Wilderness Double Edition #9, page 24
At length Nate looked up and saw he was in a field of high grass. Bordering it to the south was a ribbon of a creek. The sight of cool, refreshing water sent a shiver down his spine. He cried out, a formless cry of hope and relief. From an internal reservoir he tapped the last of his waning strength and hurried forward.
A yard from the creek Nate let go of the crutch and threw himself flat on the ground. His lips touched the water and he drank as might a person who had been lost in a desert for a week. His thirst was unquenchable. He gulped and gulped until his belly bulged and he couldn’t swallow another drop. Then he rolled onto his side and splashed water onto his fiery forehead and face.
It felt so indescribably wonderful to simply lie there and rest. Nate sank both arms into the creek up to the elbows, luxuriating in the chill sensation. He wanted to drink more but was afraid he’d be sick. Absently gazing skyward to learn how many hours of daylight were left, he was confounded to see the sun wasn’t where it should be.
Nate had been heading south for ages. Or so he’d believed. The sun, therefore, should be to his right, to the west. Instead, the blazing orb hung in the heavens to his left. If the direction he thought was west was actually east, that meant he had either been walking in circles or had become completely switched around and been hiking northward for most of the afternoon.
“It can’t be!” Nate declared as the full magnitude of his mistake hit home. He’d counted on finding McNair before nightfall. Now he didn’t have the slightest idea which way to go. Was he still due north of Shakespeare’s valley, or was he to the west or east of it? There were no landmarks nearby he recognized, no way to get his bearings.
I’m as good as dead! Nate reflected, and had to bite his lower lip as a flood of despondency rose within him. He closed his eyes and shook his head, fighting the feeling of hopelessness. He couldn’t give up! He didn’t want to die, not this way, not there, where no one would ever find him, not all alone, left there to rot and have his bones be bleached by the sun like that warrior whose remains he had found in the meadow. He’d never hold his beloved wife in his arms again or see his son and daughter. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, let his end be so meaningless.
Nate sat up. He wasn’t going to give up the ghost meekly. Since he could no longer count on being treated by his mentor, he had to quit being sorry for himself and treat his wounds the best he knew how. Shifting, he rested both feet by the creek. He tried pulling the moccasin off his left foot but the foot was now so horribly swollen he couldn’t get the top of the moccasin down over his ankle.
The blade of the butcher knife gleamed in the sunlight when Nate pulled it from its beaded sheath. He removed the parfleche and stuck the strap between his teeth, then carefully worked the tip of the knife under the top of the moccasin. In order to cut the moccasin off, he had to twist the knife so the sharp edge was against the leather. Doing so produced waves of torment. Nate bit down on the strap, resisted the agony, and sliced away.
Winona had made the moccasins. The love she bore him, and the pride she had taken in her craftsmanship, were reflected in her work. The soles were exceptionally thick, the tops barely less so and quite supple. The moccasins had been made to hold up under the toughest of wear in the roughest of weather. Cutting through the leather was a chore for one as weak as Nate had become, but he persisted.
Perspiration dotted Nate’s brow and made his buckskin shirt cling to his damp torso. He stopped cutting every so often to splash more water on his face. The moccasin loosened somewhat the lower he went, and after fifteen minutes was loose enough for him to remove, but only with great difficulty.
Nate’s foot was ghastly. Discolored, two times its normal size, with a festering sore as large as his fist, it made his stomach chum to look at it. He lowered the foot into the creek and mustered a grin at the temporary soothing the water produced. Lying back, he closed his eyes. Before he knew it, he dozed off.
The caw of a raven woke Nate up. He sat, saw with a shock that twilight had descended. His foot had stopped hurting so he lifted it from the creek and examined the sore, which appeared to contain a pint of pus. He glanced at the knife lying beside him, then at the sore. His hand closed on the knife hilt.
Nate placed the parfleche strap in his mouth again, poised the blade over the sore. He hesitated, dreading what he had to do. Then, biting down hard, he jabbed the knife in. Two things happened simultaneously; the sore exploded in a sickening spray of yellowish-green pus and pain exploded in his head. He sagged onto his back, vainly trying to keep his wits about him. A dark veil enfolded his mind.
When next Nate opened his eyes it was night. The moon had risen and stars dominated the firmament. Wind from the northwest shook the trees and grass and fanned his hair as he bent forward to inspect his foot. The sore had drained of pus and was now deflated, thin shreds of skin hanging down. Some of the swelling had lessened and the pangs weren’t as intense as they had been when he moved.
Nate soaked the slit moccasin in the water, then pulled it back on. He cut off more whangs and looped them around the top of the moccasin to hold it in place. Tucking the crutch under his arm, he stood. Since blundering through the woods in the dark tempted fate, he looked for a spot to curl up until morning. A small pine, its lower limbs eighteen inches above the ground, offered a haven. He crawled under, set both pistols in front of him so they were in easy reach, and rested a cheek on a forearm.
Nate’s stomach rumbled with hunger but he made no move to open the parfleche. The little jerky and pemmican he had left might have to last him a long time. He would ration it and hope for a clear shot at game.
Having slept so much in the past twenty-four hours, Nate doubted he was tired enough to fall asleep very soon. He didn’t take into account the ravaging effects of the rampant fever and the severe toll the hours of walking had taken on his weakened constitution. In no time at all he was snoring.
And dreaming. Adrift in a Stygian limbo, he felt something pulling at his leg, and when he looked down he beheld a tiny mouse nipping at his toes. The mouse grew in size, changing shape as it did. Suddenly the mouse was gone, replaced by a snarling monster, by Old Satan himself. Satan reared back on two legs to claw at Nate’s face. Overcome by fright, Nate swatted at the panther’s paws. His fingers were ripped off, leaving bloody stumps, and he was disemboweled. He opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out. Cringing in terror, he tried to flee and pitched into a black well. The mountain lion jumped down after him, coming closer, and closer.
The snap of a twig woke Nate up. Dawn wasn’t far off. He saw a black-tailed doe at the creek, drinking. It was a perfect shot if he didn’t scare it off. Moving slowly, he picked up a pistol and cocked the hammer. At the click the doe snapped its head on high, its ears swiveling, its nose twitching.
Nate fired but couldn’t see if he’d hit the deer or not because the cloud of acrid gunsmoke hid it from sight. He blinked, coughed, snaked to one side, and was appalled to see the doe was gone. How could he have missed? The answer was that he couldn’t, not at that short range, as he learned when he crawled out from under the tree and saw the twitching doe expiring in a growing crimson pool.
Forgetting the crutch, Nate limped over, drew his knife, and began carving before the doe stopped convulsing. He sliced off a patch of hide, lanced the blade deep into the flesh, and cut out a sizeable chunk. Ordinarily he would have taken the time to make a fire and to roast the meat until it was well done. Ordinarily, though, he wasn’t this famished, this in need of nourishment.
Blood dripped from the chunk but Nate didn’t care. He closed his eyes and bolted the meat cold, chomping as might a starving wolf. Gore and blood trickled down over his chin onto his throat and he wiped himself clean with the back of a sleeve. Seldom had a meal tasted so delicious.
Upon finishing that first piece, Nate carved out a second, bigger portion. Working as rapidly as he could, he got a fire going, transfixed the piece, and held it so close to the flames the outer surface was singed. His appetite had barely been whetted; he couldn’t wait to dig into more. Mouthwatering, he fidgeted and fussed over the meat until it was done. Then, unfazed by the hot fat that seared his palms, he gripped the portion in both hands and chomped down.
New vitality radiated outward from Nate’s belly. Every morsel swallowed added that much more strength to his limbs. He felt like a new man when he was done, in spite of his chest and his leg. Moving to the creek, he leaned down to slake his thirst and had his good mood wrecked by a track imprinted in the mud to his left. It wasn’t one of his tracks, nor one of the doe’s.
It was Satan’s distinctive paw print, so big no other panther in the Rockies could have made it.
Nate was jolted to realize the mountain lion had passed within a dozen yards of his hiding place sometime during the night. Thankfully the wind must have been blowing the other way or Satan would have detected his scent. He saw another track a few feet past the creek near where the cat had gone into the forest.
A new thought intruded itself. How far had Satan gone? Was the panther close enough to have heard the shot? Forgetting about a drink, Nate swiftly reloaded the spent pistol and crawled back under the pine. Maybe he could make the situation work in his favor. By lying low, he might be able to get a shot at the mountain lion if it came to investigate.
The waiting was harrowing in itself. Nate turned at every slight sound, jumped at the rustling of underbrush. The breeze now wafted into the forest, carrying his scent and that of the doe. Either or both should bring Satan on the run.
The better part of an hour went by and there was no sign of the cat. Nate concluded it was safe to ease into the open and was on the verge of sliding out when a chattering squirrel deep in the woods abruptly fell silent.
Nate flattened, went as rigid as a board, both cocked pistols in front of him. Satan was finally coming. He knew it in his marrow, knew he had to end their conflict while he was still invigorated from the meal and could still think clearly.
A fluid, tawny specter materialized in shadows fifteen yards away. Satan prowled in a half-circle, testing the wind, enticed by the intoxicating odor of fresh blood. Any other panther would have rushed into the open to tear at the doe, but not Satan. The panther had spent a lifetime cultivating caution and honing its feline instincts to an extraordinary degree. Satan’s sensitive nostrils registered the hated man scent underlying the blood scent of the doe, and Satan knew that the two-legged creature he desired to kill was nearby.
Nate watched the cat pacing back and forth and had to curtail an impulse to fire. Satan needed to be closer for the pistols to be effective. He toyed with the notion of attempting to sneak up on the cat and wisely didn’t. Let Satan come to him.
The panther paused, its blazing eyes raking the trees, the creek, the Aeld. It snarled, not so much out of anger as to see what would happen. Oftentimes its snarl caused prey to bolt from cover, but not this time. The two-legged creatures never did as other animals would do. They were different, a challenge to hunt, to kill. Which appealed to his predatory nature.
The panther unexpectedly vanished and Nate scowled. Satan never did as Nate expected, never did the predictable. He intently scrutinized the vegetation. Nothing. He scanned low tree limbs since sometimes cats took to the trees. Nothing. He studied every bush close to the creek. Nothing. Then, anger getting the better of him, he glanced to his left and cursed under his breath. Or would have, had he not seen Satan on his side of the creek, eight feet off in the thick grass, staring right at him!
Their eyes locked, held. Neither moved. Nate wasn’t sure he could get off two shots before the panther reached him and it would take both balls to bring the cat down. He lightly fingered the triggers, waiting for Satan to make the first move. When it came, it was so fast Nate was almost taken unawares even though he was ready for it.
One instant Satan was crouched in the grass, the next instant Satan was ducking under the low limbs to get at Nate and Nate was squeezing the trigger on his right flintlock. The pistol boomed, the cat recoiled, then leaped in again, paws flashing, claws extended. Nate raised the other pistol to put a ball in the lion’s brain but the lion’s paw was quicker. The pistol sailed out of Nate’s grasp.
Scrambling backward, Nate threw the spent flintlock at Satan’s head. He grasped his tomahawk, yanking it out as he rolled out from under the tree and rose. In the excitement of fighting for his life he forgot about his left leg, and when he stood, his leg gave way, causing him to stagger to one side, toward the creek, just as Satan charged.
Nate drew back the tomahawk, stroked it forward. The edge bit into Satan’s skull but the angle was all wrong and it didn’t slice in deep enough to stop the mountain lion. Satan slammed into Nate and they both crashed down, landing in the water, Nate on his back with the cat on top.
Nate King looked up into the contorted mask of ferocity incarnate and knew his end had come.
Nine
Certain moments in every man’s life are so remarkably vivid, so profoundly intense, they are never, ever forgotten. Some are tranquil moments, such as the first time he is intimate with a woman or the birth of his first child.
Some are perilous moments, such as a knife fight, or being shot at, or set upon by savage beasts. These are events that call forth a man’s courage, that test his manhood as few others can. In those moments of extreme danger when his life hangs in the balance, he is more totally alive than at any other time. Every one of his senses is at peak performance. His whole mental concentration and personal focus are on the danger at hand, and nothing else. He thinks deeply, feels deeply, lives deeply. If he survives, he reflects on them often, marveling at his deliverance, at the courage he didn’t know he had before he was put to the test.
Nate King looked up into the snarling features of the creature about to slay him and was overcome, not by abject fear, but by a calming courage. The panther was too heavy for him to throw off, especially as weakened and in anguish as he was. His arm holding the tomahawk was pinned under the cat’s paw and he couldn’t lift it. Kicking at the lion would only enrage it further and result in his innards being ripped out by its rear legs.
Nate saw Satan’s wicked teeth lowering toward his jugular. He looked the panther in the eye and girded himself to die as a man should die, bravely and without complaint. There would be no screaming, no pleading, no whining.
No one was there to witness Nate’s death. He had nothing to prove except to himself. The ultimate trial loomed and he accepted it as inevitable.
But at that very instant, the instant the panther’s teeth were about to close on Nate’s soft flesh, Satan suddenly straightened and glanced around. A shriek of pure rage was torn from the cat’s lips and its tail whipped wildly. Then, in a single bound, it cleared Nate and the creek and landed at the edge of the undergrowth, into which it vanished.
Nate was too flabbergasted to move. He didn’t realize he wasn’t breathing until his lungs ached and he had to gulp in air. Dimly, he heard drumming, as of many hoofs. He tried lifting his head for a look but he was too weak to do so. The hoofbeats grew louder and louder, and Nate managed to twist his neck in time to see the best friend he had in all the world vault from the white mare and race toward him.
“Dear Lord! No!” Shakespeare cried, dropping to his knees in the water to prop an arm under Nate’s shoulders. “How bad is it, son?” he asked. “Where did that panther get you?”
Nate was speechless with amazement. He was going to live after all! His time had not yet come! A happiness so acute it brought tears to his eyes gushed up within him and he placed a hand on his mentor’s arm.
Shakespeare, misconstruing, inquired anxiously, “Where does it hurt the worst? I don’t see any blood.”
“I’ll live,” Nate croaked huskily.
“That critter didn’t get its claws into you?” Shakespeare asked in surprise. “You don’t know how glad that makes this old coon. When I spotted you tussling with that thing, I figured you were a goner.” He glanced at Nate’s head, at Nate’s left leg. “Seems to me you’re battered up some, though.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Nate assured him.
The mountain man cracked a grin. “Well, now that you’ve had your yearly bath, what say we get you dried off?” Grunting, he got his other arm under Nate and stood.
“I can walk,” Nate protested.
“Hush. I need the exercise.” Shakespeare carried Nate from the creek and deposited him near the doe. “How thoughtful,” he quipped. “You knew I was coming and wanted to have a meal ready.”
Nate propped himself on his elbows. “How?” he asked.
“How did I find you? You can thank him,” Shakespeare answered, pointing.
Twisting, Nate was shocked to see his black stallion standing with McNair’s pack animals.
“He showed up in my camp all sweaty, about ready to keel over,” Shakespeare explained. “Must have galloped the whole way from your camp to mine. I saddled up pronto, threw my peltries and fixings on the pack horses, and went to find you. Been looking ever since.”
The emotion in the older man’s voice brought a lump to Nate’s throat. He swallowed, coughed, and commented, “You timed it just right.”
“Not on purpose,” Shakespeare admitted. “I found your camp easy enough, and I have to admit it worried me some seeing that dead horse and all that blood everywhere. I yelled and yelled and fired my gun but you never showed so I decided to track you down.” His expression turned grimly serious. “It wasn’t so hard at first. Then I came to that gorge where you took a tumble, and rather than go down in it, I rode all the way around, hoping I’d find where you came out. Sure enough, I did, but your tracks showed there was something wrong. You were walking unsteadily, and in a circle, no less. And now and then I came on the painter’s prints.” Shakespeare glanced at those by the creek. “Never set eyes on tracks so big in all my life.”
