“Let’s find out.” Shakespeare tried, really tried, but he had the energy of a dead man. It was Knorr who moved his canoe alongside and solicitously held the skin so Shakespeare could drink until his thirst was slaked. As Knorr handed it to Griffen, Shakespeare reached for the top of the blanket covering his chest.
“No,” Knorr said, grabbing his hand. “You don’t want to see.”
“It’s that bad?”
“Worse. We’re dressing it every chance we get but I’m afraid it’s infected.”
“Wish we were in Flathead country,” Griffen said. “They have herbal cures for every ailment under the sun.”
“Most tribes do,” Shakespeare said, thinking of the many times he’d been made well by the varied natural remedies Indians had perfected out of sheer necessity. Most were remarkably effective, and he’d often thought it a shame that white men looked with such disdain on Indian cures when so much benefit could be derived from them.
The buffalo continued to pour across the Yellowstone. Bulls, cows, and calves held to a straight course, following in the wake of the animals in front. It was the same when Indians drove the great brutes over cliffs. The warriors would surround the herd on three sides and then make a tremendous racket, forcing the animals to flee toward the precipice. Once the lead bulls plunged over the brink, the rest followed, unable to see where they were going.
Shakespeare slept once more. His sense of time became distorted. Once or twice he revived, briefly. Then he was lying flat on his back on the ground and there were many voices around him instead of only two and knowing fingers were probing the extent of his wounds. He gazed up into kindly eyes framing a beard nearly as white as his own. “You must be Jacob,” he said, his voice like the grating of gravel over tin.
“That I be, friend,” said the other. “It’s good for these old eyes to see an old beaver like yourself. Us Mountain Men have to stick together.”
“Lane and Bob?”
“Sleepin’ like babes, they are, and I can’t blame them, not when they paddled three solid days and nights with little rest to get you here.”
“Can you patch me up?”
“You cut right to the gristle,” Jacob said. “And you deserve a straight answer. So brother to brother, I’m lettin’ you know it’s up to you whether you live or not. I can clean the wounds, which will hurt like nothin’ has ever hurt you before, and then saw you up so that your chest will look like a lady practiced her sewin’ on you while drunk, but whether you live or not is up to you.”
“That’s honest enough,” Shakespeare said, trying to smile. A cool breeze fanned his chest and goose bumps broke out all over his skin.
“I don’t have much to kill the pain,” Jacob said. “A little whiskey for when we begin, and then you’ll have to clamp your teeth down on a piece of wood and hope I don’t have to carve out the splinters in the morning.”
“When?”
“Neither of us are gettin’ any younger.” Jacob rose. “I’ll fetch my tools and be right back.”
The moon took the place of the mountain man’s face. Shakespeare stared at the shining crescent, speculating on whether it would be the last one he ever saw. If so, he really had no cause to complain. His Maker had accorded him a long, eventful life. He’d seen the country from one end to the other, gone places no white man had ever visited. He’d been married more times than most, sired children and had a dozen grandchildren, all scattered from Canada to Mexico. In short, he’d lived life to the fullest, and when all was said and done what more could any man ask?
Shakespeare did have one regret. He disliked giving up the ghost without learning the fate of the King family. They were closer to him than many of his own kin, and he shuddered to think they had all been rubbed out in one fell swoop.
The moon was blotted out by Jacob’s head. ‘‘About ready,” he announced. “These boys are going to help me.”
A pair of sturdy trappers knelt on either side of Shakespeare, clamping his arms in grips of iron. Another pair took hold of his legs in similar fashion.
“I can’t have you floppin’ around while I’m pokin’ and cuttin’,” Jacob said. “Wouldn’t want to nick your vitals by mistake.”
“Let’s just get it over with.” Shakespeare said. His head was lifted, then whiskey seeped between his parted lips. Molten lava cascaded down his throat, breaking him into a coughing spasm that went on and on. A stout length of wood was placed between his teeth and he bit down as hard as he could.
The firelight glinted off the blade of a Green River knife. “I want to apologize in advance for all the misery this will cause you,” Jacob said softly. “If you care to scream, feel free.”
Shakespeare McNair shook his head. He’d always been able to tolerate more pain than most, and he wasn’t about to turn into a whiner at his age. He would control the pain, just as he did that time the Arikaras put a ball into his gut and that time a panther tore open his thigh from groin to knee.
Unfortunately, Shakespeare turned out to be wrong. He handled the probing, he handled the cutting off of thin slices of infected flesh. But when Jacob commenced stitching him up, inserting a thick needle time and time again into his skin while pressing his wounds closed, it surpassed all pain he had ever known. Pain filled him from top to bottom. Pain oozed from every pore in his body. Pain became the sole focus of his existence. The terrible agony was more than he could bear, and in time he did hear someone screaming and was not at all surprised to recognize his own voice.
Chapter Sixteen
It was several more days before Zach King saw the white woman. He’d spent most of the time in the company of Elk At Dawn and Bluebird, particularly Bluebird. Whenever she was free of chores they went for longs strolls around the village or for short distances out on the prairie. The Blackfeet became so accustomed to the pair of them being together that after a while no one made any wiseacre comments.
Zach did some adjusting of his own. As time passed and he realized beyond a shadow of a doubt the Blackfeet had no intention of killing him, he found himself growing more and more at home. Life among the Blackfeet was little different than life among the Shoshones. Oh, they dressed differently and held different ceremonies, but essentially the two tribes were much alike.
Only two things marred Zach’s happy interlude with Bluebird. The first was her father. Bird Rattler had not pressed him, but Zach knew the chief expected an answer soon about his adoption. While Zach was honored, he had no intention of staying in the village much longer.
Not once had Zach given up on the notion of finding his folks again. By rights he knew he should have snuck off already, but he couldn’t seem to bring himself to leave Bluebird, which in itself upset him immensely. His parents should come first, he repeatedly told himself.
Then there was the matter of Honey Hair, the wife of Cream Bear. Upon learning about her, Zach had plied Bluebird and her brother with questions and learned that the white woman had been stolen by the Piegans from somewhere high in the Rockies. He’d kept an eye on Cream Bear’s lodge, hoping for a glimpse of her. And on the third day, fortune smiled on him.
Zach had risen early, as was his custom. Bluebird was already up, helping her mother fix breakfast. Zach smiled at them and went outside. As he stretched and faced the rising sun, he saw a blonde woman in a buckskin dress emerge from Cream Bear’s teepee and head to the stream for water.
Casting a glance around to be sure no one was watching, Zach ran toward the stream from a different angle. He’d been there many times, knew the trail by heart. At a spot where it wound through high brush he crouched and waited for the woman to show. As she came toward him, he examined her face. Her features were pretty although not quite as pretty as Bluebird’s—but lined with sorrow. Her shoulders slumped far too low for someone her age, and her gait was that of someone twice her years. He waited until she was close, then said in English, “Hello, miss. We need to talk.”
Honey Hair nearly tripped over her own feet, she stopped s
o quickly. Her hand flew to her mouth and she dropped her water bag. “Who?” she exclaimed.
Zach rose from cover, checking the trail to insure no one else was on it. He gestured for the woman to follow him, saying, “I’m Zachary King, ma’am. I’ve been captured same as you. Please come with me. Hurry, before we’re seen together.”
The woman just stood there, shocked witless. “You speak English,” she said, as one dazed. “Yet you don’t look white.” The light of intelligence returned and she inspected him carefully. “No, you’re only part Injun. I can see that now.”
“Please!” Zach insisted. Women used the trail at all hours of the day, most frequently during early morning and late afternoon. At any second they might be discovered.
Honey Hair nodded, then scooped up the water-bag. “I’m sorry. It startled me hearing English again after so long.”
Zach made bold to take her hand and led her into the brush. Hunkering down out of earshot of anyone who might pass by, he looked into her lake-blue eyes. “I’ve already introduced myself proper-like, as pa says to do,” he whispered. “But I don’t know your name.”
“Abigail,” the woman said. “Abigail Griffen.” Unexpectedly, tears gushed into her eyes. Her chin fell to her chest and she cried silently, her whole body shaking.
Zach was speechless. He’d had no idea how she might react, but certainly not like this. Under ordinary circumstances he would have let her cry herself out before prying into why, but time was of the essence. If they delayed too long, someone would come looking for them. And they mustn’t be seen together or they would arouse suspicion.
“Whatever is the matter, ma’am?” Zach asked, touching her shoulder. “Why are you blubbering like a kid?”
Abigail Griffen stopped as abruptly as she had started. Sniffling, she dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. “Again, I’m sorry. It’s been ages since I said my own name. And I’ve been holding so much in for so long,” Abigail coughed sheepishly. “What did you say your name is again?”
“Zachary King. You can call me Zach.”
The first trace of a smile touched her mouth. “Fair enough, Zach. And you can call me Abby.” She bent down. “How did you come to be here? Where are you from? Where’s your family?”
“I’d like to tell you everything but we don’t have the time,” Zach emphasized. “What I need to know is whether you want to escape from the Blackfeet as badly as I do?”
“Escape!” Somehow Abby made that one word reflect all the hope and longing a human heart can hold. “Oh, my.”
“I mean to make a break for the Yellowstone the first chance I have. Do you want to come?”
“Oh, my.”
“What’s wrong?” Zach asked, perplexed by her amazement. “I thought you’d want to go. Not that I’m nosy or anything, but I happened to hear you yelling at your husband the other night and it was plain you’re not very fond of Indian life.” He waited for her answer, which came in a most bewildering form.
Abigail suddenly embraced him, hugging him tight to her bosom and swinging him from side to side. “Oh, you sweet, wonderful boy, you! You have no idea! No idea!”
“Is that a yes or a no?” Zach tried to say, but his face was pressed so tightly against her chest his question came out all muffled. He could barely breathe. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he pushed back and sucked in air. “Please, ma’am. This is no time to be acting silly. Escaping is a serious matter.”
“So it is,” Abby agreed, sparkling with new-found vigor. “And aren’t you the mature one for your tender years.” She started to giggle, then froze on hearing low voices from the vicinity of the trail. Reminded of their peril, she paled and took his hand. “Goodness, I’m acting the fool! Very well. Yes, I want to escape. I’d about given up hope of ever doing so.” She glanced at the plain. “Before I came to live with the Blackfeet, I was with the Piegans.’’
“I know.”
“You do? Well, they lived up north a far piece. Or was it northwest? Either way, it was too far for me to try to make it to civilization on my own. My sense of direction is pitiful. Doubt I’d last two days out there by myself.”
“Don’t you worry none. Thanks to my folks, I can get around right fine. All we have to do is work out the best time to leave. And that won’t be easy.”
“No, it won’t,” Abby whispered. “The brave I’m living with won’t let me out of his sight for more than fifteen minutes unless he’s off hunting or with a war party, and then he sends his mother over to stay with me.”
“We’ll find a way,” Zach said confidently. He thought he heard a shout in the village. “This is taking too long. We need to meet again to talk some more.”
“Where and when?”
“Do you come for water every afternoon?”
“Have to. Cream Bear throws a tantrum if he doesn’t have fresh water with his supper.”
“I’ll try to be here then. If I’m not, look for me again tomorrow morning.”
“I will,” Abby pledged. Impulsively, she took his hand in hers and squeezed. “And thank you, young man. You’re a godsend in disguise. My sanity was on the verge of slipping, but now, thanks to you, I have real hope for the first time in years.”
Zach was flabbergasted when she kissed him on the forehead. Water-bag over her arm, she hurried toward the trail. He went the opposite way and circled around so that he approached the village from the south.
Bluebird was outside the lodge. On seeing him she ran over. “Where have you been? We are ready to eat but my father has held off so you can join us.”
“I went for a walk,” Zach signed, and let it go at that. Inside the lodge the rest of the family waited. He took his seat, two places to the right of Bird Rattler, then signed, “Please forgive me. My mind wandered.”
“Do not let it happen again, Stalking Coyote,” the chief instructed, and smiled. “I am in a foul mood all day when I do not have my morning meal on time.”
Thankfully, Indian meals were quite unlike their counterparts among civilized society. Had Zach been with a white family, they might have pestered him about where he had been. Indians, however, always ate in silence and reserved conversation for the end of the meal. Although to say the meal passed in silence is not quite right. Indians ate most food with their hands, gulping portions greedily and noisily, sucking soft edibles through their teeth, and drinking with loud hissing, slurping noises.
Zach had divided loyalties in that regard. His mother taught him to eat as her people the Shoshones did, and when visiting their tribe he ate as noisily as everyone else, which his father did not care for. That was because his father wanted him to always eat as quietly as a mouse, with his mouth shut, and to never speak with food in his mouth. So when at their cabin he did as his father requested, which bothered his mother. Sometimes, he’d decided long ago, there was no pleasing anyone.
Now, on finishing off a tasty cake, Zach smacked his lips to show his approval and leaned back on his hands, done. The chief regarded him intently.
“We must talk, Stalking Coyote.”
Since no reply was required, Zach merely straightened. The moment he had dreaded was upon him.
“Since we first found you by the river, I have looked after you,” signed Bird Rattler. “You impressed me with your courage, with your daring. My heart grew warm towards you. And so I offered to adopt you into my family, to make you as one of us.”
“For which I was grateful,” Zach signed when the Blackfoot paused.
“But not grateful enough,” Bird Rattler said. “Most boys would have agreed right away. You have had more than enough sleeps to reach a decision, yet my eyes have not seen your hands sign the words I hoped to see. Why is that?”
Zach cleared his throat out of habit when all he had to do was raise his arms. He signed slowly, hoping to put off committing himself yet again. “A son cannot give up one father and take another lightly. Since I do not know if my natural father lives or has been rubbed out, I cannot be untrue to him
and become your son. Once I know, then I can. And let me add that White Grass was right when he told me there can be no higher honor than to be accepted as the son of Bird Rattler. You are a man my own father would be happy to call friend.”
Bird Rattler had a reply ready. “All you have said is true. Your attitude is commendable in one so young. So it is with much sorrow that I must tell you your father is either no longer in this country or he is dead. Unknown to you, I sent warriors to search all the way to the river. They rode far and wide and found no trace of any whites except three trappers in canoes.”
Zach perked up. He wondered if maybe his parents had lost their horses and made canoes to transport them up the Yellowstone. “Did they get a good look at these trappers?”
“Yes. All were men. Two were young whites, one with a brown beard, the other with no hair on his face. The third was a much older man with a beard as white as snow. He appeared to be very sick.”
Zach’s hopes were dashed. His father had a black beard, not brown. Shakespeare did have a white beard but he would hardly go off with other trappers and leave his friends to fend for themselves.
“I wanted to find your father, Stalking Coyote. Alive or his body, it did not matter. Since there was no trace of him, we must conclude he is gone. You must resign yourself to the fact that you will not see him ever again.”
Before Zach could stop himself, he signed emphatically, “Never! The son of Grizzly Killer does not give up so easily!”
“I would expect no less from my own son,” Bird Rattler responded. “So this is what I will do. You have seven more sleeps in which to accept your loss and give me an answer. If you do not, then I will cast you from my lodge for someone else to adopt. I have spoken.” Pushing upright, Bird Rattler left.
Zach stayed only another minute. The others were watching him so fixedly he was embarrassed by their scrutiny and sought the open spaces outdoors. He had not gone far when a warm hand brushed his wrist.
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