Wilderness Double Edition 22, page 2
“That tickles.”
“Good morning, wench,” Zach bantered, and snuggled closer, his arm around her bosom.
“Is that what it is? I’ve lost track.” Lou opened her deep blue eyes and languidly stretched. “I could go on like this forever.”
“Or until we starve to death.” Zach kissed her neck and pressed his cheek to hers. “Me, I’d like to get up and about.”
Lou clasped his arm tight. “I swear,” she said in mock indignation. “You don’t have a romantic bone in your body.”
“Tell that to the nine children we’ll have one day.”
“Nine? I’d settle for one,” Lou wistfully remarked. “I’m surprised we haven’t had one already, as randy as you get.”
“Me?” Zach playfully tickled her ribs. “You’re the one who can’t keep her hands off me every hour of the day and night. And here I thought women were supposed to be shy about things like that.”
“Every woman has a wildcat inside just busting to get out. All it takes is the right man.”
They cuddled a while, until Zach pulled back and asked, “What would you like to do today? And don’t reach under the sheet. After being cooped up in that stockade, I need to get out and about.”
“I declare,” Lou said, “I never thought I would see the day when a male would rather do something other than make love. Some folks say that’s all men ever think about.”
“I bet all those folks are women,” Zach countered, and rolled out of bed to avoid a playful swat. “What is this town like? Kansas?”
“Some people call it Kansas City, but it has a lot of growing to do to earn the name.” Lou sat up and the sheet slid down around her waist. “It can be pretty lively. A lot of frontiersmen like us pass through. Indians, too. I’ve seen Pawnees, a few Mandans, Kanzas Indians, some Otoes.”
Zach padded to the washbasin and examined himself in the mirror. He was in dire need of a shave. “Where can we buy supplies? I want to head for the Rockies as soon as possible.”
“We have a problem in that regard.”
Zach splashed water on his face and began brushing his hair with her hairbrush. “Care to enlighten me or should I guess?” His razor and comb were back in their cabin in the mountains.
“We have four dollars to our name,” Lou said as she slid out of bed and began hastily slipping into her buckskins and moccasins. “I’m paid up on this apartment until the end of the week. But we owe legal fees. And when I arrived, I opened an account at a store down the street and we owe six dollars there, too.”
“Damn.” Zach had never been in debt before. His parents taught him to pay for everything with hard cash or coin so he was never beholden to anyone. Now he understood why. “We can’t leave until we pay everything off.”
“Stanley P. Dagget said we can take our time and pay him in installments if we want,” Louisa said, referring to their lawyer. “I didn’t cotton to him much at first, but he’s as fine as they come.”
“He saved my hash,” Zach admitted. Were it not for Dagget, he’d have dangled from the end of a rope by now. “I still can’t believe he convinced a jury of white men I was innocent.”
“There you go again,” Lou scolded. “Just because someone has white skin doesn’t mean they hate you.” She held her arm out and rolled back the sleeve. “Or haven’t you noticed the color of mine?”
Zach laughed and came over and hugged her. “Want to know something? Until I met you I didn’t think highly of whites. Most looked down their nose at me because of my mixed blood. Because I’m part white, part Shoshone.” He searched for his buckskins and found them at the foot of the bed. “There were exceptions. My pa, naturally. Shakespeare McNair, Scott Kendall and a few others. But not enough to convince me whites were worth a damn until you came along.”
Lou was at the mirror, fussing with her short sandy hair. “There’s a lot of hate on both sides. As for me, I can’t help it if my kisses are irresistible.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Zach said with a huge grin. “I kissed plenty of girls before you came along, and yours weren’t anything special.”
“Oh, is that right?” Lou took a diving leap and tackled him about the waist. They spilled onto the bed, laughing merrily, and grappled to see who could pin the other. Zach won and claimed his prize by kissing her full on the lips. “Mmmmmm. Not bad,” he said. “A little more practice and you’ll be as good as my horse.”
“Your horse!” Lou squealed, and when he cackled, she pushed him clear off the end of the bed onto the floor. “That’s the last kiss you’ll get today, buster.”
Zach lay there admiring the flush of red in her cheeks and the fire in her eyes. “God, you’re beautiful.”
“And you, sir, are the handsomest devil I know,” Lou said. “Now finish getting ready so we can go eat. I’m famished.”
“Four dollars won’t buy us much.” Zach shrugged into his buckskin shirt, tugged on his pants, and bent to pull his moccasins from under the bed. “Maybe we should rent a horse and go off into the hills. We’ll shoot a deer and have enough meat to last us a month if we dry and salt it.”
“I’d rather splurge at a restaurant I know of,” Lou said, cupping her hands in appeal. “Please. It’s the first thing we’ve done since the trial and I want it to be special.”
“Women,” Zach teased, and then became serious. “I wonder why my parents weren’t there. Shakespeare went to fetch them.”
“I worry about them, too,” Louisa said. “If it was humanly possible, they’d have shown up. I hope— I pray—nothing happened to them.”
“That makes two of us.”
Pedestrians, carriages and riders thronged the street. Kansas was a town near to bursting at the seams. It had the distinction of growing faster in the past two years than any town on the frontier.
Not all that long ago the press of people would have bothered Zach. Especially the press of so many white people. But now he didn’t mind at all. Sure, they were white, but as his father and Lou so often asserted—and as the twelve jurors had proven—not all whites were bigots. The jury had shown him, once and for all, that hating whites on general principle was misguided.
Lou clung to his arm, grinning. “I’m as happy as a pig in mud right about now.”
“Just so you don’t eat like one at the restaurant,” Zach said, and received a jab in the ribs.
Several other couples and an elderly man were quietly eating. The waiter, Zach noticed with a tweak of resentment, seated them in a far corner away from the windows and the entrance. Zach decided not to say anything. Lou was in a good mood and he did not want to spoil it.
They placed their order. Zach was sipping from a glass of water when a mousey little man in a frumpy suit and a bowler entered and came straight for their table. “Mr. and Mrs. King?”
“One of them, anyway,” Lou said.
The mousey man was confused. “I beg your pardon?”
“Zach’s parents are also Mr. and Mrs. King,” Lou clarified, and grinned. “How might we help you?”
“I’m Clarence Potts, a reporter for the Kansas Sun. I spotted you on the street, and I would very much like to interview your husband about the trial and its aftermath for the paper.”
The water in Zach’s mouth turned bitter. Swallowing, he said, “There’s nothing more I can say.”
“On the contrary,” Potts said, and without being asked, he dragged a chair from a nearby table over to theirs, and sat. “Our readers would love to hear your view of the outcome, and how you will deal with any repercussions.”
“What are you talking about? Repercussions?” Zach wasn’t fond of reporters. They would do anything for a scoop, and half the time their accounts were skewed or outright wrong.
Clarence Potts cleared his throat. “For instance, do you feel justice was served by the verdict of not guilty?”
“Of course.” That had to be the stupidest question Zach had ever been asked.
“Really?” Potts took out a pencil and pad. “Some people think the trial was a travesty. That the only reason you were let off is because the government doesn’t want trouble with the Shoshones.”
Lou was frowning. “That’s ridiculous. My husband was found innocent because the jury felt the killings were justified.”
Potts scribbled a note, then said, “A lot of people disagree. Or haven’t you seen the letters to our editor we’ve printed? There’s even been talk that since the law failed to work as it should, some of our citizens should take it into their own hands.”
“Leave,” Zach said.
“Another minute or two. I only want to get your side.” Potts was scribbling furiously, although what he could be writing, Zach had no idea. “It might help soothe ruffled tempers and show everyone you’re not the heartless murderer most believe you to be.”
“I won’t tell you again.”
“Be reasonable, Mr. King. Whether you like it or not, you’re news. Big news. The trial hasn’t ended your notoriety. Wherever you go from now on, you’ll be remembered as the murderous half-breed who escaped the hangman because—”
Zach was out of his chair and had his hands on the reporter’s jacket before Potts could blink. Pulling him out of the chair, Zach propelled him toward the entrance, saying, “Enough! If you show your weasel face anywhere near me again, I’ll show you just how violent us breeds can be.” Opening the door, he shoved and sent the reporter stumbling.
The other diners were staring but Zach didn’t care.
“What good did that do?” Lou asked as he sat back down.
“Don’t start.”
“I’m sorry. But this affects me, too. People believe what they read. That reporter might have swayed their opinion by showing you in a favorable light.”
Zach snorted. “Don’t kid yourself. He was out to paint me as a bloodthirsty savage. He wants to stir people up, not calm them down.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions.” Louisa put her hand on his. “Promise me you won’t do anything like that again.”
“You heard what the fool said.” But to pacify her, Zach added, “I give you my word I won’t scalp him or any other reporter unless you say I can. How would that be?”
Lou laughed and patted his arm. “That’s a start. But I’m serious. There’s no telling how long it will take to pay off our debts and save enough money for the supplies and animals we need, so we should try to get along.”
“If you say so.” But it had been Zach’s experience that getting along with some people was impossible. Their hatred was too deeply ingrained, their bigotry as much a part of them as their hands or feet.
The meal came sooner than Zach expected. The reason became apparent when he cut into his steak. It was almost raw. The potato was undercooked, the soup tepid. He had half a mind to send it back but since Lou was eating without complaint, he controlled his temper.
The meal left them two dollars and five cents to their name.
Lou clasped his arm and strolled cheerfully at his side, going on and on about how much she looked forward to returning home. Zach couldn’t stop thinking about Clarence Potts. He wouldn’t put it past the man to follow them to their apartment. Some reporters were as single-minded as wolverines when it came to hunting down newsworthy stories.
Accordingly, Zach casually glanced over his shoulder now and then. There was no sign of Potts, but he soon began to suspect someone else was shadowing them.
A block back was a tall man in a brown wide- brimmed hat. He had bushy sideburns and a ruddy complexion—and he never took his eyes off them. Twice Zach stopped at store windows, once to admire a rifle, the second time so Lou could coo over a dress she fancied, and each time the tall man in the brown hat stopped and waited for them to go on.
When he was sure it wasn’t his imagination, Zach turned to Lou. “I’d like to stretch my legs a while if that’s all right with you.”
“Sure,” Lou said. “There’s a park up the street from our apartment. Four acres of grass and trees, and a pond. I’ve been there a few times.”
“Sounds perfect,” Zach said.
The man in the brown hat stayed a block back the whole way there.
Ducks were paddling about in the pond. It reminded Zach of the high country, of the lake near the cabin where he had been raised in the Rockies. A path led around it into a strip of woodland. As soon as they came to a spot where the vegetation hid them from view, Zach pulled Lou into the undergrowth and crouched. “Get down.”
“What in the world are we doing?” Lou whispered.
“Springing a surprise.”
Around the bend came the man in the brown hat. His jacket was open, and he had one hand on a pistol tucked under his belt.
Three
“Are we there yet?” young Evelyn King asked.
Shakespeare McNair twisted in his saddle and regarded her with wry amusement. A white-haired mountaineer who was one of the first to venture west of the Mississippi, he wore fringed buckskins decorated with beads, made by his Flathead wife, Blue Water Woman, the third member of their little party. He had a Hawken rifle in his left hand and a brace of flintlock pistols around his waist. A possibles bag, powder horn, and ammo pouch were angled across his chest. “Do you see a town anywhere?”
“No,” Evelyn admitted. She was pushing thirteen but going on twenty. “I’m just worried about my brother, is all.”
“Most worthy madam,” Shakespeare quoted his namesake, “your honor and your goodness is so evident, that your free undertaking cannot miss a thriving issue.” He paused. “We’ll get there in time. Don’t fret.”
“I can’t help it,” Evelyn said. “The man at that trading post said Zach might be hanged.”
“Oh. Him.” Shakespeare muttered something, then said, “His brain is as dry as the remainder biscuit after a voyage. He takes false shadows for true substances.”
“In other words,” said Blue Water Woman, “my husband thinks the man at the trading post talked too much.” Her English was exceptional, as was the dignity in her bearing, and her gorgeous features. Streaks of gray lent the elegance of age.
“How do you understand him when he quotes like that?” Evelyn asked. “Half the time I’m not sure what he’s saying.”
“After all these years,” Blue Water Woman replied, “I have heard most of his quotes many times over.”
“Blackguard,” Shakespeare said gruffly. “I only repeat myself but once or twice a year.” He winked at Evelyn. “I can’t help it if certain women don’t recognize great literature when they hear it.”
“Why Shakespeare?” Evelyn asked.
“Why what?”
“Why did you read all those plays and memorize them? It seems like a terrible lot of trouble to go through just so you can talk like they did in the old days.”
Blue Water Woman laughed. “Out of the mouths of children.”
Shakespeare pretended to be flustered but answered the girl in earnest. “I was new to the mountains, little one. In the winter there wasn’t much to do so I took to reading anything and everything I could get my hands on. A lot of us trappers did in those days. The Rocky Mountain College, we called it. We’d sit around the lodge reading and talking about what we’d read. Or arguing, more often than not.”
“My dad did that, too,” Evelyn said. “It’s how he learned to love books so much.”
Shakespeare nodded. “And how I learned to love old William S. You see, one winter I was desperate for something new to read, and another trapper told me about this missionary who had a lot of books. The man of cloth was on his way to the Oregon Country but didn’t make it over the Divide before the snows hit. So he built himself a dugout and settled in to wait for the passes to clear.”
“You went to see him?”
“He had more books than I ever saw outside of a library. A whole chest full. Homer. Plutarch. Herodotus. Plato. The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. And a copy of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.”
“I bet you talked him into giving it to you. My pa says you can talk the stink out of a skunk.”
“He what?” Shakespeare muttered some more, then said, “You would think I’d asked that parson to part with his teeth. I offered him thirty dollars, then fifty, then sixty, and finally he gave in.” Reaching back, Shakespeare patted a parfleche. “Ever since, I take it with me practically everywhere I go.”
“But why that one book?” Evelyn’s innate curiosity wasn’t satisfied. “Why not the book on Plato? Or any of those others?”
“That’s easy, girl. I wanted my money’s worth and it was one of the biggest.” Shakespeare’s gaze turned inward and backward in time. “Once I started reading it, I couldn’t stop. I’d never read anything like old William S. Never heard words used the way he uses them. I took to quoting him, and before I knew it, the other trappers were calling me Shakespeare.”
“It’s a good thing you didn’t pick that Plutarch guy. Plutarch McNair would sound sort of funny.”
“I like Homer McNair,” Blue Water Woman commented.
They were following a rutted road up a hill. Parked at the summit was a wagon, and seated with his back to a nearby tree was a broomstick in overalls with a floppy hat pulled low over his eyes.
Drawing rein, Shakespeare said, “A fine good morning to you, sir.”
The broomstick didn’t respond.
“I was wondering if you would be kind enough to tell us how far we are from the town of Kansas?”
“Go away.”
“That’s not very friendly,” Shakespeare observed.
A spindly arm rose and pushed the floppy hat back. “Didn’t you see me restin’ here? Wakin’ me up wasn’t friendly, neither.”
“As fast locked up in sleep as guiltless labor when it lies starkly in the traveler’s bones, he will not wake,” Shakespeare quoted.
“Huh?” the man said.
“That was William S.”
“Are you a foreigner?” the man asked.
“Do I look like one?” Shakespeare retorted. “All I want to know—”
