Shakespeare gave a little wave and grinned. “This above all, young prince. To thine own self be true.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nate asked, pausing near the flap.
“It means,” Shakespeare answered, his eyes twinkling in their lined sockets, “you shouldn’t light your wick until you can see the whites of her eyes.” He threw back his head and convulsed in guffaws.
“The man is mad,” Nate muttered, and exited the lodge. He halted in surprise at finding stars in the heavens and the sun long gone. A hand touched him lightly on the left shoulder. Inordinately startled, he turned.
Winona stood there calmly, her hands folded at her waist, her countenance most serious for someone about to go courting.
Nate smiled to reassure her, then proceeded to unwrap the robe, his fingers fumbling at the folds. To his consternation, he came across as a complete butterfingers. When the robe finally unfurled, inadvertently dragging in the dust before he could hold the hem aloft, he beckoned for her to step closer.
Obediently Winona took a short step and stood next to his left shoulder.
Mustering all the dignity at his disposal, Nate carefully draped the heavy robe over their shoulders. It covered both of them all the way down to their knees, screening them from public scrutiny, enshrouding them in a private domain of intimate proximity although they weren’t actually touching. Nate found the experience discomfiting and oddly stimulating. He cleared his throat and held his head high, proud and self-assured.
Until he saw the warriors.
Nate froze when he beheld four young Shoshone warriors standing 20 feet away near a camp fire. They were all looking in his direction, and he wondered if they were upset because he was with Winona. He chided himself for leaving the Hawken in the lodge, but derived comfort from the fact he still had his pistols tucked under his belt.
One of the warriors suddenly came toward him.
Nate looked at Winona and smiled to reassure her that he would handle any situation, then placed his right hand on the corresponding flintlock.
The Shoshone, a tall warrior attired in a deerskin shirt and leggings, approached within a yard and halted. “Pardon,” he said, his youthful voice betraying his age. “So sorry, Grizzly Killer.”
Nate’s surprise at hearing English spoken, even if in a halting fashion, was as nothing to his astonishment at being called by his Indian name. How did the warrior know? He remembered Shakespeare had told Black Kettle and a few of the other men, and the word must have spread through the village. “What do you want?” he demanded quickly to cover his embarrassment.
“My name Drags the Rope. Much happy meeting you.”
A smile started to curl Nate’s lips, but he caught himself and maintained a sober expression. Drags the Rope? What kind of name was that? His prudence overrode his curiosity and he asked a different question. “Where did you learn the white man’s tongue?”
“Trapper Pete teach little. Six winters past.”
“Well, I’m pleased to meet you,” Nate said, uncertain of the young warrior’s motivation in introducing himself.
“Friend of Shoshones. Friend of Drags the Rope.”
“I’ll always regard the Shoshones as my friends,” Nate stated, for want of anything better to say.
Drags the Rope nodded and smiled. “Much friend. Always remember.” He turned and walked happily back to his companions.
Now what was that all about? Nate wondered, and shook his head. He’d said it once, and he’d wind up saying it a hundred times: There was no understanding the Indian.
Winona spoke a few words and nudged his shoulder.
Bothered by guilt over his train of thought, Nate stared at her and realized she wanted to walk to the east. He stepped off slowly, carefully keeping his hands clasped behind his back, keenly aware of her shoulder repeatedly brushing his.
They covered ten yards in silence.
Nate gazed idly at the nearby lodges, wishing he knew the proper words to say. For that matter, he would have settled for knowing any words in her language that could help him convey his feelings. “I don’t know what to say to you,” he stated aloud, hoping she would derive his meaning from the tone he used.
Winona answered, her words almost musical.
“I’ve never felt so helpless,” Nate informed her, staring into her eyes.
Their shoulders came together and stayed together.
Nate had an urge to mop at his brow. The temperature under the buffalo robe seemed to have risen a good deal in mere moments. He coughed to clear his throat, thankful Shakespeare couldn’t see him now. The mountain man would laugh himself silly.
Winona began talking and went on at great length, her animated expression compensating somewhat for her unintelligible vocabulary.
Entranced, Nate gazed at her lovely features and simply drifted with the words, nodding at points he perceived to be appropriate and smiling broadly whenever she deigned to look at him. He scarcely noticed when they went past the last of the lodges and halted a dozen yards beyond.
Winona ceased speaking and turned to face him.
“Nice night,” Nate said lamely, though truth to tell he hardly noticed the bright stars overhead or the cool breeze caressing his brow. The sum total of his personal universe was reflected in the beautiful countenance before him. Dim, flickering firelight cast her skin in a faint golden glow and put a gleam in her eyes. She smiled and her teeth sparkled.
They stood stock still for over a minute, their warm breath touching each other’s lips.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Nate declared at last. He thought of Adeline and the memory pained him. How could he betray her like this? With an Indian, no less. The thought gave him pause. Were those the words, or the words of a mindless Easterner, someone who had been conditioned to view Indians with a limited regard by society and his peers? Because in his heart of hearts he couldn’t bring himself to think less of Winona simply because of her Indian lineage. At that moment, as their eyes exchanged silently the words they longed to voice, he regarded her as the most wondrous woman of any race.
Somehow they inched closer together until they were nearly touching.
Nate’s senses were swimming. His blood pounded in his veins. He licked his dry lips, and suddenly the impossible occurred. Before he could quite control himself, before the fading remembrance of Adeline could interfere, all of Creation was rendered immobile by a singular act.
They kissed.
Chapter Eleven
“What the dickens did you do to that girl last night?”
Nate’s head snapped around to his right and he glared at the frontiersman riding beside him. “Just what do you mean by that?” he demanded testily, and gave the pack horse a vigorous yank.
“Simmer down, for crying out loud,” Shakespeare said, grinning. “I’m not prying into your personal affairs. But I couldn’t help but notice the way she waltzed around this morning all smiles, humming and whistling to beat the band. The whole time she was helping to take down the lodge and pack for the trip—the whole blamed time—all that girl did was show teeth. I don’t reckon I’ve ever seen anyone so happy about doing work in all my born days.”
“You’re making fun of me again.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” Shakespeare stated seriously, although the comers of his mouth twitched.
Nate shifted in his saddle and gazed back at the column of Shoshones trailing behind them. Most of the warriors stayed off to one side or the other, ever vigilant for an attack. Some of the women rode horses, but most walked with the children and dogs. Every lodge had been quickly dismantled at first light and secured to horses by means of a travois. Consisting of two lengthy poles tied crosswise behind the horse’s head using stout buffalo tendons, then secured in position with strips of rawhide that were lashed to the lower sections to form platforms, the travois sufficed to transport almost every article the Indians owned. With slight modifications, such as circular cages constructed fro
m thin branches that were affixed to the rawhide platforms, they could even be used to convey small children.
All infants were carried on the back of their mothers in ingenious devices known as cradleboards. Simplicity incarnate, each cradleboard was composed of a carved wooden frame that supported a soft pouch. Every cradleboard was different, designed and embellished according to the mother’s whim. And every one was a study in versatility. They could be tied onto a saddle or hooked on a travois. They could be leaned against any other object when the mother needed her hands free. And in the lodge they were frequently hung on pegs or hooks. Unlike their white counterparts, an Indian infant was rarely placed flat. The cradleboards were invariably positioned upright, and as a consequence the infant did everything in the same posture they would use once they learned to walk.
Nate scanned the Shoshones in the column, searching for Winona. Nearly a hundred horses were used to move the camp. The larger lodges alone, like Black Kettle’s, required upwards of a dozen animals. Earlier he had noticed an interesting aspect of the move, one that surprised him unduly simply because he never expected it.
The Indians were class-conscious.
Those Shoshones who were wealthier, who owned more possessions, who had the biggest lodges and more horses, led the move. Next came those with smaller lodges and fewer horses. And in the rear, choking on the dust stirred by those in the lead, walked the poorer wives with their two or three beasts of burden, including their dogs.
Winona walked near the front, engaged in guiding the horses pulling her father’s lodge. She saw Nate glance at her, smiled, and gave a little wave.
“Yep. There she goes again,” Shakespeare remarked. “Worst case I’ve ever seen.”
Nate turned his attention to the mountain man. “I want you to know something.”
“What, pray tell?”
“I intend to get even. I don’t know how and I don’t know when, but one of these days when you least expect it, I will get even.”
Shakespeare chuckled. “Fair enough, Nate. I admire a man who has spunk.”
Nate chuckled and gazed ahead at Black Kettle, Drags the Rope, and five other warriors who were 40 feet in front of the column. He thought of the tender moments he’d shared with Winona and sighed. “I need your advice,” he stated bluntly.
“I figured as much.”
“I really like Winona—” Nate began.
“Remind me to buy you a dictionary one of these days,” Shakespeare interrupted.
“What? Why?”
“A man should always say what he means and mean what he says.”
“Huh?”
“For you to say you like Winona is the same as a Shoshone saying he’s not particularly fond of the Blackfeet.”
“I don’t see the connection,” Nate said.
“Sure you do. You’re just hoping no one else does, but you’re only fooling yourself,” Shakespeare stated.
“Will you advise me or not?” Nate asked indignantly.
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Nate stared idly at the winding valley they were following to the northwest, mulling how best to present his problem. He observed a raven off to the left, winging on the wind over an expanse of verdant forest. “All right. I won’t beat around the bush any longer.”
“I wouldn’t want you to break a habit on my account.”
“Please, Shakespeare,” Nate said earnestly, looking at his companion.
The frontiersman promptly sobered. “Fair enough. Flat-out serious. What can I do for you?”
“I think I’m falling in love.”
Shakespeare opened his mouth to reply, then changed his mind and simply nodded. “Go on.”
“I’ve fallen head over heels for Winona, and for the life of me I can’t figure out why,” Nate related, and went on before the mountaineer could interrupt. “Hear me out. I have a beautiful woman waiting for me back in New York City. At least I hope she’s waiting.” He paused. “Or I was hoping, anyway, before I met Winona. And now all I do is think about Winona. I want to be near her all the time. But how can I become involved with Winona when my heart is in New York with Adeline?”
“Before you get in any deeper, let’s clear up a few things,” Shakespeare said. “I know how it is when a man is in love. His brain is all addled. Or, as old William S. would say, when the blood bums, how prodigal the soul lends the tongue vows. To put it straight, a man can’t think straight. Which certainly explains your raving.”
“Raving?”
“What else would you call it? The last I knew, it’s not possible for a man to be in one place and his heart to go its merry way somewhere else. So your heart can’t be in New York if you’re becoming involved with Winona. Maybe your memory is still lodged in New York and tugging on your heartstrings, but I daresay your soul has succumbed to the lovely Winona’s charms or I’m not the most cantankerous cuss in the Rockies.”
Nate nodded slowly. “What do I do?” “What comes naturally.”
“That’s not what I mean. How do I go about courting her without getting in over my head before I’m ready?”
Shakespeare chuckled. “It’s a little late for that. You’re already in over your head. If you didn’t want to get involved, you should have declined to go for that walk last night.”
“But I didn’t want to offend her father,” Nate said quickly.
“Who are you trying to kid? I won’t keep giving you my advice if you keep insulting my intelligence. Never label a gent as dumb just because he wears buckskins or wears his hair longer than you do. And always remember that experience has a way of sweating the fat from a brain, which must rate me one of the smartest men around what with all the gray hairs I’ve got.”
“Are you saying I’m committed to her whether I want to be or not?” Nate queried.
“You went and got her hopes all fired up, didn’t you? You sweet-talked her and stood under the same robe with her. She made no secret of the fact she liked you, and you receiprocated. Now Winona naturally figures you and her are bound to be hitched before too long. Yeah, I’d say you’re committed.”
“But I honestly don’t know if I want to marry her.”
“It’s a mite late to be putting the horse behind the cart, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know what to think,” Nate said, and sighed. His emotions were in keen turmoil. On the one hand there was Adeline Van Buren, on the other Winona. On the one hand a woman who enjoyed a prominent social position and whose father possessed great wealth, on the other hand a woman who was a member of a wandering Indian tribe and whose father adorned the interior of his lodge with the scalps he had taken. They were as different as night from day, and he was caught in the middle. Correction. He had caught himself. Leaving a burning question in his mind. “What do I do?” he repeated softly.
“The decision is yours alone,” Shakespeare commented, and stiffened in his saddle. He peered intently at the forest to the west.
Nate noticed and looked in the same direction. “What do you see?”
“I’m not sure,” Shakespeare said, his forehead creased. “I thought I saw something move.”
“What?” Nate asked, scanning the trees 30 yards distant. He failed to detect any motion whatsoever.
The frontiersman shook his head and started to relax. “Probably a deer or an elk.”
“Why are you so jumpy?”
“Who’s jumpy?”
“You are.”
“I ate too much last night. I guess I’m still not over my indigestion.”
Nate snorted. “Do you expect me to buy that? You have an iron gut. You told me so yourself.”
“Believe a third of what you hear and half of what you see and you’ll just about get the facts straight.”
“Is that your motto?” Nate queried, grinning.
“You bet it—” Shakespeare began, and abruptly stopped, his gaze on the woods. He reined up and rested his right hand on the Hawken lying across his saddle. “Now I kno
w I saw something.”
Nate halted and stared into the shadows shrouding the base of the trees. He still saw nothing out of the ordinary.
“Let’s take a look,” Shakespeare proposed. He rode toward the forest without waiting for a response.
Puzzled by the mountain man’s uncharacteristic nervousness, Nate quickly caught up, riding on his companion’s right. In his right hand he held his rifle. He glanced to the northwest and saw Black Kettle and the other Shoshones had reined up and were watching intently. To his left the column of women, children, horses, and belongings still advanced.
“I could be making a fool of myself,” Shakespeare remarked. “If so, it won’t be the first time and I doubt it will be the last. But we can’t afford to take any chances.”
Twenty yards separated them from the treeline.
“Blackfeet, you think?” Nate asked.
“Some of that bunch got away yesterday, remember? I wouldn’t put it past them to have gone after the rest of their war party, and then they swung around in front of us and set up an ambush.”
“How would they know which direction we’d take?”
“They’re not stupid. They’ve got to figure that Black Kettle’s band is on the way to the rendezvous, and this is the shortest route,” Shakespeare answered.
Nate looked at the woods. “I hope you’re wrong.”
“So do I.”
But he wasn’t.
Whooping and hollering, over three dozen Blackfeet emerged from concealment in the undergrowth. They waved their weapons in the air and broke into a gallop, heading straight for the column.
“We’ve got to turn them!” Shakespeare cried, and his white horse leaped to incercept the Blackfeet. “Leave our pack horse here!”
Winona was in danger! The thought spurred Nate to lash the reins and race even with the frontiersman. They angled to the left, listening to screams of alarm arising from the Shoshone women.
“They’re going to try and drive off the horses!” Shakespeare shouted.
Nate nodded his understanding.
“And capture the women!” Shakespeare added.
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