He broke from the forest to the south of his cabin and raced around the corral containing his horses, the Hawken leveled for immediate use. Expecting to find his loved ones under attack by Utes or a marauding grizzly, he drew up in surprise on seeing the two visitors, a man and a woman, who stood chatting with his wife near the cabin door.
The grizzled man turned and beamed, his lake-blue eyes and lined features radiating genuine friendliness. Fringed buckskins covered his powerful frame. A brown beaver hat crowned his head of bushy gray hair, while a beard and mustache the same color as his hair adorned his face. Like Nate, he wore a powder horn and an ammunition pouch. On his right hip rested a butcher knife, under his belt a single flintlock.
He held a rifle in the bend of his left elbow.
“Hello there, Nate,” the mountain man greeted him, his eyes twinkling. “You look right tuckered out. What have you been doing?”
“Running my fool head off, Shakespeare,” Nate responded, lowering the Hawken and advancing. “I thought my family was in trouble.”
“Why would you think a thing like that?”
“I heard a shot.”
Shakespeare, the perfect picture of innocence, took his rifle in both hands and said, “Why, that must have been me. I shot a big duck for our supper,” he said, and nodded at the west shore of the lake forty feet away. “It never occurred to me that you would come on the run.”
Winona took a step forward, her concerned brown eyes roving over Nate’s clothes and fixing on the tear in his sleeve. “The bear?” she asked in her precise English.
“He won’t bother us ever again,” Nate informed her, and inadvertently winced when she reached out and touched the bite.
“It is not deep but you have bled a little,” Winona said. She stepped to the doorway, her beaded buckskin dress clinging to her shapely body. “Come in. I will tend your wound.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve tangled with another grizzly?” Shakespeare inquired.
“A black bear this time,” Nate revealed, motioning for them to precede him. Shakespeare’s wife went first, a lovely Flathead woman named Blue Water Woman whose long raven hair was every bit as luxurious as Winona’s and whose smooth, oval face might be that of a woman half her age. “Hello, Blue Water Woman,” he said.
“Hello, Grizzly Killer,” she replied. “It is good to see you again.”
Nate let Shakespeare enter, then followed. “The same here. Why the visit, anyway? Did you just happen to be in this neck of the woods and decide to drop by?” he asked. Although Shakespeare was his nearest neighbor and only lived about twenty-five miles to the north, they often went weeks without seeing one another.
“Nope. I figured we’d head for the Rendezvous together,” Shakespeare said. “There’s safety in numbers, you know.”
Nate nodded, thinking to himself that McNair had never been afraid of anything or anyone in his entire life. Shakespeare’s newfound concern for safety had more to do with Blue Water Woman, Winona, and young Zach than his own protection. “Good idea. We can leave tomorrow or the next day if you want.”
“There’s no rush. We have plenty of time to get there before the supplies from St. Louis arrive.”
They took seats around the table while Winona hung a pot of water over the small fire in the stone fireplace. Lying sound asleep on the bed against the south wall was seven-year-old Zach, his thin lips fluttering with every breath.
“Don’t tell me your young’un is still taking naps at his age?” Shakespeare said.
“He was up most of the night after the bear paid us a visit,” Nate explained. “Now he’s catching up on his sleep.”
“Too excited to sleep, eh?” Shakespeare said, and chuckled. “I recollect how it is when you’re that young, even if I am pushing the century mark myself.”
“You are not.”
“Maybe I exaggerate,” the mountain man admitted impishly, and then launched into a quote from one of the plays written by the English playwright he so admired. “But age, with his stealing steps, hath clawed me in his clutch and hath shipped me into the land, as if I had never been such.”
“Meaning what exactly?” Nate inquired.
“Nothing much,” Shakespeare said, shrugging. He gazed at the corner where Winona stored their food and kept their cooking utensils. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have any whiskey on hand, would you? The ride here parched my whistle.’”
“No, we don’t,” Nate responded, surprised by the request. He rested his elbows on the table. “I never knew you were much a drinking man.”
“I’m not, but a little now and again gets the sluggish blood in my veins flowing properly.”
Blue Water Woman’s brow creased in contemplation. “You have been doing more drinking lately than in all the years I’ve known you.” She paused. “Too much drinking can put a man in his grave.”
Shakespeare snorted. “By my troth, I care not. A man can die but once and we owe God a death.”
Nate had never heard his friend speak in such a manner, and it disturbed him. There must be more to the drinking than Shakespeare was letting on, but what could it be? “Well,” Nate commented, “there will be ample to drink at the Rendezvous. Half the trappers there spend most of their time drunk.”
“My people will be there,” Blue Water Woman mentioned. “I look forward to seeing my relatives and friends again.”
Nate looked at Winona, who was checking the heat of the water. Her own people, the Shoshones, would also be at the gathering, as would the Bannocks and the Nez Percés and perhaps groups from one or two other tribes. Friendly Indians frequently journeyed hundreds of miles to participate in the ribald revelry and to trade for horses or guns or whatever else they wanted.
“This one promises to be the biggest and best Rendezvous of them all,” Shakespeare said. “From what I’ve heard, the caravan will bring in enough goods to outfit an army.”
“Just so they bring enough money to buy our peltries,” Nate said.
“Don’t worry on that score. Beaver hides are expected to fetch between four and five dollars apiece this year.”
Nate whistled in appreciation of the sum, and hastily calculated he would receive between twelve and fifteen hundred dollars for his haul, enough to tide his family over for quite a spell. The price the fur companies were willing to pay for prime pelts had gone up the past couple of years, which was a good thing considering there were fewer beaver around. He planned to save most of the proceeds for future use since he had no way of knowing what the next year would bring. The bottom might fall out of the market for all he knew.
“Such high amounts won’t be paid forever,” Shakespeare remarked as if he could read Nate’s thoughts. “Sooner or later these mountains will be trapped out or folks back in the States will stop wearing clothes with beaver fur. All it will take is a change of fashion and every trapper in the mountains, both company men and free, will be looking for a new line of work.”
“I hope the trade lasts another ten or twelve years,” Nate said.
“If beaver trapping is still a moneymaking proposition in five years, I’ll be surprised,” Shakespeare said.
Winona interrupted their conversation by bringing a pan of steaming water and a tin containing an herbal mixture to the table and depositing both next to Nate. “Unless you want your arm to become infected, husband, kindly remove your shirt.”
Nate glanced at his friend’s wife.
“It is all right,” Blue Water Woman said. “I am a Flathead, remember? The men and boys in my tribe often went around wearing nothing but breechclouts.”
“I know,” Nate said, but the idea of undressing in front of another woman, especially the wife of the man who had taught him everything he knew about life in the wilderness, still bothered him.
“Hurry up and get that wound dressed,” Shakespeare said. “I left our horses tied to trees and I’d like to put them in your corral for the night.”
“I’ll gladly help,” Nate responded. He stood and swung his chair around, then sat with his back to the table and peeled off his buckskin shirt. His arm ached like the dickens, causing him to wince. The bear’s wicked teeth had torn an inch-long gash in his flesh.
Frowning, Winona obtained a cloth and began cleaning the jagged cut. “You must take better care of yourself,” she commented.
“I try my best,” Nate said, and tried to alleviate her concern by smiling, but she went on frowning as she continued with her doctoring.
“You’re not doing too bad compared to all those who have come to the Rockies to live and wound up like poor Yorick,” Shakespeare interjected.
“Yorick?”
“From old William S.,” Shakespeare explained, and quoted the text he had in mind. “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio. A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.”
“Oh. That Yorick,” Nate said.
“You would do well to broaden your cultural horizons by reading more,” Shakespeare stated. “Buying that book on William S. was the best investment I’ve ever made. I couldn’t begin to count the number of hours of enjoyment I’ve gotten from reading it.”
“I’m partial to James Fenimore Cooper,” Nate reminded him, thinking of the last book by Cooper he had read. Entitled The Last of the Mohicans, it dealt with the further adventures of Cooper’s fictional hero Natty Bumppo, woodsman supreme. He wondered if Cooper had written another book since then, and made a mental note to find out should he ever venture to St. Louis again.
“That long-winded cuss can’t hold a candle to William S.,” Shakespeare said with a tinge of contempt. “William S. knew folks inside out and told all about their lives. Cooper writes about people as if they were puppets and he’s the one pulling the strings.”
“Your bias is showing,” Nate said.
“Have you read Hamlet? Macbeth? King Lear? Read any one of them and you’ll see right away that I’m right.”
Nate knew better than to dispute the point. The aged mountaineer possessed an almost fanatical devotion to the bard who had given him his nickname, and many was the time the two of them had argued Shakespeare’s merits and weaknesses long into the wee hours of a cold winter’s night or while out setting a trap line in some distant valley. No matter what he might say, no matter how logically persuasive his arguments, McNair would never accept criticism of William S. “I just thought of something,” Nate said to change the topic. “I left almost one hundred pounds of bear meat back up the trail. We’d better fetch it before some critter helps itself to a meal.”
“While you are gone Blue Water Woman and I will prepare the meal,” Winona offered. She was applying the herbal ointment. “Don’t move yet,” she directed, and went to a cupboard, from which she took an old blanket. Securing a knife from the counter in the corner, she cut off two wide strips and brought them over to Nate. Working expertly, she tightly bandaged the gash and nodded in satisfaction. “There. If it bleeds again you must let me know.”
“I will,” Nate promised, and hastily donned his shirt. He tucked the bottom under his belt, rose, and gazed fondly at his son, who slumbered on in blissful repose. How, he mused, could children be such devils when awake yet so angelic when asleep? He walked over, gave Zach a peck on the cheek, and stepped to the door. His Hawken was where he had left it, propped against the wall. In another stride he was outside with the rifle in hand and squinting in the brilliant sunlight.
Shakespeare emerged and stretched. “That sun sure does feel good.”
What a strange remark, Nate thought. He spied Shakespeare’s animals tied on the north side of the cabin and strolled over to help collect them. There were the two saddle mounts and three pack animals laden with beaver hides and supplies. He waited until they had all the animals stripped and in the corral before he brought up the matter that most interested him at the moment. “What is this about you doing a lot of drinking?”
Shakespeare glanced at the cabin door, then replied in a low tone. “Why don’t we go get your bear meat and I’ll fill you in on the way.”
Nate didn’t need to ask to know that McNair didn’t want Blue Water Woman to overhear whatever was said. He led the way into the forest, the Hawken in his left hand, and waited until they had gone twenty yards before giving his friend a searching look. “Well?”
Rare worry lined Shakespeare’s face and he averted his gaze and sighed. “This old body isn’t what it used to be.”
“Are you ill?”
“Worse. I’m wearing out.”
“Are you kidding me? You’re as tough and ornery as they come. You’ll last forever.”
“I wish,” Shakespeare said softly. He walked several yards before speaking again. “Nate, even the best-made buckskin britches and shirts all wear out eventually. They usually fall apart at the seams and can’t be stitched because the leather is too weak to hold a knot. The same thing is happening to me.”
Nate forced a smile. “Your arms still look attached to me.”
“I’m serious, damn you. About six months ago I started having problems, and it’s getting worse as time goes on.”
His mentor’s solemn attitude made Nate realize Shakespeare must be gravely ill. Not once in all the years Nate had known him had Shakespeare ever complained of so much as a cold. The mountain man had never been fazed by the harshest adversity, never been affected by the severest weather. Shakespeare could hike for miles on end burdened with a pack weighing upwards of two hundred pounds; he could ride tirelessly for days through the worst country conceivable; and he could outwrestle and outshoot practically any man in the Rockies, Indian or white. Nate had come to regard Shakespeare as indestructible, and to suddenly have his friend’s mortality borne home shocked him. “What are the symptoms?” he inquired. “Can you be more specific?”
“Specific? Sure I can,” Shakespeare said, and placed a hand on Nate’s shoulder. “I’ll give it to you as straight as I know how.” He paused. “I’m dying.”