In a blur Nate twisted and leveled the Hawken, his thumb on the hammer. He was surprised Samson hadn’t growled to warn him until he saw the smirking frontiersman a few feet away.
“Jumpy cuss, aren’t you?” Shakespeare joked.
“Don’t you know any better than to go around sneaking up on folks?” Nate snapped, while inwardly a wave of relief washed through him. “You could get yourself shot.”
“Who snuck up?” Shakespeare responded. “You would have heard me if not for all the noise those critters were making.” He gazed after the departing herd. “Pity you didn’t think to shoot one before they ran off. We could all enjoy a nice, fresh steak for supper tonight.”
“Why didn’t you shoot one?” Nate retorted, gazing past his mentor.
“What? And spook them while you were smack in the middle of the bunch?”
“Point taken. Where’s my wife and son?”
“Waiting for you,” Shakespeare said, turning. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
Nate slid from the saddle and led the gelding by the reins. Samson fell in beside him. “I was beginning to think I’d never catch up,” he commented.
“So were we. Your son will be happy you found the dog. I think he’s been more worried about it than you,” Shakespeare said, and chuckled. “What the dickens kept you anyway? We figured you’d rejoin us an hour or two ago.”
“I had a run-in with some unfriendly Cheyennes.”
“Oh?” Shakespeare said, and nodded. “Might have been the same band we saw about half an hour after you rode out this morning. They were a ways west of our camp, riding from north to south, and I didn’t think they saw us, but I didn’t want to take the chance either. Not with the women and your boy along. So we packed up and lit out. I knew you’d find our trail with no problem.”
“I thought for sure I’d lose it when I came on those buffalo.”
Again Shakespeare nodded. “I thought you might too, which is why we stopped to wait.”
They walked twenty-five yards through the gently waving grass. Nate looked right and left but saw no sign of his family, and he was just about to ask his friend where they were when the grass abruptly ended at the brink of a narrow but deep gully. There were the packhorses, picketed where they could graze, and seated on an earthen shelf were his loved ones and Blue Water Woman.
Zachary glanced up, beamed, and leaped to his feet with his arms outstretched. “Samson! You came back!”
The dog sailed over the rim in a graceful bound, landed halfway down, leaped again, and came to rest in front of the boy. Zach immediately embraced it affectionately and bestowed kisses on its head while giggling in childish delight.
“Nice to be loved, isn’t it?” Shakespeare asked Nate, and stepped to a gap in the gully wall created some time ago when that particular section collapsed. He walked to the bottom. “Here he is, ladies,” he announced in grand fashion as the two women stood. “He would have been here sooner but he was busy picking ticks off of buffaloes.”
Winona’s features were composed when she came forward to greet her husband, but in the depths of her eyes lurked lingering anxiety. “I was worried,” she said simply.
“You weren’t the only one,” Nate said, giving her a hug. He smelled the aromatic scent of her hair and swore he could feel her heart beating through her buckskin dress. “I won’t go off like that again if I can help it.”
“Where did you find Samson?” Winona asked.
“He found me.”
“If you have no objections, we should push on,” Shakespeare interjected. “It’s a far piece to St. Louis and we’re not getting any younger standing around here.”
“Let’s go, then,” Nate said.
It took them five minutes to collect their stock animals, mount up, and head out. Nate let Shakespeare take the lead so he could ride with Winona and Zach. The sun beat down unmercifully and the breeze became sluggish at best.
Lulled into complacency because he was safe and sound, Nate dozed in the saddle. Each time his eyes closed and he began to sag he would snap awake with a start and gaze all around to verify the prairie was still empty. He wasn’t worried about the Cheyennes following him. If he hadn’t lost them before the buffalo stampede, he certainly had afterward. The thundering herd would have erased every vestige of his passing.
Gradually the afternoon sun traversed its heavenly circuit and sank toward the western horizon. Nate saw his shadow lengthen until it attained gargantuan proportions, as did the shadows of all the others.
“I know this stretch of prairie,” Shakespeare remarked. “We won’t strike water until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Any places to camp?” Nate inquire.
“Not where we can lay low, if that’s what you mean. Trees are few and far between, and if there’s another gully handy I don’t know of it.”
“Then we stay in the open tonight,” Nate said, wishing they’d stumble on a safer spot. They would need a fire, and no matter how small they kept it the light would be visible for miles. But search as he would, he saw no likely spot.
The sun had dipped partially from sight before they decided to halt. First the horses were picketed, then a fire was started. Winona and Blue Water Women prepared delicious biscuits and a savory stew using jerked venison and a handful of wild onions they had found. The five of them formed a ring around the fire when they ate, not so much for the warmth as to block off some of the light.
Nate ate stew until he was ready to burst. He leaned back on his saddle, patted his stomach, and gazed at the stars now dominating the sky. Out in the wilderness the nights were always clearer than they had ever been back in New York City, and once the sun relinquished its fiery perch a myriad of sparkling stars unfolded into infinity. The sight always inspired him. He would stare at the celestial spectacle in awe, convinced he was seeing the raiment of the Great Spirit in all its majestic glory.
Across the fire Shakespeare also looked on the heavens, his features downcast.
“Are you sad, my love?” Blue Water Woman inquired.
The mountain man blinked, then put a smile on his face. “Me?” he said, and began quoting the bard. “I have neither the scholar’s melancholy, which is emulation, nor the musician’s, which is fantastical, nor the courtier’s, which is proud, nor the soldier’s, which is ambitious, nor the lawyer’s, which is politic, nor the lady’s, which is nice, nor the lover’s, which is all these. But it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often ruminations wraps me in a most humorous sadness.”
Blue Water Woman glanced at Nate. “Did he say yes?”
“You’re asking me?”
“If anything is bothering you, tell me,” Blue Water Woman told her husband. “You have been behaving strangely for weeks now and I would like to know the reason.”
“It’s your imagination,” Shakespeare said.
“You have never kept secrets from me before.”
“And you wrongly accuse me of doing so now,” Shakespeare replied. He quoted again. “If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, when time is old and hath forgot itself, when water drops have worn the stones of Troy, and blind oblivion swallow’d cities up, and mighty states characterless are grated to dusty nothing, yet let memory, from false to false, among false maids, in love, upbraid my falsehood.”
“Are you saying my love is false?”
“Never, dear heart,” Shakespeare answered, tenderly taking her hand in his. “Your love is my anchor and as true as life itself.” He paused, his brow creasing. “But to be frank, and give it thee again. And yet I wish but for the thing I have. My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep. The more I give to thee, the more I have.” He paused once more and, lowered his head.
Alone among those present, Nate knew the reason for his friend’s uncharacteristic sorrow and introspection, and he was annoyed with himself for not giving more thought to Shakespeare’s illness. Once they arrived in St. Louis he would escort Shakespeare to a doctor without delay.
Adeline would have to wait.
The rest of the evening passed peacefully. Winona prevailed on McNair to quote a few sonnets. Zach was the first to fall asleep, and the women soon did the same. Nate and Shakespeare took turns on guard, dividing the night between them, and it was Nate who sat by the smoldering embers when the pink fingers of dawn started to push the night aside.
Day after day passed in a similar manner. Once they saw a smaller herd of buffalo, and three times they came on Indian sign but no hostiles. One day Nate shot a deer. Another time Shakespeare bagged an antelope.
The closer they drew to St. Louis, the quieter Winona became. Blue Water Woman too was less talkative than usual, and stayed by her husband’s side. Only Zach laughed and played in innocent ignorance, Samson his constant companion.
Nate grew more excited every day but never showed it. Winona, he figured, would only become moodier. He went out of his way to avoid upsetting her, and did everything in his power to reassure her that all would go well in St. Louis. All his attention seemed to do little good.
By Nate’s estimation they were a week out of St. Louis when they stopped to rest at midday in a stand of trees bordering a shallow creek. “I’ll water the horses,” he volunteered, and took the gelding and the rest of their mounts over to the edge of the rippling water. He would do the pack animals next.
South of the creek lay scattered trees and a knoll. To the west and east pristine prairie. A hawk soared on the high currents and a rabbit nibbled on a plant fifty yards distant.
He leaned the Hawken against a tree and knelt to splash cool water onto his face. Reflected back at him was the face of a man badly needing a shave and a haircut. He looked down at his buckskins and noticed the grease and dirt stains he had come to take for granted. Good Lord! Before he could pay Adeline a visit he must make himself presentable. A bath and a shave were definitely in order, and new clothes wouldn’t hurt either. It had been years since he wore store-bought garb, and he wondered if the styles had changed much.
Pegasus nickered loudly and Nate looked up, his hands immersed in the creek. Since so many days had elapsed without mishap, he wasn’t expecting trouble and had permitted his attention to lapse. But trouble was what he found in the form of a huge panther slinking toward the horses, apparently coming from behind the knoll. Already the creeping cat was within a couple of yards of the creek.
Surprise caused Nate to hesitate for a second. Then he came to life and swept upright, clawing for both flintlocks. The Hawken was behind him and useless. If he turned his back the panther might well leap on him. His fingers closed on the pistols and they swept out from under his wide leather belt. But he realized with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach that he was too slow by far.
The sudden movement had caused the panther to pick new prey. Rather than the motionless horses, it leaped at the figure it saw rising and cleared the creek in a terrific spring.
Nate was leveling the flintlocks when the big cat crashed into him, knocking him backwards. Razor claws bit into his shoulder and chest and the panther’s tapered teeth were inches from his face. He went down, the panther on top, and fired both pistols without thinking. Whether he scored or the booming sound scared the cat, he didn’t know. But the panther bounded off him and he rolled onto one knee, releasing the right flintlock to grab for his butcher knife. Again he was too slow.
A hurtling tawny battering ram struck him in the shoulder, smashing him onto his side. Pain seared his ribs and he twisted to see the panther bite into his upper arm.
Someone nearby was shouting.
He instinctively swung the left flintlock, bashing the panther on the nose. The cat jumped back, giving him an opening, and he surged into a crouch and swept his knife out of its sheath. Vaguely he was aware of Shakespeare yelling for him to move, that Shakespeare didn’t have a clear shot. There was no time, though. The panther was on him in a rush, a rush he met head-on, grappling as he plunged his knife to the hilt in the cat’s belly again and again and again.
The world spun as they rolled and thrashed. He knew he was being ripped and torn. He knew he should push back and give Shakespeare that shot. But he was afraid in so doing he would give the panther an opportunity to employ those wicked claws to even better effect. As long as they were body to body the cat couldn’t make the most of its powerful legs. So he stabbed, stabbed, stabbed, pumping his arm without cease.
Water splashed all over him and he realized they had rolled into the creek. He swallowed some and sputtered. An intense stinging sensation seared his forehead and blood promptly flowed over his eyes. He couldn’t see! In desperation he shoved away from the savage beast and wiped a sleeve across his face.
Somewhere a rifle blasted.
His vision cleared and he expected to find the panther dead. Yet the cat was attacking once more, reaching him in a single mighty vault. He thrust a hand up to prevent the panther from tearing into his throat and wound up flat on his back in the creek. Something sliced into the side of his neck. His senses swam and he couldn’t concentrate. Dimly, he suspected he must be dying. A shapeless inky cloud engulfed his mind, and the last thing he remembered before emptiness claimed him was the shattering sound of thunder that eclipsed any thunder ever known.