Wilderness: Northwest Passage/Apache Blood (A Wilderness Double Western #6)

by Robbins, David

  “Let him pass, damn your hides, or there will be hell to pay!”

  They parted, made meek by Shakespeare’s wrath, and offered no interference as the mountain man escorted Nate over to Winona and Zach.

  William Bent appeared out of nowhere. “You did fine, King. Real fine. No one will hold this against you, and once the word gets out, even Chevalier’s friends will leave you alone.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Nate said, about to drape his arm around Winona’s shoulders when he saw that he still held his knife, the blade dripping blood. Crouching, he wiped it clean on the grass, then stuck it in his sheath.

  Francisco Gaona came over, his hand outstretched. “I would like to offer my congratulations also, señor. I have seen many knife fighters in my time and you are one of the best.”

  “I could say the same about you with pistols,” Nate replied, shaking hands, impressed by Francisco’s sincerity. He found himself liking the Mexican more and more as time went on.

  “Much practice, señor,” Francisco said. “My padre gave me my first pistola when I was but ten years old.”

  Small fingers touched Nate’s own, and he looked down into the anxious upturned face of his son. He smiled reassuringly and gave Zach’s fingers a tender squeeze. “Everything is all right now.”

  “I was scared again, Pa,” the boy said softly. “Only this time I was scared for you.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Shakespeare cleared his throat, rubbed a hand in Zach’s hair, and announced, “What say we cut short this palaver and go in for some drinks. I’m buying.”

  “Will wonders never cease,” Nate declared.

  They weren’t the only ones desirous of quenching their thirsts. The room was packed. Many of the patrons saw fit to recount the fight over and over, with those who had won money extolling Nate’s skill while those who had lost debated the mistakes Chevalier had made and related how they would have fought differently to insure they won.

  Bent and St. Vrain secured a corner table. Nate let McNair buy him a whiskey, although he would rather have gone with Winona, Blue Water Woman, and Zach to their guest rooms. He took a tentative sip, and winced as the burning liquid scorched a path down his throat.

  “Strong stuff,” Shakespeare said, grinning. “Bent here doesn’t believe in watering his drinks down like some shady tavern owners I’ve known do.” He winked at Nate. “Of course, I can’t say if he does the same for the Indians.”

  “I’d never cheat a customer,” the trader said indignantly. “Everyone knows that, which is why even the Kiowas trade with me. They know they’ll get a fair deal.” He tipped his drink. “Honesty is always the best policy.”

  “An admirable trait, to be sure,” Francisco commented, and gazed at Nate and McNair. “So perhaps it is only fitting that I be honest with the two of you.”

  “How so?” Shakespeare asked.

  “If I may be so bold, señor, I would like to ask why you are going to Santa Fe?”

  “Because it’s a hell of a lot closer than Paris,” Shakespeare joked. “Actually, because we’re in need of a frolic and Santa Fe is as friendly a city as you’ll find anywhere.”

  “Not anymore,” Francisco said soberly.

  “I’m afraid he’s right,” Becknell chimed in. “Santa Fe isn’t like it was back when you were there last. The attitude of the authorities has changed, and so has that of many of the people.”

  “Some of the people,” Francisco amended.

  “Care to enlighten us?” Shakespeare said.

  William Becknell sighed. “It all started several years ago. I began to notice that a few of the people I deal with weren’t as hospitable as they used to be. One or two avoided me. Then pretty soon it spread. I was puzzled at first, until I realized that they had been seeing us at our worst for years and that sooner or later this was bound to happen.”

  McNair nodded thoughtfully. “I understand.”

  “Well I don’t,” Nate said, wondering about the implications for their visit and the treatment his family would receive.

  “It’s like this,” Becknell elaborated. “Since I first opened up the Santa Fe Trail, caravan after caravan has paid Santa Fe a visit with just one purpose in the minds of the traders who go there. Namely, to get rich quick, to reap enormous profits they couldn’t possibly earn anywhere else.” He paused. “It’s greed, pure and simple, and greed never fails to bring out all that’s ugly in us.”

  “When the traders and wagoners get there,” Shakespeare said, taking up the explanation when Becknell stopped, “they tend to cut loose a mite more than they should. They drink, they gamble, they spend their nights with the painted ladies. In short, they just raise sheer hell.”

  “Who can blame them?” This from Bent. “After traveling over eight hundred miles through hostile Indian country, and having to contend with a burning desert part of the way, no wonder they’re ready for some fun and relaxation.”

  “But now some of the citizens of Santa Fe have grown tired of the rowdy behavior,” Becknell continued. “They regard us Americans as more of a nuisance than a blessing.”

  “Then why don’t they just come out and say that they don’t want any more caravans to pay them a visit?” Nate asked.

  “It’s not as simple as that,” Becknell answered. “They need the goods we bring. They can’t get them anywhere else. So they tolerate our coming, but the authorities have put a stop to the wild celebrating. And a lot of the common people avoid us when we show up. They won’t have anything to do with us.”

  Francisco Gaona, who had been attentively listening in uncomfortable silence, now spoke. “Not all the common people, señor. Many of us realize we owe a great debt to you Americans. Before your caravans started coming, we had to travel many hundreds of miles to the south through the heart of Apache country to buy those things you now bring to us, and often we had to pay more than we pay you.” He folded his hands on the table. “No, you have done us a great service. I think part of the problem is that my own government has become too greedy and they resent that the traders are unwilling to pay more.”

  “What do you mean?” Nate inquired.

  It was Becknell who answered. “The authorities in New Mexico have the power to charge us whatever customs duties they want to impose, most of which goes into their own pockets. To keep the duties reasonably low, we have to pay bribes. Lots of bribes. Everyone from the governor all the way down to the customhouse clerks wants their share.” He scowled. “Most of us resent having to give up a portion of our hard-earned profits for the benefit of crooked petty officials and his obesity, the governor.”

  “How does all of this apply to us?” Nate asked. “We’re not going to Santa Fe to trade.”

  “The bad feelings are so general that some of the mountain men who have gone to Santa Fe for a good time have found themselves tossed into jail if they step the least bit out of line. A few have been set upon by local rowdies,” Becknell replied.

  “Please don’t think badly of my people,” Francisco said quickly. “We are not all like that.”

  Nate, disturbed by the news, took a swallow. Dare he take his family into the middle of such a powder keg? What was to stop the New Mexican authorities from throwing him in jail if he inadvertently did something wrong?

  Shakespeare didn’t share his misgivings. “Thanks for the warnings,” the mountain man told Becknell and Francisco, “but this doesn’t change our minds none. If we’re on our best behavior we won’t be bothered. And I really would like to see Santa Fe again. I have a few friends living there who I haven’t seen in a coon’s age.”

  “And you, señor?” Francisco asked Nate.

  “I’ll talk it over with my wife, but I’d imagine she’ll want to keep on going if Blue Water Woman and this old buzzard aren’t turning back.”

  “Excellent. Then perhaps you will do me the honor of staying at my hacienda during your visit? It is only fifteen miles outside of the city.”

  “We wouldn’
t want to impose,” Nate said.

  “Nonsense. Having you and your family as guests would be a treat for my own family. It would not be an imposition at all.” Francisco looked at McNair. “My invitation holds true for you also, señor.”

  “Then I reckon we’ll take you up on it. Maybe you can help me track down some of my old friends. One of them is named ...” Shakespeare suddenly stopped to stare intently at the entrance.

  A general hush fell over the room, silencing every man there. Nate looked around, and was shocked to see Pierre Chevalier framed in the doorway. The voyageur wasn’t wearing a shirt. Both his hands and his abdomen had been heavily bandaged. His black and blue face was badly swollen. His lips were puffy. He spied Nate and advanced, saying nothing to those who voiced a word of greeting.

  “Not again,” Shakespeare muttered.

  Chevalier halted a yard from Nate and gave a curt nod. “I’ll keep this short, American. I know enough to admit when I’ve made a mistake, and I’m man enough to own up to it. I challenged you and you beat me, fair and square. So as far as I’m concerned, the matter is settled.”

  Nate was too flabbergasted to say a word.

  “How about you?” Chevalier asked. “If you insist on satisfying your honor, I’ll meet you wherever and whenever you want once my hands have healed.”

  “My honor is satisfied,” Nate said, finding his voice.

  “Good. Then there will be no hard feelings between us.” Chevalier nodded, smiled, and departed.

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” Shakespeare exclaimed after the voyageur was gone and murmuring broke out all around them. “He’s more of a man than I figured.”

  “Can you trust him?” Francisco asked.

  “I hope so,” Nate said.

  “Whether you can or whether you can’t, by this time tomorrow it won’t matter,” Becknell mentioned. “We’ll be well on our way to Santa Fe by then.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Nate said, and did so.

  ~*~

  To their right rose green foothills that served as mere footstools for the towering Rockies beyond. To their left stretched the well-nigh limitless prairie, a sea of grass teeming with buffalo, antelope, and deer.

  Nate admired the scenery on both sides as he rode southward at the head of the four long lines of wagons. In front of him were William Becknell and Francisco Gaona. His family was on one side, Shakespeare and Blue Water Woman on the other. Across his thighs rested his Hawken.

  Long ago they had lost sight of Bent’s Fort. Bent and St. Vrain had come out to wish them well and make them promise to stop by on their return trip; then the pair had stood and waved every so often as the lumbering wagons rolled off. Eventually the fort had become a black dot in the distance, and ultimately had vanished in the haze.

  The burning sun made men and animals alike lethargic. The wagoners had to crack their whips repeatedly to keep their mules and oxen going. At the rear of the columns rose a cloud of choking dust, which explained why Nate had graciously accepted Becknell’s invitation to ride up front with him.

  “Say Pa,” Zach said. “I’ve been meaning to ask you why they have the wagons strung out in four rows instead of one?”

  Becknell overheard and turned in the saddle. “It’s a precaution, son, in case we have to move fast should hostiles attack. At the first sign of them, I give the order and the muleteers form the wagons into a big square.”

  “Gosh. Do you think we’ll be attacked?” Zach asked.

  “I doubt it,” Becknell said. “Even the Comanches will think twice about raiding a wagon train this size.”

  “What about the Apaches?”

  “They’re a different story entirely. I’ve had those devils slip right into our camp and slit the throat of some poor unfortunate while he slept.”

  “You have?” Zach said, aghast.

  The trader promptly realized his mistake and hastened to add, “But that hasn’t happened in three or four years, as I recollect. Most Apache activity is now concentrated south and southwest of Santa Fe, not in the mountains to the north.”

  “Do you post guards at night?”

  “Lots of guards.”

  “If you need help, let us know. Samson and I want to do our share of the work.”

  “I’ll keep you in mind,” Becknell promised.

  The Father of the Santa Fe Trail, from long experience, knew exactly where the best spots to make night camp were situated, spots where there was plenty of water for everyone and sufficient forage for the stock. This first night they halted at the base of a high foothill. After the square was formed, the mules, oxen, and horses were let loose to graze and cook fires were started.

  Winona and Blue Water Woman were the only women in the entire company, and the muleteers went out of their way to treat them both with the utmost courtesy. Where normally the wagoners used five swear words in a six-word sentence, they now conducted themselves like perfect gentlemen in the presence of the ladies. As the pair strolled around the encampment they were treated to polite bows or the touching of hats in the most exaggerated civil manner.

  Nate came on Shakespeare squatting by a fire and heard his friend’s throaty chuckles. “What has you amused?” he wanted to know.

  “I’m thinking of how happy these muleteers will be to reach Santa Fe. I expect that city is going to be in for a fit of cussing like none other in human history.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because these muleteers can no more curb their tongues for long than a grizzly can curb its appetite. They’ll have a lot of catching up to do when they get there.”

  Twilight enveloped the land when the evening meal was completed. Becknell, Francisco Gaona, and several wagoners came over to socialize. They were all listening, enthralled, to Shakespeare tell about the time he was captured by the Blackfeet, when a skinny muleteer bearing a rifle approached.

  Becknell saw the man and stood. “What are you doing here, Mullins?” he demanded. “You’re supposed to be on guard duty.”

  “That I am, sir. But I figured this was more important.”

  “What is?”

  “The fact we have company calling, sir.”

  “Company?” Becknell said. “Damn it all, man. For once can’t you get right to the point? Who would come visiting us out in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Why,” Mullins said, “who else, sir, but a pack of murdering Comanches?”

  Chapter Seven

  There were only four of them, four young warriors whose proud and fearless bearing was in stark contrast to the nervous fidgeting of the two dozen muleteers and traders who held rifles fixed on the quartet. Their bronzed faces were painted for war, and they were variously armed with lances, bows, knives, and one inferior old flintlock of the type often traded to the northern tribes by the Hudson’s Bay Company.

  Nate stayed close to Becknell as the wagon master pushed through the line of whites. He saw the tallest of the Comanches scrutinize him, then gaze past him to stare at Shakespeare.

  Without preliminaries the tall warrior’s hands moved in sign language. “This is Comanche territory. You are not wanted here.”

  Becknell went to lift his hands, then hesitated. “Where’s Shultz?” he asked a nearby muleteer. “He speaks sign better than I do.”

  “Allow me,” Nate volunteered, stepping forward. He translated the Comanche’s words.

  “What’s this devil up to?” Becknell mused aloud.

  “He knows that we know this is Comanche land and that we’re going through whether they like the notion or not.”

  “Let’s find out,” Nate said, facing the tall warrior. “What is it our Comanche brothers wish? Why do they honor us with this visit?” he signed.

  Surprise flickered across the warrior’s features. “No white man has ever called a Comanche his brother before,” he responded, his hands flowing gracefully as he formed the signs. “Who are you?”

  “I am called Grizzly Killer.”

  “How is it that
you have an Indian name?”

  “My people are the Shoshones.”

  The Comanche’s dark, fathomless eyes raked Nate from head to toe. “You do not look like any Shoshone I have ever seen.”

  Smiling, Nate answered, “They are my adopted people. My wife is Shoshone. My son is being raised to honor the Shoshone ways.”

  “You are one of those who lives in the high mountains and catches beaver for their hides?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have heard of such men.”

  A strained silence ensued as the tall warrior surveyed the wagons and the stock within the square. At length he signed, “I fought Shoshones once. They fought bravely, as men should fight. They have my respect and you have my respect.” He made a gesture of contempt at the line of traders and muleteers. “These others are less than dogs, but they may go their way in peace.” He uttered a piercing yip, and all four of them wheeled their war ponies and dashed off across the prairie into the gathering darkness.

  “What was that all about?” Becknell asked, perplexed.

  Shakespeare stepped closer. “It’s my guess they’re part of a large band and they were fixing to raid us later tonight. Those four came in to look us over, to count our guns and horses and see where we might be vulnerable. But now they’ve changed their minds. If not for Nate, some of us would be pushing up buffalo grass come morning.”

  “What did he do? I didn’t catch all of that between them?”

  Nate walked away as McNair explained. He found Winona, Zach, and Blue Water Woman waiting anxiously to hear what had happened, so he simply informed them that the Comanches weren’t going to cause any trouble.

  “That’s good to hear, Pa,” his son said. “But it’s the Apaches I’m worried about. I hope they don’t give us any trouble either.”