Wilderness Double Edition 19, page 19
“Some people are harder to get along with than others,” Rosemary said, and let it go at that. Deeply troubled, she resumed her knitting, but her heart wasn’t in it. Her gaze strayed to the mountain man. She wondered what motivated a man like that. Why had he forsaken his own kind? Why did he live in the wilderness, hundreds of miles from the nearest town or settlement?
With a toss of her blond hair, Rosemary stopped troubling herself over a total stranger and glanced at her husband. Bert was walking beside the nearest pair. His hand on Samson, he had bent low and was examining the animal’s foreleg. “Is something the matter?”
“He’s limping again.”
Rosemary watched closely. It was barely noticeable, but every third or fourth step the ox favored its left foreleg. “He’s not doing all that bad.”
“Yet,” Bert said. “Tonight I’m wrapping the leg to keep it warm. You can help me out by making a compress of those herbs you use to heal sprains and such.”
“Will they work on an ox?” Rosemary asked, and was startled out of her skin when her husband spun on her, his face contorted in suppressed fury.
“Why must you carp all the time? Can’t you see I’m doing the best I can? Just make the compress and let me know when it’s ready.”
“Bertram!” Rosemary had never seen him so mad. “What has gotten into you? I didn’t criticize—” But he wasn’t listening. His spine as stiff as a ramrod, he marched to the head of the team and cracked the whip with renewed vigor. Bewildered by his uncharacteristic behavior, Rosemary slumped in the seat, her emotions awhirl. In all the years they had been together, he had never turned on her like that.
“Is Pa all right?” Sam inquired in a small voice.
“Why’d he talk to you like that, Ma?” This from Eddy.
Struggling to compose herself, Rosemary mustered a smile. “It’s the strain, boys. It rubs a body’s nerves raw. He’ll be fine by the time we stop for the night. Wait and see.”
The afternoon was as hot as the pilot had predicted. The temperature climbed upward of one hundred degrees, by Rosemary’s reckoning. She was sweltering. From under the seat she procured a fan and sought to cool herself.
All afternoon the rider shadowed them, always at the same distance, always holding to the same gait. Brushy country flanked the river, and gullies and washes were a lot more common.
It was later than usual when Harry Trapp signaled for the train to circle up. The emigrants went through their usual evening ritual. By nightfall cook fires were blazing, guards had been posted, and younger children were scampering about at play. A man from Virginia—Morris, his name was—brought out a fiddle and entertained them.
Bert hardly spoke ten words to Rosemary. They sat on stools near their wagon, Bert smoking his ever-present pipe, she with her knitting.
Harry Trapp, Rosemary noticed, was a bit edgy. He prowled the circle like a caged cougar, stopping often to peer into the darkness. What he was looking for, he never said.
Rosemary put down her knitting and rose to add a few limbs to the fire. Earlier she had piled the firewood her boys gathered near the rear wheel, and as she bent over the pile she saw a pair of feet in the shadows. Moccasin clad feet. Her gaze roved upward and her breath caught in her throat. It was him!
The mountain man!
Three
Rosemary Spencer started and stumbled several steps backward. Unreasoning fear spiked through her, and she raised a hand to her throat. Inadvertently, she bumped into Bert, nearly knocking him off his stool. The contact steadied her, both outwardly and inwardly, and she stifled a budding outcry.
“What the devil?” Bert blurted, throwing out his legs to brace himself. “What’s gotten into you, Rose?” Turning, he came up off the stool as if it were a red-hot coal. “It’s him!” he exclaimed.
Their fellow travelers were so busy chatting or engrossed in listening to the fiddler that no one else noticed the mountain man until he strode into the firelight. Almost instantly, all talk ceased. The music died on a strangled note. Halting, the mountain man calmly surveyed the encampment.
Fascination replacing her fear, Rosemary drank in every detail of his appearance. Through the spyglass he had seemed big; up close he was a giant. His shoulders were broader than any man’s there, his chest as big around as a barrel. Yet his waist was deceptively thin. He moved with an ease and economy of motion suggestive of a cat. The beads on his buckskins glistened in the play of firelight, as did the rifle cradled in his thick arms and the pistols under his belt. He had an air about him Rosemary couldn’t quite define. An air of confidence, and something more. The image that leaped to her mind was of a wolf among sheep, but that wasn’t quite right. It was more like a great bear among a bunch of cubs. The way he walked, the way he looked at them, it set her heart to fluttering, but whether from apprehension or another emotion, she couldn’t rightly say.
Surprisingly, the mountain man was undeniably handsome. To Rosemary, at least. His face was extraordinarily pleasing. A high brow hinted at high intelligence, and below it were piercing green eyes that missed nothing. His gaze roamed full circle and settled on her, and for a few puzzling moments her insides turned to water and her knees went oddly weak.
Rosemary noticed new things about him, little things not obvious through the telescope. His buckskins were clean and well-kempt, his face devoid of grime. A thin necklace of blue beads graced his neck. Some of his hair had been twined into a slender braid at the back of his head, and from the braid hung an eagle feather.
The mountain man smiled, displaying white, even teeth, and in a voice that rumbled from his chest, said amiably, “Evening. My apologies for disturbing you folks. I hope you don’t mind my paying you a visit.”
Rosemary’s admiration mounted. He wasn’t at all the uncouth lout she had been led to believe.
Everyone glanced toward Harry Trapp. The pilot had been as shocked as everyone else, but he now came forward wearing a smile and offering his hand. “You’re more than welcome to join us, friend. Trapp’s my handle. I’m wagon master for this outfit.”
“King,” the mountain man said as he shook. “Nate King.”
Rosemary saw Trapp give a start, then glance at the man’s hand as if taken aback by the strength in the other’s grip.
“Have a seat, why don’t you?” the pilot said, and scanned the ring of faces, apparently trying to decide which family to join. To Rosemary’s consternation, mixed with a dollop of delight, he pointed at their fire, which was nearest.
“Do you mind, Mr. and Mrs. Spencer?” Trapp said.
Bert rose. “Not at all,” he said cordially. “Please, Mr. King. Be our guest. I’m sure my boys would love to meet you.”
Sam and Eddy were cross-legged by the wagon, their lower jaws hanging down to their knees.
Nate King smiled and sank down with his back to the Conestoga, sitting in such a fashion that he was facing their fire but not gazing directly at it. Placing his big rifle across his thighs, he said, “I could smell your cook fires from half a mile off.” He looked at Harry Trapp. “So could anyone else, but I reckon some things can’t be helped.”
Trapp nodded, and Rosemary had the impression a secret tidbit of information had passed between them.
King gazed with wry amusement at Sam and Eddy. “I have two sprouts of my own. Pleased to meet you gentlemen.”
Eddy jumped to his feet so fast, his empty plate clattered to the ground. “How do you do, sir,” he said, thrusting out his hand. “You’re the first mountain man I’ve ever met. Are they all as big as you?”
“Not all of them, no,” Nate King said, a twinkle in his eyes. “One coon I know is so small, he can fit through a keyhole.”
Eddy laughed, and emboldened by his success, asked, “Why do you wear that feather in your hair? Have you taken up Indian ways?”
Rosemary was scandalized by her youngest’s lack of manners. “Edward! Don’t pester the poor man.”
“It’s all right, ma’am,” King said quietly. “My own kids were fountains of questions at his age.” The big man reached behind him and stroked the feather with what Rosemary could only describe as reverence. “A Cheyenne warrior gave me a feather just like this once, back when I was new to the frontier. It was a token of friendship, of respect. I’ve long since worn out the original, but I like to wear one to remind me that just because people have different skin color doesn’t mean they can’t be friends.”
“Oh,” Eddy said, as if the explanation were more than he bargained for. “So you must like Indians a lot.”
Again Rosemary sought to correct him. “Edward, I won’t tell you again.”
Nate King wasn’t offended at all. “I guess I must,” he informed her youngest. “I’m married to an Indian lady, and her people have adopted me into their tribe.”
Sam rose and moved closer. “No fooling, mister? Which tribe is it? Do you go on raids with them?”
Eddy had another question of his own. “Have you taken any scalps?”
Shoving erect, Rosemary put her hands on her hips. “That will be quite enough out of both of you! I simply will not have you badgering our guest.”
“The answer to both questions is yes,” the mountain man said.
For an uncomfortable minute no one said a word. Rosemary filled a tin cup with hot coffee and gave it to King, who cradled it in both big hands and blew on it before taking a sip. His green eyes scanned the camp again, his brow knitting, and it seemed to Rosemary he was trying to come to some sort of decision.
Harry Trapp’s forehead was also creased. “I’ve heard your name before,” he broke the silence. “Usually mentioned in the same breath as Bridger and McNair.”
“Friends of mine,” King said.
“Shakespeare McNair is still around? Why, he must be pushing ninety. They say he was one of the first. That he’s lived up in the mountains longer than any other white.” Trapp was making small talk, but it was as plain as the nose on his face that he had another subject he wanted to broach and was hesitant to do so.
“McNair was the first,” Nate King confirmed. “He took me under his wing when I came west and taught me enough to keep me alive.” King peered over his steaming cup at the pilot. “One mistake is all it takes.”
“I do the best I can,” Trapp said. “I try to take everything into account, but I’m only human.”
The mountain man nodded at the Spencers’ Conestoga. “This wagon, for instance. It’s too big, and too slow. A turtle on wheels. Fit for travel back east, but not out here.” His tone hardened a trifle. “You should have told them.”
Trapp spread his hands, palms out. “There’s only so much I can do. I mentioned about the wagon before we left. But I can’t help it if people don’t take my advice.”
Rosemary realized the pilot must be referring to Bert. Trapp had never mentioned anything about the Conestoga being too large to her. She glanced at her husband, and he looked away.
Eddy, overcome by awe, had plunked down in front of the frontiersman. “This is our wagon, Mr. King.”
“I know. I saw your brother and you watching me.”
“You did?” Sam said skeptically. “How could you see us from that far out without the help of a …”
“Spyglass?” King finished for him, and chuckled. “Live out here long enough and your senses become sharper than you can imagine.”
“You saw the telescope?”
“I saw the sun reflect off the casing every time you spied on me. It wasn’t hard to figure out what it was.” King sipped more coffee, then lowered the cup. “Indians might have mistaken it for a rifle and attacked you. Remember that. Out here even the smallest blunder can get you killed.”
Eddy held his hand aloft as if he were back in the one room school in Holstein. “Mr. Trapp says we’re in Sioux country and we have to be mighty careful.”
“Mr. Trapp is right.” King glanced at the pilot, then at Rosemary, and finished his coffee in a quick gulp. “I’m obliged for the hospitality, but I should be getting along. My horse is off in the grass by his lonesome. It wouldn’t do to leave him unattended.”
“Please stay a while yet,” Rosemary heard herself say. “Have you eaten? We have some stew left. I’m not the best cook in the world, but my menfolk never complain.”
Nate King bent toward the pot and sniffed. “My nose tells me you’re too modest, Mrs. Spencer.” Straightening, he tilted his head and appeared to be listening. “I reckon half an hour more won’t hurt. I’ve had to eat my own cooking for so long, I’ve forgotten what real food tastes like.”
Scooting to find another plate, Rosemary heard Eddy say, “Tell us more about Indians. My ma and my brother think the only good redskin is a dead one.”
Rosemary stopped cold in her tracks. Her youngest was smiling in benign innocence, but Sam looked as if he were trying to shrink down into the earth. Bert’s corncob pipe was producing enough smoke to rival a forest fire, while Harry Trapp was out-and-out dumbfounded.
“Do they, now?” Nate King said. It was impossible to judge by his tone what he was thinking.
“I saw some friendly Indians in Independence,” Eddy warbled on. “Pawnees, and some Mandans, I think. Oh. And some Osage. They were a scrawny lot.” Eddy propped his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. “Did one of those tribes adopt you?”
“No, the Shoshones.”
“I never heard of them. What are they like?”
Rosemary bustled to the wagon, her emotions in turmoil. What must King think of them now, after her youngest’s slip of the tongue? His opinion must have dropped to rock bottom, and it was a wonder he didn’t up and leave. Maybe the boys were keeping him there. She sensed he liked children. Having two of his own, perhaps he understood not to take their comments too seriously.
Retrieving a plate and spoon, Rosemary rounded the wagon in time to hear an intriguing remark.
“—ever harmed a white man. Same with the Flatheads. Most people only ever hear about the hostiles. About all the blood spilled. The lives lost. But what about the Flatheads, who saved a starving band of trappers back in the winter of ’32? Or the Shoshones, who will bend over backwards to make whites welcome in their villages?” Nate King’s next statement was directed at Sam. “Before you go around branding someone as deserving to die, walk a mile or two in their moccasins.”
“I didn’t mean all Indians,” Sam said meekly. “It’s just that our grandpa was killed by redskins and—”
King held up a hand. “I’m sorry for your loss, boy. Sincerely sorry. There’s been too much blood spilled on both sides, and I’m afraid a lot more will be spilled before people come to their senses.”
Rosemary moved to the cooking pot, which hung from a tripod over the low fire. Conscious of the mountain man’s scrutiny, she ladled a heaping portion onto the plate and carried it over to him. She couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eyes, not after Eddy’s comment. But she should defend herself. She didn’t want him believing she was a bigot. “I hope—” she said, and had to swallow. Her throat was unaccountably dry. “I hope you won’t think poorly of us. I was mad when I made that foolish statement. I loved my father very much. I miss him to this day.”
Nate King was a few moments replying. “We all say things we shouldn’t when we’re angry. You should have heard me the last time I stubbed my toe.”
Relief washed through Rosemary, and she bestowed a warm smile. The mountain man wasn’t at all what she had expected. He wasn’t coarse or uncouth or mean. Quite the contrary. He was considerate and understanding, rare qualities in the best of men. And he had a marvelous sense of humor.
“Tell us more about the Shoshones,” Eddy urged with typical childish enthusiasm. “What’s it like being married to an Indian lady?”
Rosemary’s elevated spirits crashed to earth. “Will you never learn, Edward?” she said in exasperation. “There are some things people don’t talk about.”
“Like what, Ma?”
Chuckling, King leaned back. “I don’t mind. There are about five thousand Shoshones. Whites call them the Snakes. They claim a large territory drained by the Snake, Bear, and Green Rivers. Most live in villages, in hide lodges, and every ten days or so they move their villages to new sites. They dress in buckskins. The men are well-proportioned, the women are quite attractive.”
“Do they take scalps?” Eddy inquired.
Rosemary sank onto her stool. Belatedly, she saw that everyone else had stopped what they were doing to listen. Embarrassment flared anew, and her cheeks grew warm.
“On occasion they do,” Nate King admitted. “So do the Crows, the Piegans, the Bloods, the Utes, and a dozen other tribes I could name.”
“A barbaric practice,” someone commented.
King never looked around. “When I first came to the frontier, I thought so, too. But they don’t do it out of bloodlust. To them a scalp is a symbol, a token of bravery in battle. The more scalps a man has, the higher he rises in the tribe. They call it counting coup.”
“Are we to gather you condone their savagery?” an older woman sniffed accusingly.
“If by condone you mean approve, then no, I don’t,” King said. “But I’m not going to hold it against them, either. We can’t judge the Shoshones or any other tribe by our standards. Their world is completely different.”
Charley Kastner snorted. “Sounds to me like you’re making excuses on their account because you’re married to a squaw.”
A complete hush fell. Rosemary tensed for an explosion of violence. “Squaw” was considered an insulting term, akin to calling a white woman a “tramp.” Nate King sat rock-still for all of five seconds. Then he slowly rose and turned, his rifle level at his waist. With measured tread he strode over to Charley Kastner. The muzzle an inch from Charley’s nose, he said politely, “I’d like an apology.”
Kastner was an outspoken, brawny fellow in his early thirties who liked to throw his stocky weight around. He also liked to brag about how tough he was, and how many fistfights he had been in. He claimed there wasn’t an Indian born he was afraid of, and that if hostiles ever attacked the wagon train, they’d regret tangling with Charley Kastner, by God. But now he was scared, and it showed. To his credit, though, he looked down the barrel of the mountain man’s weapon, moistened his lips, and said, “It’s a free country. A man can say what he damn well pleases.”
