“What’s your pa doing?” Louisa asked, aghast, as she reached for her saddle horn.
“Saving our lives.” Zach was already astride his dun. “Don’t dawdle or we’re goners!”
Lou didn’t like his tone, but she climbed on and followed as he wheeled and trotted off. Within seconds they were in among the pines, and she felt a bit safer. At least the bear couldn’t see them.
Nate King didn’t resort to his Hawken. At a full gallop he bore down on the grizzly, which never slackened speed. Gaping jaws wide, slavering with bloodlust, it was almost upon him when Nate swerved, flying past almost within reach of its paws. As he went by, he uttered a Shoshone whoop. The ruse succeeded. The bear forgot all about Zach and Louisa and came after him.
Nate had counted on luring the bear away. What he hadn’t counted on was its uncanny quickness. It was on him within heartbeats, its forepaws raking the bay’s tail, nearly shredding its flanks. The bay spurted forward, nickering, and from then on they were in a race for their lives with bristling death at their heels.
The griz gnashed empty air, eager to bring them down. Its claws clipped the bay’s tail again.
Nate risked one quick glance to be sure Zach and Lou were gone, then he cut to the left, toward the ridge. When the bear did likewise, Nate reversed direction, angling toward the firs. It bought him a few extra yards, yards that might mean the difference between seeing his wife again and being turned into worm food. Bent low, he streaked into the woods without any regard for his safety. A low limb nearly took his head off. Another gouged his shoulder, almost unseating him.
Plowing through the undergrowth as if it didn’t exist, the grizzly glued itself to the bay. It sounded like a steam engine about to explode, its paws thudding like the beat of a Cheyenne drum.
A narrow opening between a pair of saplings gave Nate an idea. Reining sharply, he sped between them with barely enough room to spare. He thought the barrier would slow the grizzly down, but he was wrong. They hardly gave it pause. The bear slammed into them with the force of a battering ram, snapping both as if they were dry twigs.
A log hove into sight, and Nate made straight for it. The bay, well trained, sailed up and over without breaking stride. To Nate’s chagrin, the griz did the same, displaying astounding agility. It was a vivid demonstration, as if any were needed, of why so many trappers and Indians had lost their lives to the lords of the Rockies; they underestimated what the behemoths were capable of.
Nate had suffered from the same flaw when he was still green behind the ears. Back then there had been so much for him to learn. That mountain lions could leap twenty feet from a standing start. That buffalo would stampede at the click of a rifle hammer. That wolverines deserved their reputations for wanton savagery. That grizzlies were harder to kill than all of them combined.
Swiveling, Nate considered putting a ball into the beast’s head. It might slow the silvertip long enough for him to escape.
A thicket loomed, half an acre of dense brush. Ordinarily Nate would give it a wide berth to spare the bay from scratches and scrapes. But now he plunged on in, lashing the reins, and true to form the grizzly barreled in after him. Nate slanted to one side, then the other. Each time he gained a few critical feet on his adversary, who wasn’t adept at adapting to abrupt changes in direction. And, too, the bear had slowed a trifle to spare its eyes from the scores of thin limbs the bay broke, the tips thrusting like needles at its face.
Exploding into the open, Nate bore due west, leading the grizzly away from the cabin, away from his family. It surprised him the brute wasn’t flagging yet. While silver-tips were fast when they needed to be, they lacked endurance. After a quarter of a mile or so they tired and could run no farther.
Not this one. Snarling hideously, it sought to regain the ground it had lost. Its long, thick claws sheared at the bay’s legs. It seemed that nothing short of the grizzly’s death would stop it.
Nate racked his brain for a means of escaping in one piece. Grabbing hold of his bouncing powder horn, he did his best to hold it steady while opening it, then up ended the horn over his other palm. Half the powder spilled onto his legs and saddle, but he clenched a handful and swiveled.
The grizzly was going all out, its mouth wider than ever, sucking air into its heaving lungs. Its massive wedge-shaped head rose, and it locked baleful eyes on him.
“Have a taste,” Nate said, and flung the black powder. Some missed. More got into the bear’s mouth and eyes. The hairy colossus snapped its jaws several times, then shook its head as if it had taken a bite of something it didn’t like. “Like it?” Nate taunted, and threw another handful. Black powder wasn’t toxic and wouldn’t do more than give the brute a mild bellyache, but it tasted positively awful. And when it got in the eyes, it stung worse than salt.
Nate hurled a third handful, hoping his gamble paid off. He had used up most of his powder—and he had only the one shot in the Hawken. If the bear caught him he wouldn’t last five seconds. A Green River knife was no match for over a thousand pounds of unbridled brawn and a bristling arsenal of teeth and claws.
The bear was snorting as if it had a cork stuck up its nose. It slowed and tossed its head, and for a few moments Nate believed his ploy had worked. Then the grizzly roared and came at him with renewed fury.
“You’re pacing, Ma. Are you worried?”
Winona King halted in midstride and glanced at her daughter, seated on the edge of the bed against the wall. “No,” she fibbed, and felt guilty doing so. It was not the Shoshone way to lie. But she wanted to spare her daughter needless anxiety. In truth, Winona was worried enough for both of them.
Evelyn wasn’t fooled. “Ah, don’t fret. Whatever it is, Pa can handle it. What can hurt him?”
Many things, Winona thought to herself. Her husband was stronger than most and wiser than many, but he wasn’t invincible, their offspring’s confidence notwithstanding. Winona had to remind herself it was normal for children to believe their parents could— What was that expression the whites used? Oh, yes. It was normal for children to believe their parents could walk on water. To someone of Evelyn’s tender years, a parent was all-knowing and all-powerful. One of the greatest shocks a child experienced was to learn their mother and father were only human.
“I wish I could have gone with Zach and Lou,” Evelyn mentioned. Like Winona, she wore a buckskin dress lavishly decorated with beads and red fringe her mother had traded for at Bent’s Fort. Her hair was as black as Winona’s but cut shorter, shoulder-length. Eyes sparkling, Evelyn hopped down and came to the doorway. “You’ll wear a rut in the floor.”
Despite herself, Winona laughed. Her daughter was developing a fine sense of humor. Winona took pride in how both of her children were turning out—but it hadn’t always been so. Before Louisa came along, Winona had been deeply worried about Stalking Coyote. The hatred the boy had endured due to his mixed lineage had spawned bitter resentment, resentment she’d been afraid would one day erupt in violence if her son didn’t learn to deal with it maturely.
“Did you hear something, Ma?” Evelyn asked.
“What?” Winona had been too deep in thought. Opening the door, she stepped outside, her hands resting on the flintlocks tucked under her beaded belt.
Evelyn rose onto her toes and screened her eyes with a hand. “I don’t see them anywhere.”
“Too many trees,” Winona said.
“Do you think it’s a war party?”
“I don’t know.”
“It could be Utes, but they’re friendly now, aren’t they? Maybe it’s those mean old Bloods again.”
“I don’t—”
“Or the Blackfeet. They’re still mad at Pa over that fight up on the Yellowstone. Reckon they tried to sneak up on us?”
“Or maybe it’s some bad whites, like the ones who tried to make wolf meat of all of us a while ago. You don’t think some of their kin have hunted us down, do you, Ma?”
Winona inwardly counted to ten. As dearly as sh
e adored her daughter, there were times when Blue Flower tried her patience. Ever since the girl was old enough to talk, she had been one giant question mark. “We’ll have to wait and find out.”
“We could saddle up and go have a look-see. I’ll even bring the horses around while you fetch your rifle.”
“So that’s what this was leading up to.” Winona sighed. Her children had a devious streak she liked to say came from their father, but the fact of the matter was that her husband didn’t have a deceitful bone in his handsome body. Nate was too forthright and honorable for his own good sometimes. Winona, however, was quite crafty, a trait she came by honestly. From an early age Shoshone girls were taught to hone their wits, both for dealing with men and for surviving in a world where nearly every other tribe considered them an enemy.
“Aw, shucks, Ma.” Evelyn wasn’t pleased. “I can’t wait until I’m old enough to do as I want. Like Lou. She comes and goes as she sees fit. She gets to stay up late like the rest of you. When I’m sixteen I’ll do the same.”
“You will not.”
“How’s that, Ma?”
“So long as you live in this cabin, you will respect our wishes. Louisa has more freedom because she isn’t our daughter. She won’t be part of the family until she marries your brother, and then she’ll be his wife and will be treated like every other adult.”
Evelyn scratched her head. “She gets to do as she wants because she isn’t your daughter, and I don't get to do as I want because I am?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair. It never treats two people the same. One person might enjoy many years of health and happiness, another might be torn apart by a cougar at an early age.”
“Why is that?” Evelyn’s brow knit. “Remember last week when Pa was reading from the Bible? He said that God loves all of us. So how can God let one person be so happy and have the other suffer?”
Winona hesitated. To her people, the ways of the Great Mystery were just that—a mystery no one could penetrate. She recalled how amazed she had been when Nate showed her the white man’s holy book. Whites had always struck her as bold, even arrogant, but never in her wildest imaginings would she think they were arrogant enough to put God on paper. After Nate taught her to read, she had studied the holy book and seen that her judgment had been hasty. Some parts of it she didn’t quite comprehend, but other parts were ripe with beauty and insight.
“How can he?” Evelyn pressed her.
“Bad things happen to good people all the time,” Winona began, and was interrupted again, although not by her daughter. From out of the woods trotted her son and Louisa, leading a third horse over which a body had been thrown.
Fearing it was the man who had claimed her heart, Winona dashed forward, stopping when she noticed his hair. “That is not Nate!”
Zach drew rein at the corral. “No, it’s Scott Kendall, Ma. He took a spill and split his noggin. Pa says he won’t last long without your help.”
Winona gazed into the pines. “Where is your father?” Louisa answered. “Last we saw, a grizzly was after him. He was leading it off so it wouldn’t attack us. I don’t mind telling you, Mrs. King, that he has more sand than most ten men I’ve known.”
Zach, for a reason he couldn’t fathom, felt himself grow as hot as a glowing ember in their fireplace. “I’m going to help him as soon we get Mr. Kendall inside.”
It took some doing, even with the three of them. Winona had Evelyn strip the quilt off the bed and then deposited the unconscious man on it. She examined his wound, agreeing with her husband’s assessment. Unless it was tended quickly their friend would die. “Zach, ride to the lake and fill the water bucket. We’ll need a lot. Lou, bring me the towels from the corner cupboard. Evelyn, I need those roots we dug up earlier. And the unda vich quana from my medicine bag.”
The girls bustled to comply, but Zach frowned. He wanted to go help his father. A “no” was on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it and rushed out.
Winona sat on the bed and gently pried Scott Kendall’s eyes open. The pupils were dilated, always a bad sign. His pulse was slow, his temperature high. In her mind’s eye she flashed back to when she was fourteen, to the time a male cousin received a horrible gash on the temple from a war club in a battle with the Sioux. The healers had done all they could, but her cousin hadn’t lasted a week.
Evelyn brought the leather pouch. “How is he?”
“We might lose him,” Winona admitted.
“See? This is just what we were talking about, Ma. How can God let bad things happen to a good man like Mr. Kendall?”
Winona put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Your father would say that accidents happen. That life isn’t perfect. That one of us could step on a rattlesnake tomorrow and die, not because God wanted us to step on it but because we were in the wrong place at the wrong time.” She paused. “My people would say that good and bad have both been with us for as long as there have been people. That Coyote, the father of the Shoshones, the Trickster, as we call him, has given us much that is good but also delights in causing much mischief.”
“But what do you say?”
Winona chose her next words carefully. “Life is a gift, little one. We are born, we live as many winters as we are given, and we die. That is how it is, how it has always been, and how it will always be.” Evelyn started to speak, but Winona touched a finger to her lips to shush her. “Let me finish, please. The journey we make from the cradle-board to the grave is not an easy one. There are moments of great joy, as when you were born. There are moments of great sorrow, as when your uncle was killed by the Piegans. There are good things and there are bad things. We don’t always plan for them to happen. They just do.” Winona pointed at their bookshelf. “In your father’s holy book it says that the Great Mystery makes the sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and the unjust. The sunshine and the rain fall on all our heads, and we must take each as they come. Do you see now?”
“Yes. Thanks.” Setting down the medicine bag, Evelyn went to get the roots by the washbasin.
Winona shook her head in amusement. That was it? She supposed that she shouldn’t be surprised. Children were much more open than adults, much more willing to take a teaching to heart without quibbling over every little detail. Oh, Evelyn would digest what they had talked about and pose more questions later on. But for now the child was satisfied, and Winona should be, too.
Suddenly the bed began to shake. Scott Kendall was convulsing, his back arched, his arms and legs shaking like trees in a chinook. She pressed on his shoulders, but it was like trying to hold down a bucking stallion.
“What’s the matter?” Louisa cried, running to help. “What’s wrong with him?”
It was readily apparent. Scott Kendall was dying.
Three
The furious silvertip caught Nate King by surprise. Thinking it was about to give up, Nate was caught off guard when it suddenly renewed its pursuit, charging the bay in a burst of bestial rage. He slapped his legs and lashed the reins, but he was a shade too slow. The bay squealed in agony as claws that could pulverize bone sliced into its flank. And then they were in the clear, racing madly westward with the griz virtually breathing down Nate’s neck.
The bear was persistent beyond belief, more so than any Nate had ever come across. It wouldn’t relent. For minutes on end the chase continued. Again and again the brute swung but missed.
They shot out of the trees into a meadow, and Nate gave the bay its head. On open ground the horse had an edge. With nerve-racking slowness they began to pull ahead.
Nate looked back on hearing the grizzly roar in frustration. Exerting itself to its limit, the beast was able to maintain the pace for another hundred yards. Finally,
though, it exhausted its store of stamina. The thudding paws slowed. The bear uttered several last irate growls as it came to a halt, and if looks could kill, the blazing hatred in
its eyes would reduce Nate and the bay to charred cinders.
Nate didn’t slow down until he had gone another quarter of a mile. Enough powder was left in the powder horn to reload one of his pistols. He did so while watching to see what the bear would do next. Should it venture deeper into the valley, he would kill it. He’d have no choice. It posed too dire a threat to his family.
For the longest while the griz just stood there, sides heaving, head hung low. When it recovered, it turned to the left—into the valley—and Nate tensed. But it walked only a few dozen feet, raised its head to sniff the air, then pivoted and shambled to the south.
Nate relaxed at last. Wiping his forehead with a sleeve, he headed home. The bay was tired, but Nate held it to a trot out of concern for Scott Kendall. True friends like Kendall were as rare as white buffalo and should be valued all the more because of their rarity. The few Nate had, he would do anything for. And they for him.
Back in the States it was different. There, people tended to take their friends for granted. They got together once or twice a week for ale or rum at the local tavern, or maybe a night on the town. The whole basis for their friendship was to have fun, to amuse themselves at idle diversions. Consequently, their friendships were often as shallow as their pastimes. A man might boast, “Oh, I have a ton of friends!” when in that “ton” there wasn’t one who would stand by his side when his life was at risk.
In the wilderness, where day-to-day life was fraught with menace, the quality of a man’s friends was of paramount importance. A man had to know they would stick by him, come what may. When blood-crazed Piegans were closing in wasn’t the time to find out someone had the backbone of a snail.
In the wilderness friends depended on one another to an extraordinary degree. They had to. And in doing so they grew closer, becoming more like brothers, forging a bond so strong each would do anything for the other. Nate would rather have a paltry handful of real friends than a “ton” of casual acquaintances masquerading as the real article. Real gold was always preferable to fool’s gold.
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