Ten

“Watch out below,” Shakespeare McNair shouted, and clamped his hands on the rope to stop the bale’s descent. He waited until Nate moved aside, then continued lowering the hides to the ground. Once they were down, Shakespeare let the rope slip over the top of the stout spruce limb that had supported the bale’s weight. He watched it fall, grasped the limb, and cautiously descended.

“This is the last of them,” Nate said.

“Thank goodness,” Shakespeare said, running a palm across his perspiring forehead. “If you ask me, I think you got yourself hurt just so I’d have to do all the heavy work.”

“How did you guess?” Nate responded with a smirk. “What’s left?”

“We already have my fixings, so that leaves the traps.”

“Where’d you hide them? On top of some mountain, I suppose?”

“In a thicket nearby. I’ll show you.”

Shakespeare picked up the heavy bale and threw it over his left shoulder with an ease belying his advanced years. “We’ll have to go slow on our way back. My pack horses are going to tire easily toting as much as we have.”

“We could leave some of my belongings here,” Nate proposed.

“Be sensible. If you leave your traps, you run the risk of them rusting out on you unless you cache them good and proper, which is more bother than it’s worth where traps are concerned. You can’t afford to lose your packs and parfleches so we have to take them. And we sure as blazes can’t leave your hides.”

Nate didn’t disagree because he knew his friend was right. Still, he felt uncomfortable putting Shakespeare to so much trouble. He held the Hawken in both hands and hopefully surveyed the valley.

“Still looking for that painter?” Shakespeare commented, chortling. “You just can’t let it rest.”

“You wouldn’t either if it had happened to you.”

The mountain man squinted at the younger man. “Don’t get your britches in an uproar. I didn’t mean to imply you haven’t been through the wringer. But we haven’t seen hide nor hair of Satan since that tussle you had at the creek. He’s long gone and not likely to bother us again.”

“You’re wrong.”

“How so?”

Nate didn’t take his eyes off the forest. “Satan is in this valley somewhere. It’s his home, his sanctuary. He’s out there right this second spying on us, just waiting for his chance to sneak in close and do us harm. I know he is. I can feel him in my bones.”

“If you ask me, son, you’re getting a bit carried away with this whole affair,” Shakespeare cautioned. “You’ve been making this Satan of yours out to be some kind of demon, and he’s not. He’s no different than any other painter.”

“You don’t know him like I do. You haven’t seen him up close. He’s not a demon, but he is the biggest panther that ever lived, and the smartest, too.”

“Crafty, maybe, but not smart in the same way people are smart. There’s no denying that animals can be clever sometimes, especially those that have to prey on others to get a bite to eat. But you’re still ten times smarter than this Satan.”

Nate didn’t reply. He knew his friend was wrong, but how did he go about convincing a man who had dwelled in the Rockies more years than Nate and his wife combined had lived that this mountain lion was unique, a rare specimen endowed with unmatched cunning and viciousness? Engrossed in his thoughts, Nate emerged from the last rank of spruce trees and saw all the horses gazing intently eastward. He did the same and drew up in midstride.

Satan stood by the stream less than a hundred yards off, head held low, tail swishing slowly. Evidently he had been working his way toward the clearing.

Dashing to the left for a better shot, Nate rammed the Hawken to his shoulder and tried to take a bead. Satan foiled him by bounding across the stream and into saplings lining the bank. “Damn!” Nate fumed. Spinning, he ran to the black stallion and vaulted into the saddle. A jerk of the reins and the stallion erupted in a gallop, speeding along the stream toward the spot where the panther had disappeared.

“Nate! Wait!” Shakespeare called.

The shout was wasted. Nate was only interested in one thing. Disregarding a lancing pain in his chest, he forded the stream and raced to the edge of the slender saplings to where he rose in the stirrups to try and spot the panther. Again he was foiled. It had only taken him twenty seconds or so to get there, but Satan was nowhere in evidence.

Nate circled the saplings, hoping against hope the cat was hiding in the stand. A complete circuit turned up nothing, not even tracks. Chagrined by Satan’s escape, he rode slowly back to the clearing and dismounted.

“I could have told you that you were wasting your time,” Shakespeare said, and received a glare that would have withered a plant.

“You could have helped. You could have gone to the other side of the stand to cut him off.”

“Wouldn’t have done any good,” Shakespeare said, refusing to be ruffled. “I spotted the painter running off through that thicket north of the saplings as you were riding up to them.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

Shakespeare shrugged. “I figured it wouldn’t have done any good. As touchy as you’ve been acting today, you’d have ignored me.”

“I have not become—” Nate began, and caught himself. He wouldn’t insult McNair by lying to him. Especially not when his friend was telling the truth. He had indeed been irritable, ever since they entered the valley, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out why.

“Let it go, son,” Shakespeare said kindly.

“I don’t know if I can,” Nate said, limping toward the thicket. He’d forgotten all about his foot in the excitement and now he felt as if someone was repeatedly stabbing it with a dagger made of living fire. Grimacing, he checked the position of the sun, saw there were only two hours of daylight left. “We’d better hurry if you want to put this valley behind us by nightfall.”

“Point to the traps and I’ll fetch them.”

“I’m not helpless,” Nate grumbled. Ducking low, he worked his way to the Newhouses. Three trips were needed to bring them all out. As he assisted in tying them onto the pack animals, he looked at his mentor. “I’ve been thinking.”

“A dangerous habit,” Shakespeare said, and quoted his namesake. “Heaven make thee free of it.”

“You haven’t heard me out.”

“I don’t need to.”

“Are you clairvoyant now? Do you know my thoughts before I speak them?”

“I know you, young sir.”

“You think you do.”

Shakespeare became somber. “Methinks I am a prophet new inspired, and thus expiring do foretell of him. His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last, for violent fires soon burn out themselves.”

“Are you talking about me or the damn panther?”

“Perhaps both. Perhaps neither.”

Nate finished tying a sack and turned. “I hate it when you talk in riddles.”

Soon they were ready to depart. Nate assumed the lead, a pack horse trailing his stallion. The Hawken rested across his thighs, handy for immediate use. He scoured the adjacent slopes, the woodland, the open spaces. Deep down he knew without a shadow of a doubt that Satan was observing their every move, and all he asked for was a single good shot.

They were in an unspoken race with the sun but they couldn’t ride as fast as they would have liked, not with the pack horses so overburdened. And, too, Nate deliberately went a shade slower than he might otherwise have done in order to increase his chances of spying the mountain lion. As it was, despite this, they would have reached the crest of the ridge bordering the valley to the south if not for an unexpected occurrence.

Nate was seeking a shorter route to the ridge when he saw a large brown animal move in pines to the southwest, across the stream. Automatically he brought the Hawken to bear in case it was a grizzly. Seconds elapsed, and the animal stepped into the open and lowered its muzzle to graze on grass. “My other mare!” he blurted, drawing rein.

Shakespeare came alongside. “She’s lucky the painter was busy dogging you or she’d be a goner by now.”

“We need her,” Nate declared, transferring his lead rope to McNair. He moved to a pack animal and removed another rope from a pack. “Take care of the rest. This shouldn’t take long.”

“You never know. She’s been running wild for a few days. Sometimes being free gets into their blood.”

“The stallion can catch anything,” Nate boasted. However, in order not to wear the black out in a long chase, he bent low over the saddle and took advantage of all the cover available until he reached the stream. Here he had no choice. Galloping into the open, he crossed the stream in a spray of water and gained the opposite bank. It was then that the mare bolted, mane and tail flying as she fled eastward.

Nate applied his heels and pursued. He had to catch her for her own good. As Shakespeare had noted, now that Satan was roaming the valley again, it was only a matter of time before the panther found her.

The mare, however, evinced no desire to be caught. She stuck to flat, open country, to the high grass, leaving a path of flattened stems in her wake.

As usual, the black stallion responded superbly to the challenge. The horse loved to run, loved to put its strength and endurance to the test. Head low, muscles rippling, the black gradually narrowed the gap.

Nate was holding the Hawken in his left hand. He now transferred it to his right, the same hand holding the reins, to free his left for slipping the rope over the mare’s neck. Ahead, the mare glanced back, saw they were gaining, and went a smidgen faster. Nate did likewise, constantly scanning the ground for animal burrows or other holes or ruts that might pose a danger to the stallion. He could ill afford to lose the black to a busted leg.

The mare displayed surprising stamina. A full mile had fallen behind them when she finally began to show fatigue and slowed slightly. This was the moment Nate had been waiting for, and he let the stallion have its head. The mare swerved as they swooped toward her, swerved again when Nate came near enough to swing the loop at her.

“Hold still!” Nate bellowed, leaning far to the side. He almost got the rope over her but she angled away, abruptly wheeled, and galloped westward.

“Contrary cuss,” Nate muttered, hauling on the reins so the stallion would turn. Again he overtook her, again she cut to one side. He remembered the time his family had visited Santa Fe, remembered seeing vaqueros at work on a nearby ranch, and wished he knew how to use a rope, or reata, with the same skill they did. He’d have the mare caught in no time.

Although winded, the mare had enough spunk to keep dodging and weaving. Nate reached the limits of his patience and stopped. So did the mare, twenty yards off, her head drooping as she breathed noisily.

Nate was about to try a ploy that might bring success. Most horses, when goaded into motion, started out briskly enough, then picked up speed as they went. Some, like the black stallion, had a knack for vaulting into a full gallop the instant they were urged to do so. He gave the stallion a few pats, adjusted the rope so the loop was by his leg, then jammed his heels in and hollered, “Heeeyaaah!”

The stallion streaked like an arrow at the mare. She snorted, tried to flee, but this time she was much too slow. Nate flashed next to her, his arm flicked out. The noose sailed over the mare’s head, tightened on her neck, and Nate had her. He yipped like a Shoshoni, exuberant.

Once she was caught, the mare’s resistance evaporated. She followed docilely as Nate headed back. He noticed deep slash marks on her hindquarters made by Satan that night in the clearing. They were healing nicely, and in a couple of weeks she would be as good as new.

By now the sun had dipped close to the horizon. Nate knew they would be unable to leave the valley before darkness set in but he wasn’t upset. Rather, he looked forward to spending one more night in Satan’s domain since there was every likelihood Satan would make an appearance.

As Nate rode, he pondered memories long neglected.

~*~

Years before. A cluttered alley in New York City.

The stacked crates formed a wall on three sides, while behind Nate was the fence. He had left a gap so he could dash out and brain any cats that strayed by, and for half an hour he had crouched in readiness, doing his best to avoid looking at the pair of dead mice.

His young mind had been whirring with new thoughts since his conversation with his father, thoughts he dared never voice in front of his father for fear of receiving a dreaded visit to the woodshed.

Minutes ago Nate had made a decision. To him, it was no different from the dozens of decisions he had to make each and every day, no different than deciding which clothes to wear or which book to read next. Had he been a little older, he might have realized this wasn’t the case. No, this decision was exceptional, one of the most important any person could make. He didn’t know it at the time, but it would have a profound impact on his life later on, when he was older, on the verge of manhood.

Presently Nate spied a pair of cats prancing down the alley toward him. He grasped the club, dipped lower, only an eyeball peeking out. One of the cats was yellow, the other brown. Both were lean, much leaner than house cats normally were.

It was the yellow cat that caught sight of the mice first. Pausing, it sniffed the air, looked all around, then ran to the rodents and took one into its mouth. Its companion dashed to the second mouse, bit down.

Neither feline saw Nate. Neither suspected he was there. Nate rose slowly, raised the club on high. He looked at the yellow cat, then the brown one. His shoulders bunched and he swung, driving the club down onto the crates, smashing so hard he cracked the wood.

The crash startled the cats, caused them to leap away, to fly for their lives with their prizes clutched in their jaws. Neither so much as glanced back.

Smiling, Nate stepped through the gap and stared at smears of blood in the dirt where the mice had been lying. He went into the back yard, tossed the club down, and marched into the house, straight to the room where his father still sat reading the newspaper. His father looked up.

“You killed one already?”

“Not exactly, sir.”

“Then why are you inside?”

“I made a mistake.”

The paper was forgotten. “What kind of mistake?”

“I lost the bait.”

“The mice? How, pray tell?”

“Some cats took them.”

“You didn’t use your club?”

“I swung,” Nate said. “But you know how fast cats are. I’m sorry, sir. They got away.”

His father’s displeasure was transparent. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m disappointed, though. I expected better of you.”

“Do you want me to kill more mice and try again?”

“What would be the use? No, I’ll have your brother Sherman attend to the cats. He knows how to follow instructions to the letter.”

Nate had to secretly pinch his leg to keep from cracking a grin.

“Tell me the truth, son,” his father said.

“Sir?” Nate responded, feeling a rush of fear. Did his father suspect?

“You weren’t paying attention to the job you had to do, were you? You were daydreaming and let those cats sneak right up to the mice. Am I right?”

“No, Father. I would never do that.”

“Be honest with me, son. I won’t punish you for telling the truth.”

“I saw them coming. Two of them. I swung the club just like I said.”

“And missed.” Somehow his father contrived to make the two words a harsh rebuke. “When will you learn, Nathaniel? How soon before you start acting your age? There’s a right way and a wrong way to do everything in life, and you have to learn how to do things the way they should be done.”

“I’m trying to do what is right. Believe me, Father. There’s nothing I want more.”

“I’m very pleased to hear you say so. Perhaps there’s some hope for you yet.”

“Thank you. I sure hope there is.”

His father stood and stretched. “Well, what’s done is done. Run along and find something useful to do. Don’t bury yourself in those ridiculous poetry books your mother is so fond of.”

“Never again.”

“What?”

“I’m tired of them.”

“Since when?”

“Since today. I think I’ll read that book you’ve been wanting me to read, Robinson Crusoe.”

“An excellent choice,” his father declared, placing a firm hand on Nate’s shoulder. “I’m quite delighted. To you this might seem insignificant, but you’ve taken a big step toward manhood today.”

“By giving up poetry?”

“There’s a fine line between being a boy and being a man. You cross that line when you’re willing to relinquish the silly ideas and things of your childhood and devote yourself to mature pursuits.”

“And when we learn the difference between right and wrong,” Nate reminded him.

“That too, son. That too.”

~*~

Nate King sipped his coffee and stared across the blazing fire at his mentor. Since sundown he had been wrestling with his decision and how best to convince McNair. He cleared his throat and began by remarking, “Do you think that it’s hard sometimes for a person to tell right from wrong?”

“Here it comes,” Shakespeare said, leaning back against his saddle.

“Here what comes?” Nate asked in feigned innocence. “You’ve got it into your head that you have to rub out Satan and you’re about to give me your reasons.”

Nate was impressed. “You really are clairvoyant.”

“Balderdash. You’re as obvious as a pimple on a baby’s bottom. But go ahead anyway, if it will make you feel better.”

“You don’t agree it has to be done?”

“I haven’t heard your reasons yet.”

“There’s only one that counts,” Nate said. “Satan is a man-eater. I’m sure of it. If we don’t put him under, one day another trapper will wander into this valley and his death will be on our heads.”

“Ahhh.” Shakespeare stared into his cup and swirled the coffee. “Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them.”

“I say we take arms.”

“And our pack horses? What do they do while we’re off chasing your fiend?”

“One of us will have to stay with them at all times.”

“Which one?”

“I’m the one Satan nearly killed.”

“Figured as much,” Shakespeare said, and fluttered his lips in vexation. “I do beseech you, by all the battles wherein we have fought, by the blood we have shed together, by the vows we have made to endure friends, that you directly set me against this hellish cat.”

“I’m the one,” Nate insisted.

“But your foot? Your head? Your rib?”

“He’s hurt too. I think I put a ball into him, and I know I landed a solid blow with the tomahawk. We’ll be fairly matched.”

“Fair?” The mountain man snorted. “ ‘A fool in good clothes, and something like thee. ’Tis a spirit: sometime it appears like a lord; sometime like a lawyer; sometime like a philosopher.’.”

“I’ve lost your trail.”

“A painter knows nothing of fairness. To Satan life is survival, and he’ll do whatever it takes to survive. He knows the valley, you don’t. His senses are ten times sharper than yours. He can move like a ghost, you can’t.”

“Is this your way of boosting my confidence?” Nate joked.

“It’s my way of saying you’re loco.”

Nate set his cup on a flat rock and gave his friend a searching look. “When I was a kid I learned that a person has to do what he or she thinks is right no matter what the consequences might be. We can’t live with ourselves otherwise.” He paused. “We all have to answer for our actions in the end.”

There was a long silence. Eventually Shakespeare McNair poked a stick into the flames and remarked, “We see it through, then, no matter what.”

“No matter what.”