Wilderness Double Edition 25

by David Robbins

  “Sure. Can you gather up the blood, too?” Shakespeare drew his knife and cut a strip from the bottom of his shirt for a bandage. He tied the strip himself, saying, “I’m better at knots.” When he was done he slowly stood and limped in a small circle. “There. Now let’s take a gander at the one I shot. Maybe he is from a tribe we’ll recognize.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  They stood over the dead man and stared. Not at the hole in his head or the pool of blood, but at the warrior’s face and clothes.

  “I’ll be damned,” Shakespeare said. “When I’m wrong, I’m really wrong. What in tarnation do we have here?”

  Nate could not begin to say. The man was not a Blackfoot, or a Blood, or a Crow, or a Ute, or from any other tribe he ever had dealings with.

  Stocky of build and swarthy of skin, the warrior wore buckskins notable for the absence of whangs, and for sleeves that flared from the elbows to the wrists. The leggings were ordinary except that on each hip, drawn in black, were peculiar symbols. On the right hip were three circles, one within the other. On the left hip was what appeared to be the sketch of a bear with extremely long canines. The man’s moccasins were stitched in a cross weave and had buckskin laces at the front.

  The truly remarkably thing, though, was the man’s face. His low forehead sloped to a black thatch that was more gristle than hair. Thick, beetling brows hovered like twin caterpillars over dark pits with eyeballs as black as pitch. Thin lips and a jutting jaw were prominent but not nearly as prominent as the scars that covered every square inch of skin between neck and hairline in a mix of whorls and squiggles. Deep scars, they were, with thick ridges, the overall effect hideous in the extreme.

  “Dear God,” Nate breathed. “Do you think he did that to himself?”

  “Or someone did it for him,” Shakespeare guessed.

  “Why? What purpose does it serve?”

  “What purpose do tattoos serve?” Shakespeare rejoined. “I never have been fond of marking up my body but some folks seems to think doodling on themselves is the reason they were given skin.”

  “This isn’t doodling,” Nate remarked, resisting an urge to bend down and touch the scar tissue. “It had to hurt like Hades and bleed like the dickens.” He gazed at the nearby woods. “Do you suppose they are all like this? The women and the kids, too?”

  “Since when did I become the Almighty?” Shakespeare asked. “To be honest, in all my years I have never seen anything like this.”

  The warrior’s weapons drew their interest next. Nate picked up the bow. It was made of ash, the ends slightly curved. The workmanship, compared to the bows of the Shoshones, was crude. The same was true of the arrow. Raven feathers had been used, all of them applied unevenly. It was amazing they had been able to kill Niwot with one shot, and not surprising they had missed striking a fatal blow to Nate or Shakespeare.

  A sheath dangled from a length of rope that served as the warrior’s belt. The knife had an antler hilt and an iron blade, the edge not nearly as sharp as the edge on Nate’s Bowie.

  “We should bury him,” Nate said.

  “Whatever for?” Shakespeare disagreed. “Coyotes and buzzards have to eat, too, don’t they?”

  “If his friends see us bury him, they might realize we are not the enemies they take us for.”

  Shakespeare extended his rifle so that the muzzle almost brushed the hole in the warrior’s head. “Something tells me that after seeing me blow his brains out, it will take more than planting him to convince them we’re friendly.”

  Nate was determined to do it anyway. He dug, scooping with a tree branch he trimmed and tapered at one end, while McNair stood watch. The sun was an hour above the western horizon when Nate patted the last of the dirt and stepped back from the grave. “There.”

  “Want us to erect a headstone and sing a few hymns?”

  “You are not half as funny as you think you are.”

  “I could quote the Bard. How about this? Now cracks a noble heart! And flights of angels sign thee to thy rest.”

  “Show more respect for the dead,” Nate said. Shakespeare snorted and said indignantly, “I refuse to shed false tears over someone who tried his best to turn me into a pincushion.” He was beginning to worry about his prodigy. Nate was becoming too softhearted. Not long ago, Nate had tried to live in harmony, as he put it, with a grizzly, and nearly been slain when the griz figured harmony was the same as supper. “Let’s head for the pass.”

  They did not have far to climb. Shakespeare held on to the keg, resting it on his thigh as they rode. Presently, the defile appeared. Since it ran from east to west, the rays of the setting sun bathed the high walls in a yellow glow.

  Turning in the saddle, Nate remarked, “We still have time to blow the pass before dark.”

  “I would rather do it tomorrow and take our time,” Shakespeare said. They had to do it right the first time or all the effort they had gone to would be wasted.

  Nate was impatient to get the job finished. They could start down at first light if they set off the keg right away. By tomorrow evening he would be home with Winona. “Let’s at least have a look-see.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  The slope leveled. Before them loomed the opening. Drawing rein, Shakespeare dismounted and set the keg at the base of the south wall.

  “Why not bring it along?” Nate asked.

  “It’s fine here,” Shakespeare answered, inwardly chuckling at his devious stroke. They could not light the fuse if they did not have the keg with them.

  Nate entered the pass. He had to squint against the bright glare of the sun. The thud of the bay’s hooves sounded twice as loud. As he neared the west end of the defile, the wind intensified. From puffs and gusts it became an invisible buffeting fist, whipping the whangs on his sleeves. When he coughed, the sound was thrown back at him. He came out on a shelf that overlooked the next valley. Dense timber spread for as far as the eye could see.

  “Your friend with the scar is from somewhere out there,” Shakespeare mentioned, coming to a stop.

  “Any sign of a likely spot for the keg?”

  “No.” Shakespeare was telling the truth. They needed to find a crack wide enough to wedge the keg into, or make an opening that would suffice. Simply placing the keg at the base of either rock wall and igniting it would not be enough to bring the entire pass crashing down.

  “I had high hopes,” Nate said. Now they had to do it the hard way, which reminded him. “We lost our pick and shovel with the pack horse. How do we go about it without them?”

  “Let me ponder some,” Shakespeare said. “I should have an idea by morning.”

  Nate lifted his reins to wheel the bay and paused. Off to the west, past the valley and over the next range, more than a dozen smoky tendrils curled into the sky. “Their village, do you reckon?”

  “That would be my hunch,” Shakespeare said. A big village, too, he reckoned, if each tendril came from a single campfire or lodge.

  “Let’s hope the other two are on their way there,” Nate said. It would take days to reach the village and return with more warriors.

  “Maybe they are. There hasn’t been any sign of them since you buried their friend. So much for gratitude.”

  “I still say it was the right thing to do.”

  The wind at their backs, they reentered the pass. Shakespeare assumed the lead. A third of the way in he spotted a crack midway up the left wall. He did not point it out to Nate. Plenty of time for that in the morning, he told himself. To keep Nate from glancing up and noticing it, he asked, “Do my buckskins have a rip in the back? I swear I can feel a draft.”

  “Not that I can see, no.”

  They were directly under the crack. Shakespeare needed to distract him for a few more seconds. “Ever have a hankering to give up this life and take your family and live in the States?”

  “You know better.”

  Shakespeare reached out and patted the left-hand wall. An idea struck hi
m and he asked, “Is there a way to the top?”

  “I’ve only been up here a few times and never bothered to check,” Nate responded. “Why? Are you thinking of setting off the keg up there?”

  Shakespeare never answered the question. A shadow flitted across the gap, and he glanced up. Silhouetted against the sky were the two warriors. At least, he assumed they were the same pair. As they had done at the talus slope, each held a boulder over his head.

  “Oh, hell.”

  Eight

  “Nate! Above us!” Shakespeare McNair bawled, and dug his heels into the white mare. She was an exceptional horse, and always responded superbly. In a few bounds she was at a full gallop.

  A quick glance showed Nate their peril. He saw one of the warriors lean out over the edge, about to drop a boulder on him. Instantly, Nate jammed the Hawken to his shoulder, thumbing the hammer back as he did, and fired. In the confines of the pass the blast was thunderous.

  The warrior was jolted by the impact of the heavy lead ball. Gravity seized the boulder, and him, and both plunged over the brink.

  Nate used his reins to pull the bay backward. But the boulder and the warrior crashed to the ground so close that one of the man’s legs caught the horse a glancing blow across the nostrils.

  The second warrior vanished, boulder and all.

  Nate continued to goad the bay backward. When they had covered some twenty feet, Nate slapped his legs and the bay raced forward, gaining speed quickly so that when it came to the body and the boulder it vaulted them with ease. Nate watched the rim, but the second warrior did not reappear.

  Shakespeare was surprised the east opening was not blocked. He emerged from the defile and promptly reined around to cover Nate. He kept his rifle trained on the rim until Nate was out of the sun-drenched pass.

  Nate brought the bay to a stop next to the mare and twisted. “Where did he get to?”

  “Maybe they’re gun-shy.” Shakespeare had seen it before, especially during his early years in the Rockies. Tribes unfamiliar with firearms were cowed by them. He had once heard it said that the reason Cortez and his pitiful handful of soldiers defeated the Incas was because of the unreasoning dread in which the Incas held the Spaniards’ weapons and armor.

  In tense silence except for the breathing of their mounts, they waited. After several uneventful minutes, Shakespeare remarked, “I reckon we’re safe.”

  “Until he tries to sneak up on us in the dark and slit our throats,” Nate said. Yet more incentive to blow the pass before night fell, but he realized they must wait until daylight.

  Common sense dictated they not camp near the pass. They descended a short way to a meadow and rode to the center. Stripping their saddles and packs, they picketed the bay and the mare to make it harder for the warrior to steal them.

  Shakespeare deposited his packs and his saddle and sat with his back to the latter, saying wearily, “Well. This has been an interesting day.”

  Nate was about to imitate McNair when a slack-jawed look of astonishment came over him, and he froze.

  “What is it?” Shakespeare snapped his rifle up and peered intently about them. “Did you see him?”

  “We are dunderheads.”

  “How’s that? Speak for yourself, Horatio. I pride myself on having a stray thought now and anon.”

  “You can’t prove that by the keg of black powder.” Shakespeare’s astonishment outdid Nate’s. “We left it at the pass! How could we have been so careless?”

  “In my case I had other things on my mind,” Nate answered. “In yours, your rapier wit needs sharpening.”

  “You don’t think—” Shakespeare began, and shook his head. “No. It couldn’t be. We’re dunces, is all.”

  “Don’t think what?” Nate prodded, turning to the bay. “I’ll go. You stay and rest those ancient bones of yours.”

  “You know better,” Shakespeare chided. “We stick together. We can leave everything here and ride bareback, but we stick together.”

  By now twilight shrouded the upper tiers of the high country. At that altitude the air chilled quickly once the sun relinquished its rein to the stars and a crescent moon. They held to a walk, and, as much as possible, to open ground. Shadowy specters seemed to float about them, an illusion of the fading light and the whipping wind.

  “I ever tell you the story of the headless horseman?” Shakespeare asked.

  Steeled for an ambush, Nate was fingering his Hawken. “I have the book, remember? It’s one of my favorite stories.”

  “This is the kind of night made for goblins and spooks.”

  Nate had thought the same thing but did not want Shakespeare to know. “Why bring that up? I swear. Sometimes you are worse than my kids.”

  “They’re not kids anymore, Horatio. They’re adults. Evelyn will be married before long, and between her and Zach, you and Winona will be up to your necks in grandchildren.”

  “My daughter is in no hurry to take a husband, and I don’t blame her.” Nate would not mind if she stayed single for another ten years.

  “You will need to practice bouncing the tykes on your knee. Use a water skin. You can pretend they are infants or older, depending on how much water you have in the skin.”

  “Remember what I said earlier about your silliness?”

  “I vaguely recollect you prattling on about something or other, yes,” Shakespeare responded.

  “You have outdone yourself.”

  “We should hush, son. We’re getting close to the pass.”

  That they were. With the sun gone, the defile was an inky slit, the area around it mired in murk. Drawing rein well back from the opening, they sat and listened. A low moan from the pass caused the bay to shy and prance, but it was only the wind. Or so Nate figured. “I’ll go on foot,” he whispered. “You stay with the horses.”

  “What part of stick together didn’t you savvy?” Shakespeare asked. “You could take a knife in the back and I would never know.”

  Sliding down, they gripped their respective reins and slowly advanced. The writhing shadows worked havoc with Nate’s nerves. The warrior could be anywhere. Twice he was willing to swear he saw a horribly scarred visage peering at them out of the darkness.

  They came to the pass. The wind was stronger. The moans had become occasional shrieks.

  Shakespeare stared at the spot where he had set the keg. “This makes the day complete.”

  The keg was gone.

  Nate hunkered and ran his hand over the depression it had made. “They must have taken it before they sprang their ambush.” Unfolding his body, he stated the obvious. “We’ll have to wait until morning to track him.”

  Shakespeare reluctantly agreed. The warrior could be long gone by then. If the man traveled through the night, he would be miles into the thick timber in the next valley by dawn. Catching him would be on the order of a miracle.

  “Let’s get back to our gear.” It angered Nate to think they had come so far, nearly losing their lives, and would be unable to do what they came for. Every day the pass stayed open was an invitation to the scar-faced tribe to send a large war party to wipe out his family and friends.

  Neither spoke on the way down. They were too depressed.

  Both drew rein at the edge of the meadow. Each had the same thought; the warrior might be waiting for them, crouched behind their saddles and packs. Nate bore to the left, Shakespeare to the right. Rifles extended, they advanced through the knee-high grass.

  “No one,” Shakespeare said, relieved.

  Everything was exactly as they had left it. Nate picketed the bay, opened a beaded parfleche Winona had made, and took out a bundle of pemmican. Sitting cross-legged, he offered some to McNair. For a while they sat and chewed in silence, then Shakespeare cleared his throat.

  “It occurs to me, son, that we better make damn sure that pass is plugged before more of those scarred devils show up. When they hear we’ve killed two of their friends, the entire tribe will want our scalps.”

>   “We can’t plug it until we recover the black powder.” Nate mentioned the obvious.

  “Which might not happen. Maybe we should give some thought to one of us heading back down for more.”

  “What about sticking together?”

  “One of us needs to keep an eye on the pass. If more warriors do come through, our families have to be warned.”

  The logic, and the threat, could not be denied. Nate never hesitated. “I’ll stay,” he said.

  “We should flip a coin.” Shakespeare fished in a pocket, and then another. “Wouldn’t you know it? The one time I want one.”

  “I’ll stay,” Nate repeated. He was younger, stronger, faster. But he gave a different reason. “Our move to this valley was my idea. You wouldn’t be in danger right now if it weren’t for me.”

  “You are too noble by half. But good reason must of force give way to better,” Shakespeare quoted. “You can make it to the lake faster than I can. You should be the one to go.”

  “How do you figure? Your mare is as fast as my bay.” Nate was not so gullible as to let himself be hoodwinked. “Either you go or neither of us does.”

  Shakespeare muttered something, then said, “Can it be that you and I are married and don’t know it?”

  “If I were drunk that might make sense.”

  “We squabble like a married couple,” Shakespeare said. “But so be it. If you insist I go, I will, but I go under the duress of our friendship, and with the observation that there is no more faith in you than in a stewed prune.”

  Suddenly grinning, Nate declared, “I have it!” and snapped his fingers.

  “Have what?”

  “If the hostiles do attack, you can talk them to death.”

  Shakespeare sighed, and stood. “You are a knave, a rascal, an eater of broken meats, a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy worsted-stocking knave.”

  “I like you, too.”

  “What a madcap hath heaven lent us here,” Shakespeare grumbled, and set to work preparing to depart. Soon he had the mare saddled and his parfleches tied on. All but one, which he dropped next to Nate. “Inside is the fuse I made. Light it and run like hell, and I hope you trip and get blown to bits.”