Eight

Blood rained out of a stormy sky, big, moist drops that splattered onto Nate King’s face and beard and plastered his hair to his head. Blindly he struck at the dark downpour, striving to block the drops. Some got into his nose, some into his mouth. He sputtered, swallowed, gagged. High above him the storm clouds shifted, changing shape, transforming from simple clouds into a gigantic feline that snarled and hissed and clawed at him while a torrent of spittle, red spittle, showered from its mouth. “No!” Nate shouted, swallowing more damp liquid. “Stop it! Stop it!”

Suddenly Nate realized that he was sitting up and swinging wildly at thin air. Thunder rumbled overhead and raindrops were hitting his face. He blinked in confusion at the darkness enveloping him and wondered where he was until he remembered Satan and the pain in his chest and falling, falling, falling.

Nate groped the ground, looked down, then up. The outline of the rim was faintly visible. He discovered he was still high on the gorge wall, on a switchback about fifty feet from the top. Had it not broken his fall, he would have been smashed to a pulp when he hit bottom.

Nate peered at the inky floor of the gorge and the lower switchbacks, puzzled by Satan’s absence. The panther had been coming after him when he slipped. Why hadn’t it finished him off? More importantly, where was it now?

A vivid bolt of lightning briefly lit up the heavens, attended by a tremendous clap of thunder. Nate was buffeted by winds so strong he had to hold on tight to keep from being plucked from his perch. The storm was intensifying. He had to reach the rim before the lightning or the wind accomplished what the fall had failed to do.

Rising to his knees, Nate winced as his chest again throbbed with torment. He tried to stand, but the instant he put his full weight on his left foot the leg was jarred by pain and he nearly buckled. Sitting once more, he gingerly felt his ankle and foot. Both were hugely swollen, whether as a result of the fall or due to the bite he had no idea.

Another jagged spear of lightning reminded Nate of his precarious position. Being so high up, he was a prime target. He had to find shelter swiftly.

Since he couldn’t stand, Nate crawled up the grade, negotiated the switchback, and went on. His gravest worry was blundering onto one of the gaps and falling again. To prevent that from happening, he tested the ground ahead before advancing. This held him to a snail’s pace but he would rather be safe than pay the ultimate price for being rash.

Gradually, painstakingly, Nate worked his way ever higher. The rain fell in buckets, drenching him to the skin. The lightning flashed continuously, the thunder boomed. Worst of all, the wind tore at him, trying to rip him loose and fling him to earth. His lips grim with determination, Nate kept on going.

The first gap Nate encountered was a small one, one he recalled from earlier, and was handily crossed. The next, being wider, took some doing. Nate had to inch both knees to the edge, guess where the upper incline was situated, and lunge at the same time he did a frog hop, throwing both arms straight out. He landed on firm ground and gave silent thanks.

At length Nate came to the gap where his mishap had occurred. He knew it was the one even though he couldn’t see it clearly. Edging to the brink, he waited for another streak of lightning to illuminate the wall. In the garish glare, the gap seemed more like a chasm, an insurmountable gulf only a madman would try to hurdle. But hurdle it he must.

This time Nate focused on the patch of earth he must alight on and nothing else. Bunching his legs, he took a few deep breaths to compose his nerves, and when the next streak of lightning brightened the sky, he pushed off on his good leg, throwing himself across the open space as if shot from a cannon. Rain battered him, the wind lashed him, and then he was smacking down on his hands and knees and clinging fast to the slick, dank soil. He squatted there a while so his pulse would stop racing, then he crawled upward.

Many minutes elapsed. At last Nate attained the summit. He collapsed, exhausted, and shivered as the cold rain chilled him to the bone. Rousing himself, he limped into nearby undergrowth, into the densest bushes he could find, and curled up underneath them. Here the rain hardly touched him, the wind left him alone. He could relax for the first time since being attacked. Closing his eyes, he folded his arms across his chest and tried to rub warmth into his body. His rib was on fire, his left foot pulsing. Surprisingly, neither stopped him from promptly falling asleep.

Singing birds brought Nate around. He sat up, amazed to see the sky was clear, the day hours old. His chest didn’t bother him as much but his foot was worse. One look was enough to show him why. Grinding his teeth so he wouldn’t cry out, he pried his moccasin off and examined the discolored flesh. There was no doubt. The foot was infected.

Nate bowed his head, mentally resisting the tide of despair threatening to engulf him. A fractured rib, an infected foot, no rifle, low on food, and in dire need of water. What else could go wrong? Even though he had slept a long time, he felt extremely tired, and he wearily pressed a palm to his forehead. His brow burned with fever, hotter than it had ever been.

“Now I know,” Nate muttered. He squeezed his foot into the moccasin, rose, and hobbled from the brush. Forest stretched southward into the distance. A short search turned up a broken limb the proper length, and using this as a crutch, Nate went on.

Reaching Shakespeare was more critical than ever. The mountain man had lived among Indians so long and learned so much from medicine men he knew more about healing than most doctors. Shakespeare would know how to treat the infection and tend the rib. All would be well.

Nate reassured himself with that thought repeatedly. But his condition steadily deteriorated. Presently he broke out in a sweat. His body would be hot one minute, cold the next. At times he wanted to throw off his buckskins, at others his teeth chattered.

A peculiar feeling seized hold of Nate, a lethargy so overwhelming he seemed to be moving in slow motion. It took forever for him to take a single step. His arms were so sluggish they were leaden.

Nate was familiar with the symptoms of tainted blood. He’d known a trapper who had succumbed after getting a foot caught in a trap. And there had been a Shoshone warrior, wounded by a Cheyenne arrow, who had died from the ailment. Certain herbs were supposed to be an effective treatment but he didn’t know which ones they were.

Nate’s sense of time was all askew. He plodded on because he refused to quit, relying on the crutch more and more. His leg was now swollen midway to the knee. In addition, his rib acted up again. And the whole time the fever raged.

Habit caused Nate to stop at noon and sit on a log. He closed his eyes, then jerked them wide when he began to drift off. He couldn’t sleep yet. There would be plenty of time for that luxury once he found Shakespeare, which, if his strength held out, should be before nightfall.

While not hungry, Nate forced himself to eat to maintain his energy. The jerky tasted tangier than usual, making his mouth water. He stuffed a piece in his cheek, shoved up off the log. The top of his crutch had rubbed the skin under his arm practically raw, but it couldn’t be helped. It was either go on or die.

Nate traveled southward for the longest time. His existence became a mechanical routine of forcing his good leg to take a step, then employing the crutch. Nothing else mattered. He had to reach Shakespeare and the only way to accomplish that was to keep on going even if his brow was hotter than a burning ember. His chest felt as if something was boring through his flesh from the inside out, and his left leg was in such pain he couldn’t bear to put his foot down.

On and on and on Nate went. He was terribly thirsty but couldn’t remember exactly where the streams were located. His mind was sluggish, almost numb. Conscious thought took so much effort he didn’t bother thinking. He just plodded along, minute after minute, hour after hour.

At length Nate looked up and saw he was in a field of high grass. Bordering it to the south was a ribbon of a creek. The sight of cool, refreshing water sent a shiver down his spine. He cried out, a formless cry of hope and relief. From an internal reservoir he tapped the last of his waning strength and hurried forward.

A yard from the creek Nate let go of the crutch and threw himself flat on the ground. His lips touched the water and he drank as might a person who had been lost in a desert for a week. His thirst was unquenchable. He gulped and gulped until his belly bulged and he couldn’t swallow another drop. Then he rolled onto his side and splashed water onto his fiery forehead and face.

It felt so indescribably wonderful to simply lie there and rest. Nate sank both arms into the creek up to the elbows, luxuriating in the chill sensation. He wanted to drink more but was afraid he’d be sick. Absently gazing skyward to learn how many hours of daylight were left, he was confounded to see the sun wasn’t where it should be.

Nate had been heading south for ages. Or so he’d believed. The sun, therefore, should be to his right, to the west. Instead, the blazing orb hung in the heavens to his left. If the direction he thought was west was actually east, that meant he had either been walking in circles or had become completely switched around and been hiking northward for most of the afternoon.

“It can’t be!” Nate declared as the full magnitude of his mistake hit home. He’d counted on finding McNair before nightfall. Now he didn’t have the slightest idea which way to go. Was he still due north of Shakespeare’s valley, or was he to the west or east of it? There were no landmarks nearby he recognized, no way to get his bearings.

I’m as good as dead! Nate reflected, and had to bite his lower lip as a flood of despondency rose within him. He closed his eyes and shook his head, fighting the feeling of hopelessness. He couldn’t give up! He didn’t want to die, not this way, not there, where no one would ever find him, not all alone, left there to rot and have his bones be bleached by the sun like that warrior whose remains he had found in the meadow. He’d never hold his beloved wife in his arms again or see his son and daughter. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, let his end be so meaningless.

Nate sat up. He wasn’t going to give up the ghost meekly. Since he could no longer count on being treated by his mentor, he had to quit being sorry for himself and treat his wounds the best he knew how. Shifting, he rested both feet by the creek. He tried pulling the moccasin off his left foot but the foot was now so horribly swollen he couldn’t get the top of the moccasin down over his ankle.

The blade of the butcher knife gleamed in the sunlight when Nate pulled it from its beaded sheath. He removed the parfleche and stuck the strap between his teeth, then carefully worked the tip of the knife under the top of the moccasin. In order to cut the moccasin off, he had to twist the knife so the sharp edge was against the leather. Doing so produced waves of torment. Nate bit down on the strap, resisted the agony, and sliced away.

Winona had made the moccasins. The love she bore him, and the pride she had taken in her craftsmanship, were reflected in her work. The soles were exceptionally thick, the tops barely less so and quite supple. The moccasins had been made to hold up under the toughest of wear in the roughest of weather. Cutting through the leather was a chore for one as weak as Nate had become, but he persisted.

Perspiration dotted Nate’s brow and made his buckskin shirt cling to his damp torso. He stopped cutting every so often to splash more water on his face. The moccasin loosened somewhat the lower he went, and after fifteen minutes was loose enough for him to remove, but only with great difficulty.

Nate’s foot was ghastly. Discolored, two times its normal size, with a festering sore as large as his fist, it made his stomach chum to look at it. He lowered the foot into the creek and mustered a grin at the temporary soothing the water produced. Lying back, he closed his eyes. Before he knew it, he dozed off.

The caw of a raven woke Nate up. He sat, saw with a shock that twilight had descended. His foot had stopped hurting so he lifted it from the creek and examined the sore, which appeared to contain a pint of pus. He glanced at the knife lying beside him, then at the sore. His hand closed on the knife hilt.

Nate placed the parfleche strap in his mouth again, poised the blade over the sore. He hesitated, dreading what he had to do. Then, biting down hard, he jabbed the knife in. Two things happened simultaneously; the sore exploded in a sickening spray of yellowish-green pus and pain exploded in his head. He sagged onto his back, vainly trying to keep his wits about him. A dark veil enfolded his mind.

When next Nate opened his eyes it was night. The moon had risen and stars dominated the firmament. Wind from the northwest shook the trees and grass and fanned his hair as he bent forward to inspect his foot. The sore had drained of pus and was now deflated, thin shreds of skin hanging down. Some of the swelling had lessened and the pangs weren’t as intense as they had been when he moved.

Nate soaked the slit moccasin in the water, then pulled it back on. He cut off more whangs and looped them around the top of the moccasin to hold it in place. Tucking the crutch under his arm, he stood. Since blundering through the woods in the dark tempted fate, he looked for a spot to curl up until morning. A small pine, its lower limbs eighteen inches above the ground, offered a haven. He crawled under, set both pistols in front of him so they were in easy reach, and rested a cheek on a forearm.

Nate’s stomach rumbled with hunger but he made no move to open the parfleche. The little jerky and pemmican he had left might have to last him a long time. He would ration it and hope for a clear shot at game.

Having slept so much in the past twenty-four hours, Nate doubted he was tired enough to fall asleep very soon. He didn’t take into account the ravaging effects of the rampant fever and the severe toll the hours of walking had taken on his weakened constitution. In no time at all he was snoring.

And dreaming. Adrift in a Stygian limbo, he felt something pulling at his leg, and when he looked down he beheld a tiny mouse nipping at his toes. The mouse grew in size, changing shape as it did. Suddenly the mouse was gone, replaced by a snarling monster, by Old Satan himself. Satan reared back on two legs to claw at Nate’s face. Overcome by fright, Nate swatted at the panther’s paws. His fingers were ripped off, leaving bloody stumps, and he was disemboweled. He opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out. Cringing in terror, he tried to flee and pitched into a black well. The mountain lion jumped down after him, coming closer, and closer.

The snap of a twig woke Nate up. Dawn wasn’t far off. He saw a black-tailed doe at the creek, drinking. It was a perfect shot if he didn’t scare it off. Moving slowly, he picked up a pistol and cocked the hammer. At the click the doe snapped its head on high, its ears swiveling, its nose twitching.

Nate fired but couldn’t see if he’d hit the deer or not because the cloud of acrid gunsmoke hid it from sight. He blinked, coughed, snaked to one side, and was appalled to see the doe was gone. How could he have missed? The answer was that he couldn’t, not at that short range, as he learned when he crawled out from under the tree and saw the twitching doe expiring in a growing crimson pool.

Forgetting the crutch, Nate limped over, drew his knife, and began carving before the doe stopped convulsing. He sliced off a patch of hide, lanced the blade deep into the flesh, and cut out a sizeable chunk. Ordinarily he would have taken the time to make a fire and to roast the meat until it was well done. Ordinarily, though, he wasn’t this famished, this in need of nourishment.

Blood dripped from the chunk but Nate didn’t care. He closed his eyes and bolted the meat cold, chomping as might a starving wolf. Gore and blood trickled down over his chin onto his throat and he wiped himself clean with the back of a sleeve. Seldom had a meal tasted so delicious.

Upon finishing that first piece, Nate carved out a second, bigger portion. Working as rapidly as he could, he got a fire going, transfixed the piece, and held it so close to the flames the outer surface was singed. His appetite had barely been whetted; he couldn’t wait to dig into more. Mouthwatering, he fidgeted and fussed over the meat until it was done. Then, unfazed by the hot fat that seared his palms, he gripped the portion in both hands and chomped down.

New vitality radiated outward from Nate’s belly. Every morsel swallowed added that much more strength to his limbs. He felt like a new man when he was done, in spite of his chest and his leg. Moving to the creek, he leaned down to slake his thirst and had his good mood wrecked by a track imprinted in the mud to his left. It wasn’t one of his tracks, nor one of the doe’s.

It was Satan’s distinctive paw print, so big no other panther in the Rockies could have made it.

Nate was jolted to realize the mountain lion had passed within a dozen yards of his hiding place sometime during the night. Thankfully the wind must have been blowing the other way or Satan would have detected his scent. He saw another track a few feet past the creek near where the cat had gone into the forest.

A new thought intruded itself. How far had Satan gone? Was the panther close enough to have heard the shot? Forgetting about a drink, Nate swiftly reloaded the spent pistol and crawled back under the pine. Maybe he could make the situation work in his favor. By lying low, he might be able to get a shot at the mountain lion if it came to investigate.

The waiting was harrowing in itself. Nate turned at every slight sound, jumped at the rustling of underbrush. The breeze now wafted into the forest, carrying his scent and that of the doe. Either or both should bring Satan on the run.

The better part of an hour went by and there was no sign of the cat. Nate concluded it was safe to ease into the open and was on the verge of sliding out when a chattering squirrel deep in the woods abruptly fell silent.

Nate flattened, went as rigid as a board, both cocked pistols in front of him. Satan was finally coming. He knew it in his marrow, knew he had to end their conflict while he was still invigorated from the meal and could still think clearly.

A fluid, tawny specter materialized in shadows fifteen yards away. Satan prowled in a half-circle, testing the wind, enticed by the intoxicating odor of fresh blood. Any other panther would have rushed into the open to tear at the doe, but not Satan. The panther had spent a lifetime cultivating caution and honing its feline instincts to an extraordinary degree. Satan’s sensitive nostrils registered the hated man scent underlying the blood scent of the doe, and Satan knew that the two-legged creature he desired to kill was nearby.

Nate watched the cat pacing back and forth and had to curtail an impulse to fire. Satan needed to be closer for the pistols to be effective. He toyed with the notion of attempting to sneak up on the cat and wisely didn’t. Let Satan come to him.

The panther paused, its blazing eyes raking the trees, the creek, the Aeld. It snarled, not so much out of anger as to see what would happen. Oftentimes its snarl caused prey to bolt from cover, but not this time. The two-legged creatures never did as other animals would do. They were different, a challenge to hunt, to kill. Which appealed to his predatory nature.

The panther unexpectedly vanished and Nate scowled. Satan never did as Nate expected, never did the predictable. He intently scrutinized the vegetation. Nothing. He scanned low tree limbs since sometimes cats took to the trees. Nothing. He studied every bush close to the creek. Nothing. Then, anger getting the better of him, he glanced to his left and cursed under his breath. Or would have, had he not seen Satan on his side of the creek, eight feet off in the thick grass, staring right at him!

Their eyes locked, held. Neither moved. Nate wasn’t sure he could get off two shots before the panther reached him and it would take both balls to bring the cat down. He lightly fingered the triggers, waiting for Satan to make the first move. When it came, it was so fast Nate was almost taken unawares even though he was ready for it.

One instant Satan was crouched in the grass, the next instant Satan was ducking under the low limbs to get at Nate and Nate was squeezing the trigger on his right flintlock. The pistol boomed, the cat recoiled, then leaped in again, paws flashing, claws extended. Nate raised the other pistol to put a ball in the lion’s brain but the lion’s paw was quicker. The pistol sailed out of Nate’s grasp.

Scrambling backward, Nate threw the spent flintlock at Satan’s head. He grasped his tomahawk, yanking it out as he rolled out from under the tree and rose. In the excitement of fighting for his life he forgot about his left leg, and when he stood, his leg gave way, causing him to stagger to one side, toward the creek, just as Satan charged.

Nate drew back the tomahawk, stroked it forward. The edge bit into Satan’s skull but the angle was all wrong and it didn’t slice in deep enough to stop the mountain lion. Satan slammed into Nate and they both crashed down, landing in the water, Nate on his back with the cat on top.

Nate King looked up into the contorted mask of ferocity incarnate and knew his end had come.