Eight

For the rest of that day the three trappers put the Comanche system to the test, and found it worked extremely well. Where possible, they held their horses to a steady trot, and when an animal flagged they simply switched to another and added the tired horse to their individual strings. In this way they covered twice as much ground as they ordinarily would have, and by sunset they were many miles from the hill where Labeau lay in a shallow grave, and at a much lower elevation.

Camp was made in a gully where they could build a small fire without fear of it being seen from afar. Supper consisted of jerky and water. Afterward, they turned in so as to be able to get an early start the next day.

Sunrise found them already on the trail. The killers had tried to hide their tracks, but with so many pack animals in tow, they had wasted their energy. Even on the rockiest ground there were plenty of chips and scratch marks to guide the three trappers.

Toward the middle of the day, as they came to a narrow valley, Shakespeare, who was in the lead, suddenly drew rein and gestured. “Smoke,” he announced.

Two miles distant a tendril of gray was rising to meet a puffy white cloud.

“It’s them!” Pepin cried. “Now we make good on our pledge! Soon the ground will run red with their blood!” Working his legs, he began to swing his horse past McNair’s string so he would be the one in front.

“Hold on,” Nate said. “Charging on in there would only get us all killed. We’ll take it nice and easy, just as if we were up against hostiles.”

“Bah!” Pepin waved his rifle at the smoke. “I say we ride in with our guns blasting and cut them down before they can so much as lift a finger against us.”

Shakespeare leaned on his saddle horn and grinned. “There isn’t much that amazes a man my age. When you’ve seen and done practically everything, surprises are few and far between. But Pepin, you fit the bill.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know how in the world you’ve lived as long as you have,” Shakespeare said. “As impetuous as you are, you should have gone under by the time you were ten.” He lifted his reins and his horse moved out. “Since Nate and I aren’t partial to the notion of pushing up buffalo grass, you’ll do as we say and go about this slow and careful.”

A few mumbled words were Pepin’s only comment. Another mile fell behind them. Shakespeare slanted northward, sticking to thick cover but never losing sight of the smoke. When within half a mile of the camp, he drew rein, dismounted, and secured his horses to a cottonwood. “One of us has to go on ahead for a look-see.”

“Me,” Nate said.

“Not this time,” Shakespeare replied, hurrying into the woods before anyone could stop him. He heard Nate curse, and chuckled. The younger man’s concern was touching, but Shakespeare didn’t need anyone mothering him and felt that it was high time Nate realized the fact.

Holding his Hawken in his left hand, Shakespeare stealthily crept closer and closer to the few wisps of smoke still hovering in the air. The fire, evidently, was going out. He was puzzled as to why the band had stopped so early, but was glad they had. The sooner the whole gory business was done with, the happier Shakespeare would be.

The acrid scent of burning wood brought Shakespeare to a stop behind a pine. Peering out, he spied several tiny flickering flames at the edge of the forest, where the grassy valley floor began. Oddly enough, he saw no one, nor any horses.

Bending low, Shakespeare advanced cautiously. The area around the fire was completely deserted, causing him to conclude the band had already gone on. Prudently, he didn’t show himself until he was at the very last tree and had verified it was indeed safe to step into the open.

Tracks were everywhere, both the footprints of the cutthroats and the hoofprints of their many horses. Shakespeare walked to the fire, then gazed out across the valley. The band had no more than an hour start, he deduced. “We’ll get you soon,” he said softly, and was about to leave when his eyes fell on moist drops of blood.

Shakespeare touched a fingertip to the largest drop. Having skinned so many beaver and other animals over the years, he knew exactly how fast blood dried. The sticky consistency of the drops indicated they had been made within the past two hours. A trail of them led into the high grass.

“Not again,” Shakespeare said to himself. Cocking the rifle, he followed the trail, noticing how the drops grew bigger and bigger the farther he went. About thirty feet out he saw the body, lying face down. Unlike the other victims, this one was fully clothed. “Damn!”

Shakespeare knelt, set the Hawken down, and gripped the man’s shoulders to roll him over. Suddenly a hand darted out, a bloody hand grasping a gleaming dagger, the blade spearing at Shakespeare’s throat. Shakespeare jerked his head to the right and felt the man’s sleeve brush his neck. He grabbed the arm, then held fast. “Hold on there! I’m a friend.”

“McNair?” A bearded, lined face, seamed with pain, gaped up at him. “Is it really you?”

“Nelson?” Shakespeare released the arm and quickly rolled the man onto his back. “Tim Nelson?”

“Help me, please.”

Shakespeare was already lifting the trapper to carry him to the fire. He’d met Nelson at a Rendezvous four years ago, and on several occasions since they had played cards and shared drinks. “Hold on. We’ll do what we can to patch you up.”

“Help—” Nelson said, his voice fading as his eyelids fluttered and trembled as if having a fit. Gasping loudly, he passed out.

A rare rage seized Shakespeare McNair as he hastened out of the high grass and gently deposited Nelson close to the fire. He drew a pistol, pointed it at the ground, and banged off a shot as a signal to his friends. Then he bent down.

The cutthroats had done a thorough job. Blood seeped from bullet holes in both ankles and both knees. The left shoulder, broken by a ball, was bent at an unnatural angle. And as if those wounds weren’t enough, someone had stabbed Nelson three times low in the back.

Shakespeare marveled that the man was still alive. Depending on how severe the stab wounds were, Nelson might survive provided he had a lot of doctoring. That in mind, Shakespeare rekindled the fire and had the flames crackling when his companions showed. “We need hot water,” he announced.

Nate was first off his horse. He stared, then commented, “I know him from somewhere.”

“That you do,” Shakespeare established, and quickly explained, finishing with, “If we can stop the bleeding, maybe he’ll pull through.”

Pepin was standing a few yards away, his arms folded across his chest. “Why go to all the bother?” he asked. “It might be a waste of our time, and those we are after will get farther and farther away.”

“I can’t believe you can be so cold-blooded,” Shakespeare snapped. “So what if they gain a little lead on us? This is a fellow trapper we’re talking about.”

“Is it?” Pepin said. “I wonder.”

“What the devil do you mean?”

“How do we know he isn’t one of them? How do we know he didn’t have a falling out with the others and they left him for the vultures, no?”

The idea had not even occurred to Shakespeare. He studied Nelson’s face while reflecting that he actually knew very little about the man. And now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen Nelson for a year or better. What had the man been up to in all that time?

While the grizzled mountain man pondered, Nate was searching for water. It stood to reason that no one would make camp where water was unavailable, so he was certain there must be some within short walking distance of the fire. Since there was no stream anywhere in sight along the valley floor, he concentrated on the forest behind the camp and located a small spring. There, as he knelt to fill the coffeepot, he noticed a small footprint in the soft mud at the water’s edge. The size was such that it had either been made by an extremely small man or a woman. Assuming a man had to have been responsible, he thought no more about the track as he hastened the filled pot back to heat it over the rekindled fire.

Nate told Pepin about the spring, and the voyageur took the horses to drink. Then Nate turned to his mentor. “What do you think? Could Pepin be right?”

“Nelson always struck me as the honest sort, but honest men go bad on occasion. I don’t know,” Shakespeare admitted. “It would explain why he’s the only one we’ve found who wasn’t stripped and hacked apart.”

Shakespeare drew his knife and leaned over Nelson’s left leg. Nate did likewise with the right. Together they carefully cut the buckskin leggings open to fully expose Nelson’s severely swollen ankles and knees. They did the same with the shoulder wound.

“We’ll have to set this broken bone soon,” Shakespeare mentioned. “It’ll hurt like hell. I hope he doesn’t come around until after.”

But Nelson revived as they were dabbing hot water on his ankles. Groaning, he sluggishly tried to lift his head but couldn’t.

“You lie still, Tim,” Shakespeare said. “Save your energy for later.”

“Can’t,” Nelson said weakly.

“Mister, you do as we tell you,” Nate advised. “We’ll do our best to pull you through, but you have to help.”

“Forget about me,” Nelson said. “This coon is a goner.”

“Nonsense,” Shakespeare responded.

“You saw where I was stabbed,” Nelson said, and winced. “I’m bleeding inside. I can feel it.” He coughed once. “The knife Belker uses is over a foot long.”

“Belker?” Nate said.

“One of those riding with Galt.” Nelson coughed some more, and when the fit subsided there was a drop of blood at the corner of his mouth,

Nate and Shakespeare exchanged knowing looks. “Forget about me,” Nelson reiterated. “Save her.”

“Who?” Shakespeare asked.

“Clay Basket, my woman. They took her, the scum!” Nelson flushed with outrage and the drop of blood became a trickle. “She fought them as best she could, kicking and clawing like a wildcat, but they tied her to a horse as if she was some animal and rode off with her. They all laughed at me too as they went by, laughed and bragged of how they’re fixing to treat her.” He tried to raise a hand to seize Shakespeare’s wrist, but couldn’t. “She won’t last two days in their clutches. Promise me you’ll go after her, McNair! Promise me you’ll get her safely to her people, the Crows!”

“Calm down,” Shakespeare said. “We’ll do what we can for her just as soon as we tend to you.”

“No!" Nelson cried. “Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said? I’m not important. She’s the one you have to help.” His skin turning ashen, he tried to push up on his elbows.

“You’re making yourself worse,” Nate said, putting his hands on the man’s chest and pressing. “Just lie quietly.”

“I don’t care about me! Save her, damn it!” Nelson glanced from one of them to the other. “Haven’t either of you ever had a wife? Haven’t either of you ever been in love? Clay Basket is everything to me! Don’t let those bastards have their way with her.”

“We’ll head out in a bit,” Nate said, touching the wet strip of buckskin he held to the blood on Nelson’s chin.

“Fill us in, Tim,” Shakespeare coaxed. “We need to know who we’re up against.”

Nelson gave a curt nod, then closed his eyes. “They showed up about sunset yesterday, just as we were sitting down to supper. Acted real friendly at first. They hailed us, then rode on in with their hands empty to show they meant us no harm. When I found they were white, the first white men I’d laid eyes on in over a year, I was glad for the chance to chaw and catch up on the latest news.”

“You’ve been living with Clay Basket’s people?” Nate guessed.

“Yep. They took me in when I was about froze to death, and half starved to boot. Clay Basket herself doctored me.” Nelson’s voice acquired a wistful quality. “I’ve never known a woman like her. So kind, so caring. She brought me back from the dead, and ever since I’ve been with her village, helping hunt and fight off the Blackfeet and such.” He stopped, took a lingering breath, then continued. “About a month ago I got the fool notion of taking up trapping again. I’d lost all my fixings, but I figured I could find someone to stake me at the next Rendezvous.”

Nate saw that the man was weakening fast. “About the men who did this to you? About Galt and Belker?”

“There are seven of them. Galt is the brains of the bunch,” Nelson said. “When they first rode in, I couldn’t believe how many peltries they had. Eleven horses piled high as could be! They claimed they’d had a run of luck and like a jackass I believed them.”

“When did they turn on you?”

“This morning. We had just finished up breakfast when Galt grinned at me, said he’d taken a liking to my woman, and wanted to know if I’d be partial to selling her. When I told him she was my wife and I wouldn’t give her up for all the furs they had, Galt laughed and said he’d just have to take her.” A low moan escaped Nelson’s lips. “I wouldn’t let any man talk that way to me, so I jumped up and was set to bash his face in when all the rest of them pounced on me and pinned me down. Clay Basket tried to help but one of them wouldn’t let her.”

“You don’t have to go on,” Nate said.

“I want to.” Nelson opened his eyes. “They taunted me, called me an Indian-lover. Galt bragged of how he and his friends are growing rich by robbing every trapper they can find. They were going to let me live when they learned I didn’t have any pelts, but then Galt took a fancy to Clay Basket.” His voice broke and he sobbed. “They beat me, and they made her watch. They shot me in the knees so I couldn’t walk, then they made me crawl. But that wasn’t enough for them. They put balls through my ankles and shoulder. And Belker finished the job by stabbing me.”

“What about that dagger you had?” Shakespeare inquired.

“I always keep one hid under my shirt for emergencies,” Nelson said. “I knew they’d kill me right off if I tried to draw it, so I waited, hoping Galt would come close enough for me to kill him. But he never did.” His mouth twitched. “I remember how it felt when Belker’s knife plunged into my back, then everything went black. The next I knew, you were turning me over.” He stared at McNair. “You be careful of that Belker. He’s a natural-born killer and he has a wicked streak a yard wide.”

Nate had encountered the type before. “I’ll take care of him personally,” he said.

“Thanks,” Nelson said, turning his head until his left cheek rested on the ground. Almost immediately his body went completely limp as he succumbed to the deep sleep of utter exhaustion.

“Like I told you, an honest man,” Shakespeare commented rather sadly.

“Do either of those names he mentioned ring familiar to you?” Nate asked. “I seem to recall having heard of Belker somewhere before.”

“You probably have,” Shakespeare said. “Two years ago at the Rendezvous there was a wrestling match that got ugly. Both men grabbed their knives and went at it tooth and nail. Belker was one of them.”

“The one who won,” Nate said, remembering. “There was talk for a while of kicking him out of camp and not letting him attend again, but nothing ever came of it.”

“Galt I’ve heard of also,” Shakespeare disclosed. “He was trapping partner with a man named Wilson. About four years back they headed north into Blackfoot country and only Galt returned. He spread the word that the Blackfeet had lifted Wilson’s hair.”

“Everyone believed him?”

“No one had cause to do otherwise. Of course, now that I look back, I remember that Galt had a lot of furs to sell.”

“Maybe that’s where he got his start,” Nate speculated. “For some reason or another he killed Wilson and took Wilson’s peltries. When he learned how easy it was to get away with it, he must have figured he’d found the perfect way to get rich quick.”

“He’s about to learn differently.”

Nate touched Nelson’s hot brow. “He has a high fever. Do you really think he can pull through?”

“Can’t say for sure. I have to dress those stab wounds next. If I can find the right herbs, I’ll be able to make a poultice that should help some.” Shakespeare gingerly examined the broken shoulder. “I do know he doesn’t have any chance at all if we leave him.”

“If we stay here too long, what will happen to Clay Basket?”

“You know the answer to that as well as I do,” Shakespeare said. “Here.” He shifted so he was straddling Nelson’s upper arm. “Lend me a hand setting this bone.”

Horrifying images of the fate facing Clay Basket bothered Nate as he worked. He kept thinking of his own wife, and how he would feel if the same thing had happened to Winona. Once the wounds were crudely bandaged and Pepin had a minty broth simmering on the fire, Nate stood and declared, “I’m going after them. The two of you catch up when you can.”

“You’re being hasty,” Shakespeare said.

Pepin, who had been filled in after bringing the horses from the spring, nodded. “I agree with Carcajou. We are all in this together.”

“I won’t do anything stupid and get myself killed,” Nate said. “I’ll just keep an eye on them until you show up. And who knows? Maybe I’ll have a chance to save the Crow woman.”

“I’ll go with you,” Pepin offered.

“No,” Nate said, dreading the Canadian’s fiery temper would land them all in trouble. “If Nelson gets his strength back, it’ll take both of you to bring him along. I’ll do this alone.”

“I don’t like it,” Shakespeare said.

“Neither do I, but we don’t have much choice.”

Pepin grumbled, and Shakespeare offered a few more objections, but in five minutes Nate was on the trail. He didn’t admit as much to them, but his main reason for hurrying on ahead was specifically to rescue Clay Basket. Once the cutthroat gang stopped for the day, she’d be in for a terrifying ordeal. Nate was going to catch up to them before dark and spare her from a fate worse than death.

The tracks were plain to see. Apparently Galt and company were growing cockier the longer their bloody spree continued, because they hadn’t even bothered to make any effort to throw off possible pursuit. Nate was grateful for their oversight since he could fairly fly in their wake.

Once again Nate resorted to the Comanche tactic of constantly changing horses, which he did once every hour no matter how tired a particular animal might be. In this way he kept his mounts fresh, able to cover ground swiftly. Small wonder, then, that by the middle of the afternoon he spotted a long line of riders in the distance. Instantly he angled into pines, and from then on until nearly sunset he shadowed the band, never narrowing the gap for fear of being spotted.

Galt’s route was taking the killers steadily lower, and from the direction of travel Nate had a hunch they were making for the Green River region so as to be there early for the upcoming Rendezvous.

Twilight’s gray veil shrouded the landscape when Nate saw an orange glow three-quarters of a mile off. Galt had finally made camp. Nate reined up, stepped from the stirrups, and hid the horses in heavy brush before venturing to a hill that overlooked the campfire.

The camp had been made in a shallow basin filled with grass watered by a crystal-clear pool. From a vantage point under a tree on a slope above, Nate enjoyed an unobstructed view of the activities taking place. One man was breaking and feeding small limbs to the fire. Another had the task of watering their many horses. Three men were sitting around doing nothing, while a fourth was hovering near a pretty Indian woman in a buckskin dress whose black hair flowed to her ankles: Clay Basket. She was making their supper.

Nate could not see their faces very well. Beyond noting that all the men were bearded and dressed much like trappers everywhere, he saw little of interest Clay Basket, however, was a genuine beauty, not over twenty years of age to judge by her youthful appearance, with a noble bearing that spoke eloquently of her contempt for her abductors.

Deciding to sneak closer for a better look, Nate rose and picked his way down the slope. The wind was blowing to the southeast, so he wasn’t worried about the horses picking up his scent. All he had to be concerned about was blundering into the open and being seen, or so he thought until he rounded a boulder the size of a carriage just as another man came around the boulder from the other side. Too late, Nate realized there had only been six men in camp, not seven. Too late, he saw this seventh cutthroat point a rifle at him and cock the hammer.