Or so he hoped.
Chapter Six
Shakespeare McNair’s cabin was situated in a pristine valley at the base of a knoll and only fifty yards from a rushing stream. To the north of the sturdily built structure was a horse pen, to the south a small storage shed. Ancient pines bordered the homestead to the rear and on both sides, while a narrow strip of ground in front of the cabin had been stripped of all vegetation. The home blended in perfectly with the surrounding vegetation. Unless one knew exactly where to look, a man could ride almost right past it without knowing it was there.
Nate wasn’t certain how the mountain man would take to having three strangers show up. Nate had a standing invitation to visit any time he wanted, but Shakespeare might be upset at him for bringing the others. Many of the mountaineers were tight-lipped about the locations of their homes because they didn’t want the information getting to potential enemies.
And many of the mountaineers did have bitter enemies, usually in the form of an Indian tribe that wanted the trappers killed.
He saw no indication of activity as he approached the closed cabin door. Maybe the grizzled codger and his wife had gone off to visit her people, the Flathead Indians. He scoured the ground, seeking clues, and spied tracks that had been made within the hour. Reining up twenty feet from the cabin, he cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, “Shakespeare! It’s me, Nate. Don’t shoot!”
There was no reply from within.
“Perhaps he isn’t home,” Milo said.
“Shakespeare!” Nate repeated. “Do you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
The low, gruff voice came from directly behind them. Nate swung around, beaming happily at discovering his mentor and best friend not a dozen feet off.
As with most men who had spent any great span in the Rockies, Shakespeare McNair looked every bit as rugged as the mountains in which he lived. Fringed buckskins covered his muscular frame. On his head perched a brown beaver hat, and from under the hat spewed bushy gray hair. His beard and moustache were the same color, testimony to his age and resourcefulness in lasting as long as he had. He wore the ubiquitous powder horn and ammunition pouch and carried a large butcher knife on his left hip. In his hands and pointed in the general direction of Benteen and Sublette was a cocked Hawken.
“We’ve come in peace, Mr. McNair,” Sublette blurted out. “Honest.”
Nate was staring at the woman beside Shakespeare, a statuesque Flathead named Blue Water Woman. She wore a buckskin dress and held a rifle trained on Red Moon.
“Howdy, Nate,” the mountain man said cheerily, and then sobered as he regarded the pair of Pennsylvanians and the old Crow. “Where did these fellows come from?”
“They’re with me,” Nate explained. “My trapping partners.”
“Do tell,” Shakespeare said, but he made no effort to lower the gun. “I’ve never met any of you gentlemen before,” he said to the trio. “Mind telling me your names?”
They did so, the Pennsylvanians rather nervously, the Crow smiling at some private joke.
“Obviously you know who I am,” Shakespeare said, advancing slowly. Blue Water Woman stayed right by his side. “Since you’re friends of Nate’s, you’re welcome to share my hospitality. But be forewarned.” He paused and gave Benteen and Sublette long looks. “I’m a cantankerous old cuss and there are certain rules I go by. Obey them, and you won’t have any trouble while you’re here.”
“What kind of rules?” Tom asked.
“I won’t be insulted. I won’t be laid a hand on. And any man who treats my wife with disrespect will be shot right then and there.”
“We’d never treat your wife shabbily,” Milo said indignantly. “Nor would we think of insulting you, sir. We’ve heard a great deal about you since we came to these parts, and we think you’re one of the greatest mountaineers who has ever lived.”
“Really?” Shakespeare said, a twinkle in his eyes. “Then we should get along just dandy.” He lowered the Hawken, his wife lowered her rifle, and together they walked around the horses to the cabin. “Light and make yourselves to home,” Shakespeare said.
Nate dismounted, ground-hitched the stallion and left the pack animals standing behind it, and walked up to his mentor. Smiling, he gave Shakespeare a clap on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Why don’t you put your horses in the pen?” Shakespeare suggested.
“We’re not staying that long, unfortunately,” Nate responded, and squinted up at the sun, which hung high in the afternoon sky. It had taken them the better part of two days to make the journey from his cabin to McNair’s. There were still five or six hours until nightfall, and he wanted to travel as far as possible before they bedded down. “The main reason I stopped by was to ask if you would check on Winona and Zach every so often until I get back.”
It was Blue Water Woman who answered in her crisp, precise English. She had learned the language years ago from McNair. “We will be delighted to go see her.”
“Thanks. I’m in your debt,” Nate said.
“You have it backwards,” Blue Water Woman responded. “It is I who am in your debt. I have not talked with another woman in over two months, and this gives me the perfect excuse to get this lazy bear to leave our cabin for a while.”
“Who are you calling a lazy bear?” Shakespeare demanded.
“She’ll be happy to see both of you,” Nate predicted.
The mountain man watched the Pennsylvanians and Red Moon tie their animals to nearby trees. “So how did you hook up with these gents?”
Nate briefly detailed how he happened to be with his newfound acquaintances, and as he did they joined him. When he mentioned the mysterious valley ripe with beaver, Shakespeare’s lake-blue eyes narrowed.
“Where is this valley?”
“Only Red Moon knows,” Nate answered.
Shakespeare glanced at the Crow and addressed Red Moon in that tongue. They talked for several minutes, a frown deepening on Shakespeare’s face the whole time. At last the mountain man turned to Nate.
“If you want my advice, you’ll stay clear of this valley you’re heading for. Going there will only bring trouble.”
“Why?” Nate asked.
“It’s a long story,” Shakespeare said. “Why not stay for one cup of coffee at least and I’ll tell you everything I know.”
There was a telltale edge to McNair’s tone, an edge Nate had never heard before. Was it apprehension? He nodded and said, “It’s all right by me if it’s all right with the others.”
Milo gestured at the entrance. “Lead the way. A cup of coffee would do fine about now.”
They entered, Blue Water Woman moving off to prepare the pot while the men sat down at a large round table. Shakespeare leaned back in his chair and gazed coldly at Red Moon. “I’ve heard about this valley before, and about the creature that supposedly lives there. These critters were common ages ago. Now they’re rare.”
“You know what it is?” Tom Sublette inquired dubiously.
“Not exactly,” Shakespeare admitted. “There have been stories about these critters making the rounds of the camp fires for as long as I’ve lived in these mountains. And practically every tribe has legends about them.”
“Have you ever run into one?” Milo asked.
“Nope. Thank goodness. By all accounts, you run into one and you wind up dead.”
Milo smiled politely. “No offense, McNair, but my partner and I aren’t given to believing every tall tale the Injuns tell. And we don’t take at face value those fireside stories that are usually exaggerated ten times over.”
“No offense, Benteen,” Shakespeare mimicked him, “but you haven’t lived out here as long as I have. When you do, you can tell the difference between when an Indian is talking about some spirit being and when it’s a real animal. And these monsters are as real as you and me.”
“Monsters?” Milo repeated, and snorted. “Now I get it. You’re trying to put one over o
n us. There are no monsters except in the minds of those fiction writers. I can read, Shakespeare, and I know about some of the books that have been so popular over in Europe and in the States. There’s that strange one called Frankenstein by that poet’s wife, and the one they made the play out of, The Vampyre, by that doctor. And there have been stories about those wolf-men, those werewolves, too.”
Tom Sublette grinned, nodding knowingly. “And don’t forget all those tales about those sea serpents off the coast of New England, and the newspaper stories about the monster that lives in Lake Erie.”
“I almost forgot how you old-timers like to pull the wool over the eyes of us greenhorns,” Milo said, and chuckled.
Nate saw exasperation in his mentor’s eyes. He knew Shakespeare better than any man alive, and he knew when the mountain man was telling tall tales and when he was telling the truth. This bizarre business about the thing in the valley was a true story, not a whopper.
Shakespeare drummed his fingers on the table for a bit, then looked at Nate. “If these two want to go off and get themselves killed, that’s their business. But I’ve spent a lot of time teaching you everything I know, and I’d hate for you to be torn to pieces and never get to use that lore.” He paused. “Are you bound and determined to go to this valley?”
“I gave them my word,” Nate said.
“Damn. I wish you hadn’t.”
“Tell me everything you know about these critters.”
“All right. The first story I know of concerns a man who explored a sizable chunk of Canada some years back. I can’t recollect his name, but I know he wrote a narrative of his travels. And back in 1810 or 1811, while he was near the Athabaska River, he came on some peculiar tracks in the snow. Huge tracks, these were—”
“Probably a grizzly’s,” Tom interrupted.
“Since when does a grizzly have toes?” Shakespeare said testily, then went on. “And about fifteen years ago three men went trapping to the northwest of here. Frenchmen, they were, down from Canada. I met them at a Flathead village. They were nice enough and excited about all the game in these parts.” He stopped, his gaze straying to the open door. “No one ever heard from them again, and I forgot all about them until about six years ago when I was out trapping with a gent named Rogers. We came on this old cabin, not much more than a bunch of logs set crosswise. One of the walls had been knocked down. We found old utensils and traps and such scattered about.”
Nate leaned forward, fascinated. Milo and Tom were also hanging on every word.
“We found an old cap of the kind French trappers favor, about rotted through, and it reminded me of those three Frenchmen I’d met years ago. We got to poking around, and under a corner of that downed wall I noticed a bunch of bones. Wasn’t much to them, but from what there was I could tell they’d been broken into bits.”
“An animal, most likely,” Milo said.
“No,” Shakespeare stated. “These bones had been broken up when the man was still alive. Something had busted him to pieces.”
No one said anything. Nate pursed his lips, pondering his course of action. He believed his friend and he believed the legends of the Indians, but he wasn’t fully convinced that whatever inhabited the valley years ago still did so now, and he couldn’t see breaking his word to the Pennsylvanians and calling it quits when he stood to benefit so handsomely if there were abundant beaver in the valley.
Tom coughed. “Well, let’s suppose there was some kind of creature in these mountains we don’t know about. What are the chances of the thing still being alive?”
Shakespeare shrugged. “Who can say?”
Milo rested his forearms on the table. “Is that all you know? Just those two stories and the Indian tales?”
“That’s it,” Shakespeare replied.
“We appreciate the warning, McNair, but we’re not going to change our minds. We have plenty of guns. Red Moon knows the territory. And since Grizzly Killer here can kill grizzlies like most men swat flies, we don’t have a blessed thing to worry about.”
Nate didn’t like Milo’s condescending tone. Shakespeare was sincerely trying to do them a favor by emphasizing the danger and the Pennsylvanians were making light of it. “All it takes to kill a bear is a good rifle and a lot of luck. These creatures might be another story entirely.”
“Now don’t tell me you believe all this nonsense,” Milo said. “We’re counting on your experience, Nate, to help us bring in more damned beaver than most men see in two years of trapping. If you back out, we’re stuck.”
“I never said anything about backing out,” Nate declared. “I gave you my word, and I’ll stick by it.”
Both Milo and Tom seemed vastly relieved. Red Moon’s face was a blank stone.
Blue Water Woman brought over tin cups for each of them, then carried the pot of coffee to the table. She poured for Shakespeare first, then for Nate.
“I am glad I heard this talk. Now I know I must stay with Winona for a long time,” she commented. “Why’s that?” Nate inquired.
“I want to be there to comfort her if you do not return.”
Chapter Seven
Nate pondered over the discussion at McNair’s for the rest of the day, and was still contemplating his friend’s words when it came time to picket the horses for the night. The four of them had ridden hard after leaving the cabin, and had not stopped until about an hour after the rosy sun sank out of sight beyond the western horizon. Since it was his turn to handle the stock, he watered the animals at a nearby stream and then found a suitable spot at the edge of the meadow where they had camped to tie the horses, allowing enough slack in the ropes to permit each horse to graze to its heart’s content.
He wasn’t much given to believing in spooks and goblins and such. Nor did he lend much credence to the idea of monsters existing. Unknown animals, however, were another matter. He’d seen stories back in New York about the strange creatures found by explorers in deepest Africa and in remote regions of South America. So there probably were creatures remaining to be discovered by science, but he felt it unlikely that anything on the North American continent could still be unknown in light of the fact that adventurers, explorers, and the trappers themselves had penetrated into the heart of the Rockies and had never reported encounters with unknown beasts.
Still, there were the Indian tales and legends and they couldn’t be discounted offhand. The Indians knew the land better than the whites ever would, and if the Indians believed certain creatures existed, then the odds were long that the creatures were alive or had once been.
Despite McNair’s advice, he wasn’t about to abandon the idea of trapping the valley. Always he came back to the same thought, that he could gather all the pelts he’d need in a short time and be back with his family much sooner than he ordinarily would at trapping season. So he decided to forge ahead and not let himself start jumping at every sound in the night.
Just as he reached his conclusion, as he turned from securing the last horse and headed for the camp fire twenty yards to the south, he heard a twig snap in the inky forest off to his right. He promptly halted and held the Hawken in both hands, peering intently into the night. The edge of the trees lay the same distance away as the fire. There was no hint of movement, but something was out there.
Nate waited, speculating it was most likely a skunk or a raccoon or some other small but harmless critter that would hasten off once it detected his scent. The large predators tended to shy away from fires, all except for wolves, and he hadn’t seen any sign of a pack in the vicinity before halting to make camp. But a man could never be too careful.
Was it his imagination, or had something moved among the trunks near the meadow? He leaned forward, his thumb cocking the rifle, his finger lightly touching the cool trigger. If attacked, he must make the shot count and not fire until certain of hitting whatever came at him.
A tense minute dragged by.
Benteen and Sublette were joking and laughing by the fire, Red Moon se
ated across from them and not saying a word. None of them were looking in Nate’s direction. He hesitated to call out and warn them for fear of appearing foolish if no threat materialized.
Another minute went by. Nate shrugged and started toward his companions. Apparently there was no cause for alarm. He took several strides, then abruptly halted as the hairs at the nape of his neck prickled and an overwhelming feeling that he was no longer alone seized him. Intuitively he sensed there was something close to him, even though he’d not heard a sound, and he swung his head around, hoping he was wrong, but knowing from prior grim experience never to discount his instincts.
Behind him, not a yard away, stood the black dog.
Startled, Nate spun and began to bring the rifle barrel up. But in his haste he tripped over his own feet and went down hard on his buttocks, the Hawken ending up in his lap. And no sooner was he on the ground and momentarily helpless than the dog closed on him.
Nate’s eyes involuntarily widened as the canine stepped right up to him and stared him right in the eyes. He hadn’t quite realized how big the dog was; it was immense, and even in the dark its rippling muscles were prominent. The head was huge and shaped like a box, the ears short and flopped over. The brute’s eyes were uncanny, with the right one blacker than coal and the left one an unnatural shade of ivory, as if covered by a white film.
The brute’s warm breath tingled Nate’s nostrils and he tightened his grip on the rifle, preparing to surge to his feet and fight for his life if necessary. He was amazed the thing had been able to sneak up on him unheard and unseen, and he marveled at its prowess even as he tensed his leg muscles to stand.
Suddenly the immense dog moved, flicking its head closer and opening its gaping mouth to reveal its large, tapered teeth.
Nate flinched and tried to draw backward. He began to swing the stock, intending to bash the dog on the head. But the swing was only half completed when the animal did the unexpected.
The dog licked him.
At the clammy sensation, Nate froze, flabbergasted. He’d expected the brute to attempt to tear him to ribbons. Instead, the dog was showing him it was friendly. Again it licked him with a great roll of its wet tongue, slobbering over his face in the process. Flooded with relief, Nate began to smile and that dripping tongue slapped across his lips. He raised his right hand and wiped his sleeve across his mouth, grinning at the ridiculous situation. “That’s enough, boy.”
Wilderness: Mountain Devil/Blackfoot Massacre (A Wilderness Western Book 5) Page 5