time. “What in the world?”
“He camped in trees to hide his fire,” Zach said. “But when the wind blows, we catch a glimpse of it.”
“Who can it be?” I wondered.
“You don’t know?”
The accusation in his voice brought my head around. “What are you suggesting? That I had one of my party follow us? To what end?”
“A lot of people would like to know where King Valley is.”
I was offended. “I agreed to the conditions you set down, and I will abide by them.”
Zach shrugged. “We will find out tomorrow.”
“What are you saying?”
“That our shadow is in for a surprise.” Zach’s mouth curled in a grin that did not bode well for whoever was back there.
Need I say I had trouble falling asleep? It occurred to me that Zach might be right and I could be wrong through no fault of my own. I would not put it past Augustus Trevor to follow us despite my express wishes, or to have Jeffers or one of the others do so. He missed his calling being a scout; he should hire out as a nursemaid.
Eventually, though, slumber claimed me. I was so tired I slept straight through until I awoke to the shake of a hand on my shoulder.
Stars still ruled the firmament. To the east a golden glow framed the horizon. The sun would rise in half an hour, or thereabouts.
“You like getting an early start, I take it,” I grumbled.
“We have a long way to go,” Zach said.
I had not thought to ask, but I did so now. “How long will this trip take, anyhow?”
“Twelve to fourteen days, depending.”
“On what?”
“Whether everything goes well.” Zach held out some pemmican and I accepted.
“Don’t construe this the wrong way,” I said, “but you have a cynical nature. You always expect the worst.”
“I see things as they are, not as I would like them to be.”
“Do I detect criticism?” I bit into the pemmican and chewed with relish. It truly was delicious. I could understand why Indians liked it so much.
“Life is not the rainbow you make it out to be,” Zach said. “Life is blood and guts and claws and fangs. Life is an arrow in the back, a bullet to the brain. Life is the Piegans staking you out and peeling the skin from your body. Life is the Bloods digging your eyeballs from their sockets and cutting off your ears.”
“Dear Lord. They do that?”
“My pa and I once came across a trapper who had no eyes, no nose, no tongue. No fingers or toes, either. He still had his manhood, but it had been chopped off and stuffed in his mouth.”
I stopped chewing. My stomach was churning.
“Down Santa Fe way, the Apaches struck a bunch of freight wagons. When we happened by, everyone was dead. I was only a boy at the time, and the thing I remember most is a freighter who had been tied upside down to a wagon wheel.”
“Why upside down?” I asked despite myself.
“The Apaches lit a fire under his head and baked his brains. He was the lucky one. Some of the other freighters took hours to die.”
I had the impression this young man had witnessed an incredible amount of violence in his life. “Forgive me if I overstep myself, but I’ve heard that you have taken a few lives, yourself.”
Zach did not rise to the bait.
“Forgive me again, but how old were you when you killed your first man?” I justified my prying by telling myself that I was seeking insight into his character.
“What do you want to know for? So you can scribble it in that book you are always writing in.”
“It’s my journal,” I explained. “An account of my experiences. When I return to the States, I will combine what I have written with my paintings and sketches to broaden the scope of our understanding of the West.”
“You intend to tell the whole world I am bloodthirsty?” Zach asked resentfully.
“Only if you are. I strive to be factual. When I write about you, I will present you as you are.”
“Don’t,” Zach said.
“Don’t what?”
“Write about my family if you have to, but leave me out. Too many people have heard about me as it is.”
“How so?” I inquired, but he did not reply.
On that somewhat sour note our day began. We climbed steadily, hour after hour, winding along a game trail marked with deer tracks and occasional elk prints. We were so high up that when I glanced down at the prairie one last time, several antelope I spied were no bigger than ants.
I was more interested in the mountains. Before us reared a spine of peaks, the Continental Divide. To the south was the Sangre de Cristo Range. To the north the Rockies extended clear into Canada.
Even in the summer the highest peaks were crowned white with snow. Their ivory mantles glistened in testament to their altitude.
Prime timber cloaked the slopes, spruce and pine and firs, the latter more common higher up. Here and there stands of aspens broke the monotony of the evergreens.
The woodland alternated with broad grassy tracts called parks. They were a special treat for me because they were rife with wildflowers; columbines, daisies, wild geraniums, buttercups and more. When we came upon some wild roses I asked Zach to stop so I could sketch them. He told me there were some in King Valley, and we could not afford the delay.
No sooner did we reach the next belt of woodland, though, than he drew rein and announced, “We will stop here a spell.”
“What for?”
“So whoever is following us can catch up.” Zach swung down and led his horses farther into the woods.
More than mildly irritated, I did likewise. “We have time for this, but we could not spare the time for me to sketch those roses?”
“Roses won’t slit our throats while we sleep.” Zach looped the reins and the lead rope around separate saplings, hefted his rifle, and retraced his steps to the tree line.
“Do you know what your problem is?” I asked when I caught up with him. “You think the whole world is out to get you.”
“Tell it to that freighter I told you about,” Zach responded, and hunkered by a bole.
“I admit man’s inhumanity to man is boundless. But that is hardly cause to distrust everyone.”
“Say what you want,” Zach said. “I still have my hair.”
How can you dispute logic like that? I settled down to wait, opened my bag and took out my journal.
Half an hour went by. An hour. I was about ready to insist we move on when Zach King whispered, “Stay down and don’t make a sound.”
I gazed across the park and my breath caught in my throat.
A horse and rider were at the edge of the trees. At least, so I assumed; they were in the shadow of a tall spruce, and I could not see them clearly. Then the horse moved into the open.
“What in the world?” I blurted.
“Hush,” Zach said.
It was uncalled for. The horse was too far away to hear me. I opened my mouth to say as much but decided not to.
The horse came toward us. A saddle was on its back, and reins dangled. But no one was in the saddle. No one was holding those reins.
“Where can its owner be?” I whispered.
“Maybe in the trees with a rifle,” Zach answered, “waiting for us to show ourselves so he can pick us off.”
