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

  The big black charged, dirt flying from under its claws, gaining speed with every stride, its powerful muscles rippling under its inky fur, its teeth exposed as it snarled.

  Shocked, Nate instinctively raised the Hawken and fired. He heard the frontiersman’s rifle discharge a heartbeat later, and the black bear reacted as if struck in the head with a heavy club. The beast sagged in midstride, its chin dropping to its chest, and collapsed, sliding a yard before lying motionless on the grass within six feet of Shakespeare.

  “You won’t need to go hunting for our supper after all.”

  Blood oozed from a pair of holes in the bear’s head. Nate approached the beast cautiously in case a spark of life remained, his right hand resting on a flintlock. “Why did it come after us? I thought black bears usually leave people alone.”

  “Usually, but not always. This proves my point about staying alert. And never, ever, take anything for granted.”

  “You’ve convinced me,” Nate said, tentatively prodding the bear with his left toe. Blood smeared onto the tip of his moccasin. He set to work reloading the Hawken.

  “Tell you what. If you’ll tend to the horses, I’ll skin the bear and carve us a couple of juicy steaks. What do you say?”

  “Sounds fair to me,” Nate said, and finished reloading. He was amazed at how the frontiersman took every incident in stride. No matter how unexpected, or how violent, Shakespeare seldom became rattled. The man’s composure was superb, and Nate wished he could be the same way.

  For the next half hour few words were spoken as each man attended to his chores. Nate unsaddled the mare and Shakespeare’s white horse, then removed the packs from their pack animals. He led all four to the spring to drink, and hobbled them so they could graze without straying off. One of the first sayings Nate learned after arriving in the mountains was the basic creed of horse tending: “It’s better to count ribs than tracks.” Which meant it was wiser to tie a horse at night and have the animal be hungry in the morning than let it wander off to gorge itself and be taken by an Indian. Many tribes were notorious horse stealers.

  Next Nate went about gathering wood for the fire, carrying armloads of broken branches to the center of the clearing and forming convenient piles for later use. He got the blaze going, arranged his blanket near the fire so it would be warm when he retired, and went to help his companion.

  Shakespeare was kneeling next to the carcass, artfully employing his twelve-inch butcher knife in removing the second choice cut of meat. “About done,” he said.

  Twilight had descended. The last, lingering rays of sunlight streaked the western sky. All around were birds singing their farewell chorus to the expiring day. Off in the distance a coyote howled.

  Nate breathed deeply and smiled. Moments like this filled him with a joy at being alive, a joy he’d never experienced back in New York City.

  “After we eat we’ll cut up the rest of this bear and hang the meat to dry,” Shakespeare said. “We don’t want it lying around overnight. Wolves and such might get the notion to pay us a visit.”

  “Wolves don’t bother humans very often.”

  “There you go again. What did I just tell you about taking things for granted? True, wolves ordinarily leave us alone. But if you run into a starving pack in the middle of winter, you’ll find they’re just like any other animal. They’ll eat whatever they can catch.”

  “Have you ever given any thought to writing down all you’ve learned over the years?”

  The frontiersman laughed. “Whatever for?”

  “The people in the States have a great interest in anything written about the frontier. A factual book about your experiences would sell extremely well and make you a lot of money.”

  “I don’t need a lot of money, and I’m not about to let others exploit my life to make their own easier.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Shakespeare looked up. “Everything I know I’ve learned the hard way. I didn’t get these gray hairs by taking it easy and living in the lap of luxury. The way I see it, life is intended to be an education. Year by year we learn certain lessons and add to our knowledge, or else we don’t learn a blessed thing and blunder on making the same mistakes over and over again. If I was to put down all I’ve learned on paper, I’d be depriving a lot of folks of the opportunity to learn life for themselves.”

  “I never thought of it that way,” Nate said.

  Standing, Shakespeare extended a dripping slab of meat. “I’m hungry. How about you?”

  They walked to the fire and the frontiersman prepared their steaks. He prided himself on his cooking ability, and hovered over the simmering slabs until they were roasted to perfection.

  Nate’s mouth was watering by the time his steak was placed on the end of a sharpened stick and handed over. He used his knife both to cut off succulent strips and to cram the meat in his mouth. Grease dribbled over his lower lip and down his chin, but he didn’t care. He savored every bite, relishing the tangy taste and the warm sensation in his stomach. The finest steak in New York couldn’t begin to compare to a slice of buffalo, bear, or deer meat prepared over an open fire high in the Rocky Mountains. There was an indescribable quality about such crude fare that satisfied the appetite like no other food.

  “Tomorrow we begin educating you on the ways of the beaver,” Shakespeare said between chomps.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Nate said. “Was my Uncle Zeke a good trapper?”

  “Your uncle was talented in everything he tried. The man had a knack, and I’ve seen evidence of the same trait in you.”

  Nate started to take another bite, then paused. “I just realized I’ve never written my dad to tell him Zeke died. He’d want to know.”

  “Were they close?”

  “When they were younger. But they drifted apart after Zeke decided to leave for the frontier. My dad could never understand why Zeke wanted to go.”

  “How did he feel about you leaving?”

  “I imagine he felt the same way.”

  Shakespeare lowered his steak. “Didn’t you talk it over with him before you left?”

  “I wrote him a letter.”

  “Were you afraid he’d try to stop you?”

  “Yes,” Nate confessed. “None of my family would have accepted the idea. They’d have badgered me mercilessly until I changed my mind. As it is, they probably despise me now.”

  “Never underestimate the love of your kin.”

  “I know my family better than you do. Why, my father forbade us from ever mentioning Zeke’s name in the house. His own brother!”

  “Pride is a bitter pill to swallow.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your father probably knows he made a mistake and he’s too proud to admit it. He won’t let anyone talk about Zeke because he doesn’t want to be reminded of . . .” Shakespeare paused, cocking his head.

  “What is it?”

  “Listen.”

  Nate did, but heard only the sounds of wildlife and the whisper of the breeze.

  “Do you hear it?”

  “Hear what?”

  “The horse.”

  Again Nate strained his ears, and this time he detected the faint drumming of pounding hooves. He stood, swiveling in the direction of the sound, to the southwest, and gazed into the gloomy woods.

  “Whoever it is must be a fool or bent on committing suicide,” Shakespeare said, standing. “It’s too dark to be riding a horse at a full gallop in the forest.”

  “I’ve done it,” Nate commented, recalling his recent encounter with a Ute war party. He suddenly realized he was still holding the steak, and placed the meat on the grass so he could grab his rifle.

  The pounding became louder and louder, and it was obvious the rider would pass very close to their camp.

  “Don’t shoot until we see who it is.”

  “I won’t,” Nate said. He heard the crack of a limb and the crunching of underbrush, and leaned forward to peer intently into
the darkness. At the limit of his vision he perceived movement and distinguished the outline of a horse and rider heading eastward.

  In a matter of seconds the newcomer was twenty yards south of the camp and still galloping recklessly when the man happened to glance to his left and spied the fire. His head snapped up and he hauled on the reins.

  “It’s a white man,” Shakespeare said.

  How could he tell? Nate wondered. He couldn’t perceive any of the rider’s features beyond noting the man wore buckskins.

  “Hello!” the newcomer cried, and rode toward them. “Please don’t fire. I mean you no harm.”

  Nate kept the Hawken handy just in case. He glanced at Shakespeare, who had also taken the precaution of grabbing his rifle, and placed his thumb on the hammer.

  “Come closer, stranger,” the frontiersman announced.

  “Thank you.” The man came to the edge of the clearing and stopped. He wore the typical attire of a mountaineer: buckskins, moccasins, and a wool cap. The inevitable bullet pouch and powder horn crisscrossed his chest. A shock of blond hair rimmed a rugged face dominated by blue eyes. “I didn’t think there was another trapper within a hundred miles of here,” he remarked happily.

  “Do you have a name?” Shakespeare asked.

  “Thaddeus Baxter at your service, sir. And who might you be?”

  “Shakespeare McNair, and this here is Nate King,” the frontiersman said with a nod of his head.

  Baxter focused on Nate. “Aren’t you the one they call Grizzly Killer? The same one who killed the rogue Canadian known as the Giant during the rendezvous?”

  “I am.”

  “I thought I recognized the two of you,” Baxter said, grinning. “The Good Lord has smiled on me.”

  “How is it you know us?” Shakespeare asked.

  “I was at the rendezvous. Both of you were pointed out to me by an acquaintance, but we were never introduced.”

  “Why don’t you climb on down? You’re welcome to share our supper if you’re hungry,” Shakespeare said.

  “Thank you,” Baxter replied, riding closer before he dismounted and stepped to the fire. “I couldn’t eat a bite right now, not after what I’ve been through.”

  “Mind telling us why you were riding your horse into the ground?”

  “Blackfeet,” Baxter said.

  “This far south?”

  “I couldn’t believe it myself,” Baxter stated. “I imagine it’s a war party down here to raid the Utes.”

  “What happened?” Nate prompted.

  “My own camp is about four miles from here. An hour or so before sunset I was skinning a couple of beaver I’d caught, whistling to myself without a care in the world, when my pack animal whinnied and I looked up to find a dozen or more Blackfeet creeping toward me.”

  “That was your shot we heard earlier,” Shakespeare deduced.

  “Must have been. I grabbed my rifle and fired once, killing one of the bastards, but then the rest swarmed on me and it was all I could do to fight them off using my rifle like a club,” Baxter replied. “I think they were trying to take me alive. Otherwise I’d be dead right now.”

  “But you got away,” the frontiersman said.

  “Barely. My rifle was torn from my hands just as I broke loose and ran into the forest. They chased me, but I hid, then circled back to my camp. There was one warrior guarding my horses, so I knocked him on the head and cut out. Unfortunately, several others showed up and I had to leave without my pack animal and all my supplies.”

  “And here you are,” Nate stated.

  Baxter laughed lightly. “By pure chance. I might have kept going all the way to St. Louis if I hadn’t spotted your camp. Without traps and a rifle, there’s no sense in trapping beaver.”

  “We can go after your belongings in the morning,” Shakespeare offered.

  “And get yourselves killed on my account? No, sir. There’s too many of them.”

  Nate gazed at the foreboding forest. “Were they after you?”

  “No. They fired a few arrows but didn’t give chase.”

  “Strange,” Shakespeare said. “Blackfeet are the most persistent devils I know.”

  “I was surprised too,” Baxter said. “Even on foot they’ll go after a mounted man.”

  “They didn’t have any horses?” Nate asked.

  “Just my pack animal.”

  Shakespeare turned to his protégé. “Quite often the Blackfeet send out war parties on foot. They believe they can move quieter in enemy territory. I’ve also heard tell the warriors are expected to steal the mounts they need to ride back to their village.”

  “And they are some of the best horse thieves around,” Baxter added.

  Again Nate surveyed the woods. “What if they sent a warrior after you on your pack animal?”

  “He would never catch me. My pack animal is the slowest critter this side of the Divide.” Baxter chuckled. “Besides, no one in their right mind would ride as fast as I did.”

  “Then we should be safe here,” Nate concluded.

  “I didn’t lead the Blackfeet to you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Baxter said.

  Shakespeare took his seat and picked up his bear steak. “You’re welcome to spend the night with us, Thaddeus.”

  “I’d be in your debt.”

  “Nonsense. It’s the least we can do for a fellow trapper. There are few enough of us living in the wilderness as it is. We must help each other out when the need arises or we’re no better than the animals we contend with every day.”

  Baxter smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

  Retrieving his steak, Nate sat down and took a bite of the warm meat. While he shared Shakespeare’s sentiments on helping someone in need, he entertained grave reservations about staying to trap the stream. The Blackfeet were too close for comfort, but he wasn’t about to question Shakespeare’s judgment. He’d see their labors through to the end, and just pray the end wasn’t his own.

  Chapter Three

  Bright morning sunshine and invigorating, crisp mountain air served to dispel Nate’s doubts of the night before. He was eager to learn the life of a free trapper, and although a slight uneasiness gnawed at the back of his mind, he was the first one done eating breakfast and raring to go. “Ready when you are,” he announced after consuming several strips of dried buffalo meat.

  “Hold your horses,” Shakespeare said with a grin. “I’ll be done in a minute.” He looked at their new acquaintance, who was chewing hungrily on a piece of raw bear meat. “You can cook as much as you like.”

  “This is fine,” Baxter said. “I usually eat light in the morning.”

  Shakespeare stared at the makeshift rack they’d constructed before retiring, using stout branches and rope, and noted with satisfaction the thin slices of flesh aligned side by side, well out of the reach of most predators. “By this afternoon we’ll have more jerked meat than we can possibly use. If you’re still keen on going, take whatever you need.”

  “I haven’t quite made up my mind about leaving.”

  Nate placed his rifle stock on the ground and idly leaned on the barrel, reviewing what they’d learned of Baxter’s past while sitting around the fire and conversing until after midnight.

  Thaddeus Baxter hailed from Ohio. Thirty-one years old, he had a wife and two children eagerly awaiting his return. Eighteen months ago he’d left his home to travel beyond the mighty Mississippi, his head filled with notions of making it rich in the fur trade. There were many tales of those who had, most prominent of them all being John Jacob Astor.

  Astor emigrated to America from Germany at the age of twenty, went into the fur business shortly thereafter, had the audacity born of firm conviction to start his own company, and wound up earning the newspaper-bestowed title of “the richest man in the country.” Many a young man, on reading of Astor’s phenomenal success, bid his loved ones a hopefully temporary good-bye and headed for the prime beaver grounds in the Rocky Mountains. For every one hun
dred who went, perhaps a dozen were lucky enough to live to see the States again, and of that dozen none acquired great wealth.

  Nate felt sympathy for the Ohioan, based on his own former dream of becoming incredibly rich. The thought of Baxter’s family, though, troubled him. What would happen to them if the man died? Baxter had sent back letters with men heading homeward, but letters were no substitute for the loving presence of a husband and a father. And eighteen months was a long separation. In Nate’s estimation, leaving a wife and children was far worse than leaving parents and siblings.

  “I have a proposal to make,” Baxter said.

  “Let’s hear it,” Shakespeare responded.

  “After a year and a half of one mishap after another, I’m beginning to think I made a mistake. My first season trapping I collected over two hundred pelts—”

  “Not bad,” Shakespeare said, interrupting.

  “And lost them all when I tried to cross a flooded river and the canoe capsized,” Baxter went on. “My second season I fared better and took in three hundred and fifty pelts. Half the money I sent to my family, and the rest I used to outfit myself and two good men with enough traps and supplies to guarantee success.” He frowned. “We’d taken over eight hundred pelts when we were attacked by Bloods. My friends were killed and I barely escaped with my life.”

  Nate listened intently. He’d heard similar stories of woe before. The harsh economic realities of trapping had ruined many a trapper.

  For an initial investment of several hundred dollars, including the expenses of a mount, rifle, ammunition, pistols, a knife and hatchet, clothing, and provisions, a trapper stood to make a hefty profit. There were two trapping seasons each year in which the trapper could ply his trade, the spring and fall seasons. The first began when winter’s ice started to break up and went on until early summer, when the quality of beaver fur declined due to the heat. The hotter it became, the thinner the fur. Then came the second season in late August or early September, lasting until the ponds and streams iced over. During each season a skilled trapper could accumulate hundreds of pelts. By rendezvous time, this translated into an average of two thousand dollars, a huge sum by any standard. After several years, a prudent trapper could save quite a hoard.