In a daze, as if he’d just been clubbed on the head and his brain no longer functioned, Nate gasped at the thin man in the big wool cap, at the man he considered to be a friend, the man Shakespeare cared for so deeply.
Crazy George pointed at him, still chortling. “Look at the great Grizzly Killer. He’s trying to catch moths in his mouth!”
The other men, except for the Giant, all laughed.
“I told you I wouldn’t forget you,” Cleroult stated, his face agleam with an elemental wickedness, his baleful features accented unnaturally by the glow from the crackling fire. “No man insults me or those who ride with me and walks off to brag about it. We’ve had a debt to pay to McNair for years, ever since he stopped Laclede from giving an Indian bitch the treatment she deserved. But he’s crafty, that McNair, and dangerous. Very dangerous. So we’ve bided our time until the right opportunity should come along.” He grinned broadly. “And here you are.”
Nate absently listened to the words, his gaze still on Crazy George. “But you!” he declared. “How do you fit into their scheme?”
“Me?” George glanced at the rest and sniggered. “Why, I started riding with Cleroult about a year ago. Found out we have a lot in common. He’s a man after my own heart.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, it’s like this, son. When you’ve been in the wilderness as long as I have, when you’ve survived burning deserts and frigid winters where your spit can freeze in midair, when you’ve lived like an Indian, and at times like an animal, when you’ve known the way of life nature intends for us to lead, it changes you.”
“I don’t understand,” Nate said, his bewilderment impairing his reasoning.
“Out here ain’t like back in the East. Out here the only law is survival. But maybe you know that already. Maybe you know that, as those naturalist fellows are fond of saying, everything eats everything else. The big animals eat the medium-sized animals, and the medium-sized animals eat the little animals.”
Nate listened in perplexity, wondering if George was raving about nonsense. He knew of the many naturalists who had ventured into the unchartered West to collect specimens and compile information on new species. The newspapers in New York had regularly carried details of the fascinating discoveries made by the intrepid botanists and zoologists. But the connection to Crazy George and Cleroult eluded him.
“I learned the hard truth about all this a number of years ago,” George was saying. “I’d bought an Indian woman, a Flathead, and we settled into this valley high up in the Rockies. Winter came on, the worst winter in fifty years. A blizzard buried our valley. I couldn’t find game anywhere, and before too long we used up all our food.”
Suddenly Nate saw the connection and stark horror seized his soul.
Crazy George stared into the flames. “I resisted temptation for as long as I could. It was either both of us, or her, and I damn sure didn’t want to die.” He sighed. “That’s when I developed the taste for it. Better than buffalo meat, actually.”
“Dear Lord!” Nate breathed.
“There have been six or seven others since. One night, a year or so ago, I was treating myself when Gaston came into my camp. I hadn’t had time to bury the remains, and he figured out what I was doing right away.” George grinned. “Didn’t bother him none, though. Said it was my business. I never expected him to be so sensible about it. Been riding with him off and on ever since.”
“Which reminds me,” the Giant stated. “When are you going to turn over our share of the money you took from those trappers?”
“Money?” Nate repeated quizzically, another insight dawning. “Then you were the one who murdered those men!”
“Yep. I grew tired of just barely making ends meet all the time. I’m getting on in years, son. Gaston showed me there are more ways to make a living than by busting my back.”
Flabbergasted, Nate said nothing. Total revulsion generated a shudder, and his countenance mirrored his disgust.
“What about our money?” Cleroult asked again.
“Is our deal still on?” George responded.
The Giant nodded. “Half of what you took for the Shoshone. I’d say that’s fair.”
George looked at Winona, then licked his lips. “I’m getting a bargain. I’ve wanted her ever since I spied on their camp a couple of days ago.”
“That was you in the woods!” Nate exclaimed, remembering when the forest had gone strangely silent.
“Sure was.”
A deep sense of betrayal added to Nate’s swirling emotions. He’d been manipulated and played for a fool. He’d trusted when he shouldn’t have trusted. And he should have killed Cleroult when he had the chance.
“Everything has gone according to my plan,” the Giant boasted.
“Thanks to me,” Crazy George said. “I was the one who persuaded Winona to ride straight into your arms.” He snickered. “I told her McNair and King wanted her to meet them on the first hill southeast of Bear Lake, and she believed me!”
“Now that we have these two, capturing McNair will be easy,” Laclede predicted.
At that moment, from the surrounding darkness, cracked a hard-edged command. “Drop your weapons!”
Cleroult and the others tensed and swung around, searching for the frontiersman.
“I think not!” the Giant retorted. “We have the advantage, do we not? If you fire at us, we will kill Grizzly Killer and his woman.”
“Come on out, Shakespeare,” Crazy George called out. “I promise you that you won’t be made to suffer.”
No response came from the encircling night.
“Did you hear us?” the Giant bellowed. “Come out where we can see you or we’ll shoot your friends.”
This time the reply was immediate. “Go ahead.”
The Giant and Crazy George exchanged glances.
“I don’t think you understood,” Cleroult stated. “If you don’t come out in the open, we’ll shoot Chipmunk Killer and his woman.”
“Shoot them.”
Nate noticed that each time Shakespeare spoke, the voice emanated from a slightly different direction. He pinpointed the frontiersman’s position as south of the campfire and deduced Shakespeare was constantly moving from west to east.
“You want their deaths on your conscience?” Cleroult asked in surprise.
“It won’t bother me,” Shakespeare declared. “You’ll be the one pulling the trigger.”
What was the frontiersman doing? Nate wondered. There must be a purpose behind the uncharacteristic baiting.
The Giant took a stride and angrily wagged his rifle. “Do you think I won’t? If so, you don’t know me very well. I’ll ram my barrel down their throats and shoot them one at a time. So help me God I will.”
“You’ll try, but you’ll be dead before you fire.”
“You can’t get all of us!”
“Probably not, but I’ll shoot at least one of you.” There was a pause. “Which of you wants to be the first to die?”
Only then, when all five men had their backs to him as they tensely scanned the bluff, did Nate perceive his friend’s strategy and realize the part he must play. He gauged the distance to Laclede, who still held the Hawken, pistols, and knife cradled in the crook of his left elbow, and tensed. Should he do it now or wait? Maybe Shakespeare would give him a clue when to spring into action.
“You’re bluffing, McNair!” the Giant shouted. “You won’t shoot with your friends in danger!”
“Do you think I won’t?” the frontiersman responded, mimicking Cleroult. “Then I guess I’ll have to prove I’m not bluffing.”
Crazy George glanced at the Giant and spoke in a whisper. “He’ll shoot, Gaston. Take my word for it.”
“He wouldn’t dare.”
From out of the darkness came the cue Nate had been waiting for, the words spoken quickly and sharply. “Tell me when, Nate.”
“Now!” Nate cried, and pounced, grabbing Laclede around the upper thighs and bearing the trapper to the ground. He vaguely heard several of the band vent yells of alarm, then the retort of a rifle from somewhere off to the southeast.
Someone shrieked.
Nate grappled with Laclede, who had released all the weapons in order to try to break free. Above them and nearby, more rifles blasted, but Nate paid scant attention. He had his hands full preventing Laclede from strangling him. The rogue had twisted and clamped iron fingers on Nate’s throat. They thrashed and rolled from side to side, glaring into each other’s eyes, their features set in grim masks.
“You’re dead, bastard!” Laclede hissed.
Nate didn’t bother to reply. He tugged and yanked on his enemy’s wrists, attempting to wrench those choking fingers from his neck, but nothing seemed to work. All the while they were rolling, and he lost all track of which direction they were going. Seconds later he found out when, to his utter consternation, they rolled into the fire.
Laclede, who wound up on the bottom, cursed and arched his spine, releasing his grip, more concerned with saving himself from being gravely burnt than with achieving victory. He squirmed and flopped, struggling to get clear of the flames.
Which suited Nate perfectly. He flipped away from the fire, surged to his knees, and spotted his weapons lying not eight feet away. Instantly he rose and sped to the pistols, retrieving them just as footsteps pounded directly behind him. He whirled, bringing the guns up just in time.
Laclede had already gotten out of the fire and now charged, brandishing a butcher knife.
Instinctively, Nate cut loose with both pistols, the twin shots catching the weasel high in the chest and catapulting him rearward. Without waiting to see the results of his handiwork, Nate let the guns drop and reclaimed his Hawken. He crouched, surveying his surroundings, prepared to battle to the death. But there was no one to battle. Winona sat in her original spot, firmly bound and gagged. A few feet to the east of her lay Henri, the lecher, who had taken Shakespeare’s unerringly aimed ball in the right eye. He’d never ogle another woman.
Was he the one who had shrieked?
Nate saw no sign of anyone else. The Giant, Mulhare, and Crazy George were all gone, vanished into the night. They’d undoubtedly fled out of the radius of light so Shakespeare couldn’t pick them off.
Where was the frontiersman?
As his gaze alighted on Winona again, Nate scooted to her side and furiously assaulted her restraints. He had to remove her from the vicinity of the fire before it occurred to one of the missing three men that they could pick her off at their leisure. The ropes were hopelessly knotted, thwarting his efforts. He ran to the spot where his knife lay and scooped it into his left hand.
More footsteps pounded.
Nate rotated, drawing the knife back for an overhand throw. He checked the swing, though, when he saw it who it was. “Shakespeare!”
“Hurry and get her out of here,” the frontiersman directed. “I’ll cover you.”
They hastened to Winona’s side, and Nate swiftly cut the bindings and removed the gag.
“Husband!” Winona exclaimed happily.
“There’s no time! Come!” Nate urged, and helped her to rise. Together they moved to the south until they were shrouded in gloom.
“This is far enough,” Shakespeare said.
“What now?” Nate asked.
“We hunt them down. I traded shots with the bastards and hit Henri, but the other three ran off. I doubt they’ll try to race down the bluff at night. The way I figure, they’ll hide out until daybreak and then try to escape.”
“So they could be anywhere on top of Coyote Rock.”
“There aren’t that many places to hide.”
Nate kissed Winona on the cheek and said, “Stay here. Don’t move until we come back. Understand?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Take much care.”
“I will,” Nate promised, and glanced toward the fire. “I’ll need my pistols.”
“Then let’s go,” Shakespeare stated.
Side by side they raced close to the fire once more. Nate recovered both pistols and straightened, the short hairs at the nape of his neck tingling, feeling exposed and at the mercy of the killers. He silently voiced a prayer for deliverance: Please don’t let them shoot! Please! Please!
One of them did.
Nate and the frontiersman went only five yards when the shot rent the night. For a second Nate believed the killer had missed, until Shakespeare unexpectedly sank to his knees and groaned.
“They got me.”
“Hold on,” Nate told him, and looped his left arm under his friend’s shoulder. Straining every muscle, moving rapidly before the man lurking out there could fire again, he brought Shakespeare to relative safety, rejoining Winona.
“Carcajou hit bad?”
“I don’t know,” Nate said softly, and lowered the frontiersman carefully.
Shakespeare doubled over and grunted. “It’s a scratch. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be raring to go.”
“You’ll stay put,” Nate instructed him. He began to reload the pistols.
“You can’t face them alone. The odds are three to one.”
“I don’t have much choice. We can’t sit here and do nothing while they creep up on us,” Nate said. “Besides, don’t worry about me. I don’t intend to die,” he added lightheartedly to cover his anxiety.
“Whoever does?”
Nate ignored the rejoinder. He finished reloading, stuck the pistols under his belt, double-checked to make certain his knife was snug in its sheath, then grabbed the Hawken and rose. “I’ll be back,” he informed them, and moved to the west.
“Stay low,” Shakespeare reiterated.
Like a panther stalked by hunters, Nate stealthily moved toward the rim. He planned to work along it to the north until he reached the area where the boulders were located, the most logical place to start looking if only because the trio would need some sort of cover.
But what if they had split up?
If so, Nate reasoned, it reduced the odds against him. He stood a much better chance of surviving by fighting them singly instead of all at once.
Something moved at the periphery of his vision, on the right. Nate crouched and concentrated on the inky shape gliding southward almost at the very edge of the bluff. He realized that someone else had had the same idea he did, only in reverse. His enemies were trying a flanking maneuver.
The man creeping ever nearer halted.
Nate tensed, his finger on the rifle’s hammer, dreading that he might have been spotted. After several tense seconds, however, the figure began moving again. He estimated the silent stalker to be fifteen feet away. Inching his right arm upward, he pressed the stock tightly against his shoulder and waited.
Just a few more steps, you bastard!
As if the man sensed he wasn’t alone, he stopped again.
Nate could only hope the cutthroat mistook him for a boulder or a hump in the rocky surface. He held his breath, the sweat trickling down his back and sides. He wanted the man to be directly in front of him when he fired to minimize the risk of missing.
The figure took another stride.
And one more.
Holding the Hawken steady, Nate let the ball fly. The booming crack of the shot sounded like thunder. He saw the man stagger backward, then topple out of sight. Sweeping erect, Nate ran to the rim and gazed over the edge.
Already dozens of feet below, thudding against the cliff face and bouncing outward in a deceptively graceful arc, the body plunged toward the murky base of the bluff.
Nate smiled in triumph. He’d done it! Shakespeare would be proud of him. And it was too bad his Uncle Zeke wasn’t alive to see how well he’d learned his lessons about surviving in the wilderness. He could shoot better than most men and knew how to use stealth when necessary. He could live off the land and could hold his own against Indians and wild beasts. What else had Zeke stressed? Oh, yes. To always watch his back.
Incredibly strong arms suddenly looped around Nate from behind, pinning his own arms to his sides, and a gruff voice spoke maliciously in his left ear.
“I’m going to kill you slowly, Chipmunk Killer.”
The Giant! Nate struggled to break free, bucking and kicking to no avail. He envisioned being hurled to his death and gaped at the ground so very far below.
“Drop your rifle!” Cleroult directed.
Nate stopped resisting for a moment. The Hawken was of little use to him empty. He tossed the gun to the side and heard it clatter on the ground, grateful it hadn’t gone over the crest.
“Very good, Chipmunk Killer,” Cleroult stated scornfully. “Get set. I’m about to teach you the reason the Indians call me the Bad One.”
Whipping his head back, Nate struck the Giant in the chin. He clawed at his pistols, but before he could grasp them firmly he was swung around and flung to the hard earth, landing on his left side. He tried to rise. A heavy foot slammed into his stomach, doubling him over and whooshing the air from his lungs. He felt rough hands at his belt, and both pistols were yanked out.
“Now it will be man to man, enfant,” Cleroult stated, and chuckled.
A second kick caught Nate in the left side of the head and sent him sailing. He jarred his right elbow when he crashed down, and for a few seconds the stars spun and Coyote Rock seemed to shake as if from an earthquake.
“You’re not so tough, Chipmunk Killer.”
Nate inhaled raggedly and endeavored to focus. If he didn’t do something, anything, and do it soon, the Giant would beat him to death.
“This will be too easy,” Cleroult bragged. “Perhaps I should tie one hand behind my back to make our fight fair, eh?”
The stars abruptly ceased revolving. Nate could see a pair of moccasins walking toward his head, and he resisted the temptation to look up. The Giant must believe he was totally helpless. He bunched his hands into fists and gritted his teeth in determination.
Cleroult’s right foot swept rearward, the prelude to yet another kick.
Nate finally went on the offensive, rolling straight at the Giant and ramming into the killer’s right shin. The leg started to buckle, and Nate clamped both arms just below the knee and heaved with all his might.
Taken unawares by the tactic, Cleroult vented an oath in French as he fell onto his back.
Releasing his hold, Nate shoved to his feet and closed in swinging, planting his right fist on the Giant’s nostrils and his left on the former voyageur’s mouth. He skipped to the side, evading a swipe at his face, and darted in to box the Giant on the ear.
“Damn you!” Cleroult roared, and rose in a fury.
Nate wasn’t about to let his foe get the upper hand again.
What he lacked in size, he more than made up in speed and agility. He employed both to their fullest, stepping in and feinting, lancing a left at the Giant’s eyes that was promptly blocked, then delivering his main blow, a right below the belt.
Cleroult uttered a strangled gasp and covered himself.
Not slowing for an instant, Nate drove his right moccasin into the Bad One’s left knee and heard a distinct snap. He rained a series of punches to Cleroult’s head, and when the Giant raised his hands in reflex, he hammered his knuckles into the groin area.
Wheezing and tottering, Cleroult turned. Off balance, he stumbled a few yards, then righted himself.
Nate kept on attacking, striking the killer in the spine. A backhanded swing struck him on the cheek and knocked him to the right.
The Giant twisted his torso, keeping his groin well out of Nate’s reach. “I underestimated you,” he said, and took a deep breath. “I won’t make the same mistake twice.”
Heedless of the threat, Nate waded in again. This time his adversary was braced, and an iron fist clubbed Nate on the crown, precipitating more dizziness. Fingers seized his shirt and he was lifted bodily into the air, then thrown head over heels. The jarring impact stunned him. He wound up on his stomach, his face bruised and bleeding, his right hand touching a long, slender object.
The Hawken!
Nate gripped the barrel and rolled onto his left side. Lumbering toward him like a gigantic monster out of his most horrid nightmares came Gaston Cleroult. Nate placed his other hand firmly on the cool metal, bunched his shoulders, and rose in a rush, swinging as he did. The heavy stock smashed into the Giant’s face, rocking the man on his heels. Nate swung again and again and again, a primal ferocity lending savage strength to his limbs. On the fourth blow Cleroult pitched to the side, toward the ground.
Only there wasn’t any ground.
In silent amazement Nate watched the Giant go over the rim. In the heat of their combat he’d lost all track of the edge of the cliff. He lowered the Hawken, overcome with fatigue.
“Well done, son.”
Nate whirled.
Six feet away stood Crazy George, his rifle leveled. “I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen you do it with my own eyes. No one has ever beaten Cleroult.”
“What now?” Nate asked, stalling, girding his legs for a last, desperate lunge.
“You know,” George said softly. “In a way, I regret you must die. I sort of like you.”
Nate said nothing.
“First I’ll dispose of you, then Shakespeare. Where is he, by the way?”
From out of the darkness two words were pronounced with fiery passion. “Right here.”
Crazy George didn’t move. Oddly, he laughed lightly and responded in a calm, affectionate tone. “I’m glad it will be you. I’d hate to have a stranger be the one.”
“We don’t need to go through with this. Drop your rifle.”
“Please, McNair, don’t insult my intelligence. Not after all we’ve been through together.”
“Please, George.”
“I’m truly sorry.”
Nate saw the demented mountain man start to pivot. The cry that followed echoed from the bluff and wafted out over the plain beyond, heralding the demise of a noble soul who long ago had fought the wilderness on its own terms, and lost.