Pandemonium reigned on the hill. Six Shoshones were down, dead or dying, and two women were screeching in the throes of agony. Injured horses were up and running wildly in circles, spooking other animals. And in the midst of the bedlam other Shoshones were trying to reach the south side before another volley descended.
“We’ve got to get out of the open,” Nate told Winona. She leaned over her mother, oblivious to the world. He took a step and was about to snatch at her hair when a friendly voice sounded to his right.
“Let me take Black Kettle, Nate. You bring the missus.”
Nate glanced at his friend. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“Do you want to argue or become a porcupine?” Shakespeare countered, and grasped the warrior under the arms.
Inexpressibly grateful, Nate crouched next to Winona and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Come on,” he urged. “Please.”
She sobbed, tears flowing down her full cheeks.
“Hurry,” Nate said, and tried to lift her. He glanced upward and felt a tingle run along his spine as he beheld yet another shower of shafts flying from the forest. His mind shrieked for him to move, and move he did, forcibly yanking Winona upright and propelling her toward the sheltering boulders. She meekly submitted to the leading. In five leaping strides he got them within reach of the perimeter, and he threw himself forward the last few yards, carrying her with him.
The volley thudded down. Four more Shoshones were hit, and three horses. One of the dogs was lanced clear through and fell without so much as a whimper.
Nate rose to his knees, pulling Winona with him.
Black Kettle rested with his back to the nearest boulder, his eyes still locked on Morning Dew, the smallest spark of vitality flickering in his sorrowful eyes.
“Those dirty vermin!” Shakespeare barked, surveying the slaughter.
Almost all of the Shoshones still alive had reached the haven of the southern rim. A few slow ones, the injured, were being assisted by others. Two horses took off down the east slope.
Drags the Rope and several warriors were firing arrows wildly at the forest.
“Save your shafts,” Nate advised. “You’ll need them.”
The young warrior turned a visage full of rage and hatred toward the two white men. “Mad Dog’s heart mine!” he growled.
“You may have to wait your turn,” Nate said, gazing at Morning Dew.
“We need a plan,” Shakespeare said, stating the obvious, and peeked over the boulder in front of him. “Damn! More arrows!”
Nate saw them too. Only four shafts this time, and miraculously each missed. He braced for others, but five minutes elapsed uneventfully.
“We can’t make a run for it,” Shakespeare remarked. “There aren’t enough horses for everyone, and we’d be picked off before we covered a hundred yards.”
“Charge trees then,” Drags the Rope proposed.
“And commit suicide? No, thanks,” Shakespeare replied. “We’d be lucky if any of us made it to the woods. And then what do you think would happen to the women and children? They’d be at the mercy of Mad Dog, and we both know what that son of a bitch would do to them.”
Drags the Rope grunted.
The frontiersman swiveled toward Nate. “What about you? Have any brilliant ideas?”
“No.”
“We’ve got to—” Shakespeare began, and looked skyward. “More arrows!” he announced.
Four slim missiles streaked out of the blue and plunged into the earth in the middle of the enclosed space. The remaining horses and dogs were milling near the spring, and they escaped being struck.
The mountain man cackled. “That’s four more those buzzards have wasted.”
Nate’s forehead creased in contemplation. Once again the Blackfeet had fired only four shafts. Why? Were they conserving their arrows for their main assault?
“I propose we stick it out here until dark, then slip away,” Shakespeare stated. “They can’t hit us behind these boulders, so we’re safe for the time being.”
“I suppose,” Nate said, bothered by a vague sensation of unease, his intuition telling him that there was an aspect to the battle he was overlooking. Something was not right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
“Yes, sir,” Shakespeare went on enthusiastically. “Even if the Blackfeet do post sentries around this hill, we can fight our way out and cover the women and youngsters.”
“Women, children fight,” Drags the Rope declared.
“I know they can,” Shakespeare acknowledged. “Shoshone women are known for their courage.”
Nate glanced at his wife, who had rested her head on her father’s left shoulder and now weeped soundlessly. He wanted to embrace her, to soothe her, and he started to lift his right arm when Shakespeare uttered a remark that inexplicably troubled him immensely.
“If those mangy Blackfeet try to sneak up on us, we’ll hear them. There’s a lot of loose rock to give them away. We’ll have to watch out for the same stuff when we cut out.”
The frontiersman had a point. Nate recalled seeing the loose rock on the east and west side of the hill. But he hadn’t noticed any to the south, where the Blackfeet were currently congregated, or to the north.
The north!
A cold wind seemed to tingle Nate’s skin as he looked at the boulders on the north side of the summit. The arrows had driven all of the Shoshones away from those boulders, which overlooked the trees that came within 60 feet of the rim, leaving the north slope undefended, providing an undisputed approach route for the enemy.
What if forcing the defenders away from the north side had been a deliberate stratagem?
What if the Blackfeet were cleverer than anyone gave them credit for being?
What if Mad Dog had no intention of waiting until tomorrow morning to launch the attack? What if he wasn’t even going to wait until sunset?
Why had the number of arrows drastically fallen off? And why had there been that five-minute span when no shafts were fired? What had the Blackfeet been doing during those five minutes?
“Shakespeare,” Nate said softly, scanning the northern perimeter, filled with an equal measure of dread and doubt, wondering if perhaps he might be wrong, might be worried over nothing. He noticed his friend conversing with Drags the Rope, and realized the mountain man hadn’t heard him. Instinctively he reached for his Hawken, and as he did he recalled the sage advice Shakespeare had dispensed after the incident with the Utes. “You should always trust your own instincts, no matter what someone else with more experience might tell you. Go with the gut, as I like to say.” Well, his gut was telling him that they were in imminent danger, terrible danger, so he spoke louder and urgently. “Shakespeare!”
The frontiersman looked at him anxiously, alerted by his tone. “What is it?”
“The north rim—” Nate started to say, and then he saw them, saw the Blackfeet sweeping over and around the boulders to the north at the same moment they vented ear-splitting war whoops. He whipped up his rifle, snapped off a shot, and was gratified to see a Blackfoot drop.
A fraction of a second later Shakespeare’s rifle cracked and a second attacker pitched onto his face.
The two shots, booming almost at the very instant they appeared, gave the Blackfeet brief pause as they ducked for cover or crouched to avoid being the next target. They had expected to take the defenders totally unawares, and they were collectively surprised that resistance should be so swift and lethal.
The two shots had another effect. By causing the Blackfeet to briefly check their rush, even for the short span of a few seconds, the Shoshones were given time to react to the startling discovery they were outflanked. The warriors gave tongue to soul-stirring challenges of their own, and charged.
Nate frantically reloaded his rifle and glimpsed Shakespeare doing the same.
Winona moved in front of her father, fury contorting her features, her fists clenched, prepared to defend his life with her own.
; A fierce desperation pervaded the Shoshone warriors. Drags the Rope and the others were outnumbered, but they were fighting for the lives of their loved ones, for the very survival of their band, and such knowledge lent an inhuman savagery to their struggle. They unleashed a volley of their own, slaying six of their adversaries, and then closed in personal mortal combat.
Nate was raising the Hawken again when he realized very few of the Blackfeet carried rifles or bows. Most were armed with war clubs, tomahawks, and knifes, weapons best employed in close-in battle. Why hadn’t they brought their fusees and bows and easily finished off the Shoshones? Nate asked himself. He percieved the answer as he took aim on a burly Blackfoot who had just stabbed a Shoshone warrior. Coup. The Blackfeet wanted to count the highest possible coup, and to do so they must engage the Shoshones man to man. Well, they could count all the coup they wanted. His main concern was staying alive. He squeezed the trigger, his ball catching the Blackfoot in the forehead and catapulting the man to the ground.
Now the center of the open track was a swirling melee of yelling and screaming Indians. Knives flashed. Clubs swung right and left. Tomahawks cleaved the air.
Nate saw Drags the Rope using a knife to hold off three foes. He leaned the rifle against the boulder, drew one of his pistols and gave it to Winona, then raced toward the conflict, drawing his other pistol. The confusing whirl of forms prevented him from determining which side was winning, although the Shoshones appeared to be holding their own. He came within ten feet of Drags the Rope, halted, and sighted on a Blackfoot swinging a club. His shot struck the warrior in the left cheek, spinning the man around and dropping him in his tracks.
A tall, screeching Blackfoot wearing buckskins and a dark hat ran directly at Nate, a tomahawk in his right hand.
There wasn’t time to reload the pistol. Nate grasped his own tomahawk and tensed to meet the rush. He blocked a powerful swipe that would have split his skull wide open, then slashed at the warrior’s midsection.
The Blackfoot skillfully danced aside and swung again.
Nate parried that blow, then another and another, put on the defensive by the warrior’s adroit, unflagging onslaught. He retreated, the empty pistol still clutched in his left hand. A reverse thrust almost caught him in the neck, and he darted to the right.
The Blackfoot glanced down, then did a strange thing. He smiled. And lunged, his hat falling off in the process.
Stepping backwards, perplexed by the enigmatic glance, Nate apprehended its significance a heartbeat later when the heel of his right foot connected with a rock, throwing him off balance, and he fell.
Whooping triumphantly, the Blackfoot took a stride and raised his tomahawk for the death blow.
Flat on his back, his arms outflung, Nate stiffened in anticipation of the warrior’s tomahawk slicing into his flesh. The glinting edge hung suspended in the air for a moment, and suddenly, incredibly, the Blackfoot looked up, looking at something or someone beyond Nate’s line of vision.
Feral hatred etched the warrior’s countenance, and he made a motion as if about to throw the tomahawk.
A shot rang out.
The Blackfoot’s right eye was blown apart by the ball that penetrated his head and ruptured out the rear, showering hair, skin, and gore on the ground. His arms sagged, he swayed, and toppled over to the left.
Nate scrambled erect and turned, thinking he would find Shakespeare standing behind him. Instead, much to his astonishment, he discovered Black Kettle.
A pale shadow of his former self, a smoking pistol clutched in both hands, the leader of the band mustered a broad smile, cast a benign, almost grateful gaze at Nate, and sank slowly to his knees.
Heedless of his own safety, Nate bounded to Black Kettle’s side. He recognized the pistol as his own and realized Winona had given the weapon to her father.
Winona!
Where was she?
Nate scanned the summit and recieved a shock. Eleven Shoshone women had entered the fray armed with knives, stones, and whatever else they could get their hands on. Five Shoshone boys, each between eight and 14 years of age, had also gone to the aid of the warriors. The Blackfeet were battling furiously, but now they were the ones who were outnumbered, and they were learning the hard way that a knife in the hands of an enraged woman or boy was every bit as deadly as a blade wielded by a man. The very existence of the Shoshone band was at stake, and every able-bodied member had rallied to the cause.
A figure materialized on Nate’s right and he rotated, thinking it might be a Blackfoot.
Winona squatted next to her father, her countenance a mask of sadness.
Concerned that one of the Blackfeet might bear down on them, Nate quickly reloaded both pistols. As he took the one gun from Black Kettle, his father-in-law stared into his eyes and spoke a single word.
A tremendous cry of exultation shook the heavens.
Nate stood, both arms extended, but his further participation proved to be unnecessary.
Nine Blackfeet were dead, sprawled on the ground in spreading pools of their own blood, most bearing multiple wounds. The rest of the attackers had fled, barely escaping with their lives, clambering over the boulders or fleeing through the gaps as fast as their legs would carry them.
The carnage was appalling. Shoshone bodies dotted the enclosed area. Only five warriors were still standing, including Drags the Rope, and he had sustained a wicked gash on the right side of his chest. Most of the other warriors were also injured, but not as extensively, and many of the women bore cuts or bruises or both.
“We did it.”
Nate turned to his left at the subdued words. There stood Shakespeare, his shoulders slumped, his face caked with sweat and dust. “Do you think the Blackfeet are gone for good?”
The frontiersman nodded wearily. “They took quite a licking. The bastards won’t have anything to celebrate when they return to their village.” He gazed at the Blackfoot slain by Black Kettle. “Did you do this?”
“No. Black Kettle did.”
“Well, I reckon he won’t mind,” Shakespeare said, and stepped to the dark hat lying in the dirt. He picked it up, smacked the fur against his leg a few times, and extended his arm to Nate. “Here. I don’t like to see a good hat go to waste and I already have one.”
“I don’t need it.”
“You will come winter,” Shakespeare told him. “Don’t argue. Black Kettle has no use for it. And he’d want you to have Mad Dog’s hat.”
“Mad Dog’s?” Nate repeated in surprise. He took the handcrafted headgear in his right hand, feeling the soft texture of the fur. “Maybe Black Kettle would like to have this,” he stated, and pivoted to offer the trophy to his father-in-law. Not until then did he understand Shakespeare’s comment.
Winona was on her knees, her hands clasped under her chin, her eyes filled with tears. On his back in front of her, his eyes open but lifeless, his profile reflecting an attitude of profound peace, lay Black Kettle.
Epilogue
“You didn’t make out so bad.”
Nate looked to his right at his friend, frowning at the callousness of the comment, then stared straight ahead at the valley before them. He tightened his grip on the mare’s reins and spoke sarcastically. “No, I didn’t make out too bad. Both my wife’s mother and father were killed, but other than that everything is just terrific.”
“That isn’t what I meant and you know it,” Shakespeare countered. “I miss them more than you ever will. They were my close friends, remember?”
A twinge of guilt tweaked Nate’s conscience. “Sorry. I guess I’m just taking out my frustration on you.”
“Now that you’re married, you’re not supposed to get testy with your friends,” Shakespeare noted, grinning impishly. “What do you think you have a wife for?”
“I’m beginning to wonder.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you take life too seriously?” Shakespeare asked.
“I take life the only way I know how.”
The frontiersman coughed lightly. “Actually, I was referring to that fact that you received two of the horses the Blackfeet left behind. Now you have enough for your woman and all your goods.”
“Yes,” Nate said dryly.
Shakepeare hissed in exasperation. “I had no idea you can be so grumpy.”
“I have my reason,” Nate stated obstinately. He shifted in the saddle and gazed back at the line of Shoshones trailing them, studiously refraining from looking at his wife, who was riding on a black gelding not two yards to his rear.
“Are you going to mope like this all the way to the rendezvous?” the mountain man asked.
“I may,” Nate said, facing front again.
“You’re worse than a kid, you know that?”
Nate’s anger got the better of him and he whirled on his friend. “Damn it! She should have listened to me!”
A smile creased Shakespeare’s mouth. “Since when are wives supposed to listen to their husbands? You have a lot to learn about marriage. When a woman agrees to hitch herself to a man, she’s not agreeing to do every little thing he wants. She reserves the right to disagree, and disagree she will. Every chance she gets. Sometimes I think women aren’t satisfied unless they can bicker about an issue first.” He paused and chuckled. “Of course, they usually wind up doing what they want to anyway. Nine times out of ten a woman will outthink a man. Always remember that.”
“You’re a big help.”
“I’m not done yet. I’m not suggesting you roll over and give in to your wife every time you have a spat. You can’t be weak. A woman never respects a weakling. She’ll pout and be bitchy and quarrel for the dumbest reasons in Creation, but through it all she expects her man to be strong,” Shakespeare stated, and shook his head in amazement. “Never did make much sense to me. They marry the strongest man they can find, then they get all hot under the collar when he stands by his own guns.”
Lure of the Wild (Wilderness, No 2) Page 15