“Wolves,” Baxter declared, rising and drawing his flintlock.
Alarmed, his heart beating faster, Nate managed to prop himself on his elbows and glanced around. The light from the campfire illuminated the horses standing near the spring, their heads up, their nostrils flaring and their ears cocked. An encircling ring of murky vegetation enclosed their island of comforting warmth.
Shakespeare was in the act of chopping bear meat into a tin pan. He promptly placed the meat on the ground and grabbed his rifle.
The howling came from the north and west, a wavering, primitive carol that rose and fell in volume, attaining a crescendo of clamorous harmony only to drop to plaintive wails seconds later.
“Will they attack?” Baxter called out.
“I don’t think so,” Shakespeare answered. “They smell the bear meat. If their bellies were empty, they’d sneak up on us without a sound.”
Nate hoped the mountain man was correct. In his condition he wouldn’t be able to fend off an ornery mosquito, let alone a pack of wolves. The nerve-racking minutes dragged past, with phantom shadows moving about in the undergrowth and their eerie cries wafting to the heavens.
“Why won’t they go?” Baxter asked nervously.
Suddenly a large wolf materialized at the very edge of the trees, its eyes reflecting the firelight and glowing an unearthly red, its teeth exposed in a seeming canine grin. After calmly gazing from one man to another, the gray wolf at last whirled and melted into the night and with his departure the howling immediately stopped.
“Thank God,” Baxter said.
“That must have been the leader,” Shakespeare speculated.
“Why did he stare at us?” Baxter inquired.
“Curiosity. Maybe he wanted to get a good whiff of our scent.”
“Why?”
The frontiersman knelt by the fire. “Thaddeus, do I look like a wolf to you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then don’t expect me to be able to think exactly like a wolf. I may know the animals of the Rockies better than most, but no matter how close a man gets to Nature, he never becomes a complete part of it. There is a quality about a man that forever separates him from the animal kingdom.”
“His soul.”
“And his will. Never forget the human will,” Shakespeare said, and launched into a quote from his favorite author. “’Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are gardens; to the which our wills are gardeners: so that if we will plant nettles or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up thyme, supply it with one gender of herbs or distract it with many, either to have it sterile with idleness or manured with industry, why, the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills. If the balance of our lives had not one scale of reason to poise another of sensuality, the blood and baseness of our natures would conduct us to most preposterous conclusions.”
“I’m not certain I understand your meaning,” the Ohioan said.
“Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man,” Shakespeare quoted again, and chuckled.
Baxter glanced at Nate. “Does he go on like this often?”
“He has his spells.”
“Do you understand him?”
“I don’t try.”
Shakespeare started stirring the contents of the tin with his butcher knife and sang out loudly, “Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble.” He threw back his head and cackled uproariously.
“I’m glad I’m only staying a month,” Baxter said, and moved off to be by himself.
Grinning, Nate sank down and observed the celestial display. He sympathized with poor Baxter; sometimes he was at a total loss to explain his friend’s occasionally quirky behavior. Perhaps the reason for Shakespeare’s bizarre sense of humor lay in the life the man had led, over four decades of living in the wild in the almost exclusive company of animals and Indians. Such an existence was bound to change a person.
A meteor streaked across the sky, leaving a glowing trail in its wake.
Nate’s thoughts strayed to his wife, and he prayed she was faring well by herself. He’d been sorely tempted to bring her along, but Shakespeare had warned him they were venturing into Ute territory and had graphically detailed the bitter treatment she could expect from the Utes.
Far away a panther screamed.
Drowsiness assailed Nate, and he started to doze off once more. His eyes snapped open when he heard footsteps and smelled the delicious aroma of the stew.
“Here you are,” Shakespeare said, squatting.
“I’m so hungry I could eat a bear,” Nate joked, and smiled merrily.
The frontiersman shook his head, then slid his left arm under Nate’s shoulders. “Let me help you sit up.”
“I can manage.”
“I’ll help,” Shakespeare said.
Nate allowed himself to be propped in a sitting position, and the tin was placed on his lap. Even through the blankets he felt the heat.
“Eat it slow,” Shakespeare advised. “Chew on the bits of bear meat first, then sip of broth. If you eat too fast, you’ll be sick.” He offered his knife.
“I’ll use my own,” Nate stated, and pulled it out. He began eating slowly, convinced he’d never tasted such an exquisite meal.
“If you keep the stew down, you can have all you can eat for breakfast. By tomorrow afternoon I may even let you go for a walk.”
Nate looked into the older man’s kindly eyes. “I’ll miss you when you go.”
“Don’t bring that up again.”
“I can’t help how I feel. Why, in many respects you’re closer to me than my own father.”
“Your father never taught you the proper way to trap beaver.”
“Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not. I’m simply pointing out that we’ve shared experiences your father never could, experiences that have drawn us close together in a special bond of friendship. You’re being too hard on your father.” Shakespeare paused, his brow creased, deep in contemplation. “It’s not my habit to give advice unless someone asks, but in your case, since I care for you as if you were my own son, I’ll make an exception.”
Nate waited expectantly, astounded the mountain man would admit his affection.
“You should make the effort to go back to New York City one day,” Shakespeare stated. “The ghosts of your past still haunt you, and the only way you’ll put them to rest is by confronting them.”
“I’ll never go back there.”
“All I ask is that you consider the idea.”
“I will, but I’ll never go back.”
“Stubborn mule,” Shakespeare muttered, and walked to the fire.
Shrugging, Nate bent to his meal, relishing every morsel. When he was done a pleasant warmth filled his belly and made him irresistibly sleepy. He deposited the tin pan at his side, reclined on his back, and within seconds drifted into a peaceful sleep.
~*~
Bright sunlight on his eyelids awakened him and he sat up to find the sun hovering above the eastern horizon and his companions gathering their equipment to go check the trap line. His head felt much better, and without thinking he tried to stand. Dizziness brought him down again, and he pressed his palm to his forehead and groaned.
“Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn,” Shakespeare chided him. “I saw that. Stay put. I’ve already made coffee and several cakes, so you can relax and eat while we go freeze our feet.”
“You used some of the flour?” Nate asked in surprise. Normally, the frontiersman reserved their meager supply for special occasions.
“I figured you need proper food, not just salty jerky.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll fetch your meal,” Shakespeare said, and stepped closer.
“Let me do it,” Nate objected. “I can’t sit here the rest of my life. The sooner I get on my feet, the better. I promise I’ll go slow.”
“All right, but if you don’t you’ll be sorry.” Shakespeare wedged a hatchet under his belt, hefted his rifle, and headed eastward.
“Take care of yourself, brother,” Baxter said, and hiked after the frontiersman.
Nate watched them until they were lost from view. He glanced around the clearing and suddenly felt very alone, keenly aware of being a solitary human in the midst of a sea of often savage wildlife. To dispel the feeling he shook his head lightly and slowly pushed to his feet. The dizziness renewed its onslaught, but the attack wasn’t as severe. He stood still until his sense of balance was restored, then stepped to the fire.
The fragrant aroma of the coffee tantalized his nostrils, and he hurriedly poured a cup and sat haunched near the flames. Between the fire and the coffee he was warm and comfortable in no time, and consuming a couple of tasty cakes further contributed to his peace of mind.
Nate listened to the wind in the trees and the songs of various birds. He saw a large specimen with a black head and blue plumage alight in a tree to the south and eye him warily for several minutes before flying boldly into the camp and landing on the opposite side of the campfire. Such birds were quite common at higher elevations, and the trappers referred to them as mountain jays. Unlike their noisy blue cousins in the East, these jays were remarkably reticent. “Hello, bird,” he said to it, grateful for the company.
The jay hopped a few feet and tilted its head to inspect him from head to toe.
Impressed by the bird’s audacity, Nate tossed crumbs to the ground, and grinned as the jay greedily devoured the bits. If only all the creatures in the Rockies were so friendly! he mused, and kept feeding his visitor until all the crumbs were gone. “That’s all I have for now,” he said.
Digesting the information in regal silence, the jay flapped its wings and soared off over the trees.
Chuckling, Nate poured more coffee and settled down to sip to his heart’s content. Such tranquil moments were rare in the life of a mountaineer, and he intended to enjoy the interlude to the fullest.
Chipmunks scampered on boulders to the north, a rabbit hopped into sight near the spring, and a pair of ravens flew past overhead.
Nate contrasted the idyllic setting with the bear attack, and marveled at the wildly different faces Nature presented. One moment serene and beautiful, the next violent and ugly, Nature’s temperament seemed to change with the breeze. If Nature possessed a personality, she would be labeled as fickle. Not to mention dangerous.
He touched his head, feeling the scalp, and found no bumps or scratches. Only then did he fully appreciate the magnitude of his fortune. A cut shoulder blade and a nicked foot were nothing compared to the alternative. To escape relatively unscathed from an encounter with a grizzly was rare enough; to do so several times constituted uncommon good luck.
The great Grizzly Killer!
Nate laughed at the thought and swallowed more perfectly sweetened coffee. If only his family could see him now! They’d probably laugh themselves to death. All except his father, who would criticize him for being a consummate fool.
He recalled Shakespeare’s advice about returning to settle affairs, and he toyed with the notion of doing so. But if he did travel to the States, what about Winona? Dared he take her along? She might be overwhelmed by the experience and upset beyond measure. To someone attuned to the ways of the wilderness, the ways of the white race would border on madness. He decided to consider the matter at length later.
A horse whinnied loudly.
Nate glanced at the animals, contentedly grazing north of the spring, near the woods, and took another sip. If he felt up to the task later, he’d brush the mare and spend some time in her company. In a certain respect horses were a lot like people. If neglected, they tended to become moody. His mare was a headstrong animal prone to act up if not ridden or curried daily.
The same horse whinnied once more.
Belatedly, the coffee cup pressed to his lips, Nate realized the sound came from the southwest, not from the five animals near the spring. Alarmed, he shifted and stared into the forest.
Nothing moved.
He lowered the tin cup and straightened. Perhaps he’d been mistaken, he reasoned. Noises often echoed uncannily in the mountains. Perhaps one of their own horses had whinnied and the trees had reflected the sound from a different direction.
A flicker of motion proved otherwise.
Nate crouched and moved to his blankets. He retrieved the Hawken, slanted to the right, and hurried behind a wide maple. The exertion produced a slight nausea, forcing him to rest his forehead on the trunk for a few seconds until the queasy sensation subsided, and when he did look to the southwest again the blood in his veins seemed to run cold as he laid eyes on an approaching Indian armed with a bow and arrows.