Nate tried to bring the rifle to bear, but the wolf was on him before he could level the barrel. It crashed into the gun, its jaws ripping at his throat, its heavy weight staggering him backwards. Hot breath fanned his neck, and then he lashed out with the stock and clipped the beast a solid blow on the side of its skull.
The wolf fell and with uncanny coordination landed on all fours. In a twinkling it crouched, bracing its leg muscles for another jump.
From the right and left other wolves closed in.
Stepping back, Nate lifted the rifle to his shoulder. He’d get one with the Sharps and possibly another with a pistol. After that he must rely on his long butcher knife and count on Shakespeare to come to his aid. Where was McNair, anyway? He saw a bush to the south tremble and expected
his friend to dart into the open with his rifle blasting.
Out of that bush came something, all right, but it wasn’t the mountain man. A snarling black brute of a dog streaked into the midst of the wolves, its massive jaws tearing every which way in savage abandon. The ferocious momentum of its attack scattered the pack, all except for the leader. It spun to meet the dog and their shoulders collided. The wolf, which weighed a hundred and forty pounds or better, was bowled over by the impact but promptly scrambled erect.
And then a battle ensued such as few men had been privileged to witness. Nate stared in anxious fascination as the two beasts fought in a swirl of flashing limbs, white teeth, and throaty growls. They moved too fast for the human eye to follow, and he marked the progress of the clash with difficulty. He saw both animals tear chunks of fur and flesh from the other. Often they were pressed muzzle to muzzle, rolling over and over, back and forth. An instant later they would be upright, their mouths darting out with snakelike speed.
He glanced once at the other wolves. The rest of the pack had gathered under trees a dozen yards to the north, observing the conflict in typical stoic lupine silence. None made a move to interfere. This was a fight to the death between their leader and the black dog, a fight as primal, as elemental, as their existence itself. Nature had endowed them with a primitive code of conduct that prevented them from taking sides in personal disputes. And to them this was just such a dispute. In their eyes the leader had been challenged for leadership of the pack, and he must prove himself fit to hold that post or forfeit his life for his failure.
Several times Nate tried to help the dog, to snap off a shot, but the constant whirl of motion made a certain hit impossible and he wouldn’t risk hitting the dog. So he impatiently waited for the outcome, which came so abruptly he was caught unawares.
The dog and wolf were spinning and biting in a dizzying display of speed and agility when there arose an agonized yelp and for a moment they were still, the wolf’s broken front leg held in the iron grip of the big dog’s teeth. Shifting, the dog let go of the leg and swept its mouth up and in. Those wicked teeth closed on the wolf’s exposed throat and bit deep. Blood spurted. The wolf stiffened and vented a plaintive howl of despair, then desperately attempted to free itself. In so doing, it only tore its own throat wider still, spraying a crimson geyser onto the grass.
Rumbling like an enraged grizzly, the dog worried the throat back and forth in its jaws until the wolf sagged. For another minute it held on, its teeth grinding ever deeper. Finally, satisfied the wolf was dead, the dog released its hold and turned to face the pack.
The wolves waited expectantly.
Advancing a stride, with a harsh snarl the dog sent them running. They vanished into the undergrowth like shadowy ghosts from a goblin realm.
“Thanks, Samson,” Nate said softly.
The dog turned and padded up to him. Blood from a score of wounds matted its sides and back. There was an especially nasty gash on its neck where the wolf had nearly succeeded in obtaining a death hold, and above one eye hung a flap of partially severed skin.
“You always know right when to show up, don’t you?” Nate commented, squatting so he could examine the wounds carefully. None were life threatening but there always existed the chance of infection. The gash and the torn skin should be tended as soon as possible.
“Remind me to never raise my voice at you in that dog’s presence.”
Nate looked back and saw Shakespeare nearby. Grinning, he stroked Samson, watching so he didn’t accidentally touch a wound. “Samson knows you too well to harm you.”
“So you say,” Shakespeare responded. “But I’d rather not learn you’re wrong the hard way.”
The dog licked Nate, its slick tongue rasping over his right cheek. Gingerly, Nate gave it a hug and stood, his memory straying to the time years ago when he’d first encountered Samson in Crow territory. The dog had been a stray, and it had taken to him like a duck takes to water. Since then he had kept it as a pet and allowed it to sleep indoors whenever it was so inclined.
“I’ll fetch the bear meat,” Shakespeare offered. He walked to the pine and poked the pack with his rifle barrel until the bear hide slipped out of the fork and fell. With a deft snatch he caught it, his knees bending from the strain. “Lord! How much did you wrap in here?”
“Ninety pounds or so.”
“The next time warn a man, will you? It about broke my back.”
“Want me to carry it home?” Nate asked.
Shakespeare bristled at the innocent request. “No, thank you very much. I may be ill, but I can still do my share of the work here or anywhere else.”
“For how long?” Nate inquired. “How long before Blue Water Woman discovers your condition?”
“She never will if I can help it.”
“She will, though. One day you’ll wake up and be too weak to move. How do you think she’ll feel once she learns you didn’t confide in her? She might think you don’t love her as much as you claim.”
Shakespeare glowered and took a step forward. “If any other man made such a remark to me, he’d be eating his teeth.” Pivoting, he headed toward the cabin. “You would make me very happy if you would never bring the subject up again.”
“But ...” Nate protested, unwilling to let the matter rest when his friend’s life was at stake. There had to be something they could do. There had to be!
The mountain man paused to glance at him. “Please. For me.”
Sighing reluctantly, Nate merely nodded. He thought of the Rendezvous and the experienced mountaineers who would be there, men such as Jim Bridger and Joe Meek and others, wise men who knew all there was to know about the mountains and the various Indian tribes, who knew even more than he did. Perhaps one of them could offer advice that would save Shakespeare’s hide. If not, he could always give Shakespeare a rap on the skull, tie him up, and head for St. Louis.
Samson limped slightly as they walked, and Nate stopped to examine the dog’s right front leg. There were teeth marks in the skin but the underlying muscles and tendons appeared to be fine. Evidently the wolf had nipped the leg but had done no real damage.
He walked faster to catch up with Shakespeare. “So how about if we leave for the Rendezvous tomorrow? I can have everything we need packed and set to go by nightfall.”
“What’s your rush all of a sudden?”
“No rush. But why wait when our wives are looking forward to seeing their own people again and we both have prime peltries to sell?” Nate rejoined, deliberately maintaining a bland expression.
The mountain man shrugged. “Suit yourself. I suppose it would be better to get an early start so we can take our time. We can ride north along the foothills, then cross at South Pass and head for Fort Bonneville.”
“Sounds good,” Nate commented. The route would be easy on the horses and there would be plenty of game, principally buffalo, along the way. Should hostiles appear on the prairie, there would be adequate cover in the foothills.
They went half a mile without speaking. Then Shakespeare idly glanced at the bear hide in his hands and drew up short. “Damn. I almost forgot.
There’s some news I figured you should know.”
“News?”
Shakespeare nodded and resumed walking. “It’s the talk of the country, from what I hear.” He paused. “Niles Thompson and a few friends of his stopped at my cabin a while back. They were on their way into Crow country after paying a visit to St. Louis. Thompson needed a new rifle. Dropped his old one when he was scaling a cliff.”
Nate heard loud chattering and looked around to see a large squirrel protesting their presence in no uncertain terms.
“Anyhow, he heard the news while he was there and he found a couple of old newspapers to bring back and show everyone. He left one with me and I have it in my possibles bag.”
“Are you fixing to tell me or do I have to wait until I see this newspaper?” Nate asked impatiently. He gathered from Shakespeare’s attitude that it must be something important. His friend seldom displayed any interest in news from the States unless it related to the trapping trade.
“Jim Bowie is dead.”
“What?” Nate blurted out, and halted in amazement. Ever since his late teens he had followed the exploits of the knife-wielding firebrand with more than a casual interest. Thanks to the many tales of Bowie’s exploits reported in every newspaper across the land, Bowie had become a genuine living legend in his own time.
Every schoolboy knew about the many fights Bowie reputedly engaged in. There was the famous “Sandbar fight” of 1827 in which Bowie had slain his bitter enemy Major Morris Wright despite having been severely wounded twice by gunshots. In 1829 Bowie bested Bloody John Sturdivant in a knife fight in which the two participants sat across one another at a table with their left hands lashed together. Sturdivant survived and later hired three assassins to ambush Bowie. They did, and were thus added to the long list of those who presumed to tackle the best knife-fighter ever known.
And there were other confrontations. Bowie once fought a duel while seated on a log facing his opponent, both with their buckskin breeches nailed to the log. On another occasion he fought a Mexican armed with a poniard. In New Orleans one night he entered an unlit room armed with his knife, while his Creole foe went in carrying a sword. When the door was opened, only Bowie was still alive.
“That’s not all,” Shakespeare said. “Davy Crockett is dead too.”
Nate stared at his friend in disbelief. Crockett was another frontiersman who had attained prominent national status. He had fought in the Creek War under Andrew Jackson. Noted for his skill as a peerless hunter and his uncanny marksmanship, Crockett reportedly killed a hundred and five black bears in seven months time, a prodigious feat by any standards. He later parlayed his likable personality and first-rate storytelling into a political career. Several books had been written about him, and a popular play that toured the country featured a lead character based on Crockett’s exploits.
“Have you heard about the situation in Texas?” Shakespeare inquired.
“I recall hearing there was a push on for independence from Mexico,” Nate said.
“Well, that push came to shove and the Texans have their independence. But it cost them. There was a battle back in March at an old mission called the Alamo and every last man was killed, including Bowie and Crockett.”
“They were fighting together?”
“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.