Wilderness Double Edition #7

by David Robbins

  Winona’s instinctive reaction was to start to rise so she could prepare breakfast for her husband and son. Then, grinning at her forgetfulness, she sank down and tucked the robe up under her chin. Her beloved Nate and dearest Zach would not return for six or seven sleeps yet. She could sleep as long as she wanted. Why, she might even scandalize herself in the eyes of the other women and not get up until after sunrise. They would think she was becoming lazy.

  The notion made her giggle.

  Winona thought of her husband and son and wished them well. By now, according to the plans Nate had laid out for her before their departure, they should be well up in the mountains in an area where elk were as plentiful as chipmunks, having the time of their lives. She was glad she had talked her husband into doing it. Zach, in her opinion, was long overdue to learn those skills that would serve him in excellent stead as he grew to full manhood. He was already eight; by the same age most Shoshone boys were competent hunters and knew how to butcher a variety of game without wasting a shred of meat.

  Voices sounded outside, those of women going to the nearby river for water. Somewhere a child laughed.

  Throwing back the buffalo robe, Winona stood. Old habits were hard to break, and since she had been rising before daylight every day of her life, she felt uncomfortable doing otherwise. Life was meant for living, not for wasting. She wanted to attend to certain chores so she could visit her cousin, Willow Woman.

  Shortly Winona emerged from the lodge, her lithe figure adorned in a beaded buckskin dress and moccasins. A large tin pan, eighteen inches in diameter, was clutched in her bronzed left hand. The wind whipped her long raven hair as she strolled across the open space to the river and knelt.

  “How is the wife of Grizzly Killer this day?” Winona looked up into the smiling face of Rabbit Woman, who was short and unusually plump for a Shoshone, and who seldom spoke to Winona unless she had a sarcastic comment to make. The two had known each other since childhood but had never gotten along. “I am well. How is the wife of Knife in Hand?”

  “Very tired,” Rabbit Woman answered, squatting so she could dip the water bucket she held into the river. Made from a buffalo paunch, it had a leather strap for a handle that she clasped tightly as the bucket slowly filled. “My brother showed up at our lodge well before the sun came up and wanted my help in cutting up a buck he had shot.”

  “He should have cut it up himself,” Winona said politely in sympathy while lowering the pan into the river.

  “You know how Jumping Bull is,” Rabbit Woman said. “He was in a hurry.”

  Winona had to use both hands to steady the pan, which became heavier by the moment. She listened with half an ear as her companion went on.

  “It is sad that Jumping Bull has not found a new wife to take the place of Eagle Shawl. A man should not live his life alone. And too, his son, Runs Fast, needs a mother.”

  “True,” Winona said, being polite.

  “Jumping Bull is a great warrior. He has twelve coup to his credit, and three of them were Blackfeet he killed with just his knife. Any woman would be proud to have him as her husband.”

  “I am sure he will find another wife,” Winona said as she lifted the pan out.

  “He has his eyes on someone who appeals to him, although what he sees in her I do not know. I have tried to talk him out of courting her, but he will not listen. Men can be so stubborn at times.”

  At this Winona grinned. “Men are stubborn all the time,” she joked, and had started to leave when Rabbit Woman put a hand on her arm.

  “I want you to know I argued against the idea until I was hoarse from talking, but he would not listen. When Jumping Bull sets his mind to something, nothing can change it. Many others will be angry at what he does, but that will not stop him. It would be better for all if the woman he wants moves into his lodge without causing trouble.”

  Mildly surprised that Rabbit Woman was confiding in her, Winona replied, “Jumping Bull is fortunate to have a sister who cares so much.” She began to turn, but Rabbit Woman restrained her.

  “I do care. I care with all my heart. He has always treated me kindly and helped me when I needed help. I can do no less for him, can I?”

  “I suppose not,” Winona said.

  Opening her mouth as if to say more, Rabbit Woman evidently changed her mind, let go of Winona, and hurried off, walking so fast she spilled some of the water from her bucket. Soon she was lost among the lodges.

  Winona ambled toward her own lodge. She was even more baffled, but she decided Rabbit Woman’s problems were none of her affair. Behind her the golden crest of the sun peeked above the horizon. In the trees beyond the encampment birds were greeting the new day with their customary chorus. She passed several friends and exchanged pleasantries. To the south her uncle, Spotted Bull, stepped out into the sunlight and waved to her. All she could do, with her hands burdened by the pan, was smile back.

  So preoccupied was Winona by the sights and sounds of the stirring village that she was only fifteen feet from her lodge when she spotted something lying on the ground in front of the entrance. Eyes narrowing, she drew near enough to identify what it was and promptly halted, in shock, the full implication hitting her with the force of a physical blow. Now she understood why Rabbit Woman had sought her out. Now she knew why the woman had confided in her. A cold wind seemed to chill her to the marrow and she shuddered.

  For there on a square piece of hide rested the haunch of a recently slain deer.

  ~*~

  “We are wasting our time,” Little Dog commented testily with a gesture at the river swirling past to his right. “There is no sign of where the two of them left the water. Why bother going on with this when our wives can use the elk meat we supposedly came after?”

  Rolling Thunder, who rode a few yards ahead, snapped a look over his broad shoulder. “Are you saying I lied to you and the others?” he challenged.

  Sighing, Little Dog gazed across the river at the opposite shore where Walking Bear, Bobcat, and Loud Talker were all scouring the ground for tracks their quarry might have left. They knew that the man and the child had gone up the river, but as yet they had been unable to find the spot where the pair took to the land again.

  “I asked you a question,” Rolling Thunder said, his voice low and hard.

  Little Dog would rather have avoided the issue entirely, but since Rolling Thunder was so touchy about it, he reasoned that clearing the air would be best for all. “No,” he said in resignation. “You did not deliberately lie to us. You truly intended to hunt elk.” He paused. “Yet if that was all you planned to do, we would not have needed to travel so far from our own country. You insisted on traveling here to hunt. Why? Are the elk here fatter than they are in our own country? No. Are they easier to find? Perhaps. But in the back of your mind you have been hoping to find something else. You knew there are more white men in this region than elsewhere, and above all else you hope to count coup on one before we return to our people.”

  “And you hold this against me?”

  “Not really, because I know why you do it. You want to be chief one day. The only other warrior who might dispute you is White Buffalo, who is just as brave as you are and has almost as many scalps hanging in his lodge as you do in yours.” Little Dog spied a large trout out in the water and watched it swim lazily by. Oh, that he might be a fish and not have to contend with the ambitions of vain friends! “There is one big difference between the two of you, though. White Buffalo has the scalp of a white trapper; you do not. And so you want to add one to your collection so that he will not be able to stand up before our people and claim an honor that you do not have.”

  “I should be the next chief, not him,” Rolling Thunder declared, striking his chest in his passion. “He sees himself as a mighty warrior, yet he is not half the man that I am.”

  “So you will do whatever is necessary to match his feats,” Little Dog said rather sadly.

  “Would you do otherwise if you were me?
”

  “I am not you so I cannot say.”

  In silence they rode on as the sun climbed steadily, warming the crisp mountain air. Rolling Thunder made no more mention of his true motive for venturing into Shoshone territory, but secretly he vowed that he was going to track the man and the boy down if it took an entire moon to do. Counting coup on a white man would increase his standing in the tribe to where no one, not even the redoubtable White Buffalo, could prevent him from assuming the mantle of leadership.

  A sudden shout from the opposite bank drew Rolling Thunder’s attention to Walking Bear, who was grinning and jabbing a finger to the northeast. Rolling Thunder looked. Then his mouth curled in elation.

  Several miles away, spiraling skyward, was the pale gray smoke from a campfire.

  ~*~

  “I could sure use another piece of jerky, Pa.”

  Nate rummaged in the parfleche at his feet and handed over a strip of the dried, salted meat to Zach. “This makes the sixth one. Sometimes I swear that you have a bottomless pit for a stomach.”

  Zach’s face lit up, the first time all day, and he replied, “I take after you. Ma said so herself. And Uncle Shakespeare told me that you’re the only man he knows who can eat a whole bull buffalo at one sitting.”

  “He should talk. Remind me to tell you about the time he drank the Yellowstone River dry.”

  “He did not,” Zach said, and laughed.

  “Just ask the Shoshones,” Nate said, overjoyed that the boy was finally showing his customary spark. All morning Zach had been inexplicably moody and had never spoken unless addressed, which was so unusual that Nate, remembering the nasal twang in his son’s voice the previous night, had twice checked his son’s forehead to see if Zach had a fever and might be coming down with something.

  Well shy of noon Nate had been inspired to call a halt to their ride so they could eat and he could down a few cups of hot coffee. So little sleep had he gotten after the panther attack that he needed the coffee to stay awake. Three hot cups had invigorated him, and he was ready to resume their hunt.

  The fire had about died down anyway. A tendril of smoke wafted upward as Nate poked the embers with a stick, extinguishing the last tiny flame. “Always remember to put out your camp fires,” he remarked for the boy’s benefit. “A careless spark can start a raging fire which could burn for days, maybe weeks. And always build your fires small, like the Indians do, so there’s less chance of an enemy spotting it.”

  “Anything else?” Zach asked, enthused to learn more. As with most children, his irrepressible spirit could not stay smothered forever. For the time being he had shut last night’s cowardice from his mind.

  “Yes,” Nate said. “Have you noticed how I always arrange the branches for our fires?”

  Zach nodded. “You put them down like the spokes in a wagon wheel instead of piling them on top of each other.”

  “It’s the Indian way of making fires. The woods burns slower so you don’t have to gather as much to last you. It also burns steadier, which makes it easier to keep the flames under control.”

  “So that’s why they do it that way,” Zach said thoughtfully.

  “You’ve got to keep in mind,” Nate elaborated as he discarded the tiny bit of coffee left in the pot, “the Indians have been living in the wild for a long time. They’re masters at woodcraft. It’s safe to say they’ve forgotten more over the years than our own people will ever learn. They treat Nature with respect instead of contempt. Pay attention and learn all you can because you never know when what you learn will come in handy.”

  Shortly they were on the go again, Zach on Nate’s left. “Pa, you lived a long time back in the States. Which is better, the white way of life or the Indian way of life?”

  The question caught Nate off guard. He pondered a minute, not caring to say anything that would embitter his son toward the society of white men. His own decision along those lines had been made the day he took Winona as his wife, but he wanted Zach to one day make up his own mind. So he said, “They both have their merits.”

  “But which is the best?” the boy asked with the single-minded persistence of the very young.

  “I suppose the answer depends on what a person wants out of life,” Nate said. “If safety and security is what you’re after, then the white man’s life is best. East of the Mississippi you hardly ever have to worry about being set on by hostiles, and since they’ve killed off all the grizzlies and most of the wolves and panthers, you’d never have to fret about those either. Stores nowadays carry ready-made clothes, so you’d never have to bother with sewing your own buckskins together. And with all the restaurants and saloons and taverns and such, you’d hardly ever have to cook your own food. There’d always be somewhere you could eat if you had the price.”

  “The white way of life sure sounds easy.”

  “That it does, but the easy way isn’t always the best way.”

  “How so?”

  “Life was never meant to be easy, Zach. Take a good look around you sometime. See how every creature in the mountains has to struggle to survive.” Nate indicated a circling eagle to the south. “Wild animals have to work hard if they want to live. They spend their days hunting or foraging or seeking water, and the whole time they have to be on the lookout for their enemies because if they let down their guard for just a short while, they could wind up dead. But does all this hardship make them sickly? On the contrary. Most of them are as sleek and healthy as they could be.”

  Zach was listening attentively.

  “The only animals that have it easy are those that have all their needs taken care of by man. Take cows and pigs, for instance. They have it about the easiest of any animals anywhere. All they do is stand around and eat all day, growing fatter and lazier as they get older and older. The same holds true for men and women. If we have it too easy, we grow fat and lazy just like cows and pigs.”

  “I see,” Zach said. He regarded his father with frank admiration. “Tarnation, Pa. You sure know a lot. I bet you’re the smartest man around.”

  “Not quite,” Nate said, and chuckled.

  Half a mile was covered before Zach broached another question that showed how deeply he had been thinking about his father’s words. “I’d rather be a mountain lion than a cow any day. Why do folks wants things so easy?”

  “Because they’re afraid to take risks, I imagine. They don’t want anything to do with something that might upset the orderly lives they like to live.” Nate arched his spine to relieve a kink. “Most of them work at dull jobs where they do the same thing day after day, month after month, year after year, and earn just enough money to get by. But they put up with the drudgery because they can fill their bellies three times a day and wear new clothes now and then and have a roof over their heads.”

  “And they’re happy living like that?”

  “That’s the strange part, son. Most of them say they’re not all that happy, but they won’t lift a finger to change things.”

  A few more yards fell behind them.

  “If you don’t mind, Pa, I figure I’d like to live in the mountains the rest of my life. City living doesn’t sound like something I’d be interested in.”

  “It’s your choice,” Nate said, realizing he had done exactly what he hadn’t wanted to do and inadvertently influenced his son’s thinking. He shifted, and was about to point out some good aspects of white culture when to their rear there arose a succession of crackling and crunching sounds as something crashed through the brush directly toward them.

  Four

  Winona saw a shadow fall across the open flap of the lodge, and glanced down at the butcher knife lying partially concealed under a folded blanket at her side. The hilt was within easy reach. Girding herself, she looked at the entrance and the husky man squatting there, keeping her features composed. “This is an honor, Jumping Bull,” she said pleasantly.

  The warrior, attired in his finest buckskins, his hair braided and adorned with several f
eathers, scowled and rested a hand on the deer haunch. “You did not touch this.”

  “It is not mine,” Winona said, devoting herself to the pair of Zach’s leggings she was mending.

  “I left it for you.”

  “I know.”

  “Then you should have claimed it.”

  Pausing in the act of using her buffalo-bone sewing awl, Winona met his gaze. “My husband provides for me. There was no need for you to take it on yourself to share your kill with us.”

  Jumping Bull poked his head inside and started to ease his wide shoulders and chest through the opening. Almost as an afterthought, he asked, “May I enter?”

  “No.”

  The man stopped, but made no move to back up. “I need to talk to you,” he declared.

  “You may talk to me from outside. My ears work quite well and I will hear everything you say.”

  “This is foolish,” Jumping Bull said gruffly, lifting a foot inside and beginning to straighten.

  “No!” Winona’s voice rang out so loudly that she was heard twenty yards away.

  Again Jumping Bull stopped, his expression becoming one of baffled annoyance. A look behind him showed a number of men, women, and children who were studying him curiously. Since to enter a lodge uninvited was a serious breach of tribal etiquette, he sank back on his heels just beyond the flap. “You are being most inconsiderate,” he chided. “All I want is to tell you what is on my mind.”

  “Of what interest are your thoughts to me?” Winona countered disdainfully.

  “They will be, once you know them,” Jumping Bull predicted. “I have decided the time is ripe for me to take another wife, and I have chosen you.”

  A merry laugh tinkled from Winona’s throat. “You are forgetting that I already have a husband.”

  “A white man is no fit husband for a beautiful woman like you. You are a full-blooded Shoshone. You should have a full-blooded Shoshone as a mate.”