Without warning more dizziness assailed him. Dizziness so intense, so disorienting, Nate grew weak all over and began to pitch onto his face. At the last instant he recovered but it took every ounce of willpower he possessed, and he was left with lingering nausea.
Scooping up the pistol, Nate cocked it. He slid the tomahawk under his belt, reclaimed the Hawken, and used the rifle to support himself as he shuffled to a pine and stood with his back to the trunk so the wolverine could not get at him from the rear. Leaning the rifle against the bole, he carefully eased onto his backside.
The bites throbbed. His thigh was not bleeding badly, but his calf was, and his lower leg was soaked. Drawing his knife, he sliced the buckskin from his knees to his ankle. Blood bubbled from the calf wound in spurts. If he did not stanch the flow, the wolverine would be the least of his worries.
Placing the pistol in his lap, Nate cut a strip from the bottom of his shirt. He glanced repeatedly at the woods as he wrapped the strip around his leg. A broken branch served to complete the tourniquet. He tightened it until the blood stopped bubbling, then sank against the trunk, spent.
Nate fought an urge to close his eyes. Lord, he felt tired, as if he had not slept for a month. Palming the pistol, he gazed off through the trees and spied, far, far below, the light of his cabin window. How he yearned to be there! Memories of the warmth, the laughter, the love, were a tonic to his soul. He must not give up.
The throbbing worsened. Nate loosened the tourniquet, which helped a little, but he immediately had to tighten it again. The blood was beginning to clot, but it would be some time before he stopped bleeding.
It was unsettling, Nate mused, how quickly a man’s fortunes changed. He had started the day whole and hearty and as happy as a person could be, and now here he was, afoot and weak and at the mercy of the merciless mistress known as the wilderness.
Something made a snuffing noise to his left. Twisting, Nate leveled both pistols. If the wolverine came at him, he would let it get close and blow its brains out. But the glutton did not appear.
Twice more Nate loosened the tourniquet. The bleeding finally stopped and some of his strength returned. Enough that he slid one of the pistols under his belt, struggled to his feet, and using the Hawken as a crutch, hobbled toward the cabins so very far below.
It was slow going. Nate could not put his full weight on his hurt leg. Trees and boulders and other obstacles had to be skirted. Steep slopes were doubly difficult to negotiate. He was a tortoise, and tortoises were notorious for taking forever to get somewhere. He would be lucky to reach his cabin before the week was out.
Nate’s leg began to stiffen. He flexed it to restore feeling, but the flexing did not help.
A hundred yards more brought Nate to a log. Turning his back to the trail, he sat down, grateful for the rest. His eyelids were leaden, and dizziness still plagued him.
Nate’s chin drooped. He snapped his head up, but it was apparent that if he stayed there, he might pass out. To stay awake he thought about Winona; about how awkward his courtship had been, yet she fell in love with him anyway; about the births of Zach and Evelyn, forever enshrined in his memory; about the trials they endured; and especially about the happy times, more in number than the needles on the pines or the leaves on the aspens.
In his mind’s eye, Nate saw Winona as she had been when first they met, so young and radiant, and as she was now, in the full bloom of maturity, still beautiful, still the other half of his heart in mortal guise.
Nate had always been romantic. His friends had teased him about it when he was young. His father had branded it childish, and done all in his power to stamp it out and mold Nate in his own cold image. Nate’s mother was the opposite, as romantic a woman who ever lived. How sad that she had been trapped in a marriage where romance was regarded as wrong.
His mother’s image seemed to float before him, a disembodied head in a black well of emptiness. She opened her mouth as if to speak but instead she pressed her lips to his leg and began gnawing at it as if his leg were meat and she was famished.
Nate wanted to ask her what she was doing, but his vocal cords would not work. Pain stabbed through him, and with it, the realization that he had fallen asleep. The image of his mother was not real. But the pain was, and so was the gnawing. Something was chewing on his flesh. Something was eating him alive. He tried to rouse from his stupor but could not.
Faintly, as if from the other end of a long tunnel, Nate heard a throaty growl of contentment.
The wolverine was enjoying its meal.
Twelve
A wolverine in front of him. A wolverine behind him. On one side a sheer drop of over a hundred feet. Shakespeare McNair was in as dire a plight as he had ever been. To his left the woods beckoned, but he could not reach the trees before the wolverines reached him.
The pair were middling-sized as wolverines went. Even so, wolverines of any size were as savage as any bear or painter, and two of them made twice the peril.
The glutton in front of Shakespeare growled and went rigid. It was about to attack. Shakespeare dared not take his eyes off it to check on the one to his rear. His life hung in precarious balance, and if he ever wanted to hold Blue Water Woman in his arms again, he must be ready.
With astounding quickness, the wolverine in front of him sprang. Steely sinews propelled it at Shakespeare’s throat, and Shakespeare instantly squeezed the Hawken’s trigger. He was so close that he heard the thwack of the heavy lead ball. The impact twisted the wolverine half around in midair. It sprawled down heavily, head first, close to the edge, but unfortunately did not go over it.
Shakespeare swooped a hand to a pistol to finish the wolverine off, but he was not granted the opportunity. A tremendous blow to his back staggered him. He stumbled and nearly fell. Claws ripped into his shoulders and teeth tore at his hat and his hair. He whipped his body around, seeking to throw the second wolverine off, but it clung to his shoulders, its claws digging deep.
Frantic, Shakespeare twisted sharply from side to side. He reached back, gripped fur, and yanked, but the wolverine did not let go. Teeth sank into his upper arm, and he almost screamed from the pain. Dropping the Hawken, he swung both arms over his shoulders and succeeded in seizing the wolverine by the neck. More pain lanced his wrist. Ignoring it, he heaved, and suddenly the second wolverine was in front of him, savagely slashing at his chest and face.
Shakespeare flung the beast from him. The wolverine landed on all fours and came at him as he stabbed for a pistol. A swift bound saved his groin from the beast’s slavering jaws. The wolverine did not give him a moment’s respite. It came after him, snapping and biting, forcing him to retreat or be maimed.
Shakespeare aimed the pistol. His finger was curling around the trigger when he took another step back and his left foot met open space. He lost his balance. Pin-wheeling his arms, he sought to recover his footing, but gravity had hold of him.
Without thinking, Shakespeare let go of the flintlock and flung both hands at the edge. He caught hold but came close to losing his purchase when his body slammed against the bluff. His shoulders protested with spikes of torment. Hanging by his fingers, he dangled high above jagged boulders.
Shakespeare held himself still, collecting his wits, his breath and his strength. His body pulsed with pain, and he could feel blood trickling down his back. He could not hang there forever. He must climb back up or he would tire and lose his grip, and that would be that.
Exercising the utmost care, Shakespeare probed the cliff face with his toes. He needed a foothold, but the surface was smooth stone. Gingerly, he inched first one leg and then the other wide to either side but found only a few slight indentations.
Shakespeare blinked sweat from his eyes and tried again. The fingers of his left hand began to slip. Freezing, he clamped his fingers so tight, the cliff edge bit into them. He slid his right foot along the cliff and back again. Nothing. He raised it a few inches and tried again. Still nothing. He bent his knee as if taking a step a
nd moved his foot higher still, and wanted to whoop for joy when his toes dipped into a depression deep enough for half his foot. He immediately shifted most of his weight so his leg bore most of it.
Shakespeare smiled. He had bought himself some time. He bent his other knee and explored the other side but there were no holes or cracks or fissures. He must rely on the one leg, but it should suffice.
Girding himself, Shakespeare pushed upward. His right foot moved, and for a few harrowing seconds he thought it would slip out. But it did not, and he pushed high enough to see over the lip.
Both wolverines were on their feet. A dark stain matted the coat of the one Shakespeare had shot. As he looked on, the wounded animal limped toward the undergrowth. The other one had its back to him and was watching the first walk off.
Shakespeare pushed higher. The strain on his hands and his foot caused him to grit his teeth. His right leg trembled, and he worried it would give way. Then his chin cleared the rim and seconds later he had his left forearm braced on top. That was not enough, though, to lift his body the rest of the way. First he had to slide his right forearm up to join the left. He tensed his right leg for the final boost.
A low growl turned Shakespeare’s blood to ice. He glanced up, straight into the feral eyes of the second wolverine. He had not heard it come over. They were nose to nose, its teeth bared to finish what it had started.
Shakespeare was completely at the animal’s mercy. He could not defend himself, could not avoid its attack without letting go, and the moment he did that, he was a goner.
The wolverine sniffed his face, sniffed his shoulder, its fetid breath warm on his cheek and neck.
Sure his time had come, Shakespeare prepared to make the beast pay for his life with its own. He would grab it by the throat and the two of them would plummet into oblivion together.
Then there came a low whine from the woods from the wounded wolverine, and the glutton sniffing Shakespeare abruptly wheeled and bounded into the vegetation. Shakespeare could scarce credit his eyes. Thrusting upward with his right leg, he raised the top of his chest above the edge and threw himself forward. Flat on his stomach, he wriggled like a worm until only his feet were over the rim. Sheer joy filled him. He was alive! But for how long? Either or both wolverines might return at any second. He could not lie there.
The Hawken was where Shakespeare had dropped it. Scrambling over, he rose on his knees and grabbed his powder horn to reload. The crack of a twig changed his mind. He needed to put distance between him and the meat eaters. Rising, he lurched north along the rim but only for a short way. Then he veered into the forest.
For half a mile Shakespeare barreled through the brush like a bull through a cornfield. He made no effort at stealth. The wolverines would follow by scent anyway.
Fatigue set in. Leaning against a boulder, Shakespeare took stock. His back and sides were covered with claw marks and bites. He had lost blood but had no idea how much. His wrist was cut where the wolverine had slashed it, but fortunately for him the claws missed the large veins.
“I could be a lot worse off,” Shakespeare said aloud. He had lost one of his flintlocks but he still had the other, and his rifle and knife. That reminded him. He methodically reloaded, slid the ramrod into its housing under the barrel, and patted the Hawken. So long as he had weapons he stood a fighting chance.
Shakespeare headed east. The wolverines were bound to come after him. The sooner he reached the valley floor, the better his odds of staying alive. Getting there was the problem. On foot he was a buckskin-clad turtle. The gluttons would overtake him before he was halfway there.
The minutes turned into an hour. The hour became two. Shakespeare saw neither fang nor hair of the carnivores. He entertained the hope, slim as it was, that they had lost interest in him.
“I’m getting optimistic in my old age,” Shakespeare joked, and grinned. So long as his sense of humor was intact he could not be that bad off. “But I really must stop talking to myself.”
Shakespeare tried not to think about his back. It had to be a mess. But Blue Water Woman would soon have him on the mend. Her knowledge of healing herbs was extraordinary.
The Flatheads, like most tribes, relied on a variety of treatments. Balsam fir was made into a tea for coughs and colds. So were sage leaves. Sandwort root cured inflamed eyes. The inner bark of the dogwood was good as a heart tonic. Juniper berries relieved bladder problems. Chokecherries relieved dysentery. Boiled elderberry roots soothed swollen muscles. And on and on.
Many whites scoffed at Indian treatments. Hokum, they called it, and refused to try Indian remedies. But Shakespeare had seen countless cures brought about by that hokum, cures that, in many instances, white medicine could not duplicate.
In fact, Shakespeare was of the opinion it was an old healer’s medicine that accounted, in part, for his vigor and health. When he was a young man, he came down sick one day, his fever so high he was burning up alive. Otter Ear was sent for, one of the oldest and wisest men in the village. Shakespeare vaguely remembered the old man mixing crushed roots and leaves and flowers and bringing the concoction to a boil. The next he knew, Otter Ear was forcing the vile-tasting and even more vile-smelling brew down his throat. He had coughed and cursed and struggled, but the old man refused to stop.
The next day Shakespeare awoke to find the fever and sickness gone. Not only that, he was bursting with vigor. He had never felt so healthy his whole life, and he had been hearty and hale ever since. Was it his natural vitality? Or had the old man’s potions imparted something special?
Shakespeare could not say. It was another of the many mysteries that made life so endlessly entertaining. He had never been one of those so soured on existence that they could not see the roses for the weeds. His cup always brimmed to overflowing, not half full.
Maybe that explained his vitality. For as long as Shakespeare could remember, he had a deep and abiding zest for life. Others were content to drift from day to day like driftwood on the ocean, but not him. He dived into each day as if it were a mountain lake, clear and cold and rich with promise.
Even now, battered and bruised and cut and torn as he was, Shakespeare did not give in to despair. He studied the terrain, reading it as intently as he read the Bard’s plays, and when he came to a clearing bathed in starlight, he paused. On the other side stood a tall spruce that had been struck by lightning. The upper branches were a charred tangle denuded of needles by the bolt’s blistering heat.
Shakespeare hurried across. Drawing his knife, he cut enough whangs from his sleeve to make a sling, and tied them together. He then tied one end to the Hawken’s barrel and the other end to the stock. Slinging the rifle over his left shoulder, he gave a slight hop, gripped a low limb and climbed. It was rough on his hands and his back but he made it to the top without too much discomfort.
Up high, the wind whipped Shakespeare’s hair and beard. He missed his beaver hat. He had worn it for more than ten years. God willing, he would find it again after he had dealt with the two nightmares.
Shakespeare rubbed a palm over a charred limb and held his hand in front of his face. His palm and the bottom of his fingers were black. Chuckling at his cleverness, he proceeded to blacken his face, his hair, his beard and both hands. He also applied black streaks to his buckskins. When he was finished, and settled in a fork amid the charred limbs, he appeared to be part of the tree.
The Hawken across his lap and his gaze glued to the clearing, Shakespeare waited. It might be minutes, it might be hours, but as surely as the sun rose and set, one or the other of the wolverines, or both, would come after him.
They were in for a surprise.
Shakespeare had not survived as long as he had by giving up when fate bore down. He was a scrapper, as his grandmother used to say. When someone or something tried to do him harm, he fought back as tenaciously as, well, a wolverine. It was part of the reason the French voyageurs had called him Carcajou.
Nor was he one of those who believ
ed a person’s destiny was etched in stone. The notion that everything a person did from cradle to grave was foreordained was absurd. To disprove it, all someone had to do was hold out both hands and pick one.
Shakespeare believed that everyone molded their own lives, that the decisions made today determined every tomorrow. Whether he lived to see the next dawn or whether the wolverines feasted on his flesh was not in the hands of fickle fate. It was in his hands. He would have no one to blame but himself if he lost their benighted game of life and death.
Midnight came and went. Shakespeare did not move, did not stretch, did not cough. He did not do anything to give his presence away. His mind moved, though. Shakespeare traveled back to his first meeting with Nate, a youth so green, elk mistook him for grass. He had seen Nate grow from a stripling into manhood, and been as proud of the younger man’s accomplishments as if they were those of his own son.
Shakespeare’s keenest regret was that he never had children, a son or a daughter he could pamper, and to whom he could impart the kernels of wisdom gleaned during a long and eventful life. Thankfully, Nate King had come along to fill the emptiness in his heart and prove that if a person wanted something deeply enough and dearly enough, their dreams came true.
With a start, Shakespeare jerked his head up. He had started to doze off. Another minute and he would saw charred logs.
Upset with himself, Shakespeare gazed at the clearing—and felt his breath catch in his throat.
A squat form had emerged from the undergrowth. Nose held high, it was testing the wind.
Shakespeare’s mouth quirked upward. His ploy had worked. The wolverine was about to blunder into his gun sights. He slowly tucked the stock to his shoulder and began elevating the barrel. He would wait until the glutton was closer so as not to miss.
A second form appeared. It limped up to the first and they touched noses. Together they started across the clearing.
Another couple of inches and Shakespeare would have the Hawken level. He pressed his cheek to the stock. Suddenly the tip of the muzzle grazed a branch. There was the slightest of sounds, a scrtich that Shakespeare barely heard. Yet the keen ears of the gluttons heard it, too. They stopped cold in their tracks. In unison, their heads swung up. In unison, they sniffed and fixed their glittering eyes on the charred limbs. In unison, they growled.
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