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

by Robbins, David

  “And in the second place, now a third of your stock isn’t carrying any weight at all, so we can switch loads when others tire and cover more ground each day. And if we have to trade, we can use the extra horses.”

  “Trade with whom?’

  “Indians. Sometimes they’ll let you go through their territory if you give them a few trinkets to show them your good will.”

  “Blimey! Are you daft? My horses are hardly trinkets. Each one cost me hundreds of pounds.”

  “Look at it this way. Would you rather part with a few horses or with your life?”

  “See here, King! I’ve half a mind to bill you and your simpleton friend for my losses on this expedition, and by God, if we don’t reach Independence safely, I will. My solicitors will wring the money out of you if they have to.”

  Nate’s Hawken was resting across his thighs. Casually, he placed both hands on top of it and leaned toward the marquis. “I’ve never met a man so intent on giving up the ghost in all my born days, and if you keep spouting off the way you do, you’re liable to get your wish.”

  Snorting in contempt, William prodded his horse into a trot and left Nate stewing.

  The rest of the day passed without incident. Once they reached the prairie, they hugged the edge of the foothills where they could seek cover fast if an enemy war party appeared. Twice they stopped to rest. That night they camped at the mouth of a canyon into which they could retreat if set upon.

  The second day was a repeat of the first, with everyone worn out by evening and ready for a decent night’s sleep. The same with the third day, and the fourth. Usually they rode strung out in single file, although sometimes two or more of them would bunch up to talk. Either Nate or Shakespeare always held the lead, and one or the other was constantly roving far afield to make certain no unwelcome surprise awaited them over the horizon.

  They saw countless shaggy buffalo grazing leisurely, and almost as many timid antelope that bounded off at incredible speeds at their approach. Wolves and coyotes were also in abundance, trailing the herds, the wolves waiting to pick off sick and aged stragglers and the coyotes waiting to pick over whatever the wolves left. Smaller animals were likewise plentiful, such as prairie dogs, ferrets, and foxes.

  On numerous occasions they spotted the monarchs of the wild, the massive, feared grizzlies, but the size of their party deterred the normally aggressive bears from disputing their passage. One night, though, their horses began whinnying in a panic, and the next morning, when a count could be made, one of the animals was missing. Huge paw prints and a bloody smear led them into the nearby brush, where they discovered the head and neck of the hapless horse, covered thick with flies. The grizzly had torn them from the body, then dragged the rest off.

  Nate and Shakespeare were all for pursuing the bear and dispatching it, but William, after studying the tracks for some time, decided to keep the party intact and press on. As he put it, “What’s the loss of one horse when we have so many? Besides, this bear might circle around and attack us while you’re gone, and the next time it might grab one of the women.”

  On a crystal-clear night, with a myriad of stars decorating the firmament and a cool breeze waving the high grass, they camped east of a small mountain range. Shakespeare entertained them by telling the history of the region.

  “These here mountains,” he began, “are called the Hammer Mountains by the Arapahos and the Medicine Bow Mountains by the Shoshones. Both tribes, and the Sioux and Cheyenne besides, come here every so often for the wood they use in making their bows. The Shoshones are partial to ash and cedar, while the Arapahos like mountain birch. And I think the Sioux favor mountain mahogany.”

  “The bloody beggars can’t even agree on which wood makes the best bow!” William commented contemptuously.

  “Do you wear the same clothes as everyone else?” Shakespeare retorted. “No. Every man has his favorites, whether it’s clothes or weapons. The Indians are just like us in that regard.”

  “I say, Mr. McNair,” Harrison said. “Is there any chance of our running into the Arapahos or Sioux or any of the others you mentioned.”

  “There’s always a chance.”

  That night William insisted on posting two men on each shift, but changed his mind when Nate pointed out that since he was the only one. interested in doubling the guard, he should pull the extra duty himself.

  The next day, at mid-morning, Nate caught up with Shakespeare, who was a hundred yards in advance of the column. “You seem to have a knack for reading human nature,” Nate said.

  “Years of experience, son. A man can learn a lot if he keeps his eyes and ears open.”

  “What do you make of the marquis?”

  “Troubled about him, are you?”

  “The man has what most folks would consider is everything that life has to offer. He’s as rich as Midas, or will be once his father dies and leaves him his share of the inheritance. He has all the prestige a man could want being part of the nobility and all. And he’s a handsome cuss, a man practically any white woman would gladly marry.

  “So?”

  “So the man is yellow through and through. He’s one of the biggest cowards it’s been my displeasure to ever meet.”

  “Every gem, they say, has at least one imperfection,” Shakespeare said, and smirked. “Course, in his case there’s a heap more than one.”

  “We all have our flaws,” Nate said. “I figure one of our purposes in life is to try to try and correct them before we die. Be perfect, the Good Book says.”

  “Tarnation!” Shakespeare exulted. “You did it again.

  “Did what?”

  “Had another original notion. I’ve got to get me something to write with so I can make a record of them for your grandchildren.”

  “We’re straying off the trail.”

  “Which was?”

  “William Templar. Lord Graustark. The marquis.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Why does a man like him, who has so much to live for and so much to lose, and who deep down is scared of his own shadow, travel all over the world and put himself in situations where he’s in great peril? Why does he go out of his way to court danger?”

  “Some men like to face the things they’re most afeared of to prove to themselves they’re not afraid,” Shakespeare said, and cocked his head to observe the younger man’s profile. “But I have to say I don’t see eye to eye with you on this. The marquis isn’t the total coward you make him out to be. Look at how well he fought against the Piegans, and he didn’t whine or moan about his wound afterward.”

  “But the bear!” Nate countered. “And last night when he wanted to have extra men stand watch?”

  “You could be mistaking caution for cowardice. Our friend William is the kind of man who never takes risks he doesn’t have to, but once danger comes he holds his own without complaint.”

  “I don’t know,” Nate said uncertainly.

  “Would you do anything to put Winona’s life in jeopardy? No. Templar feels the same about his sister. I’d imagine she’s one of the few people he really and truly loves—besides himself, naturally.”

  “Then you like him?”

  “I never made any such claim. I’d be lying if I did.” Shakespeare gazed to the north, then squinted, his brow furrowing. “But I learned long ago not to go around judging folks by their faults. Hell, if we all did that, none of us would have anything to do with anyone else. So I take people as I find them, and if they rankle me, then I make it a point to have as little to do with them as possible.”

  “Yet you hired on to guide Templar to Missouri.”

  “I hired on to get his sister there. William could be scalped tomorrow and I’d dance a jig.” Shakespeare frowned and drew rein. “And he just might be.”

  “What are you raving about now?”

  “See for yourself,” Shakespeare said, pointing.

  Nate did, and his skin crawled. Less than two miles distant, atop a sheer bu
tte, rose a smoke signal.

  Chapter Nine

  Indians rarely used smoke signals in the mountains for the simple reason that intervening peaks, crags, cliffs, and hills invariably hid their billowing puffs from those they wanted to see the message. On the flat plains, though, where visibility stretched for miles, smoke signals were an ideal method of communicating over long distances. In this case the sender had just begun, as evidenced by the two lone puffs rising slowly on the air currents.

  “What is he saying?” Nate asked urgently.

  “Hold your britches on, Mercutio, until he finishes the message,” Shakespeare replied.

  More puffs blossomed, forming a vertical string, rising until they mingled with the passing clouds.

  “Well?” Nate prompted.

  “It’s short and sweet,” Shakespeare said. “White men. Many horses. Come quick.”

  “Any idea which tribe?”

  “From the smoke?”

  Nate scanned the level expanse on all sides. “Damn. There’s no cover except for that butte. Maybe we should make a run for it. There must be boulders or clefts we can use for shelter.”

  “We’d never make it.”

  “Why not?”

  Shakespeare extended a finger to the west where a small dust cloud was rapidly growing in size. “They’ll be on us before we do.”

  Galvanized into action, Nate whirled the black stallion and raced to the others. Winona and Zach were in the company of Lady Templar, and all three had been so engrossed in their conversation they had failed to see the smoke signals. They looked up in alarm as Nate reined up so sharply the hoofs of his stallion sent clods of dirt flying.

  “My word!” Diana exclaimed. “What has you so worked up?”

  “Indians!” Nate explained, raising his voice so the marquis, Jarvis, and Eric could hear. “We have no time to lose. Bunch the horses together and stand by your guns.”

  With that Nate was off, racing along the line until he reached Fletcher and Harrison, who were both bringing up the rear in order to keep an eye on their many horses and prevent any of the animals from straying off. Quickly he told them of the impending danger. “Fan out on either side of the horses,” he ordered, “and keep them packed tight. Be ready to cut and run though, if we’re attacked.”

  Both men nodded. Both had the look of men who sincerely wished they were somewhere else.

  In a flash Nate was galloping back toward the front of the column. Out on the plain the dust cloud had swelled tremendously, and a number of riders had materialized at its swirling base. Nate tried to count them, but the dust and distance thwarted him.

  Shakespeare, meanwhile, had joined the women and Zach, and was moving around the horses to a point where he would be directly between the Indians and their own party. The men took up positions at regular intervals in front of their small herd.

  “Recognize them yet?” Nate asked as he stopped alongside his mentor.

  “Not yet,” Shakespeare responded. “But at least we know they’re not Blackfeet.”

  Nate nodded. The Blackfeet, like their allies the Piegans, routinely conducted raids beyond their own territory afoot. They did so more out of adherence to tribal tradition than due to any advantage being on foot gave them. One day soon, Nate knew, they would have to change their ways in order to withstand the Sioux and the Cheyenne, who had adapted to the horse so readily and now were regularly winning victories over the conservative Blackfeet.

  Twisting, Nate saw that everyone had a rifle at the ready. Zach’s face was set in lines of solemn determination that filled Nate with pride. William Templar, to Nate’s surprise and annoyance since it proved Shakespeare to be right yet again, displayed no fear at all.

  “We can breathe a mite easier,” Shakespeare suddenly announced, cradling his rifle in his elbow.

  “How so?”

  “They’re Crows.”

  This was welcome news to Nate. While not always as friendly to whites as the Shoshones were, the Crows had never killed a white man so far as Nate knew. They did sometimes resort to thievery, on several occasions having stolen horses from free trappers.

  At one time the Crows had been one of the most powerful tribes west of the Mississippi, and their nation had numbered about eight thousand souls. But constant warfare, and later a smallpox epidemic, had so ravaged them that now only two thousand of their number were left, and of those approximately twelve hundred were women. Consequently, most warriors had more than one wife. Chiefs often had three or four.

  Soon the band was close enough for Nate to make a head count, which came to twenty-two braves. This bothered him a bit, since often when a large Crow band encountered a smaller group of whites, the Crows would insolently insist on receiving gifts as tokens of the good will of the interlopers in their country.

  “Let me do the chawing,” Shakespeare suggested.

  “Gladly.”

  “Whatever happens, don’t let any of them get past us and in among the horses. One shout will scatter the whole bunch and we’ll never see half of them again.”

  Then the rumble of hoofs heralded the arrival of the Crow party. Neither the warriors nor their horses were painted for war, which told Nate this was a hunting party probably out after buffalo. He wished he spoke the Crow tongue, as Shakespeare did, so he could understand what was going to be said.

  Only when the Crows had all halted and were appraising them did Shakespeare break the ice by addressing them in sign language. “Greetings. I am Wolverine Killer,” he said, using the sign equivalent of the name bestowed on him many years ago by the Flatheads.

  Nate was puzzled. Why was McNair using sign when he spoke Crow fairly fluently? Insight made him grin. His friend was doing so for his benefit so he could follow the drift of the talk and be prepared for trouble should the Crows turn out to be belligerent.

  “I have heard of you,” a lean Crow answered. “They say you are a friend of our people. I know that many winters ago you stayed in a village of our tribe for ten or twelve moons.” He paused. I am Four Horns.”

  “I know of you,” Shakespeare signed, repaying the compliment. “They say you are a man of honor, a man who has never given his white brothers cause to take offense.”

  Nate saw some of the Crows muttering among themselves, younger warriors who sat behind the front row of more seasoned men. If a conflict arose, it would be these young ones, who were eager to prove their manhood by demonstrating their courage, who would start it.

  “What are Wolverine Killer and his friends doing in the land of the Crows?” Four Horns asked.

  “We pass through on our way to Mandan country,” Shakespeare revealed.

  “You have not come to trade with us?” Four Horns inquired, and several of the younger warriors displayed indignation.

  “We are in a hurry,” Shakespeare explained. “Not many sleeps ago the Piegans tried to take our hair. We drove them off, but we lost some of our men in doing so. Now these people must return to the white man’s land and tell the loved ones of those who died what has happened.”

  Four Horns glanced at the women, then at the other white men. “The Piegans are our enemies also. They raid us often, killing young and old alike. Anyone who slays them is our friend.” He motioned northward. “You may go in peace.”

  Nate relaxed, and had started to lift his reins to leave when one of the younger warriors shouldered through the front line and stopped beside Four Horns.

  “I am Plenty Hole, and I say you cannot leave until you show us you are our friends. Words can hide lies, but horses are proof of the truth.”

  “Are you saying I do not speak with a straight tongue?” Shakespeare signed angrily.

  Plenty Hole stared at the rifle poised in the mountain man’s lap, and smiled deviously. “You have lived in the mountains since the time of our grandfathers, Wolverine Killer, and all of us know of you. We know you would never talk with a forked tongue. We also know you have shown your friendship to our people many times.” He nodded a
t the clustered horses. “Is it wrong to show your friendship to us by giving us some of your horses? You have so many. You will not miss a few.”

  This was the moment of truth. Nate had his right hand resting on his Hawken, and he tensed, set to whip it up and fire.

  “I never thought I would see the day when the Crows would try to take advantage of my friendship with them,” Shakespeare signed indignantly. “If you were hungry, I would share my food with you. If you were, hurt, I would help mend you. But I will not give up horses that are not mine to warriors who already have fine horses of their

  “They are not yours?” Plenty Hole signed quizzically.

  “They belong to this man,” Shakespeare said, indicating William Templar.

  “Ask him to give some to us.”

  “Ask him yourself.”

  Plenty Hole swung toward William Templar. His hands and arms worked feverishly. Then he stopped, awaiting a reply.

  Realizing he was the focus of attention but completely ignorant of the proceedings, William turned to Nate and demanded, “Why the devil is this bloody beggar looking at me the way he is?”

  “He wants you to give him some of your horses to show him you’re his friend.”

  “The cheeky blighter! I don’t even know him,” William snapped. “Tell him he can’t have any of my horses, and if he doesn’t trot along like a good little savage I’ll have his head on toast.”

  Plenty Hole was impatient. “What does he say?” he asked.

  “He says he has already proven his friendship by killing many Piegans who would have killed many Crows had they lived,” Shakespeare replied. “He says he is offended that you would insist on taking horses from one who has recently lost friends who died killing your enemies.” He paused, his features flinty. “And he says that if you try to take the horses or molest us in any way, we will cover the ground with the guts and blood of many foolish Crows.”

  Nate half expected Plenty Hole and some of the other young warriors to fly into a rage. His thumb curled around the hammer, and his finger touched the trigger.

  The next moment Shakespeare turned his white horse and resumed their journey without condescending to give the Crows a parting word or look. He sat at ease in the saddle, showing by his posture that he was unafraid.