Eleven

The Rocky Mountains teemed with life. Daytime or nighttime, various birds, mammals, and reptiles were always abroad. During the evening and morning hours the wild creatures were most noticeable since it was then that most ventured forth to forage for food and water.

One hour in every twenty-four was different, however. During that time the Rockies were unusually quiet, enjoying an atmosphere of well-deserved serenity. It was the hour before dawn, when most of the nocturnal prowlers were retiring to their dens or burrows and the animals normally abroad during the day had not yet risen.

During this peaceful interval, the forest seemed to snatch a few precious moments of rest. Often the trees themselves stood straight and still, for even the wind died down during this time. Rarely did so much as a single bird chirp, or an insect buzz. Creation slumbered at the feet of its Creator.

Any noise, however slight, was like a gunshot in a library and instantly caught the attention of anyone or anything within earshot.

So it was that Nate King’s eyes flicked open when his ears registered a sound his brain couldn’t identify. He slowly sat up, prodding his sluggish mind to life, and gazed at the horses. When danger threatened, their keen hearing provided the first warning. But they were dozing, as they always were at this time of the morning. McNair dozed too, although he was supposed to be keeping watch.

Shaking his head at his edginess, Nate reclined on his side and tucked his hands under his chin. He hadn’t slept all that well out of concern Satan would pay them a visit. That the panther hadn’t shown puzzled him. Satan knew they were there, and Satan didn’t tolerate intruders in the valley. The cat should have put in an appearance.

Nate considered waking McNair and teasing his friend about falling asleep, but didn’t. Sunrise wasn’t far off, as indicated by the pale shade of pink suffusing the eastern sky. Let Shakespeare get a few minutes of rest. They both needed to be at their best once the hunt began.

From upstream came a low sound, the same that had awakened Nate, and he lifted his head to listen. It was a swishing sort of noise, like the flurry of small wings. He mentally pictured a flock of sparrows taking wing, then realized the significance and rose to his feet, Hawken in hand.

None of the horses were agitated and Shakespeare slumbered on. Nate wondered if he was being unduly nervous again. He didn’t want to raise a fuss and be made the fool when his fears proved groundless. Perhaps he should investigate first.

Nate padded to the stream and paralleled the bank.

The morning air was crisp and cold, chilling his lungs when he breathed. Dew clung to the grass, moistening his moccasins with every step he took. It was light enough for him to see several fish a few yards away, and to spot a lone bull elk in a clearing high on a neighboring mountain. He smiled, relishing the simple fact of being alive.

McNair’s herbal remedies had worked marvels. Nate’s leg was stiff, his foot a trifle sore. He still limped, but only a little. His rib ached dully, his head hardly hurt at all. Compared to his condition two days ago, he felt like a new man.

Nate covered a hundred yards without incident. The woods were as quiet as a tomb. Other than the bubbling of the stream, the world lay hushed, girded for the swirl of activity the dawn would bring. He halted, convinced he was wasting his time, and turned to go back.

The faint chittering of an early-rising chipmunk attracted Nate to a bald hillock to the northwest. He raked the hill, saw no reason for the chipmunk’s agitation, and was twisting to continue walking when he beheld Satan and gasped. The panther was crouched on top of the hill, staring at him, its tawny coat blending into the background so well it was nearly invisible.

Nate brought up the rifle, then realized the range was too great for an accurate shot. “Stay there, you bastard,’’ he said to himself. “I’m coming for you.”

Shakespeare leaped erect when Nate flew into camp. The mountain man watched as Nate grabbed his saddle, and remarked, “Going somewhere?”

“I just saw the painter,” Nate said, using the same word his friend and many of the old-timers did to refer to the big cats.

“You think you can catch it?”

“I’ll try my best.” Nate threw his epishimore on the stallion and smoothed it out. “With any luck I’ll be back by noon, dragging that devil behind me.”

“It might be wise to wait until there’s more light.”

“Satan will be gone by then.”

“Maybe we could shoot a buck and hang it out as bait to lure him in close. Panthers love venison.”

Pausing, Nate said, “We’ve been all through this. Quit worrying. I’m perfectly able to take care of myself.”

“It seems to me that any man walking around with a busted rib, a bashed head, and a lot of teeth marks in his foot is playing fast and loose with the truth when he claims he’s the careful sort.”

“I have no time for this,” Nate said. Every moment spent talking to McNair was another moment Satan had to get away. He placed the saddle on the epishimore and adjusted the cinch.

Shakespeare wore an unhappy expression. “I’d go with you if I could. You know that.”

“I swear. Sometimes you’re worse than a mother hen. Quit feeling guilty. One of us has to stay with the pack animals, as we decided.” Nate mustered a smirk. “Just don’t fall asleep again when you should be keeping watch.”

“I still think I’m the one who should do the chasing. You’re in no shape for a long, hard ride.”

“We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?” Lifting a foot to a stirrup, Nate swung up and gripped the reins. “Try not to get too bored. I’ll return as soon as I can.”

“Don’t rush on my account,” Shakespeare advised. “Shoot sharp’s the word.”

“Don’t I know it.” Nate touched a finger to his brow, wheeled the stallion, and was set to gallop off when McNair said his name.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Shakespeare held up a parfleche. “If you don’t eat, you’ll be too weak to hold your own against that varmint.”

“Thanks,” Nate said. He sheepishly took the bag and secured it to the saddle. They exchanged meaningful looks, then he was off like a shot, riding low over the stallion as the splendid mount sped along the south bank to the approximate spot where Nate had spied the panther. Much to his amazement, Satan hadn’t moved.

The stallion took the stream on the fly. Nate couldn’t understand why Satan didn’t run off, why the big cat just sat there as Nate rode steadily nearer. He lashed the stallion with the reins, wishing it could go faster.

The ground leading up to the hillock was rocky, sprinkled with large boulders. Often Nate lost sight of Satan for a few seconds as he skirted them. A mere forty yards separated Nate from his quarry when, on going around yet another boulder, he saw Satan glide into pines on the north slope.

Nate angled to intercept the cat. He reached the base of the hill and plunged into the trees, alert for movement in front of him. When he saw it, it wasn’t in front, it was to the right. Satan was in full flight, clearing twenty-foot stretches with prodigious leaps.

“Not this time!” Nate said somberly. He pursued, wending among the pines with reckless abandon, resolved to end Satan’s life even if he had to chase the panther to the ends of the earth. The mountain lion glanced around, saw him, and ran faster, its fluid body a copper blur as it flowed over the rugged terrain with an ease few creatures could match.

The stallion knew what was required of it. On scores of occasions Nate had ridden down buffalo, elk and other game, and once the stallion knew which animal was being chased, it took to the challenge of the race with a passion almost human in its intensity.

Down the hillock. Across a grassy meadow. Up the slope of a mountain. Satan held to a straight course as if he had a definite destination in mind. Two hundred yards up the mountain, the cat bore to the east.

Soon Nate discovered why. The woodland gave way to a tract of land where a geologic upheaval ages ago had caused massive buckling. There were many steep gullies, treacherous washes, narrow ravines.

Nate suspected that Satan had chosen the area on purpose, knowing the stallion would be hard-pressed to keep up. Every gully, every wash, every ravine slowed the horse down, while Satan took each obstacle in stride, leaping from rim to rim where possible, skirting them with lightning speed where it wasn’t.

No one would ever guess, judging from Satan’s performance, that the cat had been shot at close range and struck with a tomahawk. Nate figured the shot had done no more than graze the beast, and the tomahawk must have only broken the skin.

For over fifteen minutes the mountain lion put a lie to the widespread belief among free trappers that panthers lacked stamina and would collapse after running short distances at top speed. Satan showed no sign of tiring and didn’t stop until clear of the buckled landscape. Then he halted on a clear slope and looked back, tail switching like a whip.

Nate had lost considerable ground despite the stallion’s valiant performance. He wanted to scream in baffled fury when Satan made for another expanse of forest. Once he lost sight of the panther, he might as well give up since tracking the lion to its den would be next to impossible. Either he caught up quickly or he would have to try again another time.

The stallion seemed to sense Nate’s frustration and redoubled its efforts. Coming to the lip of a ravine, it vaulted high into the air, front legs tucked tight, completing an arc that brought it safely down on the opposite lip. Earth crumbled out from under its rear hoofs and for a couple of harrowing seconds Nate thought they would go over the side. But the black dug in its front hoofs, threw its weight forward, and galloped onward.

Presently Nate came to the forest and entered at the same spot as the panther. As he had dreaded, Satan was nowhere to be seen, nor were there any prints. The ground was too hard. He went a dozen yards, then worked in a half-circle, seeking tracks anyway, refusing to give up.

At length, thirty yards from the clearing, Nate came on a partial paw print in a patch of bare earth. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to show Satan’s direction of travel so Nate went the same way. Apparently the cat was heading higher, toward the lofty heights panthers invariably called home, perhaps toward its den.

Gradually the clustered pines gave way to scattered stands of firs interspersed with shimmering aspens. Above them grew dwarf pines, sprouting among a sea of boulders.

Nate drew rein at a boulder field and surveyed the steep slopes above. There had been no more prints to guide him. He was relying on intuition and logic. Somewhere up there Satan was holed up. He was sure of it. Locating the den was crucial.

A glint of white off to the right aroused Nate’s curiosity. On riding over, he spied bones, reminding him of the dead Indian. The last thing he expected to find was more human remains, yet that was exactly what he had discovered. Dismounting, he knelt to examine them.

Another warrior had gone on to the realm of the Great Medicine Spirit. These bones were much older than the previous set. Nate estimated the Indian had died a year or so ago. The cause of death was easy to ascertain; there were teeth marks on the arm and leg bones and the skull had been partially crushed by immense iron jaws.

“Satan,” Nate whispered to himself. He picked up the skull, turning it in his hands. What had the man been doing there? Hunting elk? Bighorn sheep? Or had he been after Satan and the panther had turned the tables on him?

Reverently, Nate set the skull down in the same exact spot and stepped back. “Rest in peace,” he said softly. “I aim to rub out the hellion that did this to you.”

Nate forked the saddle. Four or five hundred feet higher reared craggy cliffs, their seamed rocky surfaces glinting dully in the bright sunlight. He rode toward them, the Hawken resting on his thighs.

At this elevation the wind howled almost constantly, shrieking over the rim of the cliffs and sweeping down across the slopes below. Nate and the stallion were buffeted severely. In order to stop his eyes from watering, Nate tucked his chin to his chest and peered upward through slitted eyelids.

The cliffs formed a formidable wall extending over half a mile. Nate could readily imagine the number of secluded nooks, crevices, and caves there must be. Locating Satan seemed a hopeless chore, akin to finding the proverbial needle in a haystack. Yet he had it to do.

Nate tilted his head back to scour the stony ramparts as he drew nearer. Fifty feet from them he turned and bore westward, his eyes now glued to the dusty ground. A single track was all he needed to give him some idea of Satan’s whereabouts, but he traveled a quarter of a mile and didn’t see one.

The sun hung in the western sky when Nate came to where the cliffs tapered off. He slid down so the stallion could rest and sat with his back against a stunted tree, facing the ramparts. The whole day was nearly gone and he had failed to find Satan. He might as well return to camp and resume hunting in the morning.

Nate had vowed to stay in the valley as long as it took to bring the panther to bay. The discovery of the dead warrior had fueled his resolve. But was he being realistic? How long would it take to hunt Satan down? Another day? Two? A week? A month? He’d seen how easily the cat could elude him. Unless the animal walked right up to him and begged to be shot or he was extraordinarily lucky, he might end up wasting a lot of time and energy and have nothing to show for it.

Nate knew that Shakespeare didn’t agree with his plan and was only staying because of their deep friendship. Such devotion was rare, which made him appreciate McNair’s feelings all the more and caused him to question whether he had the right to endanger his friend’s life to satisfy his personal sense of justice.

What to do? Nate asked himself. He mounted and headed down the mountain, casting frequent glances at the cliffs in the vain hope of spying Satan.

The glow of a beckoning fire served as a beacon and brought Nate right to the camp as twilight blanketed the countryside in a gray mantle. Shakespeare was whittling and looked up but made no comment. Wearily, Nate stripped off his saddle and took a seat.

“I don’t need to ask how it went.”

“Give me another day,” Nate said.

“That’s all? I thought we were sticking until we have the painter’s pelt.”

“I wanted to, but I had a chance to do some thinking today. And it wouldn’t be fair to you.”

“There you go again.”

“What?”

“Using that favorite word of yours.” Shakespeare stroked his keen knife into the piece of broken tree limb he held, carving off a chip. “Don’t worry about what’s fair for me. If you want to kill this cat, we kill it. Simple as that.” He stared at the younger trapper. “This above all, to thine own self be true. And it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.”

“It’s hard, sometimes, being true to our convictions,” Nate commented.

“Health to you, valiant sir.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Mine honor keeps the weather of my fate. Life every man holds dear, but the dear man holds honor far more precious-dear than life.”

“Are you saying that about me or about yourself?” Nate asked.

McNair chuckled and quoted more of the Bard of Avon. “Here’s Agamemnon, an honest fellow enough and one that loves quails, but he has not so much brain as ear wax.”

To divert his friend from the subject at hand, Nate nodded at the limb being whittled. “What is that you’re making? It looks to me like a stake of some kind?”

“I rest my case,” Shakespeare said softly. Then, in a normal tone, he answered, “Very perceptive, Horatio. It’s a stake of the only kind.” Shifting, he revealed a pile of five additional stakes lying behind him.

“What are they for?”

“Your feline friend,” Shakespeare said. “I’ve lived in these mountains a long time, so long I know them as well as city folks in the States know their puny back yards. I know all the animals that live in these mountains, including painters. So I wasn’t too surprised when you showed up empty-handed.” He resumed shaping the stake. “Grizzlies have reputations for being the fiercest beasts in the Rockies, and wolverines are known for their cunning and savagery, but in this old coon’s humble opinion neither can hold a candle to a riled panther.”

“How will a bunch of stakes help us kill Satan?”

“Think, son,” Shakespeare said. “You’re tired, that’s plain to see, but use that noodle of yours.” He hefted the stake he was working on. “Once, years ago, a glutton snuck into a Flathead village and made off with a little baby. The father decided he was going to kill that wolverine come Hell or high water. He tried everything. Tracking, hunting from horseback, setting out bait and hiding nearby, but none of his ideas worked. One day he dug himself a pit, lined the bottom with a lot of stakes, and covered the pit with thin branches, grass, and leaves. He made the covering strong enough to hold the weight of a fawn he killed, which he gutted and laid out as pretty as you please for the wolverine to find. Then he went on back to his lodge.”

“Did the glutton fall for it?”

Shakespeare laughed. “I’ll never poke fun at your wit again.” He nodded. “Yep. The very next day he went back and found that wolverine turned into the hairiest pincushion you ever did see.”

“So you’re fixing to do the same with Satan?”

“I have to do something useful,” Shakespeare said.

“While you’re off gallivanting around tomorrow, I’ll begin on the pit. If you haven’t rubbed Satan out in a day or two, maybe we should try the Flathead’s way.’’

“I’m game,’’ Nate said.

McNair chortled merrily. “Twice in one minute. You’re on a roll, Nathaniel. You truly are.’’

Smiling, Nate idly gazed into the fire at the blazing wood, and suddenly vivid, painful memories of another time and another place blanked everything else from his mind.

~*~

The shed smelled of dank earth and freshly chopped wood. Propped in one corner was a large axe. To one side, piled chest high, was the wood the family used in their fireplace.

Nate stood facing the rear wall, leaning forward with his arms bracing his weight. He heard his father moving behind him and tensed for the first blow.

“I warned you, didn’t I? I told you that you’re never too old for me to give you a licking?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The next time I tell you to do something, maybe you’ll see fit to do it. I won’t tolerate being disobeyed, not by you or any of your brothers.”

“The doves wasn’t hurting anyone, Father. I saw no reason to kill them.”

“I explained all that to you when you first objected,” the elder King said with exaggerated patience. “Those doves were sitting in that tree every morning and evening, getting their droppings all over the flower bed. Disgusting birds! We shooed them off time and again but they kept coming back. All you had to do was hide around the corner with that bow Zeke gave you and put an arrow into one or both of them. Was that too much to ask?”

“I won’t kill an innocent dove, not for you, not for anyone.”

“Do you know what this reminds me of? That time two years ago when you gave me so much trouble over killing a few filthy mice and some pesky cats. Do you remember?”

“I’ve never forgotten it.”

“Then I’d think you should have learned an important lesson. Sherman took care of those cats for me, just like he took care of the doves when you wouldn’t. What good did being so stubborn get you? The doves still died.”

“I’ll only kill when I think it’s right, Father. And I don’t care whether it’s a mouse or a bird or a deer.”

“Where did I go wrong with you?”

Nate made no reply. There were swishing sounds to his rear as his father swung the strap to warm up.

“I regret having to discipline you, son. I truly do. But you leave me no other choice.”

Still Nate did not answer.

“I will not abide being treated with disrespect,” his father snapped. “Respect is the most important part of any relationship.”

“I thought it was love,” Nate finally spoke.

The next moment the strap bit into him. He arched his back and ground his teeth together, refusing to give his father the satisfaction of seeing him cry. Not this time! Not ever again! Wincing with each blow, he mentally counted them off: “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven....”

And on and on it went.