One

They came silently out of the night, gliding through the dense pine trees to encircle the small clearing where the two men had made their camp. In the glow cast by the crackling fire, only their eyes were visible, fierce crimson slits that lent them the aspect of disembodied demons.

“We have company,” announced the older of the two trappers, a grizzled mountain man by the name of Shakespeare McNair. Picking up one of the broken branches collected earlier, he placed it in the flames.

The second man, who was busily honing his long butcher knife, glanced up and scanned the ring of red eyes. “So I see,” he said, not at all concerned by the feral arrivals. This man was much younger than the first, much broader of shoulder and with more rippling muscles packed on his hardened frame. Nathaniel King wagged his knife at the newcomers and added, “Should we throw them what’s left of our supper?”

“Not unless you want to go hungry tomorrow,” Shakespeare responded while jabbing a thumb at the pot containing the remainder of their rabbit stew. “That there is breakfast. Let the mangy varmints hunt for their food, like we had to do.” Twisting, he cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed, “Go find someone else to bother!”

None of the eyes so much as blinked.

“Let them watch us if they want,” Nate chided. “More often than not, wolves are harmless.”

“But not always, as you well know,” Shakespeare said. He touched his left shin. “I still have a nasty scar from the time a wolf attacked me when I was toting a dead doe to my cabin.”

“I’ve tangled with them too, on occasion,” Nate admitted. “But if this pack doesn’t bother me, I won’t bother them.”

“Getting right peaceable in your young age, are you?” Shakespeare asked, grinning.

“I just see no need to cause trouble where there is none,” Nate said. “All I care about is getting this trapping season over with so I can see my family again.”

“Spoken like the good husband that you are.”

“Are you poking fun at me?”

“Would I do that?” Shakespeare rejoined innocently, and chuckled. “It’s just that this old coon isn’t hog-tied by apron strings, as are some men I could mention. It doesn’t do me any harm to get away by my lonesome every now and then.”

“You’re trying to get my goat,” Nate said, “and it won’t work. You, of all people, should know that being in love isn’t the same as being hog-tied.”

“That depends on the woman,” Shakespeare said. “Some wives dig their claws into their men and don’t let their husbands so much as breathe without their permission. Others, the smart ones, put their men on a longer leash.”

Nate lowered his whetstone and said, “This from the man who is always quoting from Romeo and Juliet.”

“You should pay more attention when I do,” Shakespeare said, giving a beaded parfleche at his elbow an affectionate pat. In it was the thick volume that had earned McNair his nickname, a book containing the collected works of the Bard of Avon. Shakespeare could recite his namesake by the hour and was often called on by fellow trappers starved for entertainment to do just that. “Here’s a quote you must have missed,” he commented and coughed to clear his throat. “ ‘Alas, that love, so gentle in his view, should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!’ ”

“Shakespeare said that?”

“Old William S. was a heap wiser than most folks give him credit for being.”

“Maybe so,” Nate said, “but I have a hard time understanding him. It’s a shame he couldn’t have written in plain English.”

“Plain English?” Shakespeare repeated, his eyes sparkling with building mirth. “Where do you think he was from? Spain?”

Nate sighed and touched the edge of his knife to the whetstone. He had been all through this discussion with his mentor before, and he wasn’t about to let himself be drawn into another lengthy debate over McNair’s literary passion. As he resumed sharpening the blade, he idly glanced to his right and felt the short hairs at the nape of his neck prickle.

A pair of fiery eyes had left the ring of wolves and was moving toward the tethered mounts and pack animals. In a flash Nate was on his feet and racing to a point between the advancing wolf and the horses. He slid the whetstone into his possibles bag, draped a hand on one of the flintlocks wedged under his wide brown leather belt, and faced the oncoming predator. “Go away!” he shouted, motioning with his knife hand.

The wolf slowed briefly, then crept nearer. In the forest beyond, others, made bold by the first, were slinking closer.

“I don’t like this,’’ Nate muttered.

Shakespeare had risen. “They must be awful hungry.”

“Maybe they have a taste for horseflesh,” Nate remarked, drawing his pistol. The metallic click of the hammer sounded eerily loud in the dreadful stillness.

“Don’t shoot unless you have no other choice,” Shakespeare advised. “If you hurt one, the rest will be on us like crazed banshees.” Stooping, he grabbed his rifle in one hand and the end of a burning branch in the other. “I’ll try to scare them off.”

“Be careful.”

“Don’t fret yourself. I don’t intend to end my days in a wolf’s belly.” Shakespeare waved the firebrand in circles and strode purposefully toward the oncoming wolf. In the flaring radius of light, the beast became clearly visible. It was the apparent leader of the pack, an enormous male sporting a black mask and unusual white markings on its forelegs. The wolf crouched and retreated a few yards, glaring balefully at the firebrand over its shoulder.

“You’ve got it on the run,” Nate said, but, as it developed the very next moment, he had spoken prematurely.

Venting a guttural growl, the leader of the pack suddenly whirled and charged straight at the horse string, streaking across the ground so fast its hairy body was a virtual blur.

Nate instantly fired. In his haste, he missed. The wolf was almost abreast of him, so he took a quick step to the left and slashed with his gleaming knife, causing the pack leader to veer wide. As it did, a rifle boomed and the wolf tumbled. Nate moved in, prepared to dispatch the creature before it could stand. A chorus of snarls stopped him in his tracks.

The majority of the wolves were converging on the camp, their lips drawn back to expose their tapered teeth, their features alight with ferocity.

Dropping the spent pistol, Nate drew his other flintlock, took a hurried bead on a large specimen, and fired almost at the very same moment that Shakespeare fired a pistol. Two wolves crashed down, one to lie motionless, the other to rise again and limp off.

At the twin blasts, most of the wolves broke off their attack and bolted into the woods. The rest began to circle, seeking an opening.

Nate wanted to reload but feared being set upon while doing so. His Hawken was over by the fire, too far off, for if he ran to retrieve it the poor horses would be unprotected. Instead, he shoved the second pistol under his belt and whipped out his Shoshone tomahawk.

Three wolves were still circling. One darted in close and then darted out into the darkness again, as if daring them to do something or testing their reactions.

Backpedaling to the agitated horses, Nate tried to keep all three wolves in sight at once. A set of eyes disappeared off to his right. Expecting the beast to sneak through an adjacent thicket, Nate dashed to its edge and crouched to peer into the dense vegetation.

McNair, meanwhile, had his hands full with the other two, both of which were padding warily toward the horses but each from a different direction. He had his second pistol out and cocked, and covered first one wolf and then the other, waiting to shoot whichever charged first. If they both charged simultaneously, one was bound to reach the string. Given that wolves regularly hunted large game such as elk and deer and knew how to bring their quarry down by severing leg muscles and tendons, one of the horses might wind up hamstrung, or worse. And every horse was essential. He stepped lightly toward the string, his every nerve tingling.

Over in the thicket, something stirred. Nate tensed, bracing for the rush certain to come. When it did, the wolf sprang with such lightning speed that all Nate could do was bring his tomahawk up to keep the wolf’s slavering jaws from closing on his face. Together, they fell backward, the wolf in a frenzy of thwarted blood lust, snapping again and again at Nate’s throat. By a sheer fluke, Nate had jammed his forearm under the wolf’s chin. He held the beast at bay long enough to bury his knife in the creature’s side, the blade spearing in between the wolf’s ribs. The wolf yelped and leaped back, almost tearing Nate’s arm from its socket. Dripping blood, the knife slipped free. Before Nate could stab a second time, the wolf whirled and fled.

Shakespeare had heard the commotion and glanced around in alarm. To him, Nate King was more like the son he’d never had than just another free trapper, and while he would never admit as much to anyone, he’d gladly sacrifice his own life for the younger man’s should the need ever arise. He saw Nate go down and took a few steps towards him. Then he glimpsed one of the wolves racing toward the horses. Pivoting, he snapped off a shot that appeared to strike the wolf in the leg. The wolf went down in a whirl of limbs and tail but bounded up and off without missing a beat. The last wolf followed.

“Nate?” Shakespeare said, running over as the younger man stood. “Are you hurt?”

“No, but it was close,” Nate said. “Too close for comfort.” His blood pumped madly in his veins and his temples were pounding. He had to clench his fists to keep his fingers from shaking.

“They’re gone,” Shakespeare announced, surveying the benighted forest. “They were hungry, but not that hungry.”

“Hungry enough,” Nate grumbled, turning to the horses. His black stallion was the calmest of the bunch, standing with ears pricked and nostrils flaring. The others, including McNair’s white mare, whinnied and fidgeted, some pulling at their ropes. Nate moved among them, speaking soft, soothing words and stroking a neck where needed.

Shakespeare was busy reloading his pistols. “We were darned lucky, son. I told you we should have scared those devils off the moment they showed. You’d think that you’d know enough to heed me after all this time.”

“Between you and my wife, I should never have to make another decision again,” Nate said sarcastically.

“ ‘Oh, let it not be so! Herein you war against your reputation, and draw within the compass of suspect the unviolated honor of your wife. Once this—your long experience of her wisdom, her sober virtue, years, and modesty, plead on her part some cause to you unknown.’.”

“They call it love.”

Shakespeare beamed. “I knew you understood old William S. better than you’ve been letting on.”

Their banter was cut short by a piercing howl to the north of their camp, more a wavering wail of despair than the mournful cry so typical of wolves.

“It’s one of those we wounded,” the mountain man declared.

“We should put it out of its misery.”

“It would be downright foolish to go traipsing off through the brush in the dead of night just to finish off a critter that’s going to die soon anyway.”

Another fluttering wail pierced the night and echoed off the mountains bordering the valley in which they were camped. Many of the peaks were pale, ghostly crags sheathed in white sheets of snow.

“I’ll go,” Nate proposed.

“We should both stay here,” Shakespeare insisted.

“I won’t let anyone or anything suffer because of me. It won’t take but a few minutes to find the animal and put a ball in its brain.”

“What if it still has some fight left? Or there are others still in the vicinity?” Shakespeare shook his head. “You’d be taking too great a risk for no good reason. Let’s just sit back down and finish our coffee.”

As if to contradict him, the wolf cried a third time, louder and longer than before, a great, sad, pitiable sound that caused Nate’s skin to erupt in goose bumps. He went to where his Hawken was propped on his saddle, scooped up the rifle, and headed for the gloomy woods.

“You’re being a dunderhead,” Shakespeare commented.

“Force of habit,” Nate responded, trying to sound carefree and cheery when in fact there were butterflies flitting about in his stomach. A fourth howl drew him into the murk beyond. He proceeded cautiously, bent at the waist with the Hawken tucked to his shoulder, ready for anything.

“If you need help, holler!” Shakespeare called out.

Nate didn’t answer. The wolf would hear and know he was coming. His thumb rested lightly on the Hawken’s hammer as he skirted a spruce, passed a boulder, and ducked under a low limb. Away from the fire, the darkness was nearly total. Once his eyes adjusted, his sight would improve a little, but that would take a minute or two.

The undergrowth crackled off to Nate’s left and his first thought was that Shakespeare had been right and some of the pack had lingered and were stalking him. Crouching, he waited for whatever was making the noise to appear. To his relief, the animal went the other way and the sounds soon tapered to silence.

Hoping for another howl to guide him, Nate continued deeper into the forest. He set each foot down delicately, as if walking on eggshells, the smooth soles of his moccasins pressing soundlessly onto the thick mat of fallen pine needles that carpeted the earth. His buckskins and his beaver hat blended well into the shadows, making him hard to detect. Unless he blundered, he figured he should be able spot the wounded wolf before it spotted him.

Not ten seconds later, Nate did. He had paused beside an evergreen and leaned against the trunk while scouring the rugged terrain ahead. At the limits of his vision something moved, something low to the ground. Focusing on it, he distinguished a lone wolf crawling on its stomach. From the size of the silhouette, he judged it to be none other than the huge leader of the pack.

Bracing the Hawken against the bole, Nate sighted carefully. Just as he did, the wolf reached high grass and vanished. Thwarted, Nate angled to intercept the beast. At the edge of the grass he stopped, expecting the wolf to soon show itself. Yet time went by, and other than the wind rustling the grass and the leaves of nearby aspens, there was no hint of movement anywhere.

Eager to get back to camp, Nate impatiently crawled into the grass. He held the Hawken in front of him, his palms clammy where they contacted wood or metal. Perhaps, he told himself, Shakespeare had also been right about something else—the stupidity of trying to end the misery of an enraged wild beast that would rip him to shreds without hesitation if it could.

Nate advanced slowly, parting the long stems with his rifle barrel. Even though the crisp mountain air was cool, his brow became dotted with perspiration. His mouth, by contrast, was exceptionally dry. He covered six feet without incident. Eight feet. Ten.

Suddenly a black shape hurtled out of the grass on Nate’s left. Twisting, he tried to bring the Hawken to bear but the wolf was on him before he could shoot, its heavy body knocking the rifle aside. Razor-sharp teeth sought his throat. Nate just managed to clamp both hands on the creature’s neck as he was bowled onto his back. His shoulders straining mightily, he held the wolf at bay, barely able to retain his grip as the beast snarled and snapped and thrashed.

Drops of saliva fell onto Nate’s face. He could feel blood on his fingers and he worried they would become slick and he’d lose his grip. Claws raked his right leg, lancing his body with pain. Nate rammed his knees into the animal’s belly, then kicked upward while at the same time he heaved with all his strength. He succeeded in flipping the wolf from him.

Scrambling upright, Nate drew both his knife and his tomahawk a split-second before the wolf closed on him again. It came at his legs but swerved when he tried to cleave its skull with the tomahawk. Rumbling deep in its chest, the wolf then circled him. There was a dark stain on its side but the wound seemed to be having no effect.

Nate had his knife extended and held the tomahawk close to his right shoulder. He turned as the animal circled, always keeping his eyes on it. Somewhere in the nearby grass was his rifle, but he dared not look for it, dared not lower his guard for a moment.

The wolf abruptly sagged, then shook its head and straightened. Apparently the loss of blood was having an effect, but not swiftly enough to suit Nate. He took a gamble and lunged, the tip of his knife catching the wolf on the shoulder as it leaped aside. Incensed, the beast sprang at Nate’s legs, and Nate arced the tomahawk at its skull. Exhibiting uncanny reflexes, the wolf evaded the blow and resumed circling.

Nate wanted to kick himself for not taking the time to reload his pistols. How many times had he told his son to never, ever venture into the wild with unloaded weapons? How many times had he pointed out that such forgetfulness could prove fatal? Yet here he’d gone and done the same thing. Sometimes he wondered if he had rocks for brains.

The wolf abruptly charged, and Nate, preoccupied with his thoughts instead of paying attention, jumped to one side too late. He heard the crunch of the wolf’s teeth as its jaws closed on his leggings, heard the buckskin tear as the wolf tore into him. Twisting, he speared his butcher knife into its side. The predator jerked back and vented a yelp. Tripping over its own feet, it went down. Nate promptly took a stride, raised the tomahawk on high, and drove it deep into the wolf’s skull, connecting as the wolf was in the act of rising. Its head split wide, like a furry cantaloupe. Blood and gore sprayed out.

Nate let go of the tomahawk and sank to one knee.

His pulse was racing again, and he took a minute to calm himself down while observing the wolf’s death throes. When the animal finally lay still, he pulled out both the knife and the tomahawk, then wiped them clean on the beast’s hide. “You were a tough one,” he said softly, standing.

The northwesterly breeze picked up, cooling Nate’s brow. Replacing his weapons, he searched until he found the Hawken. Next he stooped, lifted the wolf, and draped its body over his left shoulder. Then he turned his footsteps toward the flickering glow of the fire.

Shakespeare was seated on his blankets, his rifle resting across his legs. He smiled when he saw Nate approaching and lifted his tin cup in a salute. “Well done, son. I was getting a mite worried.” His gaze fixed on the wolf. “What do you intend to do with the carcass?”

“Skin it and give the pelt to Winona,” Nate said. “Zach has been pestering her for a new hat.”

“Had me one made from wolf hide once,” the older man mentioned. “It didn’t shed water good enough to suit me.” Reaching up, he ran a hand over the beaver hat crowning his white hair. It was a perfect match for Nate’s own headpiece, except that Shakespeare’s wasn’t adorned with an eagle feather. “There’s nothing like beaver for keeping a man warm and dry.”

“True enough,” Nate agreed, setting the wolf down next to their supplies. He squatted to examine the tear in his pants and a small cut on his leg. “Any sign of the others?”

“Nope. They high-tailed it elsewhere, and good riddance.” Shakespeare nodded at the horses. “If we’d lost them, we’d be up the creek without a paddle.”

“I just hope this new territory is all you claim it is,” Nate said.

“Would I lie to you?” Shakespeare said indignantly. “I’m telling you the country is crawling with beaver. No white men have been there yet, so we don’t have to worry about the streams being trapped out.”

“There’s a good reason no white men have been there,” Nate noted. “It’s too close to Blood hunting grounds for anyone to take the risk.”

“If we keep our eyes skinned, we should be all right.”

Nate hoped so. Dealing with hostile Indians was part and parcel of a trapper’s life, but it was a part he could do without. In addition to the Bloods, there were a dozen other tribes that hated all whites; they regarded trappers as invaders deserving torture and death. If the Bloods took him by surprise, he’d suffer a lingering, terrible death.

“Besides,” McNair had gone on, “the Bloods should be out on the prairie hunting buffalo at this time of year. It’s been a long, hard winter so they’re probably low on jerky and pemmican and such. They need a lot of fresh meat and new hides for their lodges. It’ll be late Spring or Summer before they move back into the mountains.”

“You hope.”

Shakespeare arched an eyebrow. “If I’d known you were turning into such a worrier, I would have come alone.” He paused. “It’s not like you. Why are you so bothered? We’ve trapped in dangerous territory plenty of times.”

“I know,” Nate said, shifting to stare northward at a range. “I have a feeling, is all. A bad feeling.

“Bah! You’re imagining things! Being a homebody has turned you into a milksop.”

“I hope that’s all it is,” Nate said sincerely, although deep down he wasn’t so sure. Was it the chill wind, or was it something else that caused an anxious ripple to course down his spine?

Only time would tell.