Wilderness #62:
The Tears of God
David Thompson
LEISURE BOOKS 
NEW YORK CITY
Stab in the Dark
Nate considered himself to be fairly fleet of foot, but two of the Pawnees were as fast if not faster. A glance showed them hard after him and gaining. Neither let a shaft fly; evidently they intended to take him alive. Kuruk’s doing, Nate suspected. Kuruk wanted to stake him out and torture him.
Nate tried to shake them. He cut back and forth at right angles. He weaved among benighted boles. The Pawnees not only kept up, they continued to gain. One of them called out to those behind.
Nate had lost his sense of direction. He wasn’t sure which way he was running. He turned right.
From out of nowhere a warrior appeared. The man had a tomahawk and the instant he saw Nate, he raised it to cleave Nate’s skull…
Dedicated to Judy, Joshua and Shane. And to Beatrice Bean, with the most loving regard.
Chapter One
The two men were grim with purpose. They came down out of the high country riding hard and fast. They didn’t stop for a meal; they ate pemmican out of their parfleches as they rode. They slept only a few hours each night. Rest wasn’t important, although they stopped when they had to for the sake of their mounts. Each time the younger man chafed at the delay.
They were a study in contrasts. The younger man’s hair was raven black, while the older man’s mane was as white as the snow that capped the highest peaks. Both wore buckskins, the younger man’s decorated with blue beads by his Shoshone wife. The younger man wore an eagle feather in his hair; the older man covered his head with a beaver hat. Both had beards.
They were living armories. Each had a Hawken rifle, a brace of flintlock pistols, and knives. The younger man’s knife was a bowie, the older man’s a Green River blade. The younger man also had a tomahawk wedged under his belt. Their weapons had seen a lot of use.
They came down out of the miles-high mountains to the emerald foothills and through the foothills to the prairie. The younger man rode a bay, the older man a white mare. When the younger man once asked the older why he liked mares over any other kind of horse, the older man had replied with one of his impish grins, “I ride mares because it’s nice to be in charge of a female for a change.”
“I can savvy that,” the younger man had replied. “I’m married, too. But in all the years I’ve known you, you only ever ride white mares. Why not some other color?”
The older man had touched his own white mane. “I like the idea of snow on top and snow under me.”
“That makes no kind of sense. What’s the real reason?”
“I am practical, Horatio. A white horse is a lot easier to find when it strays off.”
“Easier for hostiles to spot, too.”
The younger man’s name wasn’t really Horatio. It was Nate King. His nickname was a token of how fond the older man was of the younger. A token, too, of the older man’s intense passion for the works of the Bard of Avon. Shakespeare McNair owned one of the few volumes of his namesake’s works west of the Mississippi River. He read the book religiously. He quoted it religiously, too, as he did now as they drew rein to let their animals rest.
“ ‘Ah, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room.’ ”
“That’s a new one,” Nate said as he took a spyglass from his parfleche.
“I was rereading King John when you came to fetch me,” Shakespeare informed him.
“King John?” A grin spread under Nate’s telescope. “Isn’t that the boring one?”
Shakespeare stiffened in indignation. “ ‘What cracker is this same that deafs our ears with this abundance of superfluous breath?’ ” he quoted. “How dare you? The Bard never wrote a boring play in his life.”
“I seem to recollect your wife saying she always finds you asleep in your rocking chair with the book in your lap.”
“A pox on you. It’s not the Bard who puts me to sleep, it’s my years.” Shakespeare put a hand to the small of his back. “I’m not as spry or as durable as I used to be.”
“I hope to God I’m half as fit as you when I’m your age.” Nate lowered the spyglass and frowned.
“Nothing?”
“Grass, grass, and more grass. I’d like the prairie more if it wasn’t so god-awful flat.”
“I’ve often thought the same thing myself,” Shakespeare said with mock seriousness. “The good Lord should have broken the monotony. Say, with a volcano here or there.”
Nate looked at him. “The things that come out of your mouth. That was plumb ridiculous.”
They rode on. They saw few buffalo since most of the herds were to the south at that time of year. They did see a lot of deer and once they spied antelope and a black bear that ran off with that rolling gait bears have. Prairie dogs were common, and the two men wisely avoided the prairie dog towns for fear their horses might step into a burrow and break a leg.
That night they camped in a hollow. They didn’t bother with a fire. They stripped and picketed their mounts, unrolled their blankets, and were ready for sleep.
Nate lay on his back, his hand under his head, gazing at the multitude of sparkling pinpoints in the fir-mament. “If anything has happened to her…” he said, and didn’t finish.
Shakespeare was on his side, his back to his friend. Rolling over, he adjusted his blanket, then said, “She can take care of herself, Horatio. She’s almost a grown woman.”
“She’s my daughter. And sixteen is still a girl. I love her more than I love all there is except my wife and my son and maybe you.”
“I’m flattered,” Shakespeare said dryly.
“I can’t stand the thought of her being hurt, or worse,” Nate confessed. “It eats at me like a termite eats at wood.”
“You need to put it from your mind. Winona and you taught Evelyn well.” Shakespeare paused. “ ‘The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath.’ ”
“You’re saying God would never let anything happen to her? I know better.”
“Let’s hope the Almighty didn’t hear that,” Shakespeare quipped. “You’re getting cynical in your young age.”
“I’m in my middle years and I’ve learned enough to know that rain falls on all of us.”
“Haven’t you heard, Horatio? Some folks say that raindrops are the tears of God. Anyway, she’s with Waku and his family. They won’t let anything happen to her.”
“Tell that to a war party out to count coup. Or to a hungry griz. Or to any of the other thousand and one things that can do her harm.”
“Keep this up and you’ll have hair as white as mine.”
Nate lowered his gaze from the heavens. “All I want is my daughter safe and sound. That’s all I ask. She was supposed to be back by now.” He closed his eyes and tried to put the worry from his mind. Maybe it was silly of him to get so wrought up, but he had seen too much of the brutal and cruel to take it for granted his daughter was safe.
At the crack of dawn they were up.
Shakespeare rose stiffly and winced. “I wish that book you have were true. I’d look up that doctor and have him operate on me.”