Three

Ordinarily Shakespeare McNair was not the jittery sort. With his age had come wisdom, and in his wisdom he had learned that every now and then life offered up unpleasant surprises and there was nothing any man could do to avoid them. They had to be taken in stride, met calmly and overcome patiently. Every living person had to swallow the bitter with the balm and pray everything worked out in the end.

Staying composed when under pressure was a trait Shakespeare prided himself on. So he was more than a little embarrassed when, because of his abiding affection for his companion, he blurted out a warning on seeing the undergrowth across the clearing move without first verifying there was a threat. For out of the brush, flapping mightily, popped a large raven.

Nate held his fire when he saw the black bird take wing. It uttered an irritated squawk as it banked above his head and soared off up over the pines. On passing above him the raven dropped something from its big beak, and the object fell almost at Nate’s feet. He glanced down, not knowing what to expect, but certainly not expecting to see a grisly, stringy eyeball dotted with peck marks. A human eyeball, no less. “Dear Lord!” he breathed, and hurried to the spot where the raven had first appeared. Extending the Hawken barrel, he parted the weeds.

First to hit Nate was the awful stench. Gasping, he turned his head aside long enough to gulp fresh air, then leaned forward to stare at the partially decomposed body of Harold Pointer lying sprawled on its back. Pointer had been stripped naked and mutilated. His stomach had been tom open and his innards ripped out and left draped over the ground. His throat had been slit wide. And there were other things that had been done, unspeakable things only the most diabolical of minds could have conceived, horrible things no human being should have to see.

“The poor kid,” Shakespeare said over Nate’s shoulder. He had seen worse in his time, but not much worse.

“About five days or so ago, you figure?” Nate asked, holding his breath so he could edge a bit closer and search the surrounding area. Not a single one of Pointer’s clothes was anywhere around. Every last article the man possessed had been stolen.

“About that,” Shakespeare said, backing away to scan the clearing. “I’ll find which way they went.”

Nate also backed away until he could breathe freely again. He tried to remember the exact town in which Pointer’s folks lived so he could send them word of their son’s death, but for the life of him he couldn’t recall what it was. “We should bury him,” he remarked forlornly.

“Whatever for? Let Nature take its course,” Shakespeare said from over near the stream.

“He deserves a burial. He was our friend.”

“If he hadn’t started to rot away, I’d agree,” Shakespeare said, looking up. “There isn’t much I’m squeamish about, but touching rotten flesh is one of them.”

“Then I’ll plant him myself.”

Shakespeare sighed. “Hell. You and your principles. All right. I’ll help. But don’t blame me if I’m a mite whiffy for a spell.”

The burial was a nightmare. Since they lacked proper digging implements, they resorted to thick limbs sharpened at one end to pry apart clods of earth. The ground was hard, the chore grueling, raising blisters on their palms and fingers. But the digging was a picnic compared to the job of getting the corpse from the weeds to the hole. Nate tried grabbing an ankle and pulling, but the soft flesh was like mush in his grip and he wound up with gory bits clinging to his hand. Shakespeare came up with a better idea; they used the limbs to flip the corpse over and over until they rolled it into the grave. Then they took turns covering the body so that neither of them would become too queasy from the smell.

“There,” Nate said when the last bit of loose dirt was on the pile. “Now he can rest in peace.”

“You do know, don’t you, that some animal is likely to come along, dig him up, and make dog of him?” Shakespeare said.

“No matter. We’ll have done what we can. That’s all that counts.”

“Not quite,” Shakespeare said. “There’s still the matter of the bastards who did this.” He returned to the stream and squatted, scrutinizing the tracks. “They’re a canny bunch, I’ll give them that. After doing their dirty work, they rode smack into the water. The current has long since washed away their prints so there’s no telling if they went back out the valley the same way they came in or whether they continued on to the west.”

“That’s odd.”

“What is?”

“I’ve never heard tell of a war party going to so much trouble to hide their trail before. Indians are proud of the coup they count. Sometimes they leave sign just so others will know who did it.”

“Maybe these were shy,” Shakespeare said.

“Or maybe,” Nate declared, “they knew there were more trappers in this region.” His eyes met his mentor’s, and without another word they hurried to their horses, mounted, and headed back down the valley until they came to a creek that fed into the stream. This they followed northward for over five miles, into a verdant paradise in the midst of a ring of towering peaks.

“Jenks should be here somewhere,” Shakespeare said. “If the war party didn’t find him too.”

Anxiously they searched, going up one stream and down another, always on the lookout for hostiles. They were nearing a fork when Nate spied a stretch of churned-up earth, and as he trotted forward his stomach muscles tightened. The hoofprints were so plain there was no mistake. “Seven riders. Three or four days ago.”

The tracks took them to the northwest, to a meadow. They were still a ways off when Shakespeare spotted a telltale black circle in the grass near the water. “Did they make that fire, or did Jenks?”

Nate galloped to the site, and was off the stallion before the horse stopped moving. Touching the charred pieces of wood confirmed the campfire was days old. He discovered a number of moccasin prints of different sizes, and deduced that considerable activity had taken place.

Shakespeare had gone to a nearby cottonwood. “Here’s where Jenks had his horses tied,” he said, indicating a line of hoofprints and patches of flattened grass where the animals had bedded down at night.

“But where is he?” Nate wondered, fearing the worst. Hawken in hand, he walked in a loop, probing the high grass for the body he was certain must be there. When he found nothing on his first sweep, he conducted others, widening the loop each time. He canvassed an area fifty yards in diameter, and was both relieved and puzzled when the hunt proved fruitless. “Maybe they took Jenks with him,” he speculated as he walked up to Shakespeare.

“Could be. The Blackfeet, those scoundrels, like to take captives to their villages to impress the women and the sprouts. They hold grand feasts, and the high point of their festivities is when they torture their captives to death.” Nate was already painfully aware of the Blackfoot custom. Once he’d fallen into their hands and been forced to run a gauntlet, to dash between two rows of armed warriors, an ordeal which he had barely survived.

“The tracks go into the stream again so we can’t follow them,” Shakespeare said.

“We have to see about Pepin,” Nate said urgently. “If they haven’t gotten him yet, he has to be warned.” They both mounted and rode in a northeasterly direction. Dense timber proved a frustrating barrier, slowing them down, and it was late afternoon by the time a new mountain range hove into sight. Nate, again in the lead, was emerging from cover into the open when the glint of sunlight off metal in the high grass sixty yards away gave him a fraction of a second in which to throw himself from the saddle. He heard a rifle crack, even as he yelled, “Take cover!”

Shakespeare had not been caught napping. He’d seen the gleam of light almost at the same time and sprung from his white horse. Keeping bent at the waist, he glided through the grass to where Nate was crouched. “You hit?”

“No. Whoever it is rushed his shot.” Nate stared at their horses, which had scattered but not fled far.

“It could be one of the warriors in the war party,” Shakespeare said. “We’d best kill him quick and make ourselves scarce before the rest show up.”

“You go left, I’ll go right,” Nate proposed, then did so, hugging the ground and parting the grass with exquisite care. He hadn’t gone more than twenty yards when movement to his left alerted him to someone creeping in the opposite direction, directly between McNair and him. It had to be the one who had shot at them, he realized. The man was making enough noise to rouse the dead, cracking dry stems underfoot and brushing loudly against every blade of grass he passed.

Nate flattened and crawled to intercept the creeping figure. Either the ambusher was incredibly careless, he reasoned, or the man was in an almighty big hurry. He couldn’t believe an Indian would act so stupidly, not when from earliest childhood warriors were taught how to use supreme stealth when necessary. A buckskin-clad form materialized. Nate froze, let go of the Hawken, and slowly drew his tomahawk.

The figure was pumping his limbs furiously, apparently trying to reach the horses.

Digging in his knees and toes, Nate waited until the man was directly abreast of his hiding place. Then, venting a Shoshone war whoop, he leaped up and pounced, aiming a terrific blow at the figure’s head. In the nick of time he recognized the startled, upturned face below him and managed to swerve the tomahawk just enough to one side to miss the man’s skull.

“King!” the man blurted out.

“Jenks!” Nate responded, appalled at how close he had come to splitting the greenhorn’s head in half. “What the hell are you doing taking a shot at us?’’

“I didn’t know,’’ the younger man declared, sitting up. Perspiration beaded his smooth brow. He was a lean youth, only seventeen years of age, with square, bony shoulders and knobby knees. His brown eyes brimming with moisture, he pushed upright and exclaimed, “Thank God! Thank God it’s you!”

From out of the grass a few feet behind the greenhorn rose Shakespeare, wearing a wry grin. “I can’t say I think much of the way you greet your friends.”

“Forgive me,” Jenks said, smiling idiotically at both of them. “I didn’t stop to take a good look. I just saw riders coming and figured it was them.”

“Who?” Nate asked, although he already knew.

“I never saw them clearly,” Jenks said, and unexpectedly commenced shaking, trembling from head to toe.

“Are you all right?” Shakespeare inquired. He put a hand on the young man’s arm and could feel the arm quiver.

“Just glad is all.” Jenks exhaled loudly while holding out his quaking hands. “I reckon I’d better sit down.” He sank onto his buttocks and stared at his rifle. “To think I almost killed one of you!”

“Shucks. You never came close,” Shakespeare said to relieve the greenhorn’s anxiety. “You were aiming at Nate, but I think you hit a squirrel over in the next valley.”

Laughter burst from Jenks, nervous laughter, the kind typical of a person so overwrought he desperately needed to release his pent-up emotions.

Nate squatted and waited for their trapping partner to fall silent. “Why don’t you tell us what happened?” he prodded. “Talking might help calm you down.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Jenks said. “Three days ago, about sunset, some men showed up at my camp. I’d been off gathering the last of my traps, and was late getting back. It was almost dark, and when I first saw them through the trees I figured it was you coming to fetch me as we’d agreed. Then I heard voices, but I couldn’t quite make out what was being said or even what language it was. I stopped and tried to get closer, but I must have made some noise because the next I knew one of them let out a yell and took a shot at me and five or six of them came running toward me.” Jenks licked his lips. “I don’t know how the hell I got out of there in one piece. All I remember is dropping my traps and running until I couldn’t run any further.”

“Did they come after you?”

“I should say they did! I’d collapsed on a log when I heard them moving through the pines behind me.” Jenks shook again. “So I snuck off and spent the next hour working my way up the valley until I was sure they had given up.” He paused. “The next morning I went back and they were gone. So were all my pelts, all my gear, all my horses, everything.”

“At least you’re alive,” Shakespeare said. “Which makes you a far sight luckier than Pointer.”

“Harry?” Jenks said in alarm, gazing all around. “I just noticed. Where is he? What happened to him?”

“The same band that tried to kill you got to him first,” Nate explained. He didn’t deem it appropriate to go into much more detail. “We buried him earlier.”

“Oh, God,” Jenks said, blanching.

“Don’t fall to pieces on us, Lester,” Shakespeare advised. “We all need to keep our wits about us because the band might still be in this area.”

“What do we do?” Jenks asked stridently.

“Shakespeare and I will rearrange our packs and free up one of the pack animals for you to ride,” Nate said. “Then we have to check on Pepin.” He noted the position of the sun. “It’s too late to reach him today. We’ll have to make camp in an hour or so and go on in the morning.”

“Is that smart? I mean, shouldn’t we push on through the night?”

Nate shook his head. “Riding at night is dangerous enough without having a string of packhorses to keep an eye on. And the trail Pepin took is one that would give a bighorn sheep second thoughts.”

“I just hope we reach him in time,” Jenks said.

“You’re not the only one.”

Nate tossed and turned all night long. Occasionally he would lie and listen to Shakespeare’s snoring and marvel at the mountain man’s iron constitution. In the morning he was up first, and had all the horses ready to go before the other two woke up.

The cocky Canadian had insisted on trapping an extremely remote area, so secluded there was only one trail in and out and so high up the temperature dipped to near freezing at night even in the spring. The game trail was easy enough to locate, but the ascent, winding up a series of switchbacks with sheer cliffs on one hand and steep rock walls on the other, was nerve-racking. At times barely enough space existed for the horses to walk, and Nate would peer down at the boulder-strewn ground hundreds of feet below and try not to imagine what it would be like to fall and be dashed to pieces.

Eventually the trail brought them to a plateau abundant with wildlife. Elk, deer, and bighorn sheep sign were everywhere, and lesser animals were constantly sighted.

Nate had no sooner cleared the crest than he saw a spiral of gray smoke a half-mile off. Was it from Pepin’s fire? he asked himself. Or had the war party beaten them there? He waited for his companions to join him, then held out his lead rope to Lester Jenks. “I’m riding on ahead with Shakespeare. You come on after and bring all the packhorses.”

Jenks blinked. “I don’t much like the notion of being left behind.”

“If the war party is already here, we can’t very well outrun them hauling our pack animals along,” Nate explained. “This way, if Shakespeare and I see it isn’t safe, we’ll gallop back and let you know not to come on in.”

“What if there’s a fight? I’ll miss out.”

Nate almost grinned. This from a man who had never once fought Indians? “If there are hostiles, and if they spot us, you’ll have more than your share of fighting. Trust me.” Handing over the rope, he rode forward at a walk until Shakespeare came alongside him. Together they brought their mounts to a gallop.

“I don’t see any tracks yet,” Shakespeare mentioned, surveying the ground.

A grassy field brought them to a thick forest, through which a crystal-clear stream flowed. They veered into the brush, using the thickets and undergrowth to screen their movements, but stayed within sight of the stream.

The voyageur had picked a wondrously picturesque spot for his camp. Nestled in an oval clearing at the base of an aspen-covered slope down which the stream wound like a glassy ribbon, it afforded protection from the wind and plenty of forage for horses. A lean-to had been constructed on the bank of a pool formed by a glittering waterfall. At this high altitude the air was crisp, invigorating. A striking azure sky completed the picture.

Nate spotted the five horses belonging to the Canadian right away, each staked out in the clearing and nipping at the sweet grass. He also saw pelts ready to be transported and supplies piled near the lean-to. All appeared serene, but as Nate had long ago learned, appearances could be deceiving. Reining up behind a spruce, he glanced at McNair. “I’ll go on in alone, just in case.”

“Why you?”

“I’m younger.”

“So?”

“I run faster when someone is after my scalp.”

“This is a hell of a note. A whippersnapper like you throwing my age back at me.” Shakespeare frowned. “My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, and makes as healthful music.”

“Maybe so. But now isn’t the proper time to put it to the test,” Nate said. Bracing the stock of the Hawken on his leg and holding the barrel so the rifle slanted upward, he went around the spruce and made a beeline for the lean-to. The five horses all looked up, but displayed no alarm. He was within yards of the pool when he heard loud whistling in a stand of pines beyond, a lively tune he knew to be Mon canot d’ecorce, or “My Birch-bark Canoe,” a popular voyageur song Pepin was inordinately fond of singing. Sure enough, a few seconds went by and out of the trees strolled the man himself, bearing an armful of firewood.

Pepin was characteristic of his hardy breed: short, stocky, and as powerfully built as a bull. A red woolen cap crowned his shock of curly hair. He wore a fringed buckskin shirt, which was likewise common among American free trappers, but the deerskin leggings which ran from his ankles to a bit above his knees, leaving his thighs exposed, and the short skirt, or breechcloth, he wore were both distinctly Canadian. So was the red sash about his waist, complete with a large beaded bag that resembled somewhat the possibles bags of the mountain men.

Pepin had no sooner emerged than he looked up, spied Nate, and broke into a broad grin. “Mon ami! Allo! Allo! Depuis quand êtes-vous ici?” He ran around the end of the pool, the flat soles of his moccasins slapping on the earth.

“Hello, Pepin,” Nate greeted him. “It’s good to see you again.”

“And you, my friend!” Pepin declared, reverting to English as he dumped the wood by the lean-to and hurried over to the black stallion. “Give us your paw!”

Nate bent over to shake and nearly lost his perch, so vigorously did the voyageur pump his arm. It was impossible to know Pepin and not like him, and Nate liked the man a lot. Pepin was so full of energy, so full of life itself, that his robust attitude was often contagious. “How has the trapping been?”

“C'est formidable!” Pepin answered. “Just great. I have over two hundred prime pelts.”

“Shakespeare was right. I should have known.”

“What?”

Sliding down, Nate gazed out over the vast plateau. “Have you had any trouble?”

“Difficulty? Non! No.” Pepin’s weathered brow creased. “Why do you ask, my friend? What is it you are holding back?”

“Just a moment,” Nate said. Turning, he waved an arm so Shakespeare would know all was well. Then he draped the same arm over the Canadian’s wide shoulders and said, “I bear bad news.”

Pepin listened attentively to the story of Pointer’s horrid fate and Jenks’s misfortune, flushing a deep scarlet the whole while. When Nate finished, Pepin slammed a fist into his open palm and gave expression to a long string of oaths in French. He was still cursing vehemently when Shakespeare and Jenks arrived.

“Thank goodness the murdering devils didn’t get to you,” the youth told the voyageur. “We feared we wouldn’t get here in time.”

“This is terrible, most terrible!” Pepin said in his animated way. “The Indians in this country are too brazen, too vicious. They deserve to be hunted down and made to pay.”

“By now the war party might be many miles away,” Shakespeare said.

“So?” Pepin touched the tomahawk at his belt. “In Canada we would never let such a foul act go unpunished! It boils the blood to think of it!”

Nate, busy starting a fire, looked at the fiery trapper. “If it’s the same bunch I saw, there are nine of them and only four of us. We’d be committing suicide if we went after them.”

“Are we yellow?” Pepin said gruffly. “I say we teach these savages a lesson and get back all of the hides and horses that were stolen. I say we kill each and every one of the braves responsible.”

“I’m with you!” Jenks cried.

Nate, with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, saw that his real troubles were just beginning.