Wilderness Double Edition 19, page 20
“Out here,” King said, a nod encompassing the untamed world that lay beyond their sheltering ring of wagons, “what a man says can get him killed.”
Charley Kastner’s throat bobbed. “You’re bluffing. You wouldn’t kill me in front of all these women and children.” When King failed to respond, Charley smirked and declared, “I didn’t think so. Why, if you weren’t holding that Hawken on me, I’d gladly thrash you within an inch of your life.”
Keen disappointment knifed through Rosemary as Nate King stepped back and lowered his rifle. She thought he was backing down, but instead he handed the Hawken to Harry Trapp, then slid both pistols from under his belt and handed them over, too. Balling fists the size of a sledge, he planted himself a few yards in front of Kastner.
‘‘Whenever you’re ready.”
Beads of perspiration formed at Charley Kastner’s hairline. He started to rise but sat back down and jabbed a finger at Trapp. “What kind of pilot are you that you let a stranger waltz in here and cause trouble? Isn’t it your job to protect us?”
Trapp nodded. “I agreed to protect you from Injuns and wild critters. You flap your gums at your own risk.” Kastner glanced from right to left for support that never came.
His wife said, “Don’t do it, Charley!” but he ignored her as he generally ignored her anyway.
“I’m waiting for my thrashing,” Nate King said.
Every nerve in Rosemary’s body tingled with expectation. She didn’t honestly expect Kastner to stand up. He was mostly bluff, a bag of hot air that could use puncturing. But he possessed a kernel of grit somewhere, because the next moment he shot toward the mountain man as if fired from a cannon.
King met the rush head-on. He blocked a looping right, ducked a high left, and retaliated with a quick jab to the jaw that rocked Kastner onto his heels. Charley shook his head to clear it, then barreled back in again, swinging furiously. There was no method to his assault. He relied on his bulk and his strength, and perhaps that was enough against most men. If his claims were true, it had enabled him to come out on top in over three dozen fights. But this time he was up against someone considerably bigger and immensely stronger.
Nate King slipped punch after punch, evaded blow after blow. He did so easily. When he moved, he was a blur. And when he swung, he connected.
Charley’s sweaty moon face acquired a lump on the temple, a bruise under an eye. His left cheek split open, and his lips were reduced to pulp. The beating he was taking was horrendous.
The mountain man was toying with him, Rosemary realized. Nate King wasn’t trying to knock Charley out. The frontiersman was whittling him down, bit by painful bit. It was cold, calculated destruction on an intensely personal scale.
Charley saw the handwriting on the chalkboard and rallied. Pausing, he set himself, his fists cocked. His breathing was irregular and his cheek and chin were streaked scarlet. One eye was pretty near swollen shut and one ear was mangled. “Damn you!” he puffed. “Damned Injun lover!”
Then Nate King did an astounding thing. He lowered his arms and said, “End this. Apologize and I’ll be satisfied.”
“Like hell!” Charley snarled. “I’m just getting my second wind. When I get done, even your squaw won’t recognize you.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Nate King raised his fists and waded in, and his onslaught was terrible to behold. Terrible, yet undeniably exciting. Rosemary had never witnessed a real fight in her life. Certainly not anything like this. A dynamic ballet of incredible brutality, so brutal it was beautiful.
King rained a withering barrage that Charley did his best to counter or avoid, but his best wasn’t good enough. For maybe fifteen seconds Charley stood firm, then he retreated, blocking and slugging as he went, and each step brought new suffering, a new pain. Everyone watching knew that King could end the fight at any time with a single powerful punch, but King continued to pummel Kastner until Charley’s knees buckled and his arms went limp at his sides.
King gripped Charley by the chin and bent Charley’s head back so Charley could see the final blow descend. “Don’t ever call my wife a squaw again,” he said, and tensed to strike.
“Noooooo!”
Martha Kastner flung herself between them, shielding her man with her own body, her tear-stained face fixed on King in blatant terror.
The mountain man transformed to marble.
“Enough!” Martha wailed. “You’ve proven your point! Leave him be!” She threw a protective arm around her husband’s shoulders. “Please.”
Nate King’s fist slowly unclenched, and his arm slowly lowered. He stared at Martha, at the bloody wreck he had made of Kastner, and at his own big hands. Finally his shoulders slumped and without comment he walked to the pilot and reclaimed his guns. “Thank you for your hospitality.” He moved toward the wagons.
“Wait!” Harry Trapp requested. “I was hoping to ask you about the Sioux. You saw the same sign I did, didn’t you?”
King halted in the shadows between the Conestoga and the next wagon. “It was hard to read. Your wheels had churned up the tracks. Best as I could tell, a war party of fifteen to twenty warriors crossed the trail yesterday morning, heading north.”
“I couldn’t tell half as much,” Trapp said. “If that’s the case, then they’re likely on their way to their village. We have nothing to worry about.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” King said enigmatically. “But don’t let down your guard. Bunch up during the day. Post two sentries at night. Keep your animals close and hobble them, so they can’t be stolen.”
“We will,” Harry Trapp said. “Thanks.”
The mountain man was no longer there. He had melted into the darkness as soundlessly as he had arrived.
Rosemary succumbed to sharp disappointment. She shrugged it off with the thought that she was being foolish. King meant nothing to her, nor she to him. They were strangers passing in the night. Two ships at sea that had a chance encounter in the limitless ocean and now would sail off to different ports.
“Gosh,” Eddy exclaimed, thunderstruck.
“Did you see, Pa?” Sam whispered. “Did you see what he did to Mr. Kastner?”
“How could I miss it?” Bert said in disapproval. “It was uncalled for. Charley was only speaking his mind.”
Her ears burning, Rosemary spun. “I suppose you’d just sit there and do nothing if someone called me a harlot? King was defending his wife’s good name. I, for one, think Charley got what he deserved and I don’t care who knows it.”
She walked off before she used harsher language and set a bad example in front of their sons. Storming through the gap between the wagons, she stepped over a tongue and moved midway along the Conestoga. “What’s gotten into Mother?” she heard Sam ask. Her husband didn’t answer.
“Thank goodness that terrible man is gone!” Lucy Bateman’s comment rose above the growing hubbub.
“Good riddance, I say!” bellowed Harvey Whittaker. “The nerve of that ruffian! We didn’t invite him here.”
Harry Trapp took command of the situation. “Calm down, all of you! Kastner brought it on himself. He’s lucky to be alive. I’ve seen men gunned down for less.” He paused. “The important thing is that the Sioux war party I was concerned about has left the area. We’ll keep on taking precautions, but we can rest a lot easier now.”
Rosemary distinctly recalled that King had made no such claim, but she stayed where she was, too upset to rejoin them just yet. She examined the strange emotions the mountain man had stirred in her, and tried to fathom why. No matter what the others said, she liked him. He was the kind of man she had always wished Bert would be. Strong, wise, forceful. The kind who never took guff off of anybody. The kind who wouldn’t let the Pringles of the world take advantage of him.
Catching herself, Rosemary bowed her head in shame. She wasn’t being fair to Bert. He did the best he could, and he loved her, heart and soul. She must forget about the mountain man. Nate King was gone from her life and she would never see him again. Squaring her shoulders, she marched back into the circle, to her waiting husband and children. “Now, then,’’ she smiled, acting as if nothing had happened, “who would like some hot chocolate?”
Four
By now it was routine. Up before the crack of dawn, a hurried breakfast, the hustle and bustle of breaking camp, and then long, plodding hours of travel.
Rosemary had grown used to the discomforts. The blistering heat no longer affected her as much as it had initially. Swarms of insects were dismissed with a few waves of her hand. Nor did the confines of their Conestoga seem quite as cramped. She had come to regard it as a rolling oasis in the midst of the sweltering grassland, and was as protective toward it as she had once been toward the farmhouse that had been in her family for so long.
For several days after Nate King’s visit the wagon train made steady progress. He wasn’t spotted again, and no one mentioned him, even in passing. Charley Kastner didn’t show his battered, bandaged face until late in the third day, and when he did, he boasted of how he could have won the fight if not for a lucky punch or two on King’s part.
Things were back to normal.
Then, along about eleven on the fourth morning, Samson’s limp returned, worse than ever. Bert applied his whip, but Samson slowed to a snail’s pace and the rest of the team slowed with him. In no time the rest of the wagons were a hundred yards ahead, and the distance rapidly widened.
Harry Trapp finally noticed and trotted back down the line. He pulled in alongside of the team, dismounted, and gave the reins to Sam to hold. At his order, Bert brought the oxen to a stop and Trapp hunkered and ran his hands up and down Samson’s afflicted leg. “It’s not swollen, so maybe there’s hope yet’’ was his assessment.
“Why not stop the train and let everyone rest for a day?” Bert suggested. “Samson will be right as rain tomorrow.”
“I can’t do that,” the pilot said, adding quickly when Bert frowned, “Not here, anyway. But I’ll tell you what I will do. There’s a good spot to noon a couple of miles ahead. We’ll stop and wait. I’ll gather everyone together and ask whether they want to stay over until tomorrow, as a favor to you. We’ll put it to a vote.”
“That’s ever so kind of you, Mr. Trapp,” Rosemary said. She was positive the others would agree. She and Bert were well-liked.
“Just doing my job, ma’am.” Trapp stepped into the stirrups. “Thank your lucky stars the Sioux are gone, and hurry along as best you can.”
Samson was game, but he was going lame fast, and soon the wagon train was out of sight around a twisting bend of the Platte.
Rosemary experienced an unnerving twinge of fear. They were all alone, tiny ants in the immense vastness of the prairie. She felt small and insignificant, and terribly vulnerable. Suppressing her unease, she resorted to her knitting. Her sons came forward and sat close, as if to draw comfort from her presence. Bert walked beside the team, coaxing them on.
“I don’t like this much, Ma,” Eddy mentioned.
“We’ll be fine,” Rosemary assured him. But she couldn’t shake a vague foreboding. Nerves, she reasoned, and chided herself for being so childish. “Let’s sing a few songs,” she suggested.
“I don’t feel much like singing, Ma,” Sam said.
“Me either,” from Eddy.
Rosemary didn’t press the issue. She whistled as she knitted to show she wasn’t worried. Above them the blazing yellow orb rose to its zenith.
By then Samson was limping worse than ever. Bert unexpectedly brought the team to a halt and beckoned to the boys. They unhitched the stricken ox, threw a rope over him, and Sam and Eddy led him to the rear and tied him to the gate. Bert switched Methuselah from the lead pair to the slot Samson had occupied. It left Saul all alone, but it couldn’t be helped.
The switch had taken a good quarter of an hour. Rosemary was glad when Bert’s whip cracked and the Conestoga lurched into motion. She was eager to catch up to the others.
Sparrows warbled merrily in cottonwoods that bordered the sparkling river. Butterflies fluttered serenely amid a bed of colorful wildflowers. Shafts of brilliant sunlight bathed the surrounding grassland, lending a touch of gold to the green. So picturesque a scene, yet Rosemary wasn’t fooled. The wilderness could be deceptively deadly. A lot like those snakes she had read about, coral snakes they were called, with bright yellow, red, and black rings. Snakes so spectacular, anyone who saw one and didn’t know any better might be tempted to pick it up, never realizing coral snakes were among the most poisonous on the continent.
The minutes dragged by. They were moving faster, but it took over an hour to reach the nooning site. Ahead the trail widened, and there, amid a tract of trampled grass, half a dozen campfires burned. But no one was there to tend them.
“Where is everyone?” Eddy asked.
Bewildered, Rosemary slid to the end of the seat and jumped to the ground while the Conestoga was still in motion. She ran to the nearest fire. A few of the logs had burned completely through. “They left five to ten minutes ago.”
Bert brought the oxen to a halt and came over. “This doesn’t make sense. Harry Trapp promised they would wait. Why did they leave without us?”
“He said they would put it to a vote,” Sam said. “Maybe they voted not to.”
“Maybe so,” Bert said, “but they wouldn’t leave their fires burning like this. It’s against the pilot’s own rules.” Rosemary had a sharp retort on the tip of her tongue, but she choked it down. Her opinion of the pilot plumbed new depths. What sort of man left a family of four to fend for themselves in the middle of the wilds? “This just can’t be,” Bert insisted.
Eddy was gnawing on his lower lip. “What do we do now, Pa? Can we make it to the Promised Land by ourselves?”
Before Bert could answer, Sam pointed toward the river. “What’s that yonder?”
A stick was embedded in the bank. It had been split at the top, and a folded sheet of paper had been wedged tight.
Sam reached it first and dutifully handed the stick to Rosemary. Her hands shaking slightly, she opened the note and held it so everyone could read the hastily scrawled contents: Large band of hostiles sighted. Better cover five miles west. Will stay the night. Catch up or on your own. HT.
“Good God!” Bert exclaimed.
Eddy rotated a full three hundred and sixty degrees. “I don’t see any Indians, Pa.”
Neither did Rosemary, but the mere notion chilled her to her marrow. “We must push on immediately,” she urged, hastening toward the wagon and snagging Eddy’s sleeve on the fly. “We can overtake them by nightfall if we push hard.”
Bert removed his hat and mopped his brow. “The team needs water.”
“And we need a godsend,” Rosemary responded. Allowing the animals to drink their fill would delay them half an hour, minimum. Time they couldn’t spare, not with a war party in the vicinity. “We’ll water them tonight.”
“They’ll go faster if they’re not thirsty,” Bert pointed out. “Help me, boys,” he said, and they rushed to the task.
Rosemary rarely asserted herself, but when she did, her husband invariably bowed to her wishes. She couldn’t remember the last time he had refused. That he should do so now, of all times, when their lives were in grave peril, was beyond belief. Rather than carp, she climbed onto the Conestoga and searched the prairie in all directions.
Three oxen had been taken to drink and Bert was unhitching Isaiah, when Rosemary thought of an oversight on their part. Ducking under the canopy, she gathered up the four Pennsylvania long rifles propped in the corner and carefully climbed back out. Manufactured by German craftsmen in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, they were virtually identical to their more famous cousins, the Kentucky rifles popularized by Daniel Boone and his ilk. Each was superbly crafted, their maple stocks inlaid with silver. “You’ll need these,” Rosemary said.
Sam smiled as he accepted his .40-caliber. He loved to hunt and was a fair marksman. Back on the farm he had routinely provided meat for the supper pot, everything from rabbits to deer.
Eddy’s rifle was shorter than the rest, and correspondingly lighter in weight and caliber. Bert had bought it at a shop in Springfield and never told Eddy it was designed for women. Bert’s rifle was the biggest of the lot, a whopping .45-caliber, and capable of dropping a black bear at fifty paces.
Rosemary also passed out powder horns, ammo pouches, and patch boxes. She verified that her rifle was loaded and propped it beside her. It weighed about eight pounds, average for a Pennsylvania. In ten years she had fired it maybe ten times.
“The pistols, too,” Bert requested, reaching up.
Four flintlocks were kept in a wooden box under the seat. They were heavy, unwieldy affairs, and Rosemary had to use both hands to fire one. She passed them out, and since she didn’t own a belt, she borrowed one of Bert’s and wedged her pistol under it.
“I’d like to see those mangy redskins make wolf bait of us now,” Sam said, his rifle in one hand, his pistol in the other. “We’ll send them running with their tails between their legs.”
“Be careful what you wish for, boy,” Bert said. “Your wish might come true.”
Sam was full of vinegar and vim. “With eight guns we can hold off a horde of Indians,” he stated.
Rosemary wasn’t so sure. Their rifles were reliable enough out to two hundred yards and their pistols could drop a man at ten paces, but if enough hostiles rushed them at once, they would be overrun. And unlike arrows, which an Indian could unleash one after another as long as he had shafts in his quiver, their guns had to be painstakingly reloaded after each and every shot.
Bert and the boys herded the next pair of oxen toward the river, and Rosemary spent an anxious twenty minutes scouring the landscape. Several times she imagined she saw figures on horseback where there were none, illusions spawned by the harsh glare of shimmering heat. She did spy four deer in the plain to the north, and their presence reassured her that no Indians were skulking about.
