Wilderness Double Edition #9, page 10
“You probably have,” Shakespeare said. “Two years ago at the Rendezvous there was a wrestling match that got ugly. Both men grabbed their knives and went at it tooth and nail. Belker was one of them.”
“The one who won,” Nate said, remembering. “There was talk for a while of kicking him out of camp and not letting him attend again, but nothing ever came of it.”
“Galt I’ve heard of also,” Shakespeare disclosed. “He was trapping partner with a man named Wilson. About four years back they headed north into Blackfoot country and only Galt returned. He spread the word that the Blackfeet had lifted Wilson’s hair.”
“Everyone believed him?”
“No one had cause to do otherwise. Of course, now that I look back, I remember that Galt had a lot of furs to sell.”
“Maybe that’s where he got his start,” Nate speculated. “For some reason or another he killed Wilson and took Wilson’s peltries. When he learned how easy it was to get away with it, he must have figured he’d found the perfect way to get rich quick.”
“He’s about to learn differently.”
Nate touched Nelson’s hot brow. “He has a high fever. Do you really think he can pull through?”
“Can’t say for sure. I have to dress those stab wounds next. If I can find the right herbs, I’ll be able to make a poultice that should help some.” Shakespeare gingerly examined the broken shoulder. “I do know he doesn’t have any chance at all if we leave him.”
“If we stay here too long, what will happen to Clay Basket?”
“You know the answer to that as well as I do,” Shakespeare said. “Here.” He shifted so he was straddling Nelson’s upper arm. “Lend me a hand setting this bone.”
Horrifying images of the fate facing Clay Basket bothered Nate as he worked. He kept thinking of his own wife, and how he would feel if the same thing had happened to Winona. Once the wounds were crudely bandaged and Pepin had a minty broth simmering on the fire, Nate stood and declared, “I’m going after them. The two of you catch up when you can.”
“You’re being hasty,” Shakespeare said.
Pepin, who had been filled in after bringing the horses from the spring, nodded. “I agree with Carcajou. We are all in this together.”
“I won’t do anything stupid and get myself killed,” Nate said. “I’ll just keep an eye on them until you show up. And who knows? Maybe I’ll have a chance to save the Crow woman.”
“I’ll go with you,” Pepin offered.
“No,” Nate said, dreading the Canadian’s fiery temper would land them all in trouble. “If Nelson gets his strength back, it’ll take both of you to bring him along. I’ll do this alone.”
“I don’t like it,” Shakespeare said.
“Neither do I, but we don’t have much choice.”
Pepin grumbled, and Shakespeare offered a few more objections, but in five minutes Nate was on the trail. He didn’t admit as much to them, but his main reason for hurrying on ahead was specifically to rescue Clay Basket. Once the cutthroat gang stopped for the day, she’d be in for a terrifying ordeal. Nate was going to catch up to them before dark and spare her from a fate worse than death.
The tracks were plain to see. Apparently Galt and company were growing cockier the longer their bloody spree continued, because they hadn’t even bothered to make any effort to throw off possible pursuit. Nate was grateful for their oversight since he could fairly fly in their wake.
Once again Nate resorted to the Comanche tactic of constantly changing horses, which he did once every hour no matter how tired a particular animal might be. In this way he kept his mounts fresh, able to cover ground swiftly. Small wonder, then, that by the middle of the afternoon he spotted a long line of riders in the distance. Instantly he angled into pines, and from then on until nearly sunset he shadowed the band, never narrowing the gap for fear of being spotted.
Galt’s route was taking the killers steadily lower, and from the direction of travel Nate had a hunch they were making for the Green River region so as to be there early for the upcoming Rendezvous.
Twilight’s gray veil shrouded the landscape when Nate saw an orange glow three-quarters of a mile off. Galt had finally made camp. Nate reined up, stepped from the stirrups, and hid the horses in heavy brush before venturing to a hill that overlooked the campfire.
The camp had been made in a shallow basin filled with grass watered by a crystal-clear pool. From a vantage point under a tree on a slope above, Nate enjoyed an unobstructed view of the activities taking place. One man was breaking and feeding small limbs to the fire. Another had the task of watering their many horses. Three men were sitting around doing nothing, while a fourth was hovering near a pretty Indian woman in a buckskin dress whose black hair flowed to her ankles: Clay Basket. She was making their supper.
Nate could not see their faces very well. Beyond noting that all the men were bearded and dressed much like trappers everywhere, he saw little of interest Clay Basket, however, was a genuine beauty, not over twenty years of age to judge by her youthful appearance, with a noble bearing that spoke eloquently of her contempt for her abductors.
Deciding to sneak closer for a better look, Nate rose and picked his way down the slope. The wind was blowing to the southeast, so he wasn’t worried about the horses picking up his scent. All he had to be concerned about was blundering into the open and being seen, or so he thought until he rounded a boulder the size of a carriage just as another man came around the boulder from the other side. Too late, Nate realized there had only been six men in camp, not seven. Too late, he saw this seventh cutthroat point a rifle at him and cock the hammer.
Nine
Nate King began to jerk his own rifle up, but realized instantly he would be shot if he tried anything, so he held himself still as the cutthroat walked toward him wearing a quizzical expression. His mind racing, Nate plastered a welcoming smile on his face and blurted out, “You’re white! Then I’m safe at last! Am I glad to see you!’’ He knew his fate would be sealed if the band of bloodthirsty killers suspected he was after them; his life depended on convincing them he was totally harmless.
“Are you now?’’ the man responded suspiciously. Halting a few yards off, he scrutinized Nate from head to toe. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing spying on our camp?’’
“Spying?’’ Nate laughed long and loud. “I just saw the smoke from a fire and was working my way close enough to see if I’d found whites or Indians. After what I’ve been through, I had to be sure before I showed myself.”
“You haven’t told me your name.”
“Jess Smith,” Nate lied. Hiding his identity seemed like a good idea. He was fairly well known among the trapping fraternity, and he had a widespread reputation for being an honest, forthright man in all his dealings. Should the killers learn the truth, they’d fear the worst and slay him on the spot. “What’s yours?”
“Roarke,” the man said. He scanned the forest. “Are you all alone?”
“That I am,” Nate said. “My two partners were captured by the Blackfeet two days ago and I’ve been running from the devils ever since.”
“Blackfeet? In this area?” Roarke didn’t like the news. “Yep. They can’t be more than a day behind me if they’re still on my trail,” Nate said. He nodded at the other man’s gun. “There’s no need to cover me, friend. We’re on the same side. It’s us against them, isn’t it?”
Roarke lowered his rifle, but only slightly, and motioned for Nate to precede him. “You go first, mister. My friends will want to hear this.”
A crawling sensation broke out all over Nate’s skin as he headed for the camp. All eyes were on him the moment he appeared, and the renegades gathered in a group to await him. None were men he knew, but he was able to pick the deadly Belker out of the bunch by the exceptionally long knife Belker wore. Stout, hairy, and grimy, Belker had the aspect of an undersized but ferocious black bear.
Nate noticed Clay Basket at the fire, watching him. He studiously paid no attention to her, since any interest he showed might arouse suspicion. Bestowing his phony smile on the group, he called out, “Howdy, gents! What a sight for sore eyes you are!” None of them answered him. A few whispered back and forth, and each one had a hand close to a weapon when Nate stopped and regarded them with what he hoped was a convincing imitation of heartfelt relief. “I never thought I’d set eyes on another trapping party again!”
Roarke halted behind Nate, and to one side. “This here is Jess Smith. He says he’s on the run from Blackfeet.”
“Oh?” said a skinny man sporting a wicked scar on his left cheek and three pistols jammed under his belt.
“That’s right,” Nate declared good-naturedly. “Like I told your friend here, a war party jumped Bill, Adam, and me two days ago. I saw old Bill go down with a lance in his shoulder, and Adam was set upon by three whooping warriors and taken alive. I’ve been on the run ever since.”
“How is it that you escaped?” the skinny man asked.
“Sheer luck,” Nate said. “I was answering Nature’s call, and I’d just gone into the brush when I spotted one of the Blackfeet peeking at me from over a log. I gave a yell, but it was too late. They were already swarming into our camp, so I bolted.” Nate shook his head as if in amazement at his own good fortune. “I tell you, the Good Lord must have been watching over me! Arrows and lances were raining down thicker than hail, yet I didn’t get so much as a scratch.”
“Remarkable,” the skinny one said. “But I’ve heard of it happening before. Hell, once the Bloods came after me, shooting and firing until they ran out of bullets and arrows, and I still got away.” Grinning, he offered his hand. “The name is Ira Galt. I’m the booshway of this here outfit.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Nate said, hiding his revulsion. “Any chance of another Mountanee Man getting himself a bite to eat and some coffee? I don’t mind telling you I’m starved to death.”
“It’ll be a while before the grub is ready, but you’re welcome to join us,” Galt said. “Never let it be said we don’t show hospitality to a brother trapper.” Draping an arm over Nate’s shoulder, he steered him toward the fire.
The others had relaxed. One of them chuckled. Another winked at a companion.
“Are you partial to kinnikinnick?” Galt asked Nate. “We’ve got plenty to share.”
“Thank you, no. I never did pick up the tobacco habit.”
“No? Most do sooner or later. How long have you been trapping?”
“A year, or thereabouts,” Nate said.
Galt’s dark eyes raked Nate from head to toe. “Really? I would have expected you to be an old hand.”
Nate saw Clay Basket staring at him. Since they were making straight for her, he couldn’t very well continue to act as if she didn’t exist. Consistent with his acting the friendly fool, he commented, “My goodness! A woman! I haven’t seen one of those in a coon’s age.”
“She’s mine,” Galt said, his harsh tone belying his grin. “So don’t be getting any notions.”
“I have a wife in the States,” Nate said. “She’d shoot me if she caught me so much as looking at another woman.”
“Just so you know how things are,” Galt said. “Clay Basket is her name, and she’s the best damn cook this side of the Divide.”
“Do tell,” Nate said, trying to sound suitably impressed even though he knew there hadn’t been time for the Crow woman to prepare a single meal for the band since being abducted. “I can hardly wait to fill my belly.”
Galt indicated a spot close to the flames. “Have a seat and we’ll chaw a spell.”
Easing down, Nate set eyes on dozens of bundles of prime peltries lying over near the horses. He let his eyes go wide and exclaimed, “Land sakes alive! You gents must be the best trappers around! You’ve enough hides there to set all of you up as kings!”
“Not quite,” Galt said, laughing. “But there’s no denying the past two seasons have been the best ever for us. We were raising so many beaver a day, at one point I thought my elbows would give out.”
“So you’re on your way to the Rendezvous?” Nate casually asked.
“That we are. We’ll get there early and wait for the caravan to show.”
“I envy you,” Nate said. “I’ve lost everything but the clothes on my back. This trapping business isn’t at all what it’s cracked up to be. Between the weather, the Indians, and the animals, it’s a wonder a body lives out his first year.”
“Thinking of quitting?”
“Yes,” Nate said. “I’m going back to New York and take up accounting like my pa wanted.”
“Accounting is a nice, safe profession,” Galt said, smirking. “The worst you’ll have to worry about is smearing ink on a page.”
Nate leaned the Hawken against a leg and held his hands out to the flames. Out of the corner of one eye he observed Clay Basket cutting up a doe. Out of the other eye he saw Roarke hovering in the background. The rest were taking seats around the fire. He was, in effect, hemmed in, as effectively as if they had built a fence around him.
“Ain’t I seen you somewhere before?” Belker suddenly inquired. He was directly across from Nate, his right hand idly resting on the hilt of his big knife.
“It’s possible,” Nate said. “I was at the Rendezvous last year. Were you?”
“Yep,” Belker said, “but I don’t think it was then. Another time, maybe?”
“I’ve only been to one Rendezvous,” Nate responded. “If you’ve seen me, that’s where it was.”
Belker’s forehead creased and he tapped a finger on his knife. “I suppose.”
It was like being the lone coyote among a pack of ravenous wolves. Nate was acutely aware of the cold, probing eyes fixed on him, but he didn’t let on that he was in the least bit bothered. A plan was taking shape, a daring scheme that would result in the freeing of Clay Basket and reunite him with his friends, provided all went well. If not, he’d wind up like Nelson or Pointer, a most unappealing prospect.
In order to carry out his idea, Nate needed to convince the cutthroats he was no threat to them whatsoever. So he smiled and babbled about his limited trapping experience, about the problems he had faced and how few beaver he had caught.
The latter perked Galt’s interest. “What about your friends? Did they have many furs?”
“About two hundred and ten, as I recall,” Nate said, adding, “They were more experienced than I was.” He glanced at the ring of faces, at the greed reflected by the firelight. “But now the Blackfeet have laid claim to them.”
“What a waste,” Galt said.
“True enough,” Nate agreed. “Over a thousand dollars worth of hides gone, just like that.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis.
“A thousand dollars,” one of the men repeated longingly.
Galt thoughtfully scratched his scrawny beard. “How many Blackfeet did you say there were?”
“I didn’t,” Nate answered. He disliked the direction the talk was taking. The renegades were so eager to add to their spoils, they just might seriously consider going after the Blackfeet to get the extra pelts. In which case Nate had to discourage them. “There were over a dozen shrieking braves I saw with my own eyes and more off in the brush. Too many for one man to handle, which is why I lit out of there like my hind end was ablaze.” He lowered his hands so he could readily grab his pistols if need be. “Too many for even an outfit this large to tackle.”
“Sounds that way,” Galt said, and cursed. “Too bad, Smith. We’d have liked to do the neighborly thing and help you reclaim your hides.”
“That’s awful decent of you,” Nate said, continuing the charade. “But I wouldn’t want complete strangers to lose their lives on my account. It’s better this way anyway. I’m not cut out for the mountain life.”
“Some are, some aren’t,” Galt said, and the issue was dropped.
Clay Basket stepped to the fire, a large pot and tripod in her hands. She pointedly looked at Nate, and because he had glanced up on hearing her footsteps, their eyes locked. For a fleeting second Nate thought he read an eloquent appeal for help in hers, yet all he could do was smile dumbly and act as if nothing was wrong. A flicker of disappointment etched her face as she bent to set up the tripod, and Nate deliberately gazed at the brightening stars.
Nate had to admire her courage. Here she was, in the clutches of the men who had attacked the man she loved, at their complete mercy, her life forfeit if she gave them any grief, yet she had the poise of a princess. Small wonder Nelson had been smitten by her.
“Hurry it up with the food, woman,” Galt growled. “We’re hungry, damn it.”
Clay Basket wasn’t intimidated. She finished arranging the tripod, hung the pot, and moved off.
“Squaws!” Galt chuckled and jabbed his elbow into Nate’s ribs. “They can’t hold a candle to white women. Lazy, uppity biddy hens is all they are.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Nate said, though in truth he considered his Shoshone wife a competent, hardworking woman, and every inch a lady. Arching his back, he slowly stretched, turning his head to the right and left as he did, which gave him the opportunity to study the camp. The horses were to the south, strung in a long row. Saddles and parfleches were nearby, to the right of the mountain of peltries. To the east reared dense forest. The same to the north. To the west was the hill Nate had descended before being caught by Roarke. Which reminded him. What had Roarke been doing up there?
Nate half turned and discovered Roarke was gone. He nodded at Galt and asked, “Where did our friend get to?”
“To make a circuit of our camp. As you learned the hard way, it doesn’t pay to let your guard down in this country. We always survey the countryside before we turn in.”
“A smart practice,” Nate said. “I wish we’d done the same.”
Again Clay Basket returned, this time holding a wooden spoon with which she stirred the contents of the pot. Again Nate had to ignore her, although it pained him to do so. He figured she took him for the biggest fool in all Creation, as did her captors, and for the time being the illusion served his purpose admirably.
