have no idea what it’s like. I will do my best, but I can’t promise that you will make it back alive.”
“Honestly,” I said with a grin. “It won’t work. You can’t scare me into changing my mind.”
“You don’t get it,” Zach responded. “You think I am making much ado about nothing, as Shakespeare McNair would say. But the plain truth is that in the wild it is do or die. Nature does not play favorites. A mistake can cost you your life.”
“You have managed well enough,” I said. “You and your entire family. Including a younger sister, I hear.” I chuckled. “If she manages, so can I.”
“My sister and I were raised in the wilderness. We know all the animals and their ways. We know the plants and the trees. We can read the land, the weather and the stars. We never get lost. Can you say the same?”
“The sun rises in the east and sets in the west,” I glibly responded. “How hard can it be?”
“That’s not what I meant.” Again Zach sighed. “You will find out for yourself soon enough. Be sure to bring a rifle and two pistols and a water skin if you have one.”
“I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
The next several hours went by in a rush. Before I knew it, it was noon, and I sat down to eat with Trevor and Jeffers and the rest. The scout sought to talk me out of going, but I was immune to his entreaties. Finally I held up my hand.
“Enough. I appreciate your concern. I truly do. But I have made up my mind. You are to wait here until I return. I will pay you the same as I would if we were on the trail.”
“If you insist,” the scout said. “But mark my words. You will regret your decision.”
“Zach King was right,” I teased. “Much ado about nothing.”
At ten minutes until two, I was at the gate on my horse, a rifle in one hand and the lead rope to the pack horse in the other. I had not seen Zach since morning and half feared he had changed his mind and slipped away without my noticing. Then he approached leading his mount and pack animal.
Ceran St. Vrain was at his side.
I suppose I was beaming like an idiot because they looked at each other and Zach King shook his head.
“I came to see you off,” St. Vrain said. “Unless I can prevail on you to change your mind.”
“You, too?” I accused.
“Augustus Trevor came to see me,” St. Vrain revealed. “He begged me to use whatever small influence I might have to convince you that you are making a mistake.”
“The nerve,” I said. It seemed to me that everyone thought I was a total imcompetent.
“You are determined to go through with this, aren’t you?”
“Need you ask?”
“You are a grown man,” St. Vrain said. “But there is a saying out here that you should give some thought to.” He paused. “You can talk sense to a smart man but not to a fool.”
“That was harsh,” I said.
“Mr. Parker, I flatter myself that I know the frontier better than most. I can not stress the perils enough. So far you have had it remarkably easy. Oh, yes, I heard about the stampede, but in general your prairie crossing was free of mishaps, thanks in large measure to Augustus Trevor.” St. Vrain indicated the gate. “Once you go through there, you take your life in your hands. Zach, here, will do his best to keep you alive, but there is only so much he can do, and I would hate for—”
I held up my hand. “Enough.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“No more,” I declared. “As you pointed out, I am a grown man. It is my decision to make, and I have made it. Nothing you or anyone else can say will change my mind.”
“Very well then,” St. Vrain said stiffly.
“Hear me out,” I went on. “I am a naturalist. My passion is life in all its variety. I collect specimens. I paint animals and flowers and trees. The Rockies are a treasure trove for those in my profession. Only two other naturalists that I know of have been there before me. The opportunities are boundless. If I were to back out, I might as well shovel manure for a living.”
“I will not argue with such eloquence,” St. Vrain said. “May you find all that you are looking for, and may the Almighty in His omniscience spare you from your folly.”
I thanked him, we shook hands, and he gave the order to have the gate opened. Zach King had been strangely silent during our exchange, and I said to him, “What? No comments to add?”
“Since you asked, there is another expression we have in these parts.” Zach looked at me. “Every coon digs his own grave.”
On that note I followed him out of the trading post and off into the dark heart of the unknown.
Chapter Six
Ah! The sweet intoxicating joy of the moment when we reached the foothills! I was practically giddy with excitement.
My powers of description fail me when it comes to describing the Rockies. Compared to them, the mountains of the East are no more than glorified bumps. The Rockies tower
My companion was not nearly as enamored. He rode alertly, his Hawken across the saddle in front of him. Again and again he shifted to look back. I checked behind us a few times but saw nothing to account for his interest.
We were well up into the foothills when Zach twisted in the saddle yet again, compelling me to ask, “Why do you keep doing that?”
“We’re being followed.”
“What? The devil you say!” I turned and stared long and hard. “I don’t see anyone.”
“He is back there.”
“It is just one man?” For a moment I was worried it might be the Hook brothers and Cutter.
“One is too many. He’s been following us all afternoon. You’ll see for yourself once the sun goes down unless he makes a cold camp.”
We stopped for the night on the crown of a hill. Zach picked the spot, I divined, for the view it gave of the surrounding countryside. At his bidding I gathered firewood. As he opened his possibles bag and took out a fire steel and flint, I could not help asking, “Is building a fire wise? It will tell our shadow where we are.”
“He already knows. For us not to have one might make him suspect we know he is back there.”
“What do you intend to do about it?”
“Find out who it is.”
“How?”
Zach did not answer. I was to learn that was a habit of his when he did not care to divulge his intentions.
“We didn’t shoot game for the supper pot. What will we eat?”
“I have plenty of jerky and pemmican. We won’t go hungry.”
Jerky, I was familiar with; I ate a lot of it while crossing the prairie. Pemmican, however, was new to me. It seems that it is a staple of the Indians. They dry buffalo meat, grind it until the consistency resembles flour, then mix it with fat and berries. Zach King kept his in a beaded bag he called a parfleche, apparently his mother’s handiwork. Her craftsmanship was superb.
We were about done eating when Zach pointed and said, “Our shadow is filling his belly, too.”
Sure enough, a tiny orange tongue licked at the darkness lower down. Even as I set eyes on it, the light blinked out, only to reappear a few seconds later. Then, to my amazement, it blinked out and reappeared a second
