Luck might be on his side, he consoled himself. If most of the Blackfeet were off after Shakespeare and Baxter, and the one after him had missed him in the dark, he should be able to get to the horses without difficulty. All he had to do was stay on his feet.
Was that all?
He opened his mouth to laugh aloud, but checked himself in time. The indiscretion startled him. Was he so befuddled that he would betray his presence so foolishly?
Perspiration coated his brow as he channeled all of his concentration into reaching the field. Take it easy, he admonished himself. Take it one step at a time. That was all. One measly step. The field wasn’t all that far. In minutes the single steps would add up to the distance he needed to cover. Just keep going no matter what the cost.
No matter what.
An eternity seemed to pass before all those steps ultimately did bring him to the edge of the forest, and he crouched behind a tree to catch his breath. To the east, thirty yards distant, burned the forts. Somehow, probably from sparks, the middle fort had been touched off and was burning furiously. Combined, the forts radiated light over the tall grass and into the adjacent forest.
Nate surmised he might see a few Blackfeet moving about, but there were none. His gaze raked the field repeatedly. Not so much as a single blade moved unnaturally. Even so, he hesitated, preferring to stay right where he was for the time being. He was temporarily safe. Why increase the odds of being spotted by leaving the sanctuary of the forest?
His fluttering eyelids answered the question. If he keeled over he would be at the mercy of the Blackfeet, other predators, and the weather. As long as he kept moving, he’d be all right. Which was easier said than accomplished.
Nate used tree limbs to pull himself up and stood stiffly, then hobbled into the grass that bordered the very edge of the trunks. Despite the anguish he stayed hunched over, ignoring the pain in his lower back. What was one more pain to a man trapped in a living nightmare, a hell worse than the Inferno?
His guardian angel must have been watching over him because he crossed the field without being attacked. The sight of the rim expanded his heart with joy and he walked the final five yards without the aid of the rifle. Soon he would be with his companions!
Nate stepped to the edge and halted, scanning the trees below, beaming in triumph that proved to be premature the very next instant when onrushing footsteps sounded to his rear and he twisted in horror to see a Blackfoot holding a war club aloft, a club that smashed into his right temple and sent him sailing from the plateau. The last coherent thought he had was inanely sublime; he hoped there were no Blackfeet in the hereafter.
Chapter Fourteen
Why did he feel as if he was in a boat being rocked violently by huge waves?
The sensation surprised him. He’d thought the afterlife would be different; at the very least it wouldn’t be so dark. He couldn’t see a blessed thing. Then he became aware of a hand on his left shoulder, shaking him rudely, and realized he wasn’t dead after all but alive and simply had his eyes closed. Alive! The word echoed in his brain like the joyous peals of church bells.
The pain engulfed him a second later and brought him back to reality. Groaning, he opened his eyes, and he knew he might have been better off being dead because staring balefully down at him was a tall Blackfoot, the one who carried the Spanish sword, the warrior named White Bear.
Other Blackfeet materialized above and around him, most with malevolent expressions.
Nate didn’t move or speak. Anything he did might provoke them. He scanned their painted faces and saw one of the warriors holding his rifle and wearing his bullet pouch and powder horn. If his hazy memory served, it was the same Blackfoot who had struck him with the war club.
White Bear growled a string of words in his language.
Still Nate stayed immobile.
Lashing out angrily, White Bear hit him across the face and barked more Blackfoot words.
The blow stung wickedly. Nate suppressed his rage and shook his head to signify he did not understand.
White Bear turned and addressed one of the warriors. They conversed for a bit, then White Bear looked at Nate and his hands signed a question: “Do you know sign language, white man?”
Nate hesitated. Should he admit his knowledge or not? A second slap prompted him to reveal he could use sign, if only to buy time, to delay his eventual torture. “Yes, White Bear.”
Astonishment lined the Blackfoot’s visage. “How do you know my name?”
Instead of telling the truth, Nate responded, “Every trapper has heard of the mighty Blackfoot warrior who wears a sword.”
The false claim sparked a brief debate among the Blackfeet until White Bear silenced them with a wave of his arm.
“How are you known?”
“I am Grizzly Killer.”
Several of the warriors laughed.
“How did one so young earn such a name?” White Bear asked, smirking.
“By killing grizzlies.”
More mirth greeted the assertion.
White Bear did not appreciate the humor. “Where are your friends?” he demanded gruffly.
“I do not know,” Nate replied, elated to learn the frontiersman, the Ohioan, and the Ute were safe.
“Lie to me and I will cut out your tongue,” White Bear vowed.
“I have no idea,” Nate insisted, refusing to be cowed. “We were separated last night during the fight.”
“The fight was two suns ago.”
Shock brought Nate to a sitting posture, his right side on fire, to gaze around in bewilderment. There was no sign of the forts. To the left ran a creek, to the right was a hill.
“We have carried you,” White Bear revealed. “We do not want you to die yet.”
Two days! Nate blinked and pressed his hand to the wound. No wonder the pain wasn’t quite as bad as before. And no wonder he was starved.
“You and your friends killed many of my people. You will suffer for each one who died.”
Nate looked at his captors again and was pleased to count only nine.
“In another day we will join a war party of our brothers,” White Bear disclosed. “Then we shall decide what to do with you.”
So he had at least another day of life. Nate glanced at the wound and discovered his shirt had been cut and a gummy substance of some sort applied to the hole. “What is this?”
“An herbal poultice to stop the bleeding and prevent infection,” White Bear signed, and saw the incredulity on the youth’s countenance.
The illogical practice of patching up a wounded enemy just to kill him later made a perverse sort of sense. Nate knew the Blackfeet delighted in torturing captured enemies, employing the most devious and cruel means imaginable, and since they intended to give him a taste of their savage cruelty, they wouldn’t want him to die on them before the event.
A young warrior stepped forward. “I am Red Elk, the one who tended you.”
Nate automatically signed, “Thank you.” He was surprised when the warrior’s mouth creased in an apparently genuine smile.
White Bear scowled and glanced at Red Elk, and perhaps because he had just been using sign language and felt no need to resort to his own tongue, or perhaps because he wanted Nate to know what he said, he addressed Red Elk in the same manner. “Remember he is our enemy and must be slain. All whites are our enemies.”
“Even the white who saved my life?”
Some of the others growled in agreement.
“A white saved your life?” Nate inquired.
“Two winters ago,” Red Elk related. “I was out hunting by myself far south of our village and tried to cross a frozen river. The ice broke. Try as I might, I could not climb out. I thought the cold would kill me or I would drown. But after a time a lone white trapper came by. He used a rope to pull me out and then made a fire so I could get warm.” Red Elk paused. “That trapper saved my life. The next morning he left and I never saw him again.”
White Bear
snorted. “The only reason he saved you was because he did not know you were a Blackfoot. Had he known he would have left you in the freezing water.”
“I do not know that.”
“Why else did he save you?” White Bear asked.
Nate saw Red Elk’s troubled expression, and realized he really owed his herbal treatment to the unknown trapper who had saved the warrior’s life. Red Elk had tended to him out of a sense of obligation to whites in general. Whatever the case, he was glad. And he was surprised to discover not all Blackfeet viewed trappers as implacable foes.
White Bear stood and barked directions. He looked at Red Elk and spoke scornfully for a bit, then moved off to lead the band northward.
“You must get on your feet,” Red Elk told Nate.
Using his palms to push erect, Nate swayed and almost pitched onto his face. He righted himself with a supreme effort and took a tentative stride. “I am weak,” he informed the Blackfoot. “I do not know if I can keep up.”
“If you do not, White Bear will chop off a few of your fingers.”
The added incentive sufficed to compel Nate forward. He gained strength with every step. Loud growling in his stomach reminded him of his hunger. “I am starving. When can I eat?”
“When we do,” Red Elk answered. He gazed at the backs of his fellow tribesmen, who were all hastening off at a brisk clip. “I am sorry, Grizzly Killer. I would not treat you like this, but I am not the leader of the war party.”
“I understand.”
“White Bear has placed me in charge of you. If you try to escape, I will be forced to kill you.”
“One way or the other I will die,” Nate said.
“Yes.”
They hiked in silence for half an hour, Nate doing his best to keep up. The Blackfoot apparently weren’t concerned about him fleeing; they hardly paid any attention to him except to glance over their shoulders every so often and sneer. He desperately craved food and drink and longed to stop, but he took the threat of losing his fingers seriously and plodded onward, a dull ache in his side, his stomach berating him in a marvelous imitation of an enraged grizzly.
“Are you well enough to converse?” Red Elk inquired as they trudged over the crest of a ridge.
“Yes,” Nate replied, eager to do anything to take his mind off his suffering.
“I imagine you know that most of my people hate whites.”
“I got that impression.”
“Do you know why?”
“I was told it is because when the first party of whites to ever visit your territory passed through, they killed a Blackfoot,” Nate answered, referring to the incident involving the famed Lewis and Clark expedition.
Lewis had separated from his companion to explore land in the vicinity of Maria’s River, taking six men along, and his party ran into a small band of Blackfeet. A fight broke out when the Indians attempted to steal some guns. One Blackfoot was stabbed to death, another shot in the stomach, and the rest fled. Ever since the Blackfeet had killed whites indiscriminately.
“They were not the first party,” Red Elk said. “Other whites had visited our people and we always treated them with kindness and fairness.” He frowned. “Those warriors who tried to steal guns shamed our tribe.”
Nate glanced at him. “Do other Blackfeet feel the same way you do?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do your people go out of their way to kill my people?”
“The white-haters are the ones who kill so many trappers. The rest of us will not attack whites unless we are attacked first.”
“It is sad your leaders do not feel as you do.”
“Some of our leaders do. Some do not.”
“White Bear is obviously one who does.”
“No one hates whites more than he does. It took me much talk to persuade him to let me put a poultice on your wounds, and I was surprised when he finally agreed.”
“He wants me alive for whatever torture he has planned,” Nate signed.
“I am afraid you are right.” Red Elk looked into Nate’s eyes. “I pity you, Grizzly Killer. The last trapper White Bear captured died a horrible death. He was staked out on a grizzly trail and eaten alive by the next bear that came by.”
Nate envisioned such a fate and involuntarily shuddered.
“There is one good thing,” Red Elk said.
“What is that?”
“White Bear never kills an enemy the same way twice. He will come up with a new means of killing you.”
They lapsed into silence, and for several more hours Nate endured constant torment. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out and showing any weakness. When White Bear finally called a halt near a spring, Nate sank to the ground in relief. Another warrior brought over three strips of dried deer meat, which Nate consumed in less than a minute. He ate so fast, he felt sick. A drink of cold mountain water settled his stomach and revived him considerably. Still, he moved with difficulty when White Bear instructed the band to resume their trek.
The rest of the day was more of the same. When the sun sank to the west they stopped on the south bank of a narrow stream. Red Elk and a second warrior stood guard while the rest constructed two forts. Hunters were sent out to secure meat. Another caught a few fish.
Nate was prodded at lance point into one of the forts, and he sat there alone until Red Elk carried a makeshift bark plate containing roasted deer meat and fish. Nate ate hungrily even though the food practically burned his tongue.
Red Elk stayed and watched him eat. When the final morsel was consumed, he gestured at the doorway. “You can drink from the stream if you wish. I would advise you to do so. You will get no more food or drink until morning.”
“There is something else I must also do.”
“What?”
“You know.”
Red Elk’s forehead creased in perplexity. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“I need to relieve myself.”
This elicited a laugh from the young Blackfoot. “You can go; but I am required to watch you the whole time.”
“If you must, you must,” Nate said. It would be pointless to argue. He had to make the best of the situation until an opportunity to escape presented itself. If one did. So he let the Blackfoot escort him to the spring and drank until he couldn’t drink another sip, then walked behind a tree and did his private business.
Red Elk discreetly stayed a few yards away and pretended to be fascinated by a nearby boulder.
Once Nate was back in the fort, Red Elk sat near the doorway. He seemed preoccupied and signed nothing.
Nate was appalled when two warriors came in and bound his wrists and ankles, just like the Blackfeet had done with Shakespeare and Baxter. One of them shoved him onto his left side, then both laughed as they departed. Now he was deprived of his sole means of communication.
Not until twilight draped the landscape did several Blackfeet enter and build a fire, making themselves as comfortable as they could.
What a night! Nate had to endure the agony of his wound and the taunts and barbs of the trio, who constantly mocked him and poked him with a lance. Red Elk did not participate. All four Blackfeet eventually fell asleep, and snored loud enough to rouse a hibernating black bear.
Nate attempted to sleep, but couldn’t at first. He tried to free his hands and failed.
Wolves howled not far off, yet not one Indian stirred.
An owl hooted close by.
Nate listened to the sounds, his soul dominated by despair, and tried to refrain from thinking about the fate in store for him. Think about Shakespeare, he told himself. Think about his best friend in all creation being safe and sound. Think about his parents and family back in New York, who would, thankfully, be spared the knowledge of his grisly demise. And think about Winona, his darling Winona, who would mourn him and sing an ancient Shoshone chant in honor of his passing.
What a terrible way to end a life!
He wanted to rant and rave, to ha
ve a tantrum of epic proportions to protest his unjust fortune. Was this his just reward for a life lived decently, for always doing unto others as he would have them do unto him? Granted, he hadn’t attended church as regularly as he should, but he’d never taken the Lord’s name in vain, never killed wantonly or abused a woman or child. So why should he end his earthly days in the clutches of a murderous savage? It wasn’t fair!
Nate twisted his head to stare at the smoke drifting out the opening at the top of the fort. A few stars were visible. He longed to be on his mare, riding at a gallop across a verdant plain, the breeze on his face and joy in his heart. He didn’t want to die, not when he had his whole life ahead of him. Somehow, some way, he must get loose.
His eyelids drooped and his left cheek sagged to the ground. An earthy scent filled his nostrils. Earth. The natural cloak for a corpse. Would the Blackfeet bury him or leave his body for the scavengers? What a stupid question. They would leave his remains for the buzzards to peck at and the maggots to gorge on. With this ghastly image in his troubled mind, he drifted into a fitful sleep.
Chapter Fifteen
Nate awoke to the sensation of someone poking him in the ribs, and opened his eyes to stare up in befuddled confusion at a smirking Blackfoot warrior. For a few seconds he forgot where he was and what had happened, until his harrowing ordeal came back in a rush and prompted him to sit up and glare at his tormentor.
The warrior laughed and exited the fort.
With a start, Nate realized he was alone. His wound ached dully and his buckskins felt clammy. He lifted his arms and inspected the cord binding his wrists, thinking he would tear into it with his teeth. Before he could, in came Red Elk.
“Hello, Grizzly Killer. I will untie you,” the young Blackfoot said, and quickly did as he promised. “Does that feel better?”
“Yes,” Nate signed awkwardly, his hands and feet tingling. He flexed his fingers and rotated his ankles in an attempt to restore his constricted circulation.
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