“I’d like to hear your explanation.”
Winona stared at their horses. “The wolves were sent to warn you that you face great danger in St. Louis. Wolves are crafty creatures who prey on the weak, the young, and the sick. They never attack healthy animals or men unless they are running in a large pack.”
“So you’re saying I’ll run into a pack of human wolves in St. Louis?”
“Something like that, yes.”
Nate almost laughed. Doing so would arouse her indignation, so he wisely refrained. Years back he had learned how superstitious her people were, and all Indians for that matter. It was true they were religious, but many of their beliefs were based on childish fears of the supernatural, in his estimation. He had always been perplexed by the vision quests the young braves went on, and downright amazed by the peculiar torture endured by the warriors during the annual Sun Dance ceremony. Deliberately submitting to intense pain in order to achieve a spiritual vision had always struck him as highly illogical.
But maybe, he admitted to himself, his own prejudices were showing. Since he’d never submitted to the Sun Dance ceremony or gone on a vision quest, he had no right to judge those who did. Perhaps, one day, he would try one or the other simply to see for himself.
Omens were another story. Never in a million years would he believe that seeing an owl or a snake or even a white buffalo held any special significance. Such incidents were routine consequences of living in the wild, nothing more.
“I appreciate your warning,” Nate said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “But wolves or no wolves, we are traveling to St. Louis so I can find out why Adeline Van Buren came so far to see me.”
Winona bowed her head. “As you wish, husband.” She then reached out to gently touch his wounded arm. “Is this blood? Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”
“It’s just a scratch. I forgot all about it.”
“I will wash it anyway before it becomes infected,” Winona said, rising. She walked to where their gear was stacked and picked up one of their water bags.
Her thoughtfulness touched Nate deeply, and as he smiled affectionately up at her he hoped he wasn’t making the biggest mistake of his entire life. If anything happened to her or Zach he would never forgive himself.
Never.
Chapter Sixteen
Now where the heck was that dog?
Nate reined up on a low rise and surveyed the sea of limitless prairie stretching before his narrowed eyes. Overhead the sun blazed down, reminding him that he had been searching for almost two hours in ever-widening circles and the camp now lay miles to the northeast. Several times he had nearly turned around and gone back, but each time he remembered the anxiety in young Zach’s eyes when he rode off at dawn. He must find Samson for his son if for no other reason, but for all he knew the dog might well be dead.
He hoped not.
Since acquiring the burly brute he had grown quite fond of it, and not only because Samson had occasionally saved his life. The dog displayed
loyalty of the highest order and was incredibly gentle and affectionate with Zachary. Samson had become one of the family and deserved treatment accordingly, no matter what the risk entailed. Some would laugh at the notion, but they were the ones who had never owned a truly superb dog. Next to a fine horse, the best animal a man could have was a dependable, brave canine.
Sighing, Nate jabbed his heels into Pegasus and cantered down the rise, continuing in a generally southwestward direction. His mind turned over various possibilities. Samson might have been slain, the body consumed by the wolves. Or the dog could have gone too far and become lost, although he discounted that likelihood as extremely remote. Samson possessed an unerring instinct for always finding his way back to them.
Then what? Had Samson encountered another animal such as a grizzly? Even that great dog was no match for the lords of the Plains and the Rockies. Grizzlies were the undisputed masters of their wilderness domain. Wolves, panthers, even wolverines all gave grizzlies wide berths, although a wolverine might tackle one now and again.
Suddenly Nate spotted dark specks high in the sky and halted. Those specks were buzzards, slowly spiraling lower and lower. Where there were buzzards, there was death. The black birds with their featherless red heads might be descending to feast on Samson.
Again he goaded the gelding forward, into a gallop, and went almost a mile before he saw a cluster of birds perched on a carcass at the base of a hill. From the size of the kill it was immediately apparent the dead animal wasn’t Samson; it was too large. As he drew closer he distinguished the distinctive hump and massive contours of a bull buffalo.
He stopped well short of the carcass to avoid disturbing the vultures. They had a right to their meal because they served an important purpose in the natural order. Without them, carcasses would be left to rot. They were Nature’s way of disposing of carrion quickly and efficiently. Regarded as repulsive by many of the mountaineers, they had always been viewed by Nate as essential elements in the intricate, outworking of the scheme of things.
What had killed the bull? He debated trying to get near enough to ascertain the cause. Maybe the wolves had done the deed. From the tracks he’d found, he knew the pack had scattered in all directions after the frustrated attack. Some might have come on this buffalo, perhaps an older animal or one weakened by disease, and brought it down. A gaping cavity where the bull’s chest had once been indicated that a predator or two had eaten well of prime meat.
Pegasus raised his head, his ears alert.
Absently Nate looked up and his breath caught in his throat. He berated himself for becoming distracted by the dead buffalo when he should have been supremely alert. For there, on top of the hill, sat six Indians. The painted markings on their war horses and leather shields as well as their style of dress indicated they were Cheyenne braves.
None of them moved. They studied him intently, every so often surveying the prairie.
Nate knew what that meant. They were surprised to find a lone white man in this region, and they were sure there must be other whites nearby. Once convinced he was alone, they might try to take his scalp.
Keeping his emotions in check, Nate offered a friendly smile and used sign language to convey his sentiments. “Greetings. I come in peace. I have no quarrel with the Cheyenne.”
The warriors exchanged glances. Finally the tallest of the group descended and drew rein ten yards away. “I am Two Hatchets,” he signed. “You know we are Cheyennes. You must also know this is Cheyenne hunting ground.”
“So I have been told,” Nate signed, being careful not to raise his hands too far above his Hawken.
“We do not like whites hunting here,” Two Hatchets, said, scowling.
“I am not hunting,” Nate explained.
“Then why are you in Cheyenne territory?”
Nate decided not to reveal he was with others. Should these warriors get the better of him they would then backtrack him to the camp. And it was apparent this band intended to slay him. Five of the six held bows, arrows already notched to the strong strings made from buffalo sinew. Two Hatchets had a bow slung over his back, a lance in his right hand. Nate well knew how swiftly Indian men could bring such lances to bear. “I am on my way to the land of my people.”
“And you are by yourself?”
Exercising infinite care, Nate lowered his left hand to the rifle. He needed only his right hand to answer, which he did while smiling to dupe them into believing they had him fooled. “Yes,” he signed, and instantly grasped the reins, wheeled the gelding, and fled.
He bent low over the saddle horn and heard a swishing noise as the wicked lance cleaved the air above his head. Loud whoops broke out. Looking back, he saw the band in hot pursuit. Two Hatchets had unslung his bow and was nocking a shaft.
“Fly, Pegasus, fly!” he urged, trying to put more distance behind him before the first flight of arrows reached him. The gelding responded magnificently, galloping as if on air, rap
idly gaining a considerable lead. But was it enough?
Nate glanced over his shoulder again and saw three of the warriors loose arrows. Sunlight glittered off the barbed points as the shafts rose in a sweeping arc and swooped down at him. He yanked on the reins, cutting to the right, and was gratified to see the three arrows thud into the earth instead of his body.
Now he had a dilemma. He didn’t dare lead the Cheyennes back to his family and friends. Nor did he desire to spend the next several hours in headlong flight, going farther and farther from the camp, which just might happen if these Cheyennes were typically persistent.
He wished he had used his head when conversing with Two Hatchets. It had been a noted Cheyenne named White Eagle, after all, who had given him the Indian name of Grizzly Killer years ago after he had slain his first grizzly. Had he thought to mention he knew White Eagle, Two Hatchets and the others might have been less disposed to try and count coup at his expense. Even if this band came from a different village, the odds were they had met White Eagle or had heard of him.
Now it was too late.
Another arrow whizzed past, almost taking off an ear. He held the Hawken in his right hand, feeling the wind whip his hair. Pegasus was now forty yards in front of the braves and increasing the distance with every stride. Unfortunately, there was no way to take advantage of his steed’s superior speed because there was nowhere to hide, nowhere he could lose the Cheyennes, not so much as a single ravine or dry wash into which he could duck to shake them.
He resigned himself to a lengthy chase and adjusted his body to the rhythm of the racing horse. The Cheyennes whooped and hollered but were falling ever farther behind. He was tempted to stop and fire a shot to discourage them, but doing so would enable them to make up lost distance and might give one an opportunity to put an arrow in his chest. So he kept on riding.
Intent on spying any break in the flat countryside he could use to his advantage, Nate almost missed the danger under his mount’s driving hoofs. A flash of bare earth drew his attention to the ground where he was startled to discover a small earthen mound. Gazing around he saw many more, and with a start he realized he was in the midst of a prairie dog colony.
Damn!
Not again!
Once before he had blundered into a prairie dog town and nearly lost a fine horse as a consequence. Not that the prairie dogs themselves were in any respect dangerous. Their dens, however, could cripple or kill a running horse unwary enough to let a leg slip into one of their many burrows. And since there were countless colonies scattered all over the prairie, a horseman had to always be on the alert for their familiar dirt dens.
He promptly hauled on the reins to slow Pegasus down, and glanced around to see the Cheyennes swinging westward in order to skirt the scores upon scores of dark holes that dotted an area roughly ten acres square. Taking a risk, he changed direction, angling to the northeast. If the band didn’t want to lose him they would have to come directly through the center of the colony.
The Cheyennes did just that, changing course to gallop after him.
Nate held his trepidation in check and skillfully weaved Pegasus among the mounds. Sweat caked his brow and trickled down his back. He could hear the Cheyennes narrowing the gap but he refused to urge the gelding to go any faster. An arrow flashed past his left shoulder. One of the warriors was whooping like crazy. Then, after an eternity of anxious expectation, he spied the edge of the town.
Smiling, he hunched low. Forty feet more would see him in the clear. Thirty feet. Twenty. Suddenly a searing pain lanced his left arm and he knew he’d been hit. Looking down, he saw a tear in the sleeve of his buckskin shirt and a nasty gash in his upper arm. The arrow had ripped a superficial wound but had not imbedded in his flesh.
Nate twisted as he came to the last of the holes. The Cheyennes were more than halfway across the colony, wending through the mounds with a consummate expertise born of a lifetime spent astride a horse. He finally prodded Pegasus into a gallop again.
One of the Cheyenne’s mounts abruptly whinnied in terror and crashed to the ground in a whirl of limbs and tail. The warrior was thrown a half-dozen yards to tumble end over end and ultimately lie still on his back.
Seconds later another onrushing warrior went down, his horse shrieking in torment as its foreleg broke with an audible snap.
Three of the remaining braves drew rein to aid their companions. Only one Cheyenne continued to give chase.
Nate recognized Two Hatchets and from the fierce determination on the warrior’s face he knew Two hatchets wasn’t about to give up until Nate’s hair was clutched in his bloody hand. Acting on impulse, Nate brought the gelding to a dust-swirling halt, wheeled, and snapped the Hawken to his right shoulder. He aimed carefully and grinned when he saw Two Hatchets swing onto the off side of his horse, maintaining a grip with just one hand and a heel. It was a common Indian trick to minimize the target presented and get the rider within slaying range.
He let the Cheyenne draw ten yards nearer, then fired. The warrior’s stallion pitched headlong into a roll, throwing Two Hatchets into the air. Nate was in motion again before either came to a stop. He regretted killing the horse, but it was the only way he could think of to avoid having to kill Two Hatchets. And after the friendship White Eagle had shown, he wasn’t about to slay a member of White Eagle’s tribe if he could possibly do otherwise.
When next he glanced back, Two Hatchets stood beside the dead horse, shaking his fist in sheer rage and bellowing invectives in the Cheyenne tongue. Nate beamed and gave a polite wave that only infuriated the warrior further.
He faced to the northeast, eager to rejoin the others. Where there was one Indian band there might be more. Large parties hunting buffalo frequently separated into smaller groups in search of herds, and he guessed such had been the purpose of Two Hatchets’ group since none of them had been wearing war paint as they would have were they a raiding party.
A black dot materialized in the far distance, a dot that grew slowly larger and became the trotting form of a weary dog.
Nate straightened in amazement, then rode swiftly up to the grimy, blood-spattered beast that had stopped and sat on its haunches with its big red tongue lolling out of its drooling mouth. “So here you are! Where have you been?”
Samson gazed up placidly. His fur was crisscrossed with slash marks left by tearing fangs and claws. His muzzle was caked crimson, and part of his right ear had been torn off.
“You look a mess,” Nate commented. “I trust it was worth it.”
The dog made a smacking noise with its lips, then turned and headed northeast.
“Sometimes I swear you can read my thoughts,” Nate muttered, pacing Pegasus to the dog’s speed. Since leaving the Rendezvous the gelding had become accustomed to Samson’s presence and seldom objected to traveling side-by-side.
Waves of heat came off the dry plain. Overhead burned a relentless, blazing yellow sun. Other than an occasional hawk no wildlife showed itself.
Nate mopped the back of his sleeve across his brow several times each mile. Both the arrow wound and the wound inflicted by the wolf ached terribly. He was greatly relieved when at long last he spied the line of trees rimming the creek. “Wait until Zach sees you,” he told the dog. “He’ll hug you to death.”
Hurrying, he gazed along the creek seeking the camp site. Oddly, it was nowhere to be seen. He began to think he had misjudged and the camp must be a bit farther north, but then he saw a sight that made him wrench on the reins as a chill seized his soul. Lying not ten yards off were the charred remains of their campfire.
He had the right spot.
His family and friends were gone!
Chapter Seventeen
Bewildered, Nate slid to the ground and touched a hand to the blackened bits of wood. They were moderately warm to the touch, leading him to conclude the fire had gone out or been extinguished less than an hour ago.
Rising, he studied the ground, reading the tracks. He saw where Sh
akespeare had gathered the horses, where Winona, Zach, and Blue Water Woman had mounted, and where the quartet had ridden off to the southeast at a rapid clip. Moving in an ever-widening circle outward from the camp fire, he searched for some sign of why they had left. But he found nothing that would provide a clue.
Mystified, he peered into the distance and idly scratched his head. There must be a logical explanation, but for the life of him he couldn’t imagine what it might be. Returning to Pegasus, he swung up and glanced at Samson. “Here’s your chance to earn your keep, you flea-ridden rascal. Find Zachary.”
The black dog stood but made no attempt to move.
“Come on,” Nate prompted. “Don’t act dumb. Find Zach and I’ll go out and shoot a ten-point buck just for you.” He motioned at the tracks to no avail, and unwilling to delay another second he rode out, too annoyed to care if Samson tagged along or not. The dog could have saved him a lot of time, tracking by scent instead of forcing him to rely on spotting tracks, which wouldn’t be all that numerous because the carpet of high grass would yield few clear hoof prints. And the majority of resilient stems, where the passage of the mounts and the pack animals had bent the grass, had long since straightened. He would have to proceed carefully if he didn’t want to lose the trail.
Thankfully, Shakespeare was still heading southeast toward St. Louis. After traveling over a mile and confirming his mentor hadn’t deviated from their original course, he poked his heels into the gelding’s flanks and rode at a canter. If he pushed it he might overtake them before noon.
Stretching to the horizon in all directions was a shimmering sea of prairie grass that swayed in the slight northwesterly breeze, the sea of grass that kept the immense buffalo herds well fed and thus indirectly kept the various Indian tribes alive. The grass swished against Pegasus’s legs and rustled under the gelding’s driving hoofs.
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