The man from Tennessee snickered. “Goodness gracious! You do come up with some real tongue twisters. That’s what happens when a body reads too damn much.”
It was common knowledge that Nate was fond of books. In his cabin he had a small but cherished collection that included the current works by James Fenimore Cooper, his favorite. “Guilty as charged,” he quipped.
Allen became sober again. “About those stinking Crows. Some of the men are thinking about heading out in the morning to go help Cornish. They don’t know I know.”
“How many?”
“Eight or nine. Brickman is behind it.”
“We can’t spare them.”
“Figured as much. Let me handle it. I’ll have me a little talk with Brickman before I turn in. Make him see the light.”
“What if he refuses?”
“I’ll remind him of that disagreement I had with that fella from Georgia.”
Nate remembered it well. Three years ago, at a rendezvous, Allen and another man had gotten into an argument when Allen won big at a game of cards. The gent from Georgia had accused Allen of cheating, but as anyone who knew the Tennessean would attest, there wasn’t a dishonest bone in his body. One thing had led to another. The Georgian had pulled a knife.
Nate had been nearby. He had heard the ruckus and gone over to behold a knife fight the likes of which few men were privileged to see. Both men had been born and bred in the mountains of the South. Both had been extremely skilled. For long minutes they had thrust and parried and feinted and cut until, at long last, Henry Allen’s blade had sunk to the hilt in the Georgian’s chest.
“Let me know if he gives you any trouble,” Nate said.
“He won’t.”
They veered apart, Nate bending his steps to the cluster of lean-tos at the center of the encampment. On either side reared the hills, partially blotting out the stars. To the west was the mouth of the canyon. The horse herd filled it from front to back. Many of the animals were milling about. They disliked being hemmed in, and Nate didn’t blame them. He had never been fond of being cooped up himself.
It was early yet. Most of the women were still out and about, gathered near the four crackling fires. Winona, Zach, and Evelyn were at the one closest to their lean-to, Winona brushing the girl’s hair while their son cleaned his rifle. They did not notice Nate until he was right on top of them.
“Papa!” Evelyn gurgled happily, throwing out her arms.
Nate set his Hawken down and picked her up. “How’s the apple of my eye doing?”
“I miss you,” Evelyn said.
“Sorry I’m away so much, but it can’t be helped,” Nate said. “I have a lot to do these days looking after all the folks we’re traveling with.”
Winona saw the corners of his mouth twitch down and came to his rescue to spare him from feeling as if he were neglecting them. “You are doing what you have to, husband. We have no complaints.”
Zach stopped cleaning his gun long enough to ask, “Pa, what was that fuss about a while ago? There was some talk of Indians.”
Nate related the event, and as he talked the tension slowly drained from his rock hard body. It was the first time all day he had been able to relax. He cast aside his troubles, treated himself to a steaming cup of black coffee from one of the four pots the women kept going every hour of the day, and leisurely sipped.
Winona was glad to see her man take it easy for a while. The strain of being responsible for so many was taking a toll in wrinkles around his eyes where there had been none before and in his seldom being able to sit still for more than a few minutes at a stretch.
“How about supper?” Nate said. “I know it’s late and most everyone else has filled his belly, but I’m so hungry I could eat a buffalo raw.”
Evelyn puckered her lips in disgust. “Could you really?”
“Only with a lot of salt and garlic,” Nate joked.
Winona rose and walked to their lean-to. When she came back, she carried a small covered pot which she set on a flat rock by the fire. “It should not take long to heat up,” she said.
Nate didn’t ask what it was. He’d rather be surprised. As it turned out, she had made rabbit stew, one of his favorites, laced with tangy onions and herbs and a few chopped roots. He happened to scoop one of the roots out with the first dip of his big wooden spoon, and vivid images of the unfortunate Flathead almost made him lose his appetite. Shaking his head to dispel the memory, he dug into the stew with relish, chewing each morsel thoroughly to savor the meal to its fullest.
Zachary laughed. “Pa, I never saw anyone who likes to eat as much as you do.”
“Wait until you’re older, son,” Nate said with his mouth full. “There’s nothing like a good meal to perk a man up when he’s had a rough day.”
Winona arched an eyebrow. “Nothing?”
“Well, almost nothing,” Nate backtracked to redeem himself.
Zach was bent over his rifle barrel, rubbing hard. “I know what you mean, Pa,” he commented without looking up.
“You do?”
“Sure. Hunting and fishing and riding a horse do the same.” Zach stopped rubbing a moment. “That is what you meant, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” Nate said, glad to have been spared an embarrassing explanation. He finished his meal, his ears registering every sound made in camp and every noise in the woods beyond.
Owls hooted. A few birds screeched. In the distance coyotes yipped. Not to be outdone, wolves gave throaty voice to plaintive howls. Once a panther screamed just like a woman in labor. Another time a guttural grunt warned of a roving grizzly bear.
Most newcomers to the West would have trembled at the nightly chorus, convinced that at any minute a ravenous beast was going to spring out of the gloom and pounce on them. But to Nate, the sounds he heard were the same as a lullaby. They told him that all was well, that no two-legged fiends were abroad.
If the forest had been totally silent, then there would have been cause for worry.
The pot empty, Nate stretched out on his back, cupped his hands under his head, and admired the myriad of stairs ablaze in the heavens. A minty scent tingled his nostrils as a warm shape molded itself to his side.
“You should get some sleep, husband. I will wake you if you are needed.”
“Later,” Nate said. “I have to check on the horse herd before I turn in.”
“A short while would not do any harm.”
To humor her, Nate closed his eyes. He thought that he would lie there a few minutes and get up, but when he opened his eyes again, the fire had burned low and almost all the women were gone.
Winona, gently rocking Blue Flower in her arms, smiled to herself. Her man had needed the rest whether he would admit it or not. “All is well,” she informed him as he sat up. “There was no trouble. The only one who came by to see you was Henry Allen.”
“What did he want?” Nate asked, yawning.
“He said to tell you that Brickman has seen the light. I did not understand but he claimed that you would.”
Nate stretched, then helped himself to more coffee to dispel lingering drowsiness. He was mildly peeved that his wife had let him doze so long, yet he had to admit he’d needed it badly. Evelyn and Zach were both out to the world, Zach hugging his rifle in his sleep.
The camp was quiet. Here and there a handful of people were talking in hushed tones, and to the east one of the guards was humming a ballad.
“Do you regret coming?” Winona asked.
Taken aback by the query, Nate paused with the tin cup tipped to his lower lip. “No, not really. It’s the only way I could repay Kendall.”
“But you regret that we came along, don’t you?”
“I haven’t tried to hide the fact,” Nate noted. “Quit fretting over us, husband. What will be, will be. Each of us must do as we think is right and live with the consequences.”
Nate swallowed more coffee to keep from making a remark that might get him in hot water. He mus
ed that Winona’s outlook was fine so long as a person only had his or her own hide to watch out for.
“We will turn in,” Winona said, and lowered her voice to say playfully, “I will keep your blankets warm for you.”
“I won’t be long,” Nate said. He kissed her cheek. Polishing off the brew, Nate claimed his Hawken and strolled toward the canyon. The pale starlight was adequate for him to distinguish objects close at hand but not those at any distance.
Nate had to pass scattered trees and large boulders to reach the horses. A stately oak was one. Intent on spotting the men riding herd, he walked under the overspreading limbs without giving it a second thought. He was abreast of the trunk when a slight scraping sound came from above. Stopping short, he glanced up.
The act of halting saved his life. For hurtling down toward him was a powerfully built figure wielding a long knife. The knife swept at his face, but missed. Had Nate kept on walking, it would have penetrated clear to his jugular.
Nate tried to throw himself backward but the figure slammed into his left shoulder and they both crashed down, his attacker on top and raising the blade for another blow. For a frozen moment Nate saw the man plainly.
It was Tall Bear. Even in the dark, his mashed lips and charred cheek were evident, as was the hatred that contorted his face. He had stripped to his loincloth and moccasins. An amulet, or charm, hung around” his neck. In addition to the knife, he had a short club wedged under his loincloth above his right hip.
All this Nate saw in a span of heartbeats. As the knife speared at his neck, he jerked to the right. The blade thudded into the ground, nicking his ear. Nate had dropped the Hawken when he fell but he still had his pistols and he aimed to get at them. Heaving upward, he dislodged the Crow, who tumbled but recovered in half the time it took Nate to push to his knees and claw at his flintlocks.
The knife stroked at Nate’s hand, forcing him to snatch it away or lose fingers. Tall Bear, hissing, lunged, seeking to bowl Nate over by sheer brute force.
No outcry rose in the camp. No shots were fired. No one knew that the warrior had slipped in past the perimeter guard. No one knew that Nate was fighting for his life. Nate shifted as Tall Bear came at him and grabbed the Crow’s arm. He levered it as he might a pump handle.
Tall Bear’s mouth went wide but no howl of pain came out as he catapulted head over heels and hit hard.
Nate dived on top. On the spur of the moment he had changed his mind. Rather than resort to a pistol, Nate intended to take the Crow alive. Tall Bear had to know what Little Soldier’s plans were, and Nate was going to wring that information from him.
They grappled, Nate locked onto the warrior’s knife arm, Tall Bear clamping a hand on Nate’s throat. The Crow squeezed but he didn’t have a solid grip; the worst he could do was gouge his fingernails into Nate’s skin.
Rolling to the right, Nate resorted to a tactic he rarely used. He drove his forehead into the warrior’s chin, butting like a bull. Sometimes that was enough to knock a foe out. In this instance, Nate was the one who saw dazzling fireflies pin-wheel before his eyes and felt his limbs grow momentarily weak.
Tall Bear saw his chance. He flung his knife high, sneered in triumph, and cleaved the air, the tip of his blade pointed at a spot to the left of Nate’s sternum.
The Crow was a shade too slow. Realizing that he would be mortally stricken if he did not do something, Nate King had drawn a pistol as the tiny lights burst in front of him. He cocked it as the knife elevated. He jammed it against the warrior’s stomach and fired as the knife descended.
The heavy lead ball sheared through Tall Bear’s innards like a cannonball through a scarecrow. He was flung onto his back, a hole at the base of his spine as big as his hand. Mouth working, he tried to form words but none came out.
Nate slowly straightened up. The shot had been muffled by the Crow’s body. It was doubtful anyone had heard. He palmed his other pistol on the off chance enough life remained in the warrior to animate his limbs.
The hatred never left Tall Bear’s eyes. With his dying breath he tried to spit. Then his body convulsed, his head flopped up and down, and he expired with a loud exhale.
Where there was one Crow, there might be more. Nate reloaded the spent pistol, scooped up his rifle, and jogged toward the part of camp where most of the single mountaineers had spread out their blankets. Locating the Tennessean among forty sprawled forms proved easier than it would seem since he knew of Allen’s penchant for sleeping in the darkest spots. As Allen liked to put it, “A red devil can’t slit your throat if he doesn’t know where you are.”
Nate threaded among prone forms, moving with the utmost care so as not to awaken anyone. He distinguished the vague outline of a sleeping form off by itself, next to a small pine, and hurried over. As he bent to shake Allen’s shoulder, the lanky trapper’s ripcord frame uncoiled and a pistol was flourished inches from Nate’s nose.
“Oh, it’s you,” the Tennessean said. “Don’t you know any better than to go skulking around in the middle of the night? Are you looking to have your head shot off?”
“The Crows,” was all Nate had to say to bring Allen to his feet. Nate filled him in while Allen donned his ammo pouch, powder horn, and possibles bag.
“Find Jenks. We’ll round up six other men and make a sweep of the whole camp,” Nate said. “Quietly, though. There’s no need to rouse everyone else unless Little Soldier is up to something.”
“I wish to blazes I’d get that bastard in my sights for two seconds.”
“That makes two of us.”
But a thorough search turned up no other Crows. Nate had every tree inside the perimeter checked. Every boulder was circled. Every inky patch of ground was warily probed.
The men riding guard on the horse herd were alerted and scoured the canyon from one end to the other. Like Nate and his bunch, the riders came up empty handed.
It was past one in the morning when Nate finally sank down inside the lean-to next to Winona and tried to get to sleep. His mind had a will of its own. It raced like an appaloosa. Over and over again he reviewed the precautions he had taken to protect those who were relying on him. Over and over he tried to pinpoint mistakes he could have made. There might be flaws the Crows could exploit, flaws he’d correct if he could only figure out what they were before Little Soldier attacked.
And attack the Crow leader would. Nate knew it as surely as he lived and breathed. Instinct, premonition, intuition, whatever it was called, it blared in his brain that the Absarokas craved revenge and would stop at nothing to get it.
After the longest while, Nate slept. But he didn’t enjoy his slumber. He tossed and turned and woke up at the slightest noise, even when one of his loved ones rolled over in their sleep.
Nate was actually pleased when a faint pink band framed the eastern sky. He was up before any of the women and made a fresh pot of coffee. Hunkered by the fire, he let the flames warm his limbs and the coffee warm his stomach.
“One by one other trappers rose to greet the new day. Not a solitary cloud marred the azure blue of the heavens. The air was so crystal clear that the first war whoop from the depths of the canyon rang as clearly as the peal of a bell. Nate leaped to his feet, spilling his coffee and not caring. There were more whoops, then the crack of rifles. Mountaineers shouted. Some cursed. Last of all came the sound Nate prayed he wouldn’t hear, the drum of over a thousand heavy hooves as the horses were panicked into motion.
The Crows had stampeded the herd—straight toward the camp.
Fourteen
“Stampede!” Nate bawled at the top of his lungs as he cast the tin cup down and dashed toward the family’s lean-to. Others who were awake took up the refrain, mingled with shouts of, “Run for your lives! Run! Run!” and “Head for the trees!”
Winona had been half awake when the commotion broke out. She’d heard the rumble to the west and in her drowsy state had attributed it to thunder. Then she heard her husband, and in a flash she was up an
d out of the lean-to with Evelyn in her arms.
Zach King was only a few steps behind. He had been in a deep sleep, dreaming of counting coup on a score of Dakotas who had raided his uncle’s village. Automatically, he grabbed his Hawken, ammo pouch, powder horn, and possibles bag as he bolted.
Nate pointed toward the hill to the north, the nearest of the two. “That way!” he shouted to be heard above the uproar. “Don’t stop for anything!” Giving his wife a hasty kiss, he said in her ear, “I’m sorry. I have to help the rest.”
“I understand,” Winona responded. “Do what you must.”
Nate ran off. Winona started to do the same. She stopped, though, causing Zach to nearly bump into her. “Our parfleches and blankets! We must save what we can!”
Zach wasn’t so sure that was the right thing to do. He’d heard his pa tell them to run for their lives. Taking time to save their effects might put them in jeopardy. But he turned to help anyway. He wouldn’t desert his mother and sister, even if it cost them dearly.
Winona glanced to the west. The canyon was about ten flights of an arrow distant. Other than an enormous roiling dust cloud, there was no sign yet of the horses. She had the time to save their possessions if she hurried.
Other women were doing the same. Frantically folding blankets and snatching up everything they could, they fled in panic, some toward the hill to the north, the others southward. No one went to the east since that was the direction the horses would naturally take.
It took only seconds for Winona to throw several blankets over her shoulders. She handed two full parfleches to Stalking Coyote, who looked as if he were certain they were going to be killed at any moment.
Winona was stooping to pick up a water skin when a shrill scream snapped her erect. Her first thought was to wonder how horses had gotten there so fast? The horses were in sight, their lead ranks formed in a wide line that stretched from hill to hill. Nostrils flaring, manes flying, they were not about to stop for anyone or anything.
She saw a mountaineer try to turn them. A man she didn’t recognized, mounted on a sorrel, rode directly into the their path. Firing his pistols and hollering, he bore down on them as they bore down on him. The outcome was inevitable. At the last instant the man attempted to rein the sorrel around and flee. The sorrel was broadside when the front row of horses smashed into it, plowing sorrel and rider under a driving wedge of hammering hooves. Faintly on the breeze fluttered an all too brief screech.
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