Nate’s second cause for worry lay in the Utes. He’d inherited his cabin from his Uncle Zeke, who years ago had built the sturdy structure on the northeastern fringe of Ute country. Since the tribe was notorious for driving off any and all intruders, the many attempts they had made to force first Zeke and now Nate to leave were to be expected. So far Nate had been able to repulse them, but one day, he often reflected, they might catch him by surprise and that would be the end of that.
Several more minutes went by as Nate’s foreboding climbed. He gazed eastward, toward his home, dreading a scream or the boom of guns. The Utes might easily swing around him and pounce on his loved ones when Winona, Zach, and Evelyn least expected it.
A sparrow unexpectedly chirped, and was answered by some of its feathered fellows. To the southeast a squirrel began chattering. Somewhere a raven squawked. Whatever had upset them was gone.
The reassuring sounds brought Nate upright. He allowed himself to relax as he reclaimed his ax and scooped up the half-dozen logs he had chopped for the evening fire. Tucking them under his left arm, he hiked homeward.
All around him the Rockies were alive with movement and noise. It was early spring, when so many animals emerged from hibernation or shorter periods of forced confinement in their dens or burrows to revel in a renewed zest for life. Vegetation also thrived; the grass had turned from brown to green, leaf-bearing trees were adorned with buds, and flowers were growing once more, adding dashes of red or yellow or lavender to the brilliant strokes Nature painted the landscape with at this special time of year.
Nate wound along the game trail that connected the woodland to the lake situated east of his cabin. Underfoot were fresh elk tracks. Just a month previous, when heavy snow blanketed the mountains and wildlife was scarce, he would have been excited at the find. But now, with game again plentiful and a black-tailed buck hanging next to his horse pen, he merely noted the tracks for future reference.
Musical laughter brought a smile to Nate’s lips. He turned from the trail, skirted some brush, and there was his cabin, bathed in the light of the afternoon sun. Even more resplendent was the beautiful Shoshone who stood just outside the open front door, her long raven tresses swaying in the breeze. In her left arm she cradled a tender infant, while in front of her frolicked a boy of ten and one other: a sinewy timber wolf marked by a white blaze on its chest.
The boy had a stick in his right hand and the wolf was trying to snatch it out. Spinning and twisting, the boy managed to keep one step ahead of the animal, which appeared to be enjoying the game as much as the youth.
“Try harder, Blaze!” the woman urged in flawless English. “Don’t let Zach tease you!”
As if the wolf knew what she was saying, it suddenly clamped its iron jaws on the end of the stick and wrenched, tearing the trophy loose. Lips pulled back to expose its tapered teeth in a mischievous grin, it pranced rearward out of Zach’s reach as the boy scrambled in pursuit and the mother laughed harder.
“I thought the two of you were going to skin the buck, Winona,” Nate pretended to chide as he approached. “But look at this. I leave for a little while and the two of you act the fool.”
Winona looked up, smirking, and countered by saying, “Your people would be better off, dear husband, if they knew how to enjoy themselves more. Whites are too serious for their own good.”
Nate thought of the hectic pace of life in distant New York City, where he had been born and raised, and frowned. He recalled having to get up before dawn every morning to trudge to his boring job as an apprentice accountant, where he spent his days laboring over heavy books packed with scribbled figures, toiling until well past dusk in many instances in order to complete the work that needed doing. Then he had trudged home, gulped his supper, and had to spend an hour or two doing chores around his parents’ house. By the time he crawled under the covers, he was exhausted. On his only day off of the week, Sundays, there had been church to attend and endless visits to relatives and friends. Seldom had he been privileged with time to himself to spend as he saw fit.
Now that Nate gave the matter some thought, he realized he did have much more free time since coming to the mountains. In a way, his life in the Rockies reminded him of the carefree days of his early childhood, before his schooling years began. Here, at least, he was often able to do the things he liked doing rather than being a perpetual slave to things he must do.
Indians were the same way. They rarely rushed anywhere. They never hurried to complete work, and never crammed their days with so many activities they had no time to themselves. They lived day to day, hand to mouth, handling whatever came up as it arose, yet they were invariably happier and healthier than their white counterparts who toiled endlessly at sheer drudgery. Ironically, it was the whites who considered themselves superior because they were civilized; the Indians were simple savages who knew nothing about life.
“I won’t argue with you there,” Nate conceded, and gave his wife a peck on the cheek. “Though with that mangy grizzly hanging around, I don’t figure it’s wise to let the buck hang out overnight. The bear’s likely to pick up the scent and pay us a call.”
“Is the mighty Grizzly Killer afraid of one bear?” Winona taunted, referring to him by his Indian name. “I thought you have only to look at a grizzly and it drops dead at your feet.”
“If only it was that simple,” Nate muttered. He had tangled with the fierce brutes on a half-dozen occasions and he had no wish to ever do so again. As Meriwether Lewis, one of the leaders of the famous Lewis and Clark expedition, had often said, grizzlies were incredibly “hard to die.” They were almost indestructible, as many a trapper had found out to his fatal dismay. A single ball to the brain or heart seldom sufficed. Usually, they kept on charging after being shot repeatedly, and even though mortally wounded, would rip whoever had shot them to shreds before expiring.
Turning, Nate took the wood inside and stacked the logs next to the stone fireplace he had built with his own two hands. The ax went in a corner. Then, drawing his knife, he went out, and was pleased to see his wife and son already at the carcass. Little Evelyn was propped in her cradleboard against the side of the cabin, Blaze at her feet.
Several of the horses had gathered at the rails to watch, among them the large black stallion Nate liked. He stopped to stroke its neck and scratch behind its ears, saying, “I know you’ve been cooped up for quite a spell. But I’ll take you for a ride soon. I promise.”
“Can we all go, Pa?” Zach piped up. “I was sort of hoping we could pay Uncle Shakespeare a visit.”
Nate smiled at the notion. Shakespeare McNair was no blood kin of his, but the two were the best of friends. More than that, Nate loved the grizzled mountain man like a second father. It was McNair who had served as his mentor after the death of his uncle, and now the two of them invariably traveled and trapped together. “I like that idea,” he declared. “It’s been three or four moons since we last saw him.”
“And Blue Water Woman,” Winona said, alluding to McNair’s Flathead wife. “She and I will have much gossip to share.”
“Just so none of it is about me,” Nate commented, moving to the buck. “The two of you have the darnedest knack for telling tales out of school.”
“Can I help it if husbands are such a wonderful source of humor?” Winona responded. “Men so love to bluster and swell their chests all the time, yet at heart they are like young boys. And they do just as many silly things.”
“Is that true, Pa?” Zach asked.
“Pay her no mind, son,” Nate said, facing the belly of the deer. “Everyone knows how contrary females can be.” Gripping a foreleg, he inserted the tip of his razor-sharp blade and proceeded to make a slit down the middle of the belly, from the chin to the tail. Since he wanted to save the hide, he cut carefully, making the opening as straight as he could. Next he sliced down the inside of the front and hind legs, starting at the knee joints. He avoided touching the scent glands since bucks often urinated on the
m during the rutting season and he didn’t care to accidentally contaminate the meat. For the same reason he severed the esophagus close to the head and tied a whang around it to keep the contents from spilling out. Likewise with the anus.
The intestines Nate saved. Back in New York he would have thrown them out because they were regarded as unfit to eat, but he had learned long ago that Indians ate them regularly, and in fact he had acquired a taste for them himself. He chopped off a portion and tossed it to Blaze, who snatched the morsel up and moved into the brush to feast undisturbed.
Winona and Zach were doing their share of the labor. While the boy removed the meatless lower legs by cutting into the cartilage and ligaments and then twisting, Winona took out the heart and liver. She grinned at Nate, then bit into the raw heart, heedless of the rivulets of blood that streaked her chin and neck. Chewing lustily, she offered it to him.
“Thanks,” Nate said, and took a bite himself. He savored the warm meat, the tangy taste of the blood, reflecting that if his childhood friends could see him now, they’d likely recoil in shock at his barbaric behavior.
The remainder of the afternoon was spent cutting most of the meat into thin strips which were hung over a crude wooden frame Winona constructed. Several sizeable steaks were placed inside for their supper. Blaze was treated to odds and ends, and by evening was contentedly full.
Winona submerged the hide in a basin of water. When, eventually, the hair slipped off, she would pull and chew the wet hide until it was suitably supple. Ta further soften it, she would then apply a paste made from the animal’s brains into the hair side of the skin. By the time she was done, she would have excellent buckskin to use in the making of a shirt, leggings, or whatever else she desired.
Twilight was nipping at the countryside when Nate led his loved ones down to the lake where they could wash up. His hands and forearms were spattered with blood and gore up to the elbows, so he plunged both into the cold water and swirled them around. Out on the lake ducks, geese, and gulls were settling down for the night. He saw several concentric ripples caused by fish surfacing, and spied a large one that leaped clear out of the water, then smacked down with a loud splash.
As Nate rose, he inhaled the crisp, invigorating air and admired the magnificent ring of mountains surrounding his secluded valley. To the south was the highest, named after an army major who had explored the territory not too many years earlier: Long’s Peak. It dominated the region, serving as a landmark for whites and Indians alike. At the moment, with its white cap of snow set ablaze in striking hues by the dazzling setting sun, it resembled a volcano about to explode.
Was it any wonder, Nate asked himself, that he so loved the Rockies? Untamed, formidable, stately monarchs that they were, the mountains brought out the best in men and women by challenging those who would live among them to struggle to simply stay alive. Such hardship, he had learned to his surprise, had the capacity to hone a person as a whetstone honed a hunting knife. It had actually made him stronger than he ever thought he could be, and for that he would be forever grateful.
Sometimes Nate shuddered when he pondered how his life would have turned out had he stayed in New York City. He would no doubt be flabby and lazy, so softened by easy city living that he couldn’t walk more than a mile or two without being winded. He would be dependent on others for his food and clothing, unable to fend for himself even if his life depended on it. That was what civilization did to a man. It turned him into a pale shadow of his natural self, into a pitiful imitation of the hardy, independent soul he was meant to be. Thank God, Nate mused, he had come west!
Pivoting, Nate surveyed the forest beyond his cabin. A red hawk was winging its way northward. He studied it to see if it would abruptly turn off course or give some other indication of spotting something unusual below, but it never did. Rolling down his sleeves, he hitched at his belt, adjusted his flintlocks, and with one arm over his wife’s shoulders and another over his son’s, he headed up the trail.
“Are we going to the Rendezvous this summer, Pa?” Zach casually inquired.
“We are if we haven’t gone under. Why?”
“Well, you know I have a few plews of my own to trade for whatever I want.”
“And fine pelts they are,” Nate commented. “You did real fine catching those beaver all by yourself.”
Zach beamed with pride. “Do you figure I might be able to trade them for a pistol of my own?” he asked, and went on quickly to justify his request. “Ma has one. You have two. But I don’t have any, and you told me once that I could when I was old enough. I think I’m old enough right now.”
“You do, do you?”
“Yes, sir. And since I’ll be off hunting and whatnot by my lonesome now and then, I figure I need a gun in case I run into trouble.”
Winona, who had been cooing softly to Evelyn, glanced around. “I agree with him, husband. Shoshone boys his age have their own bows and lances. It is fitting he have a pistol.”
“How can this coon say no? I reckon I’m outnumbered,” Nate joked. In truth, he would have agreed anyway. A pistol was an indispensable tool for anyone who wanted to last long in the wilderness, the same as a rifle or a knife. Depriving his son of either might mean the difference between life and death for the boy.
Blaze had disappeared when they reached the cabin. Of late the wolf had developed the habit of running with its own kind at night and returning to the cabin to rest up during the day.
Nate and Zach buried the remains of the buck so the scent of blood wouldn’t attract unwanted company. They checked the corral, made a circuit of the cabin, and entered to the tantalizing aroma of roasting steaks. Nate barred the door, set his rifle by the jamb, and gratefully sank into the rocker positioned near the fireplace.
This was the quiet hour of the day Nate so enjoyed. He broke out his pipe, stuffed the bowl with kinnikinnik, and settled back to smoke and plan. In another week or so he would be leaving to set his spring trap line. By rights he should have headed out two weeks ago, but he had been reluctant to leave his family, to give up the tranquility of his home for the harsh demands of the forest. The thought made him chuckle. City living, apparently, wasn’t the only kind that made a man soft.
Winona hummed as she prepared their supper. Zach was poring over a book at the table. The scent of burning pine filled the cabin, and the crackling of the dancing flames added a comforting note.
Drowsiness overcame Nate. He daydreamed about the last Rendezvous, where he had won a fine new Hudson’s Bay three-point blanket in a wrestling match with a rowdy Canadian. The man had been as strong as an ox, and only by a sheer fluke had Nate prevailed. He remembered the startled look on Rene’s face, the cheers of the onlookers, and the …
“Pa?”
Nate blinked and roused himself. “What is it?” he replied, lowering the pipe. “Time to eat?”
“No. Didn’t you hear the horses?”
Straightening, Nate cocked his head and listened. “Afraid not,” he admitted. “What were they doing?”
“Acting up,” Winona answered. She was staring at the sole window, which ordinarily was covered by a leather flap that earlier she had tied at the top to admit fresh air. “Perhaps the grizzly is around again.”
“I’ll go have a look-see,” Nate sighed, placing his pipe on the shelf rimming the hearth. He loosened his pistols on the way to the door.
“Can I come too?” Zach asked excitedly.
“You stay with your mother and sister,” Nate advised.
“Ahhh, Pa.”
“What if it is a grizzly and it gets past me?” Nate mentioned. “Have your rifle ready just in case.” Removing the bar, he held the Hawken in his right hand, then worked the latch and swiftly slipped out, pressing his back to the wall so nothing could get at him from behind. Night reined, and the woods bordering his homestead were inky black. The lake appeared as a slightly paler blotch against the backdrop of shadows. Nothing stirred anywhere. There were no sounds other than th
e wind.
He pulled the door shut, crouched, and worked his way to the corner.
All the horses were congregated at the southwest corner of the pen, the stallion at the front with its head high, ears pricked, and nostrils flaring.
Nate knew the animals had scented or seen something prowling about in the pines. Easing onto his stomach, he began crawling around the corral, never losing his grip on the Hawken for an instant. Taking his cue from the stock, he guessed that whatever had them so agitated was due south of the cabin.
In the woods a twig snapped.
Freezing, Nate scoured the gloom veiling the trees for evidence of the intruder. Whatever was out there had stopped moving or else was being as silent as a ghost. He snaked to the end of the rails and peeked around them.
Rising to his knees, Nate leaned against the post, biding his time, waiting for the nocturnal prowler to give itself away. He had a long wait. Over ten minutes went by, and then, to the west, there was a muted thud. Perplexed, Nate rose until he could see over the pen. He wasn’t quite certain if one of the horses had stamped a hoof or if something else had been responsible.
Taking a chance, Nate ventured around the bend, moving further and further from the cabin and sanctuary. He remembered to cock the Hawken, and did so with his other hand covering the hammer to muffle the metallic click. As he came abreast of the horses, the stallion nickered, as if in warning.
In the distance a coyote yipped and was answered by another. In the depths of the woods an owl hooted. Something else screeched.
Nate reached the southwest corner and halted. He hugged the post, relying on its squat shape to distort his silhouette. Again he waited, exercising patience a panther would have envied. He heard the plaintive howl of a lonely wolf, but that was all. When close to fifteen minutes had elapsed and there had been no sign of man or beast, he shifted position, stealthily padding to the rear of the cabin. Here, where the murk hung thickest, he was invisible to prying eyes. He let another fifteen minutes go by before concluding he was expending all this effort in vain. If there had been a bear nearby, it had decided to go elsewhere.
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