King of the Mountain (Wilderness # 1) Page 14

  Days later one of the most exciting events of the whole trip took place.

  They came within sight of the Rocky Mountains.

  Zeke spied them first, and pointed with his right hand. “There they are, nephew. The top of the world.”

  Squinting, Nathaniel shielded his eyes from the sun with his right palm and gazed at the distant peaks. Silhouetted on the far horizon, the mountains at first resembled low-flying clouds. As they trekked westward the range grew in size and grandeur, each peak acquiring an individuality of its very own, a unique, stark symmetry onto itself.

  Ezekiel picked up the pace. They reached a shallow river and followed the waterway across the last stretch of plain to the foothills bordering the towering Rockies.

  Never in his wildest imaginings had Nathaniel envisioned the mountains would be so awesome. The tallest of the peaks reared many thousands of feet into the air and were shrouded in caps of white snow. One of the mountains, in particular, the highest of the lot, looked like the father of all mountains, its lofty summit visible for dozens of miles out on the plains. The upper third of its towering slopes were covered in a mantle of white, layered with more snow than any other mountain. Another slightly smaller peak stood close by. Gazing at the highest mountain in reverent admiration, Nathaniel said softly, “I had no idea.”

  Zeke nodded. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Does the tall one have a name?”

  “A lot of the trappers and traders have taken to calling it Long’s Peak after that crazy fellow who headed the Yellowstone Expedition.”

  The name jarred a memory. Nathaniel recalled reading about the Yellowstone Expedition of 1819 and 1820 while still in school. The leader had been a military man, a Major Stephen Long, and the press had reported extensively on his observations and conclusions regarding the plains. “Major Long? Why was he crazy?”

  “I heard tell that the idiot claimed the prairies were unfit for settlement, that he called the country we just passed through the Great American Desert.”

  Nathaniel nodded. “I saw that on a map.”

  “The man didn’t know what he was talking about.”

  “But you’d have to admit it would be difficult for farmers to make a living on the prairie. The soil isn’t rich enough to support crops or livestock.”

  Zeke snorted. “Tell that to the millions of buffalo.”

  They rode higher, climbing deeper into the foothills, and the going was not as rough as Nathaniel anticipated would be the case. Game, particularly deer and elk, abounded. The hills became steeper. They skirted the higher peaks and loftier bluffs. After 12 miles of arduous travel they passed through a broad opening between two mountain ridges, and there below them, extending for many miles, lay a large valley replete with ample timber and meandering watercourses and rife with wildlife. The valley was almost completely ringed by mountains and hills. Long’s Peak was now southwest of their location.

  “As far as I know, nephew, no white men other than you, me, and Shakespeare have ever set foot in this valley,” Zeke mentioned with pride in his tone, as if he had discovered a natural jewel others had missed.

  “Is your cabin in this valley?” Nathaniel inquired.

  Zeke started forward. “On the other side of the lake.”

  “What lake?”

  “You’ll see in a bit.”

  They descended to the valley floor, and once clear of the forest they had an unobstructed view for miles.

  Nathaniel spied the large lake, toward which they rode rapidly, and he marveled at the profusion of wild fowl. Ducks, geese, gulls, and brants, among others, crowded the water to such an extent they appeared to barely have room to flap their wings. He saw a herd of blacktail deer to the south, and soaring high in the azure sky were several eagles and hawks. “This is a Garden of Eden,” he breathed in fascination.

  Ezekiel was studying his nephew intently. “I was hoping you’d like it.”

  “Does Shakespeare live here too?”

  Zeke shook his head. “He’s my nearest neighbor. His cabin is about twenty-five miles north of here.”

  “What about Indians?”

  “You already know about the Cheyennes. They tend to stick to the prairie where most of the buffalo are found. Another tribe you’re bound to meet are the Arapahos, the dog-eaters. They live on the plains too, but you’ll find them hunting game in the foothills quite often. Their territory is just north of the Cheyenne hunting ground. The two tribes get along like two peas in a pod. They have an alliance. If you make an enemy of the Cheyenne, then you become an enemy of the Arapaho,” Zeke detailed, then frowned. “The Cheyenne and the Arapaho will leave you alone. It’s the Utes you have to worry about.”

  “Are they the ones who live on the west slope of the Rockies?”

  Zeke nodded. “And the central Rockies. They’ve been at war with the Cheyenne and the Arapaho for decades. And the Utes will kill any white man they come across. Mark my words, nephew. Never trust a Ute. If you see one, shoot first and admire his buckskins later. I doubt if they’ll ever learn to live at peace with anyone, let alone us whites.”

  “Have you had run-ins with them?”

  “I’ve been obliged to kill about fifteen.”

  Nathaniel’s eyebrow arched. “Fifteen?”

  “Which is why they tend to leave me alone. A few years back they sent a war party to wipe me out. I was lucky. Shakespeare was paying a visit. I took an arrow in the thigh, and he pulled me into the cabin to safety. Those red devils tried every trick they could think of to force us out, even setting fire to my cabin, but our rifles taught them the error of their ways.” Zeke chuckled. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of them varmints since.”

  “They’ll be back one day,” Nathaniel predicted.

  “You think so, Mister Indian Expert?”

  “Would you let it rest if you were them?”

  Ezekiel regarded his relative thoughtfully and smiled. “No, I wouldn’t. You’re learning, Nathaniel. You’ll make a great mountain man.”

  “I’ll be back in civilization in a year, remember? I doubt anyone will ever know I was here.”

  Zeke did not respond. He pursed his lips and rode along the south shore of the lake, musing.

  “Why did you call the Arapahos the dog eaters?” Nathaniel inquired out of curiosity.

  “Because they eat dogs, nephew. They consider dog meat a real delicacy. They’ll fatten their mongrels until the dogs are plump as a buffalo, then butcher them and have a fine meal.”

  Nathaniel scrunched up his nose at the idea of eating a dog. “Have you ever eaten dog meat?”

  “On several occasions. If you ever visit an Arapaho camp, they’ll likely offer you some. You’ll insult them if you refuse.”

  “Remind me to never visit an Arapaho camp.”

  Zeke laughed. “If you stay out here long enough, you’ll get over your finicky stomach.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Just don’t take to eating people.”

  “Now you’re joshing me.”

  “Nope. There are some folks who think human flesh is downright tasty. If you ever meet up with Old Bill, watch your hide.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Old Bill Williams. He’s a weird one. Lives all alone somewhere way up in the Rockies, but he comes down every now and then to socialize. You might bump into him at a rendezvous.”

  “And he eats people?”

  “So they say.”

  “Surely you don’t believe the stories?”

  “I wouldn’t, except for a little fact.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I had a talk with Old Bill two years ago, and I asked him point-blank if the tales were true, if he was partial to human flesh.”

  Nathaniel leaned forward, half expecting this to be another of Zeke’s wild yarns. “And?”

  “He looked me right in the eye and smacked his lips, then cackled like he was out of his mind. I believe the stories, and you’d be well advised t
o do the same.”

  Cannabalism? Nathaniel thought the very idea repugnant. He shook his head, stared ahead, and saw the cabin, a low log structure situated approximately 40 feet from the west end of the sparkling lake. He glanced to the north and spotted a river flowing into the lake, and traced the course of the river back into the higher country to the west.

  “There’s where I hang my leggings.”

  “How long have you lived there?”

  “I built the place about five years ago.”

  “And you’ve lived there all alone?”

  “Do you remember those Indian women I was telling you about?”

  “Of course.”

  “Three of them were my wives, and they lived there in my cabin with me for a season or two of trapping.”

  “You have three wives!” Nathaniel exclaimed.

  “Had, nephew. Had. And I didn’t have them all at once, either. I haven’t gone Indian that much,” Zeke said, smirking. “I usually buy a wife at the rendezvous, keep her for a year, then take her back to her tribe to sell her once the attraction wears off.”

  Nathaniel almost reined up. “You buy your wives?”

  “Of course. Why get hitched for the long haul when you can dally for the short term, if you get my drift.”

  “How can you buy a woman?”

  “It’s easy. A lot of Indians show up at the rendezvous, and they’re more than happy to sell their women to whoever wants them. The ugly ones are right cheap, but the pretty ones will cost you a couple of horses, a gun with powder and ball, and a half-dozen pounds of beans or some whiskey. I know one joker who paid two thousand dollars in beaver skins for a chief’s daughter. Talk about overpriced goods!” He chuckled.

  Nathaniel was dazed. It never occurred to him that Indian women could be bought, could be paid for much like those slaves he had seen. The practice went against the moral fiber of his being. He stared at his uncle, amazed again at the uncanny transformation his uncle had undergone since leaving St. Louis. Zeke’s outlook on life, his mannerisms, even his speech had slowly altered, as if St. Louis had temporarily drawn the old Ezekiel King to the surface and now the wilderness had reclaimed the man who had been molded in its own image.

  “Here we are,” Zeke announced, halting within five yards of the cabin door, which stood slightly ajar. “That’s odd. I distinctly remember closing that door. I hope Silver Tip did’t get in there or my goods will be in a shambles.”

  “Silver Tip?”

  “A grizzly that lives in these parts. I’ve tried to kill him several times, but he’s been too slippery for me,” Zeke said, dismounting.

  “How would a grizzly get in a locked door?”

  “This isn’t New York, nephew. Out here folks don’t have to worry about locking—” Zeke began, then suddenly froze, staring at the cabin wall.

  Nathaniel gazed in the same direction, at the logs to the left of the door, and saw it.

  A tomahawk was imbedded in the wall.

  “Utes!” Zeke declared.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Nathaniel quickly dropped to the ground and scanned the valley. “Do you think they’re still around?”

  “I don’t see any fresh sign,” Zeke said. “I’ve been gone for months. They probably came to scalp me, then left this message when they found I wasn’t home.” He walked to the cabin, set down his rifle, and wrenched the tomahawk loose.

  “Message?”

  “No two tribes make their weapons alike,” Zeke disclosed while inspecting the tomahawk. “This is definitely Ute. They wanted me to know they were here, to rub my nose in it, to show they’re not afraid of me and to let me know they’ll be back.”

  “Why didn’t they burn your cabin?”

  “This is personal between them and me. They want my hair hanging in one of their lodges. Maybe they figured I’d leave if they razed the cabin. I don’t know.”

  They cautiously edged to the doorway. Zeke shoved the heavy door inward and they peered inside.

  “Damn!”

  “What a mess,” Nathaniel commented, eyeing the ransacked interior. Furniture had been broken. Blankets had been ripped to shreds. Pots and pans were scattered about, and numerous personal effects had been shattered to bits.

  “They’ll pay for this,” Zeke vowed. He entered and kicked angrily at a busted chair. “I made that myself.”

  “We’ll have this cleaned up in no time,” Nathaniel said.

  Ezekiel scowled. “I don’t mind the mess so much. I can always replace the things the vermin broke. But they took all the meat I had cut and dried.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Tie up the horses. We’ll tidy the cabin, unpack, and go fishing in the lake. You’ve never tasted fish so good as the trout in these mountains.”

  Nathaniel nodded and went to turn when a horrifying thought struck him. “The treasure!” he blurted anxiously.

  “What about it?” Zeke replied, bending down to pick up the leg from a smashed table.

  “Did the Utes find your treasure?”

  “No.”

  “But you haven’t checked.”

  “The treasure isn’t in the cabin,” Zeke assured him. “I know they didn’t find it.”

  “When will I get to see it?”

  “Soon enough. Now get busy with those horses.”

  Nathaniel strolled to his mare, mystified by his uncle’s nonchalant attitude. If he had a treasure cached nearby, it would be the first thing he checked. A squirrel chattered at him from a nearby pine tree, and he halted to gaze at the beautiful scenery all around him. This was so different from New York City. He remembered the sooty air, the crowds, and the grimy streets, and slowly shook his head. Perhaps Zeke was right. Compared to the pristine purity of the virgin wilderness, city life seemed unnatural. All those people crammed into a limited space, fouling the air with soot and the ground with their excrement, seemed vile and gross. Cities were breeding grounds for rats of the four-legged and the two-legged variety.

  But out here!

  He inhaled deeply, invigorated by the crisp air, and stared at the snow-capped peaks in the distance. A man could easily become addicted to such splendor, he mused. No wonder his uncle had never returned, and how wrong his father had been to condemn Zeke for choosing to live in harmony with Nature. Which, after all, was more natural? To live and work in cramped confines, to have walls and buildings limit the view, to breathe fouled air and eat overly salted meat? Or to have the far horizon be your wall and the sky your ceiling, to breathe in air as fresh as that on the day the world was created, and to eat the still-warm flesh of an animal recently slain?

  Nathaniel grinned and took hold of the mare’s reins. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear he was beginning to thoroughly enjoy the wilderness life. If he wasn’t careful, he might wind up like his uncle.

  The thought made him laugh.

  That afternoon, after the cabin had been cleaned out and their provisions stored inside, they went down to the lake to fish. Zeke constructed a pair of makeshift poles from the thin limbs of a tree. Within half an hour they had seven large trout on the bank.

  “Tomorrow we’ll go after an elk,” Zeke mentioned as they ambled toward the cabin. He carried his rifle in his right hand, their poles in his left. “We’ll gorge ourselves and dry some of the meat before we head out for the rendezvous.”

  “When do I get to see the treasure?” Nathaniel asked, hefting the string of fish in his left hand. Slanted over his right shoulder was his Hawken.

  Ezekiel looked at his nephew. “Is that all you think about?”

  “Wouldn’t you if you were in my shoes?”

  “I reckon I would,” Zeke conceded, his features clouding. “Very well. Tomorrow morning I’ll show you the treasure.”

  Nathaniel beamed. He could hardly wait! At last he would have the wealth he needed to woo Adeline properly! Elated, he gazed idly at the cabin, and as he did he heard an unusual swishing noise, and then a pronounced thump a
nd a grunt. He glanced at his uncle and instantly halted, transfixed by the sight of a lance protruding from Zeke’s chest.

  Ezekiel was standing stock still, regarding the lance in bewilderment, his shoulders sagging. “Damn! Not again!” he exclaimed, and fell to his knees, releasing the poles but not his rifle.

  “Uncle Zeke!” Nathaniel cried. He dropped the fish and looped his left arm around his uncle’s shoulders.

  “Get us inside, quick,” Zeke urged.

  Nathaniel scanned the forest, expecting a lance or an arrow to streak out of nowhere at him. He detected movement in the brush to the left of the cabin, approximately 20 feet from the door, and he let go of Zeke, whipped the Hawken up, and fired at a vague figure in the shadows. The figure promptly vanished.

  “Inside,” Zeke reiterated weakly. “Hurry, nephew.”

  The hair at the nape of his neck prickling, Nathaniel supported his uncle with his left arm and together they made for the shelter of the log structure. Zeke walked unsteadily and breathed loudly. Constantly surveying the woods for Indians, dreading another attack before they could reach safety, Nathaniel resisted an urge to dash inside. He assisted Zeke in reaching the cabin, and once they were there he lowered his uncle to the floor and immediately closed the door.

  “I sure am having a pitiful run of luck,” Zeke quipped, sitting stooped over. The lance had passed completely through his body, entering just an inch to the right of his sternum and exiting low down on his back, above the hip bone.

  “The Utes must have been waiting for you to return,” Nathaniel mentioned, kneeling next to Zeke.

  “It’s not the Utes.”

  “What?”

  Zeke bobbed his chin lower. “This lance isn’t a Ute lance.”

  “Then who—?” Nathaniel began.

  “It’s a Kiowa lance.”

  “But you told me the Kiowa don’t range this far,” Nathaniel commented while examining the shaft. He remembered how the Cheyenne, White Eagle, had extracted the arrow, and he reached for the lance, intending to do the same.

  “Don’t bother,” Zeke said.

  “But we can’t leave it in.”

  “Check the window,” Zeke advised.