Wilderness Double Edition 19, page 3
“Blame Melissa if you’re going to blame anyone,” Ezriah said. “She doesn’t have the brains the good Lord gave a turnip.”
“She’s young yet,” Evelyn whispered.
Until that moment Ezriah hadn’t given much thought to the age difference between the two, but now that he did, he had to concede that Evelyn was much more mature. He opened his mouth to say so.
“What’s all the whispering about?” Bittner inquired, tramping along a few feet to their rear. “If you’ve got something to say, speak up so the rest of us can hear.”
Ezriah muttered a few swearwords.
Approximately fifty feet into heavy timber on the other side of the knoll was a glade. Four horses were tethered in a string, their saddles and packs arranged around a crackling fire. A fire so small it gave off virtually no smoke. A battered coffeepot perched on an old tripod over the crackling flames.
Killibrew led Melissa to a folded blanket and bid her sit. She showed more teeth than a politician on the stump as he rummaged in a pack and fished out a tin. “Here we go,” he said, showing her the lettering on the top. “Chocolate, just like I promised.”
The tin, Ezriah observed, was new. So was a tin cup Killibrew removed from the pack next. “You’ve paid a visit to Bent’s Fort yourselves recently, haven’t you?” he asked. Located on the Arkansas River, the fort was the only trading post within hundreds of miles. It wasn’t a military installation, although its builders, brothers Charles and William Bent and their friend Ceran St. Vrain, had the foresight to erect towers at the southeast and northwest comers large enough to accommodate field pieces. During the heyday of the beaver trade it had done a bustling business in plews. Now it was a leading supply center, as well as the social hub of the central Rockies. Mountain men went there not only for provisions but for all the latest news on everything from doings back in the States to the latest tribal conflicts.
“We have a long ride ahead of us and needed to stock up,” Killibrew was saying. He dipped into the pack once more and this time retrieved a piece of hard candy the size of a walnut. “How would you like to suck on this while we’re waitin’ for the hot chocolate to heat up?” he asked Melissa, who cheerfully accepted.
“We really should be going,” Evelyn said. “My folks will be worried if we’re not back soon, and my pa will come check on us.”
“I doubt that very much,” Killibrew said. “But if he does, Haro will let us know.”
Ezriah looked over his shoulder. The half-breed had melted into the vegetation as silently as a specter. Bittner and Kyle were at the glade’s boundary, each with a thumb on the hammer of his rifle. “You’d better hope you’re right. Her father won’t take kindly to what you’ve done. Nor will her mother, for that matter.”
“To offerin’ these kids some refreshment?” Killibrew said, and smiled thinly. “Don’t fret yourself over Nate King. We’re not yacks. We've asked around. We have things well in hand.”
“What is this all about?” Ezriah bluntly asked. “What do you hope to gain?”
“We'll get to that in a bit.” Killibrew bent over the tripod and opened the tin. “I had just put the pot on to make coffee when we heard your voices.” Pinching some of the ground chocolate between his thumb and forefinger, he added enough to the water to suit his taste. He didn’t waste a grain. Chocolate was expensive, a luxury few could afford.
Melissa slurped away at the candy like a piglet guzzling slop. “This is the best sweet I've ever ate, Mr. Killibrew,” she said. “My ma wouldn’t let me have candy much. She said it was bad for my teeth.”
“A smart gal, your mother,” Killibrew said. “I never had one to speak of. She walked out on me when I was seven, and I've been fendin’ for myself ever since.”
“What about your pa?” Melissa asked.
“He was a riverboat gambler. Never wanted anything to do with her or me. He died in a knife fight when I was nine.” Killibrew patted a dagger sporting an ivory hilt, nestled on his left hip. “This was his. The only thing of his I own.” Drawing it, he held the polished double-edged blade so it reflected the sunlight, inches from Melissa. To Ezriah and Evelyn he said, “Why don’t the two of you make yourselves comfortable? Set down your hardware and pick a spot near the fire.”
“You want me to put down my rifle?” Evelyn said.
“Please,” Killibrew said, casually moving the dagger nearer to Melissa’s throat. “You can’t drink with your hands full.”
Ezriah shifted and saw Bittner and Kyle taking steady aim, Kyle at him, Bittner at Evelyn. Any pretense at civility had been discarded. Never for a second did he doubt they would shoot. He might be able to drop one, but the other would surely core him or the girl, and he couldn’t abide the idea of harm befalling Evelyn. He’d never come right out and say so, but he’d grown rather fond of her over the past several months.
Evelyn fingered her Hawken in indecision. A chip off the parental block, she had her mother’s feistiness and her father’s nerves of steel.
Ezriah wouldn’t put it past her to put a slug in Killibrew in the belief she could drop him before Killibrew cut Melissa. Tapping her shoulder, he nodded toward the other two vermin. “Maybe we should do as he wants, runt.”
Defiance lit her young countenance, but Evelyn slowly lowered the Hawken to the grass and reluctantly let go.
“Now you and your armory, old man,” Killibrew said, sliding behind Melissa and dipping the tapered tip of the dagger to within a whisker of her skin.
Ezriah’s sense of outrage climbed by leaps and bounds. He had done his share of despicable deeds. More than his share, some might say. But he had never stooped to threatening children, and would no sooner harm one than he would a woman or a kitten. Well, women, at any rate. He hated cats.
“Sometime this year would be nice,” Killibrew said.
Ezriah slipped both flintlocks from under his belt and deposited them on the ground. His knife was placed beside them. Last was his rifle, and it was all he could do not to snap it to his shoulder and shoot Killibrew dead.
“Don’t forget your oversized pig sticker.”
The sword had been among an enormous assortment of weaponry collected by the Sa-gah-lee over a span of centuries. Ezriah had been dazzled by its burnished bronze hilt and flawless curved blade. That blade now scraped against the scabbard’s lip as he drew it out and reverently lowered it. “Keep your greasy fingers off this or I’ll have your heads.”
Killibrew snickered in mild contempt. “You’re a hoot, old-timer. A goat your age shouldn’t make threats he can’t carry out. Keep it up and I’m liable to take you over my knee.” He made as if to replace the dagger, then paused. “What’s in that leather bag? A derringer, maybe?”
“My possibles,” Ezriah said. Every mountain man worthy of the name carried a bag or pouch containing odds and ends they might find useful: flints and steel for making fires, whetstones for sharpening knives and axes, needles for sewing, and more.
“Open it.”
Ezriah would rather have the few teeth he had left pried from his mouth with pliers. Weapons and clothes weren’t the only thing the Sa-gah-lee had collected. They had also amassed an incredible amount of money, coins mostly, of various mintage. From early Spanish and French to some minted within the past decade. To the Sa-gah-lee they were no more than pretty baubles. To Ezriah they had been the promise of a whole new life, and before leaving the city of the Elders, he had crammed the leather bag with a small fortune. It had to weigh upward of twenty pounds, but he would sooner part with his life than give it up. He was on the verge of refusing to let Killibrew look at it when fate came to his aid.
Haro materialized out of the thin mountain air and announced in clipped, accented English, “A woman yells at the other end of the lake. The mother, calling her children.”
“I told you,” Evelyn declared. “My pa will be out searching for us soon, and you'll have a heap of explaining to do.”
Killibrew accepted the news with disturbing calm. “I suspect he just might, girl. Fair enough. Bittner, you and Kyle saddle up and throw the young ladies on your horses so we can get the hell out of here. Haro, saddle my horse, will you, while I watch our friends?”
The three men rushed to comply, and Killibrew palmed a pistol and pointed it at Ezriah. “As for you, old man, you weren’t part of the plan.”
“What plan?” Evelyn asked, and was ignored.
Bittner bent to heft a saddle. “Shoot him as proof we mean business. Then leave a note for the Kings.”
“What if it makes Nate King mad?” Kyle interjected. “Remember those stories they told us at the fort? Why not have the old man deliver our terms instead?”
Killibrew’s brow furrowed, and for a few moments he was deep in thought. “That’s not a bad idea, boy. No sense in rilin’ King any more than he will be.” He winked at Ezriah. “Guess what? You get to be our messenger, whether you want to or not.”
The three other men hastened to the horses. In short order they mounted and kneed the animals to the middle of the glade, Haro leading Killibrew’s by the reins. Bittner brought his sorrel up close to Melissa, leaned down, and forked her into his brawny arm. She yelped and struggled to break free, but she was vastly overmatched.
Kyle extended a hand toward Evelyn. “Now it’s your turn, little miss,” he said pleasantly enough.
“I’d rather be shot,” Evelyn retorted.
Killibrew swiveled his pistol toward Melissa. “Would you rather she was shot, too? I won’t be trifled with, girl, not with so much at stake.” He cocked the gun. “Either you do as I damn well tell you, or so help me I’ll send her to her Maker right here and now.”
Ezriah admired how quickly Evelyn decided, and how bravely she permitted Kyle to swing her up behind him. “Harm either of those kids …” he said, and left the statement unfinished.
Killibrew backed toward his dun. His flintlock never wavered as he gripped the pommel and forked leather. The others headed into the trees to the northeast, but he lingered, saying, “Tell Nate King we have his brats. Tell him that unless he brings us four saddlebags full of gold, he’ll never set eyes on them again.”
Amazement washed over Ezriah. “Who the hell do you think he is? John Jacob Astor?” At one time Astor had been the wealthiest man on the continent. “Where the hell is he supposed to get it?”
“From his Injun friends,” Killibrew said in all earnestness.
“You’re loco,” Ezriah flatly responded.
Killibrew shook his head. “No. I’m canny as a fox. You see, we overheard that St. Vrain feller mention how King paid for the last supplies he bought with a poke full of nuggets. So we nosed around some and learned he’s done it before. A dozen times or better, one clerk told us.”
Ezriah was immensely skeptical, to say the least. “If Nate had that much gold, I’d know. I’ve nosed all around his cabin and been over every square foot of this valley.”
“Who says it has to be anywhere nearby?” Killibrew countered. “The rumor at Bent’s Fort is that his Injun friends showed him a stream way back in the mountains where nuggets are thicker than ticks on a coon dog.”
“If that were true, why haven’t the Indians spent it themselves?”
“Some have. A while back, a Cheyenne buck brought in a chunk of ore as big as my fist. Before that, it was a Shoshone.” Killibrew’s moon face was a mask of raw greed. “All that talk got my pards and me to thinkin’. We’re tired of livin’ hand to mouth. We’d like to go back east and have a fine mansion and carriages and servants to wait on us hand and foot.”
“Who wouldn’t?” Ezriah said without thinking.
“Exactly. So you tell Nate King he has three weeks. We’ll be waitin’ for him on the Missouri River.”
“Where, exactly?”
Killibrew laughed. “Do you take me for a simpleton? Directions are waitin’ for him at Bent’s Fort.” He bent toward Ezriah. “It’s important you convince him I mean what I say, old man. If he doesn’t bring the gold, the girls die. If he doesn’t show on time, the girls die. If he comes after us instead of going for the gold, the girls die. Make sure he understands.” Lashing the reins, Killibrew wheeled his horse and galloped off.
Ezriah Hampton watched until the kidnappers were lost from view. Then he squinted up at the sky and sighed. “Been sleeping on the job again, I see?”
Three
The man chopping wood was well over six feet in height, broad of shoulder and narrow at the hip. His movements possessed a fluid pantherish quality that hinted at enormous strength and vitality. He was stripped to the waist for the task, and corded muscles rippled in the sunlight with each powerful swing of the heavy ax. The chop-chop-chop of keen steel biting into a downed sapling rang with the precision of a ticking clock.
Nate King believed in planning ahead. It was only early fall, but already some of the leaves were starting to turn color and most mornings and evenings were uncomfortably chill. When winter arrived, with its periodic snowstorms and temperatures plummeting well below zero, he intended to have a mountain of firewood stacked close to his cabin, enough to see his family through to next spring.
Nate always put the welfare of his loved ones before all else. Daily, he diligently strived to do all he could to make their lives better and safer. There were always chores to do, always work of some kind that needed doing. The life of a settler was one of unending toil, the life of a mountain man doubly so.
Hunting occupied a lot of Nate’s time. Keeping food on the table was no simple feat, as it had been in the early days when game in the valley was abundant. In the intervening decades he’d slain most of the elk and deer, and those that remained were naturally wary and consequently more difficult to track down and shoot. Often he had to venture into neighboring valleys or high up on adjoining slopes to find game.
Still, Nate considered the valley a literal paradise on earth. It was his valley, his own private domain, carved out of the wilderness at the cost of much physical labor despite repeated and sundry threats to life and limb. Grizzlies, marauding painters, packs of wolves, and bands of hostiles had all menaced his paradise at one time or another, and had all been slain or driven off.
In recent years the number of incidents had declined. The last grizzly had visited the valley two winters previous. Wolves hadn’t posed a problem in ages. And the Utes, who for the longest while tried to make worm food of him, had agreed to a truce and now left him and his in peace and quiet.
Nate enjoyed the relative tranquility. He was pushing forty, and his favorite pastime was to sit in front of the hearth in the evening reading one of his many books while his wife knitted or sewed and his daughter played with one of her many dolls. The sense of wanderlust that had brought him to the frontier had faded with the years. He was content. He was happy. What more could a man ask of life?
Nate never regretted his decision to leave New York City, never regretted giving up a budding career as an accountant to trek to the Rockies in search of adventure and excitement. He shuddered to think he might have spent the rest of his days chained to a desk, scribbling in ledgers from dawn until dusk. By now he would have been hopelessly old before his time, grossly overweight, and probably wearing spectacles.
Pausing, Nate lowered the ax and inhaled the crisp mountain air deep into his lungs. He was caked with sweat, and the air tingled his skin. He gazed out across his valley, at the smoke curling from his spacious, sturdy cabin, at his corral and the half-dozen horses milling about in it, and he smiled with pride. Not bad for a former accountant. Not bad at all.
Nate also became aware of his wife shouting his daughter’s name. It dawned on him that she had been calling for some time now and there had been no answer. Scooping up his buckskin shirt from the stump on which it lay, Nate hurriedly shrugged into it while hastening to the corral and on around to the front of the cabin. The front door was wide open. His wife was across the clearing, at the head of a well-worn trail that led down to the lake. The sight brought him up short—and brought another smile to his face.
Bathed in a shimmering shaft of sparkling sunlight, Winona was breathtakingly beautiful. Her flowing black tresses, spilling past her shoulders, shone with a lustrous sheen. And even though she had borne two children and for years endured the travails of an arduous life, she was as enticingly slender as a woman half her age. Her normally smooth features creased in concern, she cupped her hands to her rose-hued lips and shouted in Shoshone, “Blue Flower! Where are you? Answer me!”
Blue Flower was their daughter’s Shoshone name.
Nate came up behind Winona without being heard and startled her by gently wrapping his free arm around her waist and nuzzling her neck. “Problems?” he said. It wasn’t uncommon for their youngest to go traipsing off about the valley and stay away longer than she was supposed to. Evelyn had an independent streak a mile wide.
Winona switched to English and said in exasperation, “She was supposed to be back half an hour ago.”
“She took her rifle, didn’t she?” Nate had few ironclad rules, but that was one of them. No one was to stray far without a firearm.
“Yes. They were only going to take a short stroll along the lake. Ezriah went after them, but he hasn’t returned.” Winona put her hands on her hips. “I swear, husband. Sometimes I think she does this just to annoy me.”
“You sound like my mother,” Nate mentioned, chuckling, and received a poke in the ribs. “If there was trouble, we’d have heard a shot,” he assured her. Still, he was never one to take anything for granted. “I’ll go see what’s keeping them.” Nate headed inside.
“Tell her I do not appreciate being kept waiting,” Winona said, following. “Melissa and her were to help me bake a pie.”
“You know your daughter,” Nate said. “She’d rather gallivant than work. She must get that from your side of the family.” For his jest he received another jab, low in the back, and he laughed.
