Season of the Warrior (A Wilderness Giant Edition Western Book 2)

by Robbins, David

  “I missed you,” Nate said softly when Winona brought him a steaming cup of coffee.

  “And I you,” she answered in English.

  Nate admired her beauty in the firelight: the healthy glow of her skin, the lively glint in her brown eyes, her full lips and luxuriant tresses. He counted himself the luckiest man alive to have earned her love, and touched a palm to the front of her beaded buckskin dress. “How many more moons, do you figure?”

  “Five at the most,” Winona answered. She smiled at his frown of disappointment, then commented, “The baby will come when it is ready to come and not before. No matter how much you fret, our daughter cannot be rushed.”

  “What makes you so all-fired sure it will be a girl?”

  “I know.”

  “How?” Nate persisted, mystified by her unfathomable certainty. Common sense assured him that predicting the sex of a baby was impossible, and he would have told her as much if not for the many inexplicable instances in the past where she had exhibited an uncanny intuition.

  “I just know,” Winona said enigmatically, and went to the wide counter on which the buck had been placed. From a hook on the wall she removed a big butcher knife.

  “That can wait until tomorrow,” Nate suggested.

  “Tomorrow we are leaving for Shakespeare’s. Or don’t you remember?”

  Nate straightened and glanced at the frayed calendar hanging on the west wall. He’d swapped for it at a Rendezvous, only because it helped Zach get a better understanding of the white man’s conception of time and he wanted the boy to know all there was to know about white ways in case they ever ventured to the States again. They’d only gone once before, on a trip to St. Louis, and Zach had just been a sprout. So rarely did he consult the calendar himself that he’d plumb forgotten it was there. “I do now,” he said. “Shakespeare was supposed to show up today and help us pack.”

  Winona laughed as she rolled the deer over and began to slit open the buck’s hind legs. “Blue Water Woman wanted him to help us since she was afraid you would have me do all the work.”

  “She knows better than that,” Nate responded, pretending to be slightly indignant. “The real reason he’s coming is because they think we can’t tie a knot without them showing us how it’s done. Sometimes they act as if they’re our parents and we’re their young’uns.”

  “What harm does that do, since both my parents and your parents are dead?”

  “None, I guess. I realize they’ll never have children of their own. But I’m a mite old to be treated the same way I treat Zach.” Nate stretched his legs toward the crackling flames. “It upsets me to think that Shakespeare doesn’t have that much confidence in me after all we’ve been through.”

  “He has more than you think.”

  In silence Nate sipped his coffee and mentally reviewed his long association with the reclusive mountain man. Had Shakespeare not taken a liking to him and taken him under his wing, Nate wouldn’t have lasted out a single winter. McNair had taught him virtually everything important he knew about the Rockies, the wildlife, and the various tribes. And in his heart Nate knew he cared deeply for the cantankerous cuss, more deeply than he had ever cared for his own father, perhaps because Shakespeare had always let him make his own decisions and learn things the hard way rather than browbeating him to do what Shakespeare thought best, which was how his father had treated him. It was one of the most important lessons he had ever learned, and God willing, he’d be able to raise Zach without making the same mistakes his father had made rearing him.

  Suddenly a book was thrust in front of Nate’s face, shattering his reflection. “Will you read a bit, Pa, before I turn in?”

  Nate nodded and set the book in his lap. He stared at the cover and said softly, “The Last of the Mohicans.” It was old, the pages somewhat faded, the edges dog-eared, as well they should be since James Fenimore Cooper was his favorite author and he’d read the book several times through since purchasing it on his initial trip west from New York City. He flipped the pages until he came to a thin piece of leather.

  Zach had sat down with his back to the fireplace and gazed up eagerly. This was one of his favorite times of the day, a family tradition stemming from his childhood. “Just pick up where you left off.”

  Nodding, Nate read: “I know that the pale-faces are a proud and hungry race. I know that they claim not only to have the earth, but that the meanest of their color is better than the sachems of the redman. The dogs and crows of their tribes,” continued the earnest old chieftain, without heeding the wounded spirit of his listener, whose head was nearly crushed to the earth in shame, as he proceeded, “would bark and caw before they would take a woman to their wigwams whose blood was not of the color of snow. But let them not boast before the face of the Manitou too loud. They entered the land at the rising, and may yet go off at the setting sun.”

  Nate paused. For some odd reason he could not get Shakespeare out of his mind. Before continuing, he said to no one in particular, “I hope the old buzzard is all right.”

  Fifteen miles to the northeast, in a narrow valley nestled among a ring of regal peaks, the object of Nate King’s anxiety approached the spot where Diana Templar, her brother William, and the artist Eric Nash stood behind a pair of stacked trunks. “I’m leaving now,” he announced.

  All three turned, Diana and Eric jolted into registering different degrees of shock, William displaying outright outrage.

  “Leaving?” Lord Graustark exploded. “You’re running out on us at a critical time like this? You barmy Yank! First you tell us there’s a horde of red savages about to swoop down on us, then you have us work feverishly to erect a perimeter barricade, and now you up and leave!” He started to raise the rifle he held, as if about to swing the stock, but checked the motion. “Go ahead, then! Show your true color. But I sure as hell would like to know where these bloody savages of yours have gotten to!”

  Shakespeare took the tirade calmly. Sighing, he addressed Diana and Eric, refusing to dignify William’s presence with so much as a condescending look. “The Indians are still out there. They haven’t attacked yet because the sun set shortly after they found us, and many tribes don’t like to fight at night. They’ll come at us at dawn. If we’re not ready, there won’t be one of us left alive by noon except maybe you, ma’am.” He gave the top trunk a whack. “That’s why I advised you to pile all your goods in a big circle.”

  “And a fine idea it was, mate,” declared a deep voice as out of the dark strode the giant ex-soldier, Jarvis. “We used the same type of fortification when fighting the Bantus in Africa. Kept them at bay, it did, them buggers with their wicked long spears that could tear through a man like a knife through butter.”

  William made an impatient gesture. “Are you here for a reason or simply to interrupt our conversation?”

  The giant stiffened as if snapping to attention. “Begging your pardon, your lordship, but you requested to be kept informed of anything having a bearing on our defense of the camp.”

  “Yes. So?”

  “So I’ve set up sleeping schedules for the men so they’ll get at least a fair bit of rest before morning. Each one”

  “Are you daft?” William said, cutting him off. “How can you let them sleep at a time like this? Keep them armed and at their posts until I tell you otherwise.”

  “As you wish, sir,” Jarvis said, the words clipped and precise. Digging in a heel, he turned.

  “Hold on there, old coon,” Shakespeare said to stop him. Then he gave the duke’s son a glance that would have shriveled a plant. “Jarvis here has the right idea. If your men are worn out they won’t be much good when it matters the most. Let them get some sleep. Until dawn you’ll be safe.”

  Whatever William would have answered was made irrelevant by a statement from Diana. “Mr. McNair has a valid point. Jarvis, do as you want with sleeping arrangements. Just be certain every man is awake well before daylight.”

  “Never fear, Lady Templa
r. I won’t let you down,” the giant asserted, and left.

  William waited until Jarvis was out of earshot, then snapped, “Let’s get to the point! McNair still hasn’t explained this business about his running out on us.”

  “Why are you leaving?” Diana asked in a hurt tone.

  “I’m no flash in the pan, if that’s what is bothering you,” Shakespeare replied. “I’ll be back after I find out how many Indians are out there and what tribe they belong to.”

  “You’re going out there all by yourself?”

  “Someone has to, ma’am. We need to know what we’re up against.”

  “It’s too dangerous. I won’t have it.”

  Shakespeare smiled, and to William’s chagrin reached out and patted her arm. “Afraid you don’t have any say-so. I’m a grown man and can do as I please. Just spread the word to your men so none of them mistake me for an Indian and shoot me by mistake.”

  “William, see to it,” Diana said.

  “But—”

  “Now, William.”

  In a huff, her brother stalked off, his fists clenched so tight around his flintlock that his knuckles were white. Shortly thereafter they could hear him bellowing orders.

  “The marquis loves telling others what to do but he doesn’t like being on the receiving end,” Eric remarked sarcastically.

  “What the dickens is a marquis?” Shakespeare inquired.

  “The son of a duke holds the rank of marquis but is called a lord,” Eric explained. “While a duke’s daughter, like Diana here, has the title of lady.”

  “I don’t know much about this nobility business,” Shakespeare mentioned. “So sometimes I have a hard time following the trail old William S. takes when he throws in all those princes and earls and such.”

  “You just have to know the various titles and their relationship to one another,” Eric said. “The peerage, for instance, includes dukes, marquis, earls, viscounts, and barons.”

  “What’s the peerage?”

  “It’s another name for the nobility. It means they’re all peers, or equals.”

  The mountain man digested the revelation for several seconds. “What does that make those who don’t have titles? Less than equal?”

  “In the eyes of some nobles, yes,” Eric confessed.

  Shakespeare stared in the direction William had gone. I think I’m beginning to understand a bit more of what all the fuss was about back in ’76. In this country we won’t stand still for anyone lording it over us like they’re God’s gift to all Creation, and those who don’t wake up to the fact often as not find themselves pushing up flowers.” Squaring his shoulders, he stepped close to the trunks and placed his hand on the top one. “Remember, no fires,” was all he said; then, with a lithe rippling of his sinews, he vaulted over and within moments had been swallowed by the night.

  “He’s a strange one, isn’t he?” Eric remarked.

  “One in a million,” Diana said pensively.

  “You like him, I gather?”

  “Immensely. You?”

  “Very much. He’s the most colorful character we’ve met in all our travels.” Eric leaned on the trunks and peered toward the nearest inky slope. “Let’s hope we see him again.”

  Chapter Four

  A brisk, cool breeze from the northwest fanned Shakespeare’s beard and his shoulder-length hair as he ran over the flat ground toward the hill where he had first spied the Indians. There had been more than a dozen, but they had sought cover so quickly he’d been unable to make a precise count. By concealing themselves as they had they’d revealed they were enemies, since friendly Indians invariably approached white camps without reservation, staying out in the open to demonstrate their peaceful intentions.

  Twenty yards from the barricade Shakespeare halted and went to ground, flattening and straining his keen ears to catch the faintest sounds. To his rear some of the horses inside the perimeter were fidgeting and nickering lightly, no doubt sensing that something was wrong from the nervousness of the whites. Many animals, horses and dogs included, could smell the scent of fear, and although Templar’s men were putting on a brave show, Shakespeare suspected they were inwardly terrified at the thought of doing battle with a superior force of Indians.

  The mountain man didn’t blame them. Whether the war party was Piegan, Blood, Blackfoot, or Gros Ventre was of no real consequence since the fate of the whites would be the same if they were overwhelmed. Those not killed in the attack would be tortured to test their bravery; then they’d be horribly mutilated, made to endure a grisly death, and finally scalped, a prospect terrifying enough to inspire fear in any man.

  Shakespeare thought of Diana Templar and Eric Nash and wanted to kick himself for being so soft in the heart. This fight was none of his affair, but he’d gone and taken a shine to those two. If not for them, he would have ridden off hours ago and left the rest to face the Indians alone. Although, now that he considered it, he sort of liked the old soldier, Jarvis, too.

  Up on the hill an owl suddenly hooted, and was promptly answered by another from a spot not fifty feet away.

  Grinning impishly, Shakespeare snaked to his left, working in a loop toward the warrior concealed in the high grass. Every movement now was slow and controlled. He must make no sound whatsoever since there was no telling how many of the warriors were watching the camp and where they might be hiding.

  Decades of wilderness living had imbued Shakespeare with the stealth of a panther. His passage through the grass was eerily silent. Often he paused to look and listen. Soon he was near the spot where the warrior should be, but he saw no one. Rigid as a log, the Hawken clenched firmly in his left hand, he let only his eyes rove back and forth. Just when he began to wonder if he was mistaken, a black shape rose six feet away and hastened toward the hill.

  So skillfully did Shakespeare blend into the shadowy background that the brave passed within two yards of the frontiersman and never noticed him. In the moonlight Shakespeare could plainly see the other’s face, but it was the hair he was most interested in. No two tribes wore their hair exactly alike, so if a man knew the different styles he could identify warriors accordingly.

  This man had the lower portion of his long hair in a braid, with the front clipped in bangs that fell to just above his eyes, and at the back of his head there was a fan-shaped roach of animal hair. The style was quite popular with Piegan men.

  Shakespeare smelled the bear fat the warrior had used to slick the hair as the man went by. He followed the brave’s progress with just his eyes until the Piegan was out of sight, then rose in a crouched and trailed him. Now he knew their identity. He also needed to know how many the English greenhorns were up against.

  From the valley floor the way led up and over the thickly forested slope of the hill. Beyond, at its base, flickered the tiny fire the Piegans had built where the whites could not see it.

  On the crest Shakespeare stopped in the shelter of a boulder. None of the warriors were sleeping and it was doubtful any would. They were too excited, and would spend the night planning their strategy, sharpening their knives, tomahawks, and arrows, and checking their charms. Like many tribes, the Piegans were superstitious. They believed that certain objects could impart strong medicine to the owner, and regarded some charms as having protective powers in battle. A lucky talisman might be something so simple as a seed or a stone or a bear or eagle claw, but whatever it was a warrior would not think to go into a fight without it. Usually he wrapped his charm in a soft piece of skin, then tied it around his body or neck. Sometimes such charms were offered for trade, and Shakespeare knew of several instances where a particularly powerful charm had cost the purchaser a half-dozen fine horses.

  By the low light of the fire Shakespeare counted eleven warriors. He calculated another six or seven might be keeping an eye on the whites’ camp, which brought the total close to twenty. Steep odds, but not formidable.

  Having accomplished all he could, Shakespeare had turned to depart when
faintly from the other side of the hill came the crunch of a dry twig. Another warrior was returning to the fire, and not wishing to be spotted, Shakespeare scooted around the boulder and ducked low.

  Seconds later low voices confirmed that not one but two braves were coming back. Their excitement was obvious from their rapid speech. They were eager to count coup and take scalps, to go back to their people crowned with glory.

  The mountain man, flush with the boulder, observed their descent. As he squatted there, pondering how best to handle the defense of the camp, an idea occurred to him that lit up his eyes with mischievous delight. The one thing Indians feared more than anything was bad medicine. Often they’d abandon an enterprise if the omens weren’t just right. So what would happen, he asked himself, if he arranged a little bad medicine for the Piegan war party? Or at least threw a scare into them?

  The idea was tantalizing. Shakespeare sank to his hands and knees and cautiously worked his way lower. The Piegans were talking animatedly, confident they were safe from the besieged whites, never imagining one of their enemies would have the audacity to pay them a visit.

  A thicket grew within ten feet of the fire. Into this Shakespeare crawled, and here he had to be extremely careful not to snag his buckskins or the Hawken. The bushes were so tightly spaced that at times he was compelled to twist sideways to slide through the gap. At length, though, he succeeded in worming close to where the Piegans were huddled in a circle around their crackling blaze.

  Keeping his face screened by intervening branches, Shakespeare lay and listened for the better part of an hour. During that time four Piegans returned from the valley and four more were sent to take their place. The warriors joked and laughed, thoroughly at ease, a drastic contrast to the prevailing attitude among the marquis’s party.

  During Shakespeare’s wide-ranging travels he’d learned a half-dozen Indian tongues and picked up a smattering of many more. But since his contact with the Piegans had been limited, invariably involving the business end of a Piegan lance, he knew few of their words, certainly not enough to make hide or hair of their conversation.