Wilderness: Mountain Devil/Blackfoot Massacre (A Wilderness Western Book 5)

by Robbins, David

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  Mountain Devil

  In 1832, life in the Rocky Mountains was filled with danger and mystery. Indian legends held that deep in secluded valleys lurked bizarre creatures bent on destroying man. Although Indians shunned such places, courageous settlers like Nathaniel King had no time for such tales, and they willingly braved these forbidden areas. But when Nate led a hunting expedition into a valley where one of these monsters was said to live, several of his fellow hunters were viciously slain. And before long Nate himself became the prey of a beast that might have come out of his worst nightmare.

  Blackfoot Massacre

  Life in the savage Rockies was not easy on Nathaniel King and other courageous mountain men who dared to settle there. For every day, wild animals, treacherous Indians, or brutal elements threatened their very existence. With all these dangers, Nate never expected any trouble from a missionary bent on converting the hostile tribesmen. But when the Reverend John Burke was trapped in perilous Blackfoot territory, Nate had to save the man—or he’d bear the brand of a coward until the day he died.

  WILDERNESS DOUBLE EDITION

  9: MOUNTAIN DEVIL

  10: BLACKFOOT MASSACRE

  By David Robbins Writing as David Thompson

  First Published by Leisure Books in 1992

  Copyright © 1992, 2016 by David Robbins

  First Smashwords Edition: August 2016

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Our cover features Trapper, painted by Andy Thomas, and used by permission. Andy Thomas Artist, Carthage Missouri

  Andy is known for his action westerns and storytelling paintings and documenting historical events through history.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book * Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing * Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  WILDERNESS 9: MOUNTAIN DEVIL

  Dedicated to Judy, Joshua, and Shane.

  The best family a man could ever have.

  Author’s Note

  Because it matters, the following story is based on fact.

  During those years everything west of the Mississippi River was considered the exclusive domain of fierce beasts and savage Indians, a number of mountain men and bold explorers who traveled through what is now the northern United States and Canada took the time to record their experiences. These detailed narratives provide a wealth of information about the country, the people, and particularly the creatures they encountered. Some of those creatures defy identification. One such tale was reported by no less a personage than Theodore Roosevelt in his book Wilderness Hunter, published in 1892.

  We still don’t have the answer.

  Chapter One

  Someone—or something—was watching him.

  Or so Nathaniel King believed, and he turned from the fine black stallion he had been rubbing down with a handful of soft green grass to survey the rugged countryside surrounding his remote cabin in the central Rockies. He was a big, broad-shouldered man with penetrating green eyes and a mane of black hair, and his brow furrowed as he searched for any sign of life, for any movement at all.

  To the southeast a bald eagle soared, hunting prey. To the north an irate squirrel chattered. East of the cabin lay a lake teeming with ducks and other fowl, and on its southern shore stood four black-tailed deer, a buck and three doe.

  Nate saw nothing to arouse alarm and allowed himself to relax. He resumed stroking the stallion, the buckskins that covered his supple frame flowing with the motions of his muscular arms and shoulders. Angled across his powerful chest was a powder horn and a bullet pouch. In a beaded sheath on his left hip hung a butcher knife, while tucked under his wide brown leather belt were two flintlock pistols, one on either side of the buckle. An eagle feather had been tied at the back of his hair with the quill jutting upwards.

  As Nate worked, the nagging feeling persisted that he was being observed. He repeatedly glanced over his shoulders, wondering each time if his nerves were getting the better of him. Not that he didn’t have cause for being concerned. Living close to Ute country as he did, he never knew when the resentful Utes might decide to pay him a visit and try to wipe out his entire family. The Utes despised whites, and they went out of their way to exterminate any mountaineers they found.

  Nate finished rubbing down the stallion and tossed the grass aside, then turned to exit the stout corral attached to the south side of his cabin. Nearby, milling about, were the five other horses he owned. He paused at the rails to retrieve his prized Hawken rifle, then climbed out. A cool breeze from the northwest stirred his hair. Inhaling deeply, he smelled the tangy scent of pine and the dank odor of the rich earth that carpeted the lush valley he’d staked out as his own.

  The cabin door opened and out came his lovely wife, Winona. A full-blooded Shoshone, she had long dark hair and matching eyes. A buckskin dress clung to her shapely figure, and cradled in the crook of her left arm was a basket.

  “Where are you going?” Nate inquired in English.

  “To gather eggs for our supper,” Winona answered, closing the door behind her. She smiled and headed for the lake.

  The thought of a savory omelet made Nate’s mouth water. He gazed at the sunny sky, grateful winter had ended. The early April weather had been exceptionally mild, and soon he must leave to get some trapping done if he hoped to take a large number of prime beaver pelts to the annual rendezvous held in the summer. “Is Zachary sleeping?” he thought to ask before Winona went too far.

  She halted and pivoted. “I thought he was with you.”

  “What?” Nate said, stiffening.

  “He went out to help you with the horses a while ago,” Winona explained, retracing her steps, her tone betraying a hint of anxiety.

  Nate looked every which way. “He never came near the corral,” he said, keeping his voice calm, telling himself there was no need to become apprehensive... yet. Their three-year-old son was notorious for wandering off without a word to either one of them. Unfortunately, what with the many predators in the area, not to mention the ever-present prospect of the Utes showing up, wandering off could prove fatal.

  “Not again,” Winona said.

  “You go north, I’ll go south,” Nate proposed. “Keep yelling until he replies.”

  “I hope he doesn’t hide from us.”

  “He’d better not. I warned him what would happen if he did that one more time.”

  They separated, Nate skirting the corral and entering the dense trees. “Zachary!” he bellowed, startling sparrows in a thicket. “Where are you?”

  From north of the cabin came Winona’s voice. “Zachary! Zachary!”

  For several minutes Nate hiked and shouted. The boy didn’t respond. Worry battled with anger for supremacy in Nate’s mind. There were times, he mused, when being a parent tried his patience to its limits. On several occasions he’d been strongly tempted to apply his belt to his son’s backside, and only the promise he’d made to Winona shortly after Zach was born had stopped him. They’d agreed to raise the boy in the Shoshone fashion, which meant never striking him no matter how badl
y he misbehaved. Instead, they tried to influence Zachary’s behavior by always exhorting him to do what was proper and good and by setting ideal examples themselves. Talk about difficult tasks. Nate often marveled that Indians resorted to such exacting child-rearing practices when a good spanking would be so much easier to apply and would bear more immediate fruit. How well he recollected the many spankings his father had given him, and he’d turned out okay.

  He wondered if Zachary was playing at being an Indian warrior again. Sometimes the boy would pretend to be a mighty brave on a raid, and during this play Zach would only answer to his Shoshone name. “Stalking Coyote!” he called out. “Time to come back to your village.”

  The forest mocked him with its silence. All his shouting had caused every living creature within hearing distance to become quiet.

  “Young man, this is your father!” Nate yelled angrily. “If you’re listening, I demand you answer me this instant.”

  A bee buzzed past him.

  Nate halted at the base of a knoll, the Hawken in his left hand. Far off Winona still shouted. He couldn’t imagine the boy straying so far, but he decided to climb to the top of the knoll for a look-see before returning to the cabin. Hastening upward, he stopped on the crest and made a complete revolution, idly noting the towering ring of snow-capped peaks rimming the valley even as he probed the underbrush. Not so much as a rabbit stirred. Convinced he was wasting his time, he turned to depart, and his gaze landed on a boulder-strewn hill approximately a hundred yards to the southwest.

  A diminutive figure marched resolutely toward the top.

  “Zachary!” Nate thundered, and ran in pursuit. Promise or no promise, the boy’s breach of discipline deserved harsh punishment. Time and time again, Winona and he had warned Zachary about going more than a few feet from the cabin when unescorted. The boy simply couldn’t get it into his inexperienced head that there were great dangers lurking in the woods. Just once Nate would like to see Zachary have a serious scare that would bring the boy to his senses. Just once—

  Something else moved on that hill, something big and long and tawny, something creeping down the slope toward the unsuspecting child.

  It was a panther.

  Some trappers called them mountain lions. Some referred to them as cougars. Nate used the term favored by the majority of trappers. However they were known, the big cats were renowned for their stealth and their ferocity when aroused. And the sight of one stalking his son sparked a ripple of stark fear down Nate’s spine.

  “Zachary!” Nate bellowed, and raced toward the hill. His son stopped, turned, and waved. “Come down!” he yelled, motioning with his free arm for the boy to descend, but Zachary resumed climbing.

  The panther, twenty yards above the child, paused and glanced at Nate. Then it effortlessly vaulted onto the top of a large, flat boulder and crouched at the lip where it could see the slope below and mark the progress of its intended victim.

  Such a bold cat was exceedingly rare. Usually mountain lions fled at the sight or scent of humans. This one, Nate speculated, must be famished, or else believed Zachary to be such easy prey that it wasn’t about to stop stalking him just because another person had shown up. He saw Zachary wend among some boulders and opened his mouth to scream. “Zach! Come back! There’s a panther above you.”

  The boy kept going.

  Nate knew he wouldn’t reach the hill in time to prevent the cat from reaching his son. He must act, and act now, if he hoped to have Zachary grow to a ripe old age. Accordingly, he abruptly halted, snapped the Hawken to his right shoulder, and cocked it. He sighted along the barrel, fixing the bead on the panther’s head. It would be a long shot and he couldn’t be certain of scoring, but it was his only hope. To compensate for the distance he elevated the barrel to where he instinctively felt it should be, then held his breath and steadied the rifle.

  Crouching low, the panther fixed its hungry gaze on Zachary and coiled to spring.

  Please let me hit it! Nate prayed, and squeezed the trigger. The Hawken blasted, belching smoke and lead, and on the flat boulder the cougar suddenly recoiled and twisted sharply to one side as the ball nicked its left shoulder, causing blood and flesh to spray outward. Snarling, the cat stared balefully at Nate.

  Appalled that the shot hadn’t killed it, Nate sped onward. He wouldn’t waste time reloading the rifle. If he could get close enough, he’d employ both flintlock pistols.

  Little Zachary had halted at the loud retort and now stood watching his father approach. Beaming, he waved happily.

  “Come here!” Nate cried on the run. “Come here this instant!”

  Finally the boy obeyed. His slender shoulders slumping in resignation, he headed down the hill.

  Nate’s eyes were locked on the big cat. The panther glanced at Zach, then vented a loud, angry growl. It took a tentative step, as if about to leap from the boulder and attack, but its head turned toward Nate once more and, with remarkable alacrity, it whirled and went up the hill covering fifteen feet in a bound. In moments it was gone over the crest, back into the heart of wilderness from which it had emerged.

  “Zachary!” Nate cried in relief. The boy stopped at the base of the hill and waited for him, and when he got there he sank to his knees and impulsively gave his son a firm hug. He closed his eyes and held Zachary for almost a minute, overwhelmed with gratitude for the child’s deliverance.

  “Pa?”

  Nate drew back and coughed to clear a constriction in his throat. “Didn’t you see the panther?” he asked gruffly.

  “Where?” Zachary responded excitedly, and looked all around for the beast. “Show me.”

  “It ran off,” Nate said. “But if I hadn’t shown up when I did, it would have eaten you.”

  Zachary giggled at the prospect. “Panther not eat me. Me hit it,” he declared, and swung his tiny right fist at an imaginary cougar.

  Under different circumstances Nate would have laughed at the comically determined expression his son wore. But this was serious. The boy had nearly been slain. He maintained a stern face and said, “You can’t stop a panther with your bare hands.”

  “Me could. Me strong.”

  “You’re not strong enough,” Nate said harshly. “Anyway, the panther is not the main issue here. Going off by yourself is. Why did you wander away from the cabin when you’ve been told time and again not to do so?”

  “Me saw a butterfly.”

  “A butterfly?”

  Zachary nodded and used his right hand to mimic the flapping motion of a butterfly’s wing. “Yes. It flied past the cabin and me try to catch it.”

  “Oh,” Nate said, and sighed. The boy had been intensely interested in bugs for the last six months or so. Every bug Zach saw, he had to catch and examine. Nate could well imagine how hard it would be for Zach to resist the fluttering temptation of a colorful butterfly, but he still couldn’t let the violation go unpunished. “So you ran after it and didn’t bother to tell your mother or me.”

  Zachary, in his youthful innocence, answered promptly and honestly. It never occurred to him to lie. “Yes, me did.”

  “Say ‘I did,’” Nate corrected him.

  “You did?”

  “No, you did.”

  “But you said—”

  “Never mind,” Nate declared, and took the boy into his right arm. Rising, the Hawken in his left hand, he pivoted and headed for the cabin. “You can’t keep doing this, son. One of these days we won’t realize you’ve gone off and a panther or a grizzly or something else will get you.”

  “Me not scared,” Zachary stated.

  “I know. And that’s part of the problem. You’d be better off if you were scared.”

  “Me should be scared?” Zachary asked in amazement.

  Nate nodded. “A man who claims he’s never been scared is either a liar or a fool. Fear can be good for you if you don’t give in to it. It teaches you to be cautious, to play it safe instead of being reckless and getting yourself killed. Do you
understand?”

  Zachary shook his head. “Me never scared. Me just like you.”

  “I’ve been scared plenty of times.”

  “You have?”

  “More times than I care to remember,” Nate admitted. “And I’m here today because I learned how to cope with my fear and do what had to be done anyway.”

  “Tell me some of the times,” Zachary requested.

  So Nate did, detailing his several terrifying encounters with grizzly bears and his battles with hostile Indians. He told about the time a rattler nearly bit him, and the time he was attacked by a savage wolverine. His son listened intently, eyes agleam with the thrill of adventure. Nate concluded his narrative as they came up on the rear of the cabin. “So you can see that I’ve been scared many times and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Just don’t let your fear stop you from doing whatever has to be done.”

  “Me won’t, Pa. Me chase butterflies anyway.”

  “That isn’t what I meant,” Nate muttered, angling around the south end of the corral while racking his brain for a way of getting through to his son, of making his meaning clear. Engrossed in his thoughts, he didn’t realize they weren’t alone until he stepped in front of the pen and glanced up to discover three mounted men near the front door.

  Chapter Two

  “Look Pa!” Zachary cried in delight. “Peoples!”

  The boy was excited because visitors to their remote cabin were few and far between. Nate didn’t share his son’s enthusiasm. From bitter prior experience he knew that sometimes visitors spelled trouble, deadly trouble, and the moment he laid eyes on the trio he gently deposited Zachary at his feet and straightened, deliberately hooking the thumb on his right hand in his leather belt close to the right flintlock. He’d foolishly neglected to reload the Hawken after shooting at the panther, but he had two good pistols and a butcher knife he could employ to decidedly lethal effect should these strangers prove to be unfriendly. “Howdy,” he said, keeping his tone reserved, his features impassive.