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

by Robbins, David

  “Will you get to the point?”

  “The impatience of youth,” Shakespeare said mockingly. “Very well. The lost gentleman’s name is George Burke.”

  “He’s related to the minister?”

  “They’re brothers.”

  Nate gazed straight ahead but had yet to catch a glimpse of his lodge. “Reverend Burke never even mentioned he had one. Were they traveling together and they became separated?”

  “No,” Shakespeare replied. “The good reverend left St. Louis alone. Then George, who is the younger of the two, cut out after him to try and stop him from doing what he intends to do.”

  “Which is?”

  “You won’t believe it.”

  “Tell me,” Nate said a tad gruffly, wishing his mentor would come right out and say it instead of drawing out the suspense. But that was McNair. The man loved to gab. And while such a trait was highly entertaining on those long nights when they were seated around a lonely campfire off in the remote wilds, at other times it could be downright aggravating.

  Shakespeare looked Nate in the eyes. “Reverend Burke plans to try and convert the Blackfeet to Christianity.”

  Both Nate and Winona halted in astonishment.

  “I felt the same way when I first heard the news,” McNair said.

  Of all the tribes west of the Mississippi River, the Blackfeet were the most warlike, the most bloodthirsty. Ever since an incident involving the Lewis and Clark expedition, when a Blackfoot warrior was slain and another gravely wounded while trying to steal rifles belonging to Meriwether Lewis and a few of his companions, the Blackfeet had viewed all whites with an implacable hatred. Trappers caught in their territory were tortured, killed, and scalped. Every mountaineer, even greenhorns, knew to stay away from the Blackfeet at all costs.

  “There must be an explanation,” Nate declared as he walked forward. “Maybe the reverend doesn’t realize how dangerous the Blackfeet are.”

  “He knows,” Shakespeare said. “George told me they had a nasty argument in St. Louis over John’s plan. Despite all of George’s protests, John refused to change his mind.”

  Nate spied his lodge. And standing in front of it were two men involved in a heated exchange. One was Reverend Burke, the other a husky man with brown hair. That they were brothers was self-evident; their facial features were remarkably similar. As he drew closer he overheard their dispute.

  “... should never have come after me,” the minister was saying. “I didn’t ask you to. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Besides, the Lord will never let any true harm befall me.”

  “You’re not our Savior, you know.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “That you can’t perform miracles. The Blackfeet will laugh in your face, then carve you into little pieces. I’m not making this up. I’ve talked with men who know all about them.”

  “The Blackfeet may be heathens, but they are also children of God and deserve to hear the good news of the Gospel. Mark my words, George. One day there will be men of the cloth ministering to all these tribes.”

  George Burke shook his head in exasperation, then encompassed the village with a sweep of his arm. “Why not begin your ministry to the Indians here, among the Shoshones? At least they are friendly.”

  “I have made up my mind. I’m going to bring the Blackfeet to an acceptance of the Lord God and Our Master, Jesus Christ.”

  “Damn you, John!” George snapped, and whirled to stalk off. As it happened, he turned toward Nate and his family, and at the sight of them and McNair he hurried to greet them, his face a mask of barely suppressed fury. “You must be Nathaniel King,” he said as he offered his right hand.

  “My pleasure, Mr. Burke,” Nate responded, shaking. He introduced Winona and Zach. “We couldn’t help but overhear,” he mentioned, nodding toward the lodge where Reverend Burke still stood.

  George glanced at his brother and scowled. “John has become a fool. He’ll get himself butchered and there is nothing I can do to stop him.”

  “You came all this way just to try and stop him from entering Blackfoot country?” Nate inquired.

  The younger Burke nodded. “I tried to stop him in St. Louis, but he slipped out of the city in the middle of the night. By the time I bought my supplies and pack animals and took off after him, he had almost a two-day start.” His voice lowered. “I love him dearly, but what is a man to do when his own flesh and blood is driven to commit suicide?”

  Nate had no answer for that.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” George said, his voice breaking, “I need to walk alone awhile. I’ll stop by in an hour or so, if that’s all right with you?”

  “We’ll be expecting you.”

  With a curt nod, George headed south, his head bowed, his fists clenched.

  “Why are these men so upset with each other if they’re brothers?” Zach asked. “Don’t you always say that a family should stick together through thick and thin? I know if I ever get a little brother, I’ll never get mad at him.”

  Shakespeare chuckled and put his hand on Zach’s head. “Suggest but truth to my divining thoughts,” he quoted. “This pretty lad will prove our country’s bliss. His looks are full of peaceful majesty, his head by nature framed to wear a crown, his hand to wield a scepter, and himself likely in time to bless a regal throne.”

  “Huh?” Zach said.

  “Pay no attention to Uncle Shakespeare,” Nate advised. “He’s doing his best to confuse everyone today.” Hefting the Hawken, he strode up to the minister. “I take it you’re feeling much better.”

  “I was until my brother showed up,” Burke replied. “Now I’ll have him pestering me until I ride out.” He squinted up at the sun. “It’s too late in the day to leave now. We can depart tomorrow at first light if you’re up to it.”

  “We?”

  “Yes. I need a reliable guide. From what your friend McNair was telling me, you’re one of the most respected trappers in these mountains. I feared the Bloods had killed you, but your presence here proves you have courage. So at dawn we’ll be on our way.”

  “And just where do you expect me to guide you?”

  “I imagine you know where. Into Blackfoot country, of course.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Few words were spoken during the evening meal.

  Winona served up a delicious elk stew, courtesy of her aunt, who provided the meat. She also made tasty cakes to dip in the stew and a boiled flour pudding for desert. Hot coffee capped off the supper.

  Nate ate in somber silence. Normally, meals were an occasion for conversation and laughter, but the two brothers had put a damper on this one. John and George Burke sat across from each another, John the perfect picture of resentment and George wearing his anger on his sleeve. Their attitudes affected even young Zach, who usually talked incessantly; this evening he ate quietly, occasionally giving the two men a timid quizzical glance.

  When the meal was over and Winona was busily clearing away the tin pans and flat pieces of bark that had been used as plates, Nate shifted to adjust his crossed legs and regarded the brothers coldly. “I think it’s time we cleared the air and settled a few things. Your personal affairs are none of my business, but since the reverend has asked me to help him, I have a right to speak my piece.”

  “What’s your decision?” John Burke asked.

  Nate raised his tin cup to his lips and swallowed a mouthful of coffee. He had put off the minister earlier by informing the older Burke he needed time to decide whether he would serve as an escort to Blackfoot territory. In reality he had wanted the time to think up a way to convince John Burke he was making the biggest mistake of his life.

  “Well?” the reverend prompted impatiently.

  “I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought,” Nate said. “And I have to be honest. I agree with your brother.”

  Reverend Burke glowered, placed his hands on the ground, and began to rise. “I should have known.”

  “
Wait,” Nate said. “Hear me out.”

  “There is nothing you can say that will persuade me to change my mind,” the minister responded, although he relaxed his arms and leaned back. “But out of courtesy I will listen to whatever it is.”

  Nate glanced at Shakespeare, who was filling a pipe and appeared distinctly uninterested in the entire matter, then at the brothers. “If it was practically any other tribe, Reverend, I would take you to them without hesitation. The Nez Percé, the Flatheads, the Bannocks, the Sioux, they are all reasonably friendly to whites. They would hear you out, and they’d allow you to leave in peace whenever you wanted.” He tapped his coffee cup with a forefinger. “The Blackfeet will kill you before you can open your mouth.”

  “You can’t be certain of that.”

  “But I can. More white men have lost their lives to the Blackfeet than to all the other tribes combined. You will be dead five minutes after you run into them unless they’re of a mind to torture you first to see how brave you are. In that case you’ll live a bit longer.”

  “The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength in whom I trust, my buckler, and the horn of my salvation, and my high tower,” Burke said, quoting Scripture. “I have nothing to fear.”

  Nate tried another argument. “All right then. Let’s suppose you do meet up with the Blackfeet. How will you teach them about God and Jesus when none of them, to my knowledge, speak English? Do you know sign language?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know the Blackfoot tongue?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then how will you teach them?”

  “Where there is a will, there is a way,” Reverend Burke said. “I trust in the Lord. He will guide me.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, I don’t think you’re being very realistic,” Nate commented.

  “I do mind,” Reverend Burke stated, and stood. “Thank you for an excellent meal, Mrs. King. And I want to thank both of you for the gracious hospitality you’ve shown me. You’ll be glad to hear that I won’t be a burden to you much longer.” Wheeling, he stepped to the flap.

  “Wait,” Nate said, but the minister paid no heed. The flap closed and John Burke was gone.

  “He will never listen to reason,” George said bitterly. “My brother is the world’s biggest fool.”

  Shakespeare, who until that moment had been uncommonly reticent, not uttering so much as a syllable, now grunted and said, “All places that the eye of heaven visits are to a wise man ports and happy havens. Teach thy necessity to reason thus; there is no virtue like necessity.”

  George gave the mountain man a sharp look. “Are you saying you agree with his insanity?”

  “Not at all,” Shakespeare said. “I merely made an observation written years ago by old William S.”

  “Explain what you meant. I don’t follow you.”

  “No one ever does,” Nate joked, leaning forward. He cradled the coffee cup in his hands and swirled the dark brew a few times. “George, what will John do now that I’ve turned him down? Will he give up and go back to St. Louis?”

  “Never. Not him. He’s too pigheaded.”

  “But without a guide his chances of finding a Blackfoot village are slim.”

  “That won’t stop him,” George said, his shoulders sagging. “You see, there’s more to this notion of his than you know.”

  “Enlighten us,” Shakespeare said.

  The younger Burke sighed, his brow furrowed in deep contemplation. After a while he glanced at them and bobbed his chin. “Very well. By all rights John should be telling you this, but he won’t ever tell a soul.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You see, my brother wasn’t always as stubborn as he is today. Once he was the kindest, most tolerant man you would ever want to meet. He tried his utmost to live the Golden Rule, to love everyone, to do unto others as he would have them do to him. He was highly respected and his church services were usually filled to overflowing.”

  Outside arose a few shouts and loud laughter. The Shoshones were gathering for the night’s festivities.

  “John had a lovely wife named Pearl,” George went on, “and they were the proud parents of a six-year-old boy they named Solomon. They were loving, caring parents. You would have marveled to see them.”

  “It hardly sounds like the same man,” Nate said.

  “True,” George said sadly. “And with good reason.” He inhaled loudly. “Not quite a year ago John took his family from our hometown in Rhode Island to St. Louis. He’d heard about the rowdy, godless types who inhabit that city, and he figured there was a great spiritual need he could fill. Very few ministers venture anywhere near the frontier. He wanted to be one of the first.”

  “Where are his wife and son now?” Nate asked.

  “Bear with me,” George said. “About six months after John began his new ministry, I received a letter from him. It turned out that the trappers, mountain men, and traders in his flock had filled his head with tales about the many Indian tribes living on the plains and in the mountains. And do you know what impressed him the most? The fact the Indians were all heathens. He saw an even greater need than in St. Louis. So earlier this year he started out with Pearl and Solomon for the Rockies.”

  Shakespeare’s head shot up. “All by themselves?”

  “Yes. I wrote him and tried to convince him that he was putting his family at great risk, but he never answered me. After all the stories I had read in the newspapers about trappers and other travelers who had run-ins with the Indians, I was extremely worried. I suggested he find another party heading west and travel with them.” George closed his eyes and touched a hand to his brow.

  No comments were necessary. Nate solemnly waited for the younger Burke to continue, certain he knew how the account would end.

  “The next thing, about a month and a half after my brother departed St. Louis, I received a letter from a man who was a former member of my brother’s congregation there. It turned out that John had been back for two or three weeks and never let me know. The man kindly told me there had been a terrible tragedy, that both Pearl and Solomon had been slain. John was distraught, and the man felt I might be able to comfort him. So I left immediately for St. Louis.”

  All eyes were on George as he took a hasty sip of coffee. “I found him easily enough, and I couldn’t believe the change that had come over him. He wasn’t the brother I remembered. His whole personality was different. Where before he had been kind and considerate, now he was bitter and rude. And nothing I said or did would bring him around.”

  “What happened to his family, sir?” Zachary inquired.

  George licked his lips. “They were killed by Indians. John refused to talk about it, but I was able to find the three trappers who had found him and brought him all the way back to St. Louis. They told me John and his family camped in a stand of trees beside a small stream. Apparently, a band of Indians spotted them and that night closed in. John was at the stream, bending down to fill a bucket with water when he was hit over the head, struck from behind with a tomahawk. The Indians must have figured they’d split his skull because they left him there and went after Pearl and Solomon.”

  “You don’t need to finish,” Nate said softly. “We can guess what happened.”

  “No, I don’t mind,” George said. “You might as well know. It will help you to understand why my brother is acting the way he is. ” He took another deep breath. “From the tracks at the scene, the trappers believed Solomon had tried to go to John’s aid and was stabbed in the chest, then scalped. Pearl was stripped naked, ravaged, and had her throat slit. They probably would have scalped John too, but they must have seen the trappers approaching the camp fire and left.”

  In the profound silence that ensued, the laughter and happy voices of the Shoshones outside seemed grossly inappropriate.

  “Did the trappers know which tribe was responsible?” Shakespeare asked.

  George shook his head. “They scoured the a
rea but all they found were a few moccasin prints and hoof tracks. The Indians didn’t leave any solid clues behind.” He coughed. “The oldest trapper thought a band of Kiowas might have done the deed based on the stitching of the moccasins.”

  Nate frowned. It was indeed possible to note the stitching pattern if a footprint was left in soft soil, such as at the edge of a stream. And the Kiowas, while not as widely feared as the Blackfeet, were formidably ruthless in their own right and prone to exterminating any whites they encountered.

  “John was beside himself when the trappers revived him. He refused to eat for days and came near dying himself. By the time they reached St. Louis he was a skeleton. He’s still thinner than he ever was in his whole life. I doubt he eats regularly. His guilt is gnawing away at his soul, and if he keeps on as he’s doing he’ll eventually waste away to nothing.” George paused. “But he doesn’t intend to let it get that far.”

  “No,” Shakespeare said, and launched into another quote. “Methink I am a prophet new inspired and thus expiring do foretell of him: His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last, for violent fires soon burn out themselves; small showers last long, but sudden storms are short; he tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes; with eager feeding food doth choke the feeder: Light vanity, insatiate cormorant, consuming means, soon preys upon itself.”

  “When did he get this crazy notion of ministering to the Blackfeet?” Nate inquired.

  “About six or seven weeks ago, when he was talking to the same trappers who had saved him. They told him that converting the Indians was impossible, that his heart had been in the right place but he was wrong in thinking the Indians would be remotely interested in the white man’s religion. I was there. I saw the look on his face when the oldest trapper mentioned that some tribes were decent while others were devils incarnate.”

  “And this trapper mentioned the Blackfeet by name,” Shakespeare said.

  “Yes. He went on about them at length, how they are the worst of the lot, fiends who delight in inflicting pain and seeing others suffer.”