Jim Bridger, a man Nate respected highly, claimed many more emigrants would be heading to the Oregon Territory in the years to come, and that there would be a great need for reliable guides since most settlers “couldn’t find their backsides with both hands and a mirror, let alone find their way to the Pacific Coast.” And Bridger, Nate believed, was right.
Which was another reason he had agreed to take the Banner party to Fort Hall. They were going to pay him one hundred dollars for his services, a sizeable sum that would tide his family over until his next prolonged trapping trip. And if he found the experience agreeable, he might set his sights on hiring out again as a guide in the future. He made a mental note to buy old Isaac Fraeb a couple of bottles of whiskey to show his gratitude for being recommended for the job.
The creak and rattle of a wagon as it drew even with the stallion brought Nate’s reflection to an end and he glanced to his right.
“I wanted to have a few words with you,” Simon Banner said, flicking the reins with his brawny hands. His team, four sturdy horses well accustomed to hauling freight wagons, responded superbly.
“What about?” Nate asked.
“Do you think we’ll reach Fort Hall on time?”
“We should.”
“I don’t want to be late. The man my brother-in-law is sending to meet us and take us the rest of the way might not wait around very long if we don’t show up by the first of July.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Banner. I’ll get you there.”
“But I do worry, King. I have the lives of my family and these other good people to think of. In effect we’ve put our fate in your hands, and I, for one, am still waiting to be convinced that you are every bit the able frontiersman Isaac claimed.”
“If you’re not happy with me, I’ll ride off now and you can go your own way,” Nate said. He looked at Alice Banner, touched his hand to his hat, and went to turn his horse.
“Now hold on!” Simon blurted. “I didn’t mean to insult you, and I certainly don’t want you to leave us alone out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“Perhaps, husband,” Alice said, “it would be best if you kept as tight a rein on your tongue as you do on the team.”
Nate saw Simon flush scarlet and smiled at Alice. Of them all, she was the friendliest, the one he liked the best. She reminded him of an aunt back in New York, a practical, no-nonsense sort of woman who always spoke her piece and wasn’t cowed by anyone.
“What lies on the trail ahead?” Simon asked quickly to cover his embarrassment.
“Past South Pass we’ll make for the Green River. From there, we head northwest until we reach the Snake River area and Fort Hall.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“It’s not,” Nate admitted. “There will be days at a stretch when we’ll need to ration our water. Grass for the horses will be hard to find at times. There will be steep grades to deal with and deep rivers to cross. And every step of the way we’ll have to keep our eyes peeled for Indians out to count coup.” He stared at the white canvas top covering the bed of the wagon. “I never thought to ask. You folks did bring foofaraw, didn’t you?”
“Bring what?” Alice inquired.
“Sorry, ma’am. Foofaraw is trapper talk for trade things like ribbons, beads, trinkets, and whatnot.”
Alice laughed lightly. “What a funny term! You mountain men sure do invent colorful words.”
Nate straightened. That was the first time anyone had ever referred to him as a mountain man. He’d heard and used the expression before, usually in reference to old coons like Shakespeare who had lived in the rugged mountains nearly all of their eventful lives. But he had never regarded himself as being a true mountain man since he hadn’t lived in the Rockies half as long as most of the few old-timers still alive. He was a free trapper, plain and simple.
“I’m afraid we didn’t bring much to trade,” Simon Banner was saying. “No one told us we would need to.”
The statement worried Nate. He hadn’t thought to check their provisions when Isaac led him to where they were camped out on the prairie three days ago, and that oversight might cause problems later on if they hadn’t brought all they should. “How many guns does your party have?” he asked.
“Each man has two rifles,” Simon said, “and Harry and I each brought pistols along.”
“Good. There’s no telling when they might come in handy.”
“Perhaps sooner than you think,” Alice remarked, pointing due west.
Nate shifted, and there, riding hard toward them, was a band of six warriors mounted on sleek, painted war ponies. As he laid eyes on the band, the Indians whooped and waved their weapons overhead.
Chapter Two
No two Indian tribes dressed exactly alike or wore their hair in the exact same style. Although many Plains tribes and some mountain dwellers relied extensively on the buffalo for everything from their clothing to their cooking utensils and their lodge furnishings, they displayed an endless variety in making these items that never ceased to fascinate Nate. In one tribe the men wore loose-fitting, plain shirts, while in another the men went in for elaborate beadwork, in another long fringes. In one tribe the parfleches might be small and hand-painted; in another, large and adorned with bright beads. Even the cradleboards used by mothers to carry young children were unique with each tribe.
So it was that Nate recognized the band galloping swiftly toward him as a roving war party of Sioux. He hefted the Hawken and braced for the worst. Three wagons loaded with goods might be more of a temptation than the warriors would let pass. He was about to raise his hand, to use sign language to tell the Sioux not to get too close, when they angled to the north, still whooping and waving their bows and lances. He noticed a tall warrior in the lead held a long stick from which dangled three long locks of black hair, and then he understood.
“Simon, don’t!”
Nate turned to see Simon Banner taking aim with a rifle. “You heard your wife!” he snapped. “They won’t bother us if we don’t bother them.”
“How can you be sure?” Simon responded skeptically.
“See that man in the front?”
“The buck carrying that stick?” Simon leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “What are those things hanging from it?”
“Scalps.”
“My word!” Alice exclaimed.
“They’re on their way back to their village after a successful raid on one of their enemies,” Nate detailed. “Right now they’re just taunting us, letting us know they’re great warriors and that they’re not afraid of us. But they don’t mean any harm. They’re in a hurry to reach their people so they can show off the scalps they took and tell about the coup they counted. The tribe will throw a victory dance for them, and they’ll likely celebrate for days.”
“How primitive,” Alice said.
Nate was about to point out that victories won in battle were big events in Indian life when he spotted Harry Nesmith, perched on the seat of the second wagon, lifting the Kentucky. “No!” he roared, and goaded the stallion into a run that brought him to the wagon in seconds. “Don’t fire!” he commanded. Then he gazed at the last wagon to verify Neil Webster wasn’t about to commit the same mistake. “They’ll leave us alone if we don’t start anything.”
In confirmation, the band was soon little more than black dots racing across the limitless expanse of verdant prairie.
“From here on out,” Nate said to Harry, “no one will fire a gun without first getting my say-so. And that includes you, Nesmith. You’re a mite too bloodthirsty for my taste. If you’re not careful, you’ll get us into a heap of trouble before this trip is done.”
Young Nesmith bristled. “This is my gun,” he declared, holding the Kentucky out over the edge of his seat, “and I’ll shoot it any damn time I please.”
Nate didn’t waste time in further debate. He simply reached up, grabbed the Kentucky, and pulled with all the might in his arm and shoulder before Nesmith could think to
let go. Which was sufficient to yank Harry clean off of the wagon seat and to send him sailing head over heels for a good dozen feet to tumble onto the ground with a resounding thud.
Cora Nesmith screamed.
Sliding down, Nate walked up to Harry, who had both hands on the ground and was attempting to stand. Without warning, without ceremony, he slammed the stock of the Hawken into the side of Harry’s head and Nesmith crumpled like an empty sack of potatoes. Angry shouts from the right and the left made him look up.
Both Simon Banner and Neil Webster were converging on the spot.
“What’s the meaning of this outrage?” Banner demanded rudely. “You’re supposed to guide and protect us, not attack us!”
“True enough,” Nate said, “but I didn’t figure on having to protect you from yourselves. And I’m fed up with having every word I say tossed back in my face.” He glared at the two pilgrims. “From here on out, all of you will do as I say when I say it. One more argument, one more time where one of you thinks he knows better than I do how to survive out here, and you’ll be on your own. Savvy?”
“You don’t mean that,” Neil Webster said.
“Yes, he does,” Simon stated, kneeling to examine Harry. “All right, King. We’ll do things your way. But I want you to know I’m not accustomed to having any man tell me how to live my life.”
Nate spun on his heels and stepped to the stallion.
“You’re a hard man, King,” Simon added.
“The Rockies make a man that way,” Nate said, mounting. “Nature has her lessons to teach, and the man who fails to learn them doesn’t last long. The wilderness is no place for weaklings, cowards, or pigheaded fools.” He rode up to the first wagon, then stopped and looked back to observe Nesmith being slapped to life.
“Mr. King?” Alice said softly.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Please forgive my husband and the other men. They’re really decent, hard-working men at heart, and they don’t bear you any ill will.” She surveyed the unknown land to the west. “It’s not easy taking the biggest step of your entire life, risking everything that you own and those you love the most, and not knowing how things will turn out in the end.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, ma’am, your husband will do right fine with you by his side. Every hothead needs a wise woman like yourself to show him when he’s making a fool of himself.”
“Mr. King! I’m blushing!”
Grinning, Nate rode slowly forward. Soon the wagons were in motion again, and the next five hours passed uneventfully. Added to the rattling of the wagons and the dull thud of weary hoofs was the rustling of the wind through the high grass. Occasionally rabbits bounded away in bursts of incredible speed. Prairie dogs whistled shrilly to warn their fellows or chattered angrily at the intruders. Deer and antelope kept respectful distances.
Once a small herd of buffalo interrupted their grazing to watch the lumbering wagons go by.
Nate liked the plains, but nowhere near as much as he liked the mountains. Give him the snow-crowned peaks, the crystal-clear high country lakes, the virgin pine forests teeming with wildlife, and he was content. On the prairie he felt too exposed, too vulnerable. There were few places for a man to seek shelter if set upon.
Consequently, he was relieved when South Pass finally rose into sight. The mountains themselves had appeared much sooner, at first as vague blue shapes shimmering on the horizon. To the north lay the Wind River Range. To the south rose the Green Mountains. Between them lay the single most accessible pass through the entire chain of foreboding Rockies, a wide, gently sloping sandy saddle that wagons could negotiate with ease.
South Pass had been used regularly by Indians for ages; by white men ever since the early 1820s, when enterprising trappers had availed themselves of the gateway to enter the previously unexplored Green River country, which turned out to be a prime trapping region. The annual caravans bearing supplies from St. Louis to the various Rendezvous sites all relied on South Pass, and only the year before the caravan had included a number of wagons.
All this Nate knew well, and it was why he had guided the emigrants straight to the pass from their camp on the Plains. He was mildly surprised to note deep ruts in the soil left by the wagons that had gone over the pass the year before, and he idly wondered how scarred the earth would be if great numbers of wagons were to head westward in the years to come as Bridger and Shakespeare contended would be the case.
He was constantly alert for Indians. Availing himself of the slope, he turned in his saddle and scanned the prairie they were leaving behind. The endless sea of grass shimmered in the sunlight, stretching to the eastern horizon, broken only by scattered stands of trees and a knoll or two. There was ample game in evidence but no sign of Indians.
It would be a minor miracle if they reached Fort Hall without running into hostiles. The Green River country they were about to cross was a favorite stamping ground of the highly feared Blackfoot confederacy, consisting of the formidable Blackfeet themselves and their two allies, the Bloods and the Piegans. Of the three the Blackfeet were by far the worst, waging war as they did not only on all whites but also on every other tribe outside the confederacy. They were the bane of the Shoshones, Crows, and Nez Percé, all friends to the whites.
Nate had tangled with the Blackfeet on more occasions than he cared to count, and had no desire to go up against them again. If he should be killed, the pilgrims wouldn’t stand a prayer. The Blackfeet would show no mercy, not even to the women. In fact, the women might suffer a worse fate than the men, who would undoubtedly be tortured before being slain. Some of the Blackfeet might be inclined to take the white women into their lodges, perhaps for the novelty, in effect banishing their captives to a life of perpetual slavery, to daily backbreaking toil, and much worse, to never-ending harsh treatment at the hands of the Blackfoot women.
Suddenly Nate heard a snort, then a low grunt, both from the other side of the pass. He was almost to the top, and he hefted his Hawken as he rode high enough to see the land unfold to the west. There were mountains and valleys and canyons galore. But much closer was a sight so unexpected that he reined up in astonishment.
Hundreds and hundreds of shaggy buffaloes were coming directly toward him.
He realized a large herd was on its way onto the prairie and the wagons were right in the path of the great brutes. If a stampede started, the settlers would be caught right in the middle. There was no time to swing wide and wait for the herd to pass because the foremost bulls were less than two hundred yards away. Something else had to be done, and quickly.
Nate wheeled the stallion and raced to the first wagon. “Buffalo!” he warned them, waving for the other wagons to close the gap. “Bunch up and sit tight. If the critters stampede, get in the beds of your wagons and lie low.”
Nesmith and Webster brought up their wagons rapidly and positioned themselves on either side of Banner’s wagon. No sooner did they stop than the first line of lumbering bison appeared.
Buffalo were completely unpredictable. A herd might flee at the mere sight of a man, or it might stand its ground until fired upon. Once panicked, a herd was transformed into an unstoppable force of Nature, rolling over everything in its way, covering scores of miles in uncontrolled flight. Indians used this trait to their advantage by driving herds over cliffs. In one day thousands of bison might be killed, providing enough hides and meat to last many months.
Individually buffalo were equally formidable. The bulls stood six feet at the shoulder and possessed horn spreads of three feet. Weighing upwards of two thousand pounds, they could bowl over a horse and rider with ease. And the cows were not all that much smaller.
Now a surging tide of brutes eager for the lush prairie grass swept over the rim of South Pass and down the gradual slope, venting a chorus of grunts, snorts, and bellows as they advanced.
Nate had moved into the narrow space between the Banner and Webster wagons, where the stallion couldn’t be inadverten
tly gored. He didn’t know how tightly the herd would press them and feared a stampede at any second. The pale faces of the settlers showed they shared his anxiety.
The buffaloes drew steadily nearer. Nate could see their nostrils flaring as they breathed, see their hairy sides rippling as they walked. The wind bore their strong scent to him, mingled with the dust raised by thousands of pounding hoofs. Already the leading ranks had become aware of the wagons and horses in their path, and the next moment those ranks parted, some bearing to the left, others to the right, giving the wagons a wide berth.
Nate hoped none of the women would cry out. Even a frightened whinny from one of the horses could set the bison into thunderous motion. He sat perfectly still and held the stallion the same way. On the wagon seats were six statues. Every member of the party was as rigid as a rock. Except for Libbie. He saw her peek out over her mother’s shoulder, agog at the number of buffalo. If she only knew. This was a big herd, but it was nowhere near the biggest Nate had seen. Once, he’d sat and watched for a whole day as an unending stream of the great beasts flowed southward.
A passing bull suddenly bellowed and gave the wagons a wary look, then lowered its head and swung its wicked horns. But the swing was more of a defensive act than an outright attack, and neither horn came into contact with Webster’s wagon or the horses.
Nate spotted calves here and there and heard their distinctive bawling. Usually born in May or early June, calves were able to stand thirty minutes after their birth, to walk within an hour or two, and within two days could join the herd on its travels. At two months their horns sprouted, as did their telltale humps.
The air filled with dust. Flies buzzed by. Harry Nesmith had a coughing fit until Nate glanced sharply at him. Around the wagons arose the ceaseless sounds of the herd. Minute after minute dragged by with awful slowness. Nate felt the stallion fidget and saw the teams doing the same. He wondered if he had miscalculated, if the herd was much larger than he thought. Then to his delight, the number of buffalo dwindled. Fewer and fewer went past. At the rear of the herd walked the old ones and the sick, the inevitable stragglers, those most likely to be picked off by wolves out on the prairie.
Wilderness: Northwest Passage/Apache Blood (A Wilderness Double Western #6) Page 2