Two

There wasn’t a trapper alive who had more experience with grizzlies than Nate King. By a curious quirk of fate it had been his lot to run up against the fierce beasts time after time, which had resulted in his earning the Indian name of Grizzly Killer. Among the Shoshones, his adopted people, his prowess as a slayer of grizzlies was almost legendary. Yet ironically, as Nate was often the first to admit, usually he had prevailed more by accident than design.

Nate regarded the great brutes with deep respect, if not outright dread. Whenever he saw one, if possible he made it a point to head the other way just as fast as his legs or his mount could carry him. The times he had been forced to fight were those where no other recourse was open to him.

Such as now.

The sight of the grizzly lumbering forward was enough to cause the bravest soul to flee, but Nate stood his ground. He knew how destructive grizzlies could be, how they would wantonly tear apart everything they found in a trapper’s camp, and he could ill afford to let that happen. There were his horses and supplies to think of, not to mention the pelts he had worked so hard to gather. So, firming his grip on the Hawken, he took a few strides, putting himself between the grizzly and his plews. “Shakespeare,” he said urgently. “We have more company.”

The older man whirled. “Damn! Now we know what took a swipe at Brutus!” He moved up beside his young friend, admiring the determined set of Nate’s jaw. At times such as this, Shakespeare was proud to have been the man who taught Nate all there was to know about wilderness survival. Shakespeare had known many frontiersmen over the years, but none had taken so naturally to the arduous life than the one he fondly regarded as the son he had never had. “If he charges, go for the head,” he cautioned.

“A heart shot is better,” Nate said. Having carved up a lot of grizzlies for their hides, he’d seen firsthand that their brains were protected by enormous skulls as well as layers upon layers of thick muscles.

“We can’t get a good heart shot from head-on,” Shakespeare noted.

“Try for the eyes, then.”

The grizzly slowly advanced as they talked. It had its ponderous head low to the ground, its nostrils quivering, as if it was still on Brutus’s scent. Steely sinews rippled under a lustrous coat. Long claws glinted in the sunlight. Here was the most massive killer known on the North American continent, its height at the shoulders being five feet, its length over seven feet, and its weight in the vicinity of fifteen hundred pounds. A huge hump, characteristic of the species, bulged above the front shoulders.

The horses had seen the bear and were working themselves into a frenzy, snorting and stomping and tugging at their tethers.

“On my cue,” Shakespeare said, tucking his rifle to his right shoulder.

“Wait,” Nate said. “I want to try something.” He would rather run naked through a briar patch than have to fight another grizzly. In desperation he resorted to a tactic that worked on lesser beasts, but which he had never yet witnessed do any good against the terrors of the Rockies; he took a long stride, lifted his arms, and screeched like an enraged banshee while jumping madly up and down.

The effect on the grizzly was interesting. It halted, a paw half raised, and stared at the screaming human. Never had it beheld the like, and in the depths of its dull mind it didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t afraid, since fear had no meaning to a creature capable of shredding an elk’s neck with a single blow. Instead it was puzzled, as it would be if it came on the spoor of an animal it had never seen before. Humans were familiar to this bear as timid things that fled at its approach. The antics of this one, though, were so different as to give it pause.

Nate jumped higher, yelled louder. He flapped his arms, hoping against hope he could drive the grizzly off and avoid a bloody clash.

The bear lowered its foot and glanced from the humans to the horses and back again. It had never tasted the flesh of either and so was not impelled by its stomach to go after them. And since ninety percent of its actions were motivated by its belly, the grizzly began to depart, to go find quieter morsels, but as it did, the wind shifted and abruptly the grizzly registered the tantalizing scent of rabbit blood. Blood of any kind always had the same effect. Instantly the bear’s mouth watered and there were rumblings in its paunch, the age-old signal for the grizzly to do one thing and one thing alone—attack.

Shakespeare’s keen eyes saw the bear’s front claws digging into the soil. “Look out!” he shouted. “Here it comes!”

As if shot from a cannon the grizzly hurtled straight at them, moving with astonishing speed for such a heavy animal. When aroused, grizzlies were capable of moving as fast as a horse, and this one was a credit to its kind.

Nate was sweeping the Hawken level when Shakespeare’s rifle boomed. The bear’s head jerked, blood spurted from its brow, but it never slowed a whit. Nate sighted on the monster’s right eye, then realized the grizzly would be on them before he could fire. “Move!” he cried, and did exactly that, leaping to the left just as the bear raced between them. Perhaps dazed by the lead ball, it made no attempt to claw them, but barreled into their supplies and pelts, scattering belongings every which way.

Pivoting on a heel, Nate aimed as the grizzly slid to a halt and turned. The beast was broadside to him for a few seconds, all the time he needed to fire into its chest, going for its heart.

At the retort the grizzly arched its spine and roared, its mouth agape, its lips curled up over its fearsome teeth. Seared by acute agony the likes of which it had never felt before, the bear focused on the cause of its pain and charged again.

Nate had his back to the tree. In pure reflex he tossed the Hawken aside and drew both pistols, cocking the flintlocks as he did. The bear was coming for him like a bolt of furry lightning. He had no time to think. He had no time to plan. All he could do was what he did, fire both pistols at point-blank range and vault to the right. His shoulder was struck a resounding blow that tumbled his head over heels. His head hit a stone or other hard object, and for several seconds the world was spinning like a child’s top. When the spinning ceased he was lying on his back, the empty flintlocks clutched tight, while directly above him was the hind end of one of the horses.

“Son, are you all right?”

Strong hands gripped Nate’s shoulders and assisted him in sitting up. Blankly he stared at the grizzly, lying slumped on its stomach next to the tree, blood oozing from the holes where its eyes had been. The impact had partially cracked its skull, and a bubbly froth was trickling from the fracture.

“I reckon the damn thing killed itself,” Shakespeare declared. “Busted its own head wide open.” He cackled and gave Nate a smack on the arm. “I never saw the like.”

“Me neither,” Nate mumbled. Grunting, he slowly stood.

“How many does this make now?” Shakespeare asked.

“I’ve lost count.”

“Wait until the Shoshones hear. You keep this up and they’re liable to start thinking there must be something supernatural about you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You know as well as I do that Indians are not only deeply religious in their own way, they’re awful superstitious too. They’re forever calling on the Great Mystery or the Great Spirit for help, and they believe in things like guardian spirits, animal spirits, and such.” Shakespeare paused. “Course, we do pretty much the same thing, only we call on God and believe we’re looked after by guardian angels. When you think about it, the white and the red cultures are more alike than most realize.”

Nate walked to the dead giant and shook his head in amazement at his deliverance. By all rights he should have been slain. Once again Providence had seen fit to spare him, although he had no idea why. Sinking onto the log, he worked at reloading the pistols and his rifle. After a while he realized his friend was staring at him and he looked up. “Yes?”

“What’s bothering you, son? You’re a mite flushed.”

“Wouldn’t you be after what just happened?” Nate extracted the ramrod from his rifle. “These close scrapes always leave me flustered. My blood is pumping so hard I can practically hear it.”

“Which is perfectly normal.” Shakespeare sat down and began reloading his gun. “Why, I recollect the time I was up in the geyser country, hunting elk. I shot a big old bull and tracked his blood trail deep into the woods. Hadn’t no more than set down my rifle and drawn my butcher knife than there was this terrific roar and a grizzly twice the size of this one came rushing toward me out of the brush.”

“Twice the size of this one?” Nate asked skeptically.

“This took place when I was about your age,” Shakespeare said, unruffled. “Bears were bigger back then.”

“The tall tales must have been bigger too.”

Shakespeare arched an eyebrow. “Do you want to hear this yarn or not?”

“I’m all ears.”

“All right then. Anyway, there I was, standing next to this dead elk with just my knife in hand, and here came this snarling grizzly. It was too close for me to try and run away, and there wasn’t time for me to scoop up my rifle, take aim, and shoot.”

“So what did you do?” Nate asked when McNair stopped.

“That’s the strange part. To this day I don’t know what made me do what I did.” Shakespeare made a show of fiddling with his ammo pouch.

“Which was?”

“Well, before I tell you, you have to keep in mind that this here bear was coming straight toward the front of the elk. And what I did was, I grabbed hold of the top antler and lifted with all my might, raising the head and the whole rack clear off the ground.” Shakespeare gazed off into the distance. “That elk had the biggest rack I ever did see.”

“And? And?” Nate prompted.

“Why, the dam fool bear couldn’t stop and ran smack into the antlers. Must of knocked me a good twenty-five feet. When I sat up, there wasn’t a scratch on me. And there was that grizzly, stuck fast with those antlers ripped deep into its neck and face. The noise that thing made! It spooked every creature for fifty miles.”

“Did the bear die?”

“Not then. It tore loose and went off into the trees without another look at me. The thing was bleeding like a stuck pig. Likely bled to death later on, but I didn’t go see.”

“Your point?”

“My point is that I was so rattled I sat there shaking for the better part of an hour. Just shook and shook like an aspen leaf, and nothing I did helped.” Shakespeare smiled. “Being scared is nothing to be ashamed of. Every man is at one time or another. It’s how you handle the fear that counts. In that regard, you have no cause to be ashamed.”

“Thanks,” Nate said sincerely.

Shakespeare studied the kill. “It would be a shame to let a fine specimen like this go to waste. I suppose we’ll have to spend the rest of the day skinning it.” He smacked his lips. “Which isn’t all that bad a proposition. Painter meat can’t shine with this, but meat is meat to a hungry man and I’ve always been rather fond of bear steaks myself. How about it?”

“Bear meat will do fine.”

So the remainder of the afternoon and evening was devoted to dressing the grizzly. Its hide was removed intact, and Shakespeare insisted on having Nate take possession since Nate, as Shakespeare put it, “was the one the bear seemed to like the most.” Since they had no caskets in which to put the oil, they left that task unattended. Shakespeare made a point of carving out the heart, which was as big as the heart of a large ox, and added it to the thick slabs of meat they had selected for their supper.

“Ever eaten bear heart, son?”

“Can’t say as I have.”

“I’ll share with you. Heart meat is a delicacy too delicious to pass up. Got hooked on it once up in Flathead country when I shot a deer that was in poor order. Sickly thing it was, and the meat was terrible. But I was starving and needed to eat something, so I roasted the heart and some of the other organs.” Shakespeare scrunched up his face. “The liver about made me gag, but the heart was so tasty I wished I’d had five or six more. Ever since I’ve been a heart man.”

“I’ll bet you’re partial to tongues as well.”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Shakespeare responded. “Buffalo tongue in particular. The first time ...” He broke off, his eyes narrowing. “You danged upstart.”

“I beg your pardon?” Nate said innocently.

“Don’t play dumb. You landed a broadside fair and square, and I’ll take my licks without complaint.” Shakespeare laughed lightly, then quoted, “I am a very foolish fond old man, fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less. And to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind.”

“I could have told you that.”

“Twice! Twice!” Shakespeare clutched at his chest. “You wound me to the quick, young sir! And to think that you were weaned at the nipple of my wisdom!”

“William Shakespeare wrote that?”

“No. I just made it up. Wasn’t it grand?”

Both men roared.

That night, seated by the crackling fire, warm and with a full belly, Nate listened to his mentor read from the thick book McNair never went anywhere without, a rare collected edition of the famous playwright’s works. This night Shakespeare read from Hamlet. Later, after they had turned in and Nate was on his back, his head propped in his hands and staring thoughtfully at the myriad of sparkling stars, he asked, “Do you think Hamlet did the right thing?’’

“In what respect? Treating Ophelia as he did? Acting mad? Which?”

“Neither. In taking so long to decide what to do. If he’d killed the king outright, he would have spared himself a heap of grief.”

“Think so?” Shakespeare shifted, his eyes almost luminous in the glow of the fire.

“Don’t you? All that agonizing was a waste. When a man sees that something has to be done, he should go out and do it and not worry himself to death over it.”

“If only life were that easy,” Shakespeare said wistfully.

Nate was to have bitter occasion to remember his words later on, but for now he closed his eyes and drifted into an undisturbed slumber that lasted until the chirping of sparrows awakened him well before dawn. Throwing off his buffalo robe, he rose and went into the bushes. He yawned loudly, scratched his thick beard, and was hitching at his leggings when he saw something which instantly brought him fully awake.

A gray wolf sat on a knoll ten yards away staring curiously at the two-legged oddity that wore the hides of deer on its body and the fur of beaver on its head. The faint scent of roasted meat had brought the wolf close to the camp, but its natural wariness had prevented it from drawing any nearer.

Nate’s first reaction was to reach for a flintlock. Then he hesitated, sensing the wolf was no threat. Feeling exposed with his leggings down around his knees, he quickly finished adjusting them and tightened his wide leather belt. When next he looked at the knoll, the wolf was gone.

Forest creatures were that way. Ordinarily they lived quiet lives, going about their daily routines as stealthily as they knew how, the predators because without stealth they would rarely catch the prey they needed to sustain themselves, and the prey because if they made too much noise they might attract the unwanted attention of a predator. There were exceptions, as there were to every rule. Grizzlies often plodded along heedless of the noise they made; they had no natural enemies, and they ate anything and everything that caught their eye, from roots to wild fruits to living things.

Nate reflected on this as he strolled back to his bedding. There were those who would view him as peculiar for having forsaken the security of life in New York City for the savage uncertainties of the mountains, but he would not give up his life in the wild for all the gold in the world. The element of constant danger added a certain zest to a man’s life, and made him appreciate each and every moment of his life that much more.

“Morning, Horatio,” Shakespeare greeted him.

“About time you got up. You’re turning into a lazy layabout,” Nate said, nodding to the east where the first pale rays of the rising sun were visible. “Half the day is wasted.”

“When a man has lived as many years as I have, he’s entitled to sleep in late once in a while.”

Within half an hour they had broken camp and were riding northeastward at a slow pace so as not to tire their fully laden pack animals. Nate had the lead, the Hawken across his thighs. “Refresh my memory,” he said at one point. “Is it Jenks or Pointer we collect next?”

“Pointer, I do believe,” Shakespeare said.

“Let’s hope he remembered that we agreed to head on home about this time and he has all his traps in.”

“If he doesn’t, no harm done. We’ll lend a hand.” Shakespeare skirted a pine. “It’s easy to lose track of time out here. One day is so much like the rest that they all become a blur after a while.”

“Until the first snow.”

“True enough.”

Their course took them toward a row of stately mountains whose majestic peaks reared to the very clouds. High up a steep, rocky slope they climbed, to a pass which would take them to a lush valley. They were well into the sunlit pass when Nate spotted impressions in the ground and abruptly reined up. “I don’t like the looks of this.”

“What is it?” Shakespeare called.

Swinging down, Nate knelt and examined a series of unshod hoofprints made within the past week or so. “Indians,” he announced. “Seven or more, heading into the valley.”

“Maybe it was the same bunch you saw,” Shakespeare guessed.

“Maybe,” Nate said, although he doubted that was the case. The band he’d seen had been heading due south. This party had been going due north, days ago. If it was the same band, then for some reason they had turned around at some point and swung a little to the east, then made to the south. Such aimless meandering made no sense. Rising, he stared at the end of the pass. “What concerns me most is whether they spotted Pointer.”

“We’d better hurry. And keep your eyes peeled.”

The mouth of the pass widened out onto a curved shelf overlooking the valley proper. Here Nate halted to scour the countryside. A bald eagle was soaring over the high grass flanking the blue stream, and to the east several cow elk were browsing. No smoke marred the scenic picture, nor was there any sign of Pointer’s camp.

“He must be at the west end of the valley,” Shakespeare said.

A serpentine game trail brought them to the valley floor. Nate was riding on the south bank of the stream when he saw hoofprints in the soft earth at the water’s edge. Halting, he checked, then declared, “It’s the same bunch. They went this way.”

“Damn.”

At a trot they proceeded into dense timber, now and again coming on more of the week-old tracks. At length they came to a beaver pond. The dam showed evidence of recent repair. Close by the opposite shore was a large lodge, and as the two trappers watched, a young beaver swam from the shore to the lodge and disappeared under the water with a slap of its flat tail.

“This would be the first place I’d lay some traps if I was trapping this neck of the woods,” Shakespeare said somberly.

Nate poked his heels into the stallion. He was growing more concerned by the minute, and he prayed his fears were unjustified. He thought of Harold Pointer, an amiable eighteen year-old from Illinois, and of Pointer’s parents, who were patiently waiting for their son to return with the money they needed to save their farm from the auction block, and he wanted to curse but didn’t.

Shakespeare was equally anxious about the young trapper. He’d known literally hundreds of hopeful greenhorns who had come to the Rockies bound and determined to make their fortunes in the fur trade, the majority of whom had wound up dead, victims of their ignorance and their brashness. He always tried to warn them. He always stressed the hazards a trapper faced. But whatever he said invariably went in one ear and out the other. They were young; they were full of vim and vinegar; they were invincible, in their estimation; and they knew better than some old geezer who sported more wrinkles than a dried prune. The only way they would learn was the hard way.

A clearing materialized ahead, so Nate slowed and placed a thumb on the hammer of his Hawken. He glimpsed a black circle that had to be an old campfire, but no other sign that anyone had ever been there. Stopping at the tree line, he slid off the stallion and tied his horses to low limbs. Then, rifle leveled, he walked into the open. There were horse tracks everywhere. And footprints. Nate bent down to inspect a set, turning as he did, and involuntarily stiffened when he heard his mentor bellow.

“Behind you!”

Straightening, Nate spun as the brush erupted in a flurry of crackling and snapping.