Into the Unknown

  WILDERNESS #55:INTO THE UNKNOWN

  DAVID THOMPSON

  BEAR TERROR

  At a shout from Zach, I glanced up. He was fifty yards away, jabbing a finger at me.

  “Look out! It’s headed your way!”

  I heard a mewing sound, and turning toward where a finger of forest poked at the shore, I saw a bear cub waddling toward me. A black bear cub, so cute and adorable I grinned in delight. Apparently, it was making for the lake to drink.

  “Get out of there!” Zach hollered.

  The cub had its head low to the ground and was mewing and grunting as bears often do. It did not realize I was there until I reined my mount to one side. Instantly, it stopped, rose onto its hind legs, and let out with the most awful cry. Almost immediately the undergrowth crackled and snapped, and out of the woods flew four hundred pounds of motherly fury.

  Dedicated to Judy, Shane, Joshua and Kyndra.

  Contents

  Title Page

  BEAR TERROR

  Dedication

  Author's Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Postscript

  Also by David Thompson

  Copyright

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  As devoted readers of the popular Wilderness series are aware, most of the stories in the saga are based on Nate King’s journal. His daughter started a diary in her teen years, and that too has been used. Nate’s wife also kept a record, but she wrote the least of the three.

  None were day-by-day accounts. The Kings only wrote when the whim moved them. Nate, when something had an impact on his family. Evelyn, when events stirred her emotions or simply to record her thoughts. There is no rhyme or reason to Winona’s account.

  Other sources have included the journals and diaries of settlers, mountain men and explorers. Wilderness #41: By Duty Bound, for instance, was based on the journal of Lieutenant Phillip J. Pickforth.

  The author brings all this up because the book you hold in your hands is based on Robert Parker’s account of his travels and experiences. A contemporary of John James Audubon, Parker was a naturalist and a painter. His renderings of wildlife, the wilderness, and the Native Americans and white men who inhabited it, are authentic and stunning.

  Parker’s work is so well known that it needs no introduction. And, too, our story is concerned with only a short interval in his exploration of the West, namely, the month or so he spent with the Kings and the McNairs.

  Purists, I trust, will understand why the excerpts early on are abbreviated. The main focus of this story is the King family and their friends.

  Chapter One

  St. Louis, February 14

  I am bubbling with excitement! It is the most wonderful news! My patron, the marquis, has decided to fund the expedition. The irony does not elude me. I have never liked painting portraits. I only do it in lean times so I can purchase paint and canvas and food. But he is so enamored of the portrait I did of his wife that he insisted on helping me fulfill my long-cherished ambition to explore the vast uncharted regions west of the Mississippi River.

  It is a dream come true! I will venture where few white men have ever dared tread and capture on canvas the wonders my eyes behold. And I have no doubt there will be wonders. The frontier teems with animals and men about which little is known.

  Miller and Bodmer have been there before me, and I do not deny that both deserve the accolades heaped on them for their magnificent works. I confess to liking Miller’s more, if only because his paintings are imbued with the romance of life, and I have always been a romantic at heart. I cannot possibly put into words how deeply moved I was by his Green River painting. The river, the mist, the mountains, the Indians, it is all so wonderfully sublime.

  Still, I must give Bodmer his due. He is a realist. His paintings show exactly what his eyes saw. No sentimentalist, he was ruthless in his depictions of life in the raw. When you look at his Mandans, it is as if you are standing right next to them.

  If I can do half as well as Miller and Bodmer, I will justify my talent.

  St. Louis, April 2

  The preparations continue apace.

  There is so much to do, so many details, large and small, to attend to. Men, supplies, horses, all must be acquired. I try to keep expenditures to a minimum in order not to impose too greatly on the marquis’s generous nature.

  His wife was most indiscreet last night. Collette kept glancing down the table at me. Perhaps the marquis did not notice since he was, as always, deep in his cups. But some of the other guests did. I am sure of it. Now there will be talk, and if the gossip should get back to him, my expedition might be in jeopardy. He would be well within his rights to withdraw his patronage. But as I say, I am a romantic, and I cannot help myself.

  In any event, midway through the meal Collette fixed her exquisite hazel eyes on me and said ever so sweetly, “While I am thankful my husband is providing the funds for your exploration of the wilderness, I wonder whether either of you have given any thought to the possible consequences.”

  “Consequences, my dear?” the marquis asked.

  “Specifically the dangers,” Collette said. “I very much fear his life will be in constant peril.”

  What was the woman thinking? Could she be any more transparent? I sought to keep my features inscrutable as I replied, “While I am grateful for your concern, you make much ado over nothing, madam.”

  “Are wild beasts so trifling then?” she shot back. “Are red savages of no import? Or those tempests of storm and wind I have read about?”

  God, how I boiled. Her tone suggested more concern than was proper. I caught a few glances exchanged by others on both sides of the table. The marquis, thankfully, appeared to be oblivious to her impropriety.

  “Honestly, my dear. Our friend is eager to be off. It is, as he calls it, an adventure of a lifetime. Would you gainsay him his ambition?”

  “Of course not,” Collette said tartly. “But neither would I care to lose so dear a friend to the arrows and lances of bloodthirsty heathens or the fangs and claws of a fierce beast.”

  I regretted then my incurable romanticism. If I would stick to the painting and only the painting, my life would be a lot less complicated. But when a man is in close proximity to a beautiful woman hour after hour and day after day, and when that beautiful woman shows an interest, what is a man to do? I am human, after all.

  Fortunately, the marquis took it in a most humorous vein. He laughed long and loud, much longer and much louder than I thought was called for, and then he winked at her and winked at me and said in a jovial fashion, “Far be it for us to stand in the way of our friend’s desire. That he is content to risk his life in the furtherance of his art is enough for me. I daresay that if he perishes, it will be for a worthy cause.”

  It seemed to me he spoke with uncommon relish, and his grin was, for him, peculiar. But I accepted his accolade and assured all and sundry that I was indeed eager to pit myself against the vast unkown.

  Fort Leavenworth, May 1

  Concern for my welfare is contagious.

  This evening I was invited to supper with the officers. Colonel Templeton has proven to be considerate and kindly. He even went
so far as to offer to send twenty soldiers as an escort, but I respectfully declined. I deem it prudent to avoid any suggestion that the military is at all connected with my expedition. For one thing, a number of Indian tribes regard the army with a jaundiced eye and are prone to attack units in uniform on general principle. For another, thanks to the marquis’s largesse, my party already comprises eight able-bodied men, not including myself. They are well armed with both weapons and fortitude, and, I warrant, will prove more than adequate to deal with any hostilities.

  In addition to the colonel, I was introduced to captains Hindeman, Keane and Dugan, and half a dozen lieutenants. The latter let their superiors do most of the talking, and I cannot recall any of their names except for one, a Lieutenant Pickforth, who struck me as an exceedingly opinionated and obtuse individual. To his credit, he has been where I have not, across the nigh limitless prairie to the distant Rockies, and returned alive to tell the tale. At Colonel Templeton’s bidding, Pickforth related his various escapades. Perhaps it was the colonel’s way of acquainting me with the dangers ahead without having to resort to a lecture. I admire his tact.

  Pickforth had many interesting experiences. That herds of buffalo can be a million strong is now common knowledge, but to talk to someone who has seen such a herd and to hear his firsthand account brings the reality that much nearer. And, too, his patrol’s clash with a band of hostile Piegans had to be harrowing in the extreme, and was, I suspect, the point Colonel Templeton was trying to make through his proxy.

  It irritates me to be considered stupid. Does everyone honestly think I am going into this with my eyes closed? I am fully cognizant that scores, nay, hundreds of people have been slain by Indians, but I am also cognizant that hundreds more have gone into the domain of the red man and come back out again with nary a scratch.

  The key is to avoid regions roamed by hostiles and travel only through country where friendly tribes reign. The Shoshones, to name just one example, are widely viewed as perhaps the friendliest tribe of all. Whites in their territory are always welcome and not treated as intruders. The Crows are almost as noteworthy, and, from what I am told, the handsomest of all the red race. One officer was of the opinion they are prone to petty thievery, but others said that was mere myth.

  When I inquired if more tribes are friendly than are hostile, I was assured the opposite is the case. The Sioux, or Dakotas as some call them, universally resent white inroads. The implacable hatred of the Blackfoot Confederacy is well established. The Arikaras, the Cheyenne and others have risen against whites from time to time.

  From what the officers told me, I am glad I intend to focus my naturalistic forays on the central Rockies. To the north are the aforementioned Blackfeet, to the south the dreaded Comanches and highly feared Apaches.

  To be candid, I find the whole conflict insipid. The press paints the red man as the bane of white existence, yet I cannot help but think that they were here before us. And, too, when one white country is encroached on by another white country, bloodshed inevitably results; how is that any different from the situation on the frontier?

  Hatred and war hold no interest for me. Nor, I must again be honest, do the politics of what has recently been called our presumed “Manifest Destiny.” I do not hate others because their skin is different from mine. I do not believe that my being white, which is, after all, a random chance of birth, entitles me to live where I will and as I will and displace or exterminate anyone who stands in the way of my doing so.

  Why can’t everyone simply get along? I know, I know. I am being simplistic, and not a little naïve. It is not the nature of the human brute to extend the hand of friendship unless it serves the brute’s self-interest. Intellectually that is shallow; morally that is bankrupt.

  I would have truck with none of it.

  Give me life in all its varied guises. Give me the means to paint it and record it. Give me the opportunity to expand the borders of our knowledge and to open new vistas. Is that too much to ask?

  I apologize. I digress. I try to be objective in my journal, but as you can see I do not always succeed.

  In any event, the whole conflict is moot as far as I am concerned. A week from now I will be well out on the prairie. I will be doing that which I love best to do. All the rest of it, the bigotry and pretensions and, yes, the silliness, will become as insubstantial as the air.

  I can’t wait.

  Somewhere on the Great American Desert, May 19

  I do not know where I am. It is glorious.

  I should know. But the crate containing our sextant is at the bottom of the Mississippi River, and I refused to spend a week or more camped on the west bank while one of my men went back to try and procure another. Ignorance as to our exact longitude and latitude hinders us only slightly. So long as we can ascertain the four points of the compass—and of those we brought several—we can get by with more than tolerable efficiency.

  I should be thankful. The mishap that sent the crate containing some of our equipment into the river might well have sent my paints and brushes and easel. That would be a calamity of the first order. I can get by without knowing where in heaven’s name I am, but it would be pointless to continue without the means to capture on canvas that which I come across.

  And there is so much to see! To say the animal life is abundant is to say the ocean is deep or the sky is high. Our scout and chief hunter, Augustus Trevor, says this will change, that game becomes so scarce we will be fortunate if we do not starve. He has crossed the prairie several times so I trust his judgment. When he advised me to lay up a store of dried meat, that is exactly what we did.

  I must make a decision. My supply of paint and canvas is limited. Do I paint every animal and new plant we encounter here on the plains, or do I contain my enthusiasm so that I have plenty of canvas and paper left when I reach the mountains? The answer is obvious.

  Still, I can’t not paint.

  A pair of white-tailed rabbits are too adorable to ignore. They are as fluffy and soft as pillows, with appealing yellow eyes and long ears tipped with black triangles. How can I not paint them, when they are not found east of the Mississippi?

  The same with a coyote Trevor shot. Yes, we have coyotes galore in the States, but this one was three times the size of any coyote I ever beheld or heard of, almost a wolf in stature and worth the expenditure of precious paint.

  Then there are the birds. My God, the birds!

  Of all the creatures in creation, I confess I am partial to our avian friends. I don’t know whether it is that I have always envied their power of flight, or that their delightfully diverse plumage presents such a formidable challenge and such lasting satisfaction if my brush does them justice.

  You might think, given how generally flat the prairie is and the relative absence of trees, that birds would have nowhere to roost and thus be rare, but I can confirm that their abundance is second only to their variety.

  You who are reading this journal are probably familiar with the common bluebird, but how about a bird with a vivid blue head and blue wings, gray throat and orange body? Or a bird with a yellow crown and yellow throat and yellow rings around the wings and the tail, and a melodious warble that is a joy to the ears? Or an oriole that is similar to the Baltimore variety but has splashes of orange on both sides of its head and above its eyes?

  Vicinity of the Platte River, June 2

  We have had an incident.

  The previous night we camped on the bank of the Platte, as we have been doing for some days now while we follow it generally westward. I cannot help but think that calling the Platte a river is a slur on rivers everywhere. That a waterway so shallow and sluggish and narrow should be designated as such amazes and amuses me. But it is water, and after nearly perishing from thirst before we reached it, I should be grateful and not carp.

  But to the incident.

  We had a fire going and our sixteen horses tethered in a string under guard. Our sleep was undisturbed until about an hour be
fore dawn. Then the sentry, who happened to be young Billingsley, and who by his own admission was so tired he could scarcely keep his eyes open, heard a sound that brought his head up. Not a loud sound, by any means, but the suggestion of a stealthy tread. Since deer and other animals sometimes pass close by in the night, Billingsley did not think much of it and lowered his chin to his chest.

  Then one of the horses nickered, and a second stamped, and Billingsley looked up again to find the entire string alert, with their heads high and their ears pricked. Clearly something was amiss for the entire string to be agitated. He moved toward them, cradling his rifle. He says that he thought they had caught the scent of a prowling bear or catamount, and he spoke softly to them to quiet them so they would not wake the rest of us.

  One of the horses pulled at the picket rope. Billingsley started down the string, then stopped. He had spied what he described as strange shadow on the ground near the horse that stamped. He could not see it clearly enough to tell what it was. From its size, he judged it to be an animal, a coyote perhaps, or a fox, although why either would venture so near puzzled him.

  Billingsley brought the stock of his rifle to his shoulder and took another step, and it was then that the mundane turned into the remarkable, for the shadow suddenly unfolded and swelled in size, taking on the dimensions of a man.

  Billingsley was so startled, he was a few seconds collecting his wits. He was slow to recognize the half-naked form for what it was. But the long hair, the breechclout, the suggestion of paint on the angular face, could leave no doubt. The figure moved, and the glint of metal in its hand told Billingsley the whole story and shocked him out of his lethargy. With a holler of, “Indians! Indians!” he took a bead, but as quick as he was, our nocturnal visitor was faster. With a bound, the red man vanished into the greenery.