Wilderness Double Edition #9, page 2
Shakespeare had been deep in reflection and had not noticed. Uttering a squawk, he bounded at Brutus and gave the bear a swat on the rump. “You pesky bottomless pit! You’ll wait until I fix some biscuits for supper.”
“You still have flour left?” Nate marveled. “I ran out weeks ago.”
“There’s an art to conserving grub,” Shakespeare boasted. “When you have as many gray hairs as I do, no doubt you’ll be almost as good at it as I am.”
“White hairs. Your hair is white. How many times must I remind you?” Nate said. “And now that you mention it, yes, I would like to be as old as these mountains.”
“Most shallow man! Thou worms-meat, in respect of a good piece of flesh indeed! Learn of the wise, and perpend: civit is of a baser birth than tar, the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd,” Shakespeare stated.
Chuckling, Nate walked to the black stallion and began stripping off his saddle. “If it’s all right with you, we’ll start after the others at first light.”
“Fine.”
“I wonder how they’ve fared?”
“Pointer and Jenks will be lucky if they have a hundred pelts between them. They’re as tender as the soles of a baby’s feet and as ignorant as granite.”
Nate glanced over his shoulder. “I had no idea you held such a high opinion of them.”
“Don’t misconstrue my remarks, Horatio. I like them despite their shortcomings or I wouldn’t have agreed to having them join our party.” Shakespeare was keeping his eyes on the black bear, which had wandered to the other side of the clearing and was sniffing at the remains of a rabbit Shakespeare had skinned and eaten the day before. “They’re young, but they’re sincere. They truly want to be good trappers. And if they live long enough, they will be.”
“What about Pepin?”
“That feisty voyageur might beat us both.” Shakespeare stroked his beard. “He’s about as skilled a woodsman as you’re ever likely to run across.”
“To hear him talk, he’s the best.”
“That’s a voyageur for you. I haven’t met one yet who didn’t love to flap his gums just to hear himself talk.”
Nate laughed. Canadian trappers were a colorful, hardy breed who lived each and every day as if there would be no tomorrow. He’d known others in his time besides Pepin, some as friends, others as enemies, and there was no denying they could hold their own against any free American trapper alive.
“I’m mighty curious about what brought him here,” Shakespeare commented. “If I’ve heard him say he loves the North Country once, I’ve heard him say it a thousand times. It’s odd he’d leave it for the southern Rockies.”
“You figure he got into a fight and killed someone and had to make himself scarce?”
“That would be my guess, but this child isn’t about to pry into another man’s personal affairs.”
Nor would Nate, although he was as curious as his mentor. The only fact Pepin had revealed was that he had been a coureur de bois up north, which roughly translated to a ranger of the woods, or the Canadian counterpart of an American free trapper. The rest of the man’s past was a complete mystery.
“Enough about him,” Shakespeare said. “What say we go hunt ourselves a deer and make dog of the critter? I have coffee left too. If I throw in some biscuits and berries, we’ll have a feed fit for royalty.”
“Count me in,” Nate said, his stomach grumbling at the mention of food. “Just give me a moment to set my pelts aside.” He swiftly unloaded his pack animals and placed the plews beside McNair’s. His possibles bag, which had been hanging from his saddle, was draped over his shoulder and angled across his chest below his powder horn. He then checked his rifle and the pistols.
The Hawken was fairly typical of those widely used by company men and free trappers alike. Made by the renowned Hawken brothers of St. Louis, it boasted a 34-inch octagonal barrel, a set trigger, accurate sights, a ramrod housed under a metal rib, a heavy butt stock, and a butt plate in the shape of a crescent. Powerful enough to drop a bull buffalo, it was .53-caliber. A half-ounce lead ball and two hundred and fourteen grains of black powder were the standard load. Nate’s flintlocks were both .55-caliber, smoothbore single-shots. At close range they were as effective as the Hawken.
“There’s a small lake west of here,” Shakespeare said as he retrieved his rifle. “Deer like to hole up near it during the day. It shouldn’t take us no time at all to track one down.”
“All we need is some wild onions and I’ll ...” Nate immediately stopped talking when he saw the young black bear suddenly rear up on its hind legs and sniff noisily, swiveling its head as it tested the air. “What’s gotten into Brutus?” he asked.
Shakespeare looked and frowned. “He must have the scent of something.”
The bear took a few awkward steps, then dropped onto all fours, spun, and sped off into the underbrush, plowing through the vegetation as if in fear for its very life.
“Maybe it’s time you took your annual bath,” Nate joked. He turned, laughing, and happened to gaze in the direction from which Brutus had approached the camp earlier. Every nerve in his body tingled and a shiver rippled down his spine when he saw another bear standing twenty yards off. Only this one wasn’t a black bear.
It was a full-grown grizzly.
Two
There wasn’t a trapper alive who had more experience with grizzlies than Nate King. By a curious quirk of fate it had been his lot to run up against the fierce beasts time after time, which had resulted in his earning the Indian name of Grizzly Killer. Among the Shoshones, his adopted people, his prowess as a slayer of grizzlies was almost legendary. Yet ironically, as Nate was often the first to admit, usually he had prevailed more by accident than design.
Nate regarded the great brutes with deep respect, if not outright dread. Whenever he saw one, if possible he made it a point to head the other way just as fast as his legs or his mount could carry him. The times he had been forced to fight were those where no other recourse was open to him.
Such as now.
The sight of the grizzly lumbering forward was enough to cause the bravest soul to flee, but Nate stood his ground. He knew how destructive grizzlies could be, how they would wantonly tear apart everything they found in a trapper’s camp, and he could ill afford to let that happen. There were his horses and supplies to think of, not to mention the pelts he had worked so hard to gather. So, firming his grip on the Hawken, he took a few strides, putting himself between the grizzly and his plews. “Shakespeare,” he said urgently. “We have more company.”
The older man whirled. “Damn! Now we know what took a swipe at Brutus!” He moved up beside his young friend, admiring the determined set of Nate’s jaw. At times such as this, Shakespeare was proud to have been the man who taught Nate all there was to know about wilderness survival. Shakespeare had known many frontiersmen over the years, but none had taken so naturally to the arduous life than the one he fondly regarded as the son he had never had. “If he charges, go for the head,” he cautioned.
“A heart shot is better,” Nate said. Having carved up a lot of grizzlies for their hides, he’d seen firsthand that their brains were protected by enormous skulls as well as layers upon layers of thick muscles.
“We can’t get a good heart shot from head-on,” Shakespeare noted.
“Try for the eyes, then.”
The grizzly slowly advanced as they talked. It had its ponderous head low to the ground, its nostrils quivering, as if it was still on Brutus’s scent. Steely sinews rippled under a lustrous coat. Long claws glinted in the sunlight. Here was the most massive killer known on the North American continent, its height at the shoulders being five feet, its length over seven feet, and its weight in the vicinity of fifteen hundred pounds. A huge hump, characteristic of the species, bulged above the front shoulders.
The horses had seen the bear and were working themselves into a frenzy, snorting and stomping and tugging at their tethers.
“On my cue,” Shakespeare said, tucking his rifle to his right shoulder.
“Wait,” Nate said. “I want to try something.” He would rather run naked through a briar patch than have to fight another grizzly. In desperation he resorted to a tactic that worked on lesser beasts, but which he had never yet witnessed do any good against the terrors of the Rockies; he took a long stride, lifted his arms, and screeched like an enraged banshee while jumping madly up and down.
The effect on the grizzly was interesting. It halted, a paw half raised, and stared at the screaming human. Never had it beheld the like, and in the depths of its dull mind it didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t afraid, since fear had no meaning to a creature capable of shredding an elk’s neck with a single blow. Instead it was puzzled, as it would be if it came on the spoor of an animal it had never seen before. Humans were familiar to this bear as timid things that fled at its approach. The antics of this one, though, were so different as to give it pause.
Nate jumped higher, yelled louder. He flapped his arms, hoping against hope he could drive the grizzly off and avoid a bloody clash.
The bear lowered its foot and glanced from the humans to the horses and back again. It had never tasted the flesh of either and so was not impelled by its stomach to go after them. And since ninety percent of its actions were motivated by its belly, the grizzly began to depart, to go find quieter morsels, but as it did, the wind shifted and abruptly the grizzly registered the tantalizing scent of rabbit blood. Blood of any kind always had the same effect. Instantly the bear’s mouth watered and there were rumblings in its paunch, the age-old signal for the grizzly to do one thing and one thing alone—attack.
Shakespeare’s keen eyes saw the bear’s front claws digging into the soil. “Look out!” he shouted. “Here it comes!”
As if shot from a cannon the grizzly hurtled straight at them, moving with astonishing speed for such a heavy animal. When aroused, grizzlies were capable of moving as fast as a horse, and this one was a credit to its kind.
Nate was sweeping the Hawken level when Shakespeare’s rifle boomed. The bear’s head jerked, blood spurted from its brow, but it never slowed a whit. Nate sighted on the monster’s right eye, then realized the grizzly would be on them before he could fire. “Move!” he cried, and did exactly that, leaping to the left just as the bear raced between them. Perhaps dazed by the lead ball, it made no attempt to claw them, but barreled into their supplies and pelts, scattering belongings every which way.
Pivoting on a heel, Nate aimed as the grizzly slid to a halt and turned. The beast was broadside to him for a few seconds, all the time he needed to fire into its chest, going for its heart.
At the retort the grizzly arched its spine and roared, its mouth agape, its lips curled up over its fearsome teeth. Seared by acute agony the likes of which it had never felt before, the bear focused on the cause of its pain and charged again.
Nate had his back to the tree. In pure reflex he tossed the Hawken aside and drew both pistols, cocking the flintlocks as he did. The bear was coming for him like a bolt of furry lightning. He had no time to think. He had no time to plan. All he could do was what he did, fire both pistols at point-blank range and vault to the right. His shoulder was struck a resounding blow that tumbled his head over heels. His head hit a stone or other hard object, and for several seconds the world was spinning like a child’s top. When the spinning ceased he was lying on his back, the empty flintlocks clutched tight, while directly above him was the hind end of one of the horses.
“Son, are you all right?”
Strong hands gripped Nate’s shoulders and assisted him in sitting up. Blankly he stared at the grizzly, lying slumped on its stomach next to the tree, blood oozing from the holes where its eyes had been. The impact had partially cracked its skull, and a bubbly froth was trickling from the fracture.
“I reckon the damn thing killed itself,” Shakespeare declared. “Busted its own head wide open.” He cackled and gave Nate a smack on the arm. “I never saw the like.”
“Me neither,” Nate mumbled. Grunting, he slowly stood.
“How many does this make now?” Shakespeare asked.
“I’ve lost count.”
“Wait until the Shoshones hear. You keep this up and they’re liable to start thinking there must be something supernatural about you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You know as well as I do that Indians are not only deeply religious in their own way, they’re awful superstitious too. They’re forever calling on the Great Mystery or the Great Spirit for help, and they believe in things like guardian spirits, animal spirits, and such.” Shakespeare paused. “Course, we do pretty much the same thing, only we call on God and believe we’re looked after by guardian angels. When you think about it, the white and the red cultures are more alike than most realize.”
Nate walked to the dead giant and shook his head in amazement at his deliverance. By all rights he should have been slain. Once again Providence had seen fit to spare him, although he had no idea why. Sinking onto the log, he worked at reloading the pistols and his rifle. After a while he realized his friend was staring at him and he looked up. “Yes?”
“What’s bothering you, son? You’re a mite flushed.”
“Wouldn’t you be after what just happened?” Nate extracted the ramrod from his rifle. “These close scrapes always leave me flustered. My blood is pumping so hard I can practically hear it.”
“Which is perfectly normal.” Shakespeare sat down and began reloading his gun. “Why, I recollect the time I was up in the geyser country, hunting elk. I shot a big old bull and tracked his blood trail deep into the woods. Hadn’t no more than set down my rifle and drawn my butcher knife than there was this terrific roar and a grizzly twice the size of this one came rushing toward me out of the brush.”
“Twice the size of this one?” Nate asked skeptically.
“This took place when I was about your age,” Shakespeare said, unruffled. “Bears were bigger back then.”
“The tall tales must have been bigger too.”
Shakespeare arched an eyebrow. “Do you want to hear this yarn or not?”
“I’m all ears.”
“All right then. Anyway, there I was, standing next to this dead elk with just my knife in hand, and here came this snarling grizzly. It was too close for me to try and run away, and there wasn’t time for me to scoop up my rifle, take aim, and shoot.”
“So what did you do?” Nate asked when McNair stopped.
“That’s the strange part. To this day I don’t know what made me do what I did.” Shakespeare made a show of fiddling with his ammo pouch.
“Which was?”
“Well, before I tell you, you have to keep in mind that this here bear was coming straight toward the front of the elk. And what I did was, I grabbed hold of the top antler and lifted with all my might, raising the head and the whole rack clear off the ground.” Shakespeare gazed off into the distance. “That elk had the biggest rack I ever did see.”
“And? And?” Nate prompted.
“Why, the dam fool bear couldn’t stop and ran smack into the antlers. Must of knocked me a good twenty-five feet. When I sat up, there wasn’t a scratch on me. And there was that grizzly, stuck fast with those antlers ripped deep into its neck and face. The noise that thing made! It spooked every creature for fifty miles.”
“Did the bear die?”
“Not then. It tore loose and went off into the trees without another look at me. The thing was bleeding like a stuck pig. Likely bled to death later on, but I didn’t go see.”
“Your point?”
“My point is that I was so rattled I sat there shaking for the better part of an hour. Just shook and shook like an aspen leaf, and nothing I did helped.” Shakespeare smiled. “Being scared is nothing to be ashamed of. Every man is at one time or another. It’s how you handle the fear that counts. In that regard, you have no cause to be ashamed.”
“Thanks,” Nate said sincerely.
Shakespeare studied the kill. “It would be a shame to let a fine specimen like this go to waste. I suppose we’ll have to spend the rest of the day skinning it.” He smacked his lips. “Which isn’t all that bad a proposition. Painter meat can’t shine with this, but meat is meat to a hungry man and I’ve always been rather fond of bear steaks myself. How about it?”
“Bear meat will do fine.”
So the remainder of the afternoon and evening was devoted to dressing the grizzly. Its hide was removed intact, and Shakespeare insisted on having Nate take possession since Nate, as Shakespeare put it, “was the one the bear seemed to like the most.” Since they had no caskets in which to put the oil, they left that task unattended. Shakespeare made a point of carving out the heart, which was as big as the heart of a large ox, and added it to the thick slabs of meat they had selected for their supper.
“Ever eaten bear heart, son?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“I’ll share with you. Heart meat is a delicacy too delicious to pass up. Got hooked on it once up in Flathead country when I shot a deer that was in poor order. Sickly thing it was, and the meat was terrible. But I was starving and needed to eat something, so I roasted the heart and some of the other organs.” Shakespeare scrunched up his face. “The liver about made me gag, but the heart was so tasty I wished I’d had five or six more. Ever since I’ve been a heart man.”
“I’ll bet you’re partial to tongues as well.”
“As a matter of fact, I am,” Shakespeare responded. “Buffalo tongue in particular. The first time ...” He broke off, his eyes narrowing. “You danged upstart.”
“I beg your pardon?” Nate said innocently.
“Don’t play dumb. You landed a broadside fair and square, and I’ll take my licks without complaint.” Shakespeare laughed lightly, then quoted, “I am a very foolish fond old man, fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less. And to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind.”
