Bewildered, Nate slid to the ground and touched a hand to the blackened bits of wood. They were moderately warm to the touch, leading him to conclude the fire had gone out or been extinguished less than an hour ago.
Rising, he studied the ground, reading the tracks. He saw where Shakespeare had gathered the horses, where Winona, Zach, and Blue Water Woman had mounted, and where the quartet had ridden off to the southeast at a rapid clip. Moving in an ever-widening circle outward from the camp fire, he searched for some sign of why they had left. But he found nothing that would provide a clue.
Mystified, he peered into the distance and idly scratched his head. There must be a logical explanation, but for the life of him he couldn’t imagine what it might be. Returning to Pegasus, he swung up and glanced at Samson. “Here’s your chance to earn your keep, you flea-ridden rascal. Find Zachary.”
The black dog stood but made no attempt to move.
“Come on,” Nate prompted. “Don’t act dumb. Find Zach and I’ll go out and shoot a ten-point buck just for you.” He motioned at the tracks to no avail, and unwilling to delay another second he rode out, too annoyed to care if Samson tagged along or not. The dog could have saved him a lot of time, tracking by scent instead of forcing him to rely on spotting tracks, which wouldn’t be all that numerous because the carpet of high grass would yield few clear hoof prints. And the majority of resilient stems, where the passage of the mounts and the pack animals had bent the grass, had long since straightened. He would have to proceed carefully if he didn’t want to lose the trail.
Thankfully, Shakespeare was still heading southeast toward St. Louis. After traveling over a mile and confirming his mentor hadn’t deviated from their original course, he poked his heels into the gelding’s flanks and rode at a canter. If he pushed it he might overtake them before noon.
Stretching to the horizon in all directions was a shimmering sea of prairie grass that swayed in the slight northwesterly breeze, the sea of grass that kept the immense buffalo herds well fed and thus indirectly kept the various Indian tribes alive. The grass swished against Pegasus’s legs and rustled under the gelding’s driving hoofs.
Nate looked down to find Samson on his right, easily keeping up with him. “Fat lot of good you’re doing,” he remarked, and surveyed the plain for signs of life. He must stay alert for Indians. Earlier he’d been exceptionally lucky. The next time he encountered a band might be a totally different story. Lone white men were usually easy prey for warriors bent on counting coup.
A half hour went by. An hour. He found distinct tracks here and there that confirmed he was still on their trail. A ridge appeared a mile ahead, a mere wrinkle in the limitless flat expanse, not over two hundred feet in height at the highest spot and perhaps half a mile long. Since it would afford an excellent view of the countryside he rode right to the top, then drew rein in dismay. “No!” he blurted out.
For as far as the eye could see there existed a virtual ocean of great shaggy bulks, wicked horns, and pronounced humps. A gigantic buffalo herd was ambling south, grazing as it went, composed of thousands upon thousands of the huge brutes.
Nate leaned forward and saw several hoof prints in a patch of bare soil. The trail led straight down to the edge of the herd. In sheer exasperation he smacked his right fist into his left palm. The herd had obviously arrived on the scene after Shakespeare and the others went by, wiping out every last vestige of the tracks he had been following. Hopefully, he would be able to find the trail again on the far side of the massed beasts. But how was he to get there?
At the moment the buffaloes were placidly eating, wallowing, or resting. Given their rate of travel it would take the better part of twelve hours for the last of them to file past the ridge.
He couldn’t afford to wait that long. Nor could he afford to swing all the way around. He would lose too much precious time. An insane notion occurred to him and he absently bit his lower lip as he contemplated the odds of success. He knew that buffaloes weren’t afraid of humans. Quite the contrary. Bulls and cows alike seemed to regard men and women as inferior creatures hardly deserving of notice, much as they did deer and coyotes. Which was why Indian warriors could creep right up to a small herd and slay two or three before the rest realized what was happening. And since many buffaloes were accustomed to grazing in close proximity to wild horses, a herd might allow a rider to mingle with them unmolested if the rider didn’t use a gun or bow to bring one down. He’d heard tales of braves who had tested their courage by riding unarmed into a herd and deliberately patting the biggest bulls in passing. In his opinion such recklessness was unwarranted.
Usually. He dare not stampede them, or they might head southeast and erase the tracker he was following.
He glanced at Samson. “Try not to get gored. Zach would never forgive me.” So saying, he rode down the slope and directly into the herd.
Most of the buffaloes simply moved aside, hardly paying any attention. A few looked at the horse and rider almost quizzically, as if trying to fathom the identity of this bizarre creature. One old bull loudly sniffed the air and pawed the ground but mercifully didn’t charge.
Nate’s skin crawled. Hundreds of caterpillars seemed to be walking all over his body. A tremor rippled through his body and he had to firm his grip on the reins. The pungent odor of the brutes clogged his nostrils. He smelled their urine and their droppings. He heard them belching and grunting and listened to their short tails flick from side to side. Waves of heat rolled off their massed bodies and sweat caked him from head to toe.
He felt his mouth go dry and nervously licked his lips. Shifting imperceptibly, he saw Samson padding along a yard behind Pegasus. Smart dog. The horse would screen Samson from the buffaloes in front, and unless they picked up the mongrel’s scent it should walk through them without any problem.
He wished he could say the same for himself. Again and again a bull would eye him warily, stamp a hoof, and perhaps take an aggressive step or two toward the gelding. Always the bull stopped, pacified by the lack of hostility. But what if one didn’t?
Up close a buffalo was an imposing brute, standing roughly six feet high at the shoulder and weighing close to one ton. With its great hump, shaggy beard, and deadly horns it was like a creature out of someone’s worst nightmare. And when aroused, it transformed into a living engine of destruction formidable and nearly unstoppable.
And here he was, riding through an enormous herd of the smelly beasts with death on every hand. The slightest accidental provocation, from a toss of Pegasus’s mane at the wrong instant to a bull getting a good, clear whiff of his scent, would instigate an attack. And once one bull charged, others might join in. Bulls could be marvelously protective of the cows and calves when the need arose.
He kept his eyes on the ground in front of the gelding, ready to whip the horse aside should they be attacked, and tried not to dwell on the distance he must cover before he would be through the herd. Take it one buffalo at a time, he told himself, and he would make it in one piece.
Repeatedly his feet and legs brushed against grazing buffaloes. Except for a cow that swatted her head at his foot and missed, none of the hairy monsters paid him any mind.
The sun climbed steadily.
Beads of sweat dripped from Nate’s chin. He dearly wanted a drink but dared not make any unwarranted moves. Nor did he turn to check on Samson again. The dog was on its own until they reached the edge of the herd.
Despite his best efforts his thoughts strayed. He envisioned Adeline as he remembered her and wondered if she had changed very much. Knowing her, he doubted it. She had always been a beauty, one of those women with the kind of features every man hungered after and every woman envied. And she was aware of the reaction her mere presence provoked. She knew her charms and used them to her best advantage.
He recalled the first time he saw her, at a dance. It had been a wonder he’d seen her at all for the ring of potential suitors beseeching her to favor them. He’d watched and admired those young men for so boldly importuning such a virtual goddess, and then received the shock of his own young life when his father had taken him over to introduce him to Adeline and her father.
She had beamed, taken his arm, and whisked him onto the dance floor before he could gather his wits. The eyes of her many suitors had shot bolts of lightning, but he’d hardly noticed in his preoccupation with dancing with the loveliest woman in existence and hearing her laugh gaily at his awkward attempts at humor. Why, she had even laughed when he clumsily trod on her foot!
How he had loved her! Or believed he had. Only much later had he learned the meaning of genuine love. It involved a sharing of two souls in intimate companionship, not worshipping a woman for the perfection she supposedly personified.
A mammoth bull grunted and shook its hairy head.
Nate blinked, his reflection shattered. He stared at the bull in question, bracing for the sudden rush that would bowl Pegasus over if the horse wasn’t nimble enough. Sweat trickled into his eyes and made him blink, blurring his vision, and when it cleared a second later the buffalo was shuffling toward him with its head lowered.
He gulped and rode on. Submitting to fear would get him killed. If he could bluff the bull into believing he was harmless, he would make it. As the beast stepped ever nearer he held his breath, his palm slick on the Hawken. The rifle was next to useless since a single shot might not kill the bull. He knew of times when men put ten balls or more into a buffalo and it walked off as if it didn’t have a care in the world.
The bull approached from the left to within two yards of the gelding, then halted.
Nate could practically feel those suspicious dark eyes boring into him, and he held himself rigid, his facial muscles locked. He was afraid to so much as blink. Pegasus walked on undisturbed, and for a count of five his fate hung in a precarious balance. Suddenly the bull snorted, turned, and walked back to rub against a cow.
Five more times a similar incident transpired before at long last he glimpsed the edge of the herd ahead. His nerves were frayed, his buckskins damp, by the time he rode between a pair of dust-bathing bulls and saw open prairie. In his happiness he threw back his head to whoop with joy, but prudently stayed silent. Scouring the plain for some sign of his family and friends, he saw several sleek animals not far from the buffaloes and tensed on recognizing them.
More damn wolves.
He scowled, observing the pack of five as they trotted from south to north. They were only twenty yards from the herd, probably scouting for calves or aged adults they could cull and slay. He hoped he was wrong. Should the pack pick a likely prospect and attack, they might spook the herd and
start a stampede and he still had forty yards to go before he would be in the clear.
With fewer brutes on either side he felt confident enough to ride a bit faster, going around a young bull and past a pair of cows contentedly chewing their cuds. The wolves still moved north, and he was sure he would soon be able to take a deep breath and relax. Unexpectedly, the pack proved him wrong by darting in concert at a frisky calf prancing near its mother. Both buffaloes were alert, and at a bawl from the mother they whirled and raced deeper into the herd.
That was all it took. As if a silent signal had coursed through the entire multitude in the blink of an eye, every last bull, cow, and calf spun and sped off to the southeast.
Nate put his heels to the gelding’s flanks and swung around a rushing bull, then narrowly avoided a fleeing cow. Behind him thundered the din of a million heavy hoofs, and beneath him the ground shook and shuddered as if from an earthquake. He had to wrench on the reins to evade another bull, and then he was in the open and galloping away from the herd.
After going thirty yards he halted to catch his wind and look back. A billowing cloud of dust swirled above the fleeing horde, obscuring most of them. He could see scores of bounding humps and rumps and bobbing tails, and the air vibrated to the beat of invisible hammers. He could barely hear himself think. In all the confusion the wolves had disappeared.
“Good riddance,” he said aloud, and remembered Samson. Had the dog escaped unscathed?
He twisted and saw the object of his concern sitting quietly nearby. “Doesn’t anything ruffle your feathers?” he quipped, and let go of the Hawken to stretch. His shoulder and neck muscles ached from the prolonged tension.
He was glad to be alive. Never again would he go through such a harrowing experience, not for all the gold reputed to be in the Rockies. As he lowered his arms he saw the wolves appear out of the dust cloud and regard him intently. Grinning, he raised the rifle. “Come closer,” he coaxed. “I could use a new hat.”
The largest of the pack took a few steps forward. Tilting its head to test the air, it wheeled and led its fellows to the northwest, and they were all soon lost in the dust again.
Nate lowered the Hawken and clucked in frustration. “I swear. If I see another wolf I’m going to” he began, and stopped abruptly on hearing a sound behind him.
It was the crunch of a footstep.