Nate hoped the she-bear would let them depart in peace even though his past dealings with grizzlies had convinced him they would go after anything that moved. Females with cubs were especially dangerous; they would even attack other grizzlies who presumed to get too close to their offspring. This one proved to be typical of the breed.
The mother bear uttered another mighty roar and charged after Nate and Winona.
Could they outrun the beast? Nate wondered. The mare and the pack animal were going all out and his stallion was right on their heels. If he wanted, he could make the stallion go even faster and easily escape, but he would never desert Winona. He glanced back, watching the she-bear run, marveling that such a huge creature could move so rapidly.
Out of the corner of Nate’s eye he saw Red Hawk turn his war-horse and gallop toward the depression housing the cubs. The Sioux gave the grizzly a wide berth. Amazed, Nate saw the she-bear slow, her attention diverted to the warrior for a few seconds. What in the world was the man trying to do? he mused. But his thoughts were interrupted when the bear came swiftly toward him and his wife again.
Red Hawk was almost to the hole when he stopped and started whooping at the top of his lungs, waving his lance overhead.
The she-bear twisted her head, saw the warrior in close proximity to her offspring, and suddenly forgot all about chasing Nate and Winona. Spinning, the grizzly raced to save her cubs.
“Get out of there!” Nate shouted in Shoshone, afraid the warrior was about to sacrifice himself so they could escape safely. He saw the she-bear draw closer and closer to the hole, and just when he thought Red Hawk would surely die, when the bear was within four or five bounds of the Sioux’s mount, Red Hawk angled the horse to the west and took off like a bolt of lightning.
The she-bear reached the depression and stopped at the rim, glaring about her in primal fury. She took a few steps after Red Hawk, then halted. Growling hideously, she lumbered ponderously to the hole and vanished from view.
Once she was gone, Red Hawk swung northward again.
“Hold up,” Nate shouted to Winona and brought the stallion to a halt beside her, within a few dozen yards of a tract of woodland. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Winona took a breath and put a hand on her belly. “I feel a little sick, but otherwise I am fine.”
“We should find a spot for you to rest a spell.”
“No. Please,” Winona said. “We are close to the village. I just know it. If we stop, we might not get there until tomorrow and I would rather spend tonight in a warm lodge than sleep on the cold ground.”
Nate could rarely refuse her anything. Her pleading tone, combined with the silent appeal mirrored in her eyes, made him go against his better judgment and say, “If that’s what you want, we’ll keep going. But if you feel any pain, any discomfort at all, you’re to let me know and we’ll take a break. Fair enough?”
“Yes,” Winona said, smiling gratefully.
Pounding hooves brought Nate around to face the Dakota as Red Hawk rejoined them. “That was a very brave thing you did,” he signed.
“My horse can fly like the wind. I was in no real danger,” Red Hawk responded, giving his mount a pat on the neck.
“I know better,” Nate said, “and I thank you for risking your life so that we might get away. I hope one day I can repay the favor.”
“There is no need,” Red Hawk signed.
They resumed their journey, the incident with the grizzly largely forgotten, just another happenstance in the daily lives of those accustomed to living in the harsh wilderness and coping with the occasionally savage wildlife. After traveling for over an hour, a high hill appeared in their path.
“I know that hill,” Winona said to Nate. “It is near Clear Lake where my people will be camped.”
Nate picked up the pace, eager to get his wife out of the saddle and resting on soft robes. When they reached the hill he spied a game trail winding up the slope and took it, riding all the way to the top where a magnificent vista of the surrounding countryside unfolded before his appreciative gaze. He beamed happily upon spying a large body of water a mile and a half off to the northwest. Even at such a distance the sprawling collection of lodges rimming its shores was visible although they appeared to be little more than tiny peaked cones, with thin columns of smoke spiraling skyward above them.
“The village,” Winona said, smiling.
Red Hawk glanced at Nate. “It is time I rode on by myself. Thank you for your company,” he signed. “Should we ever meet again, I will remember you as a friend.”
“Wait,” Nate impulsively signed. He didn’t like the idea of the Dakota wandering aimlessly over the Rockies, with nowhere to call home, the war-horse his sole companion.
About to turn his horse, Red Hawk paused.
“Come with us to the Shoshone village,” Nate said. “I will ask Winona’s aunt to put you up with us.”
“You are kind,” Red Hawk said, “but her people and my people have never been on friendly terms. As you mentioned before, they might kill me on sight. It is best if I leave you now.”
Nate looked at Winona, hoping she would speak up and try to persuade the Dakota to stay, but she said nothing. In exasperation he watched Red Hawk ride off to the southwest. “This isn’t right,” he said. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“You know why. If he went with us, nothing I could say or do would stop my people from doing him harm.”
Frowning, Nate started down the opposite side of the hill. Sometimes, he reasoned, life could be extremely unfair. Red Hawk had impressed him as being a fine person, yet the warrior had been banished to a lonely life of quiet desperation. What could the Dakota have done to deserve such a fate?
At the base of the hill they entered a maze of pine trees, threading among the conifers until they came to a wide field. A doe, feeding near the tree line to the east, bounded into the underbrush.
Winona rode on her husband’s right side. She studied his features, as ever sensitive to his moods, and said, “You are upset.”
“Only because I wanted to help Red Hawk,” Nate responded wistfully. “Surely there must be a tribe somewhere that would take him in? He doesn’t deserve to be an outcast the rest of his life.”
“How do we know what he deserves?” Winona said. “We have no idea why he was made an outcast. Perhaps he committed a horrible deed.”
“Maybe,” Nate said. But somehow he doubted such was the case. In any event, the issue hardly mattered now that they had parted company with the warrior. He focused on the village ahead, feeling a twinge of nervousness at the prospect of being among the Shoshones again. Not that they would mistreat him. They were always courteous and kind. There just was an unnerving aspect to being the sole white person among hundreds of Indians. He couldn’t help but see himself as an outsider. “What’s the name of your aunt again?” he inquired to take his mind off entering the village.
“Morning Dove,” Winona said. “Her husband is named Spotted Bull. They have a son, Touch The Clouds, who has a wife and two children of his own. And they have a daughter called Willow Woman who once had a husband named Brown Leaf. She lives with them now.”
“What happened to her husband?” Nate asked. “Did they go their separate ways?” He knew that many tribes indulged in lax marriage practices. Among the Shoshones a man could simply tell his wife to leave. Among the Cheyennes, a woman could divorce her husband merely by moving back in with her parents.
“No,” Winona said sadly. “Brown Leaf was killed on a buffalo hunt.” She paused, then said meaningfully, “On a surround.”
“A what?” Nate asked.
“A surround is the greatest of all buffalo hunts,” Winona elaborated. “The warriors close in on a buffalo herd from opposite directions, driving the animals into a large circle. Then the warriors charge from all sides and slay as many as they can. The buffalo fight fiercely, using their horns to rip open men and horses. More warriors are killed in surrounds than in
any other kind of hunt.”
Nate could see why. He’d hunted a few buffalo and had learned to respect their formidable size and nature. A full-grown bull stood six feet tall at the shoulders, weighed about two thousand pounds, and possessed wicked curved horns capable of tearing into a horse and rider with the same ease a knife sliced into butter. “You’ll never catch me going on a surround,” he said.
“I am most happy to hear that,” Winona said. “I would dislike losing you so early in our marriage.”
Nate looked at her and saw she was grinning.
Suddenly, from off to the left, arose loud whoops. He faced in that direction and discovered seven riders galloping toward them, Shoshone warriors who were shouting and waving their weapons overhead. He reined up and gripped the Hawken in both hands.
“Look who is in the lead,” Winona said.
Studying the foremost Shoshone, Nate smiled when he recognized the tall, lanky form of Drags The Rope, a young warrior he had met months ago. He relaxed and waved, glad to see his friend again.
All seven of the riders were young warriors, all dressed in buckskin shirts or no shirts at all and buckskin leggings. All were well armed with bows, war clubs or tomahawks, and lances.
“Greetings, Drags The Rope,” Nate called out in their language as they approached.
The tall warrior blinked in surprise as he brought his horse to a stop. “Grizzly Killer!” he exclaimed in English. “You have learned our tongue much well.”
“Thank you,” Nate said, recalling that a mountaineer known as Trapper Pete had taught Drags The Rope a little English over six years earlier and now the warrior liked to converse in it every chance he got. “I’ve had an exceptional teacher,” he said and indicated Winona.
One of the other young warriors, a stocky youth who wore a perpetual smile, inquired in Shoshone, “Have you killed any grizzlies since last you were with us, Grizzly Killer?”
“Just two,” Nate answered.
The warriors exchanged amazed expressions and Drags The Rope laughed.
“Only two?” the tall man said in his own language. “Some of us go our whole lives without killing one. If you keep going at this rate, there will be none left in these mountains in a few years.”
The others erupted in hearty mirth.
Nate smiled with them. One of the Indian traits he most admired was their keen sense of humor. Even in adverse circumstances they invariably found humor. Indians, he had learned, were rarely as grimly somber as many whites often were, and their refreshing, naturally joyful attitude appealed to him. He often wished he could develop a similar outlook on life.
Drags The Rope glanced at Winona. “Soon you will be a father,” he said.
“Very soon,” Nate agreed, keeping his voice level so he wouldn’t betray his anxiety over the impending birth. “How about you? Have you taken a wife yet?”
“No,” Drags The Rope said. “Soon, I hope. I have been walking under the robe with Singing Bird, and I believe she will agree to be my wife before the next moon.”
“I’m happy for you,” Nate said, recollecting his own courtship with Winona. A common romantic practice among several tribes was that of permitting courting couples to stand under a buffalo robe and whisper sweet words to each other, or the young lovers might be allowed to go for short moonlit strolls while wrapped in the same robe and, if they were lucky, they would be able to sneak a few kisses. Heavy fondling, however, was strictly frowned upon, viewed as an insult to the girl that could get the prospective suitor in a lot of trouble if she complained. Fortunately, few girls did.
“If you are here when she says yes, you will be welcome to my lodge for the celebration,” Drags The Rope said.
“You honor me.”
Drags The Rope gestured to the southwest. “We are on our way to hunt deer or elk. Would you like to come along?”
“Another time, perhaps,” Nate said. “We must get settled in. It’s been a long ride and Winona is very tired.”
“Later then, my friend,” Drags The Rope said and led the small band off at a gallop. They screeched and shouted in wild abandon, hot-blooded youths eager for adventure.
Nate watched them depart, remembering how it was to be reckless and without a care in the world. Then he looked at Winona, at the bulge in her dress, and swallowed hard. Even though he was not yet twenty, those days were over for him forever. Now he had responsibilities, and he must face up to them as best he knew how. Squaring his shoulders, he headed toward the village.
Chapter Six
The Shoshone encampment presented a fascinating spectacle. Three hundred and sixty lodges were spread out to the east and south of Clear Lake. Varying in size depending on the wealth of the owners, all the lodges were made of meticulously dressed buffalo skins. Children scurried among them, the boys conducting foot races, shooting small bows, or playing games while the girls played with dolls or assisted their mothers. Women were everywhere, engaged in the many tasks required of them, from cooking to preparing rawhide to drying meat and repairing torn lodge skins. The men, for the most part, were either talking in groups, tending to their horses, or else gambling with buffalo-bone dice.
The Shoshone clan to which Winona belonged had adopted many of the ways of the Plains tribes, the Cheyennes, the Arapahos, and the Dakotas. There were other Shoshones who still lived much as had their ancestors, subsisting primarily on fish, roots, berries, and seeds. This second branch of the Shoshone people lived farther west and rarely ventured after buffalo, which had become the focus for the eastern Shoshones’ very existence. They depended on the great brutes for the food they ate, the clothes they wore, and for the lodges that kept them warm at night.
Curious glances were cast in Nate’s direction as he approached the village with Winona at his side. Such a large number of lodges meant that numerous smaller bands, usually composed of those with family ties to one another, had gotten together for a mass reunion, an event that transpired only two or three times a year. Because it was difficult to find enough game to keep so many mouths fed, most of the time Indians preferred to travel in smaller bands.
“Any idea where we’ll find your aunt’s lodge?” Nate asked.
“None at all,” Winona answered. “We will have to ask around until we find someone who knows.”
An elderly warrior with white hair came toward them, walking with a slight limp. “Welcome, white man,” he said to Nate in Shoshone. His gaze strayed to Winona. “Have you come to join our gathering?”
“Yes,” Nate replied, halting. “Do you happen to know where we might find the lodge belonging to Spotted Bull?”
The warrior seemed surprised at Nate’s fluency. “Yes, I do. I have known him for years,” he said, pointing to the north. “It is near the lake within a stone’s throw of where we stand.”
“Thank you,” Nate said and headed off. What luck! He noticed a few boys were trailing behind, studying him and whispering among themselves. White men elicited as much curiosity among Indians as Indians did among whites.
“At last,” Winona said. “I am excited about seeing my aunt again. She is a sweet woman.”
Nate didn’t bother mentioning the profound relief he felt at having Winona among her kin again. Now she would have help when the baby came and he could breathe a lot easier. He surveyed the lodges nearest the lake. They formed an uneven line, each separated by twenty or twenty-five yards from its neighbor. The third one bore the painted likeness of a great bull buffalo with light-colored spots on its back. “Let me guess. That must be the one we want,” he said.
“You are learning,” Winona said with a smile.
As they neared the entrance an attractive woman in her early to mid-twenties emerged from the lodge carrying an empty parfleche in her left hand. She looked up, saw Winona, and uttered a squeal of delight. “Cousin! Is it really you?”
“Willow Woman,” Winona declared happily and rode up to her relative before dismounting.
Nate reined up. He leaned on t
he saddle horn and idly watched the women exchange heartfelt greetings. The commotion brought two other people out of the lodge, a woman in her fifties and a slim warrior sporting streaks of gray in his hair, who then greeted Winona with as much enthusiasm as Willow Woman had. The words were flying so thick and fast that Nate had a hard time keeping abreast of the discussion. Finally Winona turned to him.
“I almost forgot. This is my husband, Grizzly Killer,” she said sheepishly. Then she indicated the man and the older woman. “This is Spotted Bull and Morning Dove.”
“I am honored to meet both of you,” Nate said, sliding down. He realized a half-dozen Shoshones, on their way southward, had stopped to observe the pleasantries and he began to feel as if he was being examined under a magnifying glass. To his surprise, Spotted Bull stepped forward and squeezed his shoulders.
“I am the one who is honored,” the warrior said. “I have heard much about you.” He gazed past Nate. “Since you do not have a lodge, I insist that you stay with us for as long as you like.”
“We are grateful,” Nate said. “My wife needs to rest after our long trip.”
Spotted Bull glanced at the three women, who were chatting away, and grinned. “She will be occupied for a while. If I know women, and after fifty-six winters I know them as well as a man can, she will rest when she is ready. Come, I will help you unpack your horses and show you where to tie them.”
Although Nate would rather have insisted that Winona lie down, he couldn’t bring himself to make an issue of it when she was so happy at being reunited with her relatives. With Spotted Bull’s assistance he removed their belongings from the pack animal, unsaddled both mounts, and took everything into the lodge. Nate grabbed the three hobbles he had made from rope out of a pack, then Spotted Bull helped him lead his horses around to the rear of the lodge where nine others were grazing contentedly.
“You may leave your horses with mine,” Spotted Bull said. “There is plenty of grass and water here.”
Wilderness: Vengeance Trail/ Death Hunt (A Wilderness Western Book 4) Page 18