Seven

A deathly hush gripped the verdant woodland as Nate King hastened southward. It had been over an hour since he found the raccoon and not once had he so much as glimpsed the panther, but he knew the cat was close by, knew it was stalking him. Intuition, instinct, logical deduction, all were in harmony on that one point. Satan intended to slay him, and it was only a matter of time before the mountain lion tried.

Nate’s senses strained to their limits. Often he paused to listen. His eyes constantly roved over the terrain, noting possible spots where the panther might jump him, spots to be avoided unless there was no choice, and in that case they were to be approached with the Hawken leveled and cocked.

Uneasiness rested heavily on Nate’s broad shoulders. He was edgy and knew it. While not the sort to harbor irrational fears, he couldn’t suppress a feeling that the worst was yet to come, that he might finally have met his match. Luck, more than skill, had seen him through numerous clashes with hostiles and beasts, and his luck in this instance seemed to have forsaken him. Already he’d lost all his horses and had to abandon his traps and other fixings. He was afoot, low on food. When he eventually became fatigued, he didn’t dare lie down and sleep because he might not wake up again.

There was one bright note in the gloomy outlook. Nate would be safe once he reunited with Shakespeare McNair. He held that comforting thought uppermost in mind as he walked. It bolstered his confidence, allowed him to discount the early setbacks as minor occurrences. Then he came to the gorge.

As gorges went, this one was small. Narrow at the top, only two hundred feet from top to bottom, it nonetheless posed a formidable obstacle. Nate glanced right and left and was disheartened to see he would have to walk over half a mile in either direction to go around. Any delay at this point was costly since it meant he wouldn’t rejoin McNair until well after dark.

There might be a means of gaining the far rim sooner. Nate turned westward, looking for a way down. He was beginning to regret taking the straightest course to save time. Just the opposite had happened. He would have been much better off going the easy way, as he had on horseback.

No means of reaching the bottom presented itself, but Nate was sure he spied a game trail in the midst of the heavy brush below, which meant there had to be a way. If so, it eluded him. He chafed with impatience and resigned himself to going all the way around.

Presently, Nate skirted an immense boulder balanced on the edge and stopped in delight on beholding recent deer prints leading over the rim. Sinking to one knee, he studied the side of the gorge. Long ago a section of wall had buckled, and now a steep slope consisting of crumpled rock and earth formed a treacherous incline dotted with many small boulders. The deer tracks wound to the bottom and disappeared in a thicket.

Nate started to ease over the edge, then hesitated. If he was wrong, if there was no way up the other side, he’d waste hours. Did he care to run the risk of another night alone? He glanced back, checked the forest for sign of the panther, and when assured it was safe to proceed, he carefully lowered himself onto the slope. Immediately a lot of dirt and small rocks cascaded out from under him. The footing was treacherous, maybe too treacherous, and he considered whether to climb back up and go on around just to be safe.

The sudden sound of onrushing feet alerted Nate to his peril heartbeats before Satan struck. Nate was in the act of spinning to confront the cat when his left foot slipped out from under him and he toppled backward.

The misstep saved Nate’s life. He felt a puff of air fan his hair as the lion’s paw just missed his head before the panther’s body slammed into him. The impact bowled him over and he tumbled down the slope. Frantically, he tried to dig in his heels. He clutched at boulders but couldn’t arrest his momentum. To the contrary, he fell faster, gaining speed the farther he went.

Nate involuntarily cried out when his left side smashed into a boulder. A bone distinctly cracked and the subsequent pain was enough to make his head whirl. The Hawken went flying. Nate hit another boulder, and another. Severely stunned, so disoriented he couldn’t tell which way was up and which was down, he continued tumbling end over end for an eternity.

A gut-wrenching impact ended Nate’s descent. Dimly, he was aware of loose earth and dust raining down upon him. Rat on his stomach, he tried to lift his head but couldn’t. He was weak, his vision blurred. He also felt nauseous. Bile rose in his throat and he swallowed it. Gritting his teeth, he was about to try and sit up when he heard something coming down the slope toward him.

Satan!

Nate was in no shape to fight. He sucked in air and held it, then lay as limp as a wet rag, feigning death. His sole hope for salvation rested in convincing the mountain lion that he was dead. It might leave him alone if it wasn’t hungry, although in light of its extremely bloodthirsty nature, that wasn’t a certainty.

Light footfalls came close to Nate’s head. Raspy breathing pinpointed the panther’s exact position. Nate felt soft pressure on his shoulder and listened to loud sniffs. Warm breath touched his neck, his jaw, his cheek. The cat’s face was inches from his own, so near its whiskers scraped his skin.

Stark panic welled up within Nate. It took every iota of self-control he had to keep from leaping up and striking out in blind terror. A paw nudged him once, twice, three times, and the third time claws bit into his flesh, not deep, but deep enough to cause him to bite his lower lip to choke off a yell.

Nate’s lungs were at their limit. He had to take a breath, and once he did the mountain lion would be on him so fast he’d be unable to offer much resistance. The soft crunch of calloused pads worked their way toward his feet and he relaxed a smidgen, thinking Satan was going to leave. Suddenly tremendous anguish lanced his left ankle. Satan had bitten him! He almost screamed, but instead bit his lower lip and suppressed a shudder. Warm blood trickled down over his foot.

Satan gave another loud sniff, swatted the bloody moccasin once, and loped off.

Relief flooded Nate’s being. His lungs were close to bursting but he held his breath a bit longer, afraid the panther would hear. Only when he was on the verge of blacking out did he swiftly cup a hand over his mouth to muffle the noise, then exhaled. His body shook as he gratefully gulped in fresh air while cautiously raising his head for a look around.

The mountain lion was gone, but whether up to the top of the gorge or somewhere in the brush along the bottom, Nate had no idea.

Nate saw an isolated pile of earth and stones nearby and dragged himself into its shadow. Propping his back against it, he took stock. His head hurt again, abominably, but there were no new wounds. His chest hurt, too, possibly from a fractured or broken rib. And there was his foot, which bothered him the least but was bleeding quite badly. Miraculously, neither the pistols, the butcher knife, nor his tomahawk had fallen loose during his headlong plummet, and the powder horn, ammo pouch, and parfleche were intact. The only item he’d lost was the rifle, the one he needed the most.

Nate peeled off his left moccasin and examined the puncture marks. The cat had nipped his flesh, no more, so the damage wasn’t severe. Drawing his knife, he cut a wide strip off the bottom of his left legging and wrapped it tightly around his ankle. Several whangs tied into a long string sufficed to secure the bandage in place. He gingerly pulled the moccasin back on, drew a flintlock, and slowly rose.

There was still no sign of Satan so Nate shuffled to the slope and began climbing. He wasn’t about to leave without the Hawken.

A rifle was an essential part of a trapper’s gear, the single most indispensable item he owned. It enabled him to hold his own against fierce beasts and bloodthirsty hostiles. It made possible slaying game at distances no pistol could ever reach. Overall, a rifle made staying alive easier, and frequently was the deciding factor in whether a trapper lived or died.

Nate King intended to live. The only problem was that boulders covered the slope like warts on a toad, scores of them, and the incline itself was uneven, dotted with ruts and bigger depressions. The Hawken could be anywhere. He might miss seeing it even if he was right on top of it.

Climbing slowly, Nate peeked behind every boulder, in every crack. Thanks to the immense boulder at the top, the one he had been near when the panther attacked, he had a fair idea of the path he had taken to the bottom. Allowing for a five yard margin one way or the other, he could reasonably confine his search to a belt a dozen yards wide.

The climb became increasingly difficult the higher Nate ascended. He had to grab hold of boulders to keep his footing, and often he slipped despite the extra purchase. The loose earth slid out from under him no matter how lightly he set his feet down.

Sixty feet from the bottom the inevitable took place. Nate was easing around a boulder for a better look into a wide hole when the dirt underfoot swept out from under him and he fell backward. Arms flailing, he attempted to regain his balance. Gravity thwarted him, and he grimaced as he slammed onto his back and shot toward the bottom. Nothing he did stopped his slide. By twisting and turning he was able to avoid most of the boulders below him, but not all. At length he rolled to a stop in a choking cloud of dust, battered but not gravely injured.

Coughing and wheezing, Nate pushed to his feet and glared at the incline. It would be the height of folly to try again. Yet he refused to leave without the Hawken. If he could regain the rim, he might be able to spot it. But the only way to do that was to find a way up the other side and then to circle around.

Nate moved eastward, into the brush bordering the base of the south wall. The deer tracks led in the same direction. Too bad, he mused, that he didn’t have tapered hoofs like they did; then he’d be able to scale the slope with ease.

A glimmer of blue was visible ahead. Nate ducked under a limb, passed a thorn bush, and emerged in a clearing dominated by a picturesque spring. He squatted, tested the water by dipping a finger in and touching it to his lips, then drank his full. The spring explained why the deer visited the gorge regularly. They could eat, drink, and lie low, safe from predators.

Not now, though. Nate twisted and scanned the vegetation. Was Satan out there, watching him? Or had the panther gone elsewhere in the belief he was dead?

Pistol in hand, Nate entered the growth beyond the pool. The tracks brought him to a thin strip of bare earth adjoining the base of the wall. He was encouraged by the fact most of the tracks led in the same direction, which implied another way out of the gorge. In his eagerness to find it, he exerted himself more than he should have, and abruptly he was racked by intense spasms in his chest. Groaning, he doubled over, staggered to a low protruding finger of rock, and sat down.

The rib must be worse than he thought, Nate realized. It had been aching terribly since his second fall, but this was the worst yet. If he had any common sense he’d rest for a while to let the discomfort subside. But he was running short of time. Night loomed several hours off.

Nate picked up a thick twig, jammed it between his clenched teeth, and strode on. Whenever his ribs flared, he bit down hard. In this way he covered hundreds of yards and came to the path leading up to the south rim.

Actually, it wasn’t so much a path as a series of skeletal switchbacks extending from the bottom to the very top, switchbacks wide enough for deer with their slender hoofs but hardly wide enough for a grown man’s feet. Nate looked and would have sworn if not for the twig in his mouth. The prospect of scaling them in his condition was daunting, but it was either that or attempt to climb the steep slope again.

Nate squinted at the sun, well on its western arc, then moved up the first grade to the sharp bend. Here the path was no more than six inches wide. He had to step sideways to get to the next grade. Treading with consummate care, he climbed to the second bend. Once more he moved sideways. And so on and so on it went until he was halfway to the top and half out of breath with his chest in acute torment. Halting, Nate leaned against the wall and stared at the switchbacks below. It was strange, but from that high up they reminded him of a series of steps, cellar steps, specifically, steps he hadn’t thought of in many a year.

~*~

Long ago. Many miles away.

The boy sat at the bottom of the cellar steps, the club in his left hand, his bored expression fixed on a mouse hole in the wall beside his father’s workbench. He heard footsteps above him but didn’t turn around.

“Well, look at this, Sherm. He’s still at it.”

“The mice must be smarter than he is, Lou. That’s all I can figure.”

There were scornful snickers and a hand fell on the boy’s shoulder.

“What the dickens is the matter with you, little guy?” Lou asked. “Over a week you’ve been at this and you haven’t killed one lousy mouse.”

“Keep it up and you’ll spend the rest of your life down here,” Sherm declared. “Father is so mad at you we can’t even mention your name when he’s around.”

Hiding the ache in his heart, the boy shifted and gazed at his two brothers. “I haven’t seen one yet.”

“Don’t lie to us, brat,” Sherm said, giving the boy a slap on the back of the head. “We were all at the dinner table when father told us about the one you could have smashed but didn’t.” Smirking, Sherm leaned down. “Why didn’t you? Were you afraid it would tear you apart?”

“Go away, Sherm.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

Lou gave Sherm a shove. “Quit picking on him. Can he help it if he doesn’t like killing things?”

“Yes, he can,” Sherm snapped. “Think of how the other kids will act if word of this gets around. We’ll never hear the end of their teasing.”

“I’m the one they would tease,” the boy noted. “Wrong, milksop. We’d be picked on too because we’re your brothers. Everyone will say it runs in the family, that the King boys must be girls.” Sherm slapped the boy again. “And all thanks to you, you jackass.”

“Father doesn’t like us to swear,” the boy said. “Father isn’t home right now,” Sherm countered. He gestured angrily at the mouse hole. “What are you waiting for? Crush one of the damn things and he’ll let you off the hook.”

“I can’t kill one if I don’t see one.”

Sherm bristled and would have jumped on the boy if not for Lou, who intervened by grabbing Sherm’s wrists and holding fast. “I won’t let you beat him up again. He’s doing the best he can.”

“Damn you both to hell!” Sherm said, yanking loose and moving to the next higher step. “You’re always taking his side, Lou, even when you know he’s wrong. He’d be better off if he didn’t have you around to protect him. Maybe then he’d learn about life.”

“Listen to you,” Lou said. “Those are Father’s words, not yours.”

“They’re true. He spends all his time with his nose buried in books. What’s he going to amount to when he grows up?”

The boy stood and faced his brothers. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he told Sherm. “Sometimes I think I’d like to be a writer. Other times I think I’d like to work with figures since I’m good at arithmetic. And there are times, when I’m off hunting with Uncle Zeke, that I think I might like to live in the woods like an old hermit and have just the animals for company.”

“You’re touched in the head, you know that?” Sherm responded. “Zeke is a lot of fun, but he’s missing a few marbles somewhere. And Father and him don’t get along so well.”

“I like him,” the boy insisted.

Sherm started up the steps. “Do as you want, idiot. I’ve had my say.” Stopping, he glared down. “But I’m warning you, Nate. If we get teased over this mouse business, I’m going to lick you proper.”

“You can try,” Nate said.

The door slammed behind Sherm. Lou sat down and crossed his arms over his knees. “Why make it worse by talking back to him the way you do? You know how he gets?”

“I should let him bully me all the time?”

“No. No, I guess not.” Lou focused on the cause of the argument. “The whole family’s upset, and all because of some stupid mice. Makes you wonder.”

“I really will kill one,” Nate mentioned.

“When?”

“When I have the chance.”

Lou made a clucking sound. “Little brother, I come down here quite a lot to be alone, to think. I couldn’t begin to count the mice I’ve seen when it’s all quiet, especially at night. So tell me. And be honest. How many have you seen, just today?”

“Four.”

“And you didn’t club one?”

“I couldn’t bring myself to do it.” Nate held the club out as if about to cast it from him. “I know how easy it would be to bash in their skulls. I know they’re just mice, and we can’t have then overrunning the house. But they’re living things, just like us.”

“Wrong, little brother,” Lou interrupted. “They’re animals. We’re not. They don’t think like we do, don’t feel like we do. They don’t have souls like we do. You start making them equal with us and you might as well go live like a hermit because you won’t be any better than they are.”

“Are we better? Really and truly?”

“Dumb question. You like poetry. Know any mice that have written poems? Or painted beautiful art? Or sculpted statues?”

“But does that make us better?”

Lou cocked his head and regarded Nate quizzically. “Maybe Sherm and Father are right. Maybe you do read too much. How else would you come up with some of these crazy notions of yours?” Rising, he climbed to the door and paused with his hand on the latch. “You’d better get your thoughts straightened out. You say you like Uncle Zeke. Then remember what he told us about puny thinkers, as he calls them. There’s a right way to think and a wrong way to think, and it seems to me you’re in the wrong. Why, if everyone felt the way you do, we’d all be eating nothing but vegetables and fruit and we’d never have milk to drink or be able to go horseback riding. Gophers would ruin all the yards, cats and dogs would be living wild in the streets, and there’d be so many mice they’d be in your bath water.” He opened the door. “You’re smart enough to see the truth. You’re just afraid to admit it.”

Nate watched the door close quietly. As usual, Lou saw right through him and had hit on the heart of the problem. He took a seat on the bottom step, placed the club across his legs, and rested his chin in his hands. One mouse. All he had to kill was one mouse.

He stared at the hole and waited.

~*~

The switchback became harder to negotiate the higher Nate King climbed. Sometimes he had to leap over gaps, and at other times he had to cling to the gorge wall with his fingernails to keep from falling over the edge. His chest hurt worse as time went on, much worse, the pain so excruciating that he halted every few minutes to rest.

At long last the rim reared just twenty feet above Nate’s head. Arm pressed tight against his ribs, he was making good headway when he came to where a four foot ridge of earth had buckled. There was no way to go around. He had to jump, so he moved to the very edge, crouched, and tensed his legs.

Movement in the gorge below drew Nate’s attention to the spring. Barely controlled rage boiled within him as he watched Satan approach the pool and drink. There was the cause of all his troubles, and if only he had the Hawken he could have picked the panther off. He saw the cat sit and yawn, saw it idly gaze around and then look up. Right at him. Their eyes locked, and although the distance was too great for Nate to clearly see the mountain lion’s features, he swore Satan’s features lit with bestial glee.

Then Satan headed for the switchbacks.

Rather than be worried, Nate laughed. “That’s it!’’ he declared. “Come on up here! By the time you reach the top, I’ll be waiting for you with both pistols cocked. Come on!’’

Thinking of how joyous it would be to plant two balls in the cat’s brain, Nate leaped across the gap. Or tried to. Distracted by grand thoughts of rubbing his nemesis out, he failed to concentrate as he should have, and as a result he came down inches short of the other side. Mere inches, but it might as well have been miles. Quickly he thrust out both arms and caught at the lip. For a few seconds he held on, his legs flailing as he desperately tried to find purchase for them. His right moccasin found tenuous footing, and he was in the act of bracing for an upward lunge when burning agony seared his chest and made his head spin. Of a sudden he went weak.

Nate felt his fingers slipping and tried to gouge them into the soil. He kicked wildly but was unable to find solid footing. Panic tore at the core of his being. “No!’’ he cried, and helplessly plummeted over the side.