About to roll up his blanket, Nate asked in puzzlement. “Which book?” He owned dozens. They filled a bookshelf in his cabin and were his most prized possessions.
“The one written by that lady, Shelley.”
“Mary Shelley is her name. The book is called Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus.” Nate remembered the sensation the book caused when it first came out.
“That’s the one. It’s too bad there isn’t a real Dr. Frankenstein. I’d have him take the brain out of my body and plunk it in a younger one.”
Nate laughed. “First volcanoes, now this. And to think you haven’t had a drop of brandy.”
“Wait until you’re my age and then poke fun. It’s not easy, getting old. It’s not easy to have your body betray you. In your mind you can leap tall trees at a single bound, but in real life you can’t hardly lift your feet over a log.”
“Oh, please,” Nate scoffed. “You have more vigor than men half your age. It wouldn’t surprise me if you lived to be a hundred.”
“ ‘You prattle something too wildly,’ ” Shakespeare quoted, and grew serious. “We’ve been friends for so long, I don’t blame you for taking it for granted I’ll be around a good long while yet. But these old bones aren’t what they used to be.”
“Quit that kind of talk. Whether you have five years left or ten, the important thing is that you’re not going to keel over this very moment.”
Shakespeare clutched his chest and staggered, crying out, “ ‘You spoke too soon, Horatio! My end is nigh.’ ”
“You’re hopeless.” Nate saddled the bay and was ready to ride out. He sat astride it, watching McNair tug on his cinch. “Tell me true. What do you rate our chances?”
“Of finding your sweet Evelyn alive and well?” Shakespeare rubbed his white beard. “About fifty-fifty, I’d say. The prairie takes up a lot of territory and there’s just the two of us.”
“I prefer it that way.” Nate’s wife had been all set to accompany him when their daughter-in-law, who was in the family way, came down sick. Nate’s other half, who was well versed in herbs and healing, decided to stay and watch over her, much to the relief of their son, Zach.
“Are you afraid we’ll run into trouble and you didn’t want your lovely lady in harm’s path?” Shakespeare smiled. “I admire the sentiment. That’s why I asked my wife to lend yours a hand.”
On they rode. While Nate had complained of the prairie being flat, it wasn’t. Gullies, washes, and an occasional knoll or hill broke the sameness. About the middle of the morning they came to a shallow stream and drew rein.
“Another hour, maybe two, and we’ll be at Bent’s,” Shakespeare said.
Nate couldn’t wait. A former trading post, Bent’s Fort had no connection with the military. Rather, it was a hub of commerce for a score of tribes both near and far. It was also a stopping point on the Santa Fe Trail and for those bound for Oregon Country.
“If there has been any word of her, they’ll have heard it,” Shakespeare confirmed.
“Let’s hope,” Nate said. Bent’s was an information hub, as well. If a man wanted to know whether the Blackfeet were acting up, or how far afield the Sioux were raiding, or how many pilgrims were with the last wagon train bound for the Willamette Valley, all he had to do was ask at Bent’s.
“Did you hear something, Horatio?”
Nate was so absorbed in worry over Evelyn he hadn’t been paying attention, a potentially fatal lapse in the wilderness. Hefting his Hawken, he raked the cottonwoods and undergrowth. A few sparrows were flitting about. Other than that, the vegetation was undisturbed.
“I could have sworn I did,” Shakespeare said.
“What was it? A footstep? An animal? What?”
“I’m not sure.”
Nate hid his surprise. His mentor was usually so alert and confident. “I’ll have a look-see.” It bothered him, all this talk of old age and dying. It was unlike McNair to brood. He made up his mind to have a long talk with him after they returned to King Valley.
The sudden snap of a twig brought Nate up short. Here he was, making the worst mistake a man could in the wilds: letting himself be distracted when there might be hostiles or a wild beast about. He wedged the Hawken to his shoulder and made ready to shoot.
Off in the brush something moved, something big, its silhouette a dark shadow against the backdrop of green. Nate hoped to God it wasn’t a hostile on horseback or a griz. He’d had his fill of fighting both. Back when he’d first come West to trap beaver, grizzlies were everywhere. He’d happened to tangle with one, and a Cheyenne warrior who witnessed the clash gave him the name by which all the tribes now knew him: Grizzly Killer.
The silhouette moved.
Nate held still. The shadow darkened, a sign it was coming toward him, and the next instant the creature stepped into view.
Chuckling, Nate let the Hawken’s muzzle dip. “I don’t see many of your kind this low anymore.”
The cow elk stared at him without concern. Slowly, lazily, she munched and moved off.
Nate turned back. He was glad it hadn’t been a hostile. He would rather avoid running into one if he could help it. The problem was, a lot of tribes regarded whites as invaders, to be exterminated every chance they got. The Blackfeet, the Piegans, the Bloods, the Sioux, all were determined to drive the white man out. Not the Shoshones, though. His wife’s people had always been friendly to whites, so much so, they adopted him into the tribe when he took Winona to be his wife.
It was strange how life worked out, Nate reflected. When he was growing up in New York he’d never imagined that one day he would live in the Rocky Mountains and call them his home. He’d never imagined a beautiful Indian woman would claim his heart, or that they would have two children, a boy and a girl, who grew to be the apples of his eye.
Ahead was the spot where they had stopped.
Shakespeare was standing near the horses, holding the reins to the white mare.
“It was an elk,” Nate said. He started to go around the mare to his bay but stopped when he saw his friend’s expression. “Something the matter?” he asked, and looked in the direction Shakespeare was looking.
There were four of them. Swarthy warriors with long oval faces, their black hair parted in the middle and hanging past their shoulders on either side. Instead of buckskins they wore long tunics and kneehigh moccasins. They also favored shell earrings. Bone-handled knives hung from sheaths on their hips and quivers were across their backs. All four had short bows fitted with sinew strings. All four had notched arrows to the strings and pulled the strings back to their cheeks.
“Have a care, Horatio,” Shakespeare cautioned. “We don’t want to provoke them if we can help it.”
Nate froze. He could have shot one or two, but at that range the others wouldn’t miss. “Let’s try talking to them and show them we’re friendly.”
The next instant the foremost warrior took a step and trained the barbed tip of his arrow on Nate’s chest.
Chapter Two
The tapestry of life in the wilderness was woven of strands of both serenity and savagery. Times without counting Nate’s life had hung in the balance. It might be hostiles, it might be a marauding griz, it might be Nature’s tantrums or a menace as commonplace as a rattlesnake. It had happened so often in the past that when it happened in the present, he was seldom prone to panic. He felt fear, yes. He felt anxiety. But panic hardly ever.
Nate didn’t panic now. He met the gaze of the warrior with the arrow pointed at him. Ever so slowly, he raised his right hand, empty, as high as his neck. Then he slowly closed it, held his first two fingers straight up, and brought his hand in front of his face. It was sign language for “friend.”