Shakespeare opened his mouth, as if about to argue, then evidently changed his mind and shook his head. “No. I won’t waste my breath. The more I get to know you, the more I find out you’re like your Uncle Zeke.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Yep. Zeke was a hard-headed mule too.” Shakespeare laughed, grabbed his rifle, and slowly stood. “Give me five minutes and I’ll be back in action.”
“Take it easy while we have a breather. As you pointed out, the Blackfeet are bound to be back sooner or later.”
“Likely later.”
“When?”
“My best guess would be right before sunset. If not then, you can expect Mad Dog to hit us at daybreak.”
“Why daybreak?”
“Habit mostly. Indians are partial to surprise attacks at dawn, mainly because villages rarely post guards. Oh, they’ll attack at any time if they think they have the edge, but dawn raids are their favorite.”
Nate stared at the forest below, studying the wall of green vegetation that effectively screened their enemies. Were the Blackfeet watching the Shoshones at that very moment and planning their next attack? Most likely.
The layout of the hill favored the defenders. The barren central portion wouldn’t hide the approach of a flea, let alone 16 warriors. Only to the south and the north, where the trees flanked the hill, could the Blackfeet draw near to the top without being spotted. Of the two, the south slope presented the greatest threat. The trees came to within 40 feet of the ring of boulders, well within rifle and bow range.
A gurgling whine came from behind Nate, and he turned to find the Shoshones dispatching the injured Blackfeet and taking scalps with unrestrained glee.
Drags the Rope was slicing the hair from a foe whose throat he’d just slit, grinning all the while.
Nate glanced at his companion. “Let’s get your wound tended.” He walked toward the opening.
“Yep. A natural born leader,” Shakespeare said, moving with less than his usual liveliness.
“Oh, please.”
“I’m serious. You may turn out to be one of the great ones.”
“That blow must have scrambled your brains.”
“Scoff if you want, but old William S. put it best,” Shakespeare responded. “Why, some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrown upon them. You could wind up in one of those categories.”
“I’ll settle for just staying alive,” Nate said, reentering the fortification. The women and children were still huddled in the center. One of the warriors stood next to a boulder on the southern perimeter, staring at the shadowy, ominous woods.
Winona saw him and beamed happily.
Nate moved over to her. He made the appropriate signs to request that she minister to Shakespeare, and she gladly agreed.
Morning Dew volunteered to help.
“You sure got these womenfolk trained,” the frontiersman remarked sarcastically. “And you aren’t even part of the family yet.”
Nate ignored the barb and gazed overhead at the sun, noting there were at least five hours of daylight remaining, maybe six. Hopefully in that time they could devise a strategy for escaping or defeating the Blackfeet. He glanced down at Black Kettle, and was surprised to discover the warrior’s eyes were open and fixed on him. Feeling strangely uncomfortable under such intense scrutiny, he smiled and nodded.
Morning Dew had produced a leather pouch, and she was carefully applying an herbal powder to the mountain man’s wound.
Black Kettle addressed Nate, his voice weak, speaking with clear effort.
“Oh, my,” Shakespeare said when the warrior concluded.
“What did he say?” Nate inquired, and became aware of both Winona and Morning Dew contemplating him expectantly.
The mountain man chuckled. “He watched you fight the Blackfeet, and he says you truly are a natural-born warrior.”
“Thank him for me.”
“There’s more.”
“Oh?”
“Yep. He wants you to marry his daughter,” Shakespeare said, and the tone he used indicated he might burst into laughter at any moment.
“I already know that,” Nate reminded him.
“Right now,” Shakespeare added, and made a choking noise as he suppressed his mirth.
Nate’s mouth slackened in shock. He glanced from the frontiersman to the warrior. “Now?”
“Right this minute.”
“Out of the question,” Nate blurted.
“Give me one good reason.”
“I’ll give you plenty of reasons. For starters, we’re pinned down by a bunch of hostile Blackfeet. They could attack at any minute. This is hardly the ideal time for a wedding.”
“You know what they say. There’s no time like the present,” Shakespeare said good-naturedly.
Becoming angry, Nate glared at the mountain man. “Be serious, for crying out loud.”
“I am,” Shakespeare stated, and pointed at Black Kettle. “Look at him. Take a good look at him.”
Puzzled, Nate grudgingly complied. “So?”
“So what do you see?”
Nate noticed the warrior’s ashen complexion and labored breathing and saw blood trickling from the hole made by the lance. He frowned when he answered. “I see a man who is dying.”
“Exactly. He knows he doesn’t have much time left. Which is why he asked me to ask you to marry his daughter now. He wants to see the two of you hitched before he passes on,” Shakespeare said with distinct reverence. “Can you blame him?”
“No,” Nate replied softly. He swore he could almost feel Black Kettle’s eyes boring into him, as if the warrior was striving to read his mind or plumb the depths of his very soul.
Winona spoke a sentence in Shoshone.
“She says she’s ready if you are,” Shakespeare translated, grinning. “You certainly can’t fault her for being the bashful type.”
“I don’t know,” Nate said hesitantly. He’d already told Black Kettle he would tie the knot, but now that the reality was staring him in the face, as it were, dozens of doubts flooded his mind and caused him to balk. They hardly knew each other. What if they turned out not to be compatible? What if their attraction was only physical? And what if, sometime down the road, he decided he’d made a mistake and elected to return to New York City and Adeline? How could be lead Winona on? Some men might, but it wasn’t in his nature. He despised deceit.
Just then Winona went on at some length.
Shakespeare coughed lightly after she concluded and turned a peculiar expression toward his friend. “Well, Nathaniel, she said a mouthful. If you’ve changed your mind, she says she understands. She knows how hard marriages can be between Indians and whites, and she knows that many whites look down their noses at her people. She wouldn’t want to be a burden to you. So there’s no hard feelings on her part if you want to call it off, no matter what you may have promised her father.”
Nate looked at Winona and was flabbergasted to observe fear in her lovely eyes, fear inspired by his possible refusal, fear that her heart would be crushed by the man to whom she had so openly and unconditionally given herself. Fear of him. The very last emotion he would ever want her to feel because of him. Before he even quite knew what he was doing, he had taken a step and tenderly caressed her cheek. “Tell her I’m a man of my word. I’ll be her husband if she wants me.”
Speaking in an unusually gravelly tone, Shakespeare relayed the message.
Conspicuous relief mellowed Winona’s features and she clasped Nate’s hand in her own.
“But I still don’t see how we can get married here,” Nate commented absently. “Don’t we need a preacher to make it nice and legal?”
Shakespeare snorted. “There is no law west of the Mississippi. None that counts anyway. And as far as the ceremony goes, what were you expecting? A formal gown and organ music?”
“No,” Nate said sheepishly.
“You’ll get hitched Indian
fashion, and even then you won’t have the full affair,” Shakespeare stated. He began tucking his shirt under his belt. “You stay put. I’ll tend to the preparations.” He hurried off, chuckling and muttering under his breath.
Nate stood next to Winona, at a loss for words, slightly dazed by the precipitous turn of events. He must be dreaming. Was he really about to tie the knot? To an Indian woman, no less? Was he in his right mind or had the sequence of harrowing experiences since he’d left St. Louis rattled his noggin?
The word spread quickly among the Shoshones. Drags the Rope and the other warriors, having finished taking scalps, took up guard positions around the rim. The women and children gathered near Black Kettle’s travois to witness the event, many whispering and giggling. And every one of them stared openly at the groom.
Nate felt as if he were under a microscope.
Shakespeare, adopting a solemn air belied by the way the corners of his mouth continually curled upward, stood to the right of the travois and had the couple stand in front of Black Kettle. “Are you ready?” he asked Nate.
“Why do I feel like heading for the hills?”
“You’re already on a hill, and you evaded the question. Are you ready?”
“Is a man ever ready for marriage?”
“Now’s not the time to wax philosophical. Are you ready or not, damn it?”
Nate inhaled deeply and nodded. “Ready.”
“Good.” Shakespeare addressed Black Kettle, who had managed to prop himself on his elbows. The warrior then relayed a series of queries through the frontiersman. “Do you want to take Winona as your wife?”
“You know I do.”
“Do you promise to protect her, to treat her kindly, to stay with her in good times and bad?”
“Yes,” Nate said.
“Do you primise to carry on the line by having as many sons as you can?”
“I’ll do my best,” Nate pledged.
“What do you offer to buy her with?”
Nate blinked and straightened in consternation. “Buy her? No one said anything about buying her.”
“Remember what I told you about how Indian men purchase their brides? Normally, Black Kettle would receive about six horses for a pretty thing like Winona. But this is a special case. Still, you have to offer something. What will it be?”
“I don’t have six horses,” Nate said. “All I have is my pack horse.”
“Done,” Shakespeare stated, and conveyed the news to Black Kettle.
“Wait a minute!” Nate exclaimed. “I didn’t mean—”
“Too late,” Shakespeare interrupted. “He accepts. Congratulations. You’re now husband and wife.”
Stunned, Nate looked at his bride, who was standing coyly with her head bowed. “What? Just like that? You’re joking.”
“Nope,” Shakespeare said, and grasped his friend’s right hand in a firm shake. “Let me be the first one to offer my condolences.”
“Condolences?”
“I’ve been married before, if you’ll recollect.”
Peeved, Nate tore his hand free and gestured to Winona. “And what about her? Doesn’t she take part in the vows?”
“What vows? You gave Black Kettle your horse. She’s yours. It’s as simple as that.”
“But—”
“It’s too late to change your mind,” Shakespeare commented, his eyes twinkling. “You’re hitched.”
“But—”
“And I’m sorry to say that you don’t even get to kiss the bride. The Shoshones don’t go in for public displays of affection. So save your puckering for when you’re alone.”
“There has to be more to it than this!” Nate exploded.
“Well, if you want to be a stickler for formality, there’s usually a big feast to celebrate. But under the circumstances, I reckon it’s best if we hold off on the festivities. Don’t you agree?”
Nate nodded blankly. His thoughts were whirling at a cyclonic rate, yet his body was functioning in slow motion. He gazed at his bride in a dreamlike state, viewing her as an unreal vision of beauty and charm.
The next instant a strident scream brought him back to reality with a vengeance.
One of the Shoshone women staggered forward and stumbled, sinking to her knees, her torso pierced by an arrow, the bloody point jutting from between her breasts.
Chapter Eighteen
For a minute panic prevailed.
Everyone scrambled for cover, dashing for the shelter of the boulders. The woman who had been shot was supported by three others and half-carried to the slabs alongside the spring. At Morning Dew’s urging, Shakespeare and Nate lifted Black Kettle from the platform and placed him at the base of the boulders. One of the warriors stationed along the southern perimeter began shouting excitedly, and all of the Shoshone men converged on him.
“Let’s go,” Shakespeare said, and hurried toward them.
Nate glanced at Winona, regretting they had married under such hazardous circumstances and wishing he could take her in his arms to express his affection. Instead, he gave her arm a tender squeeze and raced after the frontiersman.
Drags the Rope was peering at the forest below. He looked around and scowled. “Red Knife see Blackfeet there,” he stated, and pointed at a point in the trees 50 feet from the rim.
“The bastards are going to pick us off,” Shakespeare declared angrily. “They’ll try and soften us up for their attack.”
As if in confirmation, a warrior yelled and jabbed his finger skyward.
Nate looked up in time to see the sunlight glinting off an arrow as the shaft arced high in the air and streaked down at the enclosed area on the summit.
Drags the Rope cried out a warning.
All eyes swung upward. The arrow descended in the center, missing the Shoshones huddled beside the rocks by a wide margin, but the tip still found a target. Purely by chance the arrow struck one of the horses, smacking into the animal’s neck and burying itself to the feathers. The horse, neighing in torment and terror, scrambled erect and bolted for the eastern opening.
Several of the warriors endeavored to head the animal off, without success.
Snorting and whinnying, the horse galloped between the boulders and fled down the east slope.
“Damn their stinking bones!” Shakespeare fumed, and brazenly stood to his full height so he could shake his left fist at the trees and curse the Blackfeet mightily.
“Get down!” Nate snapped, grabbing the older man’s leflt arm and hauling him safely behind the slab. “What are you trying to do? Get yourself killed?”
A fit of coughing struck the frontiersman and he doubled over, his arms pressed against his left side. In a minute the paroxysm subsided and he leaned on the boulder. “Whew! I’m not as spry as I used to be.”
“Not fifteen minutes ago you were bashed by a war club.”
“What’s that got to do with anything? If you stay out here long enough, you learn to shrug those things off.”
“You’re impossible,” Nate mumbled, and scanned their immediate surroundings. The animals herded together in the middle were in grave peril, as were the Shoshones crouched behind boulders on the west, north, and east sides of the clearing, which included Winona and her family. “We have to get everyone on the south side,” he stated urgently.
Drags the Rope nodded in agreement and started yelling for his people to move to safety.
“I’ll be right back,” Nate said. He propped the Hawken against a rock slab and sprinted toward his new in-laws. Halfway across the open track he heard Shakespeare voice a shout of alarm.
“Another arrow! Look out!”
Nate twisted and saw the incoming shaft, its metal point gleaming, on its downward sweep. He automatically calculated the trajectory, and in a flash perceived that one of the horses would be hit. He darted to his left, intending to pull the animal onto its feet and remove it from harm’s way, but compared to a streaking arrow his speed was equivalent to that of a tortoise.
The Blackfoot shaft smacked into the brown stallion high on the animal’s forehead, thrusting through skin, flesh, and even bone, drilling through to the cranial cavity and skewering the hapless horse’s brain. It stiffened, opened its mouth, then convulsed silently for half a minute. Finally, its eyes rolling in their sockets, the stallion simply keeled over, blood and froth bubbling over its lips.
Nate didn’t waste any more time on the animal. More arrows would be forthcoming. He sprinted to the north where Winona and Morning Dew were already turning the horse hauling the travois. Black Kettle had reclined on his back once again, exhausted by the energy he had expended during the wedding ceremony. “Let me,” Nate said, and signed his desire to lead the horse. He grabbed the reins and headed to the south.
Winona and Morning Dew stepped to the travois, each on a different side, prepared to aid Black Kettle if needed.
The rest of the band was flocking to the boulders on the southern perimeter.
But what about the horses? Nate wondered as he hastened along. There was nowhere to shelter the mounts and the dogs from the rain of deadly missiles. So far the Blackfeet had fired a few shafts; soon they would unleash a dozen bolts at a time. The horses and dogs would be easy pickings. Mulling the predicament, he led the travois animal to within 15 feet of relative safety when Shakespeare yelled again.
“More arrows! Lots of them!”
Nate looked up, his breath catching in his throat at the sight of nine or ten shafts cleaving the air above the summit. Several were directly overhead. Spinning, he dashed to Black Kettle and hooked his left arm under the warrior’s shoulder.
Winona and Morning Dew stepped in to help.
Resembling the spattering of heavy hail, the arrows thudded home. Many impaled victims. One found Morning Dew.
Nate would never forget the image of the shaft striking his mother-in-law on the left shoulder and protruding out her dress in the vicinity of her navel. He was staring into her eyes when she took the arrow, and he saw a flicker of exquisite anguish promptly replaced by something else—sorrow, he thought—and she collapsed.
Winona screamed and moved to her mother’s side.
“There’s nothing we can do for her,” Nate said, but his words were meaningless to his wife and he couldn’t execute sign language while holding Black Kettle in his arms. The warrior stared at his mate in silent horror.
Lure of the Wild (Wilderness, No 2) Page 14