Wilderness double editio.., p.7
Wilderness Double Edition 18, page 7
Glasses were raised and clinked together at the toast.
Ezriah Hampton, gnawing on a piece of buttered biscuit, stopped chewing long enough to grumble, “Why didn’t he mention me? Half the time these people act as if I don’t exist.” He ran a hand along his cloak. “And me in my best duds, too. It’s downright humiliating.”
Colonel Proctor wasn’t done. “Good people of New Eden, in a day or so Lame Bear is due to return. With him rides our hopes. I have every confidence our offer will be accepted by all parties involved, and before the year is out we can send an emissary to Washington.”
Cheers rose to the rafters.
Nate was mystified as to how the nation’s capital fit into their scheme. His expression must have betrayed his confusion because the officer looked directly at him and chuckled.
“I can tell one of our guests is in need of enlightenment, so perhaps it’s time we laid our cards on the table, so to speak.” Proctor glanced toward the kitchen door, where Thomas stood. “Inform Harold dessert will be delayed a few minutes.”
“As you wish, sir.”
The colonel did as was his custom and clasped his hands behind his back. “Now then, where to start? Conventional wisdom has it the beginning is best, and in our case it began in North Carolina about three years ago when I was passed over for promotion. Me, if you can believe it! My record was impeccable, yet the review board saw fit to bestow the honor on an associate of mine who couldn’t polish his own boots without help.”
Some of the men and women laughed.
“It was my first intimation that my career might be tarnished by factors over which I had no control,” Colonel Proctor said. “Instead of one day rising to the rank of general, I foresaw myself languishing for a lack of confidence by those who, on paper at least, were my betters.” He paused. “It was totally unacceptable.”
Nate couldn’t see what any of that had to do with New Eden but he kept his reservations to himself and let the man go on.
“I have always known I was destined for greatness, Mr. King. I have always felt the hand of the Almighty on my shoulder, guiding me. I had always assumed I would distinguish myself in a military capacity, but when my promotion was rejected my eyes were opened and I saw that to succeed, to become the man I’d always envisioned myself being, I had to take certain bold steps. I had to take my destiny into my own hands and create my own path to greatness.”
Ezriah snorted and slapped the table. “Ain’t he got a pretty way with words? I swear, I could listen to him spew hot air until the cows come home.”
Colonel Proctor’s lips twitched. “If you please, Mr. Hampton, kindly refrain from glib comments until I’m done.”
“Is that what they are? Glib?” Ezriah snickered. “And here I thought it was plain old English.”
Nate had to admit he was curious to learn more. He still failed to see the link between North Carolina and New Eden, and said as much.
“Bear with me a little longer,” Proctor said. “You see, as I studied the situation, I became more and more convinced that in order to rise to the heights of prominence, I had to cut away from the herd, as it were. I had to make a clean break from the status quo. And what better place to start anew than on the frontier?”
The idea wasn’t all that far-fetched. Nate knew of many men who had come West and reaped fame or fortune or both. Jim Bridger, Kit Carson, John C. Fremont, Joseph Walker, Jed Smith—he could name a dozen or better, easily.
“So I pondered my options long and hard, my friend,” Proctor said. “I considered entering the regular army, but favoritism is as rife there as in the state militias. I considered a career in politics, but only Oregon and California are organized enough to make a political career practical, and competition for important seats is too fierce to guarantee success.”
Nate began to discern where the talk was leading. “So you decided to go everyone one better.”
“Precisely. Since I couldn’t find a state to suit my purpose, I decided on another course of action.” Proctor’s face lit with a strange glow. “It was a true revelation! Why settle for clawing out a niche in an already established state when I could carve out an entire state of my own?” He looked expectantly at Nate. “What do you think of the idea?”
“It’s”—Nate chose his response with care—“unusual. Last I heard, the United States government lays claim to almost all land between the Mississippi River and the Pacific Ocean. That includes the Rockies.” Just a few years previous, the Republic of Texas had been annexed into the United States, and more recently the United States and Britain had finally settled the forty-ninth parallel issue. Now there was talk of buying the Southwest from Mexico, or, as some advocated, annexing it by force of arms.
“A mere technicality,” Colonel Proctor went on. “The truth is, our country has outgrown the ability of our politicians to govern it. They have no idea what to do with all the land west of the Mississippi. Some call it the Great American Desert and want to sell it to France or England. Others say we should leave it for the Indians and maintain it as a giant hunting preserve. Hardly anyone wants to live here.”
“True,” Nate acknowledged. Which was fine by him.
“So imagine how receptive Congress will be to the idea of a group of dedicated men and women carving a new state out of whole cloth? We propose to send an emissary to Washington to outline our plan to create the state of New Eden. Oh, at first they’ll probably want us to organize as a territory. But our eventual goal is full statehood.”
“With you as the very first governor?”
“What’s wrong with that? New Eden is a product of my genius. It’s only fair. And all the fine people you see here”— Colonel Proctor included everyone present with a sweep of his arm—“will be rewarded for their faith in me by becoming civic and financial pillars of the community.”
Sergeant Braddock, directly across from Nate and Winona, nodded. “We’ll each be given five hundred square miles of land to portion out as we see fit. Once people start flocking here from the East, we’ll all be rich.”
“If people flock here,” Nate amended.
“They will,” Colonel Proctor said confidently. “Once they hear how cheap the land will be compared to land east of the Mississippi, they’ll come in droves. Within two years we’ll have a fair-sized city. Within five years, a population big enough to apply for statehood.”
“You have it all worked out.”
Winona had been quiet long enough. “You have not heard all of it, husband. He has not told you about Lame Bear.”
“Who?” Nate said.
Colonel Proctor answered. “No one of consequence. A breed I hired to ride to the outlying tribes and invite them to parley. I propose to offer them trade goods in exchange for their promise not to raid New Eden.”
Nate sat up, the full import of the officer’s blunder knifing into him like a sword blade. “Which tribes?”
“What? Oh, the Crows, for starters. Then I told Lame Bear to go to the Flatheads, the Nez Perce, the Piegans, the Bloods—”
“You didn’t.”
“What’s wrong? It’s a simple precaution to insure against future attacks, and buy us crucial time. The Indians will leave us alone until we’re strong enough to stand up to them with an army of our own.”
Nate surveyed the table and realized none of the others realized what they were in for. “My advice to you is to pack up now, while you can, and get out of here.”
“Leave?” Proctor scoffed. “After all the time and effort we’ve invested? Why would we be so blatantly stupid?”
“Because what you’ve done is commit suicide,” Nate said. “Sending a messenger to the Blackfoot Confederacy is the worst mistake you could have made.”
“Surely you exaggerate.”
“Let me rephrase it,” Nate said in order to make his point. “If you don’t leave as soon as you can, by the end of the month there won’t be a man, woman, or child left alive in New Eden.”
Six
“Why do we have to whisper, Pa?”
Nate, Winona, and Evelyn King were huddled in the dark in their daughter’s room, by her bed. The evening’s socializing had ended half an hour ago, and Nate and Winona had come to a decision. “We don’t want anyone to know we’re getting set to leave,” Nate informed his youngest.
“In the morning, you mean?”
“No. in about an hour,” Nate said. Time enough for the militiamen and their families to return to their cabins and turn in. Time enough, too, for everyone else at the mansion to drift into dreamland.
“So I get to stay up even later?” Evelyn said, her teeth white in the gloom. “That’s fine by me.”
Winona never could understand why her pride and joy took such immense delight in staying up as late as possible. When she herself was a child, she had always gone to bed early, and never minded. Then, too, it had never occurred to her to ask to stay up later. Shoshone children generally did as their parents wanted with no argument, whereas many white children, she had learned, badgered their parents to distraction to get their own way.
“What about Mr. Hampton?” Evelyn asked. “We’re not leaving him behind, are we? I like him.”
“No, he’ll go with us,” Nate said. But he wouldn’t let Ezriah know until the last minute. The cantankerous trapper might not be as eager to go, and was apt to raise a fuss. “We’ll wake him when it’s time.” From down the hall rumbled Ezriah’s snores.
“That leaves the Weavers, husband,” Winona said.
“You want to take them, too?”
“You saw them today,” Winona said. “You saw how scared they are. They were not out for a walk. They are so desperate to leave New Eden, they were willing to run off with just the clothes on their backs.”
Nate mulled over how best to proceed. They could stop at the Weaver homestead on their way out of the valley, but that would delay them, and once they were on the go he didn’t want to stop for hell or high water. It was imperative they put as much distance behind them as they could, fast, in case their escape was discovered. “I’ll slip out and let the Weavers know. It will give them time to pack a few things and be ready when we are.”
“Do you know which cabin is theirs?” Winona inquired. No one had mentioned it to her.
“I think so.” Nate remembered Jack and Molly sadly gazing at the third cabin to the west of the road as they went by.
Evelyn put her hand on his. “Be careful, Pa. It’s going to be hard to be sneaky with all those dogs around.”
Nate had been thinking the same thing. But he had it to do. He pecked her, then hugged Winona. “I’ll leave my rifle with you. Stay together until I get back. It shouldn’t take me more than half an hour.”
“Are we leaving because of the Indians?” Evelyn asked.
“We’re going to save these people in spite of themselves,” Nate whispered. “We’ll go straight to Bent’s Fort and let Ceran St. Vrain know what they’re up to. If anyone can talk them into leaving before the Blackfoot Confederacy wipes them out, he’s the one.” An honorable, honest man, St. Vrain had partnered up with the Bent brothers to build Bent’s Fort, the premier trading post in that neck of the country. Every-one, whites and red men alike, respected St. Vrain highly. His experience was vast, his judgment seasoned by wisdom, his word his bond. And he could talk rings around a tree.
Nate quietly stepped to the door, listened a moment, and cracked it open. The darkened hallway was deserted. With a little wave to his loved ones, he eased out and shut the door behind him, then entered the bedroom across the hall. Parting the curtains, he gripped the sash bar on the window and tried to raise it, only to find the window wouldn’t budge. Running his fingers over the bottom rail, he discovered why. The window was nailed shut.
Thwarted, Nate went back out and hastened down the hall to the lavish parlor. The manor was as still as a tomb but he couldn’t shake a nagging conviction he wasn’t the only one up.
Turning right, Nate glided to the entranceway. The door had been bolted but the bolt was well oiled and moved freely without noise. The same with the latch. He opened the door an inch and peered out.
New Eden lay in tranquil repose, bathed in the pale glow of the magnificent full moon. Somewhere a dog barked. Off in the forest a coyote answered with a strident series of yips.
Nate slid out, carefully shut the door, and crept down the steps. A glance confirmed no windows were lit, but to be safe he hugged the base of the wall until he was almost to the corner. As he was about to dart toward the road, the pad of footsteps and the sound of heavy breathing brought him up short. Flattening, he tensed as shapes materialized out of the night.
Coming around the side of the manor was a militiaman with a bloodhound on a leash. The dog had its nose to the ground and was sniffing loudly. The man was Private Bell, and as Nate looked on, he yawned in boredom and gave an angry tug.
“Quit pulling so hard, you mangy mutt. Who do you reckon you’re fooling? You don’t smell anything except that bitch in heat Mitchell owns.”
As if to prove him right, the bloodhound gazed toward the cabins and uttered a low whine.
“Hell, dogs aren’t no different than people,” Bell said. “All they ever have on their mind is one thing.”
Only yards from Nate, the pair halted. The bloodhound lifted its muzzle and gave another loud sniff.
“Cut that out. It’s annoying me.”
Nate saw the dog look in his direction and he bunched his leg muscles to spring. But the bloodhound never barked or otherwise let on he was there. While its sense of smell was second to none, its eyesight was no better than any other dog’s. And in the pitch-black shadow of the manor, he was invisible.
Private Bell switched his rifle from his left arm to his right and the leash from his right hand to his left. “Damn newcomers,” he muttered. “I could be home cuddling with my missus along about now, but the colonel doesn’t want his guests skipping out on him. So I’m stuck until dawn.”
The bloodhound stared toward the cabins and whined again.
“Keep that up and I’ll kick you where it will hurt the most.” Yanking on the leash, Bell resumed his patrol, making a circuit of Huntington Manor.
Nate waited until they were out of sight, then rose in a crouch and cat-footed to the road. The moon was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, in that it lit up the valley well enough for him to spot men or dogs a long way off. A curse, in that it was a double-edged sword, and they could just as soon spot him.
Staying tucked low at the waist, Nate jogged past the fore-most homesteads. The cabins were set far enough back that with any luck, the watchdogs wouldn’t hear him or catch his scent.
In the mountains to the west a mountain lion screamed, a hair-raising cry that could unnerve those unaccustomed to it. The scream set a dog to the south to howling its fool head off, which, in turn, set some of the other watchdogs to joining in.
Nate didn’t mind. The settlers were undoubtedly used to the ruckus their dogs made at night, and would only awaken if the dogs started barking. Soon he passed the next pair of homesteads. He moved faster, anxious to return to Winona and Evelyn, but he hadn’t gone more than another ten yards when movement ahead compelled him to throw himself to the side of the road on his belly.
Something was coming toward him.
Nate’s hands swooped to his waist and he gripped two of his four flintlocks. He would avoid bloodshed if he could, but he wasn’t going to let anyone stand in his way. His family was leaving New Eden, and that was that.
The movement coalesced into several four-legged creatures walking down the middle of the road. Two does and a buck, their ears pricked, poised to bolt at the slightest hint of danger. When a dog to the east commenced yowling at the moon, they froze, testing the breeze until assured it was safe to continue.
Nate stayed put, reluctant to spook them for fear they would go bounding off and incite all the dogs within earshot into a frenzy. The trio were twenty feet out when the buck detected his presence. Snorting, it wheeled and pranced off the way they had come, the does flanking it.
Too much time was being lost. Pushing up off the ground, Nate ran to the picket fence that surrounded the third cabin. He looked and looked but didn’t see a guard dog. Encouraged, he stalked along the fence to the rear, then gripped the top and vaulted over. No growls or yips greeted him, and within moments he gained the rear wall. He had hoped there would be a back door but there wasn’t.
Working his way around to the front, Nate came to a side window. He tested it, and the bottom rail rose high enough to admit him. Amazed at their oversight, Nate hiked a leg over the sill and slowly slipped inside. As his eyes adjusted, he saw he was in a bedroom. A couple of dark forms occupied a double bed to his left. Neither was snoring, but judging by their breathing, they were deep in slumber.
In order to avoid scaring them half out of their wits, Nate moved toward the bed to quietly awaken Jack Weaver. He was halfway there when the skitter of claws on wood alerted him a dog was coming down the hall. A bound brought him to a dresser, and he hunkered beside it a heartbeat before the animal filled the doorway.
The mongrel was the size of a calf, with a brindled, shaggy coat. It surveyed the bedroom and was starting to turn when there was a snort from the bed.
“What the hell? What is the window doing open?”
The voice wasn’t that of Jack or Molly Weaver; it was the voice of Luther Carson! The cabin didn’t belong to the Weavers! Nate was in the wrong one! He heard the bed creak, and around the end of it shuffled the burly blacksmith in a night-shirt that hung down around his stout knees. Scratching himself, Carson shambled to the window and slammed it shut.
“What’s that, dear?” Agatha roused, thick with sleep. “What’s going on?”
“We forgot to close the window. Now that I’m up, I think I’ll have a glass of milk. Would you like one?”
