“I’m flattered,” Shakespeare said dryly.
“I can’t stand the thought of her being hurt, or worse,” Nate confessed. “It eats at me like a termite eats at wood.”
“You need to put it from your mind. Winona and you taught Evelyn well.” Shakespeare paused. “ ‘The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath.’ ”
“You’re saying God would never let anything happen to her? I know better.”
“Let’s hope the Almighty didn’t hear that,” Shakespeare quipped. “You’re getting cynical in your young age.”
“I’m in my middle years and I’ve learned enough to know that rain falls on all of us.”
“Haven’t you heard, Horatio? Some folks say that raindrops are the tears of God. Anyway, she’s with Waku and his family. They won’t let anything happen to her.”
“Tell that to a war party out to count coup. Or to a hungry griz. Or to any of the other thousand and one things that can do her harm.”
“Keep this up and you’ll have hair as white as mine.”
Nate lowered his gaze from the heavens. “All I want is my daughter safe and sound. That’s all I ask. She was supposed to be back by now.” He closed his eyes and tried to put the worry from his mind. Maybe it was silly of him to get so wrought up, but he had seen too much of the brutal and cruel to take it for granted his daughter was safe.
At the crack of dawn they were up.
Shakespeare rose stiffly and winced. “I wish that book you have were true. I’d look up that doctor and have him operate on me.”
About to roll up his blanket, Nate asked in puzzlement. “Which book?” He owned dozens. They filled a bookshelf in his cabin and were his most prized possessions.
“The one written by that lady, Shelley.”
“Mary Shelley is her name. The book is called
“That’s the one. It’s too bad there isn’t a real Dr. Frankenstein. I’d have him take the brain out of my body and plunk it in a younger one.”
Nate laughed. “First volcanoes, now this. And to think you haven’t had a drop of brandy.”
“Wait until you’re my age and then poke fun. It’s not easy, getting old. It’s not easy to have your body betray you. In your mind you can leap tall trees at a single bound, but in real life you can’t hardly lift your feet over a log.”
“Oh, please,” Nate scoffed. “You have more vigor than men half your age. It wouldn’t surprise me if you lived to be a hundred.”
“ ‘You prattle something too wildly,’ ” Shakespeare quoted, and grew serious. “We’ve been friends for so long, I don’t blame you for taking it for granted I’ll be around a good long while yet. But these old bones aren’t what they used to be.”
“Quit that kind of talk. Whether you have five years left or ten, the important thing is that you’re not going to keel over this very moment.”
Shakespeare clutched his chest and staggered, crying out, “ ‘You spoke too soon, Horatio! My end is nigh.’ ”
“You’re hopeless.” Nate saddled the bay and was ready to ride out. He sat astride it, watching McNair tug on his cinch. “Tell me true. What do you rate our chances?”
“Of finding your sweet Evelyn alive and well?” Shakespeare rubbed his white beard. “About fifty-fifty, I’d say. The prairie takes up a lot of territory and there’s just the two of us.”
“I prefer it that way.” Nate’s wife had been all set to accompany him when their daughter-in-law, who was in the family way, came down sick. Nate’s other half, who was well versed in herbs and healing, decided to stay and watch over her, much to the relief of their son, Zach.
“Are you afraid we’ll run into trouble and you didn’t want your lovely lady in harm’s path?” Shakespeare smiled. “I admire the sentiment. That’s why I asked my wife to lend yours a hand.”
On they rode. While Nate had complained of the prairie being flat, it wasn’t. Gullies, washes, and an occasional knoll or hill broke the sameness. About the middle of the morning they came to a shallow stream and drew rein.
“Another hour, maybe two, and we’ll be at Bent’s,” Shakespeare said.
Nate couldn’t wait. A former trading post, Bent’s Fort had no connection with the military. Rather, it was a hub of commerce for a score of tribes both near and far. It was also a stopping point on the Santa Fe Trail and for those bound for Oregon Country.
“If there has been any word of her, they’ll have heard it,” Shakespeare confirmed.
“Let’s hope,” Nate said. Bent’s was an information hub, as well. If a man wanted to know whether the Blackfeet were acting up, or how far afield the Sioux were raiding, or how many pilgrims were with the last wagon train bound for the Willamette Valley, all he had to do was ask at Bent’s.
“Did you hear something, Horatio?”
Nate was so absorbed in worry over Evelyn he hadn’t been paying attention, a potentially fatal lapse in the wilderness. Hefting his Hawken, he raked the cottonwoods and undergrowth. A few sparrows were flitting about. Other than that, the vegetation was undisturbed.
“I could have sworn I did,” Shakespeare said.
“What was it? A footstep? An animal? What?”
“I’m not sure.”
Nate hid his surprise. His mentor was usually so alert and confident. “I’ll have a look-see.” It bothered him, all this talk of old age and dying. It was unlike McNair to brood. He made up his mind to have a long talk with him after they returned to King Valley.
The sudden snap of a twig brought Nate up short. Here he was, making the worst mistake a man could in the wilds: letting himself be distracted when there might be hostiles or a wild beast about. He wedged the Hawken to his shoulder and made ready to shoot.
Off in the brush something moved, something big, its silhouette a dark shadow against the backdrop of green. Nate hoped to God it wasn’t a hostile on horseback or a griz. He’d had his fill of fighting both. Back when he’d first come West to trap beaver, grizzlies were everywhere. He’d happened to tangle with one, and a Cheyenne warrior who witnessed the clash gave him the name by which all the tribes now knew him: Grizzly Killer.
The silhouette moved.
Nate held still. The shadow darkened, a sign it was coming toward him, and the next instant the creature stepped into view.
Chuckling, Nate let the Hawken’s muzzle dip. “I don’t see many of your kind this low anymore.”
The cow elk stared at him without concern. Slowly, lazily, she munched and moved off.
Nate turned back. He was glad it hadn’t been a hostile. He would rather avoid running into one if he could help it. The problem was, a lot of tribes regarded whites as invaders, to be exterminated every chance they got. The Blackfeet, the Piegans, the Bloods, the Sioux, all were determined to drive the white man out. Not the Shoshones, though. His wife’s people had always been friendly to whites, so much so, they adopted him into the tribe when he took Winona to be his wife.
It was strange how life worked out, Nate reflected. When he was growing up in New York he’d never imagined that one day he would live in the Rocky Mountains and call them his home. He’d never imagined a beautiful Indian woman would claim his heart, or that they would have two children, a boy and a girl, who grew to be the apples of his eye.
Ahead was the spot where they had stopped.
Shakespeare was standing near the horses, holding the reins to the white mare.
“It was an elk,” Nate said. He started to go around the mare to his bay but stopped when he saw his friend’s expression. “Something the matter?” he asked, and looked in the direction Shakespeare was looking.
There were four of them. Swarthy warriors with long oval faces, their black hair parted in the middle and hanging past their shoulders on either side. Instead of buckskins they wore long tunics and kneehigh moccasins.
