Wilderness Double Edition 11 by David Robbins

Author:David Robbins
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: rocky mountains, native american indians, david thompson, hawken rifle, us frontier fiction, david l robbins, nate king, mountain men in the 1800s
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

WILDERNESS 22: TRAIL’S END

Dedicated to Judy, Joshua, and Shane.

One

Nate King reined up the instant the forest fell silent.

A moment before, the big free trapper had been winding up a steep switchback toward a jagged ridge. He rode easily in the saddle, as befitted a man who spent so much of his time on horseback.

Like many of his hardy breed, the mountain man favored an Indian style of dress. Buckskins covered his powerful frame. Moccasins protected his feet. On his head rested a dark beaver hat crowned by a single eagle feather.

Whenever Nate ventured from his family’s cabin nestled high in the majestic Rocky Mountains, he went armed for bear, as the saying had it. In this instance a brace of flintlock pistols were wedged under his wide brown leather belt. On his right hip hung a long butcher knife in a beaded sheath. On his left side was a Shoshone tomahawk. An ammo pouch, powder horn, and possibles bag were all slanted across his broad chest. And held firmly in his left hand with the polished stock braced on his thigh was a Hawken rifle.

Moments ago the surrounding slopes had been alive with sounds: the gay chirping of sparrows, the strident squawk of jays, the chattering of squirrels, and more. Then, as abruptly as if a gigantic invisible hand had smothered every living creature, the sounds had died.

Now the air lay deathly still. Nate King cocked his ruggedly handsome head from side to side, but detected no hint of noise other than the fluttering whisper of the northwesterly breeze. Yet there had to be something—or someone—out there.

Small animals were notoriously skittish. The cough of a roving grizzly, the throaty growl of a prowling painter, or the passage of a large body of men would quiet all wildlife within earshot.

Nate, though, had not heard a thing, and years of living in the high country had heightened his senses to where they were keener than those of most men.

The big trapper shifted to scan a tract of firs above him and dense pines to his right. Not so much as a chickadee stirred, that he could see. Which in itself meant little.

Predators and hostiles were not about to advertise their presence. The first inkling there might be of an attack could well be the roar of an on-rushing silver tip or the searing jolt of an arrow in the ribs. He had to stay alert.

Trappers did not last long if they were careless. In recent years, hundreds of young men had flocked to the frontier to make their living at the fur trade, and many scores of them would never see their kin back in the States ever again.

Bleached bones were all that remained of their youthful dreams, their craving for adventure.

Tense moments dragged by. Nate rested his thumb on the hammer of his rifle and lightly touched his finger to the trigger. His black stallion was gazing to the northwest with its ears pricked. He looked in the same direction but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

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