Tomahawk Revenge/ Black Powder Justice (A Wilderness Double Western Book 3)

by Robbins, David

  Or so it seemed on paper to men back East who had no idea of the realities of the trapping trade. They didn’t know, for instance, that the Rocky Mountain Fur Company enjoyed a virtual monopoly of the trading activities in the Rockies. The Company paid two to four dollars for beaver pelts at the rendezvous, then resold them for eight dollars in St. Louis. And since the rendezvous was the only market for the trappers’ furs, there was nothing that could be done to change the situation.

  To make matters worse, the suppliers at the rendezvous were invariably in cahoots with the Fur Company. They overpriced their goods by as much as 2000 percent, and the trappers were forced to buy such inflated supplies or go without. In effect, the heads of the company and the suppliers grew rich at the trappers’ expense.

  Then why am I here? Nate asked himself. Undoubtedly because even with all the financial drawbacks and the hardships of living off the land, the life of a mountaineer offered a consolation few other ways of living could: genuine freedom. He could do as he pleased when he pleased. No one was standing over his shoulder, goading him to work harder or faster. No one could impose on him in any respect. He was the master of his own destiny, and he loved it.

  “I’m tired of wasting my time and energy,” Baxter was saying. “And I’ve been away from my family so long that my own children might not recognize me.” He paused. “I was hoping you’d see fit to let me trap with you for a month. Then I’ll take my fair share of the pelts and head for St. Louis. I should be able to find a buyer there who will offer a bit more than the Rocky Mountain Fur Company representatives. If I’m lucky, I’ll head for Ohio with four or five hundred dollars in my pocket. What do you say?”

  Shakespeare pursed his lips and stroked his beard, then looked at Nate. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t mind if you don’t.”

  Baxter anxiously leaned toward the frontiersman. “Please, McNair. Your kindness would mean so much to me. I don’t want to go home with empty pockets. I don’t want to let my loved ones down entirely.” He sighed. “I feel as if I’m a monumental failure, and this is my chance to redeem myself.”

  “No man is a failure if he’s still breathing,” Shakespeare said solemnly.

  “Will you let me stay?”

  “Nate has already said he has no objections, and it’s his decision that counts. I’m here to teach him how to trap, nothing more. I have no intention of trapping for myself, and there’s more than enough beaver hereabouts to satisfy the needs of two men.”

  “Then I can stay?” Baxter inquired eagerly.

  “So long as you uphold your end of the work.”

  Baxter stood, stepped over to the frontiersman, and vigorously pumped Shakespeare’s right hand. “I can never thank you enough for your Christian generosity.”

  “Actually, I have an ulterior motive.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. You’re an experienced trapper, so you can help me teach Nate the tricks of the trade. With both of us instructing him, he’ll learn that much quicker and I can leave that much sooner.”

  Nate pretended to be interested in a hawk circling to the north so neither of them would see his crestfallen expression. Shakespeare was inordinately excited about departing. After all they had been through, nearly losing their lives time and again, after traveling so many miles together and growing so close, he was upset that Shakespeare wanted to abruptly sever their ties.

  “Where are you going?” Baxter asked.

  “Wherever the wind takes me.”

  “Will you ever visit Ohio?”

  A spontaneous laugh burst from the mountain man’s lips. “Never. I’ve had my full of civilization. The farthest east I’ll ever go is St. Louis. Why do you ask?”

  “I’d like to repay you some day for your kindness.”

  “You can repay me by watching your hair on the way east. A lone white man is at the mercy of Fate out here.”

  Baxter squared his shoulders. “I’ll trust in the Lord to see me safely through.”

  For a moment Shakespeare sat perfectly still. He stared off into the distance, then pried a fingernail between two teeth to remove a wad of food. “I take it you’re a Christian?”

  “A Presbyterian,” Baxter stated proudly.

  “Is that a fact?” Shakespeare responded. “Most trappers are an irreligious lot. In all my years of living in the mountains, I’ve only known two Christians, and they are as different as night and day.”

  “Who might they be?”

  “One is Jed Smith. He’s the best trapper alive and the most consistent Christian I’ve ever met. Of course, he’s also a bit inflexible at times. Always believes he knows the best way to do things and won’t listen to anyone else. But he’ll go out of his way to help a person in trouble.”

  “And who is the other man?”

  “Old Bill Williams. He totes a bible everywhere he goes and claims the Lord speaks to him personally every night. Lives by himself way back in the Rockies and likes it that way. Can’t stand the company of others and wouldn’t go out of his way to save a dying baby.”

  “Aren’t you being unfair?”

  “No. I know Williams as well as anyone. And I suspect the rumors about him are true.”

  “What rumors?”

  “Old Bill is partial to eating human flesh.”

  Baxter grimaced. “Not another one.”

  “You’ve heard about Crazy George?”

  “He was the talk of the rendezvous. I understand one of you killed him.”

  “I did.”

  “Wasn’t he a friend of yours?”

  “One of the best I ever had.”

  Nate glanced at Shakespeare, memories of that terrible night etched indelibly in his mind. Crazy George had joined a band of cutthroats and taken to murdering trappers while they slept to steal their money. Eventually Shakespeare had confronted the maniac and been forced to kill him. “We should head on out,” Nate suggested.

  “I agree,” Shakespeare declared, rising abruptly. “Grab your equipment and let’s go find us some beaver.”

  Five minutes later they were hiking toward the stream. Nate and Baxter carried sacks containing six traps apiece and wooden boxes containing the bait they would need. Once at the water they marched upstream until they discovered a beaver dam, where they halted on the west bank.

  “Now pay close attention,” Shakespeare directed Nate. “If you hope to make a living as a free trapper, this is how you will do it.” He took Nate’s sack and removed one of the Newhouse traps, so named for the man who manufactured them in New York. “Find us a nice, long stick.”

  Eagerly Nate complied, his sorrow at soon being left to fend for himself replaced by unrestrained zeal of learning the intricate details of his desired craft. He used his knife to chop off a branch three feet long. “Will this do?” he asked as he returned.

  “It will do nicely. Did you bring your hatchet?”

  Nate’s mouth dropped at his oversight. “No. I forgot.”

  “You can use mine,” Baxter said, and produced one from behind his back.

  “First rule,” Shakespeare said. “Always take all the equipment you will need.”

  “I’ll remember next time,” Nate promised.

  “Okay. Now follow me.” The frontiersman waded slowly into the water.

  Tentatively placing his left foot in, Nate shivered when the ice-cold water immediately soaked his moccasins and enveloped his lower leg in its frigid grip.

  Shakespeare noticed and chuckled. “If you can’t tolerate a little cold, this is no business for you. The water in these mountain streams is never warm, not even in the summer, because most of it is snow runoff.”

  “I’m fine,” Nate said.

  “Good. Now let’s attend to business.” Shakespeare extended the trap. “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

  “No,” Nate replied uncertainly.

  “Second rule. Always cock your trap before you enter the water.”

  Only then did Nate realize
the trap wasn’t set. “Why didn’t you have me do it sooner?”

  “We learn best when we learn from our mistakes. This way you’ll remember the next time,” Shakespeare said, and moved closer to the bank. “Baxter, would you do the honors?”

  “Gladly.” The Ohioan took the Newhouse, placed it on the ground, and proceeded to stand on the leaf springs so the jaws would fall flat. He carefully adjusted the trigger and the disk until the proper tension existed, then quickly lifted first one foot, then the other. Lifting the trap by the edge of a leaf spring, he gave it to the frontiersman.

  “Rule number three. Never stick your fingers or thumbs between the jaws unless you no longer have any use for them.”

  “I knew a man who once lost two fingers in a trap,” Baxter mentioned.

  “Now comes the hard part,” Shakespeare said, studying the water near the bank. He moved a few feet and pointed at a flat spot six inches below the surface. “You want to set the trap in place without disturbing the trigger. It’s important that the surface be no higher than a hand width above the disk.”

  “Why?” Nate inquired.

  “Because beavers aren’t storks. They have short, stubby legs, and the trap works best if they step right on the disk. If you place it lower, they’ll probably swim right over it. Here. You put it down.”

  Nate complied, doing so gingerly, wary of the trap accidentally snapping shut. “Now what?”

  “Take the stick and insert it through the loop at the end of the chain, then pound it into the stream bed.”

  Again Nate obeyed, but as he went to swing the hatchet an admonition stopped him.

  “Not yet. Pull the chain as far as it will go. The purpose is to drown the beaver before it can gnaw off its foot.”

  “They do that?”

  “Every now and then. Even beaver like to live.”

  The disclosure bothered Nate. He envisioned a helpless beaver caught in his trap, its lungs on fire, furiously chewing on its own leg to gain freedom.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “Nothing,” Nate said, and did as he’d been told. Straightening, he saw the frontiersman clambering onto the bank and walked toward him. “What’s next?”

  “Climb on out.”

  Happy to quit the water, Nate joined his companions. He leaned down and wrung water from his pants.

  Shakespeare pointed at the spot where Nate had deposited the rifle and bait box. “Grab your box, then get a twig six to eight inches long. Make certain the twig has leaves on one end.”

  Once again Nate obeyed. The small wooden box contained the musky secretion taken from several dead beavers. He’d purchased it at the rendezvous from an elderly trapper.

  “Now dip the leaves in the medicine,” Shakespeare said.

  Nate nodded. “Medicine” was the word trappers used to describe the musk because it possessed medicinal properties. A salve made of beaver oil and castoreum, the gummy, yellow musk, worked wonders on open wounds, easing the pain and drawing out the swelling. Nate had never used the salve himself, but he’d heard many mountaineers swear by its curative properties. He opened the box and dabbed the leaves in the gum.

  “That’s enough. Now stick the bottom of the twig in the bank so that the leaves hang about six inches above the trap.”

  Dropping to one knee, Nate bent over and inserted the twig into the soft earth until he was satisfied the twig would hold fast. He stood and waited further instructions.

  “Congratulations,” Shakespeare said with a grin. “You’ve set your first beaver trap. Any beaver coming within two or three hundred yards of the medicine will smell the odor and swim over to emit some of its own musk on the spot. When the critter goes to climb out, its leg will get caught in the trap. Then it’s only a matter of time before the animal drowns.”

  “Or chews its leg off,” Nate said distastefully.

  The corners of the frontiersman’s eyes crinkled. “If you check your traps twice a day, as you should, any beavers you catch won’t have time to gnaw off their legs. Most trappers are too lazy for their own good and only check their traps at sunup, so it’s not surprising they lose a goodly number of animals.”

  “I’ll check mine twice a day,” Nate promised. The last thing he wanted was to inflict needless suffering on poor animals whose only offense against man was the fact they were covered with prime fur.

  Shakespeare rubbed his hands together. “Let’s set up the rest of these traps. We can be done by noon and head back to camp for some more of that bear meat.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Baxter said.

  Along the stream they went, choosing spots to place traps with deliberate care, traveling several miles to the north before the last of the Newhouses waited under the water for an unsuspecting beaver.

  Nate enjoyed laying the traps. He became accustomed to the cold water, at least to the point that the temperature didn’t bother him. He saw many big fish swimming unconcernedly past as he labored, and resolved to try his hand at catching several for supper. Birds chirped in the deciduous trees and the pines, and small creatures such as squirrels, rabbits, and chipmunks were everywhere. The vibrant pulse of Nature stirred his soul, and he savored the experience of being alive.

  When they turned their steps toward their camp, Baxter gave Nate a friendly clap on the back. “Thanks again for letting me stay. I can tell this valley is prime beaver territory, and I should take back enough furs to reap a tidy profit.”

  “I’m glad I could help.”

  They retraced their route eagerly, spurred by healthy appetites, and conversed about the trapping trade in general. Engrossed in their discussion, none of them paid much attention to their surroundings until they were almost to the edge of the clearing.

  Nate was the first to look up and discover their meat being pilfered from the rack, and his breath caught in his throat at sight of the culprit.

  For there, its wicked mouth crammed with strips of flesh, stood a monster grizzly.

  Chapter Four

  If no one had uttered a sound, the bear might have kept on eating and peaceably departed after consuming its full. But such wasn’t to be the case.

  “A grizzly!” Baxter blurted out.

  At the sound of a human voice the monster growled and spun toward them, twelve hundred pounds of muscle and sinew poised to hurtle forward. A yellowish-brown coat distinguished by individual white-tipped hairs gave the giant its grizzled aspect. Bulging above the beast’s massive shoulders was the breed’s distinctive hump. Brutish, concave features that could inspire terror in whites and Indians alike were twisted in primal hatred.

  “Don’t say another word,” Shakespeare whispered. “Stand perfectly still and maybe it won’t attack. They have pitiful eyesight and the wind is blowing in our faces.”

  Nate gripped his Hawken until his knuckles turned white. By some strange quirk of Fate, he seemed to have a knack for encountering grizzlies. Twice since crossing the Mississippi he’d been attacked by the terrible beasts, and twice he’d barely escaped with his life.

  The grizzly raised its head and sniffed loudly, then took a lumbering stride forward.

  “Don’t move,” Shakespeare reiterated.

  The temptation to flee was hard to resist. Nate knew a grizzly could lope as rapidly as a horse when the need arose, and he naturally wanted to get as far from the monster as swiftly as he could. With unblinking eyes he watched the giant, waiting for the animal to make up its mind whether to attack or not. He didn’t have long to wait.

  A tremendous, rumbling challenge erupted from the grizzly’s throat, and suddenly it charged.

  “Scatter!” Shakespeare shouted, and ran to the left.

  Nate needed no urging. He sprinted to the right, weaving among the trees, while looking over his shoulder to ascertain the fate of his fellows. Shakespeare covered the ground at a remarkably spry pace, but Baxter wasn’t faring so well.

  The Ohioan traveled ten yards to the east, then realized the bear was coming after
him. Panicked, he slanted toward an oak tree and grasped desperately at a low-hanging limb.

  Maintaining a consistent, moderate speed, not bothering to go all out, the bear closed on the blond trapper.

  Nate slowed, staring at the tableau. If Baxter reached the sanctuary of the higher branches, the bear would never be able to get him. Adult grizzlies, due to their great weight, were incapable of climbing trees. And since the brute was not running as fast as it could, he gathered it merely meant to drive them from the meat and wasn’t motivated by bestial bloodlust. Once the trapper was in the clear, the bear would probably return to the rack. It was comforting to know that not all encounters with grizzlies had to end in violence.

  Thaddeus Baxter unexpectedly slipped. He had managed to climb onto the bottom limb, and was trying to pull himself up onto a higher one when his left hand gave way, and the next moment he fell onto the ground on his back. There was no time to try again.

  The grizzly had only twenty feet to cover. Whether it originally intended to slay them or not, such easy prey aroused all of its predatory instincts and it snarled to freeze its prey in place.

  Instantly Nate whirled and dashed to Baxter’s aid. The man didn’t stand a prayer without help. He saw Shakespeare doing the same, and shouted to draw the grizzly’s attention. “Bear! Try me, you flea-ridden brute!”

  Halting, the grizzly wheeled in the direction of the shout and snorted.

  Baxter was clawing at his pistol.

  Whipping the rifle to his shoulder, Nate hoped the bear would flee before he squeezed the trigger. Single shots seldom dispatched a grizzly; the ball only served to drive them into an insane rage. Once he fired, the battle would be joined.

  The bear took a few steps toward the onrushing human, then stopped as if confused.

  “Run, damn you!” Nate yelled, and saw Baxter level the flintlock.

  A heartbeat later the pistol discharged.