Wilderness Double Edition 19, page 29
“Buffalo.”
“I’d love to see them up close.” So far Rosemary had been denied the privilege. This, after the tales she’d heard about herds so vast they blotted out the plain. Herds miles long and miles wide. Herds that delayed wagon trains for a week or better. Yet these were the first buffalo she had seen the whole trip. She made a comment to that effect.
“This time of year the large herds have pushed on south toward Texas,” Nate King revealed. “Be here in the spring and there will be so many you couldn’t count them if you had a century.”
Sam was interested in their discussion. “Is buffalo meat as tasty as everyone says? My grandfather swore it’s better than beef and venison combined.”
“It’s good, but most mountaineers I’ve met swear painter meat is tastiest.”
Rosemary knew of only two kinds of painters. The first used a brush and a canvas. The second had four legs and a tail. “You can’t mean mountain lion?”
“Nothing but,” King confirmed. “I’ve eaten some myself, and I’d stack it against the fanciest steak in the fanciest restaurant anywhere. One man I know would only eat painter meat and nothing but painter meat. Singlehanded, he wiped out half the mountain lions in the central Rockies.”
“And it never made him ill?” Rosemary wouldn’t care if she were starving. She would never eat a mountain lion, and that was final. They were prone to a disease, the name of which eluded her but occasionally proved fatal to anyone who ate their tainted flesh.
“He only ate healthy painters and cooked the meat until it was well done,” King explained. “He’d still be eating cougars today if the Bloods hadn’t spilled his brains all over a creek bed.”
“How do you stand living with so much violence day in and day out?” Rosemary queried. “I couldn’t. I prefer a peaceful life. I want to die of old age, like my grandmother did, sitting quietly in my rocking chair.”
“You get used to it,” King said. “When I first came west, I was as shocked as you. I thought that anyone who lived in the mountains must be crazy. Or crave an early grave. Then the truth hit me.” He smiled wistfully, an Adonis in profile. “Life is violent by nature, a constant fight for survival. Animals are always killing one another. Birds eat worms, foxes eat rabbits, painters eat deer, bears eat anything and everything.”
“But that’s not the same kind of violence,” Rosemary said. “They kill in order to eat. People kill for killing’s sake.”
“I used to think that, too, until I watched some red ants invade a colony of black ants. The reds wiped most of the black ants out and took the few that were left back to their own mound. To use as food or slaves, I reckon.” King glanced back. “How are those ants any different from us?”
“Are you saying violence is ingrained into our natures?” Rosemary shook her head. “I refuse to accept that. There must be more to the human race. Look at Scripture. Our Maker created us in His own image. If what you claim is true, what does it say about God?”
“Is this the same God that let all your friends be slaughtered?” The mountain man pursed his lips. “I don’t have all the answers. I only know there must be a purpose to the violence or there wouldn’t be any.” Rosemary had to remember not to take their bearded deliverer at face value. On the surface he was as ordinary as they came, but underneath lurked layers within layers. A man of two worlds, at home in the wilderness and among his civilized brethren. born in New York, he’d mentioned once. Yet, given his druthers, he had selected the wild spaces to the crowded streets of the city of cities. Only one man in a thousand would make the same decision. Make that one man in ten thousand.
Eddy’s cheek was against her back, his arms around her waist. He hadn’t spoken a word since they resumed their journey, and Rosemary assumed he was asleep. Not so. “Ma, can I tell you something?”
“Anything. A mother’s ears are always open.”
“I don’t want to go to Oregon. I want to go back to our farm. I want to live just like we did before Pa got the notion to move.”
“I’m sorry, son. It’s not possible. We sold the farm, and I very much doubt Mr. Pringle will sell it back.”
“Why not? We have a lot of money now, don’t we?”
More money than they ever had, Rosemary reflected, her heart leaping at the idea. The only thing Harvey Pringle valued more than land was money. If she offered him two or three times the amount he paid, he just might go for it.
“Can we, Ma? Please?”
Rosemary recalled how much their new life in Oregon meant to Bert. How excited he had been. How he had lost his life in quest of his dream.
“Ma?”
“There comes a time, son, when we put the old behind us and take up the new. Our farm is gone. I miss it, and you miss it, but we have to look ahead to the future. Your father gave his life trying to provide us with a better life. It wouldn’t be fair to his memory to give up. We have to see this through, if for no other reason than to prove your father didn’t die in vain.” Rosemary looked over her shoulder. “Do you understand?”
“I suppose we shouldn’t let Pa down,” Eddy said, downcast.
Sam nudged his mount closer. “Once we reach the Promised Land, little brother, you’ll feel better. The redskins are friendly, and the only bears in the Willamette Valley are black bears. The grizzlies have been driven high up into the Cascade Mountains.”
“I don’t care about that stuff,” Eddy responded. “What about the people?”
“Pa told me they’re the friendliest folks you’d ever want to meet. Most are farming families, just like us.”
“Are there any kids?”
Rosemary answered. “Enough to fill a one-room school, according to the letter your father received from the minister at a place called Eugene.”
“School?” Eddy shriveled several inches. “Aw, shucks. The Promised Land isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
Laughing, Rosemary faced around and discovered that Nate King had reined to the side of the trail and was gazing back the way they had come. She came to a stop beside him and wheeled her horse so she could probe the landscape without having to turn her head. “Is something wrong? You look as if you swallowed a bag of nails.”
“Don’t you see them?”
Rosemary’s eyes narrowed to slits. The only evidence of life she saw were some birds. “See what?”
“The riders who are shadowing us.”
Eleven
Whoever they were, they were crafty. They stayed far back and only made the mistake of momentarily showing themselves twice. The first time, Nate King had spotted them. The next, both King and Sam caught a fleeting glimpse. So fleeting, neither the mountain man nor Rosemary’s oldest could tell who the riders were, or how many.
“They must be Sioux,” Sam guessed. “The same war party that wiped out everyone else.”
That made sense to Rosemary, but Nate King was scratching his beard and wore a quizzical look. “Do you agree?”
“Sioux usually wouldn’t show themselves until they were right on top of us. It could be some young warriors who don’t know any better and are hankering to lift hair.”
“Should we make our stand here?” Rosemary asked.
The site was favorable. Both sides of the trail were flanked by oaks and heavy undergrowth.
“No, well push on until dark,” King said, and clucked to the bay.
Now it was Rosemary who was puzzled. Kneeing her horse up next to his, she said, “Don’t take this wrong, but I think you’re making a mistake. We still have an hour of sunlight left. We should wait for them and finish it.”
“In broad daylight? When we don’t know exactly how many there are?” King chortled softly. “Why not tie ourselves to some trees and make it just as easy for them?”
Rosemary’s temper surfaced. “I’m only trying to be helpful. It makes more sense for us to pick the time and the spot than to wait for them to spring an ambush.”
“That it does,” King said, and grinned. “You’re learning, ma’am. Be patient awhile and we’ll do just that.”
His compliment didn’t placate Rosemary one bit. “You have a plan? Why didn’t you say so. I swear, you fluster me on purpose.”
“It’s been my experience women are born flustered and spend the rest of their lives letting everyone else know it.”
Were Rosemary a man, she would have belted him in the mouth. “You think you’re funny, don’t you? Belittling me in front of my children? Treating me as if I’m a dunce.”
“I was only trying to make you smile, Mrs. Spencer. You’re too high-strung. You need to learn how to relax and enjoy life more.”
“My husband has died, my children and I are stranded in this godforsaken prairie, we’ve lost almost all our worldly possessions, and a Sioux war party is out to kill us.” Rosemary couldn’t contain herself. “What in hell is there for me to enjoy about any of this?”
Nate King acquired a somber look. “I’m sorry. You’re right. It was thoughtless of me to try and cheer you up.” Flicking his reins, he rode ahead.
Rosemary’s anger evaporated in a tide of self-reproach. She shouldn’t have blown up at him like she did. He was only trying to help.
“That wasn’t very nice of you, Ma,” Eddy whispered.
A jab of Rosemary’s heels brought her alongside the big bay once again. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. It was uncalled for.”
“We’re all a mite on edge,” the mountain man said. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. You’re taking this better than most would.”
“I have to,” Rosemary responded, “for two obvious reasons.”
Their eyes met, and Rosemary couldn’t help thinking that if they had met under more pleasant circumstances, in another time and place—when they were both single— their lives might have taken a whole other course. Then the moment passed, and King was staring straight ahead. Rosemary’s cheeks grew warm.
Presently, the blazing sun dipped to the western horizon. Low emerald hills appeared to the north and south, the first Rosemary had seen in ages. The Platte River twisted and turned every which way, meandering through a lowland valley rich with grass and abundant timber. Several deer took bounding flight at their approach, and a jay squawked at them from high atop a willow.
Nate King rode faster. “I’ve been this way quite a few times,” he mentioned, “and there’s a certain spot that’s perfect for our purpose.”
Ten more minutes brought them to a loop in the river. Hemmed by water on three sides and a bluff to the north was a grassy space wide enough for a large wagon train to circle. “Here we are,” King announced. “This is where we’ll make camp.”
“Right out in the open?” Rosemary was dubious.
King nodded. “Smack in the middle. And we’ll build a fire big enough to be seen for miles.”
“Here you go again, confusing me.”
They went about the business of picketing the horses, gathering firewood and water, and kindling a fire. Nate King instructed them to stay put and walked off into the thick growth flanking the bluff. Soon a pistol shot rang out, and when he returned, he was carrying a large rabbit.
Watching him skin and butcher it, Rosemary simmered in agitation and repeatedly glanced eastward. Finally she had to say something. “The Sioux were bound to hear that shot. They’ll know exactly where we are, and can show up at any second.”
King impaled a bloody piece of raw meat on a thin branch he had sharpened with his Bowie. “We have a couple of hours yet. They’ll give us time to settle in so our guard will be down.”
“Mr. Trapp told me the Sioux never attack at night,” Sam mentioned.
“Ordinarily that’s true,” King said. “But I’m not so sure the riders we saw are Sioux.”
Rosemary had another of her premonitions. “Who else would they be?” she asked.
King merely winked and aligned more meat onto the makeshift spit.
She must be wrong, Rosemary told herself. It couldn’t be them. Rotating on her heels so she faced east, she engaged in small talk with her boys. Eddy was still in the doldrums and needed more cheering. She rambled on about their new life in Oregon, about the fine house they would have and the crops they could grow on their one hundred and sixty acres. “The first couple of years we can hire a hand for the work we can’t do ourselves,” she mentioned. Plowing required a man’s strength. Samuel was big for his age, but he wasn’t strong enough yet to work a plow a solid day through.
Nate King had put coffee on to brew. Sitting back, he licked a forefinger and raised it aloft.
“What are you doing?” Rosemary had to know.
“Testing the breeze. We want our friends down the trail to catch a whiff of our meal.” King removed the spit from the fire. The meat was browned to a turn and dripping juices. “Eat hearty. It will be a long, cold night if they don’t take the bait.”
Rosemary took that to mean he intended to put out the fire when they turned in, a prudent step. Famished, she accepted a hot chunk of rabbit. Greasy fat smeared her fingers and dribbled down her chin, but she didn’t mind. Once, her sloppy manners would have scandalized her. But now she went on eating. She refused to be concerned over something so trivial.
It was interesting, Rosemary mused, how a person’s outlook changed with their circumstances. On the farm she had insisted everyone wash their hands before each meal, and on sterling behavior at the dinner table. Why, she had made Sam go to his room without supper once for having dirt under his fingernails! How silly she had been.
Nate King was rummaging in one of his parfleches. “I have a surprise for you, boy,” he said to Eddy. “I bought it for a friend of mine named Kendall, who has a sweet tooth. But he won’t mind sharing.”
King held out a small package sealed with a ribbon, such as was commonly done by clerks in general stores. Setting it on his knees, he untied the knot, delved his fingers under the paper, and held out a couple of pieces of hard candy.
“Gosh,” Eddy declared, and glanced up hopefully. “Is it all right, Ma?”
“Certainly,” Rosemary said rather gruffly. She was a stickler for eating healthfully and refused to let her sons gorge on sweets and cakes and pies, like some mothers were wont to do. “Help yourself.”
King offered a piece to Sam, who accepted, and to Rosemary, who refused. “There’s more if you change your mind,” he said, and plopped the piece into his own mouth. Then, draping his big arms across his legs, he leaned toward them. “Pay close attention. We’re about to lay a trap for the polecats who have been following us. If you don’t do exactly as I tell you, we could wind up dead.”
“What do you want us to do?” Sam asked, eager to take part.
King sent the boys to collect brush while he spread blankets and saddles around the fire. When Sam and Eddy came back, he shoved their armfuls under one of the blankets. Seven more trips were required before he had enough. “That should do it,” he said, stepping back.
From a distance it would appear the four of them were sound asleep.
The mountain man added wood to the fire, enough so it would burn another hour, possibly longer. After a last survey, he snatched up his Hawken and swung northward. “Follow me.”
Rosemary’s blood was racing. She let the boys go ahead of her and was careful not to lose sight of them. The dusky outline of the bluff reared against the sky, and King bore to the right to a well-defined game trail. How he knew it was there, Rosemary couldn’t begin to guess. The higher they climbed, the steeper the slope became. Near the top she had to stoop over and use her free hand for added support.
King guided them to the crest overlooking their camp. “This will do just fine.”
Rosemary bent her head back to admire the magnificent celestial spectacle. So many stars, they took her breath away. In contrast, the countryside around them was plunged in impenetrable darkness. Only their fire glowed bright, a lone beacon in the blanket of night.
The frontiersman sank onto his haunches, crossed his legs, rested his right elbow on his knee, and sighted down his Hawken.
“What are you aiming at, Mr. King?” Sam asked.
“The campfire,” King said. “I peg it at sixty yards, maybe a hair more.” He motioned. “Make yourselves comfortable. We’ll be here a spell.”
Rosemary sat on the mountain man’s right, Sam and Eddy on his left. She raised her own rifle and centered the bead on the fire. A long shot, but well within the rifle’s limits. She could see their blankets and the horses and ox quite clearly. But no one could see them, mantled in gloom as they were.
Sam was practicing his aim, too. “I get it. We’re going to pick them off when they close in.”
“That we are,” Nate King said. “But no one is to fire until I say so. Savvy?”
Nodding, Sam chuckled. “You’re tricky, Mr. King. I like that. Pa always said a man should fight with his brain and not rely so much on brawn.”
King endeared himself to Rosemary even more than he already had by saying, “Your father was a wise coon, son. Do him proud and grow up to be just like him.”
Eddy fingered his rifle and gnawed on his lower lip. “I don’t know if I can shoot this far,” he said. “On our farm, I only shot targets at twenty paces or so.”
“Then we’ll keep your rifle in reserve,” King said. “Be ready to hand it to me when I ask for it.”
A disquieting notion occurred to Rosemary and she stared with sober misgivings at her sons. “Thou Shalt Not Kill,” she quoted softly.
The mountain man’s broad shoulders stiffened and he slowly faced her. “None of you? Ever?”
“We’re farmers, Mr. King. We shoot game and kill chickens and a hog now and then, but we’ve never shot a living soul. I trust you realize what you’re asking of us.”
For a while the only sound was the whisper of the wind and the distant yip of coyotes. Then Nate King said, “No one is to shoot but me. Pass your rifles to me in turn, starting with Rose, and reload when I hand you an empty.”
