Suddenly the shape moved again, this time crashing through the brush in a twinkling and dashing out into the open where it halted to balefully glare at the intruders, its nostrils flaring, its short tail twitching.
Nate started to raise his Hawken, then thought better of the notion. A single ball seldom sufficed to drop a two-thousand-pound bull buffalo.
Chapter Two
Of all the wild creatures teeming in the untamed land between the mighty Mississippi River and the pounding surf of the Pacific Coast, none were larger or more formidable when provoked than adult buffaloes. Standing six feet high at the shoulders, with a horn spread of over three feet, buffaloes were capable of bowling over grizzlies, panthers, horses, or men with astonishing ease.
Normally buffaloes paid little attention to humans. A man could ride up close to a herd and watch them graze without fear of being charged. If concealed and upwind, a hunter might down any number of the shaggy brutes without the rest so much as batting an eye. But once the buffaloes realized what was happening, the peaceful herd became a rampaging horde of destructive behemoths.
Rare was the mountain man who came on a bull all by itself. Buffaloes were led by their instincts to gather together into herds of varying sizes. Now and then a cow with a newborn calf might be seen hurrying to catch up with the main body. But solitary bulls were an oddity.
Now, as Nate met the unwavering stare of the heavily breathing bull, he noticed that its coat lacked the usual healthy luster, that one of its horns had broken off near the tip, and that there was a wicked gash in its left rear leg exposing part of the bone. This was an old male, he realized, well past its prime. Perhaps it was ailing as well as injured. Whatever, it had fallen behind the herd to which it belonged and been unable to overtake them. So, all alone and perhaps sensing it would be at the mercy of the first hunters or wolves to come along, the bull had sought sanctuary in the thicket.
What would it do? Nate wondered, and shot a hasty glance at the others. They were all as motionless as he. Zach was wide-eyed. Shakespeare had a thumb on the hammer of his rifle but wasn’t trying to bring the gun to bear. Samson, thankfully, was calmly staring at the bull.
Nate waited, tense with anticipation. About fifteen yards separated Pegasus from the brute. At most he would be able to get off one shot if the monster attacked. The bull was sniffing the air while scrutinizing them, apparently undecided whether they were harmless or not. A few more seconds of silence, he thought, might convince it to turn and reenter the thicket.
Then Samson snarled.
The effect on the old bull was electrifying. It snorted, tossed its head, and broke into a lurching rush, lowering its head as it pounded straight at Pegasus.
In sheer reflex Nate snapped the Hawken to his shoulder, took a hurried bead, and fired. The blast was echoed by three others. For a moment it seemed as if thunder had peeled. The bull staggered, surged erect, and kept coming, and it was all Nate could do to wrench on the reins and get Pegasus out of the way. He saw the bison’s good horn sweep past the gelding’s side, missing by inches, and his right hand darted to a flintlock.
Already the bull was going after another victim, angling sharply at Shakespeare, whose white horse reacted with a frantic jump to the side that would have done justice to a pronghorn antelope. Again the bull missed, pivoted on its hoofs, and spied Zach.
The boy sat rooted in place, his mouth slack, his arms limp.
“Move!” Nate bellowed, aiming at the brute’s ear. He cocked the hammer and squeezed off his shot just as the bull charged. To his left Shakespeare also fired a pistol.
At the twin retorts the buffalo stumbled, its legs scrambling for a purchase, and rose to its full height. Zach had collected his wits and was desperately striving to goad the roan into motion, but the panic-stricken mount refused to cooperate. Once more the bull closed, but much slower this time.
Nate moved to intercept the monster, intending to put Pegasus between the bull’s horns and his son. As much as he loved the gelding, he loved his son more, and would gladly sacrifice the one for the other if there was no other choice.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Winona galloping forward, her fingers flying as she shoved her ramrod home. She had the same idea he did, and she was nearer. His heart seemed to leap into his throat as she stopped in front of Zach and swept her rifle up. Exactly as he had taught her, she fixed the bead on the bull, cocked the gun, and fired, all in the span of a second. Her ball smacked home, loud enough for all to hear, and the next instant the brute was going down in a whirl of limbs and tail to slide several yards to a final rest almost at the very hoofs of her mare.
“Damn, that was close!” Shakespeare breathed.
Nate barely heard him. He was vaulting from the saddle and running up to the bull, which was down but not dead, its eyes fluttering and its sides heaving as it feebly struggled to stand yet again, the spark of life unwilling to relinquish its hold on the aged, torn hulk of a body. His second flintlock streaked clear. In a blur, he touched the barrel to the beast’s side and sent a lead ball directly into its lungs.
Snorting in fury, the bull tilted its enormous head and took a swipe at the human gnat causing it so much pain. But its head had only swung a few inches when the bison abruptly stiffened, grunted, and collapsed, its tongue protruding from its mouth. Blood began dribbling from its black nose.
“That did it,” Shakespeare commented.
Gulping air, Nate took a step backwards. His right hand was shaking uncontrollably. Inwardly he quaked at how close Winona had come to meeting her Maker. A glance into her eyes showed she was experiencing similar feelings. “Nice shooting,” he remarked, and was shocked at his strained voice. He quickly coughed, licked his lips, and added, “I didn’t know you could reload that fast.”
“Nor did I,” Winona said in such perfect English that anyone in the States who heard her speaking in the next room would have no idea she was a Shoshone. She had an exceptional gift for learning new tongues. Shakespeare, who had spent many years teaching not only Blue Water Woman but many other Indian friends the white’s man language, had been amazed at how readily and thoroughly Winona learned it. She was, Shakespeare believed, a natural-born linguist. “I don’t know how I did it,” she mentioned.
“I do,” Shakespeare declared. “Your blood was pumping like a geyser and you weren’t thinking of anything but the safety of your young coon. I’ve seen folks do amazing things when their loved ones were in danger.” He started reloading his rifle. “Why, once I saw a Crow woman lift a tree that had been blown down during a storm and landed on her lodge, pinning her little girl. I was in a lodge across the way, and I ran right over with several warriors. The trunk of that tree must have weighed hundreds of pounds, yet she had it off the ground when we got there and we pulled her girl out. Later when she tried lifting the tree, she couldn’t even budge it.”
Nate set to work reloading his own guns, glad to have something to do. Only a greenhorn left his weapons unloaded for longer than was absolutely necessary. In the wilderness a man never knew when danger might strike, as the attack of the bull buffalo had so vividly demonstrated. McNair himself had once put it best: “An empty gun is the sure-fire sign of an empty head.”
Young Zach, who had not uttered a sound since the buffalo appeared, cast a tormented gaze at his father. “I’m sorry, Pa. I truly am.”
“For what?”
“I’m yellow, Pa. I was scared clean through.” Zach bowed his head in shame and added in Shoshone, “My spirit is sick.”
Nate was in the act of pouring the proper amount of black powder down the Hawken barrel and he kept on pouring, only slower, giving himself time to think on how best to respond to his son’s declaration. He had seen the fear on Zach’s face, and he knew how upset the boy must be.
The matter wasn’t to be taken lightly. Courage was one of the cardinal virtues of a Shoshone warrior, as young Zach was well aware. The driving ambition of every boy in the tribe was to one day p
rove his bravery in battle and then to be asked to join one of the prestigious warrior societies. Those who showed cowardice became social outcasts; they weren’t permitted to share in many of the traditional activities of the men. Every boy acutely dreaded that happening to him.
“I’ve been scared quite a few times myself,” Nate said, and smiled reassuringly at Zach. “Usually it’s been when, like now, something happened so fast that I didn’t have time to think. If, for instance, a grizzly should come charging at you from out of nowhere, you’re first reaction is to run to another part of the country just as quick as you can go.” He paused to cap the powder horn. “So being afraid every so often is perfectly normal, son. Don’t let it get you down. There will be other times when you’ll be put to the test and I know you’ll do just fine.”
“How do you know?” Zach inquired.
“I can answer that one,” Shakespeare said cheerily, moving his mare over next to Zach. He gave the boy a hearty clap on the back and said, “You’ll do fine because you’re the son of Grizzly Killer, the man who has killed more grizzlies than any white man or Indian who ever lived. Never forget that some of your pa’s blood flows in your veins, son. One day you’ll be as well known as he is.”
Under the mountain man’s friendly influence, the boy brightened and nodded.
“I will, Uncle. One day I’ll be as famous as Pa. No one will ever dare call me yellow.”
McNair glanced at the bull. “Well, now we have to decide what to do about this critter. We already have enough jerked venison, pemmican, and other victuals to last us clear to Santa Fe. But we sure as blazes can’t let this critter lie here and rot. I say we make camp here for a day or two and dry as much of the meat as we can, then tote it with us. Our pack animals can carry the extra weight with no problem.”
“But why go to all that bother?” Nate asked, displeased by the delay it would cause. “Wolves, coyotes, and buzzards have to eat too.”
“Wolves and coyotes didn’t kill it. We did. That makes it our responsibility, as you well know,” Shakespeare noted.
One of the cardinal unwritten rules of wilderness life was to never let good meat go to waste. Nate sighed and reluctantly nodded in agreement. “I reckon a day or two won’t hurt.”
Winona had dismounted and walked up to the bull. Reaching out, she placed a hand on the huge carcass and closed her eyes.
“Are you all right?” Nate asked, joining her.
She held still for a full ten seconds. Then she lowered her arm and gave him a look that radiated sheer love. “I was thanking the Great Mystery for the life of our son,” she said softly so none of the others could hear.
He smiled and leaned closer to kiss her lightly on the cheek. Words were not needed. Their eyes eloquently conveyed their emotions.
“Now don’t start with that cow-eyed business again,” Shakespeare playfully chided them as he swung to the ground. “We’ll never get this bull carved up with you two acting like you’re courting.”
Soon they were all busy at various tasks. Nate and Shakespeare rolled up their sleeves, pulled their butcher knives, and commenced removing the bull’s hide, being careful not to tear it so later it could be made into a fine robe. Winona and Zach collected dry wood and built a small fire. Blue Water Woman took care of the horses, removing the saddles and packs and tethering the animals where they had plenty of grass to graze on.
Nate pondered as he worked. Here they were, barely started on their long journey, and already they were losing valuable time. He hoped it wasn’t an omen of things to come. Then he reminded himself that he was viewing the matter as a white man would and not as an Indian. Whites, especially those living in New York and other cities back East, were always scurrying about like so many mice, always on the go, always trying to cram as many activities as they could into each day. They lived a hectic existence, rushing here and there and everywhere, Time their harsh taskmaster.
Indians, however, were vastly different in their outlook and way of life. They seldom rushed anywhere, unless it was to rush into battle should an enemy be sighted near their camp, or to rush off after buffalo if the village was in need of meat and a herd should be spotted nearby. Generally, though, Indians went about their daily activities at a sedate pace, completing each chore properly and patiently before moving on to the next. When they ate their meals, they ate slowly. When they tanned hides, they took their time. When a horse needed breaking, it was done over a period of days, not hours. In almost all things Indians did, they worked at a relaxed pace. The precious moments of each day were savored, not gulped at a single draught. Time was of no consequence in this regard, and as a result they were the masters of Time and not the other way around.
This train of thought made Nate realize how foolish his annoyance had been, and he consciously willed himself to relax and enjoy the interlude. He even whistled as he sliced away, and suddenly he was conscious of being watched.
“What, pray tell, has put you in such fine fettle?” Shakespeare wanted to know. “A while ago you were acting as if you had a burr up your backside.”
“It feels good to be alive,” Nate said simply.
“That it does,” Shakespeare concurred. “As there comes light from heaven and words from breath, as there is sense in truth and truth in virtue, that it does.”
“More William S.?”
“Of a sort.”
It took them well into the afternoon to butcher the bull to their satisfaction. By then Winona and Blue Water Woman had set up a crude framework of trimmed branches on which to hang the thin strips of meat. Everyone pitched in to help, and soon the job was done.
Five thick, juicy masses of prime bull meat were saved for supper, and so toward sunset the two women unpacked their cooking utensils, both owning a number of tin pans, cups, plates, and whatnot obtained at a previous Rendezvous, and started cooking the meal. Winona dug out her coffeepot, and was walking to the fire when she stopped and glanced at Nate.
“Have you seen Zach?”
Nate looked in all directions, but the boy was gone. He recalled seeing Zach and Samson heading into the forest to the north of their camp shortly after the meat was hung out to dry, but he’d thought nothing of it at the time. Boys loved to go exploring, and Zach was no exception. Grabbing his rifle from where it rested on his saddle, Nate hiked toward the tree line. Zach knew enough not to stray far, and Nate was confident he would find his son quickly.
At the edge of the trees he came on their tracks and followed them into the pines. True to form, the boy had wandered from one attraction to another, first a partially rotted log, next a tree that had been struck by lightning, and so on, meandering ever deeper into the solitude of the woodland. At length Nate spied a hill ahead. Sure enough the trail led him to its base. Above him, scattered about the slope, reared dozens of large boulders, some bigger than his cabin.
“Zach?” Nate called.
There was no answer.
“Zachary!” Nate yelled. Once more no reply was forthcoming, and he became irritated that the boy had strayed off much farther than was wise. He cupped a hand to his mouth to try a third time. “Zachary King!”
From somewhere near the top of the hill came a sharp yip.
“Samson?” Nate said, and began ascending. He heard a louder bark. Going around a boulder, he saw the great black dog standing forty yards away near what appeared to be a rock ledge.
“There you are. But where’s Zach?”
Concerned, Nate hurried. Samson barked several times, as if urging him on. When he was still ten feet off the dog whirled and dashed onto the ledge, then turned and barked again. “What’s got you so worked up?” Nate asked.
The ledge turned out to not be a ledge at all, but rather a spot where long ago the ground had buckled and cracked, creating a narrow fissure that extended deep down into the earth. On either side of the fissure was a shelf wide enough for a person to stand on. Nate stood on the rim and scanned the top of the hill. “Zach? Where are you?”
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“Down here, Pa!”
The muffled response, coming as it did from under Nate’s very feet, made him stiffen in shock, then drop to one knee. He could see twenty feet down into the fissure but no further. Beyond that the sunlight didn’t penetrate. “Zach? Are you hurt? What happened?”
“I’m scraped up some,” was the answer. “I was trying to see what’s at the bottom and I slipped.”
The opposite wall was as smooth as glass, the near wall rough and laced with cracks. “Can you climb back out?” Nate inquired, trying not to betray his anxiety. He had never liked enclosed spaces, and the thought of his son trapped down there gave him the jitters.
“No. I’ve tried, Pa, but my left leg is stuck.”
Nate’s mind raced. He could climb down himself, although it would be a tight squeeze, but what if he also became wedged fast? “You hang on, son. I’m going back to the camp for some rope and some help. I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Okay, Pa.”
“I’m leaving Samson here so you’ll have some company.”
“Hurry, please. I’m afraid my leg will slip free and I’ll fall the rest of the way.”
“You’re not at the bottom?”
“No, sir. I think the bottom is a long ways down yet. I dropped a stone but I didn’t hear it hit.”
“You just hang on,” Nate reiterated, rising. He motioned at Samson to stay, then whirled and went down that hill as if he had wings on his feet. Horrifying images of Zach plunging into the depths of the fissure lent speed to his legs. When he burst from the trees the others were gathered around the fire, sipping coffee. They had only to take one look at him to shove to their feet in apprehension.
Wilderness: Northwest Passage/Apache Blood (A Wilderness Double Western #6) Page 17