“What in the hell!” one of the pair exclaimed.
Nate goaded the horse into a trot and deliberately rode between the two men, lashing out with both legs as they tried to leap aside. He sent the man on the right flying and caused the other guard to stumble and fall. Then he was in the open and bringing his mount to a gallop, his body flush with the back of the horse, riding as an Indian would.
Shouts broke out and to his rear a gun blasted. Whoever had fired missed, and soon he was in the garden among the hedges. At the mansion someone yelled instructions. Guards were being directed to cut him off.
He turned a corner and nearly rode down the gardener, who was trimming a bush. The man leaped out of the way almost at the last moment and shook an angry fist in his wake. There were two more shots, from the east, neither scoring.
Beyond the garden lay fields, and in some of them blacks were laboring diligently under the hot sun. In the distance beckoned a fence and a large gate toward which he angled his steed. Once off the Debussy estate he could easily elude his pursuers. He would be safe!
Or would he? Not only would Rhey and possibly Adeline want him dead so he couldn’t spread the word about their nefarious scheme, but Jacques himself wouldn’t care to let him live since he knew too much about the slave-smuggling. It was likely men would be sent to dispatch him. He would be all alone in a city of strangers and enemies.
Well, not quite. He had a few friends who lived in St. Louis, a few former trappers who had forsaken the wild and free life of the mountains for the settled security of a job in St. Louis. There was Tricky Dick Harrington for one, and Santa Fe Bill for another. He was unsure of where exactly Harrington lived, but he did know that Santa Fe Bill spent a lot of time at the Flint and Power, a tavern popular with those in the trapping trade.
Off to the left a guard ran to intercept him. He saw the man lift a rifle, and immediately swung to the off side of his horse, using the heel of his left foot and his tenuous grip on the saddle horn to keep him on the animal. Peering under the bay’s neck he saw the man hesitate, then deliberately aim at his mount’s head. The intent was obvious. Kill the horse and the guards could slay or catch him without too much trouble.
Still hanging precariously, Nate jerked on the reins. The horse cut to the right as the gun cracked, and the ball missed by a wide margin. He rose into the saddle and galloped straight for the gate. Many of the blacks in the field had stopped working to witness the tableau.
He put more distance behind him. Glancing back once he spied a couple of riders dashing from the stable, but he enjoyed a substantial lead and wasn’t worried.
At the gate stood a lone guard who didn’t seem to know what was happening. The gate hung open, yet he made no attempt to close it. Instead he stepped to the middle of the opening, a rifle in his left hand, and held aloft his right to get Nate to stop. “What’s all the ruckus about?” he yelled.
Nate slowed, grateful the man hadn’t recognized him. “We must close the gate,” he declared. “One of the slaves has escaped.”
“Another nigger has flown the coop?” the guard responded, and shook his head. “At the rate they’re getting away I don’t see why the boss bothers smuggling them into the country.” Turning, he began to walk toward the gate. He suddenly halted and shot a quizzical look at Nate. “Wait a minute here. You’re not one of the guards. Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”
By now Nate was close enough. Again he rammed his heels into the bay, and as he galloped up to the unsuspecting guard he leaned down and swung his Hawken. The heavy stock struck the man full on the right ear and the guard sprawled onto his face, his rifle falling in the dust.
Nate almost whooped for joy when the gate was behind him. A road, a narrow dirt track, meandered in the general direction of St. Louis, but he didn’t take it. There were hills covered with dense forest to the southwest and it was into these he raced. The undergrowth closed around him and he changed direction once more, riding due south.
Now he was in his element, the wilderness. He deliberately turned the chase into an obstacle endurance race, forcing the bay through heavy thickets, jumping logs, and sticking to the driest, hardest ground he could find. He left tracks but not many. Unless the guards were skilled trackers they would be drastically slowed.
Ten minutes elapsed without a trace of his enemies. He rode to the crest of a hill, keeping to the brush, and studied his back trail. Oddly, there were no horsemen anywhere. This disturbed him. Did they suspect he would head for St. Louis? Did they know of a shortcut and were they at that moment on their way to intercept him? To be safe he must act on the assumption they did.
So rather than head directly for the city he swung in a wide loop to the west. He avoided isolated farms and small hamlets in case Jacques Debussy had sent riders out to request help in tracking down another “horse thief,” which in a sense he certainly had become. The day waned, twilight fell, and night had crowned the countryside when he finally spied lights of the city ahead.
He sighed in relief, confident he could lose himself in St. Louis.
At the outskirts, along an isolated road, he drew up and dismounted. A tree provided an ideal spot to tie the bay. As much as he would have liked to keep it, he had to consider that agents of Debussy were already scouring the city for him and undoubtedly had been provided with an accurate description of the horse. He would do better on foot.
It felt strange to be among a lot of people again. For the first few minutes he glanced suspiciously at everyone who walked past, certain one of them would shout, “Here he is!” and a swarm of Debussy’s men would swoop down on him with guns blasting. But hardly anyone paid any attention to him. A few nodded. Several said, “Good evening.” None behaved in other than a normal manner.
He began to relax. Debussy’s men couldn’t be everywhere. And the more he pondered the matter the more he realized that Jacques Debussy wouldn’t want to draw a lot of attention to the situation at the estate by dispatching a small army of guards into the city after him. Someone was bound to ask questions, and while there were many in St. Louis who believed slavery should flourish, there were also many who wanted the practice eliminated. One slip and someone might contact the federal authorities, who would have little sympathy for the slaver. Debussy could well wind up in leg irons.
Nate wondered if Debussy might not be involved in other smuggling operations besides blacks from Africa. Debussy undoubtedly had a sophisticated organization that would enable him to bring anything he wanted into the country, with his seafaring ships probably transferring their illicit cargoes to smaller boats that then carried the slaves or whatever up the wide Mississippi River to St. Louis.
He decided that Debussy’s wisest choice would be to have him slain quietly by paid assassins. So he must be on his guard always and trust no one at all. After what he had learned about Adeline, he wouldn’t even trust women.
How could someone have changed so drastically? he asked himself. She was nothing like the woman he remembered. Where before she had been a pampered princess, spoiled rotten by her doting parents, she was now shrewdly manipulative, even downright dangerous. How she ever could have married a man like Rhey Debussy eluded him.
Nate suddenly halted, amused by his reflection. Why should he marvel at the changes in Adeline when he had changed as much if not more, only in a different manner? He was no longer the gullible aspiring accountant who had lived a life of quiet desperation, chained to the routine of a daily job while dreaming of living the adventurous life of a Jim Bowie or a Daniel Boone. Now he was living as he had always wanted.
But alone.
The thought brought a chill to his spine. He missed Winona and Zach more than words could express, and he wished he could relive the events that had compelled him to travel to St. Louis so he could alter the fabric of destiny and spare them their terrible fate.
He gritted his teeth in rage at himself and hurried on, trying to recollect where the Flint and Powder was located. St. Louis was much different than he remembered it. The city had grown tremendously. There were many more people, many more streets and avenues, and even whole sections that had not been there when last he visited.
Over half an hour was spent comparing landmarks as he vaguely remembered them, and he was about ready to give up and try to find somewhere he could lodge for the night when he stumbled on a wide thoroughfare he recognized. Taking a right at the next block brought him into the narrow street on which the Flint and Powder was located.
The front door had been propped wide with a broom to admit fresh air, and from within arose the boisterous sounds of drunken singing, hearty laughter, and lusty swearing. He hurried inside, and was immediately enveloped in a crowd consisting of rowdy trappers in buckskins who were in all likelihood fresh in from the mountains, rough rivermen who were more than willing to fight anyone at the drop of a hat, and equally tough wagoners who brought in tons of freight every month in their heavy wagons.
Most of the interior was dim and thick with pipe smoke. The few lit lanterns did little to alleviate the gloom. Not one customer seemed unduly interested in his arrival as he threaded among them and up to the long bar. Only then did he realize he had no money.
Or did he? He opened his ammo pouch and rummaged in the bottom. At the Rendezvous he had purchased sweets for Zach and seemed to recollect placing the change in the ammo pouch, as was his custom when he didn’t want to burden his pockets with a lot of coins that would jingle when he walked. As every mountaineer was well aware, the quieter a man walked in grizzly country, the longer he lived. Sure enough he found a few coins, slightly more than enough for an ale, and placed his order.
The beefy man behind the bar brought the mug over, and Nate moved toward the rear of the establishment. He didn’t think he would find a place where he could sit and think, but in one corner was an empty table. Fatigue coursed through him as he sat down and sagged in forlorn dejection.
Now what?
He sipped at the delicious, tangy ale and contemplated his options. Unless he could find Santa Fe Bill or Tricky Dick Harrington his prospects were bleak. He had no job and practically no money, which meant he couldn’t return to the Rockies even if he wanted to. Horses and supplies didn’t grow on trees.
Not that he would leave until his score with Rhey Debussy and Adeline was settled. He was in debt to them for taking care of him after he was brought to St. Louis, but all the time they had entertained an ulterior motive. They were desperate for the money they believed he would inherit, and in cold deliberation had plotted how to steal the funds and dispose of him. Somehow he must get even with them.
Then there was the problem of Jacques Debussy. Contacting the proper federal authorities should be adequate. He didn’t have a personal grudge against the elder brother, but as matter of principle he would do all in his power to stop the influx of slaves.
He took another sip, then stiffened. Off to one side were two men, trappers by their attire, who were studying him and whispering excitedly. Why? He lowered the mug and stared at them, expecting them to come over and announce themselves. To his chagrin one of them turned and hastily exited the tavern while the second man blended into the merrymakers and was lost in the press of customers.
Damn it all! he fumed. What did it mean? He started to rise, acting on the assumption it could only be more trouble and intending to depart. Then it hit him. Why should he? He was sick and tired of running. Anger replaced his concern and he took his seat again. If those men were going to contact Debussy, let Debussy’s assassins come. He had met every challenge in the wilderness head-on and he would do the same here and now.
Another swallow of ale tingled his throat. He set the mug down and reclaimed the Hawken, which he had leaned on the back of his chair, and aligned the rifle on the top of the table with the muzzle pointing straight ahead. Next he loosened both pistols under his belt and the tomahawk and his butcher knife.
There. He was ready. If they came the fight would be the big story in the next day’s newspaper. Settling back, he slowly drank while scanning the patrons for anyone who might be observing him.
Minutes went by. After twenty he had finished his ale but refused to leave. He would make his stand right there and hang the consequences. After forty he began to consider that he might have been mistaken. And at the end of an hour he braced his chin in his palm and gloomily stared at the Hawken. If Debussy had men in the city they should have arrived by then.
In a way he was disappointed. Confronting them when he was ready was preferable to having them pick the time and location. Perhaps they wanted to shoot him in the back as he walked along a deserted street. Or maybe they were—
“Well look at this, boys. Who do we have here? As I live and breathe, it’s the great Grizzly Killer!”
Nate’s head snapped up at the first word and he recoiled in amazement. He became speechless with shock. For standing near his table were the very last people he would have expected to encounter in St. Louis, the very last people he wanted to encounter anywhere.
Standing in postures of haughty contempt, grinning in smug satisfaction as their eyes glowed with evil purpose, were the Ruxton brothers and Robert Campbell.