Nate pondered over the discussion at McNair’s for the rest of the day, and was still contemplating his friend’s words when it came time to picket the horses for the night. The four of them had ridden hard after leaving the cabin, and had not stopped until about an hour after the rosy sun sank out of sight beyond the western horizon. Since it was his turn to handle the stock, he watered the animals at a nearby stream and then found a suitable spot at the edge of the meadow where they had camped to tie the horses, allowing enough slack in the ropes to permit each horse to graze to its heart’s content.
He wasn’t much given to believing in spooks and goblins and such. Nor did he lend much credence to the idea of monsters existing. Unknown animals, however, were another matter. He’d seen stories back in New York about the strange creatures found by explorers in deepest Africa and in remote regions of South America. So there probably were creatures remaining to be discovered by science, but he felt it unlikely that anything on the North American continent could still be unknown in light of the fact that adventurers, explorers, and the trappers themselves had penetrated into the heart of the Rockies and had never reported encounters with unknown beasts.
Still, there were the Indian tales and legends and they couldn’t be discounted offhand. The Indians knew the land better than the whites ever would, and if the Indians believed certain creatures existed, then the odds were long that the creatures were alive or had once been.
Despite McNair’s advice, he wasn’t about to abandon the idea of trapping the valley. Always he came back to the same thought, that he could gather all the pelts he’d need in a short time and be back with his family much sooner than he ordinarily would at trapping season. So he decided to forge ahead and not let himself start jumping at every sound in the night.
Just as he reached his conclusion, as he turned from securing the last horse and headed for the camp fire twenty yards to the south, he heard a twig snap in the inky forest off to his right. He promptly halted and held the Hawken in both hands, peering intently into the night. The edge of the trees lay the same distance away as the fire. There was no hint of movement, but something was out there.
Nate waited, speculating it was most likely a skunk or a raccoon or some other small but harmless critter that would hasten off once it detected his scent. The large predators tended to shy away from fires, all except for wolves, and he hadn’t seen any sign of a pack in the vicinity before halting to make camp. But a man could never be too careful.
Was it his imagination, or had something moved among the trunks near the meadow? He leaned forward, his thumb cocking the rifle, his finger lightly touching the cool trigger. If attacked, he must make the shot count and not fire until certain of hitting whatever came at him.
A tense minute dragged by.
Benteen and Sublette were joking and laughing by the fire, Red Moon seated across from them and not saying a word. None of them were looking in Nate’s direction. He hesitated to call out and warn them for fear of appearing foolish if no threat materialized.
Another minute went by. Nate shrugged and started toward his companions. Apparently there was no cause for alarm. He took several strides, then abruptly halted as the hairs at the nape of his neck prickled and an overwhelming feeling that he was no longer alone seized him. Intuitively he sensed there was something close to him, even though he’d not heard a sound, and he swung his head around, hoping he was wrong, but knowing from prior grim experience never to discount his instincts.
Behind him, not a yard away, stood the black dog.
Startled, Nate spun and began to bring the rifle barrel up. But in his haste he tripped over his own feet and went down hard on his buttocks, the Hawken ending up in his lap. And no sooner was he on the ground and momentarily helpless than the dog closed on him.
Nate’s eyes involuntarily widened as the canine stepped right up to him and stared him right in the eyes. He hadn’t quite realized how big the dog was; it was immense, and even in the dark its rippling muscles were prominent. The head was huge and shaped like a box, the ears short and flopped over. The brute’s eyes were uncanny, with the right one blacker than coal and the left one an unnatural shade of ivory, as if covered by a white film.
The brute’s warm breath tingled Nate’s nostrils and he tightened his grip on the rifle, preparing to surge to his feet and fight for his life if necessary. He was amazed the thing had been able to sneak up on him unheard and unseen, and he marveled at its prowess even as he tensed his leg muscles to stand.
Suddenly the immense dog moved, flicking its head closer and opening its gaping mouth to reveal its large, tapered teeth.
Nate flinched and tried to draw backward. He began to swing the stock, intending to bash the dog on the head. But the swing was only half completed when the animal did the unexpected.
The dog licked him.
At the clammy sensation, Nate froze, flabbergasted. He’d expected the brute to attempt to tear him to ribbons. Instead, the dog was showing him it was friendly. Again it licked him with a great roll of its wet tongue, slobbering over his face in the process. Flooded with relief, Nate began to smile and that dripping tongue slapped across his lips. He raised his right hand and wiped his sleeve across his mouth, grinning at the ridiculous situation. “That’s enough, boy.”
The dog recoiled at the sound of his voice, then relaxed and sat on its haunches.
Nate slowly stood. He didn’t want to make any abrupt movements that might frighten the dog off, although on second thought he doubted the dog knew the meaning of fear. It was big enough to handle practically anything that came after it, standing four feet high at the shoulders and being half again as wide. He’d never seen its like anywhere and he wondered again where it came from. He’d forgotten all about it since they hadn’t seen it after that first afternoon, and he’d assumed it had gone elsewhere, perhaps to an Indian encampment. “So you want some company, do you?”
The dog cocked its head and elevated its ears.
“I’m Nate King and I’m pleased to meet you,” Nate said, speaking softly to show the dog he meant no harm and could be trusted. Animals, particularly horses and dogs, usually responded remarkably well to the sound of the human voice. He’d seen a soothing tone calm the most agitated horse and pacify the most aggressive dog. So he kept talking simply to establish a rapport with it.
“I don’t know where you’re from or what you’re doing here, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. I like dogs myself. Had one once when I was a little boy. I reared it from a puppy and we went everywhere together until it was eight years old. Then it was run over by a wagon and killed.” He stopped, saddening at the memory. “I cried for days.”
The dog uttered a low whine and shifted its legs.
“Would you care for a bite to eat?” Nate asked. “We shot a buck earlier and we have plenty of meat to spare. Why don’t you come along and I’ll introduce you to the others.” He turned slowly and motioned for the dog to follow. To his delight, the animal rose and walked on his left side, its steady gaze directed at the trio beside the fire.
Red Moon had shifted and was watching Nate and the dog approach. Sublette and Benteen had their backs to Nate and were talking about Pennsylvania.
“Gentlemen,” Nate announced as he halted behind them. “We have a visitor.”
“What?” Tom said, casually glancing over his left shoulder. The dog’s huge face was inches from his own, its eerie eyes unblinking and hard, and he yelped in astonishment, leaping to his feet. “What the hell!”
“Well, I’ll be!” Milo exclaimed, smiling and rising. “I never expected to see you again, boy,” he said, extending a hand to pat the dog on the head.
To Nate’s surprise, the dog uttered a rumbling growl, its lips curling back from its teeth. For a moment he thought the dog would snap at Milo’s fingers and he quickly said, “No! Behave yourself!”
The dog glanced up at him, then ceased growling and stood still.
“He seems to have taken a liking to you,” Milo observed, slowly withdrawing his hand.
“I hope you don’t intend to keep it,” Tom stated. “We’ll have enough to do without having to take care of a dumb mongrel.”
“I suspect this dog can take care of itself,” Nate commented, stepping up to the fire to take a seat. The dog stayed by his side and sat down when he did.
“Well, I don’t like it,” Tom persisted. “And since I have a one-fourth interest in this enterprise, I think I have a say in whether the dog stays or goes. And I vote it goes.”
“Be reasonable, Tom,” Milo said. “What harm can it do to have the dog come along?”
“That thing just growled at you and you still want to keep it around?” Sublette responded.
“I like dogs. You know that. And I vote the dog can stay if it wants,” Milo said.
Nate looked at the old Crow, recalling what Red Moon had said about the dog being bad medicine. “How about you? What do you say?”
The warrior stared silently at the dog for a full minute before finally answering. “Our paths are now joined for better or for worse. Do as you want.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Tom asked.
“It means the dog stays,” Nate declared, and reached over to scratch it under the chin. The dog didn’t growl or make any threatening moves. “Since I’m the one it has attached itself to, I’ll be responsible for it.”
Tom scowled, moved a few feet away, and sat down. “Next we’ll be taking in stray grizzly cubs,” he grumbled.
Leaning forward, Milo whispered to Nate. “Pay no attention to him. He’s just in one of his moods. By tomorrow morning he’ll have a whole new disposition.” Straightening, he joined his friend.
The buck slain earlier had been butchered by Red Moon and chunks of roasting meat were now suspended over the fire on a crude spit. Nate drew his butcher knife and sliced off a small section that was still quite rare, then offered it to the dog. Although he held the meat right next to its nose, the dog showed no interest.
“That’s odd,” Milo remarked. “I never knew a dog to refuse meat before.”
“Maybe it ate a while ago and isn’t hungry,” Nate speculated, placing the morsel at the dog’s feet in case it should change its mind. The dog rose, took a step sideways, and laid down with its head resting on its forepaws. The flickering firelight played over the animal’s sleek black coat, and when Nate gazed at its back he noticed a series of long, jagged lines crisscrossing its hide from the top of its neck to well past its shoulders. Curious, he placed his right hand on its neck and the dog flinched and raised its head to give him a quizzical stare. He suddenly realized what the lines were. “This dog is covered with scars.”
Milo came over and studied them. “It looks as if someone beat him with a whip clear down to the bone. Not once, but a lot of times.” He shook his head in disgust. “No wonder this dog isn’t too fond of people.”
The scars were old. Nate guessed the whippings had taken place well over a year ago, if not longer, and he reasoned that a white man must have been responsible. Indians rarely beat their dogs. Oh, they might smack one with a stick if it misbehaved badly, but if a dog was a chronic troublemaker they simply ate it.
“Maybe he was with another party of trappers and ran off after being mistreated,” Milo said.
That could well be, Nate reflected. Trappers, by and large, were drinking men. And when under the influence of demon alcohol, their tempers could flare mightily. Men who wouldn’t hurt a soul when sober might turn into hateful brutes when drunk. He’d once seen a drunken trapper beat a fine horse to within an inch of its life, and when the man had sobered up he’d bawled like a child over what he’d done.
“What do you figure to call it?” Milo asked.
“I don’t know,” Nate said. He hadn’t given a name much thought.
“How about Blackie?”
Nate gazed at the dog, at its powerful build, and said, “How about Samson?”
“Samson?” Milo repeated, and glanced at the animal. “Why not? It sure fits him. He’s got more muscles than any dog I’ve ever known. I like it.”
“Who cares what you call it?” Tom Sublette said, and looked at the Crow. “Let’s discuss something really important. I, for one, would like to know how long it will take us to reach the valley.”
“It was agreed you would not question me about the valley before we get there,” Red Moon said.
“I’m not asking for a detailed map,” Tom said sharply. “But it would help if we knew how long the trip will take.”
Red Moon pondered a bit. “Very well. It will take nine sleeps, possibly ten.”
Ten days of hard riding? Nate scratched his chin. That would put them close to Blackfoot country, all right. And if the Blackfeet found them, their scalps might end up hanging in a warrior’s lodge. He thought of Winona and Zach and hoped he wasn’t making the biggest mistake of his life.
Far off, a wolf howled.