Fear Weaver

Godsend

Few natural wonders stirred Nate King like the Rocky Mountains. He still remembered the first time he set eyes on them: the emerald foothills, the green of the thick timber that covered the higher slopes, the brown of the rocky heights crowned by white caps of snow. Peaks that reared miles into the sky. Compared to the splendor of the Rockies, the mountains of his native New York were so many pitiful bumps.

On this particular morning Nate was many miles from the remote valley his family called home. He was astride his favorite bay, on his way to the village of his wife’s cousin, Touch The Clouds. The Shoshones were contemplating a raid on their enemies the Blackfeet, and Touch The Clouds wanted Nate to sit in on the council. It showed the high regard in which the Sho-shones held him. That, and Nate suspected the Shoshones hoped he would help them get their hands on a few more rifles.

The last thing Nate expected to come across so deep in the mountains were other whites. But from high atop a ridge Nate spied eight riders, the last leading a couple of pack horses, winding west in his direction. They had no inkling he was there.

Nate was heading north. He raised his reins to ride on, but curiosity got the better of him. Reaching back, he opened a beaded parfleche his wife had made and brought out a collapsible metal tube. Extending it, he pressed the scalloped eyepiece to his eye.

Nate was a big man, broad of shoulder and narrow of waist. He was dressed in buckskins. A beaver hat crowned his black thatch of hair. An ammo pouch, powder horn and possibles bag crisscrossed his broad chest. Wedged under his wide leather belt were a pair of flintlocks, while jutting from a beaded saddle sheath was the stock of a Hawken rifle. On his right hip hung a bowie, on his left a tomahawk. He was, in short, a walking arsenal. He needed to be.

As Nate studied the eight riders through his spy-glass, his mouth curled in a frown. “I’ll be switched,” he said to his bay. Four of the eight in particular were responsible for his frown. “Some folks have no more sense than a tree stump.”

Angry, Nate snapped the telescope in upon itself, and shoved it into his parfleche. “They are none of my business,” he declared, and again went to ride on to the north and the Shoshone village.

Nate hesitated. His conscience pricked him, as it often did in situations like this. For long minutes he debated whether to go on or go down and talk to the party below. Exasperated with himself, he reined sharply down the slope.

The lead rider spotted him and pointed. As well the man should, since he, like Nate, was a frontiersman.

Nate threaded through a belt of lodgepole pines and came out on a flat bench. Rather than go lower,he drew rein and dismounted to await the eight. It was a quarter of an hour before they reached him, and in that time Nate gathered dead limbs, used his fire steel and flint, and tinder from his tinderbox, to kindle a fire, and put coffee on to brew.

When the other frontiersman came over the crest, Nate was seated on a log he had dragged close to the fire, his Hawken across his legs. He didn’t smile or lift a hand in greeting. Instead, he leveled the Hawken and said bluntly, “I should kill you here and now.”

The man made no attempt to raise his own rifle. Lean and bony, he had a high forehead, stringy brown hair that hung limp under a floppy brown hat, and a jagged scar where his left ear should be. “I thought it might be you. Not many are your size.”

“My son tells me you were there when he was whipped.” Nate was referring to an incident not long ago in which his oldest, Zach, had tangled with an English lord.

“Did he also tell you I had no hand in the whipping? And that I did what I could to help him escape?”

Nate slowly lowered the Hawken. The mere thought of harm coming to either of his children was enough to fill him with fury. He loved Zach and Evelyn dearly and devotedly, and anyone who hurt them must answer to him. “He told me, Ryker. Which is why I’m not going to blow out your wick.”

Edwin Ryker let out a long breath. “You had me worried there. I don’t want you for an enemy.”

“We have never been bosom friends.”

The other riders were filing onto the bench. A white-haired bantam of a woman in a floral dress and yellow bonnet jabbed a bony finger at Nate and demanded, “Why were you pointing your rifle at our guide just now? If you are a brigand, all you will get from us is an early grave.”

“Aunt Aggie, please,” said a man of fifty or so. His clothes were store bought. He had a thin mustache and thin sideburns and no chin to speak off. “Hush, and let us men handle this.”

The woman who had threatened Nate was not the least bit intimidated. “Pshaw, Peter. Men are good for two things in this world. As beasts of burden and to help breed. Beyond that, we women would be better off without you.”

Nate laughed.

Aunt Aggie’s back became ramrod straight. “Find me humorous, do you, you great lump of muscle?”

“I find you marvelous. My wife would agree with your opinion of my gender. She has tongue-lashed my ears many a time.”

“I dare say you deserved it,” Aunt Aggie said, but she was smiling. “Although I must admire her taste. For a lump of muscle you are uncommonly handsome.”

A woman about the same age as Peter let out with a loud sigh. “Enough, Aggie. Must you always embarrass us?”

“I speak my mind, Erleen. You would do well to do the same. Timidity never got anyone anywhere.”

“We don’t know this man from Adam, yet you carry on with him like some tavern tart. I wish just once you would remember you are supposed to act like a lady. And if you can’t do that, at least act your age.”

“Did you hear her?” Aunt Aggie said to Nate. “She was born with a sour disposition, and life has not improved it much.”

“Agatha!” Erleen declared. “I will thank you to shush until we find out who this man is and whether he is trustworthy.”

“I can answer both questions,” Edwin Ryker said. “This here is Nate King. He got his start as a free trapper years ago, and now he lives somewhere in these mountains with his family and a few close friends. As for trusting him, he is as trustworthy as a man can be this side of walking on water.”

“That is some recommendation,” Aunt Aggie said.

Peter kneed his horse forward, dismounted, and held out a hand as limp as his hair. “Permit me to introduce us. I am Peter Woodrow out of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.”

Nate wondered if they were Quakers, but then quickly realized they must not be since they were armed. Quakers never, ever carried guns; they didn’t believe in violence of any kind.

“This fine woman is my wife, Erleen. Agatha is her older sister. All of us call her Aunt Aggie. We’ve hired Mr. Ryker on an urgent matter and have spent the better part of two weeks making our way ever deeper into these mountains.”

The last four riders had come over the top. It confirmed what Nate had seen through his spyglass, and his frown returned. Standing, he rounded on Edwin Ryker. “What in God’s name are you doing, bringing these pilgrims this far in? Have you warned them they could lose their hair?”

“Many a time and then some,” Ryker replied. “Don’t be mad at me. They would have come by themselves if they couldn’t find a guide. The way I look at it, I’m doing them a favor. And being paid for it.”

“You seem agitated, Mr. King,” Aunt Aggie said.

“I have reason to be. You folks are asking for grief. You’ve made a mistake. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Care to tell us why?” Peter asked.

“Where to begin?” Nate scratched his chin. “Let’s start with the meat-eaters. Most haven’t been killed off, as they have east of the Mississippi. They are everywhere. Then there are the hostiles. Indians who will slit your throat for no other reason than you are white. And even if you are lucky and don’t run into a griz or a war party your horse could throw you and you could break a leg or come down sick. And there aren’t any doctors.”

“That was some speech, handsome.”

“Aggie, please,” Erleen said, and turned to Nate. “We appreciate your concern, Mr. King. But you are the one who is mistaken. We must be here, come what may.”

Peter nodded. “We are looking for someone.”

“And did you have to bring them?” Nate asked, nodding at the last four riders. More of the Woodrow brood: two boys and two girls, all smartly dressed.

“Of course,” Peter said. “We are a family. We do everything together. Where Erleen and I go, our children go.” He pointed at a spitting image of himself. “That’s Fitch. He is eighteen.” He pointed at his other son, who took after the mother. “That’s Harper. He’s seventeen. As you can see, both are armed, and fair shots.”

“Fair isn’t always good enough out here.”

Peter Woodrow pointed at a girl in a blue bonnet. “That’s Anora. She’s fifteen, and as fine a little lady as a father could ask for.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir.”

Peter indicated the last of his offspring. “And this is Tyne, our youngest. She’s only twelve, and a lively bundle, if I do say so myself.”

Tyne smiled sweetly. Unlike the rest of her family,who all had dark eyes and dark hair, Tyne had straw-colored curls, and her eyes were lake blue, like Nate’s own. “Aren’t these mountains wonderful, Mr. King?”

“They can be deadly, too.”

“As Aunt Aggie likes to say, we can’t fret over what might never happen. She says we should look for the good in life, not the bad.”

Agatha grinned. “I am a regular sage.”

“I wish I could make you understand,” Nate said.

“We have done well so far,” Peter said. “The dangers in these mountains have been exaggerated.”

“That they have,” Erleen agreed. “To hear folks back home talk, we should have been scalped the minute we crossed the Mississippi River.”

Nate sighed. “You mentioned that you are searching for someone?”

“My younger brother, Sullivan,” Peter answered. “He came west with his wife and three boys about a year and a half ago. He managed to get a letter back to us shortly after they got here, and then nothing. I mean to find out if he is still alive, and if not, to learn his fate.”

“He came to the Rockies?” Nate was mildly surprised. He could count the number of settlers on two hands and have fingers left over. “I’ve never heard of any Sullivan Woodrow.”

Peter gestured at the towering peaks to the west. “Sully is somewhere in there. He wrote us how to find his cabin. Even with his directions, though, Mr. Ryker is having a hard time.”

Edwin Ryker had been listening to their exchange. Now he addressed Nate, saying, “I’ve read the letter. You won’t believe it. This Sully wanted to live as a trapper.”

“The beaver trade died out long ago.”

“You know that and I know that, but this Sully figured there must be enough beaver and other animals around to make a living.”

Nate grunted. A man could make a living at it. Good furs were always in demand. But trapping was hard, brutal work, and the money to be made wasn’t enough for a family of five to live comfortably. “Was this Sully a woodsman? Could he live off the land?”

“I would rather you didn’t use the past tense,” Peter said. “And yes, my brother is the best woodsman I know. Back East, he spent nearly all his time hunting or fishing. One year he brought down six deer.”

“Sully has always loved the outdoors,” Erleen added. “The forest was in his blood.”

Nate wasn’t impressed. The wilds of the East were nothing like the wilds of the West. It could well be that Sully had no idea what he was letting himself in for when he brought his family to the Rockies. “What was this about directions?”

It was Ryker who answered. “The letter mentions a few landmarks. If I’ve read it right, Sullivan’s cabin is on the other side of this range.”

“Over the divide?”

Ryker nodded. “In a high valley. He mentions sand-stone cliffs that can be seen for miles. One is split down the middle and looks like a giant V.”

Nate gave a slight start.

“What? Do you know where the valley is?”

“I might.” Nate had wandered all over the central Rockies when he was a trapper. From the geyser country to the deserts of the Southwest, he knew the land well.

Erleen Woodrow clasped her hands. “That’s wonderful news! You are a godsend, Mr. King.”

“How so?”

“You can take us there. It would save us considerable time, and we would be ever so grateful.”

“I’d be in your debt,” Peter stressed.

Nate stared at the stark heights they were making for. “If I’m right, your brother picked country few whites have ever set foot in.”

“The very kind Sully wanted.”

“Bears and the like will be as thick as fleas on an old hound. And there are bound to be Indians.”

“Is that a yes or a no?” Aunt Aggie asked.

Nate stared at her, then at the two sons and the girls. His gaze lingered on young Tyne’s innocent features. He thought of his own daughter, Evelyn, and he gave the only answer he could.