“Let me do it,” Nate objected. “I can’t sit here the rest of my life. The sooner I get on my feet, the better. I promise I’ll go slow.”
“All right, but if you don’t you’ll be sorry.” Shakespeare wedged a hatchet under his belt, hefted his rifle, and headed eastward.
“Take care of yourself, brother,” Baxter said, and hiked after the frontiersman.
Nate watched them until they were lost from view. He glanced around the clearing and suddenly felt very alone, keenly aware of being a solitary human in the midst of a sea of often savage wildlife. To dispel the feeling he shook his head lightly and slowly pushed to his feet. The dizziness renewed its onslaught, but the attack wasn’t as severe. He stood still until his sense of balance was restored, then stepped to the fire.
The fragrant aroma of the coffee tantalized his nostrils, and he hurriedly poured a cup and sat haunched near the flames. Between the fire and the coffee he was warm and comfortable in no time, and consuming a couple of tasty cakes further contributed to his peace of mind.
Nate listened to the wind in the trees and the songs of various birds. He saw a large specimen with a black head and blue plumage alight in a tree to the south and eye him warily for several minutes before flying boldly into the camp and landing on the opposite side of the campfire. Such birds were quite common at higher elevations, and the trappers referred to them as mountain jays. Unlike their noisy blue cousins in the East, these jays were remarkably reticent. “Hello, bird,” he said to it, grateful for the company.
The jay hopped a few feet and tilted its head to inspect him from head to toe.
Impressed by the bird’s audacity, Nate tossed crumbs to the ground, and grinned as the jay greedily devoured the bits. If only all the creatures in the Rockies were so friendly! he mused, and kept feeding his visitor until all the crumbs were gone. “That’s all I have for now,” he said.
Digesting the information in regal silence, the jay flapped its wings and soared off over the trees.
Chuckling, Nate poured more coffee and settled down to sip to his heart’s content. Such tranquil moments were rare in the life of a mountaineer, and he intended to enjoy the interlude to the fullest.
Chipmunks scampered on boulders to the north, a rabbit hopped into sight near the spring, and a pair of ravens flew past overhead.
Nate contrasted the idyllic setting with the bear attack, and marveled at the wildly different faces Nature presented. One moment serene and beautiful, the next violent and ugly, Nature’s temperament seemed to change with the breeze. If Nature possessed a personality, she would be labeled as fickle. Not to mention dangerous.
He touched his head, feeling the scalp, and found no bumps or scratches. Only then did he fully appreciate the magnitude of his fortune. A cut shoulder blade and a nicked foot were nothing compared to the alternative. To escape relatively unscathed from an encounter with a grizzly was rare enough; to do so several times constituted uncommon good luck.
The great Grizzly Killer!
Nate laughed at the thought and swallowed more perfectly sweetened coffee. If only his family could see him now! They’d probably laugh themselves to death. All except his father, who would criticize him for being a consummate fool.
He recalled Shakespeare’s advice about returning to settle affairs, and he toyed with the notion of doing so. But if he did travel to the States, what about Winona? Dared he take her along? She might be overwhelmed by the experience and upset beyond measure. To someone attuned to the ways of the wilderness, the ways of the white race would border on madness. He decided to consider the matter at length later.
A horse whinnied loudly.
Nate glanced at the animals, contentedly grazing north of the spring, near the woods, and took another sip. If he felt up to the task later, he’d brush the mare and spend some time in her company. In a certain respect horses were a lot like people. If neglected, they tended to become moody. His mare was a headstrong animal prone to act up if not ridden or curried daily.
The same horse whinnied once more.
Belatedly, the coffee cup pressed to his lips, Nate realized the sound came from the southwest, not from the five animals near the spring. Alarmed, he shifted and stared into the forest.
Nothing moved.
He lowered the tin cup and straightened. Perhaps he’d been mistaken, he reasoned. Noises often echoed uncannily in the mountains. Perhaps one of their own horses had whinnied and the trees had reflected the sound from a different direction.
A flicker of motion proved otherwise.
Nate crouched and moved to his blankets. He retrieved the Hawken, slanted to the right, and hurried behind a wide maple. The exertion produced a slight nausea, forcing him to rest his forehead on the trunk for a few seconds until the queasy sensation subsided, and when he did look to the southwest again the blood in his veins seemed to run cold as he laid eyes on an approaching Indian armed with a bow and arrows.
Chapter Six
The husky warrior had his eyes on the ground, scouring for tracks, and didn’t see the camp until he casually gazed straight ahead and spotted the fire and the horses. He promptly reined up and sat still, watching intently.
Breathing shallowly, Nate froze and studied the Indian, trying to identify the man’s tribe. He wasn’t as skilled as Shakespeare; he couldn’t tell at a glance if an Indian was a Sioux, Shoshone, Crow, Kiowa, or whatever.
Black hair hung well past the warrior’s shoulders. Buckskin leggings and moccasins covered him from the waist down, but otherwise he was naked. In his right hand was the bow. A full quiver hung on his back, and a slender knife adorned his right hip.
Should he fire or not? Nate debated. If the man was hostile, then prudence dictated slaying him immediately. But what if the warrior was from a friendly tribe? As remote as the possibility might be, he couldn’t afford to slay an innocent man. He opted to wait and observe what happened.
The Indian didn’t budge for the longest while. At last he slid to the ground and advanced using every tree, bush, and thicket for cover, affording only fleeting glimpses of his darting form.
Nate drew his head back, squatted, and braced his left shoulder on the tree. He couldn’t risk being spotted. In his condition he’d be no match for the warrior. As much as it tried his patience, he must wait, give the Indian time to enter the clearing, then spring a little surprise. If the warrior resisted, then he’d slay the man without compunction.
He held the rifle upright, his finger on the trigger, his thumb on the hammer, and slowly counted to fifty, anxious to take a peek. The seconds seemed like years. At last he inched his right eye to the edge of the trunk.
The warrior was in plain sight, an arrow nocked to his bow, standing at the south edge of the clearing with his head swinging from side to side. Apparently convinced the camp was temporarily unattended, he hurried to the fire and knelt next to the stacked packs containing the supplies. He glanced at the horses, then at the spring, then placed his bow on the grass and started to unfasten the top of a pack.
Nate had a perfect shot, but he couldn’t bring himself to shoot. The Indian was in profile, intent on undoing the leather ties. He slowly stood, leveled the Hawken, and stepped boldly from concealment.
So engrossed was the warrior in discovering the contents of the pack, he didn’t notice.
Well aware of how quickly an Indian could lift a bow and fire, Nate advanced several strides and deliberately cocked the hammer. The click had the desired effect.
Spinning, the Indian released the pack and grabbed for his bow, his eyes widening in consternation at being taken off guard.
“Don’t!” Nate barked, aiming at the man’s forehead.
His fingers about to close on the handle, the warrior stared at the unwavering Hawken and froze, his consternation changing to an expression of arrogant resentment.
“Take your hand off the bow,” Nate said, and when the Indian showed no sign of complying he motioned with his head. “Step back, away fr
om your weapon.”
Even if the warrior didn’t understand English, the motion and the tone were unmistakable. Reluctantly, he slid backwards and stood, his arms at his sides.
“Do you speak the white man’s tongue?” Nate asked.
A stony silence was his response.
Nate walked to within three yards of the Indian. He wagged the Hawken at the man’s knife and pointed at the ground.
Scowling, the warrior used two fingers to pull the knife from its sheath and dropped it. He exhaled loudly and awaited further instructions.
“Move back away from the packs,” Nate said, and gestured with the rifle to get his point across. When the Indian obeyed, he motioned for the man to sit. “I’ll bet you’re a murdering Blackfoot.”
The warrior said nothing.
Nate began to relax. There was no way the man could jump him before he fired, and the Indian knew it. He cradled the rifle in the crook of his right arm and addressed the prisoner in sign language, his fingers flying. Shakespeare and Winona had spent many hours instructing him in the universal language of the tribes, and he’d become quite proficient. “Are you a Blackfoot?”
Jutting his chin out defiantly, the Indian refused to answer.
“You act like a Blackfoot,” Nate said, knowing a member of any other tribe would be insulted by the comment. He almost grinned when it elicited a response.
“The Blackfeet are cowardly dogs. They deserve to be rubbed out of existence.”
“Are you a Crow?”
The warrior snorted contemptuously. “You are very ignorant, white man. I am better than any Crow. They are bigger cowards than the Blackfeet and flee at the mention of my tribe.”
“What is your tribe?”
Squaring his broad shoulders, the man stated proudly, “The Utes.”
Nate nodded. Since they were trapping in Ute territory, the man must be speaking the truth. “I know the Utes well. They are brave fighters.”
Surprise registered at the unexpected compliment. “How do you know about my people?” the warrior asked.
“I have fought them a couple of times.”
“And you are still alive?”
Grinning, Nate moved a few feet to his right to put the fire between them. “I have fought the Blackfeet too, and I can tell you they are not cowards.”
The warrior wasn’t interested in the Blackfeet. “How many of my people have you killed?”
Nate had to think for a moment. “Thirteen, I believe.”
A crimson tinge of anger flushed the Ute’s cheeks and he clenched his fists for a full five seconds before responding. “You lie. No white man has ever killed so many Utes.”
“I have,” Nate signed calmly.
The warrior’s eyes narrowed and he scrutinized the young mountain man from head to toe. “How are you known?”
“There are no signs for my white name. Some time ago I earned an Indian name, though, and many now call me by it.”
“What is this name?”
“Grizzly Killer.”
The Ute’s eyes strayed to the rack of drying bear meat. His brow creased and he seemed to be deep in thought. “During the Thunder Moon a warrior named Buffalo Horn led a war party of thirteen men from my village. They never came back.”
“I killed twelve of them. Another time I killed one other warrior. All of them were trying to slay me when they died,” Nate reflected.
Disbelief wrestled with acceptance on the Ute’s countenance, and finally the truth prevailed. Strangely, he smiled. “I will be honored to take your scalp one day.”
“Many have tried.”
“For one so young to have counted so many coup, you must be a brave warrior.”
“I did what I did to survive, nothing more.”
“You survive quite well.”
Nate smiled. “What is your name?”
“I am Two Owls.”
“Did you come here looking for us?”
“No,” the Ute replied. “I was hunting when I came across horse tracks and followed them until I saw your fire.”
Baxter’s tracks, Nate reflected. “Did you see any sign of the Blackfeet war party?”
Two Owls stiffened. “What war party?”
“The prints you followed were made by a companion of mine who was escaping from a band of Blackfeet.”
Tremendously upset by the news, the Ute began to rise, then caught himself. His hands and arms moved emphatically. “The Blackfeet can be in this area for only one reason. They are planning to raid my village. You must let me go warn my people.”
Taken unawares by the request, Nate hesitated before answering. Although he agreed with the Ute’s conclusion, and even though he sympathized with the warrior’s fears for the village, he wasn’t about to release a member of a tribe devoted to the extermination of all trappers. “I am sorry. I cannot.”
Two Owls’ features clouded. When he signed, he stabbed the air. “I should have known better than to ask a white.”
“I will talk it over with my friends when they return. If they agree, we will let you go.”
“When will they return?”
“I do not know.”
The Ute sullenly accepted the inevitable, but he cast a longing glance at the horses.
“Do you have a wife?” Nate asked.
“A wife and three sons,” the warrior replied proudly. “My boys will grow up to become great fighters and their names will be feared by all their enemies.”
“Is your village near here?”
Two Owls lifted his hands to respond, then paused and grinned. “You are crafty like a coyote, Grizzly Killer.”
“I am?”
“You almost tricked me into revealing the location of my people. This I will not do.”
“We are not here to harm your tribe.”
“Why are you in this region?”
“To trap beaver.”
Frowning in displeasure, Two Owls nodded. “I guessed as much. Your kind will one day wipe the beaver out.”
“You are being unfair. There are many thousands of beavers in the mountains and only a few hundred trappers. We will never wipe them out.”
“I would expect you to say such things. You are white. But my eyes are the eyes of a Ute, and I know what I know. Already have the whites killed more beaver in the past few winters than all the tribes have killed since the day the Great Mystery breathed life into all creatures.”
Nate chuckled at the concept. “You have an excellent imagination.”
“Laugh at me if you want, but my words are true. Why do you think my people dislike the whites so much? It is because we know the whites are destroyers and we do not want your kind to destroy the land that has fed us and clothed us for more generations than there are fingers to count with,” Two Owls sighed solemnly.
“I do not know what I can say to change your mind, so I will only say you are wrong. Why would my people want the beaver to die off when they depend on the beaver for their existence?”
“My people have often discussed that very question, and we have decided the whites must all be crazy.”
At this Nate laughed openly.
Two Owls regarded him reflectively for a while. “This is most odd,” he stated at length.
“What is?”
“I find myself liking you.”
“Have you ever talked with a white man before?”
“No.”
“So this is a first for both of us. You are not the rabid killer I believed all Utes to be. You are a man, nothing more, nothing less, and perhaps that is the answer to all the questions both of us have. My people and your people live differently and have different values, but they are all still people. Instead of hating each other because of our differences, we should try to understand one another and live in peace.”
The Ute appeared amazed. “I never expected to hear such words from a white man.”
Sighing, Nate indicated the surrounding mountains with a sweep of his right arm. “I have made m
y home here. I want to raise a family and watch my sons grow into manhood, just like you do. Naturally, I would rather live in peace with all the tribes.”
“No one will ever live in peace with the Blackfeet.”
“I know,” Nate signed. “Fortunately, their villages are far to the north and they only travel to this region for occasional raids.” He saw the Ute’s lips compress, and realized he’d made a tactless mistake by reminding the warrior of the danger to the Ute village. Guilt troubled his conscience. How could he detain the warrior knowing the man’s wife and children were in imminent danger? If only Shakespeare would get back! The mountain man would know what to do.
“Do I just sit here until your friends return?” Two Owls inquired.
“Yes.”
“Then you will want to bind me.”
“Not if you give me your word of honor that you will do as I say.”
“You would trust my word?”
“Yes.”
Two Owls leaned on his palms, his mouth pursed. Then he began to sign, “Grizzly Killer, you are unlike any white man I have ever heard of. If more whites were like you, my people would not hate them so much.”
“When you are among your people again, tell them about this. Perhaps many will agree with you.”
“I will tell them, but most will still dislike all trappers.”
Nate was about to make a comment when the distant crack of a rifle turned his gaze to the east. His pulse quickened. As far as he knew, Shakespeare was the only other man within a radius of miles who had a rifle, and there was no logical reason for the mountain man to be using his Hawken to slay beaver.
Another shot sounded, not quite as loud, the distinct blast of a flintlock.
Was that Baxter? Nate took a stride eastward, dread gripping his soul, dread that intensified a moment later when, so faint he could barely hear them, there arose a series of blood-curdling war whoops.
Chapter Seven
Nate glanced at Two Owls and debated whether to simply release the warrior, wondering if the whoops were from Blackfeet or Utes. He must go find his friends, but it wouldn’t be wise to force the warrior to accompany him since he couldn’t effectively watch a prisoner and be alert for an ambush at the same time. A second shot from a flintlock decided the issue and he quickly signed, “You are free to go.” Whirling, he grabbed his bridle from his pile of tack but didn’t bother with the saddle, then sprinted toward the horses, moving as fast as he dared, still weak but determined not to buckle.
Tomahawk Revenge/ Black Powder Justice (A Wilderness Double Western Book 3) Page 5