Seven

Nate King was borne backwards as iron arms banded around his own, preventing him from using the Hawken in any way or from grabbing for a pistol. His lower legs smashed into the log, which sent him tumbling hard onto his shoulders on the other side. The contorted features of Black Badger were inches from his own, the gleam of intense hatred in the Piegan’s glittering eyes giving him the aspect of an enraged demon.

At the instant of slamming onto the ground, Nate’s finger involuntarily tightened on the trigger and the rifle went off, booming loud in his ears. The ball thudded into the ground. Nate tried to ram the barrel against the warrior’s head, but was unable to raise his arms high enough. A knee gouged into his groin, flooding him with agony. In order to defend himself he let go of the rifle, and the two of them commenced rolling back and forth as each sought to get a grip on the other’s throat.

Black Badger succeeded. Nate winced as fingernails bit into his skin, digging deep into his flesh. He gripped the brave’s wrists and pulled, but he might as well have been pulling on the wrists of a bronze statue. Black Badger seemed endowed with inhuman strength. Stark hatred, it was said, could do that.

Nate tried flipping the Piegan off, but it was like trying to flip a slippery eel. Black Badger knew just how to twist and shift to frustrate every attempt Nate made. And all the while his bony fingers dug ever deeper into Nate’s neck, cutting off Nate’s wind.

In the distance there were yells. Shakespeare and Pepin were on their way, but Nate knew they would arrive too late to be of any help. Only he could preserve his life. To do that, he abruptly stopped pulling on Black Badger’s arms and swooped a hand to his butcher knife.

Black Badger must have felt the movement, for he released his hold and clutched at Nate’s wrist just as the knife leaped free of its beaded sheath. Nate angled his arm to stab and was thwarted by his foe. Straining with all their might, they struggled for an advantage: Nate to break loose so he could use the knife, Black Badger to wrench Nate’s arm hard enough to compel Nate to drop the weapon.

A boulder settled the issue for them. They rolled against it, and Nate nearly cried out when his forearm smashed into the obstacle and the knife was knocked from his grasp. Thinking fast, he drew his tomahawk. Equally fast, Black Badger seized his left wrist.

Again they tussled. Nate wound up on top. He managed to tear his arm free and whipped the tomahawk overhead for a killing stroke. Black Badger lashed out with both legs, his heels lancing into Nate’s midsection. Nate was hurled backward, tripped, and fell. By the time he scrambled to a knee, the Piegan was on him again.

Both of Nate’s wrists were snatched and held as he was propelled rearward into a tree trunk. Nate put every ounce of energy he had into pushing the warrior from him, yet it wasn’t enough. It appeared he had finally met his match; more than his match.

Those were awful moments. Nate was nose to nose with a crazed fiend who thirsted for his blood, and he was powerless to keep the man at bay. He tried hooking a leg behind the Piegan and shoving, but Black Badger was too crafty for him. He tried ramming a knee into the warrior’s groin, but Black Badger avoided the blow. Nothing Nate did worked.

Then, unbidden, a memory flashed through Nate’s mind, a memory of a talk he’d had with Shakespeare some years ago, shortly after the pair met. They had been discussing hostiles, and Shakespeare had said, “As sure as you’re breathing, there will be times when you find yourself going at it tooth and nail with some brave who fancies your scalp. When those times come, remember this: Anything goes in a fight. There are no rules. There’s no right or wrong way to save your hide. Do whatever the hell you have to in order to survive. Biting, scratching, kicking, you name it. Whatever it takes.”

Those words were like soothing ointment on a burning wound. Nate remembered them as if they had been spoken the day before, and with the memory came action. Closing his eyes, he drew his head back, then brought his forehead crashing down onto the Piegan’s nose. Cartilage crunched. Blood gushed. The warrior’s grip weakened and Nate immediately shoved, throwing the brave from him. Black Badger stumbled but didn’t fall.

Nate stepped to the left, gaining room to move, drawing both pistols and cocking them as he did. Black Badger wiped a forearm across his eyes, snarled, and sprang. “Not this time,” Nate said, firing the right flintlock. The ball cored the warrior’s chest, spinning Black Badger completely around. The Piegan looked down at himself, blinked once, then unexpectedly pounced, his arm upraised, his lips curled in fury. Nate shot again, the left flintlock this time, and a hole appeared in the center of Black Badger’s brow. Carried along by its own momentum, the body toppled toward Nate, who nimbly darted out of the way. The thud of the warrior hitting the earth signified the end of the clash.

Nate was suddenly very tired. He walked to the log and sat down, his arms hanging. Through the brush came a pair of buckskin-clad figures who drew up short on spying him and the corpse. No one spoke for a bit.

Shakespeare lowered his Hawken and came forward. “You okay, son?”

“Never better.”

“Hurt anywhere?”

“Not a scratch.”

“You don’t sound so good.”

Sighing, Nate wagged a pistol at the Piegan. “I tried to do the right thing and look at what happened. I nearly got myself killed.”

“No one ever claimed doing right would be easy. Sometimes our head tells us it’s one way while our heart tells us it’s another. Choosing is where wisdom comes in.”

Pepin chuckled and swaggered to the dead Piegan. “Lord, McNair! Sometimes you’re worse than a Bible-thumper. King has no cause to be upset. He did what he had to do.” Pepin nudged Black Badger with his toe. “He just should have done it sooner and spared himself a lot of trouble.”

“Is it really that simple?” Nate asked.

“It is to me, mon ami,” Pepin said. “It’s useless to fret yourself sick over killing an enemy. Certainement, no one in their right mind ever wants to take another life, but if it has to be done, if you have no choice, then do the killing and forget about it and you’ll be better off. That is my outlook.”

Nate slowly stood, and went about collecting his scattered weapons. He had to search long and hard for the butcher knife, which lay hidden in thick grass. Then he reloaded his guns. His friends waited patiently, both well aware that it was unwise for a trapper to go anywhere unarmed. As they made their way toward the hillock, Nate asked, “What now?”

“What else? We go dig up our cache and head back,” Pepin said. “I don’t know about you, but I can hardly wait to see my woman again. She’ll have missed me so much, I don’t think we’ll come out of the lodge for a week.”

“The Nez Percé have their villages along the Snake at this time of year, don’t they?” Shakespeare commented. Pepin nodded. “That’s where I’ll find my sweet femme.”

“What about Jenks?” Nate brought up.

“What about him?” the voyageur responded.

“What are we going to do with his belongings?”

“We divide them up between us.”

“That wouldn’t be right.”

“Mon Dieu! Here you go again.”

“Jenks has kin back in the States,” Nate reminded the Canadian. “I say we sell his stuff for whatever it will bring at the upcoming Rendezvous and send the money back with the supply train to St. Louis. Someone can relay the funds to his family from there.”

“What a waste,” Pepin lamented. “We won’t get more than fifty dollars for his rifle and possibles.”

“Fifty or ten makes no difference.”

“You are a hard man, Grizzly Killer,” Pepin said, and cracked a grin. “But yes, we will do what is right by our former partner. Our consciences will be clean.” He clapped Nate on the shoulder. “Being around you is having a bad influence on me. At this rate, you’ll have me giving up drinking and women before I know it.” He glanced around. “But what about the Piegan mounts? Surely we’re not selling them too? Can’t we split them up among us?”

There was no reason not to, and Nate remarked as much.

“Good. There is hope for you yet.”

The storm struck shortly after they buried Lester Jenks. Nate had already gone after their own animals, so they moved all the horses into the shelter of the forest. A lean-to was erected to protect them from the elements, and while lightning blazed and thunder rumbled, they sat snug and dry in front of a tiny fire, each man lost in his own thoughts.

Dawn broke crisp and clear. They were in the saddle before the sun had completely risen, wending their way northward. With so many horses to manage, they were spaced out over forty yards or better. Pepin had the lead, Shakespeare was halfway back, and Nate brought up the rear with the four horses under his care.

The next day the same arrangement prevailed. As usual, wildlife was everywhere, and Nate lost himself in the wonders of the mountain paradise he’d chosen to call home. He never tired of studying wild creatures; they were a constant source of entertainment and instruction. Tiny scampering chipmunks or huge grazing elk, they all fascinated him equally.

On the third day, as they were crossing a luxuriant valley, Nate glanced to his right at hills bordering the grassy flatland and spotted a splash of red among the pines. Curious, he reined up. The shape of the red object was circular and didn’t appear to be moving. Since Nature never painted her handiwork such a bright crimson hue, it had to be something man-made.

“What’s the matter?” Shakespeare called.

“Come have a look-see,” Nate answered.

Pepin rode back also. “A flower, you think?” he said when he saw the red dot.

“Too big,” Nate replied.

“A marker of some kind, then?”

“There’s only one way to find out.” Nate gave his lead rope to Shakespeare. “Watch my horses don’t run off.”

“You be careful,” McNair cautioned. “It might be a Blackfoot trick. Once I saw a band fly an American flag so unsuspecting trappers would walk right into their camp, thinking they were friendly. A few dunderheads did too. They lost their hair so fast, they didn’t have time to blink.”

Resting the stock of the Hawken on his thigh, Nate galloped to the bottom of the hill. From there the red object was difficult to see, screened as it was by a thicket and pines. Dismounting, he ground-hitched the black stallion so he could ride off swiftly if he had to.

On panther’s feet Nate padded upward, always staying low to the ground to minimize the target he presented. He caught glimpses of the red object now and then, but not enough of a glimpse to tell him what it was. At length he squeezed through a thicket, and lying in an open patch of ground was what had drawn his interest: a red woolen cap, similar to Pepin’s.

Perplexed, Nate picked up the cap to inspect it and found dark stains made by dried blood. A lot of blood. Looking down, he saw red splotches dotting the earth, leading off into a bunch of spruce trees. Leveling the Hawken, he followed the dots.

In the valley below, the voyageur turned to McNair and asked, “What the hell is he doing? If he goes into those trees we will not be able to see him at all.”

The same thought had occurred to Shakespeare, and he did not like it one bit. “I taught him better than that,” he grumbled. Lashing his reins, he made for the hill. “Come on. We might as well stay close in case he gets into a fix again.”

“Oui. He does have a flair, does he not?”

“In faith, he is a worthy gentleman, exceedingly well read, and profited in strange concealments, valiant as a lion, and wondrous affable, and as bountiful as mines of India.”

“Are we talking about the same man?”

“Lord, Pepin. You’re a regular barbarian.”

“And loving every minute of my barbaric life.”

Shakespeare observed Nate disappear in the spruce stand and cursed under his breath. The younger man took too many needless risks. He rode faster, leaped from the saddle before his white horse fully stopped, and was off up the hill like a spry mountain goat. Since haste was called for, he didn’t try to move silently. Behind him came Pepin.

A faintly bluish tinge set the spruce trees apart from other nearby pines. They formed nearly even rows, an impenetrable phalanx to the unaided eye. Shakespeare saw Nate’s footprints next to a trail of blood, divined why Nate had gone into the stand, and advanced with his senses primed.

In the center the pines widened. There, prone in a patch of grass, lay the mutilated body of a trapper. Beside it squatted Nate, who looked up and frowned. “Another one,” he said grimly. “Just like Pointer.”

The similarities were obvious. Like Harold Pointer, this man had been stripped, his abdomen sliced wide, and his intestines strewn about. His neck had been severed. Additional atrocities had rendered the body as ghastly in every respect as Pointer’s.

“The Piegans, you figure?” Pepin speculated.

“You know better,” Nate said. “This was done within the past twenty-four hours. Look.” He pointed. “The ravens haven’t even gotten to the eyes yet.”

“Then who?” Pepin said, stepping forward. He saw the cap in Nate’s hand, stiffened, and grabbed it. “Can it be? This is the cap of a voyageur! But who?” Leaning down, he took hold of the dead man’s shoulder and slowly flipped the body over. On seeing the man’s face clearly, he exhaled loudly and clapped a hand to his brow. “Qu’est-ce que c’est? Labeau! What a terrible end, my old friend!”

“You know him?” Shakespeare said.

“Yes. Some years ago in Canada. We worked for the same company for a while, then went our separate ways. I’d heard that he ventured south, but I had no idea he was in this territory.”

Nate lowered a finger close to bruise marks on the trapper’s wrist. “It looks like some of them held him down while someone else did the carving.”

“The bastards!” Pepin declared. “Wherever these murderers are, they must pay for their crimes! This vile act must not go unpunished.”

“Here we go again,” Shakespeare muttered.

The grass had been tom up by the struggle. Nate studied the various tracks, and discovered where a half-dozen men had headed east out of the spruce stand. He stuck to their path, which brought him, minutes later, to a clearing where horses had waited, eighteen or nineteen in all. Most of the hoofprints dug deeply into the soil, as they would if the animals were heavily burdened. He was scrutinizing them when a low voice to his rear made him jump.

“We owe it to the Piegans, if not ourselves.”

Nate locked his eyes on Shakespeare’s. “Oh, we owe it to ourselves, all right. They’re not more than a day ahead of us, and with all the pack animals they have, they won’t make very good time.”

“There are seven of them.”

“There were nine Piegans and that didn’t stop us.”

“But these aren’t Indians, and you know it.”

“Yes,” Nate admitted. The idea had been growing ever since Jenks described eluding the men who stole his hides. Jenks had been a greenhorn, as inexperienced as a newborn baby; he’d known next to nothing about wilderness lore, hadn’t the vaguest idea how to hide his tracks. Any self-respecting Indian would have hunted Jenks down with ease. And no war party would have given up the search for Jenks so readily, not when one of their number stood to gain a fresh scalp, which warriors prized above all else. No, now that he thought about it in depth, he fully realized that the band responsible for slaying Pointer and taking Jenks’s belongings had to have been a band of white man. “But who would do such a thing?” he wondered aloud.

“Cutthroats of one sort or another,” Shakespeare said. “Men who value the price they can get for a stolen pelt more than they do the value of a human life.” He scoured the clearing. “Who knows how many innocent trappers they’ve killed?”

Nate stiffened as a recollection came to him. “Do you remember the last Rendezvous?”

“How could I forget it? My wife bought so much it about left me broke.”

“This is serious,” Nate said. “Do you remember that talk we had with Bridger and Meek one night?”

The light of understanding brightened Shakespeare’s eyes. “Sure do. Bridger told us that it seemed the Blackfeet were a lot more active of late than they used to be. Meek said that by his calculations there were close to twenty trappers who didn’t show up for the Rendezvous who were supposed to.”

“Twenty,” Nate repeated, the full implications appalling him. “And everyone just naturally figured the Blackfeet were to blame.”

“There might be a lot more we don’t know about,” Shakespeare said, “since we have no way of telling how many seasons this bunch has been going about their vile business.”

“Whoever cooked this scheme up is no idiot,” Nate said.

Shakespeare nodded. “They must concentrate on a small region at a time and murder every trapper they can find, making it look as if Indians are to blame. Then they clear on out and no one is the wiser.”

“We fell for their trick,” Nate said bitterly. “We were all too eager to pin the blame on the Piegans.”

“Now we know better.”

“Whoever these vermin are, we have to hunt them down and put an end to them before any more trappers lose their lives,” Nate declared.

Shakespeare, in the act of moving around the clearing, paused, his brow knitting. “There’s something else about that last Rendezvous. Everyone was talking about a certain trapper who’d supposedly caught more beaver in one year than anyone else ever had. He even beat out Jed Smith.”

“I heard the same story,” Nate confirmed. “But I can’t recall his name.” He pondered a bit. “All I remember is that he brought in over eight hundred peltries.” Something else came to mind. “And there were a few others who had good years too. Real good years. I’ll bet they’re the ones we want.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Shakespeare cautioned. “Some of them might have been legitimate. We won’t know who to hold accountable until we catch this outfit.”

“And catch them we will, mon ami.”

Both Nate and Shakespeare turned at the angry bellow and saw Pepin striding toward them, Labeau’s cap still clutched in his brawny hand.

“I heard some of what you just said,” Pepin informed them, “and I have never been so mad in my life!” He gave the cap a furious shake, as if throttling a throat. “The ones who butchered poor Labeau will not live long enough to butcher anyone else. This I vow!”

“We’re in this together,” Shakespeare said, “and we can’t go rushing off half-cocked. We have to be mighty careful. The men we’re after are utterly ruthless.”

“So?” Pepin touched his knife. “I can be just as ruthless when the need arises.” He spat, then wiped a sleeve across his mouth. “Just thinking of these sons of bitches puts a rotten taste in my mouth. We must go after them and stay on their trail until we catch up, no matter how long it takes us.”

“What about all the extra horses we have?” Nate mentioned. “They’ll slow us down.”

“We’ll have to let them loose in a meadow and hope they’re still there when we get back,” Pepin proposed.

Shakespeare walked over. “I have a better idea. We can do like the Comanches do when they hunt wild horses.”

“The Comanches?” Pepin said. “They are the Indians who live far down in the Red River country, are they not? I do not know much about them.”

“All you need to know is how they hunt mustangs.” Shakespeare grinned as he went into detail. “Several warriors will go out together, each with a string of two or three mounts. When they spot a wild herd, they give chase, and as each one of their mounts tire, they change to another horse without their feet so much as touching the ground.”

“I get it,” Nate said, excited by the possibilities. “They run the wild herd into the ground and then catch whichever ones they want.”

“Exactly,” Shakespeare said. “There’s no reason we can’t do the same thing. With all the horses we have, we should overtake these butchers in a third of the time it would ordinarily take us.”

“Trés intelligent!” Pepin exclaimed. “Why did I never think of that?” He held out his hand, palm downward, and said, “Now we make the pledge.”

Nate looked at him. “Pledge?”

“Oui. Put your hand on mine and I will commit us to our noble cause.”

Feeling somewhat sheepish, Nate obeyed the voyageur. Shakespeare added his hand, his expression grave.

Pepin gazed skyward and cleared his throat. “We solemnly pledge to track these fiends to the ends of the earth, so help us God! And if we fail, may maggots eat our innards and worms crawl in our ears!” Pleased, he smiled at each of them and nodded. “Now we are committed.”

Together they headed down the hill. Nate, bringing up the rear, couldn’t shake the mental picture of maggots squirming in his entrails, which he sincerely hoped wasn’t a harbinger of things to come.