Wilderness Double Edition #7

by David Robbins

  “Why do you care if the white bastard is hurt?” Rolling Thunder inquired.

  “Because I want him to live long enough for me to show him what true pain really is,” Bobcat said. “I saw him first, so I will decide what to do with him.” He tapped a knot the size of a duck egg on the man’s forehead. “I see many bruises, cuts, and scrapes, but his bones do not appear to be broken and he breathes steady.”

  Rolling Thunder draped a hand on the hilt of his knife. “I want his hair.”

  “Find your own white dog,” Bobcat responded, plucking a pistol caked with snow from under the man’s wide belt. “This one is mine.”

  “I want his hair,” Rolling Thunder repeated softly. Bobcat glanced up, his smile disappearing, his features hardening. “His scalp is mine. I have every right to it. Who saw him first? Who was the first to reach him? His hair will hang in my lodge.”

  “I want it.”

  Indignation brought Bobcat to his feet, his right hand closing on his tomahawk. Anyone who led a war party or a hunting party was entitled to express his wishes freely, but the leader was not allowed to dictate to those who accompanied him. “Why should I give such a prize to you? You have done nothing to earn it.”

  “I know. And I do not dispute that. But if you allow me to claim it, you will have my deepest gratitude.”

  “I would rather have the scalp.”

  “Think about this,” Rolling Thunder said. He was determined to have his way so he could ride proudly into their village waving the hair from the end of his lance, effectively putting an end to any hope White Buffalo had of challenging him to be the new chief. “Is it not true that one day soon our chief will die and I will become the most important man among our people?”

  “Yes. What difference does it make?”

  “Would it not be to your benefit to be on friendly terms with me when I have the power to grant you anything you might want? Horses, guns, the woman of your choice—as a chief I can use my influence to help you obtain everything you have ever desired.”

  Gradually the anger seeped from Bobcat’s dark eyes and he relaxed his grasp on the tomahawk. It would be nice, he reflected, to have such influence, especially when the time came to divide the spoils of future raids. And too, there was a certain woman he liked whose father refused to let him enter their lodge simply because he didn’t own as many horses as some of her other suitors. As chief, Rolling Thunder could perhaps persuade the reluctant father that letting Bobcat court the daughter was in the best interests of everyone concerned.

  “Well?” Rolling Thunder prompted, sensing victory.

  “You can have the scalp,” Bobcat declared. He glanced quickly at the others, who were approaching but still thirty feet off, then stepped close to Rolling Thunder and said, “But if you do not honor your words, I will consider you an enemy.”

  A caustic retort was on Rolling Thunder’s tongue, a retort he never uttered. To do so would antagonize Bobcat, who in turn would deny him the scalp. Far better, he reasoned, to overlook the affront for now. After he became chief would be the time to pay Bobcat back. “I always speak with a straight tongue to you. I will honor my words.”

  “See that you do.”

  Further conversation was interrupted by the coming of their three companions.

  “How is the man?” Little Dog asked, staring at the prone form.

  “He survived,” Bobcat answered.

  “His horse did not. Its neck is broken. We tried moving the body to get at the saddle, but the horse is too heavy.”

  “I would not want a white man’s saddle anyway,” Loud Talker said. “They are too soft and uncomfortable.” He chuckled. “Do you remember the time White Buffalo killed the trapper and brought back the trapper’s saddle? We all were allowed to try it. I thought I was riding on a pile of hides!”

  Little Dog nudged the man with the toe of his moccasin. “What do you plan to do with him?”

  “I will build a fire and we will test his courage,” Bobcat replied.

  “Out here in the open?” Little Dog said.

  “In the aspens then.”

  “And delay our return to our village?” Little Dog bobbed his chin northward. “I think it would be wiser to take him with us and do as you want after we have stopped for the night. Remember, we are still in Shoshone country.”

  “I do not fear them,” Bobcat stated.

  “Who does?” said Rolling Thunder. “But I agree with Little Dog. We have far to travel and we should go now while the day is young. Tie this white snake on the horse I took from the trapper and we can be off.”

  “As you wish,” Bobcat said docilely, and moved to their mounts.

  It was a totally mystified Little Dog who stood aside while the prisoner was bound and gagged and thrown over the back of the animal. Perplexed by Bobcat’s highly unusual conduct, he tried to think of a reason. Ordinarily, Bobcat gave in to no man, not even Rolling Thunder, yet here Bobcat had behaved as meekly as a little puppy.

  Moments later they were all on their horses and riding, single file, down the slope of the mountain to the less perilous valley floor. Turning northward, they spent the rest of the morning contending with deep drifts and blowing snow. By midday they had covered a bare four miles.

  “At this turtle’s pace it will take us a full moon to reach our people,” Walking Bear groused when they halted to give their mounts a rest.

  Rolling Thunder pursed his lips. “The day is growing warm. Tomorrow will probably be warmer. In three sleeps much of the snow will have melted, and before the eighth sleep comes we will be home.”

  “Home,” Little Dog said reverently.

  The temperature did climb, but little of the snow had melted by twilight. For hours their horses struggled to make headway. On several occasions where the snow was too deep and the animals floundered, they all dismounted and pulled each horse to firmer footing again. They were a weary band when they made their night camp in a clearing by a stream.

  Walking Bear and Loud Talker went into the woods after game while Rolling Thunder and Bobcat attended to the animals. Little Dog collected wood and soon had a fire crackling. As he arranged the branches to his satisfaction, he heard a low groan and turned to see the white man open his eyes and blink.

  “You would have spared yourself much misery if you had died,” Little Dog commented, and could tell by the other’s expression that the man did not comprehend his tongue. The trapper studied him most carefully, and Little Dog was impressed to note a complete absence of fear. Leaning over, he yanked the gag out.

  The man spoke in a strange, musical language.

  “I cannot talk like a bird,” Little Dog said. “And I do not know Shoshone.” An idea goaded him into gesturing in sign language. “My name is Little Dog. I am Gros Ventre. Do you understand?”

  Again the man spoke and motioned with his bound wrists.

  “Yes, I think you do,” Little Dog said. Moving to the trapper’s side, he lifted the man’s arms so he could get at the knots under the wrists.

  “Stop!”

  Pausing, Little Dog pivoted as Bobcat hastened up. “He knows sign language,” said Little Dog. “We can question him if his hands are untied.”

  “I did not bring him with us so we could talk to him,” Bobcat said. “There is nothing he might say that would interest me.” Leering, he suddenly kicked the trapper in the stomach, doubling the man over in anguish. “All I want is to hear him scream when I gouge out his eyes and cut off his ears.”

  Although disappointed, Little Dog left and devoted himself to building the fire higher. He was curious to learn about the white way of life and to hear what had brought this trapper so far from the white world into the land of the Shoshones. Unlike his friends, he had long suspected that the whites were much like his own people in many respects and that if the two sides could sit down and discuss their differences, a peace might be worked out. The Gros Ventres, though, did not make peace with their enemies. They exterminated them.

&
nbsp; Bobcat walked off again, and out of the corner of his eye Little Dog saw the trapper surreptitiously appraise each of them. He liked that. Some captives, knowing the fate awaiting them, would have yelled or pleaded, but not this one. This man used his brain; he was taking their measure and perhaps trying to think of a means of escaping. Sadly for someone so brave, there was none.

  Presently Loud Talker and Walking Bear showed up bearing a rabbit. Rolling Thunder and Bobcat came and sat by the fire. Little Dog listened as they joked and recounted battles they had been in and told about wild beasts they had slain. He bided his time until Walking Bear glanced at the captive and asked whether anyone had tried to communicate with him.

  “I did,” Little Dog answered. “He knows sign language. But Bobcat does not want his hands freed.”

  “Why not?” Walking Bear asked. “It will be amusing to let him spew his lies, and we have nothing else to do.”

  “We will soon be very busy,” Bobcat said, glaring at the trapper. “He dies when we are done eating, and all of you can have a hand in it.”

  “Why rush?” Walking Bear inquired. “Our journey back is a long one.” He scratched his chin, pondering. “If I had caught a white man, I would rather take him back to the village for all the people to see. No one has ever done that before. Think of the songs the women would sing of my prowess!”

  “I would do the same,” Loud Talker mentioned.

  The ensuing silence was broken by Rolling Thunder. “Some might say it is bad medicine to bring a white man into our village. Better that he die before we reach our land.” He stared across the fire at the object of their disagreement. “But like Walking Bear I am interested in learning what this dog will tell us.”

  “Then so be it,” Bobcat abruptly declared. He crouched by the captive and worked long and hard at the tight knots before they parted. Eyeing the trapper with contempt, he backed up and remarked, “Now make fools of yourselves.”

  All of them were surprised when Rolling Thunder shot upright, stalked around to the white man, and leaned close to the man’s face. “How are you known?” he signed with sharp gestures.

  The trapper never batted an eye. “I am called Grizzly Killer,” he answered in flawless sign language.

  Rolling Thunder took a quick step back, as if he had been punched, then raised his face to the heavens and smiled at the sparkling stars. His prayers had been answered! He clenched his fists and shook them in exultation.

  Little Dog and the rest exchanged glances. Of them all, Little Dog was the only one who correctly guessed why Rolling Thunder was acting so oddly. He shifted his gaze to the white man, admiring the man’s composure. The stories that whites were all craven cowards were clearly not true.

  Grizzly Killer scanned them and fastened on Little Dog. “What happened to my horse?” he inquired.

  “It was killed,” Little Dog said, and added, “I could see that it was a fine animal.”

  “The Nez Percé gave it to me,” Grizzly Killer signed, his mouth curling downward. “I will miss it.”

  Bobcat laughed. His fingers and arms flew. “You will not be alive along enough to miss it, bastard! I, Bobcat, am going to cut out your heart and piss on it.”

  “How many will hold me down when you do?” Grizzly Killer retorted.

  In a flash Bobcat was up and at the captive, his knife streaking from its sheath and spearing at the white man’s throat. Twisting, Grizzly Killer evaded the thrust, caught Bobcat’s wrist, and jerked, sending Bobcat sailing over him to sprawl in an undignified heap in the snow. Grizzly Killer shoved to his knees, his movements slowed by his bound ankles, and turned awkwardly to face Bobcat. As he did, Rolling Thunder stepped in close and swung the butt end of his lance, striking Grizzly Killer on the temple. Soundlessly, the white man crumpled, and the next instant Bobcat was poised above him with the gleaming knife held aloft for a fatal stab.

  Ten

  As young Zachary King turned and saw the terrifying vision of the avalanche sweeping down the steep mountain slope toward him, a wave of fear bathed his body from head to toe and he stood rooted in fright to the spot outside of the cleft. He knew he should move, should dash through the opening before the snow struck him, but he could not seem to make his limbs obey his mind. Dimly he heard his father shouting. Closer and closer came the gigantic, turbulent mass, until with a sinking feeling in his gut he knew the avalanche would engulf him in another few seconds. That was when the pup whined.

  “Blaze!” Zach cried, roused from his shock. Horrified at the thought of the wolf being killed, he was galvanized into action. He cast a glance at his father far below, then moved to grab the pup by the scruff of its neck, but it darted into the opening on its own. He promptly followed.

  No sooner did Zach gain the shelter of the cleft than he was roughly hurled from his feet by an invisible hand that slammed into him from behind. Flying forward, he hit the floor hard and slid to a stop. A peculiar hissing arose. Zach put his hands flat, pushed up, and turned.

  Once again terror seized him. Snow was streaming in the entrance and spilling out over the dirt floor, fanning to the right and the left. Frantically Zach backed up. He was afraid the snow would fill the whole interior and smother him.

  The wolf stayed at his side. Legs spread, hair bristling, it snarled at the seething spray as if trying to frighten the snow into stopping.

  Zach gulped and wished his father was there. His father! “Pa!” he cried, feeling new fear, but not for himself this time. His father had been out in the open, exposed and helpless to avoid the avalanche. What would happen when ... ?

  Shaking his head, Zach refused to give the matter any consideration. “Pa will be all right,” he said softly. “He has to be.” His own problem was more important at the moment. Already several inches of snow covered the ground near the opening.

  Unexpectedly, the spray ended, the hissing ceased. A muted, rapidly fading roar showed the avalanche had passed and was rolling on down the mountain.

  “Pa!” Zach yelled, running to the entrance. He attacked the snow with his hands, digging furiously, but soon realized the snow was too tightly packed to be easily dug aside. Stepping back, he glanced up at the top of the opening. There appeared to be less snow higher up, so girding his legs he started up the short incline, digging in his moccasins to gain extra purchase.

  At the bottom of the pile the wolf uttered a tentative whimper.

  “Don’t fret, boy,” Zach said. “I ain’t about to leave you. But if I don’t get us dug out, we’ll never see the light of day again.”

  He reached the apex of the crack and began scooping out handfuls, the snow cold on his palms and fingers. Outside all was now as quiet as a tomb, and the silence made him shiver. “Please let him be all right, Lord,” he said. “Please, please, please.”

  Zach had a lump in his throat as he continued digging. Part of his apprehension was for his father; part was for his own welfare. If anything had happened to his pa—and simply framing the words in his mind was so painful he cringed—what would then happen to him? How would he survive on his own? He glanced over his shoulder at the mare, standing calmly in the back corner, munching on grass his father had brought the day before, as unconcerned as if she was in a stable somewhere. “Stupid horse,” he muttered.

  For how long Zach dug, he could not say. He made a deep hole in the snow, but still saw no hint of daylight. His fingers became numb, compelling him to halt for a while. Dejected, he carefully climbed down and went to the fire. Blaze followed him.

  “We’re in for it now, little fellow,” Zach said, fighting back tears. He held his hands close to the low flames, barely noticing the warmth. “If I don’t find my pa, I don’t think I can ever make my way home again.” Blaze lay down with his pointed chin resting on his small paws, and regarded the boy with an expression that could only be described as one of tender affection.

  “But I’ll bet you Pa made it to safety,” Zach went on, bobbing his head. “Yep! I’ll bet he did. There is
n’t nothing my pa can’t do.”

  An ember popped in the fire.

  “I never expected anything like this to happen,” Zach said, so worked up he was unable to keep from speaking. “I mean, I know bad things can happen in the mountains. Pa is always telling me to stay alert, to always be on the lookout for hostiles and grizzlies and such. He says the wilderness is no place for greenhorns. A man has to know the ways of the animals and the Indians and, most of all, the ways of Nature, if he’s to live to a ripe old age like Uncle Shakespeare has done.” He paused, suddenly all choked up. “But I’m not no man, Blaze.”

  Zach lowered his head and stifled a sob of despair. How could he ever hope to measure up to his pa’s expectations? Twice now he had been so scared he had nearly leaked in his britches, first when the panther had attacked, and then minutes ago when the avalanche had swarmed toward him. He must be yellow. Why else had he been so darned afraid?

  Morosely, Zach stared into the lowering flames and lamented his sorry lot in life. To be born a coward to a man like Grizzly Killer! He’d always taken immense pride in his father’s accomplishments, and he’d looked forward to the day when he would prove his worth as a man, when he too would prove he was a brave Shoshone warrior. But cowards were not permitted to go on raids. Cowards were assigned to the ranks of the women and forced to do the same work the women did. They were the laughingstocks of the tribe, shunned by any man who had ever counted coup.

  “Oh, Lord,” Zach said, almost sorry the avalanche had not killed him.

  Blaze touched his damp nose to the boy’s hand.

  “Not now,” Zach said. He took a deep breath and felt a slight dizziness. Pressing a hand to his brow, he waited for the spell to pass, then laughed. “Look at me! I’m so scared I’m about to pass out.”

  Mary whinnied softly.

  Zach idly gazed at her and saw her head drooping. “Now what’s the matter with you, stupid?” he asked. He flexed his fingers, ascertained they were warm enough for him to go back to digging, and stood. But he managed only a single stride before he halted and swayed as a second bout of dizziness made everything spin. “Oh!” he exclaimed, reaching out for support that wasn’t there. He tottered, nearly fell. Seconds elapsed and the dizziness went away, leaving him shaken and experiencing a queasy sensation in his stomach.