Wilderness: Vengeance Trail/ Death Hunt (A Wilderness Western Book 4)

by Robbins, David

  The reminder prompted Nate to nod. In his concern he’d almost forgotten the reason for the trip; he certainly didn’t want his wife giving birth by herself. “All right. I’ll finish packing everything and we’ll be ready to go when you are.”

  In ten minutes they were heading northward again, journeying through virgin wilderness overflowing with game. Nate used the time to improve his Shoshone so he would make a favorable impression on Winona’s tribe. She enjoyed giving the lessons, her patience inexhaustible, correcting him repeatedly and laughing at some of his grammatical blunders.

  At midday they stopped briefly, then went on.

  During the afternoon, as they were crossing a ridge that barred their path, Nate reined up in surprise at the sight of smoke curling above the trees half a mile to the west. “Look,” he said.

  Winona did and said, “A campfire.”

  “Might be Indians,” Nate said.

  “It could be white men. Trappers, maybe.”

  “I’m not about to risk finding out,” Nate said, goading the stallion down the opposite side. “If it’s Utes, they’ll kill us, take my hair, and mutilate you. We keep going.”

  “Yes, husband.”

  Nate picked up the pace and was glad when they had put a few more miles behind them. His safest bet was to avoid all other parties they saw until they reached their destination. If they should be seen by hostiles, they would not be able to outrun enemy warriors with Winona in the family way. “Lie low and live longer,” Shakespeare had once advised Nate concerning travel in hostile country, and he intended to follow the advice to the letter.

  Evening found them by a small spring at the base of a rocky escarpment, and Nate halted for the night. Despite his usual protests, Winona insisted on taking care of their animals. He went into the forest to bag their supper and was fortunate in spying several large, plump mountain grouse in a thicket. By bracing the barrel of the Hawken against a tree trunk and taking careful aim, he shot the biggest of the bunch and proudly took the kill back to their camp.

  Unlike the previous night, there were no nocturnal visitors. They ate their meal in peace and were soon tucked under their blankets, admiring the magnificent celestial display. Slumber claimed them and they slept until dawn in each other’s arms.

  ~*~

  And so it went.

  For the next four days they made steady progress. Game was abundant and they ate their fill each night. Twice they spotted grizzly bears, but fortunately the fierce beasts were at a distance and didn’t charge them. They saw no sign of other humans, Indians or whites.

  On the afternoon of the seventh day, as they were skirting a mountain that towered over ten thousand feet above them, Winona unexpectedly reined up. “We must stop for a while,” she announced.

  Nate stopped, then turned the stallion. He noticed her features were drawn, her eyes betraying great fatigue. “We’ll rest for as long as you want,” he said, sliding down.

  “I am sorry,” Winona said wearily. “The trip has been harder on me than I figured it would be. I am slowing us down.”

  “Nonsense,” Nate said, leaning the Hawken against a nearby boulder. He reached up and lifted her to the ground. “You’ve held up fine. And by tomorrow we should be at the lake where your people are supposed to be camped at this time of year. You can lie down for days if you want.”

  Winona sagged against him, her cheek on his chest.

  “I am sorry to be such a burden.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Nate said and stroked her hair. “You’re the best wife a man could ever want.”

  Smiling, Winona looked up at him. “There are times when you are the most wonderful man I have ever known.” She kissed his chin. “And then there are times when you are the most hardheaded man who ever lived.”

  “Which am I now?” Nate asked, grinning.

  Winona opened her mouth to reply, her gaze straying past him, and suddenly she involuntarily stiffened and gasped.

  Nate let go of her and spun, spying the source of her alarm immediately. Thirty yards off, sitting astride a fine brown stallion and watching them intently, was a lone warrior.

  Chapter Four

  Nate scooped up the rifle and pressed the stock to his right shoulder, about to take a bead on the man when he realized the warrior wasn’t making any threatening moves. The man simply sat there, studying them.

  “He is a Dakota, but I do not know which tribe,” Winona said. “The French call his people the Nadowessioux.”

  Nate had heard the term before. Some of the trappers had taken to referring to the Dakota people by an abbreviated version of the French word: the Sioux. “I thought the Sioux live far to the east of here, on the plains,” Nate said, noting the warrior appeared to be in his thirties and wore buckskin leggings and moccasins, but no shirt. The man carried a shield bearing the red emblem of a bird of prey on his left forearm and a lance in his right hand. A bow and a quiver full of arrows were slung over his back.

  “They do,” Winona confirmed. “They seldom come into the mountains.”

  Nate glanced right and left, seeking other warriors, certain the man was a member of a war party in the region on a raid. But he spied no one else. Perhaps, he reasoned, the others were lying in ambush.

  The Sioux abruptly started toward them.

  Not about to let the warrior get close enough to hurl the lance, but unwilling to fire unless provoked, Nate sighted his rifle squarely on the man’s muscular chest. Instantly, the warrior reined up. Nate lowered the Hawken a few inches, debating whether to try sign language to communicate. To do so, he would have to lower the Hawken all the way, delaying his reaction time should the Sioux charge.

  The warrior glanced at both of them, then placed his lance across his legs and lifted his hands. “I will not harm you,” he signed.

  “Should I trust him?” Nate asked, relying on Winona’s superior knowledge of Indian ways to guide him.

  “Not yet,” Winona said.

  Nate saw the warrior was awaiting a reply. He shifted and extended the Hawken toward his wife. “Here. Keep me covered while I talk to him.”

  “If he tries to lift his lance, he is dead,” Winona promised, grasping the rifle and taking deliberate aim. Under Nate’s tutelage she had learned to be a fair shot and could down small game at over fifty yards consistently.

  Loosening the flintlocks under his belt, Nate advanced ten feet and addressed the Sioux in the universal language of the Indian tribes inhabiting western North America. From Canada to Mexico, from the Mississippi River to the Pacific Ocean, practically every tribe used sign language, with minor variations in different areas. And since their spoken tongues were so diverse, sign had long since become the accepted means of communication when people from far-flung tribes met. “What do you want?” Nate asked.

  “I am Red Hawk of the Oglala Dakotas. I would talk with you,” the warrior answered.

  Was it a ruse? Nate wondered. There was only one way to find out. He beckoned for the man to approach, saying, “You may approach, but be warned our guns are loaded and we will shoot at the first sign of hostility.”

  “I come in peace,” Red Hawk said and rode forward.

  Nate held his hands near his flintlocks. If it was a trap, he’d take as many of the Sioux with him as he could. Fleeing was out of the question with Winona in the condition she was in. A sustained flight over the rough terrain might kill her and the baby.

  The Dakota appeared at ease and made no threatening gestures as he narrowed the gap.

  Nate noticed symbols painted in red on the warrior’s horse. Six horizontal lines had been etched on its neck, and on its flank was the likeness of a human hand. “What are those marks?” he asked Winona.

  “The lines mean he has counted coup six times,” she said. “The hand means at least one of his enemies was killed in hand combat, either with a knife, a tomahawk, or a war club.”

  “Oh?” Nate said, edging his fingers a tad closer to his pistols. He still saw no sign o
f any other Dakotas, which mystified him. It was inconceivable that the warrior was alone.

  Red Hawk halted ten feet out and extended his hands to demonstrate they were empty. “How are you known?” he inquired.

  “I am Grizzly Killer,” Nate responded, feeling grateful to the Cheyenne warrior who had initially bestowed the name on him. At times like this it had a nice ring to it. “This is my wife, Winona.”

  “A Shoshone,” Red Hawk signed, nodding politely at her. “My people have fought the Shoshones a few times. They are brave fighters.”

  Nate decided to be blunt. “Where is the rest of your war party?” he inquired, gazing around.

  “I am alone,” Red Hawk said, frowning.

  Skeptical of the claim, Nate said, “It is very dangerous for a lone Dakota in this territory. The Utes, the Blackfeet, the Crows, and perhaps even the Shoshones would kill you on sight.”

  “I know,” Red Hawk signed. “But it is just as dangerous for me east of the mountains where the Arapahos, the Cheyennes, the Pawnees, and my own people would do the same.”

  “Your own people?” Nate repeated, adding the hand signal for a question. “I do not understand.”

  “I am an outcast.”

  The revelation surprised Nate. He’d heard that certain tribes would cast out members if various customs or taboos were violated, but the offense had to be extreme to justify such a severe punishment. He speculated on whether it would be polite to request the details.

  “If you are willing, I would like to ride with you for a while,” Red Hawk said.

  “We travel by ourselves,” Nate quickly replied, unwilling to let the warrior go along and thereby possibly put Winona’s life in jeopardy.

  “Please,” Red Hawk said. “I have given you my word that I will do you no harm.” He paused. “I have not talked with anyone in many sleeps. It would be nice to have the company of other people again, if only for a little while.”

  Nate hesitated. He believed the man was being sincere, but his innate wariness compelled him to balk at the notion. A tactful way of getting the Dakota to move on occurred to him, and he signed, “We are very near a large Shoshone village. Should the Shoshone warriors find us, they might slay you.”

  “I no longer care,” Red Hawk answered. “At least I will not be alone when I die.”

  About to make a frank refusal, Nate felt Winona press flush with his back and heard her whisper in his ear.

  “It is all right, husband. I think you can trust this man.”

  “Very well,” Nate signed. “You may accompany us. But you must ride at my side the whole time.”

  “I understand,” Red Hawk said, “and agree.”

  Nate took the Hawken from Winona. “Do you still want to rest for a spell?”

  “No. Let us move on. I am eager to reach the village.”

  Casting repeated glances at the Dakota, Nate assisted his wife in mounting the mare, then swung onto the stallion. They moved out, the warrior falling in beside Nate’s horse. Up close, he observed that Red Hawk appeared to be much younger than he had estimated.

  “I thank you for this privilege,” the Sioux signed, his face conveying genuine gratitude.

  Nate got the impression his newfound acquaintance was literally starved for human companionship. “Do you happen to speak any of the Shoshone tongue or the language of the white men?”

  “No.”

  “No matter. We will get by with sign language.”

  “You use it very well,” Red Hawk noted, “better than any white man I have ever met. Most of the traders and trappers I have known learn just enough to get by.”

  They moved out into a wide valley, riding northward across a verdant meadow. A raven flew past them, uttering its raucous cry at their intrusion into its domain.

  “These mountains stir the spirit,” Red Hawk said.

  “My people prefer the plains, where most of the buffalo roam. But now I think these mountains would be a fine place to live.”

  “There are plenty of remote valleys, far from any tribe, where you could set up a lodge and live happily. Most of the time it is quite pleasant in the high country, but The Long Night Moon, the Snow Moon, and the Hunger Moon can be bitterly cold and it is sometimes hard to find game then,” Nate signed, referring to the harshest months of the year—December, January, and February.

  “I doubt I will ever have a home again,” Red Hawk said. “My fate is to wander the land until I die.”

  The warrior wore a melancholy expression as his hands moved, and Nate experienced a twinge of pity although he hardly knew the man. He tried to imagine what the life of an outcast was like—always on the go, considered an enemy by his own tribe and every other tribe besides, unable to go near any village without risking the loss of his life, banished to a lonely existence with the sole prospect for the future being eventual death. He tried to cheer the man up by pointing at the coup stripes and signing, “You must be a brave warrior to have counted so many coup.”

  “Four were earned in one battle when the Blackfeet raided our village and tried to steal our horses,” Red Hawk responded, gesturing crisply in a matter-of-fact fashion. “I killed one of them with my knife after he had stabbed me.” He touched an inch-long scar on his lower right side.

  “The Blackfeet do not die easily,” Nate signed by way of a compliment. “Your people must have been very proud of you.”

  A shadow clouded Red Hawk’s features. “Yes, they were. My wife was the proudest one of all.”

  “You have a family?”

  “I had a wife once, and we often talked of having children. Now I will never have either.”

  What did that mean? Nate mused, but he didn’t pry. He scanned the meadow, where the grass grew as high as their horses’ bellies, and spied a butterfly flitting to the southwest.

  “I have thought of going north into the land you call Canada,” Red Hawk said. “Have you ever been there?”

  “Not yet,” Nate signed. “One of these days I will get around to it. For now, I am kept busy providing for us and trapping. If all goes well, by the Blood Moon I will have many pelts I can trade or sell for much money.”

  Red Hawk pursed his lips. “I have noticed white men are very fond of money. Why is that?”

  “A person cannot survive for long in the white world without it,” Nate explained. “Whites use money to buy food and clothes and horses and weapons.”

  “I do not see the sense in such a strange way of living. Why should whites pay money for food when they can hunt for it or grow their own?”

  “Some whites do grow food, and they provide enough for those who do not grow it to live,” Nate signed. “Those who do not grow food pay money to those who do for the food they need.”

  “And why do whites pay money for clothes when making clothes is so easy? All they have to do is go out and kill a buffalo or a deer, work the hide until it is soft and can be sewn together, and they will have clothes that last many years,” Red Hawk said.

  “Many whites, mainly those who live in the big towns and cities, do not know how to hunt. They have never shot an animal in their life.”

  Red Hawk looked at Nate in amazement. “How can such a thing be?”

  “They buy the clothing they need,” Nate said.

  “And their weapons too, you said?”

  “Yes,” Nate affirmed. “Although in many of the cities back in the East men have no need for them.”

  “They go around unarmed?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have never heard of such a thing,” Red Hawk signed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Your people are lucky to still be alive.”

  Nate smiled, idly gazing out over the high grass. The stallion suddenly raised its head and sniffed loudly, then snorted.

  “Now I understand why your people love money so much,” Red Hawk remarked. “They would die without it.”

  Again the stallion snorted and looked to the right and the left, as if seeking something. Nate surveyed the meado
w but saw nothing to explain his mount’s peculiar behavior. The big horse was acting as if a predator was in the area. Perhaps, he reasoned, the wind had carried the scent of a prowling panther or some such animal.

  Winona’s mare also snorted and balked, and she had to goad it forward with her knees.

  “Something is wrong,” Red Hawk signed. His own war-horse began behaving skittishly.

  What could it be? Nate wondered. Abruptly, the grass ended at the rim of a huge depression and he had to rein up sharply to avoid going over the edge. He looked down into the bottom of the eight-foot-deep hole and felt the hairs at the nape of his neck tingle. For there, lying on her side on the bottom, sound asleep, was an enormous female grizzly. He knew it was a female because lying beside her, flush with her massive form, were two young cubs likewise asleep. All three had probably gorged themselves recently and were sleeping off the stupor brought on by their filled bellies.

  Nate heard a gasp and glanced to his right to find Winona staring at the beasts in horror. He’d heard of trappers who had stumbled on sleeping grizzlies and lived to tell about it by quietly hastening elsewhere before the fierce bears could awaken. Consequently, he motioned for Winona and Red Hawk to move away from the rim, but no sooner had he done so than Red Hawk’s horse whinnied loudly and the female grizzly opened her eyes.

  Chapter Five

  The instant the she-bear laid eyes on the riders above her, she scrambled to her feet and vented a horrid roar that exposed her large, razor-edged teeth.

  “Run!” Nate shouted in English, forgetting in the intense excitement of the perilous moment that Red Hawk wouldn’t be able to understand the words. He saw Winona cut to the right to go around the depression and did the same, staying behind her to cover her should the grizzly pursue them.

  Red Hawk was going around on the other side.

  Startled into wakefulness by their mother’s roar, the two cubs were on their feet and bawling in terror. The mother rumbled deep in her chest and surged out of the hole, her powerful muscles rippling under her golden-brown coat of fur. She paused on the rim and glanced both ways, apparently undecided about which way she should go.