Hawken Fury (Giant Wilderness Book One) Page 4

“According to the newspaper and from what Thompson heard in New Orleans, Bowie went to Texas back in ‘28 and married the daughter of a wealthy Mexican. He obtained vast land holdings and was one of the richest men in that neck of the woods. Then his wife and two young sprouts died, killed by the plague. Some say he was never the same man again. Took to drinking heavy. But he was all for independence and proved it with his life.”

  “Crockett?”

  Shakespeare chuckled. “There was a man. I’ve always been partial to that old he-coon. He was one of the few with grit enough to stand up to Old Hickory when Jackson proposed riding roughshod over the Indians. Cost Crockett an election. So he told his former constituents they could go to hell and he was going to Texas. Probably figured he could start over down there.”

  “This Alamo you mentioned. Where is it?”

  “Down toward San Antonio, I think. The article tells it all.”

  Nate walked glumly on. In the back of his mind he had always entertained the notion he might meet Bowie one day and get to know the great man personally. Now that would never happen.

  “In the reproof of chance lies the true proof of men,” Shakespeare quoted. “Bowie and Crockett and all the rest at the Alamo certainly proved their mettle. I bet that folks will talk about the battle for years to come.” He paused. “To tell you the truth, I always figured on going out the same way.”

  “Fighting?”

  “Yep. I thought I’d go down under a heap of Blackfeet or with a cliff at my back and a grizzly in front of me. Such a death would be quick and easy. Now it looks as if I’ve got it to do the hard way.”

  Not if I can help it, Nate resolved. He owed Shakespeare more than he could ever repay, and somehow he was going to find a cure. No matter how far he must travel, no matter what it might take, he would see his friend healthy again or die in the attempt.

  Chapter Five

  “We’re early,” Shakespeare announced. “The caravan from St. Louis isn’t here yet.”

  Nate nodded absently, his gaze roving over the extensive valley below the ridge on which they had stopped to rest their horses. While the trade goods and supplies had yet to arrive, scores of trappers and over a thousand Indians were already present. He saw four Indian encampments bustling with activity. The Bannock and Shoshoni Indians had set up their villages to the south of the fork while the Flatheads and Nez Percés were off to the north. The tribes had prudently positioned their camps in convenient bends of Horse Creek so the creek itself served as their first line of defense should they be attacked by the Blackfeet or any other enemy. No one could cross the stream without alerting the camp dogs and guards.

  “There are more here than ever before,” Blue Water Woman said.

  “Let’s go down!” Zach declared, gesturing excitedly. “I want to see everything.”

  The boy’s enthusiasm made Nate smile. Zach had yet to visit a town or a city back in the States. The annual gathering of trappers and Indians was the biggest assemblage Zach knew of, and it never failed to bring out all of his boyish zest for life.

  “Where will we set up our camp?” Winona asked.

  “Let’s have a look around before we decide,” Nate responded, and took the lead going down the mountain. Their journey to the site had been remarkably peaceful and pleasant. Except for spying a grizzly in the distance once, they had not encountered any problems, had not even seen the smoke of another campfire.

  Wafting up from the valley floor came the sounds of boisterous laughter, loud voices commingled in a hubbub of conversation, the neighing of horses, the barking of dogs, and periodic gunfire.

  “Think Campbell will be here this year?” Shakespeare mentioned with a grin.

  “I hope not,” Nate said. “Maybe fate has smiled on me and a bear ate him.”

  “It would give the bear indigestion.”

  Nate surveyed the area near where the Green River and Horse Creek met. Most of the trappers were congregated there, some busily erecting crude structures to serve as their homes for the next few weeks. A dozen or so men were busy building a larger building out of sturdy logs, and he wondered what it would be used for. There were eight or nine blue cloth caps in evidence. The distance prevented him from determining if Campbell was underneath one of them or not. The husky bastard usually wore such a cap adorned with a fine eagle feather.

  They wound along a game trail until they reached the valley floor, then cut out across the lush flatland toward the center of activity.

  “What do you make of that?” Shakespeare inquired.

  Twisting, Nate spied a group of ten riders entering the valley from the east. They were a mixed group, Indians and whites, all talking and laughing in rowdy fashion. A tall figure in buckskins and a wolf skin cap broke away from the group and came straight toward Nate.

  “That’s old Niles,” Shakespeare said.

  Nate reined up to let the trapper overtake them. Niles Thompson had been in the mountains for over a decade and was widely respected by his peers and the Indians alike. He’d taken a Nez Percé wife a few years back, but she’d been taken by marauding Piegans. Since then he had accumulated the largest collection of Piegan scalps of anyone in the Rockies.

  “Shakespeare! Nate! Good to see you again!” Niles shouted in greeting as he drew near. “And you’ve brought your lovely wives too.” He looked at Zach. “But who’s this man with you? He sure can’t be a greenhorn from the way he sits that mare.”

  Zach laughed in delight. “It’s me, Mr. Thompson. Stalking Coyote,” he said, using his Shoshone name.

  Niles halted, his rifle across his saddle, and shook his head in feigned astonishment. “I’ll be damned. It is you, Zach. You’re growing like a weed. Before I know it you’ll be off wrestling grizzlies just like your pa.”

  “He doesn’t wrestle them,” Zach said. “He shoots and stabs them if they give him any trouble.”

  “Most folks have enough common sense to run when a grizzly is after them,” Niles said good-naturedly. His shoulder-length hair and beard were both flecked with white, and there was a thin scar just below his left eye courtesy of a Piegan knife.

  Shakespeare nodded at the group of riders. “What’s the story?”

  “We went out to meet the caravan,” Niles explained. “Campbell figured we could have a little fun and put the fear of God into them.”

  “Campbell is here then?” Nate said.

  “That he is, and eager for a rematch,” Niles replied. “The boys are already placing their bets on the outcome. Campbell swears this is the year he beats you.”

  “He shouldn’t count his chickens before they’re hatched.”

  Shakespeare was watching the riders head for the fork. “You say you met the caravan?”

  “Yep. We waited behind a hill and then charged the horse carts with our guns blasting, all the while whooping and hollering like a pack of bloodthirsty Blackfeet.” Niles chuckled. “We had them pilgrims worried for a minute until one of their guides saw a white flag Campbell had tied to his rifle so they’d know we were friendly.”

  “It sounds like something that crazy Campbell would do,” Nate commented.

  “How far out is the caravan?” Shakespeare asked.

  “Oh, they should get here in two days at the most. Wait until you see it. The line stretches out over a mile. There are nineteen horse carts, three wagons, about four hundred head of stock, mostly mules. Then there are the cows and calves.”

  “Cows?” Nate blurted out.

  “Did you say wagons?” Shakespeare chimed in.

  Niles sat back and grinned. “Oh, that’s right. Neither of you have heard. I’m afraid we’re getting a mite too civilized in these parts for my taste. Yes, I said wagons, and they belong to missionaries. So do the cows and calves.”

  For the first time ever, Nate saw shock on his mentor’s face. He was flabbergasted himself. So far as he knew, no Bible-thumper had ever ventured west of Missouri. And cows! The last cow he’d seen had been way back in Indiana, and he co
uldn’t even remember the last time he’d enjoyed a glass of milk.

  “Dear God,” Shakespeare mumbled. “Missionaries, you say?”

  “There’s three of them. Presbyterians. And listen to this,” Niles said, leaning toward them, his expression indicating he had saved the best revelation for last. His voice lowered almost to a whisper. “Two of them have brought their wives.”

  Shakespeare stiffened as if struck by a bolt of lightning. “They didn’t! Now I know you’re telling a tall tale.”

  “May I be skinned alive if I’m lying,” Niles responded indignantly. “I’ve seen the ladies with my own two eyes. One is a blonde but as stern as you please and the other is an invalid.”

  “I’m dreaming,” Shakespeare said softly. “I must be. There’s no other explanation. Wagons, cows, and white women, one of them an invalid?” He encompassed the surrounding mountains with an abrupt gesture. “The wilderness is dead, gentlemen, and you’ve lived to see it happen.”

  “Aren’t you being overly dramatic, as usual?” Niles retorted.

  Shakespeare shook his head. “Take my word for it. Nothing civilizes folks like religion. When those preachers take to telling us how sinful we all are there won’t be a trapper in the Rockies who doesn’t walk around with a burden of guilt on his shoulders. They’ll have every man-jack among us thinking twice before we tip a bottle or shoot a Blackfoot.”

  “Oh, come on,” Niles said with a grin. “They won’t be saying anything that isn’t already in the Bible, and there are plenty of men who tote the Good Book around with them.”

  “True, but when a man is done reading he can always put the Bible down and pay no mind to what he’s read,” Shakespeare countered. “But not so with preachers. They go around setting proper examples for others to follow. Before you know it half this country will be thinking and acting like prim, civilized citizens.”

  “Does this mean you don’t believe in religion?” Nate asked. “You don’t believe in a God?”

  “I never said that,” Shakespeare said sharply. “As it so happens, I do. But I know enough about history to read the changing times, and times they are a-changing.”

  Nate had never heard his friend speak on the subject before, and he was mildly surprised at Shakespeare’s attitude. Certainly a visit to the Rendezvous by a few missionaries did not signify the dire end of the mountaineering way of life. Shakespeare, as he sometimes did, was exaggerating.

  “I would like to meet these white women,” Winona spoke up.

  “So would I,” Blue Water Woman said. “I have never met a white woman before.”

  And with good reason, Nate mused. No white man had ever brought a woman into the mountains simply because it had always been considered too dangerous. There were wild beasts to think of, not to mention hostile Indians, fierce weather, and the loneliness caused by being separated from relatives and friends by vast distances. White women, by and large, wanted a solid roof over their heads and a nice house in which to raise their children. They also liked to socialize with other women and share their hopes, dreams, and disappointments.

  Indian women, by contrast, were accustomed to a life of always contending with Nature. They learned early how to survive in the wild. Many tribes followed the herds of buffalo, and their women accepted the constant travel. Unlike white women, Indian women expressed no interest in having a permanent dwelling. They made ideal wives for trappers because they shared the trapper’s way of life.

  Shakespeare, shaking his head sadly, rode toward the camp. and the rest of them fell in behind him. “Tell me, Niles. How did they get the wagons on this side of the mountains? Over South Pass?”

  “Where else?” Niles rejoined. “It’s the only place for hundreds of miles that a body could take a wagon over the Divide.”

  “Now that it’s been done you can expect more to try it,” Shakespeare said. “I expect people will flock out to Oregon before too long and this whole country will be crowded with settlers.”

  Nate laughed at the idea. “Why would anyone want to head for Oregon when there’s more than enough land to go around back in the States?”

  “You have a lot to learn about human nature and politics,” was all Shakespeare would say.

  They crossed the creek and sat and watched the men erecting the large log building. When completed, the structure would be about eighteen feet long and an equal distance wide. No allowances were being made for doors and windows. Instead, a single opening that measured two feet wide and six feet long had been left four feet above the ground on one side.

  A burly man in a mackinaw stepped back from his labors and wiped sweat from his brow. He glanced around and broke into a grin.

  “Shakespeare, you old devil! How’s your year been?”

  “No complaints, Corbin,” McNair replied. He jerked a thumb at the building. “Planning to set down roots?”

  Corbin laughed. “Hell, no. This is going to be the fur company store. Tom sent orders ahead to have it ready when the caravan arrives.”

  “Tom? Tom Fitzpatrick?”

  “The same. He’s the new commander of the caravan.”

  “What happened to Lucien Fontenelle?”

  Corbin lifted a hand and pretended to put an invisible bottle to his lips, then made as if drinking in great gulps. “Lucien couldn’t lay off the hard stuff. Last winter he spent nine out of every ten days flat on his back. The company finally had its fill and discharged him.”

  “I saw it coming,” Shakespeare said.

  So had Nate. Lucien Fontenelle had been an important man in the American Fur Company, but Fontenelle had never been able to lay off the liquor. From all Nate had heard, the new man, Fitzpatrick, was steady and reliable and not likely to try and cheat any of the free trappers out of money due for pelts.

  “Look me up once the Rendezvous is in full swing and we’ll tip a few ourselves,” Corbin said, and went back to work.

  Nate looked at Shakespeare. “So what are we going to do? Stick together, or do you want to stay with the Flatheads? Winona, Zach, and I can always impose on the Shoshones.”

  “I’d like to camp together, but rightfully our wives should make the decision.”

  Winona and Blue Water Woman began discussing the issue, and Nate took the opportunity to survey the entire site. The sweetly bitter aroma of wood smoke tingled his nostrils, and somewhere someone was frying bacon. His stomach growled and he willed it to be quiet. Off to the south two Indians were engaged in a horse race and being cheered on by their respective supporters. Several Indian women were washing blankets in the river.

  He hoped Shakespeare was wrong. The thought of such a gloriously independent way of life coming to an end disturbed him profoundly. Not until he’d left New York City, not until he had forsaken the false trappings of civilization for the real rigors of the wilderness, had he grown to appreciate the true meaning of the word freedom.

  Out here all were truly free to do as they pleased. They worked when they wanted, ate when they wanted, and slept when they wanted. But they were also accountable for their actions to the person who stood to benefit or suffer the most from their decisions: themselves. If they didn’t hunt, they didn’t eat. If they slept too long, they didn’t get their work done. The sole responsibility for their existence was in their hands and their hands alone, not in the hands of a vote-seeking politician or a penny-pinching storekeeper or a tyrannical boss. Every man who took to living in the

  Rockies learned to appreciate genuine freedom and the responsibilities it entailed. “Out here we’re free,” he said softly to himself, cherishing the sound of the word, and then a tingle rippled down his spine as a harsh voice barked to his rear.

  “As I live and breathe, Nate King himself! Are you ready to meet your Maker, Mouse Killer?”

  Chapter Six

  Nate glanced over his shoulder and adopted a stern expression as his nemesis approached. Robert Campbell wore the most lavishly beaded buckskins in the mountains and a blue cap in a style curren
tly popular with the mountain men. The big eagle feather fluttered in the breeze. “I was hoping the Blackfeet had plucked out your black heart by now,” Nate said.

  “They only want specimens with hair,” Campbell responded, and doffed his cap to display his nearly bald pate. Putting it back on, he stepped right up to Nate’s horse and started to lift his hand. “Why don’t we take care of business here and now,” he said, and then froze when a rumbling growl issued from beside his left leg.

  Samson stood menacingly, his lips curled up, his teeth glistening with saliva.

  “Lord, Nate, call your mongrel off,” Campbell said, easing his arm down again.

  “Why should I?” Nate asked, and made as if to ride on.

  “You’d let your dog do me in?” Campbell declared, and grinned. “Why, of course you would. You’re too scared to face me man-to-man.”

  “Started having delusions, have you?” Nate quipped. “You’re the one who should be scared to face me. After all, you’ve lost the past four bouts.”

  “That I did,” Campbell agreed, then smirked. “But each year I practice, and each year I get better and better. This is the year I pin your ears back and I have a hundred pelts to back my words.”

  Nate hesitated. One hundred beaver hides was almost a third of his grand total. If he lost the match he’d also lost hundreds of dollars in income. It was all well and good for Campbell to boast and bet when the man didn’t have a family to support.

  “What’s the matter, Mouse Killer?” Campbell taunted him. “Has someone painted a yellow stripe down your backbone since last we tangled?”

  “I accept,” Nate said, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Shakespeare roll both of his. “Name the time and the place and I’ll be there.”

  “Let’s wait until after the caravan arrives,” Campbell suggested. “The more folks that see your defeat, the harder it will be for you to deny it later.” Cackling, he spun on his heels and stalked off, whistling happily.

  “That lunatic will break your neck one of these days,” Niles Thompson remarked.