An arrow materialized in the Nez Perce woman’s side. She recoiled at the impact, glanced forlornly at Nate, and pitched forward without an outcry. Nate started to lift her, to drag her off so he could extract the shaft, but there was no need. Yellow Bird had breathed her last.
Whirling, Nate drew a pistol and put a ball into the forehead of the warrior who had shot the arrow.
Since to stay and fight courted certain death, Nate’s intent was to grab Sam Guthrie and head for the hills before all of them resembled porcupines. But no sooner did he turn toward the bound mountaineer than Guthrie pushed to his knees and drew attention to himself by shouting, “King, for God’s sake, get me out of here!”
It was a fatal mistake. A pair of Crows were closer. At Guthrie’s yell, they were on him like two furious panthers, ripping at his chest and neck with long blades of steel. Guthrie was dead before the echo of his shout died on the wind. Everything had gone terribly, utterly wrong.
Nate retreated toward the lake, expending his second flintlock on a warrior armed with a club. Henry Allen had disappeared in the cattails, along with seven or eight Absarokas. The Sicilian was half buried under a berserk mass of Crows striving their utmost to count coup on him. At least six corpses testified to their failure.
All of Nate’s guns were empty. He shoved the spent pistol under his belt beside its mate and took one more step backward. Water soaked his foot up to the ankle. He could go no farther.
A ragged line of Crows advanced; among them was Little Soldier. The bloodthirsty leader was urging his fellow warriors on while bouncing up and down like a man half demented. Then Little Soldier looked at Nate. “You die, white dog! We take your hair, Grizzly Killer, and hang on post for whole village to see!”
Nate scanned the semicircle of feral bronzed faces that confronted him. Barring a miracle, Little Soldier’s boast might just turn out to be prophetic.
Sixteen
Nate King dropped a hand to the hilt of his Bowie knife. He pictured Winona, Zach, and Evelyn, and he wished that he could have lived long enough to see his children grow up and have children of their own. But he had always known the odds were against him. Few who called the wilderness home ever lived to a ripe old age. Those who did were the exceptions, not the rule.
As the eleven Crows slowly converged, Nate prepared to sell his life dearly. He saw some of the warriors tense for the fatal lunge, saw knives and lances and arrows glint dully.
At that exact instant, a thunderous bestial bellow drowned out all other sounds. It was so loud, so like thunder, so startling in its ferocity that the Crows paused and glanced around to isolate the source.
Nate already knew who was responsible. He had seen Emilio Barzini throw off the warriors trying to smother the Sicilian by sheer weight of numbers. He had witnessed Emilio straighten up and utter the roar of savage glee. So when all eyes swiveled toward the giant, Nate seized the moment, spun, and flung himself into Hidden Lake.
The water was ice cold. It was hard to swim while holding a rifle and wearing buckskins, but it was either that or go down under the blood-drenched weapons of the Absarokas. And Nate wanted more than anything to live. He pumped his arms in powerful strokes while kicking for all he was worth. A sharp cry made him look back. The Crows had discovered that he was escaping. All eleven rushed to the water’s edge but only two dived in after him.
There was no sign of Allen. The Sicilian fought on, a slender blade in either hand, leaving a trail of littered bodies as he retreated toward dense brush.
Nate could only afford a short glance. He had to outdistance the pair of warriors eager to slit his throat. One floundered, a poor swimmer. But the other was a human fish and cleaved the surface as smoothly as a sturgeon. Water splashed off a tomahawk the man held.
Nate’s plight was compounded by his clothes. Buckskins were heavy enough dry; wet, they seemed to weigh a ton. They impeded his every movement. Yet he could hardly take the time to strip off his shirt and leggings. He had to swim as fast as he could and pray it was good enough.
It wasn’t. A wolfish yip alerted Nate to the proximity of the Crow, who had overtaken him not thirty feet from the shore. Stopping, Nate rotated to face his adversary. The warrior raised the tomahawk, his teeth flashing white in the night.
Even though the Hawken was an extra burden, it was just as well that Nate had not discarded it. The rifle came in handy. He jabbed, the stock connecting with the Crow’s forehead.
The warrior shrugged off the pain and swatted at the Hawken, his tomahawk glancing off the polished wood, then backed up a few feet to get out of range.
It was a stalemate. Nate couldn’t turn to flee or the Crow would be on him in the bat of an eye, nor could the Crow close in so long as Nate held him at bay with the Hawken.
Then an arrow cleaved the water less than a foot from Nate’s right elbow. Several warriors on the rocky beach were taking careful aim with their bows. Even in the dark, they were uncannily accurate, and sooner or later one would score.
Nate had to get out of there. The nearest cover was a belt of cattails to the east. He began to paddle toward them, never taking his gaze off the warrior with the tomahawk. The man pounced, swinging overhand. Nate swept the Hawken up to block the swing, shifted, and drove the stock at the Crow’s temple. If he had been on land, the blow would have dropped the warrior in his tracks. But, lacking firm footing, the best Nate could do was clip his enemy. The man backed up, shaking his head, dazed but unhurt.
Another arrow sought Nate’s life. Then a third. The archers came closer with each try. Nate continued toward the reeds, deflecting a flurry of strikes as the Crow with the tomahawk attempted to stop him.
Nate realized he could never get away unless he disposed of the warrior first. He resorted to a ruse. Suddenly throwing himself at the cattails as if frantic to flee, he watched the Crow out of the corner of his eye. When the man hurtled forward to stop him, Nate reversed direction, giving the warrior no warning, no time to react. He speared the barrel at the Crow’s throat.
The man jerked to the left to avoid it, but was a shade too slow. A gurgling gasp burst from his lips. Pressing a hand over his neck, he swayed, wheezing loudly for air.
Nate didn’t waste another second. Barreling into the cattails, he shouldered his way to the north, staying low so the Crows couldn’t see him. Whizzing shafts rained down, most wide of the mark but a few much too near to suit him. One even nipped his shoulder but only tore the buckskin.
Moving rapidly, Nate veered toward the shore. A line of trees reared out of the inky veil. He lifted a leg to dash from cover and into the forest when a cluster of indigo forms appeared between the reeds and the pines.
Nate ducked and froze. The Crows were so close that he could have flicked a pebble and hit one. They halted abreast of his position. Words were whispered. Some commenced poking into the reeds while others scoured the tree line and the undergrowth.
No shouting or sounds of battle arose from the Crow camp. Nate wondered if the Sicilian had gone down. And what about Allen? Had the Tennessean made good his escape? Or had the Crows added one more victim to their long string?
Another warrior showed up. Commands were snapped. Nate couldn’t see the man’s face, but the voice he identified. It was Little Soldier.
The Absarokas spread out in twos and threes. Little Soldier and one other stayed put, the Crow leader with his back to the lake and his hands on his hips.
Nate could have gone on. It would have been infinitely safer for him to have slipped quietly off than it was for him to do what he did, namely, to noiselessly part the stems in front of him and stealthily glide toward the man who had caused the expedition so much grief. His guns were empty but he still had his Bowie and his tomahawk. Either would do, but this time he relied on the weapon favored by his adopted people.
Little Soldier and the last warrior were talking softly, Little Soldier gesturing at the trees, the other man at the reeds. Apparently they were arguing over where Nate had
gone.
As Nate stepped onto dry land, he glanced to the right and the left to verify no other Crows were close by. Placing the Hawken down, he stalked his quarry. He was only a few feet from them when his soggy buckskins squished loud enough to be heard in St. Louis.
The two Crows whirled. Little Soldier took one look, pivoted on a heel, and sprinted into the forest while bawling at the top of his lungs. The other man brought up a club.
Nate struck before the warrior could. As the Crow toppled, Nate wheeled and plucked the Hawken up on the fly. He was in among the reeds again before help could arrive. Wading to the outer fringe, he hurried eastward.
Nate presently reached the easternmost point and swung around to the north. When he was due south of where the horses were hidden, he inched to the shore again. No Crows appeared this time. Dripping wet, he emerged from the cattails and dashed into the trees. Once under cover, he made his way to the boulders.
More than anything, Nate wanted to reload his guns. But that had to wait until he could thoroughly dry each one and inspect the black powder in his powder horn to insure it had not been rendered useless during his swim.
Nate was relieved to spot the black stallion and the other two horses right where they had been left. He wasn’t about to run on out there, though, when Crows might be lurking in the brush, waiting for someone to do just that. Instead, he circled the boulders.
A stealthy tread brought Nate to a halt. Through the trees flitted a black specter that would pass within an arm’s reach of the trunk behind which Nate hunkered. Nate reversed his grip on the Hawken, holding it like a club. The figure paused, as if sensing his presence. In a few seconds it took another stride. Nate had every sinew balled into a knot and was rising to swing when the outline of a beaver hat awakened him to the mistake he had nearly made.
“Henry?”
The Tennessean smiled broadly and clapped Nate on the shoulders. “This coon is mighty tickled that you gave those red varmints the slip!”
“Have you seen Barzini?” Nate whispered.
“Neither hide nor hair,” Allen responded. “I had my hands so full dodging the devils that were after my own skin that I couldn’t help out either of you.”
Nate stepped to a boulder and knelt at its base. “We can’t leave until we know for sure,” he said.
“Know what?” a deep voice replied, so near to Nate that he jumped.
An immense living block of manhood rose up out of the shadows. Emilio was delighted by the startled looks the mountain men bestowed on him. For all their vaunted prowess, they would be no match for him in a life or death clash.
“How long have you been hiding here?” Allen inquired.
Emilio did not like the inference. “I’ve been waiting for the two of you, not cowering in fear. It’s taken you so long I was sure the Indians had wiped you out.”
Nate was amazed that the giant had eluded the Crows and even more astounded that he had beaten them to the boulders. There was much more to Emilio Barzini then met the eye. “I thought the same about you.”
“They tried,” Emilio said with a hint of contempt. The Crows had fought well, but no better than some whites he had gone up against. In that respect, they had been a distinct disappointment, although the score or more of cuts and nicks on his arms and chest were ample proof that he should not regard them too lightly.
“I think I made worm food of three of them.” Henry Allen mentioned.
“I killed four, maybe five,” Nate said.
Emilio smirked. “Is that all? Twelve of them fell before me, and two others I crippled for life.” His broad chest swelled. “They will not soon forget this night.”
“You made worm food of a baker’s dozen?” Allen said skeptically. “Who do you reckon you are? Samson? Or did you rip trees up by the roots and bash the Absarokas over the head with them?”
“I do not like being mocked,” Emilio warned, his voice rising.
Nate defused the dispute by interjecting, “I saw you kill at least seven of them. That’s more than any one man has ever done at one time before.”
“It was nothing,” Emilio said, and meant it. “I have done better.” He alluded to an incident years ago. At a waterfront tavern in southern Italy he had become embroiled in a dispute with a group of sailors, and when the final chair had been broken and the last bottle smashed, fifteen broken, dying, or dead men had been left lying on the floor.
Nate rose. “So between the three of us, Little Soldier lost upwards of twenty warriors. That won’t sit well with his people. Whenever a man is lost on a raid, it’s considered a bad omen.”
Henry Allen nodded. “You’re right there, hoss. Losing that many will make him awful unpopular for a long spell. He won’t have any influence among the Crows. Hell, it wouldn’t surprise me if they refuse to let him lead them from now on.”
“Then we’ve done it,” Nate said. “We can head on back.”
“Done what?” Emilio wanted to know. In the Old Country, a debt wasn’t settled until the offending party had been eliminated. An eye for an eye was the day-to-day creed by which his people lived. By his reckoning, honor would only be satisfied when Little Soldier was killed.
“We had to avenge the raid or risk being branded as fair game for any war party that comes along,” Nate refreshed the Sicilian’s memory. “And that’s exactly what we’ve done.”
“Little Soldier still lives.”
“But he does so in shame,” Nate said. “To the Crows and the Dakotas and some other tribes, that’s a fate worse than death. No one will listen to him. No one will want to go on raids with him.”
Emilio began to understand. “We have made an outcast of him?”
“Not exactly, but the next best thing,” Nate answered. He did not know how else to explain Indian customs to someone completely ignorant of Indian ways. Especially among the Crows, where valiant exploits were the basis by which warriors advanced in rank, losing a battle was a stigma of the highest magnitude. No man was even rated a warrior until he had counted coup, and any man who had not done so by the time he reached twenty years of age became a slave of the women.
“So let’s light a shuck,” Allen advised, stepping to his mount. “That greenhorn booshway of ours is going to need our advice when he gets to Blackfoot country.”
Nate did not need any prompting, as eager as he was to be reunited with his loved ones. Forking leather, he rode northward.
Emilio brought up the rear. Despite their explanations, he thought it strange that the mountain men had let their enemy live. In the Old Country, no one would have been so stupid. A live enemy could always make trouble later on. What was to stop Little Soldier from causing more trouble at some point farther along the trail? No, if it had been up to him, he would not have rejoined the brigade until the vicious Crow had given up the ghost.
Nate wanted to ride all night and into the next day but their horses weren’t up to it. He called a halt about three and let everyone sleep until the middle of the morning.
Refreshed, they rode until nine that night. Nate was so confident the Crows wouldn’t bother them again he built a fire himself and made coffee. During the afternoon Allen had dropped a grouse at 75 yards, and Nate roasted it on a makeshift spit. They turned in early, their bellies full for the first time in days.
When they reached the site of the stampede, the sight of the row of graves dispelled Nate’s lighthearted mood. Scavengers had been at them. Two graves had been dug open, the remains partially consumed. Tracks revealed the culprits.
“Damned coyotes!” Allen complained. “Remind me to shoot the next six or seven I see.”
It didn’t take long to slide the putrid body parts back into their holes and cover the defiled corpses with more dirt. Nate also took the precaution of layering every mound with large rocks and broken limbs to deter any more digging.
Emilio helped, but he thought the effort a waste of energy. When a man died, that was the end of it. Whether his body was formally interr
ed in an expensive coffin in a mausoleum or left to rot in the open was of no consequence. As an Old Country saying had it, “The dead tell no tales, the dead feel no pain. What matters to them the sun or the rain?”
Emilio would have left the graves as they were. He wouldn’t have seen fit to deprive the coyotes of their feast. So what if the bodies were eaten? The dead men didn’t care. Why should the living?
A six-year-old could have tracked the expedition from that point on. The trail left by the horse herd alone was over a hundred yards wide and dotted with enough droppings to fertilize each and every tilled acre in New York for an entire year.
Nate rode hard but still couldn’t overhaul the brigade before nightfall. Camp was made in a ravine where their fire was safe from the wind and prying eyes. Since they hadn’t bothered to drop fresh game during the day, their supper consisted of jerky and the last of their pemmican.
To say that Nate was surprised when the Sicilian unexpectedly addressed him would be an understatement. The man had hardly said two words to either Allen or him except when they spoke first.
“How soon before we reach Blackfoot country?” the giant inquired.
“Most of their villages are a week’s ride north of here,” Nate disclosed, “but we could run into them at any time. They like to think of themselves as the lords of the mountains, and they roam pretty much wherever they please.”
“How do they compare to the Indians we just fought?” Emilio wanted to learn. In light of how poorly the Crows had fared, he was beginning to think that all the stories he had heard about Indians were exaggerations, at best, or outright lies, at worst.
“If you’re asking me how tough the Blackfeet are,” Nate said, “I’d have to say they’re the best fighters north of the Missouri River. They’re afraid of no one.”
“And they hate whites with a passion,” Allen threw in.
“Why?” Emilio asked.
Nate responded. “Blame Lewis and Clark.”
“Who?”
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