Free Venom by David Thompson Page B

snakes. It reminds me of Lame Bear.”
    “Isn’t he that old man who can hardly walk? Kin of yours on your mother’s side?”
    “He is the one, yes. With him it is flies. He goes around the village killing all the flies he can.”
    “Are you saying I’m feebleminded?”
    Winona smiled sweetly. “Not yet. But you are working on it.”

Chapter Nine
    Nate didn’t find the snake. He poked among the rocks and turned over some of the larger ones, but it was gone. In annoyance he kicked the ground and then headed for the cabin site.
    Shakespeare and Zach were already there and Shakespeare was regaling the Worths with a tale of his early years. McNair winked and grinned at Nate and went on with his story.
    “So there I was, all alone in Blackfoot country in the cold of winter with the snow so deep only a few treetops showed and—”
    “Wait a minute,” Randa said. “Are you tryin’ to tell us the snow was so deep it buried the trees? ”
    “Oh, come now, Mr. McNair,” Emala said.
    Samuel and Chickory both grinned.
    “Believe it or not, ladies,” Shakespeare responded. “I’ll have you know that I am a veritable fount of veracity.”
    “A what?” Randa asked.
    “It means he always tells the truth,” Nate explained, “except when he opens his mouth.”
    The Worths all laughed.
    Shakespeare feigned indignation. “Your fine wit, Horatio, is something stale and hoar ere it be spent.”
    “Was that that dead guy you always talk like?” Chickory asked. “It sounded peculiar like this talk does.”
    Nate smothered a laugh of his own.
    “Yes, that was William S.,” Shakespeare answered. “The finest scribe who ever drew breath.”
    Emala said, “Go on with your story. That other fella I can’t hardly ever understand.”
    McNair cleared his throat. “Very well. So there I was, alone in Blackfoot country, with snow and ice everywhere. The Blackfeet had taken my horse and my pack animal and I was stranded afoot. I had to walk out. I’d gone about ten miles in the fifty-below weather when—”
    “Wait a minute,” Randa interrupted again. “Did you say fifty below? ”
    “Why, Mr. McNair, nothin’ is ever that cold,” Emala said.
    “I will have you know, madam, that in some parts of the north country it does, indeed, get that cold, and colder. With the wind blowing it can easily reach seventy-five below.”
    “Land sakes. The tales you tell,” Emala said.
    “Go on,” Samuel urged.
    McNair cleared his throat again. “So anyway, I came to a river that was frozen over and—”
    “Which river?” Chickory asked.
    “What?”
    “Which river was it?”
    “I don’t know as it even had a name. A lot of rivers back then didn’t and many still don’t. But if it’s a name you need, some of the Indians called it the Sweet Grass River.”
    “Why did they call it that?” Randa asked.
    “Because it cut through the prairie, I believe,” Shakespeare said with a trace of exasperation. “The name isn’t important. The important thing is what happened when I tried to cross it. You see, it hadfrozen over, but when I was about halfway across the ice crackled and started to break just like—”
    Emala held up a hand. “Hold on. You told us it was fifty below. Why, mercy me, that ice had to be five feet thick. How could it crack?”
    “It just did.”
    “But you don’t weigh all that much and back then you were likely skinnier. Am I right?”
    “Yes, you are, but you see—”
    Emala shook her head. “No. It don’t hardly seem possible. But go on with your story if you want.”
    “Thank you.” Shakespeare sighed. “I was in the middle of the river and the ice started to crack. I tried to run, but the ice was too slippery and I kept falling. Just when I thought I might make it, down I went. I managed to catch hold of the edge of the ice with my arms but I lost my rifle and it sank out of sight and—”
    “You must have been powerful cold,” Randa said.
    “It’s a miracle you didn’t freeze