Nate commented at one point on how they worked so well together and a wiry bundle of vigor by the name of Haskell spat a wad of tobacco and said, “We have all been with the captain for more than a few years. He hires only the best and expects the best of us.”
“You admire him, then.”
“I’d die for him,” Haskell declared, “as would any man jack in this whole outfit.”
The rest nodded or said that yes, they would.
“He sure inspires loyalty,” Nate remarked.
“Mr. King, you don’t know the half of it. Jeremiah Blunt is the cream of the captains. He treats us fair and pays us well and only asks that we do our jobs.”
Nate came to learn that Haskell and a man called Trimble were Blunt’s lieutenants. Another bull-whacker worked as the wrangler and saw to the horses. There was a cook and swampers and others. Gradually they warmed to him, so that by the second week they were treating him as one of their own.
Jeremiah Blunt commented on that one evening. “The men have taken a liking to you, King. They say you aren’t what they expected.”
“How so?”
“They haven’t gotten to know many mountain men. Oh, we see your kind from time to time, but we seldom go up into the mountains and mountain men seldom come down from the heights. To be honest, I am a bit surprised, myself.”
“I don’t savvy.”
“To be frank, your kind have a reputation for being—how shall I put this—crude.”
“My mother raised me to have manners,” Nate joked.
“It’s not just that. The stories we’ve heard, we thought mountain men never take baths and vomit obscenities with every other word out of their mouths.”
Nate had often wondered how the mountaineers, as his kind liked to call themselves, came to be so widely regarded as smelly, foulmouthed brutes. He suspected it started back in the trapping days. One newspaper, as he recalled, had described trappers as “young and feckless savages who gather once a year to drink, brawl, and womanize.” While it was true the annual rendezvous had been one long celebration, the portrait painted wasn’t precise. For most of the year, the trappers worked their fingers to the frigid bone, laying and raising traps from cold streams and skinning and curing hides. During the winter months when many of the waterways were frozen and the beaver stayed warm in their lodges, the trappers stayed warm in their cabins and spent much of their time reading and discussing what they read. The Rocky Mountain College, as it was known. Nate had many fond memories of long and deep talks about everything under the sun. Sure, there were trappers whose only interest was drinking and brawling and who fit the common notion of being rough-hewn barbarians, but most were hardworking, earnest souls, and Nate had been proud to know them.
“McNair and you both go against the grain,” Blunt was mentioning. “You are men of intelligence.”
“I thank you for the compliment,” Nate responded, although he certaintly wasn’t as smart as Shakespeare. For that matter, he wasn’t as smart as his wife, Winona, who picked up new tongues as easy as could be and spoke English more fluently than he did.
Just then the cook came up and reported to Blunt they were running out of fresh meat. Every few days men were picked to go hunt and they rarely returned empty-handed.
“That’s where I can help the most,” Nate offered. “I’ll do your hunting for you.” He was good at tracking and knew the habits of the wild creatures better than most.
“I accept,” Blunt said. “Only you’re never to go anywhere alone. I have a rule to that effect and no one is to break it. There must always be someone to watch your back.”
“I’ve been living in the wilderness for years. I can take care of myself,” Nate assured him.
“No doubt you can, but a rule is a rule. There are no exceptions. We do what is safe.” Blunt added with considerable pride, “I’ve never lost a man and I don’t intend to lose one on this run.”
Haskell was assigned to go with Nate the next morning. They roved ahead of the train across open prairie. Now and again Nate swept the horizon with his spyglass, but game proved scarce.
“We’ll reach the South Platte in a day or two,” Nate commented at one point. “From there we’ll strike out for the North Platte and then it’s over South Pass and on into the geyser country.”
“What sort of hostiles are there to worry about?” Haskell asked. “On the Santa Fe Trail it’s Comanches and Apaches.”
“To the northeast are the Sioux, who will kill you as soon as look at you,” Nate enlightened him. “To the north is the Blackfoot Confederacy. The Blackfeet, the Piegans, the Bloods, have all been out for white hide ever since Meriwether Lewis shot a Blackfoot years back.”
“They sure hold a grudge,” Haskell said.
“To the west are the Utes. They don’t like whites much, either. They tried making peace once, but the man the whites picked to parley shot the Ute chief from his horse.”
“Why in hell did he do that?”
“He hated the Utes for killing his brother. Ever since, the Utes haven’t trusted us worth a lick.”
“I can’t say as I blame them.”
Nate didn’t mention that the Utes trusted him. He had earned their trust the hard way, by proving he was worthy. Once, he brokered a truce between the Utes and another tribe. Another time, he hunted down and slew a grizzly that had been raiding Ute villages.
“You like it out here, don’t you? The wilds, I mean?”
“That I do,” Nate affirmed with a bob of his chin. “The free life agrees with me.”
“I’m as free as you, but I’d never live where there are so many savages out to lift my hair and beasts that would like to rip my guts out and eat them.”
“You’re wrong there,” Nate said.
“Wrong where?”
“About being as free as me. In the mountains a man lives as he pleases. There aren’t any laws. There aren’t any politicians to say ‘do this’ or ‘do that.’ There are no taxes or tolls to pay. We do what we want when we want. We let no one impose on us, ever, and are beholden to no one unless we want to be.”
Haskell shrugged. “So what if there are laws I have to live by? They’re for the good of all.”
“So they say. But every law is another bar in the invisible prison that pens men in.”
“You have a peculiar outlook.”
Nate wondered. Most men were like the freighter lieutenant, content to live as others wanted them to. He couldn’t stand being told what to do. To him, the free life was the only life worth living.
“Say, what are those?” Haskell abruptly asked, and pointed.
Far to the north stick figures moved. Nate drew rein and brought out his spyglass. “Riders,” he announced. “Ten or more.” He could make out lances and shields. “Indians.”
“What tribe are they from?”
“I can’t tell at this distance.”
Haskell gazed about at the flat grassland. “There’s nowhere to hide. Do we run for it?”
Nate adjusted the telescope, seeking to see the warriors better. “They’re heading east, not in our direction.” He lowered the spyglass. “We should be fine right where we are.”
“Why have they stopped?”
Nate looked. The entire band had indeed halted. He raised the spyglass and was disconcerted to discover the warriors had turned their mounts and were staring to the south—straight at Haskell and him.
“Have they seen us?”
Nate lowered his telescope again. A splash of sunlight off the brass tube explained what had happened. “Oh, hell.”
“That’s the first time I’ve heard you cuss. You have me worried, mountain man.”
Nate was growing concerned, too. The warriors were galloping toward them. Each had a shaved head except for a spine of hair down the middle. “They’re Pawnees.”