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

by Robbins, David

  “What did you see?” Shakespeare asked.

  “Might have been sun on a rifle barrel.”

  Forgetting Nate’s advice, George started to turn toward the bluff, but was stopped by a smack on the arm from Shakespeare.

  “We don’t want whoever it is to know we know he’s watching us,” the mountain man said.

  “But what if it’s a hostile and he takes it into his head to shoot at us?”

  “We’re a hundred and fifty yards off if we’re a yard,” Shakespeare responded. “He’d have to be a damn fine shot, and he knows that even if he bagged one of us the other two can reach the trees before he reloads and then go after him.”

  “There might be more than one,” George argued, convinced they were in mortal jeopardy.

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” Nate said. “I aim to ride up and have a look.”

  “We could all go,” Shakespeare said.

  “And make three times as much noise,” Nate replied. “No, I’ll go by myself. You know what to do.”

  “We’ll be waiting,” Shakespeare said, and grinned at him. “Shoot sharp’s the word.”

  “What?” George asked.

  “That’s trapper lingo for good luck.”

  “Oh.”

  Waiting until the valley curved to the right and a projecting arm of pines blocked the bluff from view, Nate yanked on the reins and rode rapidly into the forest. Bending low over the saddle, the Hawken clutched in his left hand, he headed for the north base of the bluff. If whoever was up there was still watching, it would be a minute before Shakespeare and Burke rode into sight. By the time the person figured out Nate was no longer with them, he would be at the bluff.

  Thick undergrowth enabled him to reach his goal without mishap. Straightening, he held Pegasus to a walk and moved eastward along the base. The front of the bluff consisted of a gently sloping hill covered with high grass, scattered pines, and infrequent boulders. He drew rein under a spruce to scan the hill carefully, and was rewarded by spying a ground-hitched, saddled roan halfway up the slope.

  He moved toward it. A saddle meant a white man. Who did he know who might be roaming through this region? He could think of no one, and since it wasn’t wise to ride right up to a man who might not want to be found, he dismounted next to the roan and grounded the stallion’s reins. Then, his Hawken at the ready, he slowly climbed the hill.

  The bluff leveled off near the top. Nate glided silently, his footfalls muffled by the grass underfoot, using all available cover, moving from boulder to tree to clump of weeds like a buckskin-clad ghost. He had learned his lessons well, and few were the warriors who could move more quietly.

  Someone coughed above him and to the left.

  Nate crouched, the grass swishing lightly against his moccasins as he advanced. There was a row of small boulders near the rim and a solitary stunted pine. Suddenly a shadow separated itself from the trunk and inched closer to the rim. His thumb on the hammer, Nate crept forward until behind one of the boulders. Tensing, he stood upright and trained his rifle on the figure squatting in the open. “Howdy, friend.”

  The man whirled, his face showing astonishment. A lanky frontiersman in typical buckskins and moccasins, he had oily black hair worn well past his shoulders and a greased mustache but no beard. His eyes were brown, his tanned skin the result of spending all his time in the outdoors. “Tarnation, mister!” he declared. “You plumb scared me half to death!”

  Nate saw a telescope clutched in the man’s right hand. So that explained the glint of sunlight he had seen. A sizeable number of mountaineers, including the redoubtable Jim Bridger, relied on telescopes when scouting the country around them. As Bridger had once joked in Nate’s presence, “It’s easier to give a band of hostiles out for scalps the slip when you see them coming a mile off than when they pop up out of a ravine right in front of you.”

  “Why’d you sneak up on me anyway?” the frontiersman demanded, regaining his composure.

  “I like to know who’s spying on me,” Nate replied. “What’s your name?”

  “Allen. Henry Allen, from Tennessee. And who might you be?”

  “Nate King. Some folks know me better as Grizzly Killer,” Nate answered, stepping around the boulder and slowly lowering his Hawken. He noticed Allen’s rifle propped against the stunted pine. Allen also had a belt knife and a single flintlock.

  “I saw you at the last Rendezvous but never got a chance to talk to you. You’re Shakespeare McNair’s close friend, as I recollect.”

  “I am,” Nate allowed, suppressing a smile. For all his fame as a killer of bears, Shakespeare had him beat hands down. McNair was a truly legendary figure among trappers and Indians alike, more widely recognized than Bridger himself.

  “Was that him I saw you with down yonder?”

  Nodding, Nate moved forward and offered his right hand. “I apologize for spooking you. But as you must know, a man doesn’t live long out here by being careless.”

  Allen grinned. “Believe you me, I know. I’ve been trapping for pretty near two years.”

  “What are you doing in this neck of the woods?”

  Allen closed his collapsible telescope, then gestured to the northwest. “I’ve been living with some Crows for the better part of ten months. Have me a Crow wife and a sprout on the way come fall.” He stepped to the tree to reclaim his long rifle, a Kentucky in fine condition. “Their village is about four days’ ride from here. My wife has been nagging me about needing a new buffalo robe, so I’m on my way to the plains. I stopped to rest my horse and while I was sitting up here keeping my eyes peeled for hostiles, who should I see but four Arapahos heading north.”

  “Arapahos?” Nate repeated, worried for the minister. Or more precisely, the minister’s horses and possessions. Arapahos were not inherently warlike, as were the Blackfeet, but they would steal a man’s belongings if they felt they could get away with it.

  “Why are you so concerned?” Allen asked. “They went by forty minutes ago or more.”

  Briefly, Nate told Henry Allen about Reverend John Burke and the reverend’s plan to try and convert the Blackfeet to Christianity.

  “Is the man touched in the head?’

  “In a sense,” Nate said, sighing. He related the fate of John Burke’s family.

  “My. That’s sure a pity,” Allen said at the conclusion of the story. “A man of the cloth, no less. I guess it can happen to the best of us.” He hefted his Kentucky. “Tell you what, friend. If you have no objections, I’d like to tag along and lend a hand. Some folks say I’m a fair shot, and I know this country hereabouts better than most because I hunt and trap it all the time.”

  “We’d be happy to have you,” Nate said gratefully. When confronting Indians, there was always greater safety in numbers. Most warriors would think twice about tackling a superior force of whites, but wouldn’t hesitate a second if they outnumbered their intended victims.

  “Lead the way,” Allen said, and when they had gone a few feet added, “I heard tell that you have a Shoshone wife and a young’un.”

  “I do.”

  “And that you kill grizzlies with a swat of your hand.”

  Nate laughed. “I wish it was so easy.”

  “Killed any lately?”

  “Two within the past few days.”

  Allen broke stride, then quickly recovered. “Oh. Is that ain’t. Maybe sometime you’ll share the secret of your success. I for one go in the opposite direction when I see a grizzly coming.”

  “My secret is no mystery. It’s called bad luck.”

  “How can killing grizzlies right and left be bad? Would you rather they killed you?”

  “It’s not the killing, it’s running into the blamed things in the first place.”

  “Never thought of it that way.”

  Once on their mounts, Nate led his newfound acquaintance down to the base of the bluff and into the forest. Now if they could only overtake the Arapahos before the Arapahos overtook John Burke,
they might be able to avert serious trouble. Speed was of the essence.

  He found Shakespeare and George a quarter of a mile from the point where he had left them, waiting in the shade at the edge of the trees. Once introductions were over and Nate disclosed the identity of the four warriors, he assumed the lead and pressed Pegasus into a gallop. None of the others spoke; they all appreciated the gravity of the situation.

  The reverend’s trail took them on a winding course among the foothills instead of making for the prairie as Nate had guessed would be the case. Nate got the impression John Burke had been looking for something. But what? A place to camp? More water? Rounding a low hill, he suddenly reined up, his gaze fastened on a thin column of white smoke spiraling skyward half a mile distant.

  “My brother has stopped!” George exclaimed, and raced ahead, lashing his steed with the ends of his reins.

  “Hold up!” Nate cried, but was ignored. He gave chase, seeking some sign of the Arapahos, afraid George would recklessly rush into an ambush. To his rear thundered Shakespeare’s and Allen’s horses. They covered a quarter of a mile before Nate was able to draw abreast of George. “Slow down!” he bellowed. “You’re putting all our lives at risk.”

  “My brother might need us! I’m not halting until we’re there!”

  “Yes, you are,” Nate retorted angrily. Lunging to the right, he grabbed George’s reins and wrenched them from the unsuspecting man’s grasp, forcing George to grab onto his saddle and cling to it to keep from being spilled onto the ground. Nate brought Pegasus and Burke’s animal to a gradual stop, and was about to give George a tongue-lashing when from the vicinity of the smoke arose a series of shrill war whoops.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Damn!” Nate snapped, flinging George’s reins down. Digging his heels into Pegasus, he flew toward the smoke, the fringe on his buckskins flapping in the wind. Reverend Burke had made camp in a stand of firs through which a narrow creek flowed. Until Nate reached the trees, he couldn’t see what was happening. But as he dove in among the trunks he glimpsed a number of horses on the east bank and several figures moving about near a fire.

  His arrival took the Arapahos by surprise. They were in the act of plundering the minister’s supplies, whooping and venting cries of delight at their finds, and consequently didn’t hear him coming until he was among them. He burst from cover into the clearing in which the camp was situated just as a tall warrior held aloft a spare pair of long underwear and crowed loudly.

  Three of the band were by the crackling fire, the fourth standing near the prone form of Reverend Burke. They all spun, and the tall one dropped the long underwear and grabbed for a tomahawk at his waist.

  Nate reined up with one hand as he jammed the Hawken to his shoulder with the other and trained the barrel on the tall warrior. The Arapaho recoiled backwards anticipating a ball in the chest. But Nate held his fire. His meaning was clear. If any of them pulled a weapon on him, he would shoot.

  For a moment the outcome hung in the balance, the warriors frozen in indecision, Nate doing his best to keep the Hawken trained on the tall Arapaho despite the fidgeting of his stallion. And then Shakespeare, Allen, and George arrived, the first two with their rifles leveled.

  The younger Burke took one look at his brother and leaped to the ground. He started to run over when a harsh command from Nate halted him in his tracks.

  “Not yet! Don’t get between us and these Indians or you might be caught in the cross fire if they decide to put up a fight!”

  “But John—”

  “Will have to wait,” Nate ordered. He slid off Pegasus and warily approached the tall warrior, lowering his Hawken to waist height but kept the man covered. “Do you speak their tongue, Shakespeare?” he asked without taking his eyes off the Arapaho. So far as he knew, his friend was fluent in four Indian languages, spoke three others passably well, and might know more. McNair wasn’t the type to brag about his accomplishments.

  “Can’t say as I do,” Shakespeare answered. “Always wanted to but somehow or other I never got around to it. Once I hit seventy I started to slow down. No excuse for it other than outright laziness, I reckon.”

  “Watch them like a hawk,” Nate cautioned, and tucked the Hawken under his left arm to free his hands. “I am Grizzly Killer of the Shoshone,” he signed, then pointed at the minister. “This man is my friend. Have you killed him?”

  “I am Running Antelope of the Arapaho,” the tall warrior responded. “Do not blame me or my friends for his condition.”

  “Then why is he lying there?”

  Running Antelope glanced up at Shakespeare, then at Shakespeare’s rifle. “I do not know. We were following him, waiting for a chance to steal his horses, when he made his camp at this spot. We watched him build his fire, walk to the stream, and drink some water. As he moved toward his horses he suddenly put a hand to his forehead and fell. We did not touch him.”

  Nate believed him. While Arapahos might be horse thieves and occasionally cold-hearted killers, they were no worse in their dealings with whites than any other tribe, not counting the Blackfeet and their confederates. And the Arapahos certainly weren’t liars. Few warriors in any of the tribes made lying a regular practice because of the scorn that would be heaped on them if they were caught. By and large, Indians in general were much more honest than their white counterparts.

  He sidled over to the minister and dropped to one knee to touch his hand to John Burke’s cheek. It was as hot as the nearby fire. Pressing his palm to Burke’s brow confirmed the reverend was burning up with fever.

  “Is he—?” George asked, unable to finish the question.

  “He’s alive,” Nate said, “but he’s as sick as a dog. All that gallivanting in his weakened state only made matters worse.”

  “Can I help him now?”

  “Go right ahead,” Nate said, rising. He stood aside as George rushed to John’s aid, then addressed Running Antelope. “I believe you did not harm our friend. But you were all too eager to take his possessions when he was helpless, and this I hold against you. Neither I or my friends have ever sought trouble with your people. We deserve to be treated better than this.” He tactfully did not mention the run-in he once had with a war party of five Arapahos who had kidnapped Winona. Fortunately, none of the five made it back to their village to report the clash.

  Running Antelope appeared bewildered by the statements. He stared at the minister and the minister’s pack-horses. “Perhaps we were wrong in thinking this man was our enemy and that we had every right to take his things, but our people have not had many dealings with whites. No one has ever told us the whites are our friends.”

  “My people have a saying,” Nate signed. “Always do to others as you would have them do to you.”

  “A wise saying,” Running Antelope conceded after a bit. “I will be sure to tell everyone I know that your people are not as bad as we think if you allow us to leave in peace.”

  Nate nodded at their war ponies. “You are free to go now. We have no wish to kill you.”

  At a gesture from Running Antelope, the Arapahos climbed on their horses and turned their mounts to the south. Running Antelope paused to look at Nate. “You have spared us and we are in your debt. In return, I will warn you that two sleeps ago we came on the sign left by a large war party of Blackfeet. They are roaming in this area.”

  “I thank you,” Nate said, disturbed by the news. If the war party found them, there would be hell to pay. They had to get the reverend back to the Shoshone village quickly.

  Uttering a loud yip, Running Antelope led his fellow warriors southward at a trot. They never looked back, and were soon out of sight.

  “Well done, son. You averted bloodshed,” Shakespeare stated. “The youngest son of Priam, a true knight, not yet mature, yet matchless, firm of word, speaking in deeds and deedless in his tongue, not soon provoked nor being provoked soon calmed; his heart and hand both open and both free.”

  Allen cast an incredul
ous glance at the mountain man. “What did you just say?”

  “Pay him no mind,” Nate threw in. “His brain stopped working a decade ago.”

  “You pierce me to the quick, young sire,” Shakespeare said.

  George Burke, who had been carefully examining his brother, turned on them. “I’m glad you can find the time to joke around while poor John lies at death’s door. He’s ill, terribly ill, and I don’t know what to do.”

  Shakespeare slid off his mare. “Allow me. I’ve picked up a little medical know-how from the Indians over the years and I might be able to do some good.” He knelt next to the minister.

  “Those Arapahos told us there’s a band of Blackfeet in this area,” Nate informed George. “No matter how bad off your brother is, we have to head back within the hour. If they caught us here we wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “John is in no shape to ride,” George said.

  “Then we’ll rig a travois and haul him behind his pack animals,” Nate proposed.

  “Do you really think that will work?” Allen asked. “Those horses aren’t accustomed to pulling a travois. They might buck or kick or drag Reverend Burke off into the brush before we could stop them.”

  “I know,” Nate said. “We’ll just have to keep them under control until we’re satisfied they won’t give us any trouble.”

  “It sounds too risky to me,” George said. “What if I refuse to allow it?”

  “Would you rather wind up in the hands of the Blackfeet?” Nate said, and glanced at the fire. That column of smoke was a certain giveaway of their location, and it would draw a hostile war party like a flame drew moths.

  He saw a tin pan the minister had unpacked, apparently in preparation for making a meal, and quickly picked it up and went to the creek. Three trips were needed before he completely doused the flames. He stood back as the last tendrils of smoke climbed upward, then stamped on a few lingering embers.