odor that assailed his nostrils. Hand on the flintlock, he slowly entered. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust.

  Parfleches and packs hung from walls or were stacked in corners. Charred embers formed a black circle at the center of the lodge. Blankets were rolled up nearby. To the left was an open space. To the right lay the source of the smell, a collection of several animal carcasses partially butchered. From the stench and the state of the putrid meat, Nate estimated the carcasses had lain there for at least a week.

  Nate stomached as much of the smell as he could. Then, backing up, he went to leave. He was nearly to the entrance when his left heel came down on a large smooth object that rolled out from under his foot, causing him to lose his balance. His arm shot out and he gripped the wall for support to keep from falling.

  Looking down, Nate sought the object and found it looking back up at him. In a manner of speaking, anyway. For the smooth thing that had made him trip was a human skull.

  Chapter Eight

  The Minneconjou encampment lay nestled in a verdant valley bordering a winding waterway in the middle of the vast plain. It had taken two days to get there, two days of hard riding that had taken their toll on Winona. Never once, though, did she let on about her condition, which her baggy dress hid so well, because she did not want Thunder Horn to know. Her effort proved for naught, however, since she collapsed from exhaustion shortly after arriving and was closely examined by an elderly woman.

  Now, the day after, Winona lay on a blanket in a cool teepee, her hands pressed to her oversized belly, listening to the many and varied sounds of village life. Twice the size of her own, it teemed with laughing children, roving dogs, and too many adults to count.

  A shadow flitted across the entrance and Thunder Horn appeared, pausing long enough to let his eyes adjust to the dim light before he ventured inside. He came over and gave her a probing stare. “Question,” he signed. “How are you this day?”

  “Better,” Winona signed. “The pains have almost stopped.”

  “Had I known you were with child we would not have treated you so roughly.”

  The sincerity on the warrior’s face was self-evident. Winona pushed herself off the blanket, sitting with difficulty. “Prove your words are not so much empty air. Give me a horse and allow me to go find my family.”

  “I cannot,” Thunder Horn responded.

  Winona sniffed and signed, “I thought as much. And I tell you again that I will be true to my husband no matter what.” She stressed that part. “No matter what.”

  The warrior squatted and said nothing for a while. He merely drew random shapes in the dirt with a finger, his brow puckered. When he looked up, he looked troubled. “I have only known you a short time and already I like you very much. I envy this Grizzly Killer of yours. He has found a rare woman.”

  Winona kept her features impassive, steeling herself against the flattery.

  “I have made it plain to you that I want to take you for my own,” Thunder Horn said. She started to lift her hands and he went on, “Yes, I know you would fight me. But that would make no difference. I would like you to fight me.” He grinned at the pleasant thought. ‘‘But old Butterfly tells me there is a chance you might be hurt inside and we do not want you to die.”

  “We?”

  “Others have a stake in your welfare.”

  “Who?” Winona wondered, puzzled.

  “The entire tribe.”

  Had he not signed the words with a somber face, Winona would have judged the statement to be a strange joke. “A simple Shoshone woman is of such great importance?” she shot back.

  “Yes,” Thunder Horn replied, rising. “In less than a moon, about the same time your baby is due, you will understand. Until then it has been decided you will be left in peace.” His fingers paused. ‘‘Afterward, you have been pledged to me, and I will take you no matter how hard you kick and punch or how loud you scream.”

  An ominous shadow settled upon Winona’s soul as the Minneconjou departed and a shiver rippled down her spine. She felt the baby kick, hard, and grasped her stomach again.

  What was she to do? Winona asked herself. Escaping in her state was impossible. Even if she succeeded in stealing a horse and sneaking out of the village, improbable in light of the many sentries and dogs, she would not be able to make good time and was certain to be chased down by Thunder Horn. Oh! she reflected. If only my Nate was here! Seldom had she missed him as much as she did right then and there.

  The only note of good news was that she would be left alone for a month or so, until the baby was born. Winona rubbed her belly and sang softly to soothe the grasshopper inside of her. She was grateful for the respite. Perhaps she could use it to her advantage.

  Who was she deluding? In another three weeks she would be so big and heavy she couldn’t outrun a turtle, let alone flee across the prairie with Minneconjous nipping at the heels of her moccasins.

  Since sitting up had aggravated her discomfort from the jostling she had received when captured, Winona reclined on her back and sighed at the relief she experienced. Short-lived relief, for no sooner did her physical discomfort end than her emotional torment resumed. For the hundredth time she worried about Nate and Zach and Shakespeare. Biting her lower lip to keep from crying out, she resisted the overpowering fear that flooded through her, fear she would never see them again. Her mind balked at the thought they might be dead.

  But for the very first time, a tiny voice in the depths of her being whispered that they just might be.

  “Lord! I think this old coon is still alive, Bob!”

  “You’re plumb crazy, Griffen. Look at all the dried blood. And those claw marks. Lord! My stomach is churning something awful.”

  “Churn in the other direction, you lunkhead. I done washed these buckskins a few weeks ago and I don’t aim to have to wash them again until fall.”

  “Who are you calling a lunkhead, you coffee cooler? Why, I have half a mind to chuck you in the river just for the sheer hell of it.”

  “Try and we’ll get in a racket for sure.”

  The words echoed hollowly in Shakespeare McNair’s mind, as if he was at one end of a long, winding tunnel and they were at the other. Dimly, he became aware of being touched, of a weight on his chest. Then the pain hit him, a terrible, writhing mass of pain so acute it seemed to tear him apart at the seams.

  “If this hoss is dead,” the one named Griffen said, “how come his heart is still beating?”

  “The devil you say.”

  “Listen for your own self.”

  Through the shroud of agony enveloping Shakespeare he felt a new weight on his chest. He tried to open his eyes but his eyelids were weighted with lead. He tried to speak but his lips w
ouldn’t move.

  “I’ll be dogged!” Bob exclaimed. “You’re right for once. Come on. Help me.”

  A scream welled in Shakespeare’s throat as the world tilted and rocked and a searing, burning spear ripped through him. He was conscious of moving, or rather of being moved, and his stomach did some churning of its own. The sickening sensation lasted a full minute, then he was still again, both outwardly and inwardly.

  Shakespeare tried to collect his jumbled thoughts. Where was he? What had happened to him? A wispy fog floated in his brain, cutting him off from his memories. He longed desperately to remember anything but could not. All he knew was his name and the harrowing, chilling pain. Oh, the pain!

  Someone was speaking but Shakespeare could no longer distinguish the words. He was falling, plummeting into the depths of the wispy fog. Vainly he tried to slow his descent by flailing his arms and legs but he wasn’t a bird and there was no resisting gravity. The fog encased him in a clammy black sheath. His mind shrieked defiance, was immersed, and knew no more.

  Until suddenly Shakespeare snapped wide awake and saw myriad stars sparkling in the celestial vault overhead. At first he thought he was dreaming or delirious but then he felt a cool breeze caress his feverish face and smelled the fragrant aroma of wood smoke. He attempted to sit up but a wave of dizziness turned him as weak as a kitten before he could raise his head more than an inch. “This is a slight unmeritable man,” he quoted aloud, and was startled at hearing himself speak.

  There was a crash close by his side, as if someone had knocked something over, then a string of curses followed by, “Bob! He’s come around! He talked!”

  “I heard him,” a sleepy voice grumbled. “Tarnation. Did it excite you so much that you had to send the coffee pot flying?”

  “I just didn’t expect it,” Griffen said. “He made me jump.”

  “Clown!” Bob complained, but there was a friendly inflection to his barb.

  Shakespeare saw a pair of faces appear above him. One was like the full moon, expansive and bare of hair. The other was rugged and sported a full beard. “Costard and Don Armado, I presume?” he said.

  They exchanged glances and the bearded one remarked, “The attack rattled his thinker. He figures we’re some danged foreigners.”

  “Maybe the fit will pass,” suggested the other. Smiling broadly, the man with the round face said, “Don’t you fret none, Mountain Man. Me and my partner here, Lane Griffen, will stick with you until you heal or go under. I’m Bob Knorr. Junior, that is.” He began to offer his hand, then looked at McNair’s chest and rapidly withdrew his arm.

  “You have a name, old-timer?” Griffen inquired.

  “I wasn’t babbling,” Shakespeare said.

  “What?”

  “I was quoting from old William S., the Bard of Avon.”

  “Where’s Avon?” Bob interjected. “I’ve been from one end of the States to the other and never heard of it.”

  “England,” Shakespeare answered. Instantly he was assailed by more weakness. In his current state saying so simple a word was akin to running five miles. Uphill.

  “I knew a Britisher once,” Griffen said. “Fine man. Clerked a dry goods store in Boston.” He idly stroked his beard. “He hailed from London town, as I recollect. Never mentioned no Avon.”

  “No, no, no,” Shakespeare said softly, lacking the strength to explain.

  “I’ll fetch you a cup of coffee and some jerky to chaw on,” Bob offered, hurrying off.

  “And I’ll wash all the mud and gore off your face and out of your hair,” Griffen said. “We would have done it sooner but we didn’t want to wake you. You needed to rest.” He gently touched McNair’s shoulder. “We guessed you were lying there about two or three days before we found you. Another day and you would have been a goner for sure.”

  Shakespeare wanted to ask what had happened to him but Griffen disappeared. He tried to sit up but this time couldn’t even lift himself off the ground. An odd itchy sensation on his face and neck distracted him, reminding him of the comment about mud. And gore.

  Where had the gore come from? Shakespeare mused. Why couldn’t he remember what had happened to him? He dimly recalled rain, a godawful lot of rain. There had been people with him, hadn’t there? People he should know. People he was fond of. But who were they?

  Lane Griffen returned bearing a small pan filled with water and a piece of buckskin. “This will have to do,” he apologized. “We’re all out of beaver oil and castoreum or I’d make a salve for your wounds.”

  “What wounds?” Shakespeare asked.

  “You haven’t seen yourself?” Griffen rejoined in mild surprise, and coughed. “No, I suppose you haven’t yet. Well, all in due time.” Dabbing the bunched buckskin in the pan, he commenced wiping off McNair’s face and beard and throat. “Lord, mister. You are a pitiful mess. Never seen so much mud on any one person before.”

  Bob Knorr materialized. “I’ll hold off giving him this coffee until you’re done.”

  Griffen merely nodded. He was bent low, the better to see what he was doing in the pale glow of the campfire. Unexpectedly he straightened, blinking rapidly. “It can’t be!” he exclaimed.

  “What can’t?” Bob said.

  Bending again, Griffen worked faster, brushing at the mud with frenzied strokes, his eyes widening more and more with each passing moment. “I thought it was brown but your beard is white!” he said to the mountain man. “And your face! I know you now! You’re Shakespeare McNair! It’s great to see you again.”

  Shakespeare stared at the man’s agitated features and tried to dredge up the memory of where they had met. It, like every other memory, eluded him.

  Griffen seemed to sense his hesitation. “What’s the matter? Don’t you remember the rendezvous two summers ago? And that time we met at Fort William?”

  “I wish I could,” Shakespeare said, his failure galling him tremendously.

  “How can you forget?” Griffen asked in disbelief. “We spent a whole night drinking and carousing with Bridger and some of the boys. You won the contest to see who could balance a pipe on his nose the longest.”

  Bob placed a hand on his partner’s arm. “Let him be. That bear attack must have been a terrible shock to his system.”

  Bear attack! Shakespeare stiffened, nearly crying out. In his mind’s eye he saw himself frantically searching the north bank of the swollen Yellowstone for his precious book on the Bard. He heard again a rumbling growl and saw the hulking figure of a grizzly fifteen feet away. There had been no time to think, no time to do anything except lift his Hawken and take a bead as the behemoth bore down on him like a runaway wagon. He recalled firing, recalled a jolting, smashing impact, and then he’d flown through the air for a score of feet. After that his mind was as blank as an empty chalk slate until the two men found him.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Griffen was saying. “We’d best let him rest some more.”

  Shakespeare twisted to regard the younger man. “Lane? You were the lookout at the fort when I was there, weren’t you?”

  “Sure was,” Griffen said, and laughed happily. “You do remember after all!” He paused. “Whatever happened to the pard of yours, Nate King?”

  A lightning bolt ripped Shakespeare from head to toes and he snapped off the ground as if shot from a cannon without being aware he had done so. Everything came back to him in a stark rush of horror and in his dismay he cried out, “Nate!”

  The two trappers were by his side in a twinkling, each taking an arm. “There, there,” Griffen said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Better lie down a while.”

  “Please,” Knorr stressed. “A man in your condition shouldn’t overexert himself.”

  “My condition?” Shakespeare said dully, trying to come to grips with the magnitude of the calamity that had befallen him. Glancing down, he discovered a blanket that had slipped partway when he sat up. As he looked it fell onto his lap, revealing his chest and belly. “Dear God in heaven!
” he breathed.

  The bear had only slashed him once but that had been more than enough. Its four-inch claws had torn five jagged furrows from his sternum to his right thigh, shearing through him as easily as a hot knife parted butter and tearing out long strips of flesh.

  In the flickering firelight Shakespeare could clearly see exposed bones and glimpsed several of his internal organs. Vertigo struck him like a physical blow and he went limp and would have fallen if not for his kindly benefactors who lowered him down and covered him again.

  “We’ve cleaned it the best we could,” Bob said softly. “In the morning we’ll bandage you up and hope infection doesn’t set in.”

  “You’re a lucky man,” Griffen remarked.

  “Lucky?” Shakespeare said feebly.

  “To even be alive. You must be one tough cuss.”

  “I don’t feel so tough.” Shakespeare closed his eyes, wanting to do something he hadn’t done in ages: curl into a ball and bawl like a baby. In all his years on the frontier, years of fighting hostiles and wild beasts and contending with the elements themselves, this was the lowest moment of all, the moment when he stared defeat in the face and wrestled with his own soul for his salvation.

  “Is there anything else we can do?” Griffen inquired solicitously.

  “Pray,” Shakespeare said.

  Bob Knorr knelt and plucked at a stem of grass. “This might not be the best time to bring it up, old hoss, but Lane and me were talking some while you were unconscious. We have an idea and we need your opinion.” He broke the stem in half. “It’s your life at stake, after all.”

  “What idea?” Shakespeare asked. He went to shift a leg to relieve a cramp, thought of his innards squishing about as he moved, and held himself still.

  “Let me backtrack a bit,” Knorr said. “About five weeks ago a bunch of us left St. Louis after stocking up on powder and balls and such. Lane, here, needed a new Hawken and gewgaws for his wife, who’s staying with the Flatheads. Which is a long story in itself and—”