“Would you rather have been caught by the grizzly?” Nate countered.
“No, of course not,” Burke said, and gazed in all directions. “Where is the bear? And where the dickens am I? The last thing I remember is seeing a tree limb appear out of nowhere.” He reached up and gingerly touched the welt. “Goodness. Now I know why my head is splitting.” Nate handed the reins up and mounted Pegasus. “The grizzly is dead. A couple of friends of mine showed up and gave me a hand when I needed it most.”
“Fellow trappers?”
“Shoshones. They’re watching your pack animals until we get back.”
The minister frowned. “You’re allowing a pair of heathens to guard my possessions? Isn’t that like letting a fox guard the henhouse?”
“They won’t steal anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
‘”Unfortunately, Mr. King, I don’t have your confidence in these savages. At best they’re like primitive children, and one should never place temptation before a child. They lack the self-discipline to behave properly.”
“One of them is a close friend,” Nate noted, annoyed by Burke’s attitude. The man didn’t even know Drags the Rope or Beaver Tail, yet he had no qualms about branding them as thieves, or worse. “I know him as well as I do myself. He’s an honorable warrior, a decent human being.”
Burke snorted. “I’m afraid you’ve been living among the heathens too long, brother. You see nobility in them where none exists. Tell me, is this friend of yours a Christian?”
“No, but—”
“Then I’ve made my point,” Burke interrupted smugly. “Remember what the Good Book says about those who aren’t Christian.” He cleared his throat before quoting more Scripture. “Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you.”
Nate’s lips compressed in a thin line. For Burke to accuse the Shoshones of being thieves had been bad enough. To call them dogs and pigs was more than he would tolerate. They were his adopted people, and he had come to know them as fine, intelligent, caring men and women who deserved as much respect as any white who ever lived. “For your information, Reverend, your belongings will be safer among the Shoshones than they would be in certain parts of New York City or St. Louis. As for them not being Christian, it’s hardly their fault since no one has ever taught them our religion.”
John Burke smiled. “Precisely. Which is why I’m here. God willing, I will lead the heathens to the true light. I will be the shining example that shows them the error of their savage ways. You just watch.”
Chapter Six
The barking of a number of village dogs toward sunset drew the attention of three warriors conversing at the east edge of the encampment to the approaching party, and at their shouts Shoshones flocked from all directions to see who was coming.
Nate walked in the forefront, the Hawken in his left hand, leading Pegasus by the reins. His mood was a reflection of the storm clouds gathering to the west. Drags the Rope and Beaver Tail walked behind him. The three of them had secured the bear hide and as much meat as they could wrap inside it onto Pegasus, then packed more meat onto Drags the Rope’s war horse. There had still been some left, and Nate had proposed tying it onto Burke’s bay in order not to let it go to waste, but the minister had stubbornly refused to let his mount be used to haul a “miserable load of bloody meat.”
The more Nate saw of the reverend, the less he liked the man. And he felt guilty for doing so. Burke was a man of the cloth. Nate had been reared to always respect the clergy, to believe they were special because they had devoted their lives to God. Yet Burke made a mockery of that devotion by flaunting it, and by regarding anyone who didn’t believe as he did as inferior.
Maybe, Nate reflected, he was being too critical. Burke had been through hell out on the prairie, enduring hardships that would unsettle any man. Perhaps all it would take was a hot meal and a good night’s sleep to put him in a better—friendlier—frame of mind.
There was much gesticulating and pointing among the assembling Shoshones. Just arriving on the scene were a pair Nate knew well. Chief Broken Paw was a wise old man whose gray hairs and many wrinkles attested to the fact he had earned his wisdom the hard way. Beside him walked a giant to rival the Biblical Goliath, a warrior almost seven feet tall who had one of the most fitting Indian names Nate had ever heard. Touch the Clouds. He was the son of a venerable warrior named Spotted Bull, who in turn was the husband of Winona’s aunt.
The chief and the giant moved a few feet in front of the main crowd.
“What is this, Grizzly Killer?” Touch the Clouds called. “You rode off to hunt buffalo and come back walking your horse and bringing a stranger into our village?”
“I killed a brown bear instead of a buffalo,” Nate responded, nodding at the hide on his stallion, and nearly laughed aloud at the giant’s stupefied expression.
“Another brown bear?” Chief Broken Paw said, smiling. “Keep this up and soon there will not be any left.”
Nate shrugged and feigned a yawn. “It would serve them right if they are wiped out. Any animal so easy to kill will not last forever.”
Touch the Clouds regained his composure and came forward to inspect the pelt. “It seems to have been a very small bear,” he commented
“How true,” Drags the Rope said. “I only had to sit on my horse instead of stand on it to touch the bear’s chin.”
“You should have seen Grizzly Killer,” Beaver Tail added, clearly amused at the giant’s expense. “The bear had killed my brave horse and was about to do the same to Drags the Rope when Grizzly Killer rode right up to it. With no thought to his own danger, he shot it in the head.”
“Grizzly Killer is a brave man,” Touch the Clouds acknowledged in an odd tone.
By now the news had spread among the Shoshones and they were talking excitedly. Brown bears, as they called grizzlies, were the most formidable animals they knew, and they considered it a favorable omen, a sign of good medicine, when a tribal member killed one.
Nate’s moment of glory was short-lived. He was about to relate the fight with the beast, as custom dictated, when John Burke rode up alongside him.
“What is all this jabbering about, brother? I’m on my last legs and these heathens are more interested in your flea-ridden hide.”
Chief Broken Paw scrutinized the minister closely. “Who is this white man, Grizzly Killer? Why does he speak words that sting like bees?”
“His name is Medicine Teacher,” Nate replied, and promptly wished he had thought to change the name to Rock Head. “I found him on the prairie. The Cheyennes had stolen his horses and left him to die.”
The chief stared at Burke’s bay and the two pack animals. “You got his horses back for him?”
“No. The Cheyennes returned them,” Nate said, and detailed his encounter with the five warriors. The Shoshones listened attentively, some nodding, some whispering. “This Medicine Teacher truly must be under the protection of the Everywhere Spirit,” Chief Broken Paw remarked when Nate was done. “It is unheard of for an enemy to return stolen horses, especially the Cheyennes, who are such expert horse thieves. It is the same as the Blackfeet sparing a life, something that is never done.” He smiled at Burke. “I would be honored if this great man would stay at my lodge during his time among our people.”
“Who is this codger?” the minister asked. “And why is he looking at me the way he is?”
Nate hoped his feelings toward Burke weren’t showing as he said to Broken Paw, “Medicine Teacher is grateful for your offer, but he has already agreed to stay at my lodge. Rest assured we will come visit you as soon as he is rested.”
“My lodge is always open to him.”
Neither Drags the Rope nor Beaver Tail made any comments, and Nate knew why. Although neither man spoke English, they had been able to tell by Burke’s attitude earlier exactly what kind of man Burke was. They weren’t foo
led by the name Nate had given him.
There was a commotion at the back of the crowd. Some of the people parted to allow a raven-haired woman in a beaded buckskin dress and a muscular boy of eight wearing a typical Shoshone-style buckskin shirt and leggings to pass through.
Nate momentarily forget all about Reverend Burke in the heartfelt warm rush of seeing his loved ones again. “Winona,” he said softly, and took his wife into his arms, savoring the minty scent of her hip-length tresses and the feel of her soft but full body against his. Heedless of the other Shoshones, he kissed her. Normally, members of the tribe refrained from public displays of affection. Courting couples often stood under blankets together in the evenings, but by and large most of the men and women were shy about showing their feelings toward one another where all eyes could see. Most had long since become used to Nate’s impulsive nature, laying the blame on his fiery white blood. A few of Winona’s female friends had teased her about it, hinting that she must enjoy a lively blanket life of her own once the fire in their lodge was extinguished.
“Did I hear correctly, husband?” Winona asked in perfect English as she stepped back, her concerned brown eyes straying to the bear hide on Pegasus. “You had another run-in with a grizzly?”
“Afraid so,” Nate replied. “And now you have a new robe.”
The eight-year-old moved between them. “When will I get to kill a brown bear, Pa?”
Nate looked down into the hopeful face of his pride and joy, a spitting image of himself at that age but with the finer, more angular features of Winona’s Shoshone ancestry mixed in. In keeping with the fact the boy had parents from two diverse cultures, two names had been bestowed on him at birth. Nate had picked Zachary, and both Winona and he had decided on Stalking Coyote for the child’s Indian name. Except for a brief visit to St. Louis and the annual Rendezvous, the boy had never lived among white men. Now, at a distance, young Zach would pass for a full-blooded Shoshone. Only close up did it become apparent he was part white. “In due time, sprout,” Nate answered. “A bird doesn’t fly its first day in the nest. You’re not quite old enough yet to tangle with a grizzly.”
“Damn.”
Reverend Burke coughed. “I take it this is your wife and son. How about introducing me, brother?”
“Certainly,” Nate said, and proceeded to do so, noting how the minister gave Winona a cursory glance but studied Zach long and hard. He then explained that the minister would be staying at their lodge until fit to travel again.
“We will be honored to have you, Reverend,” Winona graciously said.
“I must say, my dear, your English is excellent,” Burke remarked.
“I’ve had an excellent teacher.”
“Has your husband also taught you the Scriptures? Are you and your child Christians?”
“We do own a bible, Reverend. And Nate has told me much about the Lord God of your people. Still, there is much I do not understand.”
Burke smiled. “Then it’s good I have come. I’ll be able to answer any questions you might have, and perhaps before I depart to minister to those I seek, I might have the pleasure of baptizing you and your son.”
Nate glanced up, wondering what the minister meant by “those I seek,” but before he could inquire the Shoshones clustered around them, some congratulating Nate on slaying the brown bear, some to get an account of the fight from Drags the Rope or Beaver Tail, and some to stare at the minister in frank curiosity. At length Nate was able to start toward his lodge. He let Zach lead Pegasus while he took the pack animals. Winona stayed close by his side.
Not all the Shoshones had congregated at the east side of the village. Small children scampered playfully about, frequently accompanied by frolicking dogs. Here and there women sat outdoors as they frequently did during the warmer months, either tanning hides, sewing clothes, repairing blankets, or doing any of the many domestic tasks they performed daily. Warriors were busy grooming their horses, sharpening knives, restringing bows, or doing other such activities regarded as fitting for a man. Among the Shoshones and other tribes there were clear-cut distinctions between the work performed by men and that performed by women, and it was exceedingly rare for a member of one sex to take up the crafts of the other. Burke pointed at a circle of seated elderly warriors in the middle of an argument. “What is that all about?” he inquired.
“They’re gambling with dice made of buffalo bone,” Nate disclosed, and saw the minister frown. “At the moment there is a dispute over a wager one of them made.”
“I had no idea these heathens indulged in such wicked practices,” Burke said, drawing a sharp glance from Winona. “Gambling is the earmark of the wicked and the playfellow of the lazy.”
“My people have played at dice since the beginning of time,” Winona responded. “It has not hurt us in any way.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, I’m afraid. Gambling eats away at the soul like dry rot eats away the inside of trees. It’s far better for men to turn to the Lord for their diversions than to take part in idle pursuits. Instead of rolling dice, those men would do better to spend their time giving thanks to God and praying for salvation.”
More and more Nate was regretting his decision to bring Burke back to the village. It could only lead to trouble if the reverend didn’t learn to keep quiet about matters that offended him. Nate had known many ministers during the years he spent growing up in New York City, but none had been like this man. His parents had taken him to church every Sunday without fail, and he had listened to countless sermons by various men of the cloth. Frequently, his mother had invited the ministers over for meals. He remembered them as serious but lighthearted men who enjoyed a fine cigar and a good laugh as much as the next person. None had been as exacting as Reverend John Burke. None had Burke’s knack for rubbing folks the wrong way.
Ahead Nate spied their lodge, constructed by Winona and seven of her relatives and friends. The women had sewn together the buffalo-hide cover after he had collected the long, straight saplings needed for the frame and trimmed the trees of all their small branches. One of Winona’s kin was a skilled lodge-maker, and under her supervision, with Winona providing plenty of food and the rest supplying plenty of gossip, the twelve hides used had been stitched together in under a day.
This had taken place three years ago. Until that time, whenever Nate and Winona visited the Shoshones, they had stayed with her aunt, Morning Dove, the wife of Spotted Bull. But Nate had tired of imposing on the kindness of her relatives, and had had the lodge built so his family could stay as long as they wanted in the privacy and comfort of their own dwelling. When it was time to leave for their log cabin near Long’s Peak, they would dismantle the lodge and drag it home behind their pack animals on several travois.
Nate halted near the entrance and scanned the camp, seeking sign of their black dog, Samson, a mongrel brute capable of holding its own against a panther. As usual the dog was nowhere to be seen. It was the most independent-minded, contrary critter he had ever come across. More than likely it was off in the forest somewhere chasing rabbits or bothering the squirrels, its favorite pastime.
Burke reined up and sniffed. “Are we all staying in this puny wigwam? Won’t it be terribly crowded?”
“A wigwam, Reverend, is the kind of lodge the Ottawas, Ojibwas, and other tribes back East live in,” Nate corrected him. “These lodges are called teepees.”
“Wigwam. Teepee. What difference does it make?” Burke asked, dismounting. “It still promises to be crowded.” Bending over, he entered without so much as a by-your-leave.
Nate was about to follow him when Winona clutched his elbow and leaned over to whisper in his ear.
“Later, my husband, you have explaining to do. A lot of explaining.”
Chapter Seven
As it turned out, his explanation had to wait. They unloaded the bear hide and meat, picketed the horses near their lodge, and were just settling in when a tremendous ruckus broke out on the west side of the villag
e. Nate was the first out of the lodge, his Hawken in his right hand. The sun had dipped below the high mountains to the west, shrouding the Rockies in twilight except for vivid streaks of red and orange framing the horizon.
From harsh experience Nate knew that just before sunrise and right after sunset were the times most favored by roving war parties to conduct their raids. Before the sun came up few warriors were fully awake. After sunset most of the men were in their lodges awaiting their suppers, fatigued after a hard day of work. In particular the Blackfeet, those widely dreaded scourges of the plains and the mountains, liked to strike when their enemies were most vulnerable. So when he heard a Shoshone shouting that each man should arm himself, he figured the Blackfeet must be up to their old, nasty tricks.
Beaver Tail appeared to the north, running toward the source of the noise.
“Do you know what is happening?” Nate asked.
“Bloods,” the young warrior replied.
Nate rested his free hand on a flintlock. The Bloods were almost as bad as the Blackfeet. Those two tribes, plus a third known as the Piegans, had formed a confederacy of sorts and were continually waging war against everyone else. He had started to go see for himself when Winona and Zach emerged.
“I heard that,” she declared. “You be careful.”
“I will,” Nate vowed, and looked at his son. “You stay by your mother’s side and keep your bow handy in case some of the Bloods sneak into the village while I’m gone.”
“Don’t worry none, Pa. I’ll part their hair if they show their faces.”
“And I will keep an eye on our guest,” Winona added icily.
“Thanks,” Nate said, glad Burke had curled up on a hide the moment he’d entered the lodge and fallen instantly asleep. As exhausted as the minister was, Nate expected him to slumber until morning or later. He sprinted toward a throng of Shoshones near the lake shore.
Wilderness: Mountain Devil/Blackfoot Massacre (A Wilderness Western Book 5) Page 19