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11: NORTHWEST PASSAGE
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
12: APACHE BLOOD
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Copyright
About Piccadilly Publishing
About the Author
WILDERNESS 11: NORTHWEST PASSAGE
Life in the savage Rockies was never easy for the courageous mountain men who dared to live there. Threatened every day by hostile Indians and cutthroat frontiersmen, Nathaniel King and other intrepid settlers knew that trusting the wrong person could cost them their lives. But when Nate agreed to lead a seemingly innocent group of pioneers through the treacherous mountains, he made a mistake that could be his last. For the Banner party had a secret they did not want revealed, and they were more than willing to kill to keep it hidden.
Dedicated to Judy, Joshua, and Shane.
And to Nathaniel Hawthorne, who exposed it first.
Chapter One
The piercing scream cut through the hot Plains air like a razor-sharp butcher knife through buffalo fat.
On one knee at the base of a low knoll, Nathaniel King tensed and glanced up from the fresh elk tracks he had been examining. The scream wavered eerily on a gust of wind. Before the last lingering notes died, Nate took three strides and vaulted onto his magnificent pied stallion. A tug on the reins and a jab of his moccasins brought the horse to an immediate gallop, and he raced off across the prairie toward the spot where he had left the pilgrims from the States.
Nate’s first thought was that his greenhorn charges were under attack by hostiles, perhaps by a wandering band of Sioux, Arapaho, or even Blackfeet. There had been no sign of marauding war parties in the area, but a man could never be certain where Indians were concerned; they were as crafty as coyotes, as invisible as ghosts.
He clasped his Hawken firmly in his right hand and focused on the stand of trees sheltering the three wagons from the scorching sun. Oddly, he saw no hint of a commotion, and there should be a swirl of violent activity if a war party had struck. Not until he was fifty yards away did he see moving figures under the trees, some of them wildly waving their arms, and hear angry yells. Another twenty yards showed him the reason for the alarm.
A black bear was trying to clamber into one of the wagons.
Nate slowed and almost laughed aloud at the comical sight of the settlers prancing and dancing around the oblivious bear. It had its front paws braced on the side of the rear freight wagon, and was bobbing its big head up and down in the typical way a bear did when testing a breeze for scent. In this instance, it had no doubt been drawn to the wagons by the tantalizing odors coming from the food and other supplies piled high inside.
Black bears were seldom dangerous. A female with cubs would attack anyone foolhardy enough to approach too close, and a cornered bear was always likely to charge, but ordinarily they avoided humans like the plague. Unlike their fierce cousins, the mighty grizzlies, black bears possessed a mild temperament.
So Nate was not particularly concerned until he spied one of the Banner party, young Harry Nesmith, take aim with a rifle. “No!” he bellowed, and sped forward, seeking to avert potential calamity.
The rifle, a .50-caliber Kentucky, boomed.
Any hope of driving the hungry bear off without any trouble was dashed as the enraged creature dropped onto all fours and whirled, its gaping mouth wide in a vicious roar. It glared at the humans standing nearby, then abruptly charged a thin woman who stood immobilized with fear.
Nate was nearly there. Letting go of the reins, he used his legs to guide the stallion as he whipped the Hawken to his right shoulder, cocked the hammer, and took a hasty bead on the bear’s head. Going for the heart or the lungs was unwise since a single ball in either often failed to bring a bear down. But the head shot, even if not fatal, might stun the black bear long enough for Nate to finish the unfortunate beast off.
The furious bear had only two yards to cover to reach the terrified woman when the Hawken cracked. In a whirl of limbs the brute went down, rolling completely over and smacking into the transfixed pilgrim. She flew to one side, landing on her back. The black bear was upright in the blink of an eye, snarling as it shook its head from side to side.
A heartbeat after squeezing the trigger, Nate was already grabbing for another weapon. His right hand streaked to one of the two smoothbore single-shot .55-caliber flintlock pistols wedged under his wide brown leather belt, and as the stallion came abreast of the bear he leaned down, lowered the barrel to within an inch of the bear’s brow, and fired.
The black bear’s head snapped to one side as if kicked by a Missouri mule. Then the bear blinked, tried to lift a paw, and sagged, its front legs buckling first. Snorting and spitting blood, it went prone.
Nate turned the stallion in a tight loop and leaped down before the horse came to a stop. Transferring the spent flintlock to the same hand that held the Hawken, he drew his other pistol, dashed up to the wheezing bear, which was struggling to rise, and dispatched it with a ball between the eyes. For a full ten seconds he stood still, inhaling the acrid gunsmoke, watching blood flow from the bear’s wounds.
“Well done, King! I don’t understand why my shot didn’t do the trick.”
The lighthearted words aroused Nate’s anger. He spun, his features hardening, and strode up to Harry Nesmith. “Damn your hide!” he snapped, jabbing the flintlock into Nesmith’s chest. The startled Ohioan stumbled backwards. “You had no call to go and shoot! We could have driven the critter off.”
“Why are you so mad?” Nesmith responded indignantly. “We couldn’t let that beast get into our victuals.”
“Yes, King,” interjected a deep voice to their right. “Why are you so upset?”
Nate shifted to face the leader of the group, Simon Banner. A tall, powerful blockhouse of a man who wore homespun clothes and a white hat, Banner constantly exuded a certain arrogance that rankled Nate no end. “Out here, Mr. Banner,” he answered slowly, keeping his tone calm and level with a supreme effort, “we don’t kill anything unless we absolutely have to. We don’t ever waste game.” He nodded at the dead black bear. “There was no need to kill it.”
Banner scratched his bearded chin, then shrugged. “I still don’t see what the fuss is all about. It’s just a bear. We kill them all the time back East.”
“Which is why there are fewer and fewer bears every year,” Nate stated flatly. “You’re not east of the Mississippi any longer, and it’s time you owned up to that fact.” He encompassed the prairie with a sweep of his arm. “Out here we do things differently. You might say we do as the Indians do. And Indians never kill animals unless they need those animals for food or their lives are in peril.”
Banner made a sniffing sound. “We’ve only been together for a week, yet I can tell you admire the savages more than they rightfully deserve. They are heathens, after all.”
/> It took all the self-control Nate could muster not to smash Banner on the mouth. “Need I remind you that my wife is a Shoshone?” he asked gruffly.
“She is?” Banner replied in genuine surprise. “My word, King. I wasn’t told.”
For a moment Nate was inclined to doubt the assertion, until he reminded himself that the man who had arranged for him to serve as guide for this bunch, Isaac Fraeb, was a tight-lipped old cuss who never indulged in idle gossip. “Well, now you have been,” he said. “So I’ll thank you not to speak ill of the Indians again in my presence or I’ll be obliged to show you better manners.”
He sighed, his temper subsiding, aware that many Easterners shared Banner’s prejudice through no fault of their own. When the government itself regarded Indians as little better than animals, it was only natural for those who believed in their government to feel the same way. Very few knew the truth. Very few had experienced what he had experienced. “Not all Indians are as bad as they’re painted to be,” he commented. “Some are as friendly as any white man who ever lived. And most are honest, upright people in their own way.”
“How can heathens be upright in the sight of the Lord?” Banner asked quizzically. “Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?”
“I suppose you would say so,” Nate said. The man was, after all, the brother-in-law of a Methodist missionary, and as devout as a Quaker.
Suddenly a shrill reprimand was addressed at them both. “Isn’t this a fine state of affairs? Here lies poor Cora, perhaps hovering at death’s door, and all you men can think to do is argue over whether the bear should have been shot or not! Really!”
Alice Banner, her brown hair tucked up under her bonnet, stood over the woman who had been knocked down, a towel and a water skin in her hands. She clucked like an irate mother hen, then knelt and applied water to the towel. “Isn’t Cora’s life more important than your petty disagreements?”
Nate realized he had forgotten all about Cora Webster in the flush of anger that had seized him. Annoyed at himself, he stepped toward the unconscious woman, but the rest got there first. He let them tend her, studying their faces as they did, wondering what in the world he had gotten himself into by agreeing to hire out as a guide to these three brave couples on their way to the far-off Oregon Territory.
Simon Banner was easy to read, stubborn, proud, and hotheaded. His wife, Alice, was by contrast good-natured and always considerate of others, but feisty when crossed. Next, in terms of age, came Neil and Cora Webster, both pleasant enough but quite reserved, tending to keep to themselves even during the supper hour. Harry and Eleanor Nesmith were the youngest husband and wife, and it was the impulsive Harry who was directly to blame for Cora’s condition.
Nate saw someone else hasten toward the clustered group, the last member of their little party, sixteen-year-old Libbie Banner. He rarely got to see her because her father made her stay in the family’s wagon practically all the time. She was a blue-eyed blonde, endowed with the kind of full figure that drew suitors like honey drew ants.
He had initially been quite flabbergasted to find her with the group since there was little in the way of a social life awaiting her in Oregon. Very few settlers had gone out there so far; the last group had consisted of Methodist missionaries the year before. To his knowledge, there wasn’t anyone else her age, or even close to it, living in the Willamette Valley. In effect, by taking her with them, her parents were banishing her to a life of loneliness. Or perhaps they were counting on more settlers arriving later on. He didn’t rightly know and didn’t feel it was his business to pry.
Now, as Libbie joined the others, Simon looked around and saw her. “Get back to the wagon, girl,” he ordered sternly.
“But Mrs. Webster—” Libbie said in her musical voice.
“She’s coming around,” Simon said. “Cora probably just had the wind knocked out of her.” He pointed at the first wagon. “Do as I told you and get back in there.”
“Yes, Pa,” Libbie said, her slender shoulders slumping as she did his bidding.
Nate’s forehead creased in thought but he said nothing. Were he the girl’s father, he certainly wouldn’t treat her in the hard fashion Simon did. It was not his place, though, to intervene. Some parents, he knew, were much stricter than others. Simon Banner could do as he pleased. But given the man’s disposition, Nate figured the poor girl must be going through living hell.
Cora Webster’s eyelids fluttered. She abruptly revived and sat up, screeching at the top of her lungs, “The bear! The bear!”
“It’s all right, dear,” Alice Banner said, taking Cora’s hands in hers. “You’re perfectly safe. That horrible beast is dead thanks to Mr. King.”
“It is?” Cora said, gazing around in wide-eyed bewilderment. Then she spotted the body. Exhaling in relief, she sadly shook her head and said, “I tried to get out of the way, but I just couldn’t. It was as if I turned to stone.”
“There’s no need to explain yourself,” Alice soothed her. “The sight of a charging bear is enough to petrify any soul.”
Until that moment Neil Webster, a skinny man sporting a walrus mustache, had stayed to one side, allowing Alice to restore his wife to her senses. Moving nearer, he bent down and took hold of Cora’s arm. “Come. I’ll get you into our wagon where you can rest from your ordeal.”
“Perhaps she should be examined for broken bones,” Alice suggested.
“I feel fine,” Cora said. “Truly. There’s no cause to worry yourself on my account.”
“We’re all in this venture together, aren’t we?” Alice responded. “We must stick together through thick and thin if we hope to reach the promised land safely.”
Nate walked to his stallion. The “promised land” was the phrase most often used of late to describe the verdant splendor of the Oregon Territory. He had yet to visit the region himself, but if the tales he had heard from those who had been there were any indication, then the remote Northwest qualified as Paradise on earth. He began reloading his guns, starting with the Hawken.
Simon Banner cleared his throat. “We’ll stay here another hour to give Cora plenty of time to rest.”
“No, we won’t,” Nate said as he opened his powder horn. “We’re leaving just as soon as all of you get on your wagons.”
“What?” Simon said, turning. “Why, pray tell?”
“Because we’re still five hours shy of South Pass. We’re still in Sioux country, and they can’t always be counted on to be friendly. Sometimes they are. Sometimes they’re out for scalps.”
Banner surveyed the sea of waving grass surrounding the stand. “Did you see some Sioux while you were scouting up ahead?”
“No.”
“Then we’re perfectly safe, hidden among these trees.”
With the patient air of a teacher instructing a six-year-old, Nate explained while he worked. “On the prairie sound travels a long ways. At night you’ll hear wolves howling and swear they’re right outside your camp when they’re far off.” He began pouring the right amount of black powder into his palm. “A gunshot too can carry for miles if the wind is right. And since few Indians have guns, whenever they hear a shot they know white men must be responsible and they go investigate.”
“So you’re saying some Sioux might have heard our shots and be on their way here at this very moment?”
“You catch on quick.”
The others cast nervous glances in all directions, except for Alice Banner, who made straight for her wagon, saying over her shoulder, “You heard the man, husband. Let’s not dally. We’ve put too many miles behind us to end up as fly bait.”
Her words galvanized everyone into action. Harnesses were checked, water skins and whatever else they had removed from their wagons were placed back on, and the husbands assisted their wives in climbing up.
Nate tucked the reloaded flintlocks under his belt, one on either side of his large metal buckle, gripped his rifle, and swung onto the stallion. All eyes were on him, and he co
uld well imagine the picture he must present. Dressed in fringed, beaded buckskins, with a large butcher knife on his left hip, a tomahawk on his right, and his powder horn and ammunition pouch slanted across his broad chest, he looked every inch as wild and barbaric as the Indians they dreaded. His mane of black hair spilling from under his beaver hat only added to the impression. But anyone familiar with Indians would brand him as a white man right away; there wasn’t an Indian alive who had the striking green eyes he did. “Head out and keep the wagons close together,” he directed.
Pleasant thoughts of his wife and son filtered through his mind as he assumed the lead. Leaving them for extended periods, such as when he went off to trap beaver, was never easy. He always feared hostile Indians would find their cabin while he was away and slay them.
In recent years the trapping trips took him farther and farther afield, compounding his worry.
The life of a free trapper had changed dramatically in recent years, and he often wished things were like they were when he first started. In 1828, when he ventured into the Rockies with his Uncle Zeke, beaver were plentiful along every mountain stream and creek. Nine years later the relentless trapping had reduced their population drastically. If a man wanted to obtain prime pelts, he had to trek into isolated areas no one else had visited. And such areas were few and far between.
Some of the old-timers, including his best friend and mentor Shakespeare McNair, believed the days of the trapping fraternity were numbered. In McNair’s case it hardly mattered since Shakespeare was getting on in years and was content to quietly pass his time at home with his lovely Flathead wife.
But to Nate the decline of the beaver trade meant a world of difference. He had a family to feed, clothe, and otherwise provide for. Supplying the necessities was still relatively easy; all he had to do was bring down a deer or a buffalo and they had meat on the table and hides for making clothes. In that respect, he lived much like his Indian friends.
Nate wanted more out of life, though. He wanted to be able to give his loved ones more than the simple necessities. He also wanted to set a nest egg aside for the future, for the days when he would be too old to trap or to do much hunting— provided he lived that long. And besides all that, he needed work, needed something to do to keep himself busy.
Wilderness: Northwest Passage/Apache Blood (A Wilderness Double Western #6) Page 1