Lure of the Wild (Wilderness, No 2)

by David Thompson

  “Let me try to clear it up for you,” Shakespeare offered in the manner of a schoolteacher. “Let’s say two tribes are fighting, the Crow and the Blackfeet. One of the Crows strikes one of the Blackfeet with his war club, and the Crow gets to claim first coup, the highest honor, because he struck the Blackfoot while the man was still alive. Then let’s say another Crow comes along while the Blackfoot is lying wounded and this second Crow actually kills the Blackfoot. This second Crow can claim second coup, a lesser honor. Follow me so far?”

  “So far.”

  “All right. Then let’s say yet a third Crow comes along, and he’s the one who scalps the dead Blackfoot. The third Crow can claim third coup, an even lesser honor but still a coup. To round this up, a fourth Crow comes by and cuts the heart out of the Blackfoot. He has fourth coup, which isn’t much, but a warrior will take every coup he gets.”

  “Why didn’t the first Crow do the killing and the scalping and all the rest?” Nate questioned.

  “You’ve been in a few scrapes now. You know how hectic a fight can be. Sometimes a warrior will wound an enemy but doesn’t have the time to finish the job,” Shakespeare said.

  “The way you explain it all makes perfect sense,” Nate stated. “But I still don’t much like the notion of carving an enemy into pieces. That’s the work of a butcher.”

  “War is butchery. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

  The Shoshone men reentered the village and joined the women and children around their fallen tribe members. The warriors went to their fallen companions and addressed the three dead Shoshone warriors in the most earnest terms.

  “What are they doing?” Nate asked, thoroughly perplexed by the sight of grown men talking to lifeless corpses.

  “They’re letting their friends know that they took revenge on the Blackfeet.”

  “But their friends are dead.”

  “There you go again, thinking in white man’s terms,” Shakespeare admonished the younger man. “If the Indians view everything from eating to fighting differently than us, doesn’t it stand to reason they’d view the dead differently too?”

  Nate simply nodded.

  “You’ve got to remember that most Indians believe in an afterlife. These Snakes believe that the souls of the dead watch over the living. Each warrior has his own guardian angel, as it were.”

  “Wait a minute. You just called them Snakes. I thought they were the Shoshones.”

  “Shoshone is their own word for their tribe. Most whites call them the Snakes, probably because they spend a lot of the year in the regions around the head branches of the Snake River, although they’ll travel all the way over the Divide to the Plains for buffalo when they’re in the need.”

  The sound of approaching horses drew the attention of everyone in the camp to the southeast, and moments later the six Shoshones who had raced in pursuit of the Blackfeet rode into view from a stand of trees.

  “We might as well get comfortable,” Shakespeare advised. “This will take a while.” He sat down on the ground cross-legged and placed his rifle across his lap.

  Nate remained standing, not wanting to miss a single moment of the spectacle. In his mind’s eye he saw himself back in the comfort and safety of New York, relating to Adeline and his family the many harrowing experiences he’d survived while living in the wilderness. Being Easterners born and bred, they would undoubtedly be particularly interested in any and all Indian customs, and here was a firsthand opportunity to observe those practices often held in mystified dread by the whites.

  The six warriors pounded into the village and promptly dismounted. One of them whooped while proudly displaying the body of a Blackfoot he’d ridden down and killed. He held the body erect with his left arm and hit it several times with his war club while reciting his coup.

  Nate’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the Blackfoot. He recognized the enemy warrior as the same one he’d unhorsed by accidentally shooting the man’s animal. So indirectly he was responsible for that Blackfoot’s death. Add another life to the tally! he thought bitterly. He was still troubled by shadowy notions of what would happen to his own soul after all the killing he had done. He’d never been excessively religious, but he’d attended church regularly in his younger years and he could quote the Ten Commandments by rote. Thou shalt not kill.

  Couldn’t get much clearer than that.

  Nate looked down at his hands. Strange, though, how with all the death on his hands they were still the same hands and he was still basically the same person. Taking the lives of others hadn’t resulted in any great, profound, or terrible insights of self-discovery. Slaying them hadn’t altered him one bit as far as he could see. Although, deep down, he’d realized that taking the lives of the last two Blackfeet had been emotionally easier to do than taking the life of the first man he’d killed.

  Was that the way it happened?

  The idea troubled him. What if each killing became easier and easier? What was to stop him from shooting people for the sheer spiteful meanness of the deed? What separated a basically decent, honest peson like him from cold-blooded murderers? There must be some higher quality or capacity he possessed that served to distinguish him morally and spiritually from common, vile killers?

  But what?

  A sharp cry came from the Shoshones.

  Nate glanced up, startled.

  Apparently the Snakes did not intend to make the burial of their dead an elaborate ritual. Some of them had gone to the east side of the village and were busily engaged in digging graves. Others were collecting buffalo robes and other items. Those women connected by blood or marriage to the deceased were clinging to the corpses and wailing pitiably, seemingly striving to attest to the depth of their love by the volume of their cries.

  “I heard one of them talking,” Shakespeare mentioned loudly to be heard over the crying. “Ordinarily they’d wait a day to plant the bodies in the ground, but when Black Kettle and his hunting party were out earlier they found sign of a large number of Blackfeet in the area. That’s why they came back when they did. They’re fixing to leave first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “How many Blackfeet?” Nate asked absently.

  “About fifty.”

  “Fifty?” Nate repeated, glancing at the mountain man. “Why would there be so many Blackfeet in this area now of all times? They must know that every white man in the country and many of the friendly tribes are gathering for the annual rendezvous?”

  “That’s why the Blackfeet are here,” Shakespeare stressed. “They roam around the countryside like vultures, preying on any small groups of whites or Indians they find. They know about the rendezvous and they figure this is a golden opportunity to settle old scores.”

  Nate envisioned hordes of savage Blackfeet descending upon helpless travelers, slaughtering the innocents in droves. “Can’t anything be done about them?”

  Shakespeare chuckled. “Well, a lot of folks, whites and Indians, are doing a right smart job of exterminating the varmints every chance they get.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “What would you do then?”

  “Why, I’d raise an army and wipe them out or drive them all the way into Canada if need be.”

  “There you go again. You really are a bloodthirsty cub. Where do you think you’re going to get this army of yours? From the other Indian tribes? How do you think the Blackfeet got to be the top dogs in the northern Rockies and on the high plains? They whipped every other tribe, that’s how. The Blackfeet have beaten the Nez Perce, the Flatheads, the Crow, and the Shoshones time and time again. They’ve taken the choicest land for themselves and driven the others into the high valleys. There isn’t a tribe north of the Yellowstone River that would stand a snowball’s chance in Hades of defeating the Blackfeet.”

  “Then what about the whites? Why do they tolerate the situation?”

  “Probably because there aren’t more than four or five hundred white men scattered about the entire West from the Mis
sissippi to the Pacific Ocean and from Canada to Santa Fe, not counting the state of Missouri.”

  “So how many Blackfeet are there?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Thousands, at least. I’d guess eight or ten thousand.”

  “I didn’t realize,” Nate said blankly.

  Shakespeare glanced at the Shoshones, who were busily attending to their burial preparations, and faced his friend. “Let me tell you a story. About five years ago someone had the exact same notion you did about raising an army, only they were going after the Rickarees, not the Blackfeet.”

  “Someone really raised an army?”

  “Let me finish, will you? Early in ’23 a gent by the name of Ashley led about seventy men out of St. Louis on his way into trapping country. He got as far as the Rickaree villages way up on the Missouri River. There his men were attacked by six hundred warriors, and he lost twelve before he could cut out and head back downstream. He sent a letter to good old Colonel Henry Leavenworth, old blood and guts himself,” Shakespeare related. “Well, the colonel got together about two hundred white men, rounded up a pair of cannons and some swivel guns, and marched north to pit his army against the Rickarees and teach those heathens a lesson.” Here the frontiersman stopped and laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Never mind. Now where was I? Oh, yes. Along the way the colonel was joined by pretty near seven hundred Sioux. The Sioux, you see, can’t abide the Rickarees, so they were right eager to help give their enemies a licking. Colonel Leavenworth named his army the Missouri Legion, and before the Legion finally showed up outside the Rickaree villages, he’d collected more whites and stray Indians until he had well over a thousand fighting men under his command.”

  “The Rickarees must have been destroyed,” Nate predicted.

  Again Shakespeare laughed. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Well, the Rickarees couldn’t help but notice an army that size approaching their village, so they did the only sensible thing they could do.”

  “They fought to the last warrior.”

  “No. They ran.”

  “The cowards!” Nate opined.

  “Cowardice is like bravery, Nate. Sometimes it’s relative to the occasion. What good would it have done those Rickarees to be wiped out to the last man, or to have their wives and children slaughtered by the Sioux?”

  Nate didn’t respond. The answer was obvious.

  “So the Rickarees retreated under the cover of darkness and left their village unattended.”

  “And Colonel Leavenworth burned the villages and returned without a decisive victory,” Nate concluded, deducing the rest of the tale. Or so he thought.

  “Wrong. Colonel Leavenworth laid siege to the empty villages. For days his Legion tippy-toed around the villages, just out of rifle and bow range, while he bombarded them with cannon rounds to convince them he was deadly serious.”

  “You’re joking me.”

  Shakespeare snorted. “The joke was on Colonel Leavenworth and the Missouri Legion. They made complete and utter fools of themselves. The white man became the laughingstock of the Rickarees and their allies, and the whites lost prestige in the eyes of every other tribe who heard the report, even the friendly tribes. The upper Missouri has been pretty much closed to white trappers ever since because the Rickarees are no longer afraid of us.”

  “But the idea for an army is still sound. It would have worked if Leavenworth had defeated the Rickarees.”

  “Even if he had, he certainly didn’t have enough men to conquer the Blackfeet. No, you might as well get used to the notion that the Blackfeet will be around for years to come. If you should decide to stay out here, they’ll be your worst enemies.”

  Nate was about to make a comment when a piercing wail drew his attention to the Shoshone women gathered around the fallen warriors.

  One of them had just hacked off the tip of her finger.

  Chapter Nine

  “Dear Lord!” Nate exclaimed.

  Someone had brought a large, flat rock and placed it on the ground near the three deceased Shoshone warriors. Five women were gathered around the rock, and one of them, the woman who had just sliced off the end of her left forefinger at the first joint, was on her knees, a bloody hunting knife clutched in her right hand.

  “Why?” Nate blurted.

  The woman lowered the knife onto the rock, then used the stump of her left forefinger to smear streaks of blood on her cheeks. The entire time her face radiated supreme pride in her accomplishment. She slowly stood and stepped aside so another woman could kneel.

  “They’re the wives of the dead men,” Shakespeare explained reverently. “They’re mourning the loss of their husbands and showing their devotion.”

  Stunned by the sight, and not knowing what else to say, Nate commented on the obvious. “But there are five women.”

  “Many tribes believe in plural marriages. What with all the warfare and the dangers entailed in just going hunting, there’s a regular shortage of men.”

  The second woman now applied the knife to the tip of one of her fingers and cut the digit off without betraying the slightest qualm. It was another of the attending women who let out a wail as if in commiseration. One by one the five women each severed part of a finger and painted their faces with their own blood.

  “They keep that blood on until it wears off,” Shakespeare remarked.

  Next the Shoshones wrapped the dead in buffalo robes and carried the bodies to the freshly dug graves. First the three warriors were lowered into the earth, then the five women and the boys.

  Nate expected the graves to be promptly filled, but he was mistaken.

  The Shoshones began depositing items in the holes: weapons in the case of the men, bows and arrows and war clubs—and one man even had a clipped horse’s tail added to the pile; blankets, trinkets, and porcupine-tail hairbrushes were laid to rest with the women; and the boys were the recipients of weapons or other effects.

  “What are they doing?” Nate inquired.

  “When Indians are buried, their favorite personal possessions and talismans get buried with them.”

  “Why?”

  “They believe that the dead wake up in the next world with whatever is buried with the departed. Did you see that horse’s tail they put in one of the graves?”

  “Yes.”

  “They hold that each of those hairs will change into a sturdy steed in the spirit land.”

  Nate regarded the Shoshones critically. “I’ll never understand the Indian way of life if I live to be a hundred.”

  A wry smile creased the frontiersman’s lips. “Therefore, good Nate, be prepared to hear this. Since you cannot see yourself so well as by reflection, I your glass will modestly discover to yourself that of yourself which you yet know not of.” He paused. “With apologies to Brutus.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll talk to you again in a year or so.”

  Mystified by the mountain man’s words, Nate shook his head and observed the conclusion of the burial ceremony.

  A number of Shoshones began beating drums and sticks while several warriors attended to filling in the graves. The rest of the tribe began a short procession, with the tribal members singing, yelling, and dancing in a slow, shuffling step. They made three circuits of the graves, then halted and gave voice to a melodic chant.

  “We’re lucky in a way,” Shakespeare mentioned.

  “How so?”

  “These affairs can drag on for days. If Black Kettle wasn’t concerned about the Blackfeet, we’d miss even more of the rendezvous than we already will.”

  “Can’t we just leave when we feel so inclined?”

  “We could, if you don’t care about insulting Black Kettle. I’ll wait this out. He’ll probably be leaving tomorrow morning and we can ride along with his band.”

  “Safety in numbers.”

  “There’s that, plus I don’t want to get Winona mad at me if I take off with you before she has a chance to make her
pitch.”

  Nate stared at the older man. “I really think you’re exaggerating this out of all proportion.”

  “Much ado about nothing, eh?” Shakespeare retorted, and his shoulders shook with suppressed mirth.

  Stung by his friend’s baiting, Nate fell silent and thoughtfully watched the burial procession wind into the village.

  Black Kettle was in the lead. The tall warrior halted a dozen yards from his lodge and turned to address his people. For a minute he talked, and when he finished they dispersed to their respective lodges. Black Kettle came toward his guests.

  “Be on your best behavior now,” Shakespeare said in an aside to Nate. Then he straightened and stepped to meet the warrior, speaking in the Snake tongue.

  Nate decided to occupy his time by reloading his pistols. He happened to glance at the crimson-coated rock the women had used as a chopping block, and his brow knit in confusion. How could anyone simply hack off a piece of finger as causally as he might pry a sliver from his skin? Did the gesture truly qualify as an act of sterling devotion, as Shakespeare maintained, or was the ritual another example of the crass behavior so typical of barbaric savages? He couldn’t quite make up his mind one way or another.

  And what should he make of this business concernng Winona? They hardly knew each other. The very idea that she might sincerely care for him was patently ridiculous. True, his heart seemed to flutter whenever he was in her presence, but his feelings could merely be confused physical attraction and nothing more. His one true love, Adeline Van Buren, was far off in New York City, awaiting his return. How could he even contemplate tarnishing her sterling memory by dwelling on the Shoshone maiden?

  A sparkling voice spoke within inches of his left arm.

  Startled, Nate looked up to find the lady in question regarding him quizzically. “Hello,” he blurted out. “Hello,” Winona repeated precisely, and then indicated the pistol in his hand. Using sign language, she asked him to show her how to load the piece.

  Feeling guilty over his line of thought and clearly self-conscious of her proximity to his person, Nate complied.