The mother bear had not slowed. In fact, she was angling to intercept me, and moving with amazing speed. Over short distances bears can outrun horses, and she was rapidly overtaking mine.
“Shoot her!” Zach shouted. He had reined around and was racing to my aid.
I refused to do any such thing. She was only protecting her young. I still thought I could escape, and goaded my horse to go faster. My effort was too little, too late.
Hurtling headlong, the mother bear slammed into my mount broadside. The impact bowled us over, and my horse shrieked in terror. I pushed free of the saddle to avoid being crushed. I was successful, but instead of landing on my side and rolling away, as I intended, I came down in the lake. The water wasn’t deep, no more than knee high, but I got it in my eyes and my nose and came up blinking and sputtering. For a few seconds everything was a blur. Then my vision cleared, and I saw that my horse had scrambled upright and was fleeing.
The mother bear let it go.
She was more interested in me.
Not six feet separated us. Her hackles were up and her teeth were bared. Rage incarnate, she intended to rip me limb from limb.
Zach was bellowing for me to shoot her.
I still had my rifle, but it had gone under the water. It would probably misfire. I had a pistol, but that, too, had gotten wet. Even if I could use them, though, I wouldn’t. As I have already stressed, I refrain from killing when at all possible.
My noble purpose notwithstanding, she was in a bestial frenzy, and in another instant would charge.
Then hooves pounded, and Zach went flying by. He let out a whoop, perhaps to draw the mother bear’s attention, and slid onto the side of his horse, as he had done that day he snatched up my sketchbook. Only this time it was the cub he snatched. Exhibiting uncanny skill, he grabbed hold of the scruff of its neck, yanked it off the ground and swung back up.
The cub squalled in terror.
At that, the mother bear whirled. In a heartbeat she was off after Zach. He had reined toward the forest, and when he was almost there, he again swung onto the side of his horse and dropped the cub gently to the ground. It rolled and came up unscathed. Zach did not stop; he rode in a half circle that would bring him back to me.
As for the mother bear, she reached her offspring and without seeming to break stride, caught the cub up in her mouth. In the bat of an eye they were in among the trees. The racket raised by her flight soon faded.
I shuffled out of the lake and let out a breath I had not realized I was holding.
Zach came to a stop and looked down at me. “What got into you? You didn’t even try to kill her.”
“You didn’t either, I noticed,” I responded.
“It is hard to aim from horseback,” Zach said. “I didn’t want to risk wounding her and making her madder.”
I grinned. “Pretend all you want, but I know the truth about you now.”
“Which truth would that be?”
“You are a fraud, Zachary King. You have a reputation for being a savage killer when you are no such thing. You are as tenderhearted as I or the next person.”
Voices ended our banter. People were running toward us, and several of them were calling out Zach’s name. He dismounted.
I had been told enough about them that I knew who they were before I was introduced.
Louisa King, Zach’s wife, was a petite bundle of energy in buckskins. Short sandy hair lent her a boyish aspect. Her eyes were the same bright blue as the lake. Squealing in delight, she threw herself at her husband and wrapped her slender arms tight. “I’ve missed you!”
Next to arrive was a tall, broad-shouldered man whose green eyes, high cheekbones and strong jaw were mirror images of Zach’s. Or should I say it was the other way around? For this was Zach’s sire, Nate King, a mountain man ranked with the likes of Kit Carson and Jim Bridger, according to Ceran St. Vrain. The father, too, wore buckskins, and he, like Zach, was a walking armory.
The woman at Nate’s side had to be his Shoshone wife, Winona. She was quite lovely. I read in her an uncommon alertness and intelligence. Zach had said she possessed a tender temperament, and I could read that, as well, in the loving gaze she bestowed on him. She wore a beautiful doeskin dress decorated with blue beads.
A girl of sixteen or so proved to be Zach’s sister, Evelyn King. Where Zach had more of his mother in him, she had more of her father. Not that she was unattractive. Far from it. She was adorable. She also wore a dress, but a dress such as women on the streets of St. Louis or New Orleans would wear. She was the only one of the Kings who did not wear moccasins. Her footwear? Ordinary shoes.
An older couple were the last to arrive. The man’s hair and beard were as white as pristine snow. He had to be in his seventies or eighties, yet his vitality was that of someone half his age. His craggy face glowed with warmth and friendliness, and I took an immediate liking to him. He could be none other than Shakespeare McNair.
McNair’s Flathead wife was known as Blue Water Woman. She was quiet, almost shy. Her hair had a few gray streaks, but otherwise she did not look her age. Her dress was also adorned with beads, but her beads were red and yellow, not blue. She was quite exquisite, more so to me than the other women. Why that should be, who can say?
These, then, were the Kings and their dearest friends. They greeted me cordially enough.
Nate King’s hand was twice the size of mine. He shook firmly while scrutinizing me from head to toe. “So you are a naturalist?”
“I hope my visit will not be an imposition.”
“We don’t get many visitors,” Nate said. He did not add “I like it that way,” but that is the feeling he gave me. Instead he said, “My son vouches for you. You are welcome to stay as long as you want.”
“Thank you.”
Winona and Evelyn were models of decorum. Then it was Shakespeare McNair’s turn. He worked my arm as if it were a pump lever and gave a mock bow.
“‘Here, Winchester, I offer thee my hand,’” he quoted. “‘I bid thee greetings.’”
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,” I said. “Your notoriety precedes you.”
“All mimicry, I am afraid,” Shakespeare said. “‘Oh, for a Muse of fire that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.’”
“Is that from
“
“A few of his works,” I admitted. “But nowhere near the degree you are.”
“A little is better than none.” Shakespeare nodded at Nate King. “For years I have been trying to get Horatio there to appreciate the Bard as much as I do, but he would rather read the likes of Cooper, Irving and Scott. Which shows there is no taste like no taste.”
Nate chuckled. “I will have you know James Feni-more Cooper’s works are as good as your namesake’s any day.”
Shakespeare pressed a hand to his chest and took a step back as if in shock. “Did my ears hear aright? ‘Methink’s thou art a general offense and every man should beat thee.’”
I could not help but laugh.
“Pay him no mind,” Nate said to me. “He prattles on like this constantly. I can lend you bits of cotton to stick in your ears if need be.”
McNair sputtered, then exclaimed dramatically, “‘There can be no kernel in this light nut! The soul of this man is in his clothes.’”
“Honestly, now,” Nate said. “Do you want Mr. Parker to think you are not in your right mind?”
“I find the ass in compound with the major part of your syllables,” Shakespeare jousted.
Again I laughed. “‘A hit,’” I quoted from
To my consternation, McNair seized me by the shoulders and kissed me roughly on the cheek. “Did you hear him, Horatio? He knows! He
“Please, sir,” I said, disentangling myself. “Constrain yourself. You are spoken for, in case you have
