Wilderness Double Edition 25

by David Robbins

  “There are more than two,” Lou reminded him, remembering the time they came across sign of a pack.

  “They generally leave people alone, though,” Zach said. But not always. Years ago, during a severe winter, a wolf pack had terrorized the Shoshones, and there were a few isolated instances of wolves clashing with solitary hunters and trappers.

  “I can do without them,” Lou said. She could do without anything that might eat her or her loved ones.

  Zach gazed to the west. They did not have much daylight left. Ordinarily, the prospect of spending the night in the high country would appeal to him, but not now. Not like this. “Maybe we should wait to start back until morning,” he proposed. “We’ll build a fire and cuddle.”

  “Since when did you become so romantic?” Lou asked, grinning to lessen the sting. “You’re not fooling anyone. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  “Thank goodness,” Zach said. “I didn’t bring any spare diapers.”

  Lou laughed and smacked his arm, then sobered as the consequences of being left afoot filled her with apprehension. She had lost her father to the wilderness. She did not care to lose her husband as well.

  In addition to the blanket they had two parfleches. Zach slung one over his arm, Lou took the other, commenting, “We won’t want for food. We have plenty left.” Rather than carry the blanket, she folded it lengthwise and tied it around her waist, careful not to snag her pistols.

  “At least we’re going downhill,” Lou said as they started off.

  Zach grunted. He was preoccupied with the imminent setting of the sun. Once night fell, the meat eaters would emerge from their dens to hunt. “Stay close to me at all times.”

  “I am not a child.”

  “You are not Touch the Clouds, either,” Zach said, referring to his mother’s cousin, a veritable giant, and a warrior of renown among the Shoshones. Next to his father and Shakespeare, Zach admired Touch the Clouds the most of any man.

  “I can take care of myself,” Lou declared, a trifle, resentful at being treated as if she were ten years old. He did that on occasion, and she always bristled. She was a grown woman and should be treated as such.

  “I am sure you can,” Zach sought to pacify her. The last thing he needed was for her to fall into one of her funks.

  The sun slipped below the western ramparts and night crawled out of its den to reclaim its dominion. The shadows steadily lengthened as the light steadily faded.

  “We must stop soon,” Zach said.

  “If we walk all night we can be nearly home by dawn,” Lou mentioned. In her estimation it was worth the fatigue.

  Zach admired her grit, but he shook his head. With wolverines, wolves and God knew what else prowling the valley, they would be meat on the hoof, so to speak.

  “Why not? Don’t you think I can do it?”

  Stopping so abruptly she bumped into him, Zach gently gripped her shoulder. “I know you can. But we have miles to go. Miles through the forest at night.”

  “So?” Lou persisted.

  “Think,” Zach said.

  “I am, and do you know what occurs to me? You are coddling me again. You think I can’t do it, that I will tire and give up.”

  “You always put thoughts in my head I do not have,” Zach said.

  “Then why? Are you worried we’ll be attacked?” Lou patted her rifle. “We have these, and our pistols. We’re crack shots. We can kill anything that comes at us.”

  Zach did not share her confidence, and said so.

  “This is a switch,” Lou complained. “Usually you are the one who shrugs off danger and I’m the voice of caution.” She placed her hand on his. “Please. I don’t want to stop. We won’t get home until late tomorrow if we do.”

  Against his better judgment, Zach bent his steps toward the distant green bowl that promised sanctuary. He stuck to open ground as much as possible, but soon they were in dense timber. Soon, too, the shadows coalesced into the inky blanket of night. The stars and the moon did little to relieve the gloom.

  Zach’s nerve ends tingled. He kept expecting to hear a growl or the pad of stalking paws. One hour became two and two hours became three, and when the hours proved uneventful, he willed himself to relax. “I guess you were right.”

  Lou did not ask what about; she knew. “Of course I was,” she grinned. “I’m female.”

  “And females are always right, even when they are wrong.” Zach had not been married for so long for nothing.

  “Two people can’t help but have different notions about things,” Lou said. “There has to be some give and take.”

  “Then how come the men do all the giving and the women do all the taking?” Zach teased.

  “Says who?” Louisa rejoined. “Women have to put up with all your male shenanigans. It’s no wonder God gave us the patience of saints.”

  “Says who?” Zach mimicked. “Females are born impatient and only get worse as they grow older. It’s the men who have to abide all manner of silliness.”

  “For instance?”

  “Women take forever to do themselves up. You nag us men to chew with our mouths shut and not leave our dirty clothes lying around and you throw a hissy fit if we track dirt in.” Zach had a litany but she cut him off.

  “You have just proved my point. If women put up with all that, and more, we surely have more patience in our little fingers than men have in their entire bodies.” Lou smirked impishly.

  “I have yet to see the day when a female—” Zach stopped and peered into the woods on their right.

  “What is it?” Lou asked.

  “I thought I heard something.” Zach could not be sure. They had been talking too loudly.

  Lou cocked her head. “I didn’t.” But she would be the first to admit her hearing was not as sharp as his.

  Out of the northwest whisked a gust of wind that shook the trees. Zach did not move until the wind died and the trees were still, and he was convinced nothing was there. He trod lightly, alert for movement, but he might as well be at the bottom of a well, it was so dark. He realized with a start that if a wolverine or some other predator rushed them, they would be lucky to get off a shot.

  Louisa sensed her husband was nervous and it made her nervous. He was not a worrier by nature, although he fretted over her constantly. More of that coddling she resented so much.

  Zach would give anything for open space where they could make a stand if they had to, but the woods were endless. It did not help matters that the ground was strewn with twigs and branches, invisible in the night, which he could not avoid stepping on.

  “At moments like this,” Lou whispered, “I wish we lived somewhere nice and safe in the States.” Not that she would ever go back. The mountains and the plains were in her blood. She had tasted the pure nectar of life as it was meant to be lived and she would not forsake it for the sham of civilized existence. In that regard she was a lot like her father-in-law, who valued his freedom above all else.

  Lou was glad her in-laws were easy to get along with. Some wives were not as fortunate and spent their married lives miserable. She had feared the worst when she fell in love with Zach, feared his relatives on his mother’s side of the family would despise her for being white, but to her considerable amazement they treated her as warmly as they treated other Shoshones. The color of her skin had not made a difference.

  Lou was especially fond of Winona, who had proven to be everything she could hope for and then some: a fountain of love who worked tirelessly for the betterment of her family. Winona reminded Lou of her own mother, which was the highest compliment she could pay anyone.

  “Listen,” Zach suddenly said.

  Stopping, Lou heard a sound she could not quite identify. It did not come from the nearby woods, but from far off. She turned to the northwest, racking her brain, and finally asked in exasperation, “What is that?”

  Zach had no idea. It was not a roar or a growl or a moan or a shriek but somehow it was like all of them mixed together,
a cry unlike any cry he ever heard. “Whatever it is, it’s coming from near the glacier.”

  “It has to be a mountain lion,” Lou guessed. Nothing else could make sounds remotely similar.

  “Maybe,” Zach said, although he would wager everything they owned that it wasn’t a painter or any other animal they were familiar with. More than ever, he yearned to pay the glacier a visit.

  The cry ended in a long mournful wail.

  Lou could not repress a shiver. She was glad when Zach moved on. Still thinking about the eerie cry, she nearly blundered into her husband when he abruptly stopped again. “What is it now?”

  The answer came in the shape of a giant hairy something that reared out of the night.

  Eleven

  Nate King heard someone groan. He opened his eyes and winced in pain. His head ached abominably. Above him stars speckled the deep blue-black vault of sky. Rising on his elbows, he gazed about in confusion, trying to remember how he got there and why he hurt so much.

  In a rush of vivid impressions, Nate remembered the talus and the fall. He reached up and touched his temple. He had a nasty gash caked with dried blood, which told him he had been unconscious quite a while. Judging by the position of the Big Dipper, it was past ten o’clock.

  Winona would be worried sick.

  Bracing his hands, Nate slowly stood. Immediately, his head began pounding to the beat of an invisible hammer. Clutching it, he closed his eyes and waited for the spasm to pass.

  Nate supposed he should feel lucky to be alive, but he felt more mad than anything, mad at himself for not being more careful. He scanned the slopes above and below for his horse, but the bay was gone.

  In sudden concern, Nate groped at his waist. His Bowie knife, tomahawk and one pistol were still in place. His other pistol was missing. So was his rifle. Forgetting about the gash, he bent to search for them and had to bite off another groan at the torment it provoked.

  The pistol lay an arm’s length away. Nate examined it to ensure it was not damaged, then wedged it under his wide leather belt. He figured the rifle would be close by, too, but he roved in ever widening circles without finding it.

  Nate recalled having the Hawken in his hand when he vaulted from the saddle. He had lost his hold on it when he struck the boulder.

  A patch of grass seemed a likely spot to look, but it was not there.

  Perplexed, Nate hunkered, opened his possibles bag, and took out his fire steel and flint. He pulled out handfuls of grass by the roots and made a large pile. Tree limbs would serve better, but he was fifty yards from the tree line.

  It was the work of a minute to kindle a fire by puffing a tiny flame into existence and it gave birth to another. The grass burned quickly, casting a rosy glow some twenty feet. He stood up much too quickly and paid for his mistake with another terrible spasm.

  His brainstorm bore fruit. Lower down the slope, metal gleamed. As the charred grass sputtered its dying gasp, he hurried to the spot. Smiling, he picked up the Hawken. But his elation was as short-lived as the fire. The hammer was bent, and bent badly, either from being dropped, or more likely, from being trod on by the bay. He tried to thumb the hammer back but it only moved partway.

  “Damn,” Nate said, and pressed with all his might in an attempt to straighten it. The hammer barely budged. He had tools in the cabin to fix it, but that did him no good there on the mountain.

  Resting the rifle across his shoulder, Nate started down. Of all his possessions, he valued the Hawken most. It was the one truly indispensable item he owned, the one that put food on the table and gave enemies their due. He was so accustomed to relying on it that to have it rendered useless was the worst sort of luck. But he was far from defenseless. He still had both pistols and his other weapons. Unfortunately, they were for use at close range.

  Most nights the valley was alive with the cries and shrieks of its bestial denizens, but this night a strange quiet prevailed, broken only by the yip of a coyote and later, to the south, the wavering howl of wolves.

  Movement registered from time to time, but whatever moved went elsewhere, leaving Nate to descend in peace. The pain in his head subsided to where it was bearable.

  He hiked over a mile, and was passing through a tract of pines when the crackle of undergrowth alerted him to a nocturnal prowler. He figured it would give him a wide berth like the others had done, but it was soon apparent the thing was paralleling him.

  Nate put his right hand on a flintlock, but he did not draw it. He refused to shoot unless the thing attacked. Several minutes went by, and he was about convinced the creature was harmless when a throaty growl proved otherwise. Since one growl tended to sound pretty much like another, he could not identify what it was.

  To discourage it, Nate tried a tactic many in the buckskin fraternity swore by. He loudly declared, “Go bother someone else!”

  There was a widespread belief among mountain men that the sound of the human voice was enough to discourage the most fearsome of beasts from attacking. To their way of thinking, the Almighty had given humankind dominion over the earth, and everything on it. Animals, therefore, were supposed to be subservient to humans. All a man had to do was look at an animal and raise his voice, and the animal would slink off in acknowledgment of its master.

  It was not a belief Nate shared. Animals had minds of their own. Sure, some had timid natures and fled rather than fight, but for every four that ran, the fifth sometimes proved a fatal exception to the rule.

  But Nate tried anyway. “I will let you be if you will let me be. What do you say?” he called out.

  The creature could not possibly understand. What happened next had to be coincidence.

  Nate was turning to go on when a hairy form exploded out of the forest. A snarl announced its intention. Nate drew his pistol and pulled back the hammer, but he was not fast enough.

  The wolverine slammed into Nate like a fur-clad battering ram. The impact knocked him back. Teeth that could crush bone snapped at his arm. They missed his sleeve and his flesh, and closed around the flintlock. He wrenched to free it but the wolverine’s jaws were a vise.

  Growling viciously, the beast tore the pistol from Nate’s grasp. A toss of its head, and the pistol went flying. Before Nate could recover, the wolverine was on him again, slashing and biting, and it was all he could do to evade its glistening fangs. He thrust the Hawken’s stock at its skull, but the beast dodged.

  Nate was a big man. Taller than most, broader of shoulder than most, more muscular than most. He towered over the wolverine like a redwood over a sapling. Yet for all his size, it was Nate who was hard pressed, Nate who gave ground, Nate who desperately sought to save himself.

  The wolverine was not the largest Nate ever saw, but it was large enough. It had a mouth full of razor teeth and paws rimmed with razor claws. Most of all, it had the spectacularly fierce nature for which wolverines were noted, a ferocity no other animal could match, not even Lord Grizzly. It had all that, and one element more; the wolverine was fearless.

  Its glistening fangs missed Nate’s leg by a whisker. He kicked at its face to drive it back even as his hand swooped to his tomahawk. But the kick put his leg within reach of its mouth, and teeth sank into his calf.

  Nate had been bitten before, bitten by bears, bitten by a wolf, bitten by a mountain lion, bitten by snakes, bitten by a bat. But never had a bite sent such overwhelming ripples of pure agony coursing through him. He swore he felt the wolverine’s teeth grate against bone.

  Despite himself, Nate cried out. He tugged on the tomahawk and swung at the wolverine’s head. By rights he should have cleaved its skull from top to bottom, but the wolverine’s lightning reflexes came to its rescue. It bound aside with inches to spare, and the tomahawk’s keen edge cut through empty air.

  Nate thrust again with the Hawken, keeping the wolverine at bay. It skipped to the right. It skipped to the left. It leaped at his stomach, its forepaws poised to rake. Nate met it with the tomahawk, but once again the wol
verine’s incredible reflexes denied him a killing blow.

  Nate feinted with the Hawken. The wolverine skipped agilely to the one side, and crouched. Nate paused, his tomahawk raised, waiting for his four-footed adversary to spring.

  Neither moved, neither twitched. Every second was an eternity of suspense. A wet sensation spread down Nate’s leg as his calf flared with a thousand prickly points of pain. He was bleeding, bleeding like a stuck buck, but he could not do anything about it until he disposed of the wolverine.

  The glutton growled deep in its chest, its dark eyes glittering pools of pure bloodlust.

  This close, Nate saw saliva trickle down its hairy chin. His own mouth had gone as dry as the desert. His palms, though, were slick with sweat, and he firmed his grip on the tomahawk.

  Just like that, the wolverine sprang. Nate aimed a terrific swing at its neck, but a wave of dizziness caused the world to spin and his vision to blur. He missed, and the next moment the wolverine’s teeth sank into his thigh.

  Swinging wildly, Nate backpedaled. To his surprise he connected just as his sight cleared. He caught the glutton with the flat of the tomahawk, though, not the blade, and the glutton tumbled. Before he could exploit his advantage, the wolverine spun and vanished into the darkness.

  Nate did not go after it. He was distressingly lightheaded. From the exertion, he thought, until it dawned on him that the wet sensation had spread down his leg to his moccasin. He must be pouring blood. He wanted to examine his wounds, but he dared not take his eyes off the woods.

  The night was quiet but Nate was not fooled. The wolverine was still there, watching him, biding its time until he made a mistake. But he would not give it the satisfaction. He would stand there until dawn if he had to.

  Then Nate spotted the pistol the wolverine had torn from his grasp. It was only a few feet away. Sidling toward it, he braced for a charge that did not come. His foot bumped the pistol. He tucked at the knees, set down the Hawken, and without taking his eyes off the forest, felt about on the ground.