Two

Nate King had an abiding passion for the Rocky Mountains. Ever since he’d initially set foot in them, he’d been entranced by their pristine beauty. The towering, regal peaks, the stark, barren crags, the magnificent forested slopes, verdant valleys, and crystal streams had stirred his soul as no other landscape ever had. And he found that as time went on, to his surprise, he didn’t tire of the stirring scenery. Rather, he became even more enamored of the wilderness. He considered it his home, and he would never leave it.

The Rockies always reflected the changing seasons more drastically than Nate’s home state of New York ever had. In the fall the aspens glimmered with brilliant hues of red, orange, and yellow, and the grass turned a deep brown. In the winter a white mantle invariably covered everything, lending the terrain a pure, virgin aspect. In the spring, when Nature rekindled the spark of life in the dormant plants and animals, the mountains came alive with all manner of wild creatures and the vegetation flourished. Trees budded and turned green, flowers sprouted and displayed their various beautiful shades, birds chirped gaily, squirrels and chipmunks chattered, and insects buzzed about their daily business.

Paradise on earth, Nate reflected as he wound down a steep slope into the valley where Shakespeare was going to set traps. He could see a wide blue stream half a mile or so off, and grazing near it were a number of elk. Overhead, among pillowy clouds, an eagle soared. To the west, a hawk crested a rocky spire. Sparrows flitted in a fir tree mere yards away. Nate inhaled the pine scented air and smiled in delight.

“No Indian sign anywhere,” Shakespeare commented. “We’ll have the region all to ourselves.”

Nate simply nodded. A boulder the size of a wagon barred his path so he swung to the right, hauling on the lead rope when the foremost pack horse balked. They each had three pack animals, only one of which was burdened with their provisions and traps. The other two would be used later to transport bales of peltries to their cabins.

“It was Broken Paw who told me about this area,” Shakespeare said, referring to a Flathead Indian they both knew. “He’d been up here last year hunting and noticed all the beaver dams.”

“If there are as many beaver as he claims, when we get back I should give him a gift to show my thanks.”

“Don’t bother. That crafty coyote already got a knife and some ammo from me for his fusee, as well as a lot of foofaraw and a new blanket for his wife.” Shakespeare snickered. “The man drives a hard bargain.”

Presently, they came to the valley floor supplies where Nate spied a game trail and rode along it toward the stream. In the dank earth were imprinted a variety of deep tracks; deer, elk, mountain buffalo, and a fresh set of gigantic prints that caused him to draw rein in consternation. “Grizzly!” he exclaimed.

“Damn. The last thing I want is to get in a racket with one of those monsters.”

“That makes two of us,” Nate said grimly. By a curious quirk of Fate, it had been his misfortune to tangle with the savage bears frequently. So often, in fact, his bad luck had become a running joke among the trapping fraternity. Nor was his reputation in that regard any better among friendly Indians. Long ago he had been given the name of Grizzly Killer by a Cheyenne who had witnessed his clash with one of the vicious bruins, and now the Shoshones, Flatheads, Crows and other tribes all knew him by that name.

Nate goaded the stallion forward while alertly scanning the valley. He guessed the bear had passed that way sometime since dawn, sometime in the past three hours. It might be long gone. Or it might be hidden in a thicket, dozing. Since grizzlies were prone to attack without warning, he studied the nearest coppices with extra vigilance.

The tracks ended at the stream. Here the bear had either waded to the east or west and the swiftly flowing water had erased all prints.

“Too bad,” Shakespeare said. “I was hoping to find out which way the damn thing went.”

“We could follow the stream until we find where it came out.”

“Why go looking to have our innards ripped out?” Shakespeare said, dismounting. “Leave a grizzly alone and nine times out of ten it’ll leave you alone.” He glanced up at Nate and grinned. “For most people that’s how it works. In your case, grizzlies go out of their way to show you just how nasty they can be. Must be your scent.”

“My what?”

“Your scent.” Shakespeare stepped to the water’s edge, cupped his palm, swallowed a mouthful, and smacked his lips. “Animals have a keen sense of smell. You know that. Some can scent prey a long ways off. Most, when they smell man, head for the hills. But maybe you’re special. Maybe there’s something about your odor that draws grizzlies like flowers draw bees.”

Nate threw back his head and roared. “That has to be the craziest notion you’ve ever had!”

“Stranger things have happened,” Shakespeare said, unruffled. “ ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’.”

“I don’t smell any different from anyone else.”

“Care to make a wager?” Shakespeare countered. “The next time you’re in a crowded lodge on a hot day, take a few sniffs. See if everyone has the exact same scent or whether they all smell differently.”

“I’m not about to go around sticking my nose in armpits to prove you wrong.”

“Suit yourself.”

Nate slid from the saddle and let his stallion and the pack horses drink. He saw a large fish swimming further out and was tempted to rummage in his pack for his line and hook. But the day was still young and he had a long ride ahead of him if he wanted to reach the next valley before nightfall. “Any idea where you’ll make up camp?” he casually inquired.

McNair jabbed a thumb to the west. “I’ll set up a lean-to in the trees where hostile eyes won’t be likely to spot it.” He regarded the gurgling water a moment. “Shouldn’t take more than five or six weeks to work a stream this size.”

“How about if we meet right at this spot in six weeks then?” Nate suggested.

The mountain man scratched his bushy beard. “Sounds fine, but I still think you should let me take the next valley and you should take this one.”

“I lost the toss.”

“There’s a certain knack to flipping a coin,” Shakespeare joked, doing a poor job of concealing his misgivings. “I wouldn’t mind switching.”

Nate suspected why his mentor was making an issue of a matter already decided. The farther north they went, the closer they would be to Blood territory. “You won fair and square,” he reiterated, “so you get to trap this stream and all its branches.” To forestall an argument, he stepped into the stirrups and gripped the reins. “Shoot sharp’s the word.”

“Same to you,” Shakespeare said rather begrudgingly. “And hold onto that hair of yours.”

Bobbing his chin, Nate departed. He jabbed his heels into the stallion and rapidly crossed to the opposite bank. The last pack horse slipped and almost fell but was able to dig in its hoofs and lurch onto firm footing. With a wave, Nate turned his back on his friend and was soon surrounded by woods.

Parting brought a degree of melancholy. Nate liked being with his mentor, liked the company of others. As fond as he was of the mountains, of the remote recesses where few men had ever trod, he wasn’t one of those trappers who could go a year or two without seeing another living soul. He wasn’t the kind who would rather frolic with wild creatures than with other human beings.

Give Nate his loving family all snug in their sturdy cabin and he was as happy as the proverbial lark. Venturing into parts unknown was exciting, but it was just another aspect to the line of work he had chosen, to the everyday life of a free trapper. Had he been able to collect all the peltries he needed just by walking out his door to the nearest body of water, he would have been perfectly content. But he couldn’t. He had to do as other trappers did and seek out the haunts of the beaver.

Once, many years ago, before beaver fur became all the rage in Europe and the States, beaver had existed in great abundance, their lodges decorating every stream of any fair size the length and breadth of the vast Rocky Mountains. Then came the fashion craze and the influx of fur men eager to make their fortunes in the fledgling market. Before long, to the dismay of many Indian tribes, the beaver in wide areas were trapped to extinction.

Now, much to Nate’s displeasure, it became harder and harder every season for him to find enough beaver to suit his needs. Every time he went out, he had to travel farther and farther afield, into areas others hadn’t thought to penetrate yet, into areas where the risks were higher than he liked.

This particular venture was a case in point. Ordinarily, Nate would have shunned the region he was entering as if the land itself was infested with the plague. He had no inclination to tangle with the Bloods or their allies in the dreaded confederacy that controlled the northern Rockies and plains, the Blackfoot confederacy as it was known since that tribe was its leading member. United with the Piegans, the Bloods and Blackfeet held sway over an area larger than most States, fiercely resisting the influx of whites by exterminating every trapper they encountered.

There were no exceptions to the rule. There were no white men who had been caught and let go again as an act of mercy on the part of the confederacy. If you were white and you fell into the hands of either tribe, you were as good as dead. Every trapper knew it, and every trapper stayed clear of the territory the confederacy claimed as its own.

Even other tribes did the same. The Blackfeet, Bloods, and Piegans were three of the most warlike tribes in all creation. They made ceaseless war on the Crows, the Shoshones, the Flatheads, the Sioux, the Utes. In short, on anyone and everyone who wasn’t Blackfoot, Blood, or Piegan. A man might fault their bloodthirsty natures, but there was no denying they slaughtered their enemies fairly, without regard to race or disposition.

Nate had fought warriors from all three tribes on occasion, and the thought of doing so again was enough to cause him to gnaw nervously on his lower lip. A lesser man would have refused to trap in the region they were working. But Nate, despite his reservations, hadn’t batted an eye when Shakespeare proposed doing so. Nate had his family to think of. And himself, too. It was his belief that a man did whatever was needed to improve the welfare of those for whom he cared, and if that meant traveling into an area where he was just as likely to lose his life to a wandering grizzly or his scalp to a war party of roving hostiles, so be it.

A man couldn’t shirk his responsibility and still wear the label of a man. Not west of the Mississippi, anyway. In the East, in the larger cities in the States, he’d known men who didn’t care at all about those who depended on them for a livelihood. Those men would rather spend their evenings at a tavern than with their children, rather spend the night with a soiled dove than with their wives.

Such men didn’t know the true meaning of manhood, and Nate had never enjoyed their company.

A meadow appeared ahead, putting an end to Nate’s musing. He paused before riding into the open, checking the meadow from end to end and the slopes on either side to be sure no unpleasant surprises awaited him. A trapper could never be too cautious.

Nate saw a few black-tailed deer, all does, grazing at a low elevation on the mountain to the east. Across the meadow a solitary magpie pranced about on the ground. There were no bears, no Indians. Reassured, he trotted on, grinning when the magpie rose into the air voicing its distinctive Mag! Mag! Mag! Mag!

“A little high up, aren’t you?” Nate joked as the magpie flapped into a fir tree. It perched lightly and gave him a cold stare.

“What are you so upset about, you stupid bird?” Nate asked.

And then he saw it. Lying in the grass at the edge of the meadow was a body, not an animal carcass either, but the body of a man dead at least five or six months. Nate immediately reined up and out of pure habit glanced in all directions. Satisfied there was no threat, he climbed down, ground-hitched the stallion, and advanced on tiptoe as if afraid his footsteps would disturb the slumber of the dead.

Nate saw where the magpie had been pecking at tattered ribbons of dried flesh clinging to the skull and felt an impulse to shoot it. He couldn’t blame the bird, though. Magpies were greedy feeders, eating anything and everything that caught their fancy. It was magpie nature to peck at corpses.

There was little smell after so much time had elapsed. Still, Nate covered his mouth and nose with a calloused hand and walked around the pale bones, taking note of the few details that might offer a clue to the dead man’s identity. Right away he deduced it had been an Indian. The tattered vestiges of a breechcloth clung to the hip bones, as did what was left of a pair of moccasins to the man’s feet.

A jagged cavity in the sternum and the fact several ribs had been broken were evidence the warrior had met his end in combat, most likely at the hands of another warrior wielding a tomahawk. Only a tomahawk could cause so much damage to thick human bones. Arrows and knives left nicks and scrape marks. Lead balls left neat furrows or shattered bones into splinters.

Nate couldn’t tell which tribe the man had belonged to. His best guess was that a Flathead or Shoshone or some other hunter from one of the friendlier tribes had been caught by a party of Bloods. There were no markings to confirm it, but Nate figured the warrior had been scalped since no self-respecting Blood would pass up such a trophy. There was no trace of torture, although such traces would be hard to discern after all this time unless they were glaringly obvious.

“Poor soul,” Nate said, returning to the stallion. Once in the saddle, he by-passed the bones and entered the forest.

The implications of the find were disturbing. Nate had entertained the hope that the valley he would be trapping was far enough south of typical Blood haunts to be spared a visit while he was there. The dead warrior, however, might be proof parties of Bloods did visit the region regularly, perhaps to hunt, perhaps to acquire specific types of wood for their bows, perhaps to gather quartz or rocks used in making arrowheads.

Whatever the reason, the discovery had shattered Nate’s hope and impressed upon him as nothing else could the reality of the dangers he faced. Thinking about them was one thing, finding their potent legacy quite another. His lips compressed into a thin line and he firmed his grip on the Hawken.

For the next several hours Nate wound steadily northward along the base of several mountains and through several emerald hills. Above him reared ivory heights resembling alabaster temples beckoning to lofty deities. Dense growth of spruce and other pines covered the slopes like green cloaks. Everywhere there was wildlife, a teeming variety of animals going about their daily routines in characteristic style. Some, such as the big gray squirrels and ravens, were noisy to the point of being pests. Others, such as rabbits and raccoons, were so quiet a man didn’t know they were there until he spooked them. Then there were the larger animals usually seen only from a discreet distance, such as the elk and the noble bighorn sheep.

Nate never tired of admiring the spectacle. During his early years, he’d been fascinated to the depths of his being by accounts in books written by explorers and missionaries of the countless kinds of exotic animals found in distant places such as Africa and Asia. Never in a million years would it have occurred to him that he could find the very same thing on the North American continent.

Wasn’t that the human way, though? Nate asked himself. As the old saying went, the grass always looked greener on the other side of the fence. Natural wonders might be right in front of a person’s face, but they’d never see them if they were too busy craning their necks for a glimpse of the far horizon. How odd that so few recognized the truth.

Once past the mountains and among the hills, Nate was troubled to note the animals all fell silent. Silence wasn’t Nature’s normal state. A profound quiet served as a sure sign of looming peril. The cause might be something as simple as the advent of a severe thunderstorm, or it might have a more sinister genesis: prowling predators, whether four-legged or two-legged.

Nate rode uneasily, shifting often to survey the impenetrable woods. Pines, when clustered close, formed a seemingly solid wall capable of hiding a full-grown grizzly or an entire war party. Many a trapper had lost his life when set on without warning by an enemy that appeared almost at his very elbow, too late for the trapper to do more than blink. Nate had no intention of being one of them.

The hills gave way to a low ridge that formed a barrier between them and the valley. Here a whole slope had been devastated by a lightning strike resulting in a widespread fire that reduced thousands of patriarchs of the forest to mere charred fragments and stumps. The ground had been darkened by the inferno but was now sprinkled with islands of hardy grass.

Nate threaded among gnarled black steeples and around ebony logs once home to thriving insects and birds and animals but now reduced to pitted, lifeless hulks. There wasn’t so much as a solitary chipmunk abroad on the blistered slope.

At the top, Nate stopped and breathed in relief, glad to be up where the air lacked an acrid taint and the trees rustled with vitality. His breath caught short when he gazed out over the valley he would call home for the next six months. There were valleys, and there were valleys.

Ages past, a giant cyclops must have taken a crooked scythe to the land, creating a deep, ugly scar that had healed in the course of time and resulted in a valley with so many twists and bends that from high in the air it must have the appearance of a knotted snake. The faces of the ringing mountains to the north, east, and west were strangely barren and so inclined that they shielded the valley floor from much of the sunlight that would otherwise penetrate.

A cool breeze wafted up and out over the ridge, making Nate shiver. He shook himself, turned the stallion, and moved along the ridge eastward, giving his new home a thorough inspection. A wide stream was visible, which confirmed there would be beaver. Or should be, at any rate. No other animals were in sight, which in itself wasn’t remarkable. Early afternoon was a time for deer and elk to lay low in thickets and the meat eaters to rest up for their nightly hunting.

That reminded him. Nate squinted up at the sun, judging he had five or six hours of daylight remaining. Less in the valley, where the peaks to the west would cause an artificial sunset an hour or so earlier. He had to hurry.

Ten minutes of looking failed to reveal a game trail, so Nate made his own, picking his downward course with care, keenly aware he couldn’t afford to lose a single horse. The incline was steep, in spots almost severe. It required an hour to gain the valley floor.

Birds were singing again when Nate trotted on a beeline for the stream. The temperature was cooler, but that would be an advantage when he began working hard. He heard the bubbling of rapid current before he broke from the pines onto a grassy strip bordering the source of his livelihood. As with the majority of high mountain streams, the water in this one seemed in an almighty hurry to get to a lower elevation. A stick went flashing past, bobbing with the ebb and flow.

Nate turned westward. Beaver didn’t make their lodges in the middle of rapids. They needed still water. Which was no doubt why they spent most of their adult lives building and rebuilding the dams so critical to their existence. In a sense, beaver had a set of responsibilities similar to his own. The fate of their families rested on their ability as providers and protectors. It was a bit sad, Nate reflected, that the latest fashion craze hadn’t been chicken feathers instead.

Around a bend was a sight so glorious that Nate quivered with excitement: a tremendous dam, the work of generations of beaver, built at a critical point, an ideal spot to stem the rapid flow without causing so much pressure to build up during times of flood that the dam would be swept away. Over the top cascaded the overflow, re-forming at the bottom into the current contributing to the rapids.

Nate rode past the immense jumbled bowl of trunks, limbs, and odds and ends. A tranquil pond unfolded before him. All along the shore were recently felled trees or the upthrust spikes of those downed long ago. A dozen feet out from the bank rose the hump forming the roof of the lodge. There was no sign of activity, and there probably wouldn’t be until later. In the early evening beaver came out to treat themselves to fresh bark and inspect their dams, while most of the actual construction work was done at night.

Going on, Nate presently discovered another dam. And another. There was so much beaver sign, in his mind’s eye he was already seeing the thick bales of prime pelts he would be taking to the next rendezvous. At a muddy stretch flanking a straight section of rushing water, he saw something else, something that made him jerk on the reins so hard the stallion titled its head quizzically.

The mud bore dozens of tracks, some old, some new, testimony to the drinking habits of a variety of creatures. Most prominent were the telltale pad marks of the one animal able to hold its own against a riled grizzly, the pad marks of what had to be the biggest panther in all existence.