Wilderness: Northwest Passage/Apache Blood (A Wilderness Double Western #6) Page 3

  “Praise the Lord that’s over!” Alice exclaimed when the last of the buffalo had gone by.

  “I hope I never go through that again!” Neil Webster said. “Did you see the way those monsters were looking at us? I thought they’d charge us for sure.”

  Simon was staring at Nate. “Are there a lot of buffalo between here and Fort Hall? Will this happen again?”

  “This was a fluke,” Nate said, moving in front of the wagons. “Most herds in the mountains are small. But at this time of the year they like to head out onto the prairie, and that’s when they form into big groups like the one we’ve just seen.” He motioned for the wagons to resume rolling.

  “If there is a next time, try to give us more warning,” Simon commented resentfully. “We could have been killed.”

  Nate controlled his temper and rode to the crest. The ground was marred by thousands of hoofprints and droppings. Putting a hand above his eyes to shield them from the brilliant sunlight, he studied the lay of the land, reacquainting himself with the more prominent landmarks. He had a certain destination in mind, a valley watered by a bubbling brook, that he wanted to reach before dark.

  The teams were exhausted by the time he called a halt, and when the men released the horses from harness, the animals plodded into the water and stood there drinking greedily. He watered his stallion before getting down to business, which entailed giving advice on how best to set up the camp.

  With the sun sinking below the western horizon in a blazing display of vivid colors, a welcome cool breeze sprang up from the northwest. Soon Harry Nesmith had a crackling fire going and the women were busy preparing stew for supper. Nate had bagged a black-tailed buck the evening before, and there was enough meat left for a feast.

  Nate sat on a log near the fire, a twig between his teeth, and listened to the conversations around him. As yet he was treated like an outsider and rarely invited to throw in his two cents worth unless they needed his opinion in his capacity as their guide. He didn’t mind their attitude all that much. Years of living in the mountains, of being self-reliant and independent, had taught him that what others said or did could have no effect on him unless he let it. And he wasn’t about to let a bunch of uppity Easterners upset him.

  Alice Banner came over. “Mr. King, would you care for bread with your stew tonight? We have plenty, and I’m more than happy to share with you.”

  “You’re a kind woman, Mrs. Banner. You remind me a lot of my wife.”

  “I do?” Alice said, smiling self-consciously. She was a robust woman, in her late forties or early fifties, and her hair, what little could be seen hanging from under her prim bonnet, was flecked with premature gray. “I gather you must love your wife very much.”

  “That I do.”

  “Do you find it hard... ?” Alice began, then caught herself. “What I mean to say is, do you like ... ?” Again she stopped, and clasped her hands.

  “Do I like being married to an Indian woman?” Nate finished for her. There was no sarcasm in her tone, no spite in her eyes, just simple curiosity, as well there might be in a woman who had lived her entire life in a sheltered farming community back in the States. “Yes, ma’am. I do. Winona is beautiful, caring, and intelligent. She speaks English better than I can speak her tongue, which says a lot because English is hard for most Indians to pick up.”

  “Speaking of English,” Alice said, “I’ve noticed that you are a cut above most frontiersmen we’ve met. Many of them use atrocious grammar and the worst sort of profanity.” She cocked her head. “You, I take it, are a literate man.”

  “I was born and raised in New York City,” Nate said, and lowered his voice as if confiding a dark secret. “Don’t let it get around, but I can read and write with the best of ’em. I’m a big admirer of James Fenimore Cooper.”

  “Cooper? Isn’t he the one who writes those marvelous books about Indians and such? The Last of the Mohicans was one of his works, was it not?”

  “You know your literature, ma’am.”

  “Not really,” Alice said, and sighed. “I keep up on current events through newspapers and friends, but Simon limits our reading to the Bible. He believes that all other books are tainted by the Devil’s influence.”

  “Even books like Cooper’s? Nate asked. This was the first he had ever heard of such a notion and he didn’t quite know how to take it.

  “Especially those kinds of books. Simon says they offer a man’s view of the world when what we really need to know is God’s view.” She glanced around and saw her husband moving toward the fire. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d better finish with supper.” Off she hastened.

  Nate rose and stretched. He was a religious man himself, insomuch as he believed there was a God and he tried to live the Golden Rule as much as possible given the harsh nature of life in the wilderness, but the idea of being allowed to read from only the Bible struck him as fanatical. What about all the other great thoughts and beautiful sentiments that had been expressed by writers down through the ages? Didn’t they count for anything?

  He shook his head, grabbed the Hawken, and began to make a circuit of the camp. Stars had blossomed in the heavens. There were trees close at hand, aspens and others, and their leaves rustled in the wind. Cradling the rifle, he made sure the horses were all tethered, then turned.

  From in the trees came a soft noise.

  Nate was in a crouch in a flash, the Hawken leveled and cocked. A quick look at the fire revealed all three couples were accounted for. The noise was repeated over and over. It sounded like a low moan, as if someone was in pain. Puzzled, he worked his way into the trees and halted. Now it sounded like someone crying.

  On cat’s feet he stalked forward until he saw a familiar figure leaning on a trunk and sobbing uncontrollably. He rose and took a step backward, not wanting to intrude on her privacy, but his heel crunched down on a dry twig that snapped loudly and she whirled like a cornered animal, fear lining her features until she saw him.

  “Mr. King!”

  “Sorry, Libbie,” Nate said. Something inside told him to keep his voice low so her parents wouldn’t overhear. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I’m leaving.”

  “I just needed some air,” Libbie said, swiping at her damp eyes. She sniffled and gazed over his shoulder. “Is my pa hunting for me?”

  “No.”

  Libbie nodded and dabbed at her eyes with her right sleeve. “I guess I’m more miserable over leaving all my friends and kin than I thought.”

  “I know how rough it can be,” Nate said.

  “Do you?” Libbie responded. She squared her shoulders and walked forward. “Life is rougher on some of us than on others.”

  “Strange words coming from one so young.”

  That stopped her. “Do you have to be an adult to know a broken heart? To have all your hopes and dreams ruined? To have the only true happiness you’ve ever known torn from you?”

  “I reckon not.”

  Then she was gone, darting through the trees and to the wagons, coming on them from the rear so no one at the fire would notice. She vanished inside her parents’ wagon in a swirl of blond hair.

  What the dickens was that all about? Nate asked himself, moving into the open. He’d seen her face as she went by, a face mirroring uncommon inner torment for a sixteen-year-old. True, by frontier standards a sixteen-year-old was considered a grown-up. But Libbie was from back East, and her parents were the sort to zealously safeguard their daughter from anything that might harm her. Hard as nails Simon Banner might be, yet there was no denying the man cared for his family.

  Nate scanned the encampment, gazed to the south, to the north, and the east. And froze, a tingle of apprehension rippling down his spine. For in the distance, at about where South Pass should be, was a yellow pinpoint of light that could only be one thing.

  It was another campfire.

  Chapter Three

  At night, when the pristine landscape was plunged in shrouding darkness, flickering
campfires stood out like lighthouse beacons sweeping the sea, a certain lure for possible enemies. Which was why experienced frontiersmen and Indians alike took particular pains to build their fires where the flames couldn’t be seen from any great distance. Only a fool who wanted to die advertised his presence in the wilderness.

  Nate had picked their campsite wisely in that respect. The narrow valley in which he had called a halt opened to the east, and there were trees at the valley mouth that served as an effective screen from possible prying eyes. He always had the safety of the Banner party uppermost in mind when he selected places to stop.

  But whoever had set up camp near the top of South Pass, he reflected, was just asking for trouble. The fire was high up where it could be seen for miles around. Since no Indian in his right mind would ever be so foolish, the fire must have been built by white men. Greenhorns, at that.

  Nate walked to the fire, where the women were busy preparing the meal and the men were huddled together in conversation. “We’re not alone,” he informed them.

  All six of them stopped whatever they were doing to look at him.

  “What’s that?” Simon asked.

  “We have neighbors,” Nate said, raising his right arm and pointing. Eleanor Nesmith gasped. One of the men muttered an oath.

  “Indians, you think?” Neil Webster inquired anxiously.

  “Not likely,” Nate said. “But we’ll know soon enough. I figure to ride back there and see who it is.”

  Simon turned. “Now?”

  “I don’t like the fact that they’re right on our trail. It could be a coincidence. Then again, it might not. This is the perfect time to find out. I can get close to their camp without them noticing, and if they strike me as being unfriendly, I’ll persuade them to stop following us.”

  “But if they’re white men they must be friendly,” Alice said.

  “Not necessarily, ma’am. There are some nasty sorts out here who are worse than hostile Indians. Some years ago I had a run-in with a wicked bunch who went around killing trappers for their money. Another time I tangled with some white men who kidnapped my wife. And I shouldn’t forget Crazy George, who took a fancy to human flesh and ate other folks.”

  The women were aghast.

  “This Crazy George was a cannibal?” Cora Webster said, a dainty hand pressed to her pale throat.

  “That he was,” Nate confirmed. “He confessed to eating about eight people before he met his Maker. It seems he got started one winter when he was snowed in way up in the Rockies. He ran out of food, couldn’t hunt game, and decided the only way he would survive until spring was if he ate the Indian woman who lived with him.”

  Cora appeared about to faint. “How disgusting,” she said weakly.

  “The man was clearly not in his right mind,” Elizabeth Nesmith declared. She moved closer to her husband and he draped a protective arm around her shoulder.

  “Why tell us this and scare the women so?” Harry Nesmith asked, his resentment transparent. “First you take me by surprise and almost cave in my skull, and now you’re deliberately frightening the women. If you ask me, you’re a poor excuse for a guide.”

  “I didn’t ask you,” Nate shot back. “And if I’d been trying to bust your head open instead of teaching you a lesson, you’d be feeding the worms right this minute.” He nodded at the distant firelight. “I didn’t tell you about my experiences just to scare you, but to let you know that some white men are as evil as can be so you’ll be on your guard until you get to your destination.”

  “How nice of you,” Simon said dryly. “But I’m more concerned about having you up and leave us at a time like this. What if something happens to you? How will we reach Fort Hall?”

  “It’s a two hour ride to the pass if I push my horse,” Nate answered. “With luck I’ll be back before midnight.”

  “I don’t want you to go,” Simon stubbornly persisted. “Would you rather be taken by surprise by a pack of cutthroats out to steal everything you own?” Nate snapped, and when no one made a reply he pivoted and retrieved his saddle and Epishemore. His was typical of the square pieces of buffalo robes used by the trapping fraternity under their saddles to keep their mounts from being chafed. He walked to the stallion, and with a deft flip aligned the Epishemore on its back. Then he applied the saddle.

  The settlers had followed him.

  “At least take one of us with you,” Simon proposed. “You might need help.”

  “I can manage quite well on my own,” Nate said. “You’ll be busy keeping watch here. Until I return, have a man on guard at all times. And remember to snuff out the fire after you’re done with your meal.”

  “Be careful, King.”

  Nate glanced at him. Was Banner genuinely concerned about his welfare or only thinking of how hard it would be for the emigrants to survive on their own? He gave the man the benefit of the doubt. “Thanks. I always am.” The Hawken clutched in his left hand, he swung up. “By midnight,” he said, and rode eastward.

  Despite the long hours of travel put in earlier, the stallion was rested and raring to go. “Come on, Pegasus,” he said softly, using the name he had given the horse when it was presented to him by the Nez Percé. He gave the animal an affectionate pat on the neck. “Let’s get this over with so I can get some sleep tonight.”

  He gave the stallion its head, feeling the cool air caress his face and fan his hair. His stomach rumbled, reminding him he should have snatched a bite to eat before leaving. Off to the right an owl hooted. To the left, deep in the forest, a wolf howled and was immediately answered by another.

  Without the overloaded wagons to slow him down, he reached South Pass in half the time it otherwise would have taken. Had it been daylight he would have gotten there even sooner. But at night a rider had to be extra careful to avoid obstacles and holes that might harm his mount. So he held the stallion to a trot instead of going at a gallop.

  The pungent odor of wood smoke tingled his nose as he entered pines to the south of the pass and slowly worked his way closer to the campfire. He tied Pegasus two hundred yards from his goal to prevent any horses in the camp from detecting the stallion’s scent and acting up, thus alerting whoever was there.

  Nate loosened both flintlocks under his belt, then crouched and stalked upward until he could see a pair of clean-shaven men seated in front of the dancing flames. Both were white, both wearing homespun clothes. Working his way to the last of the trees, he flattened and crawled to within fifteen feet of the unsuspecting pair. They were eating heartily, chomping and slurping soup from tins. Four horses were tethered across the way.

  “Tomorrow, you reckon?” the heftier of the duo suddenly asked.

  “I don’t rightly know,” responded his lean companion. “You’d better make up your mind soon.”

  “I will. But we don’t want to rush things.”

  “You’re not turning yellow, are you? Not after all he put you through?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Then I say we do it tomorrow.”

  “We bide our time and wait for the right chance.”

  The hefty one shifted to stare at the lean one. “Damn it all, Brian! I knew you’d do this! I knew you’d drag my ass into this godforsaken wilderness and then get cold feet. If you were a real man you would have done what needs to be done long ago.”

  “Shut up and finish eating.”

  Nate guessed that neither man was much over twenty years old, if that, and as green as they came. They wouldn’t live to get much older either at the rate they were going. He inched his way around until he was behind them, then rose slowly, the Hawken in both hands. The hammer made a loud click when he thumbed it back. “Not a move, gentlemen, unless you want some lead in your diet.”

  The hefty one started and dropped his soup, the tin clanging against a small rock bordering the fire. His companion, the man named Brian, stiffened with a sharp intake of breath. Neither made a play for their rifles, which were lying in plain sight b
eside them.

  “So far, so good,” Nate said, stepping closer. He slanted to the left until he could see their faces, and grinned when they gaped in surprise.

  “Are you an Injun?” the hefty one blurted out.

  “No, but thanks for the compliment,” Nate responded. He wagged the Hawken. “You can keep eating if you want, but don’t try to touch your rifles or you’ll spring a leak.”

  “Who are you? What do you want?” Brian asked. He was a handsome youth with black hair and blue eyes. His skin was tanned, his chin cleft. A two-inch scar on his right cheek ran from below his right eye to the corner of his mouth.

  “The handle is Nate King. Some hereabouts call me Grizzly Killer.”

  The hefty one gulped. “What kind of a name is that?”

  “It’s my Indian name, given to me by a Cheyenne warrior after I killed my first grizzly,” Nate disclosed, stepping to within a yard of Brian and hunkering down, the Hawken leveled and steady. “The name stuck. Now the Cheyennes, the Shoshones, the Flatheads, they all call me Grizzly Killer.” He paused. “Who might you two be?”

  “I’m—” the hefty one began, but was promptly cut off by Brian.

  “Don’t say a word! We don’t have to tell this guy who we are if we don’t want to.”

  Nate leaned back. “You’re not being very neighborly, young man.”

  Brian gave a bitter laugh. “You’re a fine one to talk, mister, the way you sneak into our camp and hold us at gunpoint.”

  He jabbed a thumb at Nate. “And who are you calling young? Even with that beard of yours, you don’t appear to me to be much over twenty-five, if that.”