“I have an extra and you might need it.” Maklin smiled. “If you ever get to Texas look me up. My folks live in San Antonio.”
“I just realized. You’ve never told me your first name.”
“Marion.”
“Marion Maklin?” Nate grinned.
“It’s worse than that. Marion Maurice Maklin.” The Texan sighed. “My pa was half drunk when he named me.” He touched his black hat. “Take care, mountain man.”
The freighters and their wagons melted into the night.
Nate watched until they were out of sight. He was suddenly lonely. Reining into the forest, he rode until he came to a clearing. He climbed down, stripped the bay, and spread out his blankets. He lay on his back with a pistol in each hand and tried to sleep, but he kept hearing the screams and shrieks. An hour or so before sunrise he finally dozed off.
The chirping of finches woke him. Nate’s stomach growled, but he ignored it and saddled the bay. He headed south, knowing it could happen at any time, the Hawken always in his hands. Noon came and went. By the middle of the afternoon he was having doubts until sparrows took noisy flight behind him.
Nate rode on. He was deep in the mountains he loved, the mountains he knew as well as he did the back of his own hand. The mountains were part of him and he a part of them. He was as much at home here as a city dweller on a city street. Here, he had the edge over the warriors out to count coup on him.
A ground squirrel scampered from his path, its bushy tail erect. A horned lark and its mate stared at him from a branch, the yellow of the male’s throat as bright as a sunflower. A little farther on a hare went jumping in flight. In the winter it would be white, but now it was brown and blended into the brush.
Nate climbed until he was among white-bark pines. The nuts were a favorite with bears, both grizzlies and blacks. Squirrels cached them in cold weather. The trees grew to a height of sixty feet and were spaced well apart, exactly as Nate wanted. He ascended until he came to a boulder that jutted out of the earth like the jagged prow of a sunken ship. Reining behind it, he climbed down and let the reins dangle. He moved to a tree that afforded a view of the slope below, and hunkered.
Nate figured it wouldn’t be long. His enemies were far from their own land and would want to end it sooner rather than later. The prairie was their home, not the mountains.
Two riders appeared, smack on his trail.
Nate had expected three. He watched behind them and scoured the woods to each side, but there were just the two unless one of them had circled ahead like the last time. That bothered him. He didn’t want to have to watch his back.
The two below came closer. Kuruk was in front, his gaze glued to the bay’s tracks.
Nate judged the time to be right. Cocking the Hawken, he stepped from under the pine. The pair whipped around but turned to stone when they saw his leveled rifle.
“So,” Kuruk said.
“So,” Nate replied.
“You are hard to kill, white-eye.”
“I wanted to be left in peace,” Nate said. “The blood that has been spilled is on your hands.”
“My uncle’s blood is on yours.” Then Kuruk did a strange thing; he sat back and lowered his bow. Before we do what we must, I would ask a question of you.”
“What?” Nate said suspiciously.
“The white cloud that kills. What is it? We were on the mountain to the south. We saw it cover Swift Owl and the whites and when it passed they were dead.”
“I don’t know what it was. It came from under the ground. To breathe it was to die.”
“When I tell my people they will be much amazed. But they know I always speak with a straight tongue.”
“You take a lot for granted.”
Kuruk smiled. “You would not say that if you knew me better. I plan all that I do.”
Nate wagged the Hawken. “Did you plan on this?”
“Yes, white-eye, I did.”
Nate knew then. He had been right about the third warrior circling around. Shifting, he glanced out of the corners of his eyes but didn’t see him.
Kuruk’s smile widened. “I climbed a tree. I saw you ride around the big rock. When your horse did not come out the other side I sent Wolf’s Claw on ahead.” He switched to Pawnee and called out and from the woods behind Nate came a reply.
Nate was upset with himself. He had been so sure he could outfox them, and they had outfoxed him.
“Wolf’s Claw has an arrow on you. If you try to shoot us he will put the arrow in your back.”
“You want me alive,” Nate said.
“I have always wanted you alive. The others who did not care as much, they only wanted you dead.”
The warrior with Kuruk said something and Kuruk replied in anger and gestured sharply. “Did you hear him? Even now Bull Charging wants Wolf’s Claw to kill you and have it done.” His face hardened and he raised his bow, but he didn’t draw back the string. “You will drop your rifle. You will hold your arms over your head while we take your pistols and your knife and tomahawk. You will do all this or you will die.”
“You aim to kill me anyway,” Nate said, and exploded into motion. He threw himself to the left and fired as he dived. An arrow flashed past, missing his shoulder by the width of a whang. He hit and saw Kuruk falling. Instantly, he grabbed for his pistols.
Bull Charging reined toward him and raised his lance. He hurled it just as Nate fired. The ball took the Pawnee high in the forehead and snapped his head back even as the lance thudded into the earth half an inch from Nate’s chest.
Moccasins padded behind him.
Nate rolled and extended his other flintlock, but Wolf’s Claw was already on him. A foot slammed his chin and a knee rammed his chest. Cold steel streaked in the sun. Nate jerked his neck aside and the blade sank into the dirt instead of his jugular. Thrusting the pistol against the warrior’s ribs, he stroked the trigger. At the blast Wolf’s Claw arched his back, clutched at the wound, and pitched over.
His jaw racked by pain, Nate rose to his knees. Both pistols and his rifle were spent. He reached for his powder horn and sensed rather than heard someone come up beside him. He tried to turn, but a blow to the temple felled him. Both flintlocks slipped from his grasp.
Kuruk reared over him. Kuruk’s shirt was marked with red. There was red on Kuruk’s tomahawk, too.
“I have you now, white-eye.”
Nate’s hand slipped under his buckskin shirt. He found his voice and said, “Your uncle.”
It gave Kuruk pause. “What?” His tomahawk was poised for a final slash. “What about him?”
“He didn’t leave me any choice, either.” Nate pointed the pocket pistol Maklin had given him. It barely filled his hand but it was .70 caliber. The ball blew out Kuruk’s right eye and much of the rear of his skull and Kuruk fell with a thump.
Nate slowly sat up. He touched the gash on his head. It wasn’t deep and it wasn’t bleeding much. He had been lucky. He would hurt for a while, but he would heal. Rising, he went about gathering their horses and then climbed on the bay.
He couldn’t wait to get home
Author’s Note
The entries in Nate King’s journal having to do with Second Eden is the only known account of the fate of Elder Arthur Lexington and his splinter group of Shakers.
Some historians have questioned its authenticity. No Valley of Skulls has ever been found, the Indian legends notwithstanding.
But the Yellowstone region is famed for its many geysers and hot springs, and geologists say the area is highly unstable. Volcanic gases have been well documented. As has the fact that volcanic gases can be highly toxic.