No one knew when the practice started, but the hardy men who made their precarious living as trappers liked to refer to the lush high mountain valleys as parks. Having special names for things was a trademark of the mountain men. They called themselves mountaineers. They referred to beaver hides as plews and mountain lions as panthers. It was just another example of their colorful character, a rare blend of raw courage, unquenchable thirst for life, and, above all, the ability to adapt, that made them so unique.
Nathaniel King was a master at adapting. He had carved his own personal niche out of the wilderness in a spectacular park rimmed by snow-crowned mountains. A broad lake provided his family with crystal-clear drinking water as well as fish and fowl for their supper table. Deer, elk, and lesser game were in abundance. There were only three trails into the park, one from the southeast, one from the northeast, and a secret route to the west used only by Indians until Nate King came along. The southeast trail was the gentlest of the three, threading down a series of switchbacks and across the rolling valley floor.
Nate streaked down it, recklessly driving his horses in order to reach his cabin as quickly as possible. A thin tendril of smoke above the pines pinpointed its exact location close to the west shore of the lake. A second shot echoed off the surrounding peaks as Nate came to the bottom and lashed his reins like a man possessed. In his mind’s eye he envisioned his wife and children being set upon by the three bloodthirsty Comanches and viciously slaughtered.
Figures moved along the lake. Nate let go of the lead rope and sped toward them. The packhorses would be all right alone until he could come back for them. His family was more important.
It had long been Nate’s secret fear that one day he would return from a trapping trip or elsewhere to find his loved ones butchered or missing. He was no blind optimist. He knew the many dangers that might arise at any time, any one of which could snuff out the precious lives of those who meant more to him than life itself. Every free trapper had to live with the same ever-present possibility. It was an inevitable fact of life in the Rockies, the price paid for freedom.
Suddenly Nate glimpsed one of the figures moving swiftly through the brush toward him. He slowed and brought up the Hawken even as he anxiously scanned the shoreline for sign of his family.
The figure made no attempt to use stealth. Crashing through the underbrush like a bounding buck, it slanted toward the mountain man to head him off.
Nate rounded a knoll, skirted a thicket, and came to a small clearing. He reached it just as the figure dashed into the open on the other side. Elation coursed through Nate’s veins and he sprang from the stallion.
“Pa! You re back!” young Zachary King cried. Dashing up, he threw his arms around his father and squeezed tight. He would never admit as much, but he always fretted terribly when his pa went off alone. “I was just fixing to do some target shooting and saw you coming.”
A dozen questions were on the tip of Nate’s tongue. Where were the boy’s mother and sister? Had they seen any sign of Comanches? He forgot about them the next moment as a much larger form burst from the trees.
Nate’s reaction was automatic. Pushing his son aside, he leveled the Hawken and began to curl back the hammer. Only then did he realize the newcomer had a bushy beard and could not possibly be an Indian. Belatedly, the man’s features registered, and Nate blurted out in surprise, “Kendall?”
Scott Kendall was a fellow member of the elite mountain-man fraternity. His reddish beard creased in a warm smile as he said, “Howdy, hos. It’s been a spell, I reckon. This coon is glad to see you. Give me your paw.”
Nate shook, noting the iron strength in the other’s grip. As best as he could recollect, the last time he had run into Kendall had been at Bent’s Fort several years earlier. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”
“A business proposition,” Kendall said. “Why not make yourself to home and I’ll tell you all about it?”
Nate was eager to reach the cabin, but the safety of his family took priority. Surveying the lake, he said, “First things first. Have either of you seen any sign of Comanches hereabouts?”
“Comanches?” young Zach said, recalling the time they had traveled to Santa Fe and encountered a band along the way. Never in all his twelve years had he seen anyone who could ride like Comanches could. The warriors and their mounts had seemed as one, able to do feats he had never before witnessed.
“I came across some tracks,” Nate said, stopping when Kendall chuckled heartily.
“Sheath your claws, friend. You and yours are safe. The only Comanches in these parts are the two on my feet.”
Glancing down, Nate was flabbergasted to find that the other mountaineer wore a pair of genuine Comanche moccasins. “What the devil?”
Kendall lifted a leg to show the footwear off. “Comanches used to come to Bent’s Fort now and then to trade. I was in need of new moccasins one day and took a shine to these. They shed water like a duck’s back and are thick enough to last a coon’s age.”
Nate thought of the mare and the pony. “You brought your wife and daughter along?”
“Sure did,” Kendall said. “They’re up to the cabin, visiting with your missus.”
Tension drained from Nate like water from a sieve. “Let’s fetch my packhorses and we’ll join them.”
Zachary King fell into step between the two strapping men. He imitated their carefree swagger and cradled his Hawken in the crook of an elbow exactly as they did theirs. The men shared a hearty laugh over Nate’s having been all upset for nothing, but Zach didn’t see where the situation had been all that funny. What if it had been real Comanches? he asked himself. His ma, Evelyn, and he would have been in a fine stew.
Nate led the black stallion by the reins to give it a breather. He was intensely curious to learn why Kendall had paid him a visit, especially since they were no more than casual acquaintances, having met at the fort and a few times at the annual rendezvous.
As best as Nate could recollect, Kendall hailed from Massachusetts. So did the man’s wife, a hardy pioneer woman who had braved the perils of mountains life for about a decade. Nate had to ponder a bit before he could recall her name. “How is Lisa faring?”
“Just fine,” the bushy-bearded trapper responded in his booming voice. “She was as happy as a lark living at Bent’s place, and she’s even happier now that we might be going back to Boston.”
“You’re calling it quits?” Nate asked. It wouldn’t surprise him, if so. Even though Kendall had struck him as the sort who loved living in the mountains, it was an all too true fact that few were able to bear up under the strain.
The actual numbers were sobering. Two out of every three who ventured to the Rockies perished within five years. Of those who survived, only one in ten stayed more than a half-dozen years. It took a rare soul to endure the unrelenting onslaught of the elements, savage beasts, and equally savage men.
“Not at all,” Kendall said. “She’s been after me to pay her kin back east a visit. I’ve put it off since we never have any money to spare. Now, thanks to Richard Ashworth, we have a chance to earn all we need for the trip and then some.”
“Ashworth?” Nate said. “I don’t believe I know the gent.”
“You wouldn’t,” Kendall said. “He only showed up at Bent’s Fort about a month ago, fresh from New York City.”
“Does he aim to make his mark trapping?”
“You could say that,” Kendall said, and smiled enigmatically.
For a while they hiked in silence, and presently they came to the south shore of the lake, which they followed around to the west. Ducks, geese, and brants frolicked on the water. Gulls wheeled and squawked above it. The birds raised a racket with their constant cries.
“Quite a hideaway you have here,” Kendall said, embracing the verdant park with a sweep of his brawny hand. “Your own personal Garden of Eden.” He stared at the waterfowl, and sighed. “I wouldn’t mind finding a little valley of my own like this somewhere. But I can’t bring myself to put my wife and daughter at risk. That’s why we’ve lived at the fort for so many years.”
Nate sympathized. Planting roots there in the middle of nowhere had been one of the hardest decisions he’d ever made.
“I hear tell the Utes give you grief from time to time,” the other mountain man mentioned.
“They used to,” Nate said. The valley was located very close to territory the Utes claimed as their homeland, and for years after Nate settled there, the tribe had done all in their power to drive him off.
Several winters earlier, however, a dispute had broken out between the Utes and Nate’s adopted people, the Shoshones, over a site both tribes regarded as sacred. Nate had wound up arranging a truce, and ever since, the Utes had left his family alone.
“What about the Blackfoot Confederacy?” Kendall asked. “Do they ever bother you?”
Nate shook his head. “They never come this far south.” Which was a good thing. The Blackfeet were the most powerful tribe on the northern plains, and they hated whites. Together with the Bloods and the Piegans, they had formed a formidable alliance.
“Did you hear what they did to Art Bishop?”
“No. What?”
Young Zachary perked up. He loved to hear the latest news. Unfortunately, visitors to the homestead were few and far between, so his passion for gossip went largely unindulged.
Kendall frowned. “Bishop and two others weren’t having much luck up Yellowstone way, so they sneaked on north into Blackfoot territory. Probably figured they could get in and out without being noticed if they stuck to the deep woods.”
“What happened?” Nate knew Bishop fairly well and was surprised the man had been so foolhardy. But then, beaver were becoming scarce along the front range. Each season trappers had to foray farther and farther afield to find prime peltries.
“What else? A hunting party stumbled on them. Bishop and the others were scared hell west and cooked, but they didn’t get far. The Blackfeet trapped them in a box canyon, then sent runners to a village. Before long a war party of two hundred had them hemmed in.”
It was a story Nate had heard many times with only minor variation. Mountaineers who bucked the Blackfeet invariably bit off more than they could chew.
Zach listened in breathless anticipation. He had been a captive of the Blackfeet once for a short while and had grown to respect them, in spite of himself. How could he do otherwise when they had treated him so decently? A prominent warrior had even wanted to adopt him.
Kendall went on. “Bishop and his friends held out for as long as their ammunition lasted. They saved three balls for themselves. But before they could do the deed, a bunch of Blackfeet sneaked up on them.”
Nate glanced at his son, debating whether the boy should hear the rest. Blackfeet were fond of torturing captives—not out of any mean streak, but as a test of courage. Figuring that Zach shouldn’t be sheltered from life’s grimmer realities, he kept quiet.
“One of Bishop’s friends had to run a gauntlet and was hacked to bits. The other was stripped, tied to a tree, and skinned alive. His eyeballs were gouged out, then forced down his throat.” Kendall happened to look down at his side and gave a little start on seeing Zach. Coughing as if embarrassed, he said, “There was more, but you get the idea.”
“How did you hear all this?”
“From Bishop. He showed up at Bent’s Fort shortly before I left, on his way back to Ohio. He says that he’s had enough of the wilderness to last him a lifetime.”
Zach waited to hear how Bishop had escaped, and when a minute elapsed and their guest failed to elaborate, he said, “Tell the rest, Mr. Kendall. How did Bishop give those Blackfeet the slip?”
Kendall glanced at Nate, who snickered. “They saved him for the next day, son, and during the night he wriggled out of the ropes they had tied him with and helped himself to a war-horse. It raised a ruckus, so he had to light a shuck. Those Blackfeet chased him clear to the Missouri River before they gave up.”
“He was lucky to get away,” Zach said.
“That he was.” Nate said to impress on his son the folly of courting death. “Anyone with half a brain knows not to set foot in Blackfoot country.” Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Kendall give him an odd glance.
“You have a point,” the other mountaineer said. “But it’s a crying shame that some of the best trapping grounds left happen to be north of the Missouri.”
At that moment, they rounded a bend in the trail that linked the lake to the cabin and a childish squeal of glee drew their attention to a lively bundle of buckskins and curls that hurled herself into Kendall’s arms.
“Pa! Pa! Evelyn has a doll almost the same as mine!”
“Does she, now?” the proud father said. “Imagine that. Girls with dolls. What will they think of next?”
Nate laughed, then turned as two women and another child emerged from the cabin. Tiny Evelyn tottered toward him, saying, “Papa! Papa!”
He swept her up and pecked her on the cheek. “How’s my big girl?”
“Just fine, thank you,” the woman with raven tresses who followed Evelyn said. Winona King was Shoshone. She favored buckskin dresses and beaded moccasins that were somehow all the more alluring for their simplicity. Radiating vitality, she molded herself to Nate and brushed his mouth with her warm lips. “We have missed you, husband.”
“Good.”
Winona’s dark eyes sparkled. She never tried to hide her affection for her man, as some women were inclined to do. “I see by the pack animals that the mighty Grizzly Killer managed to find a buffalo, but lose a horse,” she said in precise English born of long practice.
“The horse lost itself.” Hooking the arm holding the Hawken in hers, Nate ambled toward their home.
Little Evelyn nuzzled his chin. “You itch me, Papa.”
“I’ll trim my beard in the morning.”
Nate’s daughter never had taken a liking to it, and of late he had been half tempted to shave it off. Winona wouldn’t mind, he was sure.
Scott Kendall had his own arms full with his daughter and wife. Lisa greeted Nate. Then the beaming parents introduced their pride and joy, Vail Marie, who surprised Nate with a blunt question.
“My pa says the Indians call you Grizzly Killer. Is that so?”
“It is,” Nate said. The name had been bestowed on him on his initial trek west after he slew a grizzly using just a knife. It had been a once-in-a-lifetime event. But the name had stuck. Since then he’d had occasion to slay grizzlies, but never because he went looking for them. Sheer chance had repeatedly pitted him against the ferocious carnivores; sheer chance had enabled him to live through each conflict.
“Do you like that name?” Vail Marie asked with the typical innocence of a child.
“I never really gave it much thought,” Nate said, “but I suppose I do. It’s better than Silly Goose or Ornery Duckling.”
The girl giggled. “You’re poking fun! Indians don’t have names like that.”
“True. But they do have names like Big In The Center, Don’t Know What It Is, and Made Himself Like The Man In The Moon. I’d rather be called Grizzly Killer.”
Kendall and Zach gave Nate a hand stripping the packhorses and carting the packs into the cabin. Winona and Lisa busied themselves cooking while the girls sat in a corner and played with their dolls. Soon the tantalizing aroma of roasting buffalo haunch filled the single room, making Nate’s stomach rumble with hunger.
No more was said about the reason for Scott Kendall’s visit until after the meal, which consisted of sweet cakes, boiled roots, fresh bread, a pudding made from berries, and two pots of scalding hot coffee.
Nate ate with relish. He was an excellent cook in his own right, but in his humble opinion no one else on the entire planet could whip up meals as delicious as those his wife prepared. Treating himself to a second sweet cake and his sixth cup of black coffee, Nate leaned back in a chair he had built himself, and beamed. “This is the life.”
“It doesn’t get much better than this,” Kendall said. “The only thing that would beat it is having ten bales of prime plews ready to sell at the next rendezvous.”
“Dream on, friend,” Nate said. “No one has collected that many at one time in years. Jeb Smith was the last, I think, and he’s long since gone on to his reward.”
Kendall propped his hands on top of his beaver hat. “It could be done if a man knew where to find the beaver.”
“Most of the streams in the central mountains are trapped out,” Nate said.
“Who said anything about the central mountains?”
Nate paused in the act of taking a bite of sweet cake. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re leading up to something?”
The man from Massachusetts chuckled. He had an easygoing way about him that Nate admired, a flair for taking life in stride. “Because I am, that’s why.” Kendall leaned forward. “Remember that coon from New York I told you about? Ashworth? Well, he might be as green as grass, but he has a plan to raise more plews in two seasons than anyone has raised in the past ten years.”
“And you’re throwing in with him?”
Kendall nodded with enthusiasm. “My wife and I have talked it over long and hard, and we think it’s the right thing to do. Ashworth promises that every man who goes along with him will earn at least two thousand dollars, which is more money than my family has seen at one time in a long while.”
Nate was intrigued. Winona and he had a tidy nest egg stashed away, but it was hardly enough to keep them in trade goods for the rest of their lives. “How many men is this Ashworth fellow taking along?”
“Sixty.”
Unsure if he had heard correctly, Nate said, “Why, that’s an entire fur brigade!”
Kendall took a swig of coffee and smacked his lips. “That it is, my friend. A brigade the likes of which no one has seen since old Jim Bridger and company roamed these mountains.”
Fond memories of his first meeting with Bridger and the early efforts of the trapping fraternity washed over Nate. “Those were the days. Too bad they’re gone for good.”
“Who says they are?” Kendall asked. “Ashworth has invested thousands in outfitting a new brigade, and in two weeks, we leave for country where the beaver have never been trapped, where they’re as thick as fleas on an old hound dog.”
“I envy you,” Nate said.
“Why not join us?”
The question brought instant quiet to the cabin. Zach King looked up from his chair by the fireplace where he was sharpening his butcher knife. His heart beat faster at the thought of going on an expedition to unknown country, of seeing new sights and meeting new people.
Winona King also glanced up, but her emotions were markedly different. She knew her man well enough to know that the prospect would tempt him, knew him well enough to worry that he might agree without taking time to think it over first.
Nate King rested his hands on the edge of the table. “Is that why you’ve come? To give me an invite?”
“From Richard Ashworth himself,” Kendall said. “He needs a reliable man to be his second-in-command, and he’s offering the job to you.”
A feather could have floored Nate. “Me? Why not you or one of the other sixty?”
“The others are good men,” Kendall said, “and I’ve done my share of trapping. But everyone knows that you’re one of the two or three best trappers alive. The only one I can think of who might top you is Shakespeare McNair, who happens to be off visiting the Flatheads.”
“I know,” Nate said absently. McNair was his best friend and mentor, the man who had taught him everything he knew.
“So what do you say? Do you like Ashworth’s proposal.”
Nate did, but he was not about to commit himself unless he knew a lot more than he did at that moment. “Slow down, hoss. This is a big dose to take all at once. How do I know this Ashworth isn’t a few cards shy of a full deck? Where in God’s green creation does he think he’ll find enough beaver to fill the pokes of every member of his brigade?”
“North of the Missouri.”
“But that’s Blackfoot country!”
Scott Kendall grinned. “Exactly.”