Nate shifted, fearing the bear would turn and rake him. He was elevating the butcher knife when the blank look in the bear’s good eye registered. Pausing, Nate took a few breaths to calm himself, then tentatively pushed at the bear a few times. There was no reaction. Nor would there ever be one.
The black bear was dead.
Nate sagged onto his shoulder, suddenly exhausted. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his forearm, letting his racing blood slow. Another few moments and the bear would have had him. He would never have seen his beloved family again.
Intuition more than anything Nate heard gave him the feeling he was being watched. Raising his head, he discovered he was right. It appeared as if every last inhabitant of the Pawnee village was gathered a dozen yards off staring at him with mixed emotions. The majority gawked, apparently unable to credit the testimony of their own eyes. The aged chief was there, as was the tall warrior who had treated Nate with such hostility. And at the forefront stood the young woman who had been spared by Nate’s timely intervention. There was, however, no sign of White Calf.
Nate did not like lying there virtually helpless. He tried extricating his legs but the bear was too heavy. Bending, he placed his hands on the beast’s neck and shoved as hard as he could. The carcass hardly moved.
Soft footsteps made Nate snap around, ready for the worst. It was only the young woman, advancing fearfully. Nate assumed she was scared of the bear and slid his knife into its sheath so he could sign, ‘‘The animal is dead. You need not be afraid.”
The woman hesitated, her features reminding Nate of a terrified doe about to bolt. “I am a friend,” he signed. “I would never hurt you.”
She smiled, or at least her mouth creased in a lopsided imitation of a smile, and her slender hands moved. “Question. Are you hurt, Sky Walker?”
“I kill grizzlies all the time. A little bear like this cannot harm me,” Nate joked to put her at ease. To his dismay, though, her apprehension mounted and she backed up a step. “What is wrong?” he asked, “I promise you the bear can hurt no one.”
At that juncture a commotion broke out among the Pawnees, and shortly the familiar figure of White Calf barged through their midst. The medicine man halted on seeing the bear and blinked in astonishment. He glanced at Nate, at the bear again, and then did something peculiar. White Calf tilted his head back and howled in wolfish glee while spinning in a small circle.
Nate had to laugh. The man was a loon, plain and simple. He saw White Calf hop a few times like a demented jackrabbit. Then the medicine man dashed over, hands working energetically.
“Congratulations, Sky Walker! You have slain the father of all black bears with your bare hands!”
“A dose of steel did the job,” Nate responded. “And do not make more out of this than there is. I do not want your people to get the wrong idea.”
White Calf cackled and spun to address the tribe, accenting his speech with grand flourishes.
More than ever Nate longed to be able to speak their tongue. The Pawnees listened in rapt absorption, glancing often at him and the dead bear. Neither the venerable chief nor the tall warrior seemed overly pleased.
Nate became impatient to be freed. Should the Pawnees take it into their heads to kill him, he would be powerless to resist. “Dunderhead!” he interrupted to get the medicine man’s attention, then resorted to sign. “Am I supposed to lift this bear off me all by myself or do you think some of your people would be kind enough to help?”
“I understand,” White Calf signed slyly. “You are testing us to see if we are worthy.” He barked words at the Pawnees and gestured at Nate but no one moved to help. Impatiently he tried again, more stridently, and when his outburst failed to produce a result, he turned livid and shrieked at them while motioning at the heavens as if calling down the wrath of all their gods.
Nate did not know what to make of the Pawnee behavior. He’d nearly lost his life helping one of their own. Surely that should count for something. When it became apparent he could not rely on their aid, he faced the bear and resumed pushing to shift the body off his legs. He made no headway and was about to give up when shapely arms reached past him and someone else’s strength was added to his.
Nate glanced up and was surprised to find the young woman he had saved. He smiled to show his appreciation. She smiled in return, an anxious sort of smile, giving the impression she dreaded having her head bitten off if the whim struck him.
Evidently the woman’s act served to reassure the rest. Fully three-quarters of the Pawnees crowded forward, so many that White Calf had to motion many back. It was the work of a minute to roll the bear clear.
Nate stood, plucking bear hair from his leggings. The Pawnees stepped back to give him room. Straightening, he signed sincerely, “I thank you all.” To the young woman he said, “Such a pretty one should be more careful. I would hate to think you would end up in the belly of a grizzly.”
The woman gasped, a hand pressed to her mouth.
Now what had he done? Nate wondered. The Pawnees, he concluded, had to be the most eccentric tribe he had ever run across. The sooner he was shy of them, the better. He stepped to the bear, gripped the haft of the tomahawk with both hands, then yanked to free the head. After wiping it clean on the bear’s hide and tucking the tomahawk under his belt, he moved along the river bank seeking his pistol. The Pawnees in front of him parted, almost stumbling over one another in their haste to get out of his way.
Nate was sure he knew exactly where he had tossed the flintlock, yet when he came to the spot the pistol wasn’t there. He scoured the grass inch by inch and saw where some stems had been bent as if by a heavy object lying on them. Turning to the river, he checked the muddy bank and the shallows.
The pistol had vanished into thin air. Since that was impossible, Nate deduced that someone had taken it. There was no dearth of suspects; he had an entire village to pick from. He scanned their faces, hoping the guilty party might somehow give himself away.
White Calf approached. “May I ask what you are doing, Sky Walker?”
“My gun is gone,” Nate signed.
“Perhaps it fell in the river and is buried at the bottom,” the medicine man suggested.
“No, someone took it,” Nate said.
“Do not worry yourself. I will find the one who has done this and return it to you,” White Calf pledged.
Nate doubted he would ever see the flintlock again. Guns were valuable on the frontier, especially to Indians who so rarely obtained firearms. When they did, the weapons were inferior fusees. A warrior must have noticed the prized flintlock and picked it up while no one was looking. Nate suspected the culprit would hide the gun until he quit the village. He had no choice but to accept the loss.
The Pawnees were beginning to disperse, but not the venerable chief and the tall warrior. They approached side by side, the chief as calm as could be, the warrior’s right hand dangerously close to the hilt of his big knife.
Nate was set to greet them properly in sign language when White Calf stepped in front of him and spoke rather harshly. The chief halted, his demeanor suggesting he was more puzzled than offended. Not so the warrior, who retorted angrily and motioned for the medicine man to get out of the way.
Nate had tolerated about all of the medicine man’s nonsense he was going to tolerate. Shouldering White Calf aside, he said, “I am glad to see both of you again. And I would be highly honored if we could smoke a pipe together. There is much we must talk about.”
The tall warrior unaccountably scowled. “I do not care to talk with you, Sky Walker. All I want is for you to leave my people and never come back.”
The chief put a hand on the other’s arm but the tall warrior shrugged it off and continued in the same vein. “We did not ask you to come. We do not want you here. Even if White Calf is right, which I very much doubt, mixing the two is not wise. You have your own kind and you should stay among them.”
Nate plastered a smile on his
face to demonstrate he wasn’t offended and responded, “Many of my kind live among Indians. Some have taken Indian women as wives. Mixing the two can often be beneficial to both.”
“We are flesh and blood, not clouds.”
The significance of the remark eluded Nate. Since he was getting nowhere with the fiery warrior, he turned to the older man he believed to be a high chief. “Question. How are you known?”
“Mole On The Nose,” the elder Pawnee answered without hesitation.
Until that moment Nate hadn’t noticed the very prominent mark on the tip of the man’s nostrils. “Are you a chief?”
Pivoting, Mole On The Nose encompassed the lodges with a sweep of an arm. “My people,” he signed, in effect saying, “This is my village. I am chief over all.”
“And you?” Nate signed, nodded at the firebrand.
“I am Red Rock, head of the Bear Society,” the tall warrior boasted proudly. “And I say again, Sky Walker, go home.”
Nate learned two things. First, Red Rock fixed on an issue like a dog on a bone and would not let go. Second, Red Rock was a formidable warrior, perhaps the equivalent of a war chief. He knew this because Indian societies were elite memberships restricted to individuals of note, and Bear Societies especially were invariably made up of warriors possessing exceptional courage and fighting prowess. Just as this thought crossed his mind, he had an opportunity to test the merits of his reasoning firsthand. For Red Rock suddenly pulled his knife and waved it angrily.
“Go! Now! Or die!”
Chapter Eleven
It was several hours after sunset when someone slapped the entrance flap of the teepee several times. Winona sat up and arranged the hem of her buckskin dress over her bent knees. “Come in,” she said in English, counting on whoever was out there to understand the tone if not the words. The flap parted and her stomach bunched with dread that it would be Thunder Horn. Instead the seamed features of the old woman appeared.
“I am sorry to intrude,” Butterfly signed. “But I have been sent by the council. They want to talk to you.”
“Now?” Winona responded.
“Now.”
“It is so late.”
Butterfly walked slowly over, stooped as always. Long ago her back had been bent by an internal malady that warped her spine. “For this also I am sorry. They are meeting late because of you. They want to ask you questions so they may go to their lodges and their beds.”
The implication filled Winona with unrest. Evidently Thunder Horn had spoken the truth when he claimed the entire tribe had a stake in her welfare, but for the life of her she couldn’t comprehend how this could be. She rose, then smoothed her dress, stalling so he could gather her wits about her. “Of what importance am I to the council of the Minneconjou?”
“You must ask the council. I am a messenger, no more.”
“Why do they send you and not a warrior to escort me?” Butterfly’s aged visage cracked in a grin. “They think you would be less likely to scratch my eyes out than the eyes of a man. And, too, Thunder Horn is my grandson.”
“What good would it do me to attack anyone?” Winona said forlornly, patting the small mountain her condition had made of her belly. “I could not run very far in my state.”
“No,” Butterfly agreed, her wizened hand reaching out to stroke Winona’s abdomen. “Your time is not far off.”
“At least a moon,” Winona said without confidence.
“Much sooner, my pretty Shoshone,” Butterfly signed. “I should know. I have helped more women give birth than any living Minneconjou. In ten sleeps, twenty at most, you will deliver your baby.” She smiled encouragement, revealing the gap where three of her upper front teeth had been. “But do not worry. I will be at your side.” Butterfly pointed at the flap. “Now we really must go. Compose yourself. No one will do you any harm.”
The night air was refreshingly cool on Winona’s face after having been confined in the teepee for so long. Winona arched her back and walked stiffly across to the biggest lodge of all, the old woman at her elbow. She paused before entering to flag her courage and absently gazed to one side. Thirty feet away stood a warrior. Another warrior was an equal distance from her on the other side. Had she been up to making a run for it they would have caught her in seconds.
Butterfly snickered. “You must have very long nails, pretty Shoshone.” She bent, lifted the flap. “In you go. And it might help you to remember they are only men.”
Despite herself, Winona grinned. She was still grinning as she straightened inside, and her grin widened when she beheld the curious stares of many of those assembled.
Here were gathered the top Minneconjous, the leaders of that most numerous division of the Sioux. Foremost among them was a gray-haired warrior who held the seat of honor. On either side, forming two curved prongs, were ten men, all dressed in their finest buckskins, many adorned with headdresses and beads.
Winona squared her shoulders and moved down the center of the aisle formed by the two rows of men, keeping her eyes on the gray-haired warrior. She did note that Thunder Horn sat three positions from the high chief, on the right. This told her Thunder Horn was a warrior of some distinction, more than she had thought, more than was good for her welfare.
When a few feet from the gray-haired man, she knelt and gave a slight bow. No one had addressed her yet. She could practically feel their eyes boring into her, assessing her character by her appearance and her bearing. The lodge smelled of pipe smoke and cedar.
The gray-haired man cleared his throat. When Winona raised her head, he signed, ‘‘I am Runs Against. I will ask you questions and you will answer with a straight tongue. If you lie to us, we will find out, and when your baby has come you will be punished by your new husband, Thunder Horn, who has—”
Winona surprised herself and shocked the assembled chiefs by interrupting with sharp gestures. “I am most sorry, Runs Against, but as I have made plain to Thunder Horn again and again, I already have a husband and will accept no other.”
Stunned quiet ensued. For a woman to speak out of place was a serious breach of conduct. For anyone to interrupt an older warrior was even worse. And for someone to break in on a chief was virtually unthinkable.
Thunder Horn leaned forward to get attention and signed, “You all see what I have had to deal with. She is beautiful, yes. But she does not know her proper place. Shoshones must not rear their children to respect their betters.”
“Show me a better,” Winona rejoined, “and I will give him the respect he is due.” She glanced quickly at Runs Against, whose indignation had flushed his cheeks red. “I apologize, great one, for offending you. I wanted you to know the truth. On this, as in all matters, I will speak to you with the straight tongue you requested.”
The square-jawed warrior to the left of Runs Against cracked a grin. “She is clever, this one,” he signed. “She holds out bitter roots in one hand and honey in the other.”
Winona guessed they had previously agreed to rely solely on sign language for her benefit, and was glad they had. Otherwise she would have been left in the dark in more ways than one.
“Only you would see humor in this, Penis,” Runs Against responded testily. “You always see things to laugh about that others do not.”
“With a name like mine can you blame me?” Penis signed, provoking hearty laughter that seemed to break the air of tension hanging heavy in the council lodge.
Runs Against chuckled, then became severe. “I will overlook your conduct this once, woman. Not twice. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Winona answered.
“Good. Let us begin.” Runs Against made a teepee of his fingers and pondered a short while. “We already know your name and the tribe you belong to. Tell us more of your people, of where they live.”
“In the mountains far to the west.”
“We know this information already,” Runs Against signed. “Tell us exactly where they are to be found, not just at this time but during
each moon that follows.”
A flicker of fear sprang to life within Winona, She could think of only one reason the Minneconjous would desire such information: so they could send war parties to attack the Shoshones. “My people never travel the same route twice,” she signed. “And since I have not lived among them for many moons, I would not know where to find them at this time.”
“I warned you about lying,” Runs Against said. “You would have us believe you do not live with your own kind?”
“My husband, Grizzly Killer, has a wooden lodge high in the mountains near the one my people call Eagle Peak. It is there I live.”
“Who ever heard of making a lodge from wood?” Runs Against signed. “Can it be moved when all the game has been killed off? Can it be rolled up and loaded on a travois and taken to a better camping place?” He surveyed his audience. “Truly only a white man would build such a thing.”
More laughter further relaxed the chiefs. Winona felt the baby kick but didn’t touch her stomach.
“I believe you because we have seen these strange wooden lodges with our own eyes,” Runs Against told her. “But how can you stand to live in such a place?”
“It is warm in winter, cool in summer. It is spacious and dry and never needs mending,” Winona replied. “What woman would not prefer such a home?”
Runs Against had a ready answer. “No Minneconjou woman would. But we must remember you are Shoshone. Tell us, Winona. Thunder
Horn has said you speak the tongue of the whites. How well do you know their language?”
“My husband has often told me I speak it better than he does himself.”
“Ha! Not likely.” Runs Against wagged a finger at her. “Straight tongue, remember?”
“If he were here he would confirm it.”
“Speak, then. Say something in the white tongue,” Runs Against commanded. “Anything at all.”
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