Wilderness Double Edition 18, page 1
Frontier Fury
For frontiersman Nate King, the Rockies are the last untamed wilderness, a place of beauty and unparalleled danger, a place to respect and call home. He and his family begin a trek through this harsh terrain with no wish but to see their cabin at journey’s end. But a chance encounter with a deranged settler leads Nate to the discovery that the man has big plans for this wild land. Rejected by the army, William Proctor plans to carve his own empire, creating a new Eden all his own. He’s determined to succeed at any cost, even if it brings the wrap of the Blackfoot Confederacy upon them all. Now it’s up to Nate to stop a crazed colonel in his tracks before he takes down scores of innocents—including Nate’s own wife and daughter—in a blaze of maniacal glory.
The Tempest
The untamed wilderness of the Rockies is a place of magnificent beauty … and unimaginable dangers. Shakespeare McNair has seen many of these dangers over the years, but even he has a hard time imagining the bizarre creature that’s terrorizing him and his wife, Blue Water Woman. It walks on two legs like a man, but has the strength of an animal. All Shakespeare has seen of it is its hideous shape, but he knows it’s out there in the night, stalking and waiting. When the beast finally strikes, carrying off Blue Water Woman, Shakespeare vows to turn the tables and track it to its lair … then show the creature some danger of his own. He knows that defeating this monster may not be humanly possible, but he’ll fight any living thing—be it man, animal or devil—to rescue his beloved wife.
WILDERNESS DOUBLE EDITION
35: FRONTIER FURY
36: THE TEMPEST
By David Robbins Writing as David Thompson
First Published by Leisure Books in 2001
Copyright © 2001, 2019 by David Robbins
First Digital Edition: February 2019
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Lesley Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author.
WILDERNESS 35: FRONTIER FURY
WILDERNESS 35: THE TEMPEST
WILDERNESS 35
FRONTIER FURY
To Judy, Joshua, and Shane
One
Out of the heat haze to the west hiked four weary figures. Their clothes were caked with the dust of endless miles and they walked with a wooden stiffness born of sore muscles and fatigue. Behind them was a baked plain. Before them emerald foothills climbed toward majestic peaks.
In the lead strode a broad-shouldered man in buckskins and moccasins. A shock of black hair crowned rugged features distinguished by striking green eyes and a black beard. He was a walking arsenal. In addition to the Hawken rifle he carried, four flintlock pistols were tucked under his wide brown belt. On his left hip was a tomahawk. On his right hung an eighteen-inch double-edged knife with an ivory hilt. Across his wide chest were slanted a possibles bag, an ammo pouch, and a powder horn.
Pausing, Nate King surveyed the foothills and announced, “Well find water ahead.”
“Thank goodness, Pa,” said the girl of ten who trudged beside him. “I’m so thirsty I could drink a lake.” Attired in a—buckskin dress, Evelyn King had Nate’s green eyes and her mother’s raven hair. “Or a river. I’m not fussy.”
The woman behind them laughed lightly. Winona King was a full-blooded Shoshone, a beauty who would turn heads in any village or city on the continent. Her buckskin dress was exactly like her daughter’s. It should have been, since she had sewn them both herself. She, too, was armed with a rifle, and had a brace of pistols under a thin belt. Slung across her left shoulder was a possibles bag slightly smaller than her husband’s. “How much longer do you think it will take us?” she asked in impeccable English.
“In three days we’ll reach the Green River country,” Nate said. “If we’re lucky, we’ll run into some of your people and they’ll let us borrow a few horses. In which case we’ll be home in less than a week. If not—” He shrugged. “Another eleven to twelve days.”
“My people?” Winona said. “They are yours, too. Or have you forgotten you were adopted in our tribe?” she teased.
“How could I forget, dearest?” Nate rejoined. “It was one of the greatest honors ever done me.”
The fourth member of their quartet snorted. “You two are enough to gag a spinster. If I’d known I would have to put up with you acting like lovesick sprouts, I’d never have tagged along.”
“Who are you kidding, Ezriah?” Nate said. “If it wasn’t for us, you wouldn’t be on your way back to civilization.”
Ezriah Hampton muttered under his breath, a habit when he was annoyed. His wizened face was seamed with wrinkles, each a testament to the scores of years he had lived. His right eye twitched in its socket as he regarded the Kings; his left was stitched with scar tissue, the eyeball long since lost to an Indian lance. He had white hair and a scraggily white beard, neither of which had been combed or brushed in ages.
Hampton’s clothes were equally unique. Over a loose-fitting purple shirt and buckskin pants he wore a red velvet coat with a row of bright brass buttons that gleamed in the sunlight. Over the coat a blue cloak was draped, the collar trimmed with white lace. His footwear consisted of a pair of high heeled, knee-high black boots. On his head rested a broad-brimmed Spanish-style hat. He had a rifle, two pistols, and an ornate curved sword attached to a belt inlaid with silver studs. A large, finely tooled leather bag was over his right shoulder, his arm wrapped around it as if the contents were valuable.
“Civilization!” Ezriah repeated. “I can’t hardly wait! It’s been twenty years since those bastards got their paws on me. Twenty damn years! I’d give anything to be able to live them over again as a free man.”
Nate didn’t blame the old trapper for being bitter. Hampton had been a captive of a tribe called the Sa-gah-lee, who recently had taken Winona and Evelyn captive, too. All three would still be in their clutches if Nate had not rescued them.
“You’re lucky my pa came to save us,” his daughter commented.
“That I was, sprout,” Ezriah conceded. “But if I could, I’d go on back there with enough black powder to blow the sons of bitches to kingdom come.”
Winona gave Hampton a cross look. “I will thank you not to use profanity in the presence of my daughter.”
“So you keep telling me,” Ezriah said. “Are you afraid her ears will fall off? Or I’ll taint her with my nasty language?” He tittered. “I can’t help it. Using cuss words is as natural as breathing. It’s how I’ve always talked.”
“Perhaps it is time for you to change, then. A person is never too old to acquire good manners.”
Mirth pealed from Ezriah in hearty guffaws. “Only a female would come up with such a fool notion! Manners are for polite society, for prissy sorts who need five spoons just to eat soup.” He slapped his thigh in amusement. “You’re a living revelation lady. I had no idea Indian women could be as silly as white gals.”
“Tell me, Mr. Hampton. Before you were taken captive, were you ever married?” Winona inquired.
“No, I sure wasn’t.”
“I am not surprised.”
Nate chortled. His wife could more than hold her own in a battle of wits, as the trapper had readily learned. The two constantly squabbled, largely because Ezriah was as ornery as the year was long and as feisty as a randy goat.
The foothills ahead were covered with pines. Higher up firs and stands of shimmering aspens were prevalent. Higher still towered the regal peaks. Nate’s gaze was drawn to a notch on a sawtooth ridge, a possible pass over the range to the country beyond.
“Say, Pa?” Evelyn said casually.
“Yes?” Nate absently replied as he pondered the easiest route to reach the ridge. It would take the better part of the day, at least.
“Are there any white folks living hereabouts?”
“Not that I know of,” Nate said. Only a few whites called the Rockies home; the number of settlers could be counted on two hands.
“Think there are any mountaineers in these parts?”
Nate glanced down at her. “Mountaineers” was the term mountain men used to describe themselves, and none lived within a hundred miles or better. “I doubt it. Why all these questions, princess?”
“I was just wondering what all these shod tracks are doing here, is all.”
Only then did Nate realize the ground underfoot was pock-marked with hoof-prints made by horses fitted with horseshoes. He had been so intent on the mountains he hadn’t noticed. Dumbfounded, he sank onto a knee and ran a hand over the impressions.
Evelyn hunkered next to him. “What do you make of them?”
“They’re several days old,” Nate calculated. “Three riders, heading east as we are. Where they came from is anyone’s guess.”
“Trappers, you think?” Ezriah asked hopefully.
“It’s not likely,” Nate answered, not since the beaver trade had pretty much petered out in recent years thanks to a change in fashion back East. Beaver was out, silk was in, and most trappers had tak en the hint and moved on to greener financial pastures.
“Soldiers, maybe,” Winona said.
Again Nate was skeptical. The closest military post was Fort Leavenworth, far, far off on the Missouri River. Bent’s Fort was nearer, although not by much, nestled within spitting distance of the front range of the Rockies. But Bent’s Fort, its name notwithstanding, was a trading post, not a garrison.
Ezriah was examining the tracks, too. “Well, whoever it was, it sure as hell wasn’t Indians. Not unless they stole the critters from careless whites.”
“That could be,” Nate said. Some tribes had perfected horse stealing to a fine art. To the Sioux, the Blackfeet, and others, it rated as high as counting coup by striking an enemy with a coup stick. He rose. “It’s nothing for us to worry about. Whoever they were, they’re long gone by now.”
Soon they started climbing, ascending into the foothills, into woodland alive with the chittering of squirrels and the warbling of songbirds. Jays squawked at them from roosts in trees. Chipmunks skittered over boulders and logs. Once several does broke from the underbrush, stared a few moments, then trotted off, their tails raised like black flags.
“Where’s that water you promised?” Ezriah asked.
“There,” Nate said, pointing at a band of cottonwoods that bordered the base of the next hill. Experience had taught him deciduous trees were partial to waterways, and this time was no exception. Within half an hour they were seated in comforting shade. Winona and Evelyn had dipped their bare feet in a cool, flowing water. Ezriah was a few yards upstream on his hands and knees, gulping nonstop.
Nate settled for a few handfuls, then perched on a stump to keep watch, the Hawken across his thighs. In the wilderness a man couldn’t afford to let down his guard. Lapses resulted in violent, sometimes fatal, consequences.
Evelyn, giggling, wriggled her toes. “When we get home the first thing I want to do is take a bath.”
Winona’s eyebrows arched. “My ears must not be working properly. Since when did you start liking baths? As I recall, you did everything in your power to get out of taking them. Even fibbing on occasion.”
“That was when I was little,” Evelyn said earnestly. “I’m a big girl now.”
Ezriah stopped quenching his monumental thirst to snicker. “Any bigger, gal, and you might be able to beat a possum in a wrestling match.”
“Be nice,” Winona said sternly.
“I was only joshing,” Ezriah responded. “Land sakes, don’t Shoshones have a sense of humor?”
“Of course we do. But I do not like having my daughter constantly made fun of.”
Evelyn placed a small hand on her mother’s arm. “It’s all right, Ma. I’m used to him by now. He doesn’t mean anything by what he does. Pa says he can’t help it. Mr. Hampton just talks before he thinks.”
The old trapper’s only eye narrowed on Nate. “Is that a fact? Been jawing about me behind my back, huh?” To Evelyn he said, “Any other tidbits your father shared with you, youngster?”
“He says you act meaner than you really are,” Evelyn naively disclosed. “Oh. And that you have the most atrocious taste in clothes this side of the divide.”
Nate grinned. She had quoted him word for word but she left out a part. “I also said it wouldn’t hurt if you treated yourself to a bath, too. As hot as it’s been, with all those clothes you have on you’re rather ripe.” Nate was being polite. The man stunk to high heaven.
“Like hell!” Ezriah declared, and raised his left arm to sniff his armpit. “I like how I smell. Besides, everyone knows baths are bad for the health. They make a feller puny and sickly. I haven’t had one in nigh on thirty-five years, and I don’t see any reason to break my streak.”
Evelyn stared across the gurgling stream. “Pa? Do you suppose the warriors who made the tracks down below came this way looking for something?”
“How’s that?” Nate said. He was watching a pair of red hawks soar along the ridge above.
“Aren’t those more footprints on the other side?”
Nate was to the opposite bank in four long strides. A patch of mud had been churned by heavy hooves, a single horse this time, the prints only a day old. The rider had let the animal drink a spell, then ridden on up the mountain.
“What do you make of it, husband?” Winona asked at his elbow.
The implications were troubling. “There must be a village nearby,” Nate said. “And they could well be hostile.” Shoshone country was to the east. To the northwest lived the Flatheads and Nez Perce, both equally friendly. To the south were the Utes, his bitter enemies until recently when a truce was established. Nate was more concerned about running into the tribes belonging to the Blackfoot Confederacy, or the Crows. The latter had been peaceable enough until about a year ago when a rift developed with the Shoshones.
“Perhaps we should lie low and travel at night,” Winona suggested.
‘I’d rather not,” Nate said. Traveling at night was safer but a lot slower. “If we keep our eyes skinned we shouldn’t have any trouble.”
Winona patted her parfleche. “We are low on jerky and pemmican.”
“We’ll get by,” Nate said. They had been living off the land, conserving what was left of their meager food supply. But with a village in the vicinity, it would be unwise for him to shoot game. The sound of a shot could carry for miles at that altitude and might draw unwanted attention. “We should be in the clear in a day or two.”
“Let us hope so.”
They returned to the other side and Nate sank back down on the stump. Hampton was on his haunches, his right hand buried in the large leather bag. A metallic tinkling sparked Nate to say, “Fingering your newfound wealth again?”
Ezriah pulled his hand out. In it were eight or nine gold coins. Spanish mint, part of a secret cache belonging to the Sa-gah-lee. “Want to hold one? They’re so smooth and pretty. Give me gold over a woman any day. Gold can’t sass a man or nag him to death.”
In the act of dampening her face and neck, Winona turned. “You are incorrigible, Mr. Hampton.”
“I am?” Ezriah blinked a few times. “Is that good or bad?” Without waiting for her to answer, he said to Nate, “How is it your woman speaks the white tongue better than most whites I know? Sometimes I have no idea what she’s talking about even when she’s talking my language.”
“She’s a born linguist,” Nate proudly complimented her. “She takes to new tongues like a duck to water.”
“It helps that my husband has shelves of books in our cabin,” Winona said.
“I envy you,” Ezriah said. “Me, I never did cotton much to schooling. My father tried his best to force me to learn, but after he wore out five or six switches on my backside he gave up.”
“Learning is fun,” Evelyn piped in. “If you want, when we get back, I’ll teach you how. At your age you should learn quick.”
Nate suppressed a laugh at the grizzled oldster’s comical expression.
“Girl, I don’t rightly know whether I should be flattered or insulted. It’s kind of you to offer, but it isn’t easy to teach an old dog new tricks.”
“Really?” Evelyn said sweetly. “I’ve never had an old dog, so I wouldn’t know.”
Exasperated, Ezriah stood. “How much more time are we going to waste flapping our gums? Let’s keep going while there’s still plenty of daylight left.”
For the next couple of hours they climbed steadily. Nate was on the lookout for more hoof-prints but saw none. Along about two in the afternoon they stopped to collect their breath on a grassy shelf that afforded a panoramic vista of the surrounding countryside. Nate could see clear back across the plain they had crossed.
Winona and Evelyn strolled to the north end of the shelf. Yellow flowers grew in profusion and Evelyn was bending to pluck one when she called out, “Pa! You should come have a look-see!”
“Not again,” Nate said, hurrying over.
The tracks were the oldest yet, a week to ten days, prints made by four shod horses moving uphill in single file toward the same notch they were bound for.
