Wilderness Double Edition #7

by David Robbins

  The near-tragic incident made Zach feel oddly lighthearted. He’d met the scourge of the Rockies and lived to tell of it! His confidence was further fortified, and there was a slight swagger in his stride as he hunted, a swagger that became more pronounced after he stumbled on and shot a rabbit.

  Countless times had Zach eaten rabbit, yet this one tasted better than any he’d ever known. He lingered over every morsel, chewing with gusto while reviewing the deeds of the day. Ultimately, he decided his fears had been groundless, that if he applied himself, and most of all if he used his head, he would be able to meet the wilderness on its own terms and come out the winner. Or, as he phrased it to Blaze, “Living off the land ain’t so tough if you have half a brain.”

  His elation carried him through an untroubled sleep, and on through the next morning until he found where the Indians had made their first camp. There, as he walked about familiarizing himself with the tracks as his father had taught him to do, he saw something which made his heart skip a beat and his breath rasp in his throat.

  It was a small frozen puddle of blood.

  ~*~

  Nate King wanted to kill.

  He sat astride the horse to which he had been tied, blood trickling from the left corner of his mouth and seeping from his nose, his chin split open, nasty bruises discoloring most of his face, and glared at the Gros Ventre who was leading his mount. Bobcat, they called him, and Nate wanted nothing so much as the opportunity to clamp his brawny hands on Bobcat’s throat and squeeze until the son of a bitch turned purple.

  But weakness pervaded his body, reminding Nate that he couldn’t throttle a rabbit, let alone a healthy warrior. He shifted position to relieve an annoying cramp in his right thigh, and winced as sharp pains lanced through his chest. Several of his ribs must be broken, or at the very least fractured. His stomach ached constantly from having been without food since his capture. And his lips were parched and puffy, only partly because his captors wouldn’t let him have a drink; the puffiness had been caused by all the blows to the face he had received.

  Four of the five Gros Ventres had used every stop to beat mercilessly on him, taking turns punching and kicking and slapping him until they tired of the sport. Of the four, Bobcat was the worst. The warrior became like a madman, striking Nate repeatedly until Nate collapsed from the ordeal. Then Bobcat would throw snow on Nate’s face to revive him and begin the torment all over again. It was Bobcat who, the night before, had kicked and kicked until Nate thought his ribs were about to cave in.

  Yet Nate was powerless to prevent the Gros Ventres from having their way. His hands were always kept tied behind his back, and whenever they stopped for any length of time his ankles were also securely bound.

  While on the move, Bobcat always held fast to the rope used to guide Nate’s horse.

  Nate gingerly touched the tip of his tongue to his lower lip, and grimaced at the pang that shot along his jaw. He would be lucky if he was ever able to talk again! The thought made him snort lightly at his unwarranted optimism. Being able to talk was the least of his worries. Of more immediate concern was living out the day.

  The Gros Ventres had made no secret of the fact they were going to kill him, and they had also let him know they intended to take their time doing so. Bobcat, in particular, liked to brag of the tortures he would inflict on Nate over the next several days. Apparently, they wanted him dead for some reason before they reached their village, but they were going to keep him alive until a day or two before they got there so they could have more fun with him.

  Nate wished he had his weapons. He longed for a fighting chance. That was all he asked. But he might as well wish for a fortune in gold because there was no denying the inevitable. He was going to die, and he knew it.

  The certainty had been difficult to accept the first day, when Nate had instinctively balked at the notion of being killed in the prime of his manhood. He had seen enough of the wild to know that all forms of life tenaciously cling to their existence, as evidenced by the fierce struggle a rabbit would put up against a panther, or the efforts of a lowly frog to escape the clutches of a snake that was swallowing it alive. To the very last that frog would thrash and kick in a futile attempt to avoid its doom. And humankind, in this respect, was no different from the animals.

  Nate wanted to live. Lord, how he wanted to live! He wanted to see his wife again and help her live through the sorrow of Zach’s death. He wanted to be there when their second child was born, and his keenest regret was for poor Winona, who had finally been blessed with new life within her after years of longing for an addition to their family. Now she would have to raise the child alone, or perhaps she would marry one of the Shoshone warriors.

  The likelihood didn’t disturb Nate as much as he would have expected. Men and women were not meant to go through life alone, and he’d rather she found someone else than spend the remainder of her days mourning him and withering into old age.

  Oh, Winona! Nate cried in his mind, and bowed his head in sorrow. He wearily closed his eyes, started to sway, and jerked his eyes open again. If he dozed off he might fall, as had happened once before, and the Gros Ventres would let him hang until they made their next stop, as they had done the last time. For hours he had bounced and flounced upside down over the rough terrain, his body occasionally battered by the hoofs of the horse.

  Damn their hides all to hell! Nate thought, and glanced back at the others. Directly behind him was the leader of the band, Rolling Thunder, an arrogant brave who always smirked whenever he caught Nate’s eye, like now. Nate gazed past Rolling Thunder at the next man, the quiet one known as Little Dog, the only one of the bunch who did not derive enjoyment from inflicting pain on him. Little Dog had not beaten him once. Why not? he wondered. He’d noticed Rolling Thunder had been treating Little Dog with cool reserve, and guessed the two were at odds over something, but he had no idea what it might be.

  Nate waited for Little Dog to look his way so he could smile at him, but the warrior was preoccupied and had his attention idly fixed on the ground. A desperate man will clutch at any straw, and Nate’s straw was a feeble hope that Little Dog would take pity on him and perhaps set him free late at night so he could sneak off. He knew the hope was ridiculous, yet he entertained it nonetheless.

  Facing front, Nate surveyed the landscape ahead. They were coming down out of the mountains onto a wide plain that stretched to the northern horizon, a new region which Nate had never visited before. There was no snow here. Grazing far out were scattered clusters of buffalo and antelope.

  As they rode from the forest into the high grass, Nate spotted a coyote to the west. Intense misery racked him and he almost blacked out. In his mind’s eye he saw again his young son standing before the cleft as the monstrous avalanche bore down on the boy. The moment was branded indelibly in his memory, and he relived the horror of it countless times each hour.

  Such an innocent idea—to take Zach off on his first elk hunt—had resulted in such heartbreaking tragedy! Had Nate been alone he would have buried his head in his arms and sobbed until his tears ran dry. Zach had been his pride and joy, his precious firstborn, the living legacy he had expected to leave on the Earth after he went on to meet his Maker, the precocious promise that the King name would persist through future generations and live to see whatever glorious destiny awaited the human race. Or so Nate had imagined in his flights of fancy.

  Now dark and somber depression cloaked Nate’s soul and made him exceedingly bitter. He’d been a reckless fool to take Zach off alone, and the boy had paid the ultimate price for his foolishness. Staring skyward, he thought, “Can you ever forgive me, son?” and moisture made his eyes glisten. Overcome by remorse, he sank his chin to his chest, and paid no attention as the Gros Ventres rode on across the plain.

  ~*~

  The incident Winona had feared would occur took place when her guard was down.

  For two sleeps Jumping Bull had not bothered her, had not shown up once at her lodge t
o taunt her, had not offered her unwanted presents. For two days she had enjoyed peace and quiet, and she had about convinced herself that Jumping Bull had seen the error of his ways and decided to stop courting her in order to avoid bloodshed. Or so she hoped.

  Then came the third day. Most of the men were gone from the village, off hunting buffalo. Winona had seen them depart early that morning, and among them had been Jumping Bull, Touch the Clouds, and Drags the Rope. Touch the Clouds had smiled and nodded at her, but Jumping Bull, oddly enough, had completely ignored her.

  About midday Winona decided to check the snares she maintained in the forest to the northeast of the village. With Nate gone, she had to rely on her own resources in order to obtain fresh meat, and since she refused to impose on her relatives or friends, she resorted to the snares. Her mother had taught her how to make them and how to find rabbit runs and other small game trails when she was still a youngster, and over the years she had perfected her technique to where she now supplied almost as much meat as Nate did.

  Taking her knife, an empty parfleche, and a lance that had belonged to her father, Winona strolled through the quiet encampment and into the cool shade of the forest. She should have checked the snares every day, but she had been loath to venture far from the village for fear of what Jumping Bull might do.

  Winona didn’t fear for herself; she was afraid for Nate and the consequences to her family if she was molested. As things now stood, since Jumping Bull had not laid a hand on her, the dilemma might be resolved without violence. But if Jumping Bull did touch her, Nate’s wrath would be uncontrollable; he’d slay Jumping Bull, and in doing so would antagonize a sizable minority of her people. There would be ill will between Jumping Bull’s relatives and hers. Some of Jumping Bull’s friends might even seek vengeance on Nate. The whole village would be in an uproar for many moons with everyone taking sides, and if at all possible she wanted to avoid such a nightmare.

  The day was pleasant, the air cool. Winona ran a hand through her long tresses and hummed as she walked. This was the first moment of true relaxation she had enjoyed in some time and she was in no rush to get back.

  The first snare contained a rabbit. Winona hefted the animal a few times, judging how rigid the body had become, which in turn told her exactly how long it had been dead—in this case for at least one sleep. A few hours of boiling and she’d have a stew fit for a chief.

  Loosening the cord around the rabbit’s neck, Winona stuffed the rabbit into the parfleche and reset the hook snare. To do so she had to bend the sapling she had initially used down nearly to the ground, then lightly wedge the end of the sapling under the hooked branch she had previously pounded deep into the earth. The hook held the sapling in place until an unwary animal came along and stuck its head into the cord snare, which was attached to the sapling. The animal’s struggles would then pull the sapling free of the hook and the slender tree would snap upright, sometimes breaking the animal’s neck as it did. If not, the animal died from slow strangulation.

  Winona patted the parfleche, picked up her lance, and moved on to the second snare. This one employed a cord greased thick with animal fat as bait on the stick that served as the lever for the sapling. A loop was positioned inches from the greased cord so that the only way an animal could get at the grease was by sticking its head through the loop. Once it did, it triggered the stick and up whipped the sapling. Here she found a raccoon, its body still warm, which she stuffed into the parfleche on top of the rabbit.

  After resetting the snare, Winona ambled off toward the third and last trap, situated at the base of a hill half a mile from the village. She daydreamed as she walked, thinking of the husband and son she loved so much and envisioning how happy she would be when they came back. She couldn’t wait to hear about how Stalking Coyote shot his elk. She was positive he had, since Nate was an expert hunter and would guide the boy right to one.

  Presently Winona came within sight of the third snare. She could tell from a distance that it had not been sprung, but she went close to make sure. Standing in a grassy clearing, she bent down and peered through the undergrowth until she distinguished the outline of the cord and the trigger. Both were untouched. Nodding, she began to rise when she heard rushing footsteps to her rear, and the next instant iron arms seized her from behind and she was lifted bodily into the air, then thrown down hard.

  Winona hit on her left side. Stunned, she felt the lance being ripped from her grasp, the pistol being yanked from under her belt. Then a laugh that was more like a growl fell on her ears and gooseflesh erupted all over her body. Getting to one knee, she glanced up and snapped, “Jumping Bull!”

  The warrior grinned triumphantly, turned, and hurled her weapons into a nearby thicket. “You won’t be needing these,” he commented.

  “I thought you went hunting,” Winona said, rising slowly, careful to keep her right hand on the hilt of her knife. She had to stall, to keep him talking until she recovered. Then she would do what she had to, what she had already made up her mind she would do if this ever happened. It would be better if Jumping Bull’s friends and family were incensed at her, not Nate. After all, they would hardly dare seek vengeance on a woman who had merely defended her honor.

  Jumping Bull laughed and put his hands on his hips. A knife and a tomahawk adorned his waist and a quiver full of arrows rested on his back. Over his left shoulder was slung his bow. “I wanted you to think I had left with the others, when in truth I turned back once we reached the plain and circled around to where I could watch your lodge.” His eyes roved over her from head to toe. “I’ve been watching and waiting for a long time, and now my patience has been rewarded.”

  “I do not see why you are so pleased with yourself,” Winona said, backing up a stride so she would have room to swing her arm. “The men of our village will be furious with you once they hear you attacked me.”

  “You will never tell them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I know women,” Jumping Bull said. “I know the games you play with men, and how you say one thing when you really mean another.”

  “You think you know me?” Winona said coldly. Jumping Bull lowered his arms and chuckled. “Once I have made you mine, you will not dare let anyone know what happened. You will pretend you are ashamed when really you are pleased that a man of your own people has taken you under his wing.”

  “And how will you make me yours?”

  “How else?” Jumping Bull leered, and came toward her.

  In a flash Winona’s knife was out, the blade pointing at his stomach. “I will give you this one warning. Do not think to lay a hand on me or you will never live to see your son grow to manhood.”

  Jumping Bull hesitated and stared at the gleaming blade. “You will not stab me,” he declared. “In your heart you want me as much as I want you.”

  “I would sooner mate with a skunk.”

  “We shall see,” Jumping Bull said confidently. Suddenly he lunged, grabbing at her wrist, but she was quicker, the knife licking out and slicing across his left palm. Drawing back, he held his hand up and blurted out, “You have drawn blood!”

  “And I intend to draw a lot more unless you give me your word that you will leave me alone and not cause trouble for my husband when he comes back,” Winona said, her legs coiled to spring or dodge depending on his next move. She was giving him this one final chance out of a innate reluctance to take the life of one of her own people. Since childhood she had been raised to regard the killing of another Shoshone as the supreme taboo, and she would violate it only as a last resort.

  “How dare you!” Jumping Bull roared, and raising his other hand, he advanced to strike her. Again the knife flicked toward him, forcing him to pull away or be slashed open.

  “What is wrong?” Winona taunted. “Is the great Jumping Bull afraid of one woman? What about all the coup you have counted? Were they on children?”

  The warrior’s face flushed bright scarlet. In his rage he sputtered,
choking on the words he wanted to scream at her. Then, uttering a bestial snarl, he sprang.

  Winona was prepared. She shifted and drove the point of the blade at his stomach. Jumping Bull jerked aside but the knife nicked him, tearing his buckskin shirt and pricking his flesh. Further incensed, he aimed a fist at her head, which missed when Winona skipped away. She circled again, crouching low, the flinty narrowing of her eyes showing that she was going for the kill. All her inhibitions had been stripped away in the heat of the moment. To preserve her family she was going to slay him or die in the attempt.

  Jumping Bull, glowering fiercely, started to close with her, but the look on her face drew him up short. His glower vanished, to be replaced by astonishment. “You want to kill me!” he exclaimed.

  “Yes!” Winona practically shouted, waving the knife. “So attack me! Come on! Do it! I want you dead so you will never bother me or my loved ones again.”

  A twisted smirk was Jumping Bull’s reaction. “So that is it. You do this to save your man from my lance.” He laughed harshly. “A nice attempt, woman, but I am no fool. I will not attack you.” So saying, he calmly folded his arms across his chest and jutted his chin into the air. “But if you want to kill me, go ahead. I will not resist.”

  Winona swung her knife on high and advanced to strike, yet at the very moment she should have plunged the blade into her tormentor, she froze, chilled by the realization of the deed she was about to commit: outright murder.

  “What is wrong?” Jumping Bull mocked her, using the same tone she had when mocking him. “Where is your courage? Can it be you will not kill someone who is defenseless?”

  In desperation Winona took another half step and elevated the knife higher. For an instant their eyes locked, and to her horror she felt her resolve fading, her limbs weakening. But she must do it! she told herself. She must! She must!

  The question was: Could she?