What should he do?
Then he remembered advice once dispensed by Shakespeare: “Always rely on your gut feelings, your intuition. The Great Mystery gave it to you for a reason. If more folks used theirs on a regular basis, they would be a lot better off.”
The Flatheads were inspecting the forts. A few were searching the ground for tracks.
“Buffalo Horn,” Nate called out, finally making up his mind.
Both Buffalo Horn and Running Elk turned. “What is it, Grizzly Killer?” the former asked.
“Get the warriors away from there,” Nate said urgently.
“Why? What is wrong?”
“I’m not sure,” Nate admitted, his eyes roving over the wall of vegetation to the rear of the forts. Suddenly he saw a flicker of motion, then another, motions that resolved themselves into the shadowy figures of stalking Blackfeet. The sight sent a chill rippling down his spine, but he still retained the presence of mind to cry out, “Behind you! It’s a trap!”
The Flatheads, startled by the cry, gazed about in confusion. Since most didn’t speak English, they had no idea why he had yelled although they fully appreciated the manifest distress in his agitated tone.
All except Buffalo Horn and Running Elk, who both spun in alarm. They saw the danger, but they were too late to prevent the inevitable.
A swarm of arrows streaked out of the vegetation attended by the blasting of a number of fusees. In the blink of an eye six of the Flatheads were down, dead, and three others were staggering, pierced by shafts or wounded by balls.
Buffalo Horn bellowed and the Flatheads retreated, helping those who were wounded. Harsh whoops erupted in the foliage and another swarm of whizzing arrows cleaved the air. It was a slaughter. Five more Flatheads were slain, two more wounded. Now there were only four untouched Flatheads left; Buffalo Horn, Running Elk, Standing Bear, and Bad Face.
Nate saw a Blackfoot armed with a fusee materialize and point the weapon at the fleeing Flatheads. Snapping the Hawken to his right shoulder, he fired before the Blackfoot could. The warrior fell, the fusee falling from his hands. Back-pedaling, Nate reloaded on the run, reaching the trees well ahead of the Flatheads. He had to provide covering fire or they were all dead.
His fingers flew faster than they ever had before. First he had to pour in the proper amount of powder, then place a patch around the ball and insert it, then use the ramrod to press the ball down to the bottom of the barrel. All the while the Blackfeet were loosing arrows. One of the wounded Flatheads toppled, a shaft jutting from the center of his chest.
Nate spied another Blackfoot at the opposite tree line and took hasty aim. The man was bringing a bow vertical, about to let fly. Not this time, Nate thought, and let the Hawken punctuate his intent.
The ball took the Blackfoot in the head, catapulting him backwards.
Now Buffalo Horn and the other survivors reached the temporary shelter of the woods near Nate. They pressed onward, aware their lives hung in the balance if they failed to reach their mounts.
Nate brought up the rear, reloading yet again. He could see Blackfeet emerging from behind the forts. Eight. Ten. Twelve. They screeched, hefted their various weapons, and raced in pursuit.
The situation was desperate. Nate could scarcely believe that in the span of less than a minute the Flathead force had been decimated. He hoped Wind In The Grass had heard the gunfire and would bring their horses at a gallop. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted running forms, and looking in that direction he beheld a sight that compounded their desperation.
Running along the south shore, apparently planning to reinforce their companions, were more Blackfeet.
Chapter Twelve
Nate pointed at the reinforcements and shouted to Buffalo Horn, “Here come more!”
The Flathead looked, his features betraying his anxiety. He was supporting another warrior wounded in the thigh. Firming his grip, he picked up the pace.
Running Elk shot an arrow that dropped the foremost Blackfoot to their rear.
Another enemy, who was trying to swing to the west to outflank the Flatheads, attracted Nate’s attention. He aimed as best he could while on the run and fired, uncertain whether he would score a hit. The Blackfoot pitched forward and was still.
Not bad shooting, Nate complimented himself, reloading. But it hardly slowed the Blackfeet, who were flitting from tree trunk to tree trunk with the agility of antelope. He wished he knew which one was their leader. Shakespeare had mentioned that when battling a war party, always go for the chief or the warrior in charge. When the top man fell, frequently the rest would take the body and fall back to regroup, or they would discontinue the fight if they felt the death of their leader was a bad omen.
Although the Blackfeet were still sending arrows and a few fusee balls after the fleeing Flatheads, most of their shots missed, deflected by the intervening brush or fired in such haste the aim was off.
Nate fared better. Twice he downed Blackfeet, and the deadly retort of his rifle was serving to keep the group to the rear at bay. Those to the south were not yet close enough to justify diverting his attention from the more immediate menace of those dogging the Flatheads’ heels.
The running battle continued for another hundred yards. Evidently knowing they had the upper hand and would soon bring the Flatheads at bay, the Blackfeet made no effort to mount a concerted rush, even after the second group of six warriors joined the first.
Reloading feverishly time and again, Nate did his utmost to buy the Flatheads more time. He glanced over his shoulder repeatedly, expecting to see Wind In The Grass bringing the horses, but his friend had yet to show.
The Flatheads came to a knoll and skirted its base on the right. They were beginning to tire, and one of the wounded men was ready to keel over at any second. A ten-foot high boulder in their path became their sanctuary as they all took shelter in its comforting shadow.
Nate halted beside the boulder, his rifle leveled, seeking another target. The crafty Blackfeet had learned their lesson; his marksmanship was forcing them to stay well back and well hidden.
Buffalo Horn deposited the wounded warrior he had been assisting on the ground and turned to Nate. “Go for the horses. We will wait here.”
Surprised at the request and disinclined to desert them, Nate shook his head. “I’m not leaving you.”
“Our only hope is the horses,” Buffalo Horn stressed, gripping Nate’s arm. “We can hold them off until you return.”
“If the horses are still there,” Running Elk interjected bitterly.
Nate opened his mouth to object again when an arrow flashed out of nowhere, missing his face by less than an inch and almost striking Buffalo Horn in the abdomen. The tall Flathead looked into his eyes, pleading silently. He realized he had no choice. Either he retrieved the mounts, or they would be massacred to the last man. “All right,” he said, alertly scanning the woods while moving backwards. “I’ll go get them.”
“Hurry,” Buffalo Horn urged.
Whirling, Nate took only four strides when he heard a sound that was more wonderful than any music ever played; the thundering drum of many horses, coming directly toward him. He spotted them the next instant.
Wind In The Grass was riding at a reckless pace, using only his legs to guide his animal, his hands full with the long reins of the animals he was leading, his muscles straining in rippling relief as he pulled them in his wake.
“There!” Nate shouted, elated, and turned to help a wounded Flathead make for their salvation.
The Blackfeet perceived their quarry might escape and intensified their attack, raining down arrows in a steady hail of lethal barbed points. Venting their war whoops, many broke from cover to try and overtake the Flatheads.
Nate saw Wind In The Grass struggling valiantly to keep the horses under control. With ten trailing from either arm, the mounts were bunched together and demonstrating their resentment of the claustrophobic treatment by jerking their heads back and causing
no end of trouble.
Wind In The Grass stopped fifteen feet away. He leaned forward, breathing heavily from his strenuous exertion, sweat beading his forehead.
An impetuous Blackfoot, screaming crazily, sprinted straight at the Flatheads.
Pivoting, Nate let go of the wounded warrior, sighted, and squeezed off a shot that hit the Blackfoot between the eyes. The warrior did a complete revolution on one heel, then collapsed as if his legs were made of potter’s clay. Without bothering to reload, Nate dashed to the horses.
The wounded Flatheads were being hurriedly assisted onto horses. An arrow smacked into a riderless horse, causing it to neigh in terror and rear back on its hind legs, throwing several other horses into a panic.
Nate swung onto his stallion. He rode a few yards toward the converging Blackfeet, drew a flintlock, and fired the big pistol into the chest of the closest adversary. The man died soundlessly, prompting the rest to scatter, seeking protective cover. In a smooth motion Nate wedged the pistol under his belt and drew the second flintlock. He risked a look back. The eight surviving Flatheads, four of whom were wounded, were now mounted beside Wind In The Grass.
Buffalo Horn motioned and they goaded their animals into a gallop, heading southward. He stayed, waving his arms and shouting to get the riderless animals to scatter.
Comprehending, Nate wheeled the stallion and helped drive the horses off to prevent the Blackfeet from catching them. No sooner had the last horse galloped off than he did the same alongside Buffalo Horn, trailing the ragtag remains of the once proud band of noble avengers.
A few last arrows, parting shots from the infuriated Blackfeet, fell close behind the departing Flatheads, but none of the shafts came close enough to claim additional lives.
Sweet relief coursed through Nate as their escape became apparent. He thought of all the Flatheads who had died because of blatant carelessness and wished he had shouted a warning just a few seconds sooner. Perhaps more would have lived. Then again, he knew he shouldn’t blame himself for their own neglect. He’d done all he could to help them when they’d needed help the most.
Buffalo Horn took the lead, riding hard for almost a mile. He abruptly reined up in a clearing and turned, issuing directions to the warriors. In short order the four wounded men were placed on the grass where the gravity of their individual conditions could be adequately gauged.
Nate stayed on his stallion, turned sideways in the saddle so he could watch their back trail. Thankfully, the Blackfeet had been left far behind. Fleet as they were, they were no match for horses. He glanced at Buffalo Horn, who was examining the last injured warrior. “How are they?”
“Not good, I am afraid. Three of them will never make it to our village.”
“What will you do?”
“Tend to them the best we can and keep going. It is too dangerous to stay here very long with the Blackfeet on the prowl.”
“I’ll keep watch,” Nate offered, and did just that while reloading his guns.
Running Elk and Standing Bear went into the woods and returned carrying several leaves and a poultice they had prepared from strictly herbal substances. The mixture was applied to the wounds of each warrior, and after allowing the men to rest for a bit, Buffalo Horn gave instructions and mounted again.
Nate brought up the rear as they moved out, constantly scanning the forest, and not until two more miles were behind them was he convinced they had truly escaped. At that point, as they crossed over a low knoll, one of the wounded warriors cried out plaintively and pitched from his animal. The body was draped over the horse and on they went.
He could well imagine the reception they would receive at the village since he’d witnessed such pitiable scenes of mass mourning before among the Shoshones. And he did not envy Buffalo Horn one bit. Warriors who took it upon themselves to lead war parties were held strictly accountable if that war party met disaster, and the debacle at Still Lake might well effect Buffalo Horn’s social standing and warrior status in the tribe.
Suddenly he realized Standing Bear was looking at him and wondered why. It was regrettable, he mused, that Shakespeare’s rival and Bad Face had both survived the battle. Had they perished, his friend’s problem would be solved and there would be nothing to prevent him from returning to Winona.
Nate thought of her often on the return trip, of the loneliness she must be experiencing because of his loyalty to Shakespeare. But he couldn’t leave yet, not until Standing Bear and Bad Face were taken care of.
By mid-afternoon two more of the wounded Flatheads died. Buffalo Horn and the rest barely spoke the entire time. An oppressive atmosphere hovered around them, a pall of death they were unable to shake.
When Nate finally spotted the village, he smiled happily. Once again a shout went up and Flatheads converged from all directions. Instead of smiling and laughing, though, they were grim and silent. Where twenty-two men had gone off to slay Blackfeet, only seven were coming back, a staggering toll the warrior ranks could ill afford since the women already outnumbered the men by a considerable margin.
He glanced at Wind In The Grass, who had also been unusually quiet, and noted profound sadness in the young warrior’s eyes. Both times that Wind In The Grass had gone on raids, the raiding parties had met disaster. Knowing how superstitious the Indians were, he speculated on whether the tribe might decide Wind In The Grass was somehow jinxed, a living bad omen.
Wails arose from a number of women as the party drew nearer and the wives could see who was there and who was missing. The lamentations became more general as Buffalo Horn led the weary warriors in among the lodges. One of the women rushed up to the horse bearing the wounded man and clutched at his leg, sobbing softly. Friends came to help her, and together they took the wounded man off toward his own teepee.
Buffalo Horn turned and gazed at Nate and Wind In The Grass. “I thank both of you for going along. All of us might have been killed if not for the two of you,” he said in English, then repeated the words in his own tongue.
Wind In The Grass mustered a wan smile at the news, replied briefly, and wheeled his horse toward Stinking Creek.
About to tag along, Nate paused. His host might like to be alone with Flower Woman for a while. He’d go there later. For now, he faced Buffalo Horn. “I understand Shakespeare is staying with you.”
“Yes. Come. We will go there,” Buffalo Horn said, heading eastward.
The warrior’s dejected expression tugged at Nate’s sympathy. “Try to cheer up,” he advised. “One day you’ll get your revenge on the Blackfeet.”
“If I go on a raid again, perhaps.”
“You may not?”
“No. My medicine failed me. White men might call it bad luck, but my people know better. My spirit guide did not watch over me this time as in the past and I must find out why.”
Nate shrugged. “I think you’re being too hard on yourself. It could have happened to anyone.”
“You are trying to be kind,” Buffalo Horn said. “If you knew our ways better, you would understand how serious this is. It all goes back to when I was sixteen and I went into the mountains by myself on a vision quest. I fasted for seven days and seven nights, and then the vision came to me.”
“What kind of vision?” Nate inquired when the warrior stopped, burning with curiosity.
Buffalo Horn’s face lit up at the memory. “It was wonderful. A spirit being, a great fiery buffalo with only one bright red horn, appeared to me and offered to be my personal guardian. It taught me a prayer I must say every day and a ritual I must do once a month to keep my charm filled with power.”
“Your charm?”
Nodding, Buffalo Horn reached into a pouch hanging on his left hip and extracted the smooth, severed tip of a buffalo horn. “This is my special charm. Without it, I will surely die.”
“I see,” Nate said, struggling inwardly with acceptance of the notion. Although he keenly admired most aspects of Indian life, he found their extreme fascination with certain
superstitions rather bothersome. He had to remind himself that he had never gone on a vision quest, and had no cause to think lightly of a practice most tribes had indulged in for more years than anyone could recollect. “What will you do?” he asked.
“I will try to contact my spirit guide and find out why my charm has lost its power.”
“How do you go about doing that?”
“I will go off and not eat until the fiery buffalo appears to me.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“Then I die.”
Chapter Thirteen
Shakespeare was seated outside of Buffalo Horn’s lodge cleaning his rifle when Nate and Buffalo Horn arrived. He took one look and stood, coming out to meet them. “How did it go?” he inquired.
Nate shook his head.
“The Blackfeet were waiting for us,” Buffalo Horn said sadly. “We were ambushed and most of our warriors were killed. By now the Blackfeet have taken their scalps and cut their bodies into pieces.”
“I’m sorry,” Shakespeare said sincerely.
Buffalo Horn halted and dropped to the grass. A heavyset woman emerged from the teepee, hurrying toward him. They spoke in the Flathead language for a bit, then both went inside.
“He’s taking it hard,” Nate commented, dismounting.
“He has reason to,” Shakespeare said, and placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “I’m glad nothing happened to you. I wouldn’t want to bear the bad tidings to Winona.”
“Is that the only reason?”
Shakespeare grinned. “The only one I can think of at the moment.” He motioned at the ground. “Sit down and tell me everything that happened.”
Keeping to the essential facts, Nate related the day’s events, concluding with a mention of Buffalo Horn’s intention to try and contact the spirit guide.
“At his age?” Shakespeare said. “Any extended time without food and water could kill him.”
“So he said.”
Wilderness: Vengeance Trail/ Death Hunt (A Wilderness Western Book 4) Page 9