Fear Weaver

“That is some recommendation,” Aunt Aggie said.

Peter kneed his horse forward, dismounted, and held out a hand as limp as his hair. “Permit me to introduce us. I am Peter Woodrow out of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.”

Nate wondered if they were Quakers, but then quickly realized they must not be since they were armed. Quakers never, ever carried guns; they didn’t believe in violence of any kind.

“This fine woman is my wife, Erleen. Agatha is her older sister. All of us call her Aunt Aggie. We’ve hired Mr. Ryker on an urgent matter and have spent the better part of two weeks making our way ever deeper into these mountains.”

The last four riders had come over the top. It confirmed what Nate had seen through his spyglass, and his frown returned. Standing, he rounded on Edwin Ryker. “What in God’s name are you doing, bringing these pilgrims this far in? Have you warned them they could lose their hair?”

“Many a time and then some,” Ryker replied. “Don’t be mad at me. They would have come by themselves if they couldn’t find a guide. The way I look at it, I’m doing them a favor. And being paid for it.”

“You seem agitated, Mr. King,” Aunt Aggie said.

“I have reason to be. You folks are asking for grief. You’ve made a mistake. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Care to tell us why?” Peter asked.

“Where to begin?” Nate scratched his chin. “Let’s start with the meat-eaters. Most haven’t been killed off, as they have east of the Mississippi. They are everywhere. Then there are the hostiles. Indians who will slit your throat for no other reason than you are white. And even if you are lucky and don’t run into a griz or a war party your horse could throw you and you could break a leg or come down sick. And there aren’t any doctors.”

“That was some speech, handsome.”

“Aggie, please,” Erleen said, and turned to Nate. “We appreciate your concern, Mr. King. But you are the one who is mistaken. We must be here, come what may.”

Peter nodded. “We are looking for someone.”

“And did you have to bring them?” Nate asked, nodding at the last four riders. More of the Woodrow brood: two boys and two girls, all smartly dressed.

“Of course,” Peter said. “We are a family. We do everything together. Where Erleen and I go, our children go.” He pointed at a spitting image of himself. “That’s Fitch. He is eighteen.” He pointed at his other son, who took after the mother. “That’s Harper. He’s seventeen. As you can see, both are armed, and fair shots.”

“Fair isn’t always good enough out here.”

Peter Woodrow pointed at a girl in a blue bonnet. “That’s Anora. She’s fifteen, and as fine a little lady as a father could ask for.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir.”

Peter indicated the last of his offspring. “And this is Tyne, our youngest. She’s only twelve, and a lively bundle, if I do say so myself.”

Tyne smiled sweetly. Unlike the rest of her family,who all had dark eyes and dark hair, Tyne had straw- colored curls, and her eyes were lake blue, like Nate’s own. “Aren’t these mountains wonderful, Mr. King?”

“They can be deadly, too.”

“As Aunt Aggie likes to say, we can’t fret over what might never happen. She says we should look for the good in life, not the bad.”

Agatha grinned. “I am a regular sage.”

“I wish I could make you understand,” Nate said.

“We have done well so far,” Peter said. “The dangers in these mountains have been exaggerated.”

“That they have,” Erleen agreed. “To hear folks back home talk, we should have been scalped the minute we crossed the Mississippi River.”

Nate sighed. “You mentioned that you are searching for someone?”

“My younger brother, Sullivan,” Peter answered. “He came west with his wife and three boys about a year and a half ago. He managed to get a letter back to us shortly after they got here, and then nothing. I mean to find out if he is still alive, and if not, to learn his fate.”

“He came to the Rockies?” Nate was mildly surprised. He could count the number of settlers on two hands and have fingers left over. “I’ve never heard of any Sullivan Woodrow.”

Peter gestured at the towering peaks to the west. “Sully is somewhere in there. He wrote us how to find his cabin. Even with his directions, though, Mr. Ryker is having a hard time.”

Edwin Ryker had been listening to their exchange. Now he addressed Nate, saying, “I’ve read the letter. You won’t believe it. This Sully wanted to live as a trapper.”

“The beaver trade died out long ago.”

“You know that and I know that, but this Sully figured there must be enough beaver and other animals around to make a living.”

Nate grunted. A man could make a living at it. Good furs were always in demand. But trapping was hard, brutal work, and the money to be made wasn’t enough for a family of five to live comfortably. “Was this Sully a woodsman? Could he live off the land?”

“I would rather you didn’t use the past tense,” Peter said. “And yes, my brother is the best woodsman I know. Back East, he spent nearly all his time hunting or fishing. One year he brought down six deer.”

“Sully has always loved the outdoors,” Erleen added. “The forest was in his blood.”

Nate wasn’t impressed. The wilds of the East were nothing like the wilds of the West. It could well be that Sully had no idea what he was letting himself in for when he brought his family to the Rockies. “What was this about directions?”

It was Ryker who answered. “The letter mentions a few landmarks. If I’ve read it right, Sullivan’s cabin is on the other side of this range.”

“Over the divide?”

Ryker nodded. “In a high valley. He mentions sand-stone cliffs that can be seen for miles. One is split down the middle and looks like a giant V.”

Nate gave a slight start.

“What? Do you know where the valley is?”

“I might.” Nate had wandered all over the central Rockies when he was a trapper. From the geyser country to the deserts of the Southwest, he knew the land well.

Erleen Woodrow clasped her hands. “That’s wonderful news! You are a godsend, Mr. King.”

“How so?”

“You can take us there. It would save us considerable time, and we would be ever so grateful.”

“I’d be in your debt,” Peter stressed.

Nate stared at the stark heights they were making for. “If I’m right, your brother picked country few whites have ever set foot in.”

“The very kind Sully wanted.”

“Bears and the like will be as thick as fleas on an old hound. And there are bound to be Indians.”

“Is that a yes or a no?” Aunt Aggie asked.

Nate stared at her, then at the two sons and the girls. His gaze lingered on young Tyne’s innocent features. He thought of his own daughter, Evelyn, and he gave the only answer he could.

Into the Heart of Darkness

Late summer in the Rockies.

The lush green of a wet spring had given way to the parched greens and somber shades of dry day after dry day. At the lower elevations withering heat blistered man and beast. But up in the high country while it was every bit as dry it wasn’t quite as hot.

As best Nate could judge, the pass he and the others were making for was at ten thousand feet. He had been over it only once, many summers ago when he and hundreds of other trappers were prowling in search of streams and rivers that might harbor the industrious creatures their livelihoods depended on.

At this altitude the air had a rarified quality that made Nate conscious of each breath he took. His lungs had