What in the world were they doing? Nate wondered. Both were beaming and lashing their war ponies with their leather quirts, clearly trying to reach the grizzly before it could overtake him. He saw Drags the Rope nock an arrow to his bowstring and Beaver Tail heft a lance. With a start he realized they were going to try and slay the monster.
Nate looked over his right shoulder to discover the bear had heard their clamor, spied them, and halted. Nate was in the clear. All he had to do was keep on going and there was no way the grizzly could harm him. The Shoshones would keep it occupied, although in the process both of them might lose their lives. Hauling on the reins, he jumped down and hastily tied the lead rope to a bush, then remounted and raced back.
Already the warriors were clear of the hill and sweeping toward the waiting bear. The monster seemed to sense their intent. It growled and swung a stupendous paw as if inviting them to try their best.
Drags the Rope raised his bow, sighted, and let the shaft fly when forty feet from the grizzly. Streaking true to his aim, the arrow sliced into the bear’s shoulder below the neck, sinking in all the way to the eagle feather fletching.
The grizzly vented a roar of rage and twisted its head to snap at the protruding feathers. Its jaws closed shy of the shaft. Thwarted, growling ferociously, it glowered at the onrushing Shoshones, then charged.
The warriors continued to close. Riding expertly, horse and rider as one, Drags the Rope cut to the right and sent a second arrow into the slavering brute. The bear slanted toward him, covering the ground with astounding speed.
It appeared certain the grizzly would be on him in seconds.
Beaver Tail whooped and galloped straight at the monster. He whipped his arm overhead, straightened, and tensed to hurl his lance into the bear’s side. But the beast heard the pounding of his mount’s hoofs. It whirled to face him, its jaws wide, its glistening teeth exposed.
Swerve aside! Nate wanted to shout. Evidently the young warrior had no intention of doing so. He saw Beaver Tail grin, saw the lance leap from the Shoshone’s hand and strike the grizzly in the chest, then watched in horror as the young warrior tried to turn his horse too late. The bear, ignoring the lance imbedded in its body, took two quick steps and arced its right forepaw into the horse’s head.
Blood sprayed from the war pony’s crushed skull as the animal staggered, then toppled, hitting the ground on its right side. At the last instant Beaver Tail tried to leap to safety but the horse came down on his leg, pinning him. He drew a knife and twisted to defend himself from the approaching bear.
The grizzly halted and cocked its head regarding the young warrior intently. It placed a front leg on the dead war pony and started to step over the horse to get at Beaver Tail.
Yipping like a coyote, Drags the Rope galloped in close and unleashed a shaft into the monster’s neck. The bear spun and roared, then sprang at Drags the Rope’s mount, its paw flashing. The horse was struck on the flank, lost its balance, and fell. Drags the Rope jumped clear, drawing another arrow from his quiver as he did. The grizzly, paying no attention to the war pony’s wild thrashing as it tried to stand, moved toward him.
By then Nate was there, riding Indian fashion, using his legs to guide the stallion, the Hawken tucked tight against his right shoulder, the hammer cocked, his finger on the trigger. He came in at a gallop, and when only four yards separated Pegasus from the growling monster he fired, aiming at a point in front of the bear’s right ear. The grizzly whirled and tried to rip open Pegasus with its great claws, but at a jerk of the reins and a jab of Nate’s heels the stallion bounded aside.
Roaring hideously, the bear gave chase, traveling a dozen yards before it abruptly stopped and began shaking its huge head as if perplexed. It took a few lumbering steps, then tottered unsteadily, swiped a forepaw at the air a few times, and collapsed, sinking slowly to the grass with its front legs outstretched and its head coming to rest between them.
Nate turned Pegasus and drew his left flintlock. The bear was motionless but it might only be dazed. Of all the creatures in the wilderness, grizzlies were the hardest to kill. Single shots rarely sufficed, even in the head, because their brains were protected by exceptionally thick skulls plus two large muscles that covered the sides of the forehead and served to stop or deflect any shots. The common phrase “hard to die” had in fact been coined by Meriwether Lewis in regards to the fierce beasts.
He drew within ten feet, aimed the flintlock, and fired. The barrel belched smoke and lead, and he saw the ball smack into the bear’s head near the ear. The mighty animal didn’t budge. Nate cautiously rode nearer, tucking the spent pistol under his belt and drawing the second flintlock just in case. Sliding from the saddle, he warily stepped up to the monster and touched the barrel to its brow.
The grizzly was still motionless, its eyes open but unblinking, pink drool flowing from its partially open mouth. Blood trickled from the two holes in its head as well as from the arrow and lance wounds. There could be no doubt the bear was dead.
Nate exhaled and straightened. That had been too close for comfort. Had the bear been a shade faster, it would have knocked down Pegasus and had him at its mercy.
He heard footsteps and a hand clapped him on the back.
“Well done, Grizzly Killer! How many does this make now? Seven or eight?”
Turning, Nate looked at the smiling face of his close friend and smiled too, although not as broadly. By all rights he should be glad to be alive and savoring the thrill of triumph, but deep down he was bothered by the incident. He had never taken satisfaction in killing except when it was absolutely necessary, such as for food for his family, for clothing, or for beaver pelts to make a living. He wasn’t one of those mountaineers who went around shooting animals for the sheer hell of it. And although he would kill in self-defense, he regretted having to take the life of a creature that was only acting according to its given nature. “Four,” he said in perfect Shoshone. “I think this makes four.”
“Wait until I tell everyone! No member of our tribe has ever killed so many brown bears and lived to talk about it. Touch the Clouds will be jealous.”
“It was luck,” Nate said. Touch the Clouds, the foremost Shoshone warrior, a giant of a man with muscles of steel, was another good friend. As with every Shoshone warrior, Touch the Clouds prided himself on the honors he earned on the battlefield or in fights with wild beasts, and had counted more coup than every Shoshone except their aged chief, Broken Paw. But the giant had only slain one grizzly, and even then had nearly lost his life when the bear tore his back open. It was well known among the tribe that Touch the Clouds was envious of Nate’s widespread reputation as a slayer of grizzlies.
“You are too modest,” Drags the Rope said, and nodded at the dead bear. “Only a man with courage and skill could have done as you did.”
From off to the left came a shout. “If you are finished congratulating him, we have another visitor!” Beaver Tail interjected.
Nate glanced at the young warrior, who was still pinned under his horse, and saw Beaver Tail point to the south. Pivoting, he spied the reason for the Shoshone’s concern. Standing at the edge of the trees was another bear.
Chapter Five
Nate’s first thought was that the newcomer was the slain grizzly’s mate. During courtship was the only time the bears traveled together; the rest of the time they were solitary in their habits. But he promptly realized this new bear was much smaller and darker than the monster he had shot. “It’s a black bear,” he said.
The animal watched them for a moment, then turned and hurried into the woods.
“It must have heard the roars and the shots and come to see what was happening,” Drags the Rope guessed.
Nate nodded. Most animals were innately curious. Hopefully, Reverend John Burke had also heard the shots and would soon show up.
“I would go after it but I fear my horse is hurt,” Drags the Rope said. “My family could use the meat.”
“I’ll s
hare the meat from this brown bear with both of you,” Nate proposed. “A third for each of us. What do you say?”
“We did nothing to earn it.”
“You came to my aid when the bear was close behind me,” Nate told him. “If not for you, I would be lying here and the beast would be feasting on my corpse.” He motioned at Beaver Tail. “How about you? Does a third of the meat sound fair?”
“Very fair and generous,” the young warrior replied. “And it is also fair that I help with the butchering, which I cannot do while stuck under this stupid horse.”
Drags the Rope laughed and nudged Nate. “Perhaps we should leave him there and divide the meat between ourselves. Any man foolish enough to let his own horse fall on him is not worth rescuing.”
“And had I not put myself in a position where my horse could be slain, you would now be in the brown bear’s belly,” Beaver Tail countered indignantly.
Grinning, Nate walked over to help Drags the Rope free the younger Shoshone. When, years ago, he had first met the tribe, it had come as a considerable shock to him to learn that Indians possessed a wonderful sense of humor. Perhaps because of the grim image of Indians painted by the Eastern press, and the many insulting remarks about Indian behavior and intelligence made by the likes of President Jackson, he had always imagined Indians as stone-faced devils who never cracked a smile, let alone laughed. He had been delighted to learn otherwise, and he now thoroughly enjoyed the Shoshones’ rough humor and horseplay.
Drags the Rope stood over the dead horse and scratched his chin. “What do you think, Grizzly Killer? Should we cut Beaver Tail’s leg off at the knee to free him?”
“Just try,” Beaver Tail retorted, wagging his knife, “and I will nail your tongue to the entrance of my lodge.”
“Your father’s lodge, you mean,” Drags the Rope reminded him. “You have yet to take a wife, as I recall.” Nate saw the pinned warrior become beet-red. No warrior liked to be reminded of his youth and inexperience, so to prevent an argument Nate commented, “I would be willing to bet all the guns I own that when Beaver Tail does have his own lodge it will be one of the grandest in the village.”
The young warrior blinked, then beamed and puffed out his chest. “Grizzly Killer is a wise man, just as everyone claims.” He gave his dead war pony a whack with the flat of his hand. “Now would you please get this bag of skin and bones off me.”
Stooping, Nate placed his hands under the animal’s front shoulders while Drags the Rope imitated his example on the other side of Beaver Tail. “On the count of three,” he said, and when Drags the Rope nodded, he began. “One. Two. Three.” Together they lifted, each of them grunting and puffing, and succeeded in raising the top of the horse an inch or two, just high enough for Beaver Tail to slide his leg out with a supreme effort.
The young warrior pushed to his feet, then gave the horse a kick. “You failed me when I needed you the most. I will pick my next war pony more carefully.”
Nate was inclined to blame Beaver Tail for the mount’s death, but he said nothing. Indian men regarded their war horses almost as highly as they did their wives. Indeed, some warriors even took their war horses into their lodges at night if enemy raiding parties were believed to be in the vicinity of their village. And he knew of one man who regularly brought his steed inside on freezing cold winter nights and made his wife go sleep with her parents to make room for the horse. The attachment was understandable to one who understood the Indian way of life. Horses had become an essential part of Indian culture, as necessary for their survival as the limitless buffalo. Of all their animals, the highly trained and pampered war horse was the most highly esteemed because the warrior’s life frequently depended on its performance. Quite an attachment developed between each warrior and his preferred stallion. When the horse failed in its duty, as Beaver Tail believed was the case here, it was as if a close personal friend had let the warrior down.
Drags the Rope was staring off at the pair of pack animals. “Are those yours, my friend?” he inquired.
“No,” Nate answered, and briefly related his meeting with the minister.
“A white medicine man?” Drags the Rope remarked when Nate was done. “I have heard of such men but never met one. I look forward to talking with him.” His eyes twinkled. “Perhaps he is not as strange as most whites.” Beaver Tail took the cue. “I too would like to meet this man. There must be one white somewhere who knows something about the Great Medicine.”
“Persist in making fun of me and I will keep all the bear meat for myself,” Nate threatened good-naturedly, and they all enjoyed a hearty laugh.
Next they examined Drags the Rope’s chestnut. The bear’s claws had left five slash marks, none of which were deeper than an inch. Otherwise, the horse was fine.
Nate took time to load his guns. He debated whether to fire more shots and decided to save the ammo, confident the minister would be able to find him.
Drawing their hunting knives, they set to work on the grizzly. After rolling the bear onto its side, they slit the hide on both hind legs, then cut a straight line from its tail to its chin. Nate slit the inside of the front legs. Exercising care, they peeled the pelt from the massive body, cutting ligaments and muscles where needed to part the hide from the carcass, always remembering to hold the edges of their knives toward the carcass and not the hide so as not to tear it. Their painstaking toil would eventually pay off, once the hide was cured, salted, soaked, fleshed, dehaired, and tanned by their women, in a heavy robe of excellent quality.
Nate stood and surveyed the surrounding forest. He had expected Reverend Burke to appear long before they were done removing the pelt, and he began to worry that in Burke’s weakened state the minister might have suffered an accident. Bending down, he wiped his blade clean on the grass and looked at his companions. “Would the two of you watch those packhorses until I get back? I must go see what has happened to Medicine Teacher.”
“We will not let anything happen to them,” Drags the Rope promised.
Nate retrieved his Hawken, swung onto Pegasus, and headed southward. He was annoyed at himself for not firing more shots earlier to guide Burke along. The minister, after all, lacked Nate’s wilderness savvy and might not be able to determine which direction the initial shots had come from.
He rode for a quarter of a mile, to the top of a high foothill, where he reined up to scour the countryside. The dense pines on the slopes and the thick vegetation in the valleys hindered his attempts to spot Burke. He did see a red hawk wheeling above timber to the southwest, a pair of ravens winging low over an adjacent valley, a lone bull elk grazing in a meadow, and far to the southeast, on the prairie, a small herd of buffalo. Squirrels chattered at him from the treetops and chipmunks scampered about seeking food. But there was no sign of another human being.
Drawing his left flintlock, he pointed the gun into the air and fired. While the echoes of the retort rolled among the hills and bounced off the steep sides of the mountains to the west, he reloaded the piece. For ten minutes or better he patiently waited, constantly scanning the open spaces, seeking the reverend.
His concern rising, Nate turned the stallion to the east and descended the hill. He pressed on until he reached the edge of the plain, then made for the spot where the grizzly had first appeared. Since gunshots weren’t doing the trick, he would have to track Burke down. His years in the Rockies, where his very life and the lives of his loved ones often depended on his hunting skills, had turned him into a skilled tracker. He was confident he would find the minister before another hour went by.
Locating the point where they had separated proved easy enough. The hoof prints were clearly imbedded in the soil. He followed Burke’s trail into the trees, able to determine by the length of the bay’s stride and the depth of the tracks that Burke had been riding at a reckless speed. It wouldn’t be surprising if he found the reverend sprawled out on the ground somewhere, his head caved in by a low limb.
Several hundred ya
rds from the tree line the bay had slowed down. Burke, evidently, had finally gotten the animal under control. Inexplicably, the minister had also changed direction and was now traveling to the southwest. Puzzled, Nate trailed him. He had told Burke to go westward to find the Shoshone village. Why wasn’t the man heeding his advice?
The forest gave way to a long, winding valley, a gently bubbling stream flowing down its center. The tracks led to the stream, where Burke had watered the bay, then proceeded up the valley in an erratic fashion. One second the trail would be close to the stream, the next veering off to a stand of trees or going close to a bordering hill. Then back to the stream again. It was as if Burke were taking a leisurely ride on a country estate back East, enjoying the sights as he went.
At last Nate spotted the bay, two hundred yards away, its head down as it cropped the sweet green grass in the shadow of a cluster of spruces. Where was Burke? His eyes narrowed as he spied a thin figure hunched low over the saddle, and with a flick of his feet he prodded the stallion into a trot.
The bay looked up at his approach, its ears pricked, its nostrils flaring. Burke was unconscious, a nasty welt on his forehead testifying to the cause.
“Whoa there, boy,” Nate said softly to show the bay it had nothing to fear. “Remember me?” He leaned down to grasp its reins, then slid off Pegasus.
The reverend groaned.
Nate put a hand on Burke’s shoulder. Other than the two-inch welt there were no other injuries that he could see. Evidently the minister had hit a tree limb after all, back in the forest, and the bay had taken it on itself to meander on a southwesterly course. “Reverend Burke?” Uttering a short gasp, Burke sat bolt upright as his eyes snapped wide and he stared about him in confusion. “The trees!” he blurted. “The trees!” Then he noticed that the bay was standing still and saw Nate by his side. “You!” he said angrily. “I nearly lost my life when you gave my horse that whack. The contrary critter wouldn’t stop no matter what I did.”
Wilderness: Mountain Devil/Blackfoot Massacre (A Wilderness Western Book 5) Page 18