“Oh, she’ll tell you she does. But deep down she won’t accept that you don’t love Adeline until she sees the two of you together and can judge with her own eyes,” Shakespeare said. “If you don’t take her to St. Louis she’ll always have a nagging doubt gnawing at her mind. Were I you I’d take her and no doubt about it.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Nate responded. “You’ll be safe at your cabin while I’m risking life and limb to get my family safely there. You know how far it is. You know how dangerous …” He suddenly stopped, struck by inspiration, and said quickly, “Come with us.”
“What?”
Nate intentionally raised his voice. “I’d take it as a favor if you would come with us. Bring Blue Water Woman, if you want. She might like to see St. Louis herself.”
“I have no desire to see a city again. They’re filthy places, like rat nests. There’s always garbage and worse in the gutters, the air reeks, and there are swarms of people scurrying about like chickens flapping around with their heads chopped off. No, thanks.”
“I appreciate your feelings, but four guns are better than two. With four adults we can hold our own and keep the hostiles at bay.”
“There is safety in numbers,” Shakespeare admitted. “But I truly don’t want”
From near the lean-to Blue Water Woman spoke up. “I have always wanted to see one of your cities. And I would feel guilty if something were to happen to Nate and his family and we weren’t there to help.”
Frowning, Shakespeare gazed at her. “You have no idea what you’re asking. The dregs of the earth gather in cities. It’s where weaklings and cowards can breed in safety, where all types of human vultures congregate. Imagine the worst sort of people there can be, and you’ll find them in cities. Thieves, murderers, scoundrels of every stripe are everywhere.”
“There must be good people in the cities too,” Blue Water Woman said.
“Some,” Shakespeare reluctantly admitted.
“I would like to go. We are getting on in years, as you have many times said, and we should make the journey while we still can.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Please. For me.”
“Damn it all, woman.”
“Please.”
“Why I married you, I’ll never know,” Shakespeare said gruffly, and gave Nate a quizzical look. “Satisfied?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Like hell you don’t,” Shakespeare retorted, then sighed. “Very well. When a man’s own wife and best friend turn against him, what else can he do? Blue Water Woman and I will go to St. Louis with you.”
Nate nearly shouted with joy.
A pink tinge colored the eastern sky when Nate made his way alone toward the Nez Percé encampment. Samson had wanted to come but he’d left the dog behind as a playmate, and guard, for Zach.
He hummed softly and stepped with a happy stride, inwardly chuckling for the hundredth time at his good fortune. Thanks to Adeline’s unforeseen arrival on the frontier, he would get Shakespeare to St. Louis. Once there, he would convince Shakespeare to visit a doctor or trick him into going.
And he was happy for another reason having nothing to do with Adeline Van Buren. It had been eight years since last he was in the States, eight long years since he’d enjoyed the dubious benefits of civilization such as sleeping in a down-filled bed or drinking tasty ale at a tavern. Although he now knew he could well do without such niceties, the prospect of indulging himself once more, perhaps for the very last time, tickled his fancy. He disliked admitting it to himself, but he was mildly excited over the trip.
Finally, there was Adeline. For three hours before he fell asleep he had reviewed every memory of her he had, and searched his soul for the answer to the all-important question: Did he still care for her? The answer was a resounding “No!” Not in the intimate sense that he cared for Winona. But he did feel friendship for her, and he figured seeing her again would be a pleasant experience if she had forgiven him for deserting her.
Deep in thought, he walked along the river until he spied the Nez Percé village. Already the women were up gathering wood for the morning fires. A few braves stood outside their lodges, observing the dawn. One tall warrior had just emerged and was stretching.
Nate had to go around a bend, and a stand of pines cut off his view. As he came to the curve he heard the soft clump of hoofs. A few strides later he saw a group of Nez Percé leading their horses directly toward him, no doubt heading for a flat stretch of shore a dozen yards away where they could water their mounts.
He recollected the annoyed looks Shakespeare had given him last night and laughed lightly. Shakespeare was no man’s fool. The mountain man knew he had been duped, yet he hadn’t pressed the issue. Nate speculated on whether Shakespeare might actually be glad they were going. Despite all that talk about owing God a death, no man in his right mind wanted to die. And a man like McNair, a natural-born fighter who had survived more years in the wild than any other trapper because he was a tough as rawhide and as feisty as a cantankerous mule, wasn’t about to roll over and give up the ghost without a struggle. Tussling was as natural to Shakespeare as breathing, and it didn’t matter whether the enemy was a hostile Indian, a bear, or the Grim Reaper.
Nate abruptly realized the Nez Percé had stopped and were staring at him in surprise. He gazed at them and felt immense surprise of his own commingled with fleeting panic.
Because they weren’t Nez Percé.
They were Blackfeet.
Chapter Eight
Nate King divined what had happened in a flash of insight.
The raiding party there were nineteen in all had crept to the Nez Percé village about half an hour before the first rays of sunlight painted the heavens and rounded up as many horses as they could without being detected. Now they were trying to get safely away by taking the stolen herd across the river and into the dense forest beyond where they could easily escape. They had almost succeeded too. If not for Nate’s unexpected arrival on the scene, in another minute or two they would have vanished like ghosts.
The odds were overwhelming, but Nate didn’t hesitate. All four Indian tribes attending the Rendezvous were friendly to the trappers. Mutual trust existed between them. The Nez Percé, Flatheads, Shoshonis, and to a lesser degree the Bannocks had done all in their power to welcome the whites to the mountains. Because of this, the trappers had sometimes helped their allies in the never-ending warfare against the Blackfeet and other hostiles. As a friend of the Nez Percé, Nate was obligated to do whatever he could to prevent the Blackfeet from stealing the horses.
In a blur of speed he swung the Hawken up and took a rapid bead on the foremost Blackfoot, a brawny warrior armed with a bow. His shot boomed out across the valley and the leader toppled.
A dozen arrows were trained on him the next instant.
Nate spun and dived, hitting the ground on his left shoulder. The angry buzz of speeding shafts went past his head and he heard one arrow smack into the earth within inches of his face. Desperately, he scurried around the bend and rose to his knees.
From the Nez Percé camp arose angry shouts attended by a general commotion.
He knew the early risers had heard the shot, seen the war party, and were now rallying their fellows to take up the pursuit. But it would be several minutes before the first Nez Percé got there. He must do something on his own to slow the Blackfeet up, to buy time until reinforcements came.
Rising, he drew his right flintlock and crept to the bend. He peeked past a tree trunk, and immediately had to snap his head back to avoid a slender shaft that thudded into the tree and quivered violently. His brief glimpse had sufficed to show him the Blackfeet were urging their stolen horses into the river. Four or five were watching the bend in case he popped out again.
So he didn’t.
Nate went into the underbrush, staying bent at the waist, until he drew up behind a pine tree within fifteen feet of the war party. Flattening and l
aying the Hawken beside him, he risked another look.
A third of the horses were in the water and splashing furiously for the opposite bank. Ten of the thieving Blackfeet were north of the herd, there to cover the retreat of their companions. With good reason. Swarming from the Nez Percé village was every man, boy, and woman capable of wielding a weapon.
Nate rested the flintlock on his left forearm and took careful aim at one of the braves nearest to him. Cocking the hammer, he held his breath to steady his arm, then squeezed off the shot. Flame and lead belched from the barrel, and the target clutched at his chest, spun, and dropped.
The cloud of gun smoke gave away Nate’s approximate position, and the slain warrior had barely touched the soil when three arrows cleaved the vegetation above his head. He rolled to the left and came to rest behind another trunk. Lying on his side, he jammed the expended pistol under his belt and pulled his last loaded gun.
Strident war whoops filled the air as the Nez Percé closed on the raiders. A fusee cracked, one of the inferior trade rifles frequently given to friendly Indians. A second later a man screeched in range.
Nate rose into a crouch and ventured to stick his head out again. Half of the stolen horses were across the river, as were two of the Blackfeet. But the remainder of the animals, startled by the gunfire and the general bedlam, were milling about in confusion.
Already the fleetest Nez Percé were engaging the Blackfeet, exchanging shafts and lances as rapidly as they could shoot or throw. The few raiders who had been trying to slay him were hastening to the north to help hold off the Nez Percé. In moments the two forces joined and the fighting became hand-to-hand.
Nate left the Hawken lying on the grass and charged from concealment, drawing his knife as he did. The swirl of combatants and horseflesh had formed a shroud of fine dust over the battle, and he had to squint to see. Another fusee went off, and a lance came out of nowhere and narrowly missed his right shoulder.
Pausing to get his bearings and find a foe, he heard a whoop and spun to his left to confront an enormous Blackfoot bearing down on him like a berserk buffalo bull. The brave swung his tomahawk at Nate’s face. Ducking, Nate thrust his knife to stop the Indian from getting any nearer, then pointed his flintlock and fired.
Struck in his left shoulder, the Blackfoot jerked with the impact. Spurting blood like a fountain, he grimaced, but otherwise ignored the wound. With maniacal vigor he renewed his assault. Nothing would stop him from sending the hated white man with him into the spirit realm.
Crimson drops sprinkled Nate’s cheeks and chin as he lunged to one side and tried to stab the Blackfoot in the ribs. Even though wounded, the brave was able to dodge nimbly out of harm’s way. For a heartbeat they faced one another, the Blackfoot crouched, ready to strike, seemingly unaware of the heavy flow of life-giving blood that coated his body.
Growling like an animal, the Blackfoot sprang forward, his tomahawk aimed straight for Nate’s head.
Nate raised the knife in time to block the blow, but the sheer force drove him backwards and he almost tripped over a rock. Recovering his balance, he waited for the next swing, which was not long in coming. This time he was ready.
Instead of the knife, he raised the pistol and deflected the tomahawk by striking the warrior’s wrist with the gun barrel. At the same time he arced his other hand up and in, plunging the knife as far as it would go into the Blackfoot’s muscular body.
The warrior stiffened and wrenched away, tearing the keen blade loose. More blood spurted, and he staggered. He blinked slowly, as if in astonishment, then snapped defiant words at Nate in the Blackfoot tongue. Finally he convulsed and fell on his face to lie stiff as a board.
Whirling, Nate sought other enemies. The dust still hung in the air, and he advanced until he could see what was happening. But there was little to see. The Blackfeet had received their due.
The tide of battle had been with the Nez Percé and their superior numbers had made short work
of most of the raiders. Seventeen of the dreaded Blackfeet lay sprawled in savage death, as did fourteen of the Nez Percé.
“Well done, Nate. We saw that last scrape of yours.”
Nate turned. Niles Thompson and twelve other trappers, the men he was to have joined to go hunt the Blackfeet, were a few yards behind him, having just arrived.
“Heard the ruckus but we couldn’t get here in time to help,” Niles said, stepping forward and surveying the carnage with satisfaction.
The Nez Percé were moving among the downed Blackfeet, verifying their hated enemies were indeed dead. Several were taking scalps.
“Those damned Blackfeet will think twice before they make a raid on a Rendezvous again,” one of the other trappers remarked.
“Losing a few braves won’t stop them none,” another muttered.
Nate moved to the last warrior he’d slain, and knelt to wipe his knife clean on the man’s leggings. His blood still pulsed from the excitement of the battle and he had to take deep breaths to calm himself down. As he stood and replaced the knife in its sheath the same tall Nez Percé he’d observed earlier walked over to him.
“Who are you, white man?” the Nez Percé asked in sign language.
Nate had to wedge the flintlock under his belt so he could employ his hands. “I am called Grizzly Killer,” he replied.
“I have heard of you,” the Nez Percé signed. “I am Otter Belt, war chief of my people.” He gestured at the battleground. “Was it you who fired at them and stopped them from getting across the river?”
“I did what I could.”
Otter Belt beamed and placed a huge hand on Nate’s shoulder to give it a friendly squeeze. Then he stepped back and signed, “I thought as much. I had just spotted the Blackfeet when you shot at them, although I did not see you clearly.” He nodded at the village. “You have done us a great service and we would be honored to have you share in our victory feast.”
To refuse would be considered an insult, and Nate had no desire to offend the Nez Percé. He’d had few personal dealings with them, but he knew many trappers who lived among them and trapped their territory. Were he to decline, it might make life difficult for those men. “I would be happy to come,” he said.
“Good,” the Nez Percé responded.
“Is it all right if I bring my family and some friends?” Nate requested, thinking Shakespeare and Blue Water Woman might like to attend.
“You are welcome to bring all the friends you want,” Otter Belt said, and glanced at the clustered trappers. “All of our white brothers may come if they wish.”
Nate grinned. “Do you know what you are letting yourself in for?”
“Friends share with friends,” the Nez Percé signed, and began to turn. He paused to add, “Join us when the shadows start to grow long. We will be ready by then.”
“We will be there,” Nate promised. A hand clapped him on the back and Niles Thompson spoke almost in his ear.
“Wait until the boys hear about this! We’ll raise hell clear to the moon and back!”
Nate saw a group of Nez Percé heading across the river to pursue the pair of Blackfeet who had escaped. Then he remembered his Hawken and went into the trees to retrieve it. Once on the bank again, he commenced reloading his guns.
The racket had drawn trappers and Indians from all directions. Bunches of mountaineers were hurrying in the direction of the Nez Percé village, as were bands of Flatheads, Shoshonis, and Bannocks. Jim Bridger, wearing his flat-brimmed black hat as always, showed up with over two dozen armed trappers and was approached by Otter Belt.
Involved in reloading, Nate paid little attention to the many conversations taking place all around him and the swarm of activity as the Nez Percé scalped and mutilated their foes. He had done his duty and now he could return to camp and let Winona know he was safe. She must have heard about the raid and might be worried about his safety.
“I’ll be darned if you haven’t done it again, Troilus.”
A
bout to shove his ramrod to the bottom of the rifle barrel to tamp down the powder and ball, Nate spoke without looking up. “I thought I was Horatio.”
“Not today,” Shakespeare said, stepping up to him and scanning the littered bodies. “I don’t know how the dickens you do it, but you have
a knack for being in the right place at the right time.”
“What are you talking about?” Nate asked, looking at him.
“I met Niles a minute ago as he was running back to camp to tell everyone,” Shakespeare said, and shook his head as if in amazement. “Seems you single-handedly stopped the Blackfeet from absconding with every horse the Nez Percé own.
“What nonsense. All I did was delay a raiding party until the Nez Percé could rally.”
“Was that all? Well, by this evening the story will have been told and retold to the point where you could qualify for knighthood if noble King Arthur and his Round Table were still in business.”
Nate smiled. “It won’t be as bad as all that.”
“Won’t it? You should know by now that men love to tell stories, and the more exciting the tale, the better. Mankind has been doing it since before Homer, and we’ll keep right on doing it because it’s the best form of entertainment we have, better than the theater or the opera any day.”
Off to one side stood two Nez Percé and three trappers who were regarding Nate with critical interest while speaking in hushed tones so as not to be overheard.
“See?” Shakespeare said, motioning toward them. “This incident has added tremendously to your reputation. Before long you’ll have made a bigger name for yourself than Carson or Bridger ever will.”
“Don’t get carried away,” Nate joked. “They’re known by every man in the Rockies.”
“So are you.”
“I doubt that very much.”
“A man is known by the deeds he does, and the greater the deeds the more his name spreads. In the eight years you’ve lived in these mountains you’ve acquired more of a reputation than I have.”
Nate slid the ramrod into its housing under the barrel and shrugged. “Even if you’re right, which I don’t think you are, what harm can having a reputation do?”
Hawken Fury (Giant Wilderness Book One) Page 6