Five

“I’ll get you. Just wait and see.”

The boy squatted next to the mouse hole and hefted the club taken from the wood box. He had to use two hands to swing it with any force. Leaning back against the wall, he stared at the piece of cheese lying a yard away. Sooner or later the mouse would come out after the morsel and the boy would do as his father wanted and bash the creature’s brains in. The very thought made the boy’s stomach chum but he fought the sensation. He had to do as his father told him. He had to prove he wasn’t an idler and worthless dreamer as his father believed.

The boy wanted his father to be proud of him. If he killed the mouse, maybe his father would stop being so critical. Of late they spent all their time arguing, a situation that got worse the older the boy became. He didn’t understand why. When he had been younger, he’d gotten along wonderfully with both his parents. Now he was always being criticized, always being labeled as lazy and worthless. Yet he was the same person he had always been, and he never griped about doing his fair share of the chores. So why was his father forever carping about every little thing he did?

Troubled, the boy looked up as a shadow fell across the floor. He beamed in delight at the woman who entered the kitchen and said softly, “You won’t have to worry about this mouse much longer, Mother.”

She paused, blinked at seeing him, and frowned at the hole. “So your father picked you, did he?”

An edge to her tone prompted the boy to ask, “Is something wrong?”

The mother’s face clouded and she gripped her dress so tight her knuckles turned white. “No, son. Everything is just fine. You be sure and do as your father tells you.”

“He said the mouse gave you a bad scare.”

“Did he indeed?” She averted her gaze. “Well, if your father said it, it must be true.”

“I can’t believe a little mouse would bother you. You’re too …” the boy paused, seeking the right word, and chose, “… mature.”

He was greatly startled when his mother unexpectedly turned, came quickly over, and gave him a hug that threatened to bust his ribs. When she stepped back, she spun around before he could see her features.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, son,” she said, her voice rather husky. “You sure?”

“Of course. Now stay quiet so the mouse will come out.” Off she went, her head bowed.

The boy was puzzled by her strange behavior. There had been a time when his mother had been full of life and laughter and being around her had made him all warm inside. Now she upset him terribly because she was always so moody. Yet she had no reason to be. Grown-ups were impossible to figure out.

The boy wagged the bludgeon, concentrated on the hole, and waited.

~*~

The next morning dawned grey and somber with a promise of moisture in the rarified air. Nate was no sooner out of the blankets than he checked on the mare. She was dozing and only cracked an eye when he gently touched her. Her hind quarters were terribly swollen but thankfully the bleeding had stopped. Nate replaced the dry mud with a new layer. Then, and only then, did he warm his stomach with four cups of steaming coffee. Usually his morning brew perked him up. Not today. Circumstances forced him to make a decision he would rather not have to make.

The mare was too weak to go anywhere. Nate either left her in camp while he made his rounds of the traps, which would leave her at the mercy of Satan should the panther show up, or he stayed in camp until the mare was strong enough to tag along. That would take days, though. And during that time the mountain lion would wreak vengeance on any beaver caught in the traps, destroying their pelts.

Nate quaffed the last of his fourth cup, then set the cup on a flat rock beside the fire. No matter what he decided, he stood to lose. Which did he value more? The mare or the hides? The horse had been loyal and had never given him cause to complain, but by the same token he couldn’t very well stand by and do nothing while the hellish cat made mincemeat of the beaver. He was damned if he did, damned if he didn’t.

The sky gradually brightened although the sun was unable to put in an appearance thanks to the growing cloud cover. Nate made no move to mount up. Twice he examined the mare. At length he voiced a string of oaths and prepared to leave. He hesitated with a foot in a stirrup, glanced at the fire, and had a brainstorm.

It took twenty minutes to gather enough wood for four more fires, arranged in a ring around the suffering horse. To each he added enough fuel to last an hour, minimum. “This is the best I can do,” he told the mare. “Cats are afraid of fire. Maybe this will keep Satan at bay until I get back.”

Then Nate climbed onto the stallion and rode off with the two other pack animals in tow. He intended to hurry, but along a northern tributary he found five beaver and up another he found three, the most caught at any one time since his arrival. Each had to be retrieved, the traps reset and placed elsewhere. Several hours elapsed. By his reckoning the time was close to noon when he caught sight of the camp. And something else.

A large, ungainly black bird was gliding down toward the clearing, pinions spread wide to soar on the currents, its reddish head cocked to one side.

Nate took one look and prodded the stallion into a gallop. As he clattered past the thicket he discovered five more buzzards either perched on the mare or next to her. Several had strips of bloody flesh hanging from their breaks. Some hissed on seeing Nate appear. As he bore down on them they hopped into the air and flapped frantically, fleeing every which way.

Nate paid them no heed. He vaulted from the saddle and dashed to the mare. Feeling for a heartbeat wasn’t necessary. She had been dead for some time, her throat slashed wide open, her jugular severed. A pool of blood was soaking into the soil. Other claw marks were on her neck and head. Portions of her side had been torn out in bite-sized chunks.

“Satan!” Nate stated harshly, his fists clenched. A survey of the clearing turned up three partial prints, enough to tell the story.

The mare had most probably been asleep, the fires long out, when the panther sprang out of the spruce trees and in a few mighty bounds pounced on her neck. Two or three swipes of its razor claws had been enough to rip her throat apart. Then the cat had slashed and bit its prey numerous times in savage glee.

Her death bothered Nate. He tried telling himself it shouldn’t, that such incidents were commonplace in the Rockies. Violence and dying were an integral part of Nature. Each and every day countless animals fell victim to hungry meat eaters. Nate knew he should be accustomed to the endless cycle of killing by now, but this was different. The mare had been a companion of sorts, not just another wild beast.

And, too, Nate was incensed at Satan. The wily lion had outmaneuvered him—again. Was it out there right this minute, observing his every move? He searched the vegetation without success.

A pressing problem presented itself. The mare was too big to bury. Nor could the carcass be left there to rot, not if Nate intended to call the clearing home until it was time to rejoin Shakespeare. Finding a new spot to camp, moving all the supplies and pelts, and erecting another lean-to would cost him another day or two. Since he wasn’t too fond of the idea of staying in that valley a minute longer than necessary, he had to think of a means of moving the mare.

Nate selected the thickest limb he could carry, wedged an end under the mare, and tried flipping her body over.

The limb snapped like kindling. Relying on a lever proved a waste of energy.

Undaunted, Nate walked to his packs and found the long coil of rope he invariably brought along. Getting the rope around the mare’s body took considerable effort and ingenuity and left blood smeared on his leggings and moccasins, prompting a trip to the stream to wash up. Then he mounted the stallion and tried hauling the mare off, but although the obedient black strained and tugged and heaved, the weight was too much for any one horse to move.

“I’m not licked yet,” Nate declared, swinging down. Drawing his butcher knife, he sliced the rope in half, giving him two. One end of the severed length was tied to the mare, the other end around the neck of one of the remaining pack animals. Grasping the stallion’s reins and the pack animal’s lead, Nate guided them toward the thicket to the south. When the ropes lost all slack and both horses stopped, he gave a pull and urged them on with shouts of encouragement. Gradually, inch by laboriously gained inch, the mare’s body was moved.

The job took nearly two hours. Nate was afraid the ropes would break so whenever they seemed on the verge of splitting he rested the stallion and pack horse a few minutes. In this manner he was able to drag the mare a distance of forty yards.

Untying the ropes, Nate rode back and rekindled the fire. He spent the afternoon skinning beaver and working on their hides. With the red sun hovering above the stark western peaks, he made his customary circuit of the traps and was mildly disappointed to end up empty-handed.

“Maybe I should leave early,” Nate said to the stallion. “Maybe there aren’t as many beaver left as I thought.” He'd developed the habit of talking to the big black as if it was his best friend, and the stallion accommodated by pricking its ears whenever he spoke. “I’ve got enough as it is, anyway. Why be greedy?”

No buzzards swooped over the clearing this time, but there was something far worse. Nate rounded a spruce tree and drew rein in consternation, his face flushing beet red. “What the hell!” he roared. “I’ll nail that panther’s hide to my cabin wall!”

Old Satan had paid the camp a visit in Nate’s absence. The mountain lion had scattered parfleches and packs all over, tearing many open. Worse, a small bale of plews, representing two full weeks of work, was missing.

Nate was fit to be tied. He stormed about the clearing hunting for tracks. Finding none, he insured the Hawken was loaded and hiked in ever widening circles around the camp, determined to find the missing bale before darkness set in. Time worked against him. So did his own common sense when he realized he had left the horses unattended. Reluctantly, he gave up after only a few minutes.

A magnificent full moon adorned the heavens but Nate wasn’t in any frame of mind to appreciate the celestial spectacle. He sipped coffee and mulled what he should do next. Obviously the panther had it in for him. Perhaps Satan regarded the valley as its exclusive domain. Whatever the reason, the cat had to be the most spiteful beast alive, and it was as plain as the nose on Nate’s face that it would continue to torment him until he departed.

Running went against Nate’s grain, yet what else could he do? The loss of another horse or bale would be disastrous. Better to cut his losses while he could. Later on maybe he would return with a few Shoshone friends and settle accounts.

Nate slept fitfully that night. Up before daylight, he hid the rest of his bales in the spruce trees, using the ropes to hoist them high onto sturdy branches. Convinced the plews were safe, he secreted his packs in the depression he had dug near the stream, then covered them with brush.

“That ought to do it,” Nate announced. Forgoing coffee, he climbed on the stallion and started collecting the Newhouses. At midday he brought those he had gathered to the clearing and immediately rode out after more. By late in the day he had reclaimed two-thirds of the traps. He could have collected another half-dozen or so, but he still wanted to scour the area around his camp for the missing bale.

Tethering the pack animals in the very center of the clearing where they would be able to see the panther if it came at them and whinny in alarm, Nate, acting on a hunch, rode the stallion into the spruce trees. The bale weighed upwards of fifty pounds and would be hard to drag off, even for Old Satan. The thickets were too dense for the cat to make much headway, and Nate couldn’t see the lion lugging the bale across the stream. Making the spruce trees the best bet.

The guess turned out to be accurate. Beyond the spruce trees lay a meadow. Nate gazed out over it and saw brown spots among the high grass. Applying his heels, he galloped to the nearest one, his anger surging at the sight of a pelt that had been torn into ragged sections. It was the same with the next hide, and the next. Satan had used teeth and claws to rend the plews asunder.

Not once in Nate’s entire life had he heard of a panther doing such a thing. He made a sweep of the entire meadow and discovered only three hides intact. These he took with him.

The prospect of another night in the valley was mildly unnerving. Nate was actually anxious to leave, but he had the remainder of the traps to bring in. Provided that luck smiled on him, he’d be ready to go by noon of the next day at the very latest.

As an added precaution, Nate tore out bushes by the roots and piled them in a waist-high circle in the clearing. The barrier didn’t offer much protection, but the panther would be unable to get at the horses and him without leaping over it. And if he had to, he could set the barrier alight to drive the cat off.

Nate ate glumly, wolfing beaver meat without relish. Afterward he sat up sipping coffee until well past midnight. To his surprise, Satan didn’t appear, nor did the valley echo to the lion’s throaty snarls. Propped against his saddle, he fell asleep with a pistol in each hand.

A whinny awakened Nate hours later. By the positions of the stars and constellations he knew the time was about four in the morning. All three horses were excited by something south of the barrier. Rising and stepping to the stallion, he gripped its mane and quietly straddled its broad back. From his vantage point he commanded a sweeping view of the clearing.

Satan was so close to the barrier Nate could have hit the cat with a stone. In the pale moonlight its coat had a whitish sheen. The lion appeared baffled by the wall of brush and was silently pacing back and forth.

Nate extended both flintlocks slowly so as not to draw attention to himself. He aimed carefully at the panther’s head and curled his thumbs around the hammers. They would click when cocked, which couldn’t be helped. The worst that might happen was the monster would run off. If not, the smoothbore .55 caliber pistols would end Satan’s career then and there.

Grinning in anticipation, Nate jerked the hammers back. They did indeed click, loudly, too, and the panther reacted accordingly before Nate could fire. However, not in the fashion Nate expected. Instead of racing off, the mountain lion whirled, took a single leap, and cleared the top of the brush barrier with feet to spare, springing straight at Nate.

In the blink of an eye Nate compensated, training both pistols on the hurtling cat, but as he did the black stallion reared and he had to clutch at the stallion’s mane to keep from being thrown off. In the act of rearing, the stallion pulled free of its tether.

Satan alighted in front of the stallion and raked the horse with its claws, then evaded a flurry of pounding hoofs. Nate raised one arm to fire. Again he was thwarted when the stallion abruptly leaped and sailed over the brush. Nate tried to stop the horse before it reached the thicket but the stallion ignored the pressure of his legs and arms.

“Whoa!” Nate shouted frantically. “Whoa, big fellow!” He jammed the flintlocks under his belt to free his hands so he could grab at the rope dangling from the stallion’s neck. Bending forward, he snatched it and straightened just as the black burst from the thicket and entered the forest.

Nate looked up, saw a low tree limb sweeping at his face, and ducked. The limb struck his beaver hat sending it flying. He glanced back, wanting to note the exact spot so he could come back later, but the dark shadows made the area a murky soup.

“Stop, damn it!” Nate thundered, hauling on the rope with all his strength. The stallion, fired with fear, sped onward into the night.

Nate tried not to think of what might be happening to his mares. Repeatedly he tried to halt the stallion. When it wouldn’t obey, he tensed, preparing to leap off and run to the clearing to prevent the mountain lion from slaughtering the pack horses, if it hadn’t already done so.

Bracing both hands on the stallion’s back, Nate shoved upward. Too late he glimpsed another limb rushing toward him. He threw up his arms to protect himself. The limb smashed him in the temple. Excruciating pain racked him from head to toe and he was catapulted end over end. Dimly he was aware of crashing down, of the drum of the stallion’s hoofs rapidly receding.

Then all went black.

~*~

Somewhere else. Long ago.

The boy felt a hand on his shoulder and his eyes snapped wide with fright. He stared into the hard features of his father and inwardly struggled to calm himself.

“Is this how you do a job I ask you to do? You fall asleep?”

“I’m sorry, Father. It’s been hours and the mouse hasn’t shown itself.”

“Oh?” The father pivoted, pointed at the cheese. It had been gnawed clean through and half of it was missing. “See those little teeth marks? What do you think the mouse was doing while you were being your usual lazy self?”

“I didn’t hear it!” the boy blurted.

“That’s your excuse? The mouse should have been polite enough to make more noise so you could wake up and kill it?”

“I didn’t say—” the boy began, and recoiled when he was cuffed on the ear.

“What have I told you about sassing me, son?” the father demanded in a strained tone. “Haven’t I told you again and again never to talk back to your mother or me?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

A protracted sigh issued from the father and he slowly stood. “What am I going to do with you? I try and try to teach you how to be behave. I do my best to show you what it takes to be successful in this vicious world of ours. But you won’t pay me any mind.” He sadly shook his head. “I’ve never known anyone so lazy in all my days.”

An angry retort reached the boy’s lips but went no further. His ear still stung terribly.

“I know what you’re thinking,” the father declared. “It’s just a tiny mouse. Why am I making such an issue of it?” He nudged the cheese with a toe. “There must be some way of impressing the point I’m trying to make.”

“I won’t fall asleep again. I promise,” the boy said.

“You’d better not or I’ll tan your backside,” the father warned. “You’re not too old for a switching.” Turning, he took a few paces, then drew up short and snapped his fingers. “Of course! I saw him just a few minutes ago on my way home! Drop that piece of wood and come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Don’t ask questions,” the father barked. Grabbing the boy by the shirt, he hurried to the front door. The sidewalk was packed with people, while in the street a steady stream of creaking carriages and rattling wagons flowed to and fro.

The boy was hustled two blocks to an intersection with a main avenue. Here there were many more people, many more carriages. His father stopped in the midst of the bedlam and grinned. The boy looked all around in confusion, afraid to ask a question for fear of being ridiculed.

“See him, son?”

“Who, father?”

“One Leg, of course. Over by that wall.”

The beggar had a name but no one knew it so everyone in the neighborhood called him One Leg. He was ancient, with wrinkles in his wrinkles, his clothes little more than grimy rags. Every day of the week except the Lord’s day he could be found on this particular corner, battered tin cup on the ground in front of him to receive whatever alms were offered.

“Do you understand now?” the father asked.

No, the boy didn’t. So he hesitated, uncertain of the right answer, and his father went on excitedly.

“This is what comes of being lazy, son. This is why I try to instill in you a dedication to hard work and discipline. I don’t want you to end your days like One Leg.” The father’s voice dripped contempt. “He doesn’t have to make a living this way. There are jobs he could do if he really wanted to. But all he does is sit on his backside, depending on the kindness of strangers for his livelihood. Do you want to be like him?”

“No,” the boy said. In his heart he was deeply sorry for anyone who had to suffer so much.

“Good. I’m delighted you finally see the light. Now let’s go home so you can kill that mouse. And if you start to doze off again, you just think of One Leg. That should set you straight.”

“Yes, sir,” the boy agreed, although truth to tell he was at a loss to see how his father could compare the beggar’s pathetic plight to killing a lowly rodent. After all, One Leg hadn’t asked to lose a limb.

“One day you’ll thank me for this lesson,’’ the father said proudly.

“I’m sure I will.”