Wilderness: Mountain Devil/Blackfoot Massacre (A Wilderness Western Book 5)

by Robbins, David

  The dog recoiled at the sound of his voice, then relaxed and sat on its haunches.

  Nate slowly stood. He didn’t want to make any abrupt movements that might frighten the dog off, although on second thought he doubted the dog knew the meaning of fear. It was big enough to handle practically anything that came after it, standing four feet high at the shoulders and being half again as wide. He’d never seen its like anywhere and he wondered again where it came from. He’d forgotten all about it since they hadn’t seen it after that first afternoon, and he’d assumed it had gone elsewhere, perhaps to an Indian encampment. “So you want some company, do you?”

  The dog cocked its head and elevated its ears.

  “I’m Nate King and I’m pleased to meet you,” Nate said, speaking softly to show the dog he meant no harm and could be trusted. Animals, particularly horses and dogs, usually responded remarkably well to the sound of the human voice. He’d seen a soothing tone calm the most agitated horse and pacify the most aggressive dog. So he kept talking simply to establish a rapport with it.

  “I don’t know where you’re from or what you’re doing here, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. I like dogs myself. Had one once when I was a little boy. I reared it from a puppy and we went everywhere together until it was eight years old. Then it was run over by a wagon and killed.” He stopped, saddening at the memory. “I cried for days.”

  The dog uttered a low whine and shifted its legs.

  “Would you care for a bite to eat?” Nate asked. “We shot a buck earlier and we have plenty of meat to spare. Why don’t you come along and I’ll introduce you to the others.” He turned slowly and motioned for the dog to follow. To his delight, the animal rose and walked on his left side, its steady gaze directed at the trio beside the fire.

  Red Moon had shifted and was watching Nate and the dog approach. Sublette and Benteen had their backs to Nate and were talking about Pennsylvania.

  “Gentlemen,” Nate announced as he halted behind them. “We have a visitor.”

  “What?” Tom said, casually glancing over his left shoulder. The dog’s huge face was inches from his own, its eerie eyes unblinking and hard, and he yelped in astonishment, leaping to his feet. “What the hell!”

  “Well, I’ll be!” Milo exclaimed, smiling and rising. “I never expected to see you again, boy,” he said, extending a hand to pat the dog on the head.

  To Nate’s surprise, the dog uttered a rumbling growl, its lips curling back from its teeth. For a moment he thought the dog would snap at Milo’s fingers and he quickly said, “No! Behave yourself!”

  The dog glanced up at him, then ceased growling and stood still.

  “He seems to have taken a liking to you,” Milo observed, slowly withdrawing his hand.

  “I hope you don’t intend to keep it,” Tom stated. “We’ll have enough to do without having to take care of a dumb mongrel.”

  “I suspect this dog can take care of itself,” Nate commented, stepping up to the fire to take a seat. The dog stayed by his side and sat down when he did.

  “Well, I don’t like it,” Tom persisted. “And since I have a one-fourth interest in this enterprise, I think I have a say in whether the dog stays or goes. And I vote it goes.”

  “Be reasonable, Tom,” Milo said. “What harm can it do to have the dog come along?”

  “That thing just growled at you and you still want to keep it around?” Sublette responded.

  “I like dogs. You know that. And I vote the dog can stay if it wants,” Milo said.

  Nate looked at the old Crow, recalling what Red Moon had said about the dog being bad medicine. “How about you? What do you say?”

  The warrior stared silently at the dog for a full minute before finally answering. “Our paths are now joined for better or for worse. Do as you want.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Tom asked.

  “It means the dog stays,” Nate declared, and reached over to scratch it under the chin. The dog didn’t growl or make any threatening moves. “Since I’m the one it has attached itself to, I’ll be responsible for it.”

  Tom scowled, moved a few feet away, and sat down. “Next we’ll be taking in stray grizzly cubs,” he grumbled.

  Leaning forward, Milo whispered to Nate. “Pay no attention to him. He’s just in one of his moods. By tomorrow morning he’ll have a whole new disposition.” Straightening, he joined his friend.

  The buck slain earlier had been butchered by Red Moon and chunks of roasting meat were now suspended over the fire on a crude spit. Nate drew his butcher knife and sliced off a small section that was still quite rare, then offered it to the dog. Although he held the meat right next to its nose, the dog showed no interest.

  “That’s odd,” Milo remarked. “I never knew a dog to refuse meat before.”

  “Maybe it ate a while ago and isn’t hungry,” Nate speculated, placing the morsel at the dog’s feet in case it should change its mind. The dog rose, took a step sideways, and laid down with its head resting on its forepaws. The flickering firelight played over the animal’s sleek black coat, and when Nate gazed at its back he noticed a series of long, jagged lines crisscrossing its hide from the top of its neck to well past its shoulders. Curious, he placed his right hand on its neck and the dog flinched and raised its head to give him a quizzical stare. He suddenly realized what the lines were. “This dog is covered with scars.”

  Milo came over and studied them. “It looks as if someone beat him with a whip clear down to the bone. Not once, but a lot of times.” He shook his head in disgust. “No wonder this dog isn’t too fond of people.”

  The scars were old. Nate guessed the whippings had taken place well over a year ago, if not longer, and he reasoned that a white man must have been responsible. Indians rarely beat their dogs. Oh, they might smack one with a stick if it misbehaved badly, but if a dog was a chronic troublemaker they simply ate it.

  “Maybe he was with another party of trappers and ran off after being mistreated,” Milo said.

  That could well be, Nate reflected. Trappers, by and large, were drinking men. And when under the influence of demon alcohol, their tempers could flare mightily. Men who wouldn’t hurt a soul when sober might turn into hateful brutes when drunk. He’d once seen a drunken trapper beat a fine horse to within an inch of its life, and when the man had sobered up he’d bawled like a child over what he’d done.

  “What do you figure to call it?” Milo asked.

  “I don’t know,” Nate said. He hadn’t given a name much thought.

  “How about Blackie?”

  Nate gazed at the dog, at its powerful build, and said, “How about Samson?”

  “Samson?” Milo repeated, and glanced at the animal. “Why not? It sure fits him. He’s got more muscles than any dog I’ve ever known. I like it.”

  “Who cares what you call it?” Tom Sublette said, and looked at the Crow. “Let’s discuss something really important. I, for one, would like to know how long it will take us to reach the valley.”

  “It was agreed you would not question me about the valley before we get there,” Red Moon said.

  “I’m not asking for a detailed map,” Tom said sharply. “But it would help if we knew how long the trip will take.”

  Red Moon pondered a bit. “Very well. It will take nine sleeps, possibly ten.”

  Ten days of hard riding? Nate scratched his chin. That would put them close to Blackfoot country, all right. And if the Blackfeet found them, their scalps might end up hanging in a warrior’s lodge. He thought of Winona and Zach and hoped he wasn’t making the biggest mistake of his life.

  Far off, a wolf howled.

  Chapter Eight

  For five days they pushed in a generally northwestern direction, skirting ragged peaks and high country lakes, wisely staying off of ridges and hills and any other elevated points where they ran the risk of sky-lining themselves. Twice they saw the smoke of camp fires, but uncertain of the identity of those
who made the fires and the reception they might receive should they venture too near, they shied away from making contact.

  Wildlife was everywhere. Majestic elk and alert deer, shaggy buffalo and lumbering bears, soaring birds of prey and chattering chipmunks.

  The sky was a deep blue, the clouds fluffy and white as they drifted overhead. The air invigorated the lungs.

  Nate drank in the sights, sounds, and smells, as he always did, his soul vibrant with the pulse of life. He’d watch mountain sheep perched on narrow trails thousands of feet up leap from one precarious foothold to another and marveled at their dexterity. He’d watch a bald eagle execute a lightning dive to snatch an unwary rabbit and had been amazed at the eagle’s speed and accuracy.

  This was the life for him. No matter how long he stayed in the rugged Rockies, he would never tire of the beauty and wonder all around him. Occasionally he would think about New York and his parents, and he knew deep down that he would never return there to live. A visit, though, might be in order, if only to let his folks see his son and meet his wife. But that was a matter to ponder at length later, after trapping season.

  His newfound canine companion stayed by him nearly all the time. The dog never barked. It never displayed the slightest fear of the horses, nor did it display concern when they sighted wandering grizzlies. And it never begged for food. When they stopped for meals the dog sat silently beside Nate and refused meat and drink.

  “It’s downright spooky the way this critter behaves,” Tom mentioned on the fourth day. “I’ve never heard tell of a dog that didn’t eat before.”

  But Nate knew better. Two or three times a day the dog would dash off into the brush and be gone for anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour. Eventually, inevitably, it would catch up with them again and take its position near his horse. Where it went he could only guess. Several times he noticed drops of dried blood or bits of fur on its chin, and he deduced it was going off regularly to hunt its own game and drink. For whatever reason, the dog would accept food from no man.

  Sublette complained now and again about the dog being along. He would sarcastically remark that they could always eat it if they ran short of provisions.

  Milo tried to befriend the dog, but was rebuffed every time.

  And Red Moon neither made comments nor tried to get the dog to like him. Often, at night, he would sit and watch it, his brow furrowed, never revealing the trail his thoughts were following.

  Then, on the fifth night, an incident occurred that drastically changed Tom Sublette’s opinion.

  They had camped at the base of a cliff where the towering rock wall shielded them from the wind and a convenient spring provided cold water. That afternoon Nate had shot a black-tailed deer, and he was roasting juicy steaks over the fire while Milo took care of the horses, Tom gathered wood for the fire, and Red Moon stood and stared at the sky.

  “There will be heavy rain tomorrow,” the Crow announced after a while.

  “Shouldn’t slow us up much,” Nate said conversationally, and flipped over one of the steaks in the pan. Beside him, as always, was Samson.

  “We are making good time,” Red Crow said. “Four more sleeps and we will be at the valley.”

  Nate saw an opening and took advantage. “I hope there are still plenty of beaver there. My wife and I could use the money from the sale of our peltries to take a trip back to the States. How about you?”

  Red Crow was silent for a bit. “I need my share of the money for my grandson.”

  “Planning to buy him a whole herd of fine horses?” Nate joked.

  “No. I want to take him to a white doctor in St. Louis.”

  About to flip another steak, Nate stopped, the knife poised in his right hand. “A doctor? What’s wrong with the boy?”

  “He was climbing a tree fourteen moons ago when he fell and landed on rocks. Since then he has not been able to walk. Our medicine men have tried every cure they know but nothing has worked. They say the boy might never walk again.”

  The sorrow in the old warrior’s voice touched a responsive chord in Nate. “You must love him very much.”

  “Little Sparrow is the joy of my life. I want him to grow to be a great warrior,” Red Moon said softly. “All my other grandchildren are girls.” He shook his head in disappointment. “My sons must not be living right.”

  The idea of an Indian visiting a doctor was a new one to Nate. He knew many tribes sent members to St. Louis to trade or to meet with the Superintendent of Indian Affairs. Where medicine was concerned, though, Indians preferred their customary treatments to the strange practices of the whites.

  “I was told about your doctors from a trapper friend,” Red Moon revealed. “He said they know very little of the many plants that can heal the sick and they never use a sweat lodge, but somehow they still manage to cure those who come to them. It is most puzzling.”

  Nate turned the second steak over.

  “I do not know if a white doctor can help my grandson, but I will take him there to find out. I must try every way I can,” Red Moon said. “My friend told me white doctors take money for their treatments, much money sometimes. Now you know why I need my share, and why I will work very hard to make sure we catch as many beaver as we can.”

  Indeed, Nate reflected. And he knew much more. Such as why Red Moon was willing to violate a tribal taboo and take them to the remote valley, even though the Crow must be deathly afraid of encountering the creature his tribe so dreaded. The trip to St. Louis was an act of desperation on Red Moon’s part, his last hope to cure his grandson.

  Milo walked up. “Got the horses settled down for the night,” he mentioned. “What were you two talking about?”

  “We were making small talk,” Nate said, and saw Tom approaching with broken branches for the fire.

  Samson growled.

  Nate glanced at the big dog, thinking it was growling at Tom. Instead, Samson was peering into the forest to the southeast, his lips trembling in anger, his eyes narrowed.

  “He must hear something,” Milo said.

  Rising, Nate stood with the knife in one hand and the pan in another, listening to the night sounds. Or trying to. Because he suddenly realized the forest ringing their camp had grown totally silent. Even the insects were still. Not so much as a cricket chirped.

  Tom edged backwards toward the fire. “What is it? What’s out there?”

  Before Nate could answer, Samson streaked into the vegetation, gliding like a living shadow into the Stygian darkness of the wilderness. “No,” Nate said, to no avail. Placing the pan down, he slid the knife into his sheath and scooped up his Hawken. Fixing on the point where Samson had entered the trees, he trotted toward it.

  “Wait! Where are you going?” Milo called out.

  “To see what’s out there,” Nate responded. “Stay here until I get back.”

  “Don’t—” Milo objected.

  But Nate had already plunged into the murky realm that constituted the forest at night. He went several yards, then halted and crouched to get his bearings and listen. What had the dog heard or scented? A bear? A panther? Wolves? Or other men? He doubted it had been Indians since Indians rarely were abroad after the sun set. Few raids were conducted at night, for the simple reason that many tribes believed the souls of those slain at night were fated to aimlessly wander the earth and never attain the Indian version of heaven.

  He heard nothing himself, but that meant nothing. The dog’s hearing undoubtedly was much sharper than his. There must be something in the woods nearby to account for the dog’s agitation, and he wanted to find whatever was out there before whatever was out there found them.

  Then, from the southeast, there came the faintest whisper of sound.

  What had it been? Nate strained his ears, trying to identify the vague noise. More than anything else, it had sounded like the tip of a limb brushing against buckskin clothing. He went deeper into the woods, staying low, using every bush and tree for cover, his moccasins making no
noise as he moved. His years spent in the wilderness had honed his woodsman skills to perfection. In many respects he was much like an Indian, and some might say he was more Indian now than white. Which wouldn’t bother him in the least. He’d take it as a compliment.

  After traveling forty yards from the camp, he still saw no reason for the dog’s behavior. He stopped beside a wide tree, gazing in all directions, and detected movement at the limits of his vision. Sliding behind the trunk, he held the rifle firmly and waited.

  Soon he heard them: Indians, sneaking toward the campfire, making barely any noise, but enough for him to tell who was approaching. The pad of stealthy feet, of men moving quickly in the direction of the fiery glow at the base of the cliff, alerted him to the fact there were at least four or five and they were on both sides of him.

  His back flush to the tree, crouching as low as he could, Nate placed his thumb on the hammer and froze. Could they be Crows? This was Crow territory. If so, they would probably be friendly and he didn’t want to shoot them without provocation.

  To the right a black form materialized, then a second. To the left appeared three more. They were concentrating on the fire to the exclusion of all else and none, evidently, looked in Nate’s direction. He saw them advance less than ten feet and halt. One of the men whispered to another, the words barely audible.

  Was that the Crow tongue? Nate wondered. He didn’t think so but he couldn’t be certain. Peering through the trees, he saw Milo and Tom near the fire with their rifles in their hands. Red Moon was not in sight. If these Indians were hostile, and if he let them get any closer to the camp, they’d be able to easily pick the two Pennsylvanians off before Benteen and Sublette knew what hit them. He couldn’t let that happen.