King of the Mountain (Wilderness # 1) Read online

  Nathaniel did not bother to watch the man depart. He trained his rifle on the larger rider, Gant.

  “This is right neighborly of you,” Zeke mentioned.

  Gant shrugged. “A white man should always look out for another white man, eh?”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  “Where are you heading?”

  “To the Rockies,” Zeke revealed.

  “Is that a fact?” Gant responded in apparent surprise. “Why, so are we.”

  “Are you heading for the rendezvous?”

  Gant blinked a few times, as if the idea had never occurred to him, then smiled broadly. “We sure are. We hope to get there before all the whiskey is gone. You know how trappers are.”

  “I guess I do,” Zeke said, and studied the men and their mounts. “Are you trappers?”

  “How did you guess?” Gant replied jokingly.

  “Where are your traps?”

  Gant seemed to tense. “What?”

  “It’s odd to see trappers without their traps,” Zeke remarked, still in his brotherly vein. “For that matter, I’m surprised to see you don’t have any pack animals.”

  “We’re living off the land as we go,” Gant said stiffly. “Pickings are slim, but we get by. As for our traps, they’re stored at our cabin on the Green River.”

  “The Green River?” Zeke said. “I know that country well. Some prime beaver skins have come out of that vicinity.”

  “We had us a good season last,” Gant mentioned. “Took in near three thousand skins.”

  Zeke whistled in appreciation. “That’s a heap of pelts. What, about a thousand a man?”

  “Pretty near,” Gant said. “I did a little better than my partners.”

  “What did you do with your windfall?”

  “What else? We’ve spent the past month in St. Louis doing what comes naturally.”

  Ezekiel chuckled. “Those St. Louis women know how to treat a man right.”

  Perplexed by his uncle’s friendliness, his nerves frayed to the limit, Nathaniel held the barrel fixed on the large man and wondered what was going on. Why didn’t Zeke simply challenge Gant and get it over with? Why were they being so nice when each would just as soon shoot the other? He observed his uncle glance westward, and he risked a hasty look in the same direction. The other rider, Madison, was nowhere in sight. Could that be what Zeke was waiting for?

  “I hope they find my horses soon,” Zeke commented. “It was my own fault. I should have tied them up.”

  “You know what they say,” Gant responded. “Count ribs or count tracks.”

  Now what in the world did that mean? Nathaniel speculated. His skin felt clammy and cold.

  “Care for some jerky?” Gant asked.

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  The large man climbed down and stuck his right hand in a blanket tied behind his saddle.

  Nathaniel saw Ezekiel get a firmer grip on his rifle. He braced for the worst, thinking that Gant would pull a pistol from the blanket. Instead, out came a wide strip of jerky.

  “Here we go,” the large man stated. He wedged his rifle between his legs and drew his knife, then proceeded to cut several pieces of dried meat from the strip and handed a morsel to Zeke.

  “I thank you kindly.”

  “We have some to spare in case you don’t find your pack animal.”

  Hidden by the trees and the grass, Nathaniel listened attentively. He shifted his aim from the large man to the one still in the saddle. Zeke and Gant were now two yards apart, and he counted on his uncle to handle Gant when the time came. If it ever came.

  “All this kindness has me a mite confused,” Ezekiel said while chewing on the jerky.

  “Why’s that?” Gant replied.

  “Because if you’re aiming to rob and kill a man, you ought to come right out and do it instead of talking him to death.”

  Nathaniel suddenly felt light-headed. His uncle had thrown down the gauntlet, and if Gant and the other man were innocent of any wrongful intent they were bound to become rather mad. But if they were, as Zeke asserted, cutthroats, how would they react? He received an answer an instant later when Gant went for his gun.

  Chapter Ten

  It all happened so incredibly fast.

  Nathaniel saw the mounted man snap a rifle up, and without any regard for the consequences, thinking only of his uncle’s safety, he sighted on the man’s chest and squeezed the trigger. The boom of the Hawken produced a cloud of smoke and slapped the butt plate against his right shoulder.

  A surprised grunt came from the rider as the ball bored through his torso and knocked him from his horse.

  Ezekiel and Gant were bringing their rifles to bear, and Zeke was a shade quicker. He fired, the ball striking the larger man high in the chest and causing Gant to stumble backwards and drop to one knee.

  Alarmed, well aware that both men could still pose a threat, Nathaniel released his rifle, scooped up his pistols, and sprinted toward the river bank. Zeke had already drawn his pistol and fired into Gant’s chest, and this time the big man toppled onto his back.

  Just then, while Zeke held his smoking pistol trained on Gant, the other rider stepped unsteadily into view near the head of his skittish horse. He pointed his rifle, the barrel swaying from side to side.

  “Uncle Zeke!” Nathaniel cried, his fear lending Mercury’s wings to his feet, running as he had never run before, and his shout served a twofold purpose.

  Ezekiel frantically threw himself backwards, out of the line of fire.

  The rider hesitated, swinging in the direction of the yell, still unable to hold the barrel straight.

  Again Nathaniel gave no thought to the repercussions of his act. He extended both arms and fired while on the run, figuring at such close range he was bound to hit his target. And he did.

  The robber staggered as a ball smacked into his right side, piercing the flesh and shattering a rib bone, even as the second ball struck him at the base of the throat, passed clear through his neck, and shattered the top of his spine. His arms waving wildly, spitting blood as he gurgled, he reeled backwards and tumbled into the river with a loud splash.

  Nathaniel reached his uncle’s side and halted, staring in disbelief at the pair of motionless bodies. “Dear Lord,” he gasped. “What have I done?”

  “We’re not finished yet,” Ezekiel said. He was reloading his rifle, his hands flying, and glancing repeatedly to the west.

  “We’re not?” Nathaniel asked, not quite comprehending, his arms still extended, breathing in the acrid gun smoke.

  “No,” Zeke reiterated, ramming a ball home.

  And suddenly Nathaniel remembered the man who had ridden off to assist in rounding up the fictitious stray. He swung around and spied a lone rider galloping toward the stand of trees, a rifle held aloft, 300 yards distant.

  “Keep coming, you son of a bitch,” Zeke said, raising the rifle to his shoulder.

  Nathaniel opened his mouth to protest, then changed his mind. What good would it do? His uncle had no intention of letting the man live, and who was he to dispute Zeke? Which one of them knew best how to survive on the frontier? Certainly not him with his New York City upbringing, which had emphasized living by the rules of polite society, according to the structured laws of civilization. He glanced at the dead man in the river, who was floating within inches of the bank. What rules prevailed here? Survival of the fittest? Civilization lay far to the east, and the laws imposed by those in power no longer applied. Out here, out in the untrammeled wilderness, every man appeared to be a law unto himself.

  “Keep coming,” Zeke repeated.

  Lowering his arms, Nathaniel looked to the west. The third man was now only 200 yards off, racing toward them, evidently oblivious to the fact his companions were dead. Couldn’t he see them? Didn’t he—

  The sharp crack of Zeke’s rifle punctuated Nathaniel’s thought, and the onrushing rider suddenly swayed in the saddle, then toppled off his horse, landing headfir
st, his rifle sailing through the air to clatter a dozen yards from his lifeless form.

  “Got him,” Ezekiel stated happily, and lowered his Hawken. “So much for those three.”

  “We killed them,” Nathaniel said softly.

  Zeke nodded. “We sure as hell did. It was either them or us, nephew. And I’m right proud of the job you done.”

  “I shot a man,” Nathaniel said lamely.

  “And a smart rifle shot it was,” Zeke stated, and clapped the young man on the back. “I couldn’t have done any better. And the way you finished him off with the pistols!” He laughed heartily. “You’re a natural-born fighter.”

  Nathaniel looked at Gant and saw blood oozing from the big man’s chest. “Should I be proud of the fact?” he asked.

  “Certainly,” Ezekiel responded, at work loading his rifle once again. “You’re proven you’re a man after all, not one of those dandified sissies the cities breed like rats.”

  “I don’t feel very manly,” Nathaniel divulged, striving to come to terms with his feelings. “I feel ... strange,” he said, for want of a better word.

  “It’ll pass, nephew,” Zeke assured him. “I felt the same way when I killed my first man. But the feeling goes away. Eventually you’ll regard the killing of a bad man in the same light as killing any vermin.”

  “I will?” Nathaniel responded, and the notion shocked him. If he ever became that callous, what would serve to distinguish him from the lower animals?

  “We must each live according to our nature, Nate,” Zeke said solemnly. “There’s no getting around the fact. Try, and you’re doomed for a life of misery.”

  A listless sensation crept through Nathaniel’s veins, and he regarded his pistols as if they were alien objects he’d never beheld before. “What is my nature?” he queried absently.

  “That’s what I hope you’ll discover before this treasure hunt of ours is over,” Zeke said. “Now you’d best reload your guns in case any unfriendly sorts heard our shots.”

  “Unfriendly sorts?”

  “Indians, nephew. Indians.”

  Nathaniel needed no further prompting. The thought of hostile Indians dispelled his moodiness, and he hastily retrieved his rifle and reloaded all three guns. Once the pistols were again secure under his leather belt and he had his rifle grasped firmly in his hands, he turned to his uncle.

  Zeke was already busily at work. He had hauled the dead rider from the river and aligned the body next to Gant’s. Then he had stripped each man of their guns, knives, powder horns, and bullet pouches. Now he was about to mount Gant’s sturdy animal.

  “Do you want me to bury them?” Nathaniel queried.

  The question gave Zeke pause. He glanced over his shoulder. “Whatever for?”

  “So the beasts don’t devour them.”

  “Why deprive the beasts of a meal?”

  Nathaniel envisioned a pack of wolves tearing into the corpses, and swallowed. “But that’s not proper.”

  “Why do you think the Good Lord created vultures? It’s not proper to deprive the buzzards of their meal. So just drag the bodies into the trees and we’ll leave them there.” “Just like that?”

  “Nephew, I wasn’t joking about Indians. I’ve seen sign of some in this vicinity, and I don’t mean Otos. Now get cracking.” So saying, Zeke mounted and rode toward the third corpse.

  Nathaniel gazed skyward, his soul in torment. He’d killed! Violated one of the Ten Commandments! So what happened now? Would he spent eternity in Hell, tortured for the deed he had done? Or would a bolt of lightning flash from the clear sky and fry him to a cinder? He scanned the heavens, almost disappointed when nothing transpired. Yes, he had killed, but the world went on. The sun still shone and birds still sang and fish swam in the river. Was the passing of a human life of such inconsequence, then? Bothered by his train of thought, he shook his head and propped his rifle against a nearby tree. Working laboriously, he dragged the man he’d shot deep into the cedar trees, then returned for Gant.

  Ezekiel was riding up with the third man’s horse in tow and the robber’s body draped over the saddle. “Wait until I tell Shakespeare about this,” he said, in high spirits. “He’ll enjoy a laugh at the way I skunked these scoundrels.”

  “Skunked them?”

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Zeke asked, dismounting. “Oh, that’s right. You wouldn’t have understood. Nephew, those men weren’t trappers. They were fixing to kill us for my gold. I tricked them into confessing as much.”

  “How?”

  “By getting them to talk about their so-called trapping activities. Did you hear the big one tell me they caught three thousand beaver in a season?”

  “Yes.”

  “That came to a thousand per man.”

  “So?”

  “So there ain’t a man alive who has caught one thousand beaver in a single season. It’s not humanly possible. Why, Jeb Smith himself caught only six hundred and sixty-eight in a whole year, not just one season.”

  Nathaniel had heard of Jebediah Smith, who in 1826 had led a party of fur trappers from the Great Salt Lake all the way to the Mission San Gabriel in California, the first to successfully do so. “How many seasons are there?” he queried.

  “Two. The first is in the fall when the fur has reached its prime and runs until the ice makes trapping out of the question. The second starts in springtime and goes until about June, when the warm weather means the fur is real thin.”

  “Do you know Jeb Smith?” Nathaniel thought to inquire.

  “I’ve met him a few times,” Zeke disclosed. “He’s got the mountains in his blood, and every mountain man in the wilderness recognizes him as one of the best who ever lived. And did you know he’s only around twenty-eight years old?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Nathaniel confessed. “Somehow, I figured he would be older.”

  Zeke locked his eyes on his nephew. “Out here, Nate, it’s not a man’s years that count. It’s his experience. You’re only nineteen. Why, if you were of a mind to stay out in the west, you could be as highly regarded as Jeb Smith by the time you’re twenty-eight.”

  “Stay out here?” Nathaniel said, and snorted at the idea. “Not when I have Adeline waiting for me.”

  Ezekiel’s fine spirits abruptly dissipated. “That’s right. I plumb forgot about Adeline.”

  “I never will,” Nathaniel vowed.

  Zeke turned to the body draped over the horse. “Give me a hand.”

  Together they dragged the man named Madison into the brush with his fellows, then covered all three with limbs and greenery.

  “Why go to all this bother if the vultures are going to eat them?” Nathaniel asked.

  “The scavengers will find them soon enough. In a few days they’ll be ripe enough to draw flies and coyotes from miles around. In the meantime, we want to put as much distance between them and us as we can. And we don’t want anyone to find them right away,” Zeke explained.

  They walked back to their horses.

  “What will we do with their animals?” Nathaniel questioned.

  “What do you think? We’ll keep them.”

  “We just take their animals? Doesn’t that make us the same as the men we killed?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Zeke chuckled. “We’re alive. They’re not.”

  They mounted and rode westward, Ezekiel leading three horses, Nathaniel only two. Except when spoken to, for the next five days Nathaniel hardly uttered a word, immersed in reflection on his part in the slayings of the would-be gold robbers. Zeke kept to himself, recognizing his nephew’s agitated state of mind and respectfully allowing the youth to sort the matter out, vividly recalling how he’d felt when he killed his first foe.

  On the fifth day, as he lay on his blanket not far from their smoldering fire, gazing in awe at the celestial display overhead, dazzled by the sheer number of stars, Nathaniel came to terms with himself. Since he wanted to return to Adeline at all costs, and si
nce he wouldn’t be able to see her again if he was dead, he logically concluded that staying alive was a foremost priority. And since in this great, sprawling wilderness where the men were often every bit as savage as the beasts they were trying to subdue, killing for food or simply in self-defense was an accepted practice, then if he was forced to kill to preserve his life, so be it. He believed his Maker would judge him in mercy and with compassion. And surely the Lord didn’t intend for a man to stand idly by while another took his life! With such thoughts of personal absolution soothing his soul, he drifted into peaceful slumber.

  The next morning the warmth of the rising sun on his upturned cheeks roused Nathaniel to wakefulness, and he sat up to discover his uncle already awake and packing their gear.

  “Well, sleepyhead, it’s nice to see you’re not going to sleep the day away,” Zeke joked.

  “How do you do it? No matter how early I rise, you’re always up before me,” Nathaniel commented, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

  “Life is meant for living, nephew. I don’t believe in wasting a minute. I’ve trained myself to wake at the first streak of light on the eastern horizon. You might practice doing the same.”

  “I’ll try,” Nathaniel said halfheartedly.

  Ezekiel grinned. “Why don’t you splash some life into you, Nate?”

  Nodding, Nathaniel rose and shuffled toward the Republican River, a distance of 30 yards. They had taken shelter for the night in a small clearing in the center of a ring of trees and scrub brush. His moccasins crunched on twigs as he ambled along. Still fatigued, his body sluggish to respond to the demands of a new day, he traversed the 30 yards in a daze. Only when he reached the south side of the river and knelt to dip his hands in the chilly water did he finally come to his full senses. And even then the water had nothing to do with his rude awakening. It was the guttural growl that emanated from off to his left, and the huge brute he spied when he swung in that direction.