Suddenly a sharp cry of warning erupted from Flying Hawk’s lips.
Spinning, Nate was horrified to see naked, hairy savages spilling from a wide crack he’d just passed in the left-hand wall, their intent signified by the feral gleams in their beady eyes and the lethal weapons poised in their brawny hands.
Thirteen
So swiftly did the savages strike that they would have been on Nate’s party before anyone had a chance to react if not for Flying Hawk. The Ute’s eagle eyes had registered motion in the crack a second before the ferocious savages spilled forth, giving him time to yell his warning and to snap his bow up. At such close range deliberate aiming was unnecessary. He simply trained his shaft on the chest of the foremost savage and released the string.
The lead savage managed two more steps with a shaft sticking from the center of his torso, then he collapsed soundlessly, falling prone and causing the two Indians behind him to stumble over his body. For a moment there was a logjam at the opening as the ones who had tripped regained their balance and those behind them slowed so they wouldn’t collide.
In that precious interval Nate leaped to the left, nearer the crack, and jammed the Hawken to his shoulder.
He had to release the reins to shoot, and when he did Pegasus took off into the ravine, spurred by a screech from one of the fuming band.
Then, in the instant before Nate squeezed the trigger, time seemed to stand still. The thought flashed through his mind that he should have anticipated an ambush at the ravine since the ravine was the only way out of the wasteland on the east side. It wouldn’t have taken a genius to figure out where they were headed and to send warriors on ahead to be waiting for them when they got there. The savages must have known all along. And now, like a rank greenhorn, Nate had walked right into their obvious trap.
The next moment Nate fired, sending a second savage into the hereafter. A third sprang at Smoky Woman, who stood temporarily paralyzed by shock. The savage’s war club was poised to crush her skull, and would have done so the next moment if not for Cain, who leaped to her defense just as the club swooped down, putting himself between the Indian and her. Cain got an arm up in an effort to deflect the club, but in this he was only partially successful. The war club struck his forearm, glanced off, and smacked into the side of his head, dazing him. Before he could recover, the Indian swung again. This time the club caught him flush on the temple with a sickening thud.
Nate snatched a pistol out and took a hasty bead. The flintlock spat lead and smoke. Instantly the savage wielding the club sprouted a new eye.
Cain was on his knees, hands clasped to his head, blood pouring between his fingers. Smoky Woman, forgetting her own safety, leaned over at his side.
Another savage leaped toward her, this man armed with a spear. He would have impaled her if not for her brother, who streaked a glittering arrow into the man’s soft throat.
Four enemies had been slain in the opening moments of the clash, yet more were spilling from the crack. Two more. Four. Five. And that was all, but it was more than enough.
Nate let the pistol he had just used fall from his fingers and grabbed at the other one, his hand closing on it just as a sneering savage charged and tried to smash his face in with a huge club. Hurling himself backwards saved him, but it also left him off balance, which the savage exploited by swinging at his midsection. The club grazed him, not doing much harm but acting much as would a shove by another person and sending him onto his backside in the dirt. His Hawken was jarred from his grip.
He began to scramble up and the club whistled at his skull. Throwing himself to the right, he rolled once. When he stopped, he held the flintlock. At the retort the savage’s head whipped back, blood spurting from the man’s mouth. Then the Indian staggered and fell.
Now the last of Nate’s guns had been used, and as he was doing with increasing frequency of late, he relied on his tomahawk instead of his butcher knife. Jumping to his feet, he drew the tomahawk and spun. His heart, it felt like, leaped to his throat.
Two savages were grappling with Flying Hawk, the three men fighting tooth and nail. A third savage had Smoky Woman pinned and was trying to slit her throat. The last one was in the act of scalping Solomon Cain even though Cain was still alive, as demonstrated by his feeble resistance.
“No!” Nate roared. He was on the scalper before the Indian could rise, the tomahawk shearing the man’s right eye in half and slicing off part of his face in the bargain.
Incensed, Nate spun again and attacked the savage on top of Smoky Woman. The savage saw him coming and shoved upright to meet his rush, but was unable to dodge the wicked swing that nearly took the Indian’s head off.
Splattered with scores of red drops, Nate blinked and turned, intending to go to Flying Hawk’s assistance. The pounding of feet gave him enough warning to brace himself, and then something struck him on his wounded shoulder and the world spun as he tottered rearward. Iron arms banded around his waist and he was borne to the ground. Knees gouged into his stomach.
Through a swirling haze he saw a grinning savage astride him, mouth curled in an expectant grin. He also saw the savage lift a war club. Urgently he tried to move his arms and legs, to buck the savage off, but his nerves refused to cooperate and send the proper signals from his brain to his limbs. All he did was twitch.
The savage, sensing his weakness, paused, perhaps to savor the moment. Then the club arced higher, bathed in the bright sunlight, and froze for a fraction of a second before beginning its downward plunge.
Nate stared eternity in the face and knew it. He gulped, strived to lift his arms. He saw a bestial light in his adversary’s dark eyes. And then he saw something bulge out from between those eyes, a barbed point coated with crimson. The savage stiffened, gasped, and fell.
At last Nate felt he could move again, and he shoved the dead savage from him and rose. Not far off stood Flying Hawk, slowly lowering his bow. Closer were Smoky Woman and Cain, the latter flat on his back with a portion of his scalp hanging loose, the former in tears.
All of the savages were dead.
Or so they appeared as Nate surveyed the blood-soaked ground. Unwilling to leave anything to chance, he went from body to body, satisfying himself no spark of life remained in a single one. Then he joined the others in grim silence around Solomon Cain.
Suddenly Cain’s eyes blinked open and his tongue touched his lips. “I reckon...” he said hoarsely, and stopped, grimacing in agony.
“Not talk,” Smoky Woman chided, his hand cupped tenderly in hers.
Once more Cain’s tongue moistened his lips. “Don’t hardly matter, pretty one,” he said. “I’m a gone beaver and I know it.”
Nate almost replied, “No, you’re not.” But the side of Cain’s head confirmed Cain’s words. No man could live long with his brains oozing out. “Solomon, is there anything I can do for you?”
“Just do what you can for her,” Cain said, his gaze flicking at the woman he loved.
“I will,” Nate said, sounding as if he had a severe cold.
Flying Hawk added a string of words in Ute, then rested his hand on his sister’s shoulder.
“Good,” Cain said.
A nicker drew Nate’s attention down the ravine where Pegasus was trotting back. When he next looked at Cain, Cain’s eyes were closed. For a moment Nate thought the end at come, but he was premature.
“King?” Cain spoke in a strangled whisper.
“I’m here,” Nate said.
“I have no kin to speak of, no one to mourn me when I’m gone. The gold is yours, all yours. Do what you want with it. I hope it brings you better luck than it brought me.”
“I’m obliged,” Nate responded, although he doubted he would ever be foolhardy enough to return to the cave. The savages were bound to keep an eye on it from now on. Perhaps—and here was a new thought that shocked him since it explained so much—perhaps the cave was a special place to the savages, a sacred site much as were the Paha Sapa hills to
the Sioux and other areas to other tribes. If that was the case, any white man who set foot in the cave did so risking imminent death. All Indians were extremely protective of their sacred shrines, and every trapper who had lived with them for a while knew better than to violate a tribal sanctuary.
“You’ll be rich,” Cain was saying. “You can have anything you want.”
Nate thought of his wife and son. “I already do.”
“What?” Cain said. “You have gold already?”
“No,” Nate said, and would have elaborated had not Cain erupted in a violent spasm of coughing and wheezing. The end was very near.
Smoky Woman threw herself on Cain’s chest and unleashed a torrent.
“I wish.. .” Cain cried, wild eyes fixed on the vast blue sky. “I wish ...” But what he wished no one would ever know, for Solomon Cain’s alloted time had run out. A gurgling whine escaped his lips. Then he went as rigid as a board, sucked in a great breath, and abruptly went totally limp.
Nate moved off to give Smoky Woman some privacy. Reclaiming his guns took a while, as did reloading them. When he led Pegasus over, she was standing in her brother’s arms, but they self-consciously separated and took a step apart. “I’m sorry, Smoky Woman,” he commented. “I truly am.”
Too choked with emotion to speak, she merely nodded.
“We’ll bury him, as is the custom with my people, and be on our way,” Nate proposed. He nudged one of the savages with his toe. “There might be more of these Root Eaters or whatever they’re called in the area, and we don’t want to tangle with them again if we can help it.”
“Where bury?” Smoky Woman asked.
The bottom of the ravine was hard, packed earth and rock. Without shovels and picks, digging a hole large enough to hold a man would take many hours. Maybe a full day. “How about near the spring yonder,” Nate said, pointing toward the east opening.
Smoky Woman brightened slightly. “Yes. Please. That be nice.”
They were a downcast lot as they trudged along, Nate with a hand on Cain to keep the corpse from sliding off Pegasus. The fight had added to his injuries and increased his fatigue, so when a patch of lush green grass appeared he barely checked a shout of unadulterated joy.
Before the burial each of them drank their full. Pegasus was still drinking when Nate located a suitable soft spot north of the spring and set to work with the tapered end of a stout branch. Flying Hawk watched him for a while, then joined in. Their corded muscles rippling, they excavated a suitable hole in less than an hour.
Nate stood on the lip and mopped sweat from his forehead. He could see a few thick worms wriggling at the bottom of the hole and he wished they had a buffalo robe or something else to wrap Cain in. But they didn’t, so they would have to make do.
At a gesture from him, Flying Hawk grasped Cain’s ankles. In unison they slowly lowered the body down on top of the worms. Nate began filling in the hole, working swiftly, oddly bothered by Cain’s blank stare. Pausing, he reached down and closed Cain’s eyelids.
Smoky Woman stood as if sculpted from marble the whole time. Her features inscrutable, she made no remarks whatsoever. Only when the final handful of dirt was cast down did she utter a soft, fluttering sigh.
“Do you care to say a few words?” Nate asked her.
“I not understand.”
“Among my people it’s customary to say a few nice things about those who have departed,” Nate clarified. “It’s our way of commending our souls to the spirit world.”
“You say them.”
“Me?” Nate blurted out, and repressed a frown. He was no minister. And while he must have read all of the Bible at one time or another, thanks to the influence of his mother and his required weekly church attendance, he wasn’t exactly sure which words were appropriate for a funeral service. Not knowing what else to do, he recited the one passage in Scripture he knew by heart, the very first he had ever learned. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” He stopped, unable to recall the rest. Then it came to him, haltingly. “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
Smoky Woman stood with her head bowed in sorrow. Her brother had his arms folded across his chest, listening inquisitively.
“I reckon that’s about it,” Nate concluded. “Except maybe I should say that here was a man no better than most, no worse than many. I’m not fit to be his judge. But I was an accountant once, and I’d say his ledger came out on the plus side there at the end. For what it’s worth.”
Feeling uncomfortable, Nate donned his hat and walked to the spring. “I suppose we should rest up here a day or two, then go find your village,” he commented without looking around. “That is, if you want to live with your people, Smoky Woman. I know how rough it’s going to be rearing your child among your tribe. Maybe you don’t want to. Whatever you decide, I’ll help out the best I can. I gave my word to Solomon.” He paused. “What do you want to do, anyway?”
There was no answer.
Nate turned, and was flabbergasted to see Smoky Woman and Flying Hawk hiking southward. “Wait!” he found his voice. “Where are you going?”
She glanced back. “My brother find village where we maybe live. Where we be happy.” Her smile warmed the very air. “Good-bye, Grizzly Killer. We never forget you.”
“But.. .” Nate began, and stopped, knowing his words would be wasted. For the longest while he just stood there, watching the two figures grow smaller and smaller bit by bit, until eventually they faded into the forest and were gone from his life forever.
Bright and early the next morning he turned the Palouse homeward, humming as he rode.
WILDERNESS 14
TENDERFOOT
To Judy, Joshua, and Shane.
Prologue
THE FIVE GROS VENTRES were far from their home range. They had traveled high into the rugged, majestic mountains to the south of their customary haunts, and were strung out in single file as they crested a sloping ridge.
In the lead rode a tall warrior, who now drew rein to scour the verdant land below. Rolling Thunder was his name. He could boast of having counted over twenty coup, and many of his people were of the opinion that when their aged chief died he would be the successor. A born leader, he had led over a dozen successful war parties and never lost a man.
But today Rolling Thunder was not on a raid into enemy territory. His small band was after elk, which thrived in the high mountain valleys where abundant grass and pristine springs, lakes, and streams made the Rockies an animal paradise. So far the elk had been elusive, but he hoped to find some soon.
“Is it wise to keep going south?” a gruff voice asked behind him. “We are close to Shoshone country.”
Rolling Thunder twisted, regarded the speaker for a moment, then grinned. “Are you turning into an old woman, Little Dog? Are you afraid of the Shoshones?”
Before Little Dog could answer, the third warrior in line snorted in contempt and declared, “Only a fool would fear them! Shoshones are all cowards at heart. They run and hide at the sight of real warriors.”
Rolling Thunder saw Little Dog’s features cloud and spoke to forestall an argument. “I was joking, Loud Talker. All of us know how brave Little Dog is. Was he not the one who saved you from the Dakotas that time they shot your horse out from under you?”
Loud Talker frowned. He had spoken, as usual, without thinking, and as usual, he had upset one of his closest friends. “I did not mean to insult Little Dog,” he said. “Yes, he did save me from the Dakotas that time. If not for him my hair woul
d now be hanging in a Dakota lodge.”
The last two men joined them. One, a husky warrior named Walking Bear, leaned forward and commented, “We are all brave. But we are few and the Shoshones are many. If a large war party should find us, we would be in for the fight of our lives.”
“Good,” said the last man, known simply as Bobcat. “We will give our people something to remember us by.”
No one responded for several seconds. They all knew Bobcat was too bloodthirsty for his own good, but he was otherwise thoroughly dependable and the best man with a bow in their entire tribe. Bobcat had never lost an archery contest. No matter the distance, he always hit his targets dead center.
Little Dog cleared his throat. “I love a fight as much as any of you, but I see no reason why we should needlessly throw our lives away. If we are all slain, who will take word to our people? How will they learn our fate?” He gestured southward. “The Shoshones are not the cowards Loud Talker claims they are. He has not fought them, as I have done, or he would know they are as fierce as the Blackfeet when aroused.”
No one disputed the point. Rolling Thunder noted the unease in some of their eyes and said quickly, “There is no cause for worry. We came here to hunt, not to make war. Our wives need meat to dry and put aside before the cold comes and the snow begins to fall.” He straightened and stretched. “So we will avoid the Shoshones if at all possible, not because we are afraid of them but because our families are depending on us.”
His words had the desired effect. The others smiled or voiced agreement and Little Dog visibly relaxed.
Pleased with himself, Rolling Thunder rode on. Since he was the organizer of the hunt, it was his responsibility to see that everything went smoothly. If they took to bickering among themselves, they would hunt poorly. They might fail to down a single elk. And under no circumstances would he return to the village emptyPercéhanded. Those few who resented his standing in the tribe would whisper behind his back, perhaps spread a rumor that his medicine was gone.
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