Wilderness Double Edition #7

by David Robbins

  Bristling at the insult against Nate, Winona hid her feelings and commented, “I am quite content to be the woman of Grizzly Killer. He is a great warrior who cares for his family very much. No man could make me happier.”

  “I could,” Jumping Bull asserted. “And I have decided you will come live with me this very day. So pack your things and we will go.”

  Winona set down the awl, her right hand drifting to the smooth hilt of the butcher knife. “It seems to me that you are making a lot of decisions concerning others without first consulting them. I have no desire to live with you, Jumping Bull. I love Grizzly Killer.”

  “You will forget him in time. Come.” He beckoned her.

  “No.”

  “I can easily drag you out if you continue to be so stubborn. Remember, you have no father or brothers to defend you. And the dog you call a husband is gone.”

  “I will be certain to tell him you said that,” Winona said, maintaining her calm demeanor with difficulty. She refused to let him know how rattled she was by the dreadful conflict that was brewing. “And as for protectors, you should remember that my uncle, Spotted Bull, is close by, and that he has regarded me as he does his own daughter since the deaths of my parents.”

  “Spotted Bull will mind his own business,” Jumping Bull said. “He will see that this is between the white dog and me.”

  “Can you be sure of that?” Winona asked. “And what about his son, Touch the Clouds, who is not only my cousin but one of the best friends my husband has? Will he stand by and do nothing while you mistreat me?” She detected a hint of indecision in the man’s dark eyes, and knew that mentioning the name of the most renowned of all Shoshone warriors had had the desired effect.

  Touch the Clouds was aptly named. He was a giant standing almost seven feet high and endowed with a massive physique to match his towering height, and his prowess in warfare was legendary among his people.

  Winona went on. “And do not forget my husband’s many other friends. Drags the Rope, Lone Wolf, He Who Rides Standing—none of them will like my being bothered while he is away.”

  “They have no right to interfere,” Jumping Bull said petulantly. “This is my affair, not theirs.” He shifted his weight from one heel to the other, and immersed in thought, did not say anything for quite a while.

  Waiting in tense expectation, Winona barely breathed. She could hardly believe this was happening to her, that her happy existence was being threatened by someone she had rarely spoken to in years. They had been friendly during their childhood, but that had been over twenty years ago and she had been friends with all the boys in the village, not just him.

  Jumping Bull cleared his throat. “I want you and I mean to have you. No one will stand in my way.” He picked up the haunch. “For now, think on my words and settle in your mind that you are going to be my wife whether you like the idea or not.”

  “Never!” Winona declared, her eyes flashing. “I would rather...” She then fell silent because the object of her wrath had risen and departed.

  Suddenly Winona began trembling uncontrollably. Doubling over, she, clutched her stomach and uttered a series of low, pathetic groans. Acute misery tore at her soul. Clenching her fists, she craned her neck back and gazed out the opening at the top of the lodge. Oh my Nate! her mind cried. Where are you?

  ~*~

  Rolling Thunder held a hand aloft as he reined up, and the other four also halted. The scent of smoke was strong in his nostrils, and he could hear an unusual thumping sound. They were close to the fire, he knew, so he slid off his war-horse, tied it to a bush, and motioned for the rest to follow him.

  Hefting the slender lance in his left hand, Rolling Thunder glided through the undergrowth until he spotted a meadow ahead. There was movement at the far end, so he dropped into a crouch and snaked forward until he had an unobstructed view. His face fairly gleamed with bloodlust when he discovered the source of the fire.

  A bearded white man had made camp beside a small spring and was busily chopping wood with an ax. Several packs lay on the ground by the fire, as did a bundle of beaver pelts. To a tree behind him were secured two mules and a horse. Leaning against the tree was a rifle.

  Rolling Thunder glanced at his companions and used sign language to convey his directions. Walking Bear and Loud Talker he sent to the left, Bobcat and Little Dog to the right. As they moved away he sank to his hands and knees, then onto his belly, and crawled into the open, moving through the high grass as would a slinking wolf.

  When a mere fifteen feet from the unsuspecting trapper, Rolling Thunder released his spear and lowered his right hand to his knife. Killing a foe in personal combat rated as a braver act than killing one from a distance, so rather than hurl the lance he intended to get in close and dispatch the man with the keen blade that glinted in the bright sunlight.

  Rolling Thunder edged nearer, his eyes exclusively on the white man. The others would hold back, giving him the honor of making the kill. He gripped the knife firmly and closed to within ten feet.

  Abruptly, the trapper stopped chopping and looked up sharply, his blue eyes roving over the meadow and the ring of pines. By the anxious glances he shot in all directions it was apparent that he sensed danger but had nothing solid on which to base his apprehension. He lowered the ax, stared at the horse and mules to see if they were agitated, and when he saw them standing placidly, chuckled and resumed chopping.

  Coiling his legs under him, Rolling Thunder waited until the man had finished splitting the thick piece of wood and was bending over to pick it up. Then, like a shot, Rolling Thunder charged, his knife held on high for a killing stroke.

  The trapper, on hearing onrushing footsteps, whirled. There was no time for him to grab the flintlock under his belt. Clasping the ax at opposite ends, he swept it up and blocked the powerful swing of Rolling Thunder’s arm. Backing away to give himself room to maneuver, he reversed his grip and drove the ax head at the Gros Ventre’s face.

  By the merest fraction Rolling Thunder ducked under the swing and felt a breath of air fan his cheeks. He lunged, striving to bury his knife in the trapper’s chest, but the man was quicker, flinging himself to one side and dropping a hand to the flintlock.

  Rolling Thunder knew he must not let the trapper draw that gun. Cutting loose with a feral war whoop, he leaped, his arms outstretched, and collided with the man just as the flintlock was yanked free. Together they toppled, Rolling Thunder on top, his legs preventing the man from raising the pistol.

  The trapper’s eyes showed fear as Rolling Thunder lifted the knife, shrieked with joy, and buried the blade into the man’s throat. Gurgling and wheezing, spurting blood on the two of them and the grass, the trapper bucked, vainly trying to toss the Gros Ventre off. Tenaciously, Rolling Thunder clamped his thighs harder and held onto the knife. He could feel the man’s movements growing weaker and weaker. A single word escaped the trapper’s blood-flecked lips.

  “God—!”

  Suddenly it was over. The trapper went limp, his eyes blank. Rolling Thunder jerked out the dripping knife and pushed erect. Whooping deliriously, he jumped up and down over and over.

  From the trees came his friends. Loud Talker reached the trapper first and struck the body with his tomahawk. “I claim second coup!” he shouted.

  “The bastard is dead,” Bobcat said. “You cannot claim coup on a dead man.”

  “I thought I saw him move,” Loud Talker objected.

  “You wished you saw him move,” was Bobcat’s retort.

  Loud Talker turned to Rolling Thunder. “Was he dead? Do I count coup?”

  Rolling Thunder stopped jumping and faced them. He found it hard to think, so furiously was his blood pounding in his veins. Gradually the words sank in, and he looked down at the trapper. According to custom, up to four men could count coup on the same enemy in the heat of battle. The highest coup always went to the warrior who struck an enemy while the enemy was alive, severely wounding him. Second coup would go to ano
ther warrior who might then strike the weakened foe. Third coup went to yet a different warrior if he dispatched the wounded adversary, while fourth coup could be claimed by yet another if he did the scalping.

  “Do I?” Loud Talker repeated eagerly.

  “Yes,” Rolling Thunder said, and saw Little Dog frown and turn away. “There was a breath of life left in him when you hit him. The coup counts. I will vouch for you.”

  “I would have sworn he was dead,” Bobcat said, adding instantly, “but you should know better than I, so I will accept your judgment.”

  Walking Bear was staring enviously at the trapper’s long black hair. He tapped his knife. “Do you want the scalp or may I have it?”

  Indecision made Rolling Thunder hesitate. He wanted the scalp badly so that he could gloat to White Buffalo and prove to the rest of the tribe that he could do anything White Buffalo did. But clearly this wasn’t the white man they had been after; this wasn’t the one who had a boy along, who might or might not be Grizzly Killer. And how much better it would be if he could claim the famous Grizzly Killer’s scalp! But if he insisted on having this one, the others would have every right to demand that they be given the chance to count first coup on Grizzly Killer. What should he do? he asked himself. Take a chance on adding Grizzly Killer’s hair to his collection and let Walking Bear have this scalp? Or take this one and possibly have to pass up Grizzly Killer’s?

  As he stood there hesitating, Rolling Thunder noticed Little Dog look at him and smile. Somehow, he knew what his friend was thinking, that he wasn’t generous enough to pass up any white man’s scalp, no matter how much benefit he might later derive from doing so. Galled, he impulsively stated, “The scalp is yours, Walking Bear.”

  Turning, Rolling Thunder walked to the tree and claimed the rifle for his own. He also claimed the horse and one of the packs. The rest divided up the spoils as they saw fit. Both Loud Talker and Walking Bear thanked him repeatedly, and to each he was properly humble. He made no mention of the elation he felt at having the two of them in his debt. They were so grateful they would go along with whatever he wanted— and shortly he spoke out. “I would like to try one more time to find the trail of the man and the boy.”

  “Why go to the bother?” Little Dog said. “They are many miles from here by now.”

  “I want to try.”

  “You’ve killed a white man. What more do you need?”

  Rolling Thunder made no reply, but the tinge of sadness that touched his face combined with the air of slightly hurt feelings he so cleverly projected had the result he hoped.

  Loud Talker promptly came to his defense. “I do not understand why you object to going after them, Little Dog,” he declared indignantly. “What harm can it do?” He bobbed his head at Rolling Thunder. “Thanks to him we will be the talk of the village when we return. Why not do as he wants and maybe count more coup?”

  “I agree,” Walking Bear threw in. “Going back with elk meat is one thing, going back with scalps and many coup to boast of is another. So I say we go after these other two.”

  Bobcat interjected his predictable opinion. “I would rather kill enemies than elk anytime. Count me in.”

  Recognizing a lost cause when he saw one, Little Dog walked off. “I will get our horses,” he offered so he could be alone with his thoughts. He heard harsh laughter and wondered if he was the source of their humor.

  A smoldering anger filled his breast at the way Rolling Thunder was manipulating them. The others were too blinded by bloodlust to see it, but he could. He was of half a mind to desert them and go back alone. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to abandon them to their own stupidity no matter what the personal consequences might be. The true mark of genuine friendship, he had long maintained, was that friends stuck together through good times and bad, through periods of peace and happiness and interludes of danger and death. So what sort of person would it make him if he went back without them?

  Little Dog went around a tree, still pondering. Since his was the sole voice of reason, it was his responsibility to see that the others didn’t put themselves in an unnecessarily perilous situation. He would serve as their guardian spirit for the duration of the hunt, and if in his estimation they wanted to take any pointless risks, he would advise them accordingly. Should they heed him, fine. If not, then at least he would have done all that was required of a true friend.

  In due course they were on their way to the river. Rolling Thunder was confident they’d find the trail again if they continued searching both shores. Peeved that Little Dog was still questioning his judgment, Rolling Thunder studiously avoided talking to him until they were both again moving along the bank, their eyes studying the soft earth for telltale spoor.

  “Call out if you see anything,” he said.

  “Do you think I would not?” Little Dog responded.

  “I can no longer tell what you will do,” Rolling Thunder said gravely. “There was a time when you were the most dependable man I know, but now you are like an old woman whose mind no longer works right. If you persist in disputing every idea I have, I doubt I will take you along the next time I lead a raiding party.”

  “Whatever you feel is best,” Little Dog said coldly, and resolved right then and there to sever his ties with Rolling Thunder once they were among their own kind again. It would serve Rolling Thunder right if he went on a raid with White Buffalo instead, thereby making public his dissatisfaction and showing everyone else which warrior he felt was better suited to be their next chief.

  Considerable time had elapsed when Rolling Thunder passed a dense thicket that grew right down to the water’s edge. He had been forced to enter the river to swing around it, and as he angled to the shore he happened to glance back. Instantly he wheeled his war-horse and cut loose with piercing whoops in elation. Imprinted in the soil were the familiar tracks he sought. Jumping down, he examined the impressions, grinning at the craftiness of their quarry.

  If it was Grizzly Killer, the man knew all the tricks. Plunging into the thicket when he had left the water was a smart move since the tangle of vegetation hid most of the hoof prints.

  “But not all of them,” Rolling Thunder said softly to himself, and remounted. Walking Bear, Bobcat, and Loud Talker were fording to his side. He waited for them, pointed out the trail, then assumed the lead.

  Little Dog brought up the rear. Secretly he had hoped they wouldn’t find the tracks again so they could get on with the business of hunting elk. Now, knowing Rolling Thunder as he did, he was certain they would push on until nightfall and resume the pursuit at first light, stopping only for short periods, and then only because their horses needed occasional rest.

  Once again, Little Dog noted, the trail was taking them deeper into Shoshone territory, although in a roundabout manner. He speculated that the man they were after must think he had lost them. Soon they came to where the pair had camped.

  Rolling Thunder jumped down to press his palm to the charred embers. He was on one knee when the brush to their left rustled loudly and out stepped a squat, stocky animal that bristled at the sight of them and voiced a challenging snarl.

  None of them moved. None of them spoke. They did not want to do a thing that would provoke the newcomer into attacking, since despite its relatively small stature the wolverine was one of the most feared creatures in the mountains. It was only three feet long and less than two feet high, but what it lacked in size it more than compensated for by possessing a tenacious, savage disposition unmatched by any other beast or man.

  This one was a female, her color a mix of black and brown, her long claws visible as she unexpectedly turned to one side to go around the party. Exhibiting an odd shuffling gait, she took her time, her baleful gaze fixed on them the whole time.

  Rolling Thunder was tempted to use his lance. A wolverine pelt was a rare trophy, even more prized than that of a grizzly. But being the only one dismounted, he would be the object of her unstoppable wrath should he hurl his lance into her
but fail to drop her on the spot. Prudence made him hold still until she darted into the undergrowth and continued on her undisturbed way.

  Just like that the incident, so fraught with the potential for violence, was over. In itself it was not remarkable, since many such incidents occurred in the lifetime of the Gros Ventres. But it gave one of them an opening he tried to exploit.

  “That was a bad omen,” Little Dog said. “We should turn back.”

  “It would have been a bad omen had the animal attacked,” Rolling Thunder disagreed, rising. “That it did not is proof that our medicine is strong and that soon Grizzly Killer and the young one will be our captives.” Loud Talker grunted assent. “Yes, friend! Our medicine is strong! No one can stand up to us, not Grizzly Killer, not even the entire Shoshone nation. Let us hurry, and maybe by tonight one of us will be the proud owner of a new scalp.”

  Presently five warriors rode on, but only four of them were smiling in anticipation.

  Five

  Nate King raised his Hawken and trained the barrel on the large four-legged shape that had materialized behind them among the pines. Before he could take deliberate aim, however, the thing was on them. Or rather, going around them. Father and son sat in amused amazement as a ten-point blacktail buck dashed like lightning past their horses and into trees a dozen feet away.

  Zachary broke into relieved laughter. “Tarnation, Pa! What caused that critter to act up so?”

  “Something must have spooked him a ways back,” Nate said. “Sometimes deer will run for miles when they’re scared.”

  “Too bad we didn’t shoot it,” Zach said. “I’d like some roast venison. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Perhaps tonight,” Nate said, and resumed their interrupted journey. To the southwest reared a large mountain sprinkled with patches of white at the summit—lingering vestiges of last year’s snows that had not melted over the summer, and probably wouldn’t melt before the first snow of the new winter season struck the Rockies. Some of the mountains were so high that snow stayed on their peaks the year around. They made their way toward this lofty monarch, always mindful to check their back trail now and again for signs of the five Indians.