Wilderness Double Edition 19, page 23
Bert stiffened and spun. “The grizzly! It’s after our oxen!” And he was off, sprinting madly to the rescue.
Six
“Bertram, no!” Rosemary Spencer shouted, but her husband failed to heed and plunged into the undergrowth. She took a step after him, felt her youngest’s legs flop against her own, and realized she was still holding Eddy. Shoving him at Sam, she commanded, “Climb in the wagon and stay there!”
“But Ma!” Sam protested.
“But nothing!” Grasping her rifle in both hands, Rosemary ran toward the river—toward the thicket, out of which came the most horrifying racket she had ever heard. The oxen were making sounds she couldn’t conceive oxen capable of—lowing shrieks and almost human screams that mingled with the roars and snarls of their attacker.
Rosemary ran flat out. She admired her husband’s courage in trying to save the team, but he was one man against a grizzly, and she was scared to death of losing him. Out of nowhere hooves pounded, and an arm corded with rock-hard muscle looped around her waist. She was swung up in front of the rider, and twisting, she found herself nose-to-nose with Nate King.
“Forget your animals,” the mountain man advised. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“My husband went to help them!” Rosemary cried, pointing.
“Damn.” Nate King swung her to the ground, hollered, “Get back to your wagon!” and was off like a shot, his legs slapping the sides of his big bay.
Rosemary rotated, intending to do as he wanted, but the blast of a rifle and a roar that could shatter mountains sent her flying in the frontiersman’s wake. There was another shot, this time the crack of a pistol, and a scream that was definitely human.
“Bert!” Rosemary raced around a tree trunk and almost collided with an onrushing behemoth. She shrieked, thinking it was the grizzly. But it was one of the oxen, fleeing in panic. Behind it was another, and yet a third. They weren’t about to stop or swerve aside. She dodged behind a trunk and pressed flat against it as the earth under her shook and the air filled with dust and the musk of bovine sweat.
Just then a second rifle boomed, the loudest shot yet. Nate King’s Hawken, Rosemary figured, and flung herself into the thicket. She heard loud splashing and a series of guttural grunts and growls, fading rapidly. A few more strides and she reached the spot where the team had been picketed.
“No!” Rosemary wailed, drawing up short.
Two oxen were down, one with its head bent at an unnatural angle, the other with its neck ripped wide and dark gashes on its shoulders and forelegs. But it wasn’t the stricken oxen that cleaved her heart and petrified her soul. It was the spread-eagle shape on the riverbank.
“Bertram!”
Nate King was on one knee beside her husband, scanning the opposite shore while holding on to the reins of his skittish bay. “We have to get him out of here,” he said. “The griz dragged off one of your oxen, but it’s wounded and might come back.”
Rosemary knelt next to Bert and lifted his head into her lap. Only then did she see what the bear had done to his upper chest and left side. “My God!”
Nate King thrust his Hawken at her. “You carry this and bring my horse. I’ll carry your man.”
With an ease that belied Bert’s one hundred and eighty pounds, the mountain man scooped her husband into his arms. Moving sideways so he could keep one eye on the other side of the Platte, King hastened into the trees at a pace she was hard-pressed to keep up with without running.
“Bert. Oh, Bert,” Rosemary said softly.
“He put two balls into the bear, but they weren’t enough. It was about to finish him off when I added another. I tried to go for a lung shot, but even that wasn’t enough.”
“Why didn’t you shoot at its head?” Rosemary’s father had told her the best hunters always went for a head shot.
“A grizzly’s skull is too thick,” King responded. “Most balls just graze off.”
“Bert has to live.” Rosemary voiced her innermost fear aloud. “He has to.”
The mountain man was silent. Soon the Conestoga hove out of the gloom and a pair of pale faces peered down at them over the seat.
“Ma?” Eddy said. “Is that Pa he’s carrying?”
Sam rose and hooked a leg over the seat, about to jump down. “What happened? Is Pa hurt bad?”
“We need blankets,” Nate King said, and as Sam ducked back into the wagon, he carefully lowered Bert to the grass. “We’ll also need bandages,” he told Rosemary. “It’s a risk, but we’ll have to start a fire, too, to boil water. If we don’t clean his wounds, infection can set in. Hurry. Every second counts.”
The next several minutes were a whirlwind of activity. Eddy gathered dry wood.
Sam procured several blankets. Rosemary found her medicine kit and a roll of clean cotton cloth.
Nate King started the fire himself, using a fire steel and flint taken from his large leather pouch. Once the flames were high enough, he hunkered to examine Bert.
So did Rosemary. One look, and the blood drained from her face and neck like water down a sink. Sam gasped and recoiled a step. Eddy whimpered like a puppy and covered his eyes with both hands.
The grizzly’s claws had shattered half of Bert’s rib cage and caved in half his sternum. Jagged spear-points of bone jutted from the flesh on his upper chest and low down at his hip. Out of a cavity the size of a melon flowed rivulets of blood. Several of Bert’s internal organs were visible.
“No!” Sam declared. “Please, no!”
Rosemary turned away, unable to endure the sight. Her head swam and the world around her blurred, and she thought she would faint. Lord in heaven! She couldn’t lose Bertram! She just couldn’t! For all his flaws she loved him dearly, and life without him was unthinkable.
“Do something, Ma,” Sam pleaded. “There must be something you can do.”
Nate King sat back, bowed his chin a moment, then looked at her oldest. “I’m sorry, boy. There’s no way we can patch up a hole that big. The best we can do is make him comfortable.” He unfolded another blanket and gently laid it over Bert, chin high, hiding the bear’s gruesome handiwork.
Sam tottered as if drunk, then dropped his rifle and threw himself onto his knees.
“Not like this!” he bawled. “Pa! Can you hear me? Please don’t die on us! Please!” He placed a hand on his father’s shoulder, his lips quivering, tears dampening his cheeks.
Rosemary’s dizzy sensation faded. Marshaling her energy, she turned toward Eddy. He was cringing against the rear wheel, a portrait in misery. She wrapped her arm around him and he collapsed, too weak to stand on his own. “I know it’s hard, but we must hold ourselves together,” she said, smoothing his hair. “We must be brave. We must be strong.”
“Is that you, Rose?”
At the croaked question all eyes fell on Bert. His eyes were open, but his eyelids were fluttering like a butterfly’s wings. One hand rose feebly, bulging against the blanket, then flopped back down.
“I feel so strange, Rose. So weak. So very weak.”
Rosemary was on her knees in a twinkling, Sam on her left, Eddy on her right. “We’re here, Bertram,” she said tenderly. “All of us are here.”
“Why is it so dark?” Bert’s eyelids had stopped fluttering, and he sluggishly shifted his head from side to side. “I can’t see a thing. We should get a fire going.” He attempted to sit up but couldn’t. “Where are you? Where are the boys?”
Sliding a hand under the blanket, Rosemary clasped his cold fingers and squeezed. “We’re right beside you,” she said huskily.
New horror spread across Bert’s features. “The bear! You’ve got to watch out for that bear!”
“It’s gone, dearest,” Rosemary said, choking out the words. Teardrops rained from her eyes, and her nose was clogged. “We’re safe now.”
“I drove it off? Good.” Bert relaxed and grinned. “For a minute there I was afraid we were all goners.”
“Pa?” Eddy said, pushing the blanket partway aside so he could hold his father’s wrist. “It’s me, Ed. Please don’t die on us, Pa. We need you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Who said anything about dying?” Bert said, and gave a tiny start. “What’s that heat I feel? A fire? Why can’t I see it? Why can’t I see any of—” His voice broke. “Oh. Oh, my Lord.”
His other hand moved, and Rosemary could tell he was trying to gauge the full extent of his injuries. Reaching across, she held his wrist gently but firmly and said in a strangled whisper, “Don’t, Bertram. You don’t want to know.”
“I don’t?” Bert’s next words were barely audible. “Not here. Not now. Not like this.”
No one said anything. Sam stepped around to the other side and held his father’s other hand in both of his, tears dripping from his chin.
Rosemary tried to adopt a brave front for the benefit of her sons. She resisted a rising wave of despair, the heartache well-nigh unbearable. Memories of her years with Bert flashed unbidden across her mind’s eye: their awkward courtship, the heat of their newlywed passion, the birth of their first son, the incomparable joy of holding a newborn in her arms, Edward’s birth, the constant struggle to keep the farm afloat. There had been rough times, sure, but the good far outweighed the bad. So many wonderful years together! All the happiness they had shared! Groaning, she bowed her head.
“Sweet Bert,” Rosemary said, and shuddered. At any moment their days together would end and she would be cast adrift with two boys under her wing. On the farm their prospects would have been difficult enough. Here in the wilderness they were considerably bleaker. Their oxen were dead or had been run off. They might need to abandon all their worldly possessions. The area was crawling with savages, a grizzly was on the prowl, and they were hundreds of miles from the nearest town or settlement. How could it get any worse?
Bert coughed several times and a drop of blood formed at a corner of his mouth. “We need to talk, Rose.”
Rosemary gazed down on the features she knew as well as her own, her love for him welling to the surface. “Be still, my darling. Talking will only make you worse.”
“This is too important,” Bert said. “I realize I’m done for. I’m as close to Oregon as I’ll ever get, and there are things I must tell you.” His fingers entwined with hers. “The poke containing all the money we have left is hidden in our chest of drawers. It’s not a lot. Two hundred and forty-seven dollars. But it should tide you over your first year in the Promised Land.”
“You want us to go on?” Rosemary said. To her way of thinking it was smarter to turn back. She could get a job in Independence or some other town and scrimp and save until she had enough to buy property. Another small farm would be nice. Or, failing that, a place on the outskirts with a few acres the boys could roam.
“Oregon is our dream, Rose. A new life, a better life, with more land and more opportunity. If you give up, the dream dies. Don’t let that happen.”
“Bert, I’m just one woman—”
“A strong woman. The strongest I ever met. All these years, who was it who always encouraged me not to give up hope? Who bolstered my spirits when they were low? Who was always there for me when I needed her?” Bert’s words were coming faster, and he sucked in a deep breath at the end of every statement and question. “I’m not saying it won’t be a challenge. I’m not saying there won’t be years of struggle. But since when has that ever fazed you?” His mouth curled in a lopsided smile. “That time the locusts pretty near ate all our crops, who was it rolled up her sleeves and drug me out into the fields to salvage what we could? When the drought hit, who was right beside me digging a new well?”
“We’ve always worked well together,” Rosemary said proudly. “Don’t sell yourself short.” She had always been in awe of his raw physical power and endurance. Men, in general, she had learned, were blessed with more strength and stamina than women. An oversight on the Almighty’s part, if ever there was one.
Bert had more to impart. “You’ve got Sam. You’ve got Ed. And you can always hire a laborer, if need be. So don’t give up on my account. I thought you loved me more than that.”
“Bertram,” Rosemary said, her cheeks burning with more than tears, “I’ve never loved anyone as much as I do you.”
“Then prove it, Rose. Make our dream come true. Go to Oregon, stake a claim, and start over. If you don’t, the ordeal we’ve gone through will have been for nothing.” Bert’s grip became a vise. “If you don’t, I’ll have died in vain.”
Rosemary was tom between devotion and common sense. The last thing she wanted was to let Bert down, but he was asking the impossible. There were limits to what she could do. Limits to her options. Yes, she could wait for another wagon train, but what then? No one was likely to have a spare team to sell, and unless she could get her hands on enough oxen or mules, the Conestoga wasn’t going anywhere.
There was something else to consider. Their sons. Losing Bert was terrible enough. Rosemary refused to countenance the thought of losing their boys, as well.
Eddy was sobbing again. “I don’t want you to die, Pa,” he pleaded. “We love you. We need you.”
Bert had to try three times before he could reply. “It’s out of my hands, son. I don’t want to leave you, but sometimes we don’t have any say in how life treats us. I need you to be strong. I need you and your brother to look after your mother and help her out.”
“What should we do, Pa?” Sam asked. “Where should we go? All the oxen are gone, and we’re on our own.”
“All the oxen?” Bert’s face became paler.
All this while the mountain man had been standing a respectful distance back. Now, moving to the blanket, he remarked, “They’re not completely on their own.”
Bert turned his head, evidently focusing on the sound of the frontiersman’s voice. “King? Is that you? Thank God!” Sliding his hand from Rosemary’s, he groped the ground near King’s moccasins. “Where are you?”
“Right here.” Nate King squatted. His big hand enfolded Bert’s, and a radiant smile lit Bert’s face.
“There’s hope, then! Please. I’m begging you, man to man. Do what you can to help my family make it out alive. They mean everything to me.”
“I can tell,” King said. “From where I sit, you’ve been a mighty fine father and husband.”
It was a tremendously kind thing to say, and Rosemary saw how it brought tears of gratitude to Bert’s eyes. His throat bobbed, and he gave King’s hand a shake.
“Thank you. You don’t know how glad this makes me. I can rest a little easier. I can go—” Bert stopped. His arms sagged, his fingers went limp, and he whispered in forlorn acceptance of the inevitable, “I don’t have much time left. Rose, Samuel, Edward, always remember I loved you. Always remember I did what I thought best for all of us.”
“Pa!” Eddy cried, and flung himself across the blanket.
Uttering a choked wail, Sam turned his head away.
Rosemary bent low and kissed Bert on the lips. His mouth curled upward in the beginnings of a return kiss he never completed. She was staring directly into his eyes and saw the spark of life fade. One instant it was there, weak but undeniable, the next instant it was as if the windows to his soul had been slammed shut and the curtains drawn. “Bertram!” she moaned, her face on his shoulder.
The three of them wept an eternity. Rosemary cried until she was totally drained, both emotionally and physically. Sniffling, she pulled Sam and Eddy to her and hugged them fiercely, then she slowly sat up. “Sam, fetch our shovels. We have a hole to dig.”
“So soon?” Eddy said. “Why can’t it wait until morning?”
Nate King had moved back again, leaving them to their sorrow. “The scent might bring that grizzly back,” he mentioned, “or lure in another. If none of you mind, I’ll do the honors while the three of you climb into the wagon and get some rest.”
“At a time like this?” Sam retorted.
“You have to try,” Rosemary came to the mountain man’s defense. “We’ll need our wits about us from here on out.”
Sam rose, wiping his cheeks with the backs of his hands. “Maybe so, but I don’t think it’s right for a stranger to plant Pa. That’s our job.” He glanced at Nate King. “No insult intended.”
“None taken,” the mountain man said.
Rosemary struggled to her feet. She would rather do as King had suggested. She would rather curl into a ball, pull a blanket over her head, and shut out the world and everyone and everything in it. But her eldest would never forgive her if she didn’t help. They had it to do, as the old saw went. “We’ll bury Bert ourselves.”
The digging took longer than she anticipated. The soil wasn’t as soft as it seemed, not after the first four to five inches. They worked in turns. Rosemary dug until her shoulders were too sore to continue, then Sam took over. He dug and dug, enlarging the grave to twice the size she had, and would have gone longer had Ed not asked to take a hand.
Nate King stood guard a dozen yards away, his Hawken cradled in the crook of an elbow. Rosemary wouldn’t have minded his help, but he didn’t offer, probably as a courtesy to Sam. At one point, when Eddy was digging, King shushed them and turned toward the river. Rosemary heard trees rustling in the wind and the distant screech of a panther. Nothing, though, to account for King’s request. Then, so faint she wasn’t sure if they were real or a figment of her imagination, she thought she heard the pad of stealthy footfalls. Whatever it was, it circled them, its reddish eyes blazing in the dark.
Eddy scooted to her side. Sam drew a pistol.
“No,” Nate King warned. “Shoot it, and you could bring the whole pack down on our heads.”
“It’s a wolf?” Sam said, jerking his thumb from the hammer.
“An entire pack. The rest are nosing around the dead oxen.”
Rosemary marveled anew at how sharp the mountain man’s senses were. She was deaf and blind by comparison, for try as she might she couldn’t hear or see any of the others. She was glad he was there. With his continued help they just might make it.
