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

by Robbins, David

  Chiding himself for being such a dunderhead, he angled to the west, stooped low to examine every square inch of grass and dirt. If he failed to find the weapon in another minute or two, he would go to the nearest lodge and ask the warrior inside for a burning brand from the cooking fire. Weaving back and forth, he went closer to the trees. When he turned toward the village, he finally found his Hawken. But not in the way he expected.

  The patter of rushing feet made Nate uncoil and spin, his right hand swooping to his flintlock. He saw a stocky shape an instant before something slammed into his forehead with the force of a runaway ten-ton boulder. Bright pinpoints of light blossomed before his eyes. And then the darkness claimed more than the land. It claimed his mind.

  ~*~

  The tantalizing odor of roasting deer meat was the first sensation Nate became conscious of. He lay still, taking stock, aware he was on his back on the ground and a rock was gouging him in the lower back. His arms rested on his chest, his wrists were bound. Gruff voices spoke in a tongue he didn’t know, but which he suspected was the language of the Bloods. His head throbbed. It hurt just to think. Otherwise, he seemed to be fine.

  Cracking his eyelids, he peered at a group of seven Blood warriors gathered around a crackling fire over which a haunch of venison was roasting. Trees ringed them, leading him to surmise they were in a clearing in the forest. Through the trunks he spied the sun rising above the far horizon. Apparently he had been out all night long and now a new day was dawning. He could hear birds chirping and the chattering of an irate squirrel.

  One of the Bloods, an imposing figure who wore three eagle feathers in his long hair, rose and came toward him.

  Nate closed his eyes and feigned being unconscious. He involuntarily flinched when a sharp object jabbed him in the side. The warrior spoke a few words, then jabbed him again, only harder. There was nothing to be gained by pretending any longer, so Nate opened his eyes and stared up into the Blood’s impassive face.

  In the warrior’s right hand was a hunting knife. He slid it into a sheath on his right hip before addressing Nate again. A second warrior, shorter and with a cleft chin, came over.

  Nate didn’t understand a word. “Do you speak Shoshone?” he asked when the warrior fell silent.

  Neither Blood responded.

  “How about English?” Nate inquired in that language.

  Again the Bloods showed no indication they comprehended. They conversed briefly in their own tongue, then the one wearing the eagle feathers lifted his hands. “If you speak sign, white man, nod once.”

  Nate nodded. The shorter Blood drew a knife and leaned down to slice the rope binding his wrists.

  “If you try to escape we will kill you here and now,” the taller warrior signed. “I am Eagle Claw of the Bloods. Who are you, white man? And what were you doing at the Shoshone camp?”

  Slowly sitting up, Nate rubbed his wrists to restore the circulation, then noticed the rest of the war party approaching. Two held bows, arrows nocked and ready to fly. He must make no unwarranted moves or he would never see his wife and son again. “I am known as Grizzly Killer,” he signed. “The Shoshones are my adopted people.”

  Eagle Claw and the one with the cleft chin talked in their tongue for a bit. Finally, Eagle Claw looked down at him and said, “Are you the same Grizzly Killer who slew Mad Dog and White Bear of the Blackfeet?”

  Nate answered honestly. Lying would do no good since he was the only white man in the entire Rocky Mountains who was called by that name. Occasionally Indian men from different tribes had the same name, but there were so few whites in the mountains that every name applied to only one person. “I am,” he said.

  Eagle Claw frowned. “The Blackfeet are our brothers.”

  “I know.”

  “Their enemies are our enemies.”

  “So I have heard,” Nate said. The confederacy between the Blackfeet, Bloods, and Piegans was loose-knit in that they rarely conducted raids together or combined their forces to wage war, but whoever aroused the anger of one tribe incurred the wrath of all three.

  “Then you must also know that we will slay you.”

  “You will try.”

  Eagle Claw’s eyes narrowed, then he clapped his hands and burst into hearty laughter. Some of the others joined in, but not the warrior with the cleft chin. He glowered, insulted by Nate’s audacity.

  “You have courage, white man,” Eagle Claw signed when the rough mirth subsided. “I will grant you that. But even brave men die.”

  “The measure of a man is how well he dies,” Nate signed, choosing his words carefully, seeking to impress the Bloods and buy himself a fighting chance. “Cowards whine and cry. Brave men like us go to the spirit world with our heads held high.” He paused, gazing at each of them in turn. “All I ask is a fair chance, and I believe you will give it to me because the Bloods are widely regarded as some of the fiercest fighters of all the tribes in this land. Surely you would not stake me out to die in the hot sun like the Comanches might do, or tie me and fill me with arrows like the Apaches. Such deaths give no honor to anyone. Let me run a gauntlet. Or have me fight as many of you as you wish using only knives or tomahawks. Just let me die with dignity.”

  At a gesture from Eagle Claw, the Bloods stepped closer to the fire and began a lively discussion.

  Had the plea worked? Nate wondered hopefully. Indian men regarded bravery as the highest of virtues, and they regarded dying in battle as the ideal way to give up the ghost. No warrior wanted to die a helpless victim. He tried to read their feelings by their expressions but it was impossible. Eagle Claw and the one with the cleft chin were arguing strenuously while the others listened.

  He suddenly spotted his weapons lying in a pile to the right of the fire. The flintlocks were on top. If he took a half-dozen quick strides, he could snatch them up and cut loose. But he knew those two Bloods with bows would both put arrows into him before he got off a single shot. He would live longer if he did nothing for the time being.

  Eagle Claw was coming toward him. “Your eloquent words have touched our hearts, white man. All of us except Kicking Bird agree a man should have a fighting chance when he dies. Kicking Bird says that you are white and don’t deserve to leave this world like a true man. He says you should die like a dog.”

  Nate glanced at the warrior with the cleft chin, who gave him a look of pure murderous venom.

  “So you will get your wish,” Eagle Claw signed.

  “How is it to be?” Nate asked.

  The leader of the war party grinned enigmatically. “We want that to be a surprise.”

  Chapter Nine

  Nate didn’t like the fact that most of the Bloods then laughed and one made motions suggestive of a body being ripped to shreds, which prompted more laughter. Even Kicking Bird smiled, which confirmed the manner of death they had chosen must be particularly fiendish.

  “We are about to have our breakfast,” Eagle Claw signed. “Would you care for some deer meat?”

  Surprised by the unexpected generosity, Nate licked his lips and signed, “Yes, please.”

  “A wise decision. You will soon need all of your strength,” Eagle Claw said, and went to the fire.

  One of the Bloods carved large pieces off the roast and passed them out to the others. He also brought a fist-sized chunk to Nate. The warriors sat down to eat, the pair with bows taking their seats with their backs to the flames so they could keep their eyes on their captive.

  Rather than uselessly dwell on his impending fate, Nate ate with relish. He was famished, the deer meat delicious.

  His piece included a wide strip of fat which he chewed on greedily, savoring the tangy taste. In his estimation animal fat was even better than the meat itself. When he was done he licked his fingers clean and smacked his lips, Indian fashion, to show the meal had been a good one.

  The Bloods appeared surprised by his casual attitude. They soon had something else to occupy their attention, however; they divided up his w
eapons among them. Eagle Claw took the Hawken, and the rest of the band drew lots to see who would get what. Kicking Bird ended up with one of the flintlocks. To antagonize Nate, he held the gun out where Nate could see it and repeatedly stroked the barrel while smirking smugly.

  Nate wished he could find a way of taking that bastard with him when he went. The sun was well above the horizon, and his intuition told him it wouldn’t be much longer before the Bloods sprang their little surprise.

  Minutes later Eagle Claw stood. The fire was hurriedly extinguished, each man gathered up his weapons, and in single file they hiked to the northwest. Nate was forced to walk between Kicking Bird and one of the bowmen. Like the Blackfeet, the Bloods rarely rode horses when on raids. They preferred to travel afoot and strike swiftly and silently.

  It was a beautiful morning. Sunlight streamed through the branches overhead, bathing the grass and wild flowers in golden radiance. Sparrows flitted about in the undergrowth. Jays flew from tree to tree seeking food. And, as always, chipmunks were everywhere, darting to and fro.

  Nate’s headache evaporated after they had gone a mile. The invigorating mountain air and the exercise cleared his head and primed his senses for the ordeal to come. He kept looking for a chance to bolt for freedom, but the Blood behind him was as vigilant as a hawk.

  Almost an hour after leaving the clearing they entered a verdant valley and marched up it to an ominous bald mountain. Huge shadows from drifting clouds shaded the higher elevations. The lower portion consisted of sheer cliffs and jumbled boulder fields where nothing grew. Desolate and bleak, the mountain was a barren contrast to the sea of life swirling all around it.

  Eagle Claw walked back to Nate. “Do you know this mountain, white man?”

  “No,” Nate signed.

  “My people call it the Mountain Where Evil Spirits Dwell. A long time ago one of our warriors was catching eagles up near the top when a strange wind came up and blew him over a cliff. When his friends found his body, they discovered it had been split in half. Since then we never go up there.”

  Craning his neck, Nate gazed at the rocky heights and spied a lone eagle soaring regally on the currents. He had once helped a Ute gather eagle feathers, and knew firsthand how difficult the task was. The favored technique consisted in digging a hole for a man to hide in, then constructing a latticework cover of thin limbs camouflaged with clods of grass and dirt. A warrior would stake out the bait, usually a dead rabbit, next to the hole and climb in. When an eagle dived down for the kill, the man would quickly reach out and grab the big bird’s legs with one hand, then rapidly pluck feathers with the other. The warrior had to work swiftly since it was impossible to hold the enraged bird for long. Occasionally a man would lose a finger or an eye, and all for a handful of the most prized feathers an Indian could own. It would be much easier to simply shoot an eagle, but to the Indian way of thinking that would be a terrible waste of life. “Let me guess,” he signed. “You want me to climb up there so the wind will blow me off?”

  “No,” Eagle Claw said, grinning. “We have another end in mind for you.” Again he took the lead and they wound into a narrow ravine.

  Nate paused once to scan the steep stone sides, and felt the tip of an arrow poke him in the spine. He walked on, perplexed, unable to deduce their intent. The ground was too rocky to bear tracks, so he had no idea whether the Bloods had ever been up the ravine before or not. He got the impression, though, they knew exactly where they were going.

  The ravine twisted and turned like a sidewinder, eventually broadening out at the base of a high cliff on the south side of the foreboding mountain. Boulders the size of log cabins flanked the cliff, obscuring the lower section from view.

  Nate reluctantly let himself be led into the boulder field. A glint of white to his left made him glance around, and there in the dust lay the leg bone of an elk, the bone bearing numerous teeth marks. He hadn’t gone ten feet when he spotted another one, this time the thigh bone. Farther on he saw the complete skeleton of a young mountain sheep, the skull lying several feet from the rib section. Most of the rib bones had been cracked off and gnawed on.

  Budding apprehension flowed through Nate. Where there were this many bones, there must be the lair of a predator nearby. In this instance it was most likely a panther—or mountain lion as some called the big cats. Was that their destination? He hardly thought so. The panther was just as apt to attack them as him.

  He saw Eagle Claw slow, then stop in the shelter of a huge boulder. A warrior armed with a lance moved stealthily forward and disappeared. The others waited in silence. “What is going on?” he inquired.

  “You will see soon enough, white dog,” Kicking Bird answered. “And when you do, perhaps you will change your mind about wanting a fighting chance. If so, if you admit you are a coward and not a true man, I will make your end swift and painless.” He tapped the hilt of his knife, then drew a finger across his throat.

  Nate resented being taunted. “There is only one coward here and he goes by the name of Kicking Bird.” He detected a blur of motion a fraction of a second before his own flintlock struck him flush on the jaw. Lanced with pain, suddenly dizzy, he tottered and sank to his knees. Dimly, he heard harsh words spoken in whispers. When his vision cleared he saw Eagle Claw and another warrior restraining a furious Kicking Bird, who had cocked the pistol and was trying to point the barrel in his direction.

  Kicking Bird gradually regained his self-control. He let the hammer down and barked a few words. His arms were released and he shoved the flintlock under the top of his leggings. His countenance mirrored volcanic hatred of Nate.

  Wondering why they were all whispering, Nate slowly stood. Were they so near the predator’s lair that they risked being heard and attacked? And what manner of predator would make a band of otherwise fearless Bloods behave like timid children?

  In strained silence the warriors waited for their companion with the lance to return. Five minutes later he did, speaking urgently but softly to Eagle Claw, who pursed his lips and gave Nate a long, searching look.

  What were they up to? Nate asked himself yet again. Kicking Bird was grinning at him, as if at a private joke. Whatever they had in mind must be typically devious and especially gruesome. Indians shared few of the qualms white men possessed about inflicting truly barbarous deaths on their enemies. Indeed, Indians victorious in battle often inflicted the most appalling atrocities on their captives to see how well the unfortunates held up. It wasn’t that Indians delighted in torture. Torture was simply a test of bravery. Those taken prisoner knew what to expect and would do the same if the situation was reversed.

  Eagle Claw took the lead again, Nate’s Hawken held firmly in his hands.

  The band wound deeper into the field of mammoth boulders, winding ever nearer the base of the bald mountain. Nate saw more bones. Lots more. In vain he hunted for tracks, for any clue as to the identity of the creature responsible, but the rocky ground was a blank page.

  After three minutes of travel the Bloods slowed. This time two warriors were sent ahead while the band waited.

  “It will not be long now, Grizzly Killer,” Kicking Bird signed with a sneer.

  “Until what?” Nate responded.

  “Be patient, white dog,” Kicking Bird said, and added mockingly, “Are you still feeling brave? Or are you ready to admit that all your talk of dying bravely was the talk of a weakling stalling for time in the hope you could escape?”

  “You will see how brave I am when the time comes,” Nate signed, then grinned. Here he was, sparring words with the Blood just as a Shoshone would. In some ways he was more Indian than he realized.

  “You find this humorous?” Kicking Bird asked.

  “I find you humorous,” Nate answered. “Until I met you, I had no idea that Blood men like to work their mouths more than their brains. I am quite amazed the Blackfeet would accept your tribe as allies.”

  Kicking Bird bristled, his hand swooping to the flintlock. For a moment
he was on the verge of drawing. But he checked himself with a visible effort and relaxed his grip. “The only reason I do not kill you here and how is because I know what is in store for you and I do not want to deprive myself of the satisfaction of hearing you scream and plead for your miserable life.”

  Eagle Claw walked up to them and signed to Nate. “Why do you persist in insulting him? Kicking Bird is noted for his fiery temper. If you are not careful, he will shoot you where you stand.”

  “This white dog wants me to,” Kicking Bird signed using sharp, angry gestures. “He hopes I will spare him from his deserved fate, but he will be disappointed. I want to watch him die in intense agony. I want to see his guts ripped from his body and hear the crunch of his bones as—”

  “Enough!” Eagle Claw interrupted. “You will spoil our surprise.”

  “My apology,” Kicking Bird said.

  Nate couldn’t resist the opening. “There is no need to apologize. We all understand how children like to make idle boasts.”

  A flinty gleam came into Kicking Bird’s eyes. “I have never looked forward to the death of an enemy with so much anticipation as I look forward to yours.”

  At that juncture the two warriors returned on the run. The Bloods clustered together and exchanged whispered words for several minutes. Eventually the pair with bows took up positions behind Nate and Eagle Claw motioned for him to start walking.

  High above them reared the stark, jagged mountain, shrouded in shadows from passing clouds. Nate guessed they were within fifty yards of a towering cliff scarred by deep cracks and broken sections, toward which they were evidently heading. The Bloods were exercising great care, halting behind each boulder to survey the route ahead and crossing open spaces swiftly. He could practically feel their anxious tension.

  He glanced back at the grim bowmen, who had him covered with their shafts, and frowned. It had been a mistake not to attempt to escape sooner. Now he must either commit virtual suicide by making a bid for his freedom or accept the inevitable and face whatever lay ahead. There was always the slim chance he might be able to slay the creature and then effect his escape. The sight of more bones, this time those of a bear, gave him second thoughts. The size of the bear’s partially crushed skull revealed it had been between two and four years of age, not a cub by any means, in the prime of its vigor and strength.