“How long have you been at this spot?” Nate asked as he hobbled his stallion.
“Twenty sleeps,” Spotted Bull said and looked out over the village. “It is a good gathering this year. I have seen friends I have not talked to in many winters.”
Nate went about hobbling the mare and the pack-horse, and when he straightened he saw a bemused expression on the warrior’s face. “Did I do something funny?”
“Do your horses wander off often?” Spotted Bull asked and pointed at the hobble on the mare.
“I don’t give them the chance.”
Spotted Bull gestured at his own animals, none of which were hobbled or ground-hitched. “I train them to always stay near my lodge. Horses are a lot like children. They must be taught the proper way of doing things, and when they have been they usually turn out all right.”
Nate admired the fine animals the warrior owned. He knew how highly Indians valued their horses, especially their war-horses, the mounts warriors invariably rode while raiding or hunting. Such steeds had to be fearless, fast, and responsive to the slightest pressure from the warriors. “Surely one must stray off every now and then,” Nate said.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“What do you then? Beat it?”
Spotted Bull recoiled in shock. “I would never beat an animal. Such cruelty is unnecessary.”
“Then what do you do when a horse won’t behave?”
An impish grin curled the warrior’s mouth. “I eat it.” He turned and headed back.
Wondering if the Shoshone was joshing, Nate followed, tucking the Hawken in the crook of his left elbow. The women had gone inside. Approaching from the south was the same white-haired warrior who had supplied directions to the lodge.
“Here comes my friend, Lame Elk,” Spotted Bull said.
“He told us where to find you,” Nate said.
“Lame Elk and I have been on many hunts together. He saved me from a charging buffalo once. I had wounded it with my lance, and it turned on me and knocked my horse down before I could get away. I was pinned under my animal, helpless, and the buffalo moved in to gore me. That was when Lame Elk rode right up to it and buried his lance in the buffalo’s chest.”
“Friends like that are rare.”
Spotted Bull glanced at him. “True, Grizzly Killer, and worth more than the best war-horse that ever lived.”
The elderly warrior reached them and was warmly greeted by Spotted Bull, who then made the formal introductions.
“It occurred to me who you must be after you had ridden off,” Lame Elk said to Nate. “I have heard stories about you, and I thought I would come to learn if they are true.”
“What kind of stories?” Nate asked.
“They say you are different from most whites, that you have the soul of an Indian in a white man’s body. They say you kill grizzlies like most men kill ants. And they say you have slain more Blackfeet than anyone else,” Lame Elk said.
“Whoever made these claims must have been hit on the head with a war club first,” Nate joked.
Both Shoshones laughed.
“You are not vain,” Lame Elk said. “That is good. There is too much vanity in the younger warriors these days. All they think of is wearing the best buckskin and riding the best horses. They must have a new lodge every year or so, even when their old one has not yet worn out. In my day things were different. A man was measured by his courage, not by his wealth. If a man had the smallest lodge in the village but was the bravest fighter in the tribe, he became a top man, maybe even a chief. Now a man would rather have twenty horses than have counted twenty coup, and those who have many possessions look down their noses at those who do not.”
Spotted Bull grinned. “You exaggerate again, old friend.”
“Do I?” Lame Elk asked.
Nate didn’t think so. When first learning about Indian culture, he had been surprised that there actually were rich and poor Indians and that the gulf between them could be considerable. Certain chiefs and other wealthy warriors might own hundreds of horses, have two or three wives, and have a lodge large enough to accommodate thirty people at once. By contrast, there were warriors who only owned two or three horses, had one wife, and lived in a small lodge that threatened to fall over with the next strong gust of wind. In many respects Indians and whites were more alike than they realized or would admit. “If your people aren’t careful, Lame Elk,” he said, “they will become more and more like the whites until there is no difference between the two.”
“If that ever happens, my people will deserve their fate,” the elderly warrior said. “They will have lost the guidance of the Everywhere Spirit and be adrift in the world.”
Nate detected melancholy in the old man’s eyes. He thought about the reference to the Everywhere Spirit. Some Indians referred to God as the Great Medicine or Great Mystery. Others called the Supreme Deity the Great Spirit. All the terms meant the same thing, as far as he could determine. And he’d been amazed to discover how truly religious the Indians were. In their own way, Indians were generally even more spiritual than the majority of whites. Ironically, back in the States most folks regarded the Indians as heathens or pagans.
“Come inside and we will smoke the pipe,” Spotted Bull said and stood aside to let them enter his lodge first.
Nate went in through the open flap. To his left, huddled together in animated conversation, were Winona, Willow Woman, and Morning Dove. Recalling the proper tepee etiquette, he stood to the right and waited for Spotted Bull to indicate where he should sit. As Shakespeare had told him, there were certain formal rules of conduct visitors to any lodge must follow. Not to do so was considered rude, an insult to the host.
The two men entered, and Spotted Bull asked that Nate sit in the seat of honor which was at the rear of the lodge and to the left of the spot where Spotted Bull normally took his seat. Lame Elk was asked to sit on Spotted Bull’s right.
Nate leaned the Hawken against the wall, then sank down cross-legged as was the custom for Indian men. Women were strictly forbidden from doing so because they might inadvertently expose their upper legs or private parts; they must sit on their heels or kneel at all times when in mixed company.
“Bring my best pipe and the kinnikinnick,” Spotted Bull said to his wife.
Morning Dove dutifully opened a parfleche and took out an exquisitely adorned pipe and a buckskin pouch. She brought them over and placed them in front of her husband, then rejoined Winona and Willow Woman.
Nate got a good look at the pipe as Spotted Bull started filling the intricately carved buffalo-shaped bowl. Indians took great stock in their pipes. A fine one like his host’s would be worth at least one horse or several buffalo robes in trade. It was decorated with brown horsehair, which hung over two dozen glass beads, four silk ribbons, and bands of wool. Nate figured it was Spotted Bull’s best pipe, one reserved specifically for special occasions. Most warriors owned at least two: one for everyday use and one for ceremonial purposes.
Whichever pipe was used, smoking was considered a solemn ritual. Indians smoked to ratify personal pledges, to formalize agreements between tribes, to communicate with the spirit world, and to display a token of friendship. When a warrior invited someone into his lodge to smoke with him, it meant the warrior had only the friendliest of intentions and could be counted on to be as good as his word.
Spotted Bull wore an intent expression as he packed the mixture of tobacco and willow bark into the bowl. This mixture, known as kinnikinnick, varied from tribe to tribe and even between individuals. Because the wild tobacco Indians harvested was exceptionally strong, they often added other ingredients for balance. Bearberries, sumac leaves, and willow bark were all favorites.
Having tamped the contents of the bowl down to his satisfaction, Spotted Bull moved to the fire and retrieved a burning brand. He lit the kinnikinnick, puffing heavily as wreaths of smoke floated toward the ventilation opening at the top of the conical lodge. When at last he had the pipe
going to his satisfaction, he took his seat and offered it to Nate. “Here, Grizzly Killer. As my guest of honor, you go first.”
“Thank you,” Nate said, taking the long pipe in both hands. He’d only smoked a few times, and he hoped he wouldn’t embarrass himself by coughing or hacking. As he touched the stem to his lips, Spotted Bull made a comment that caused him to forget all about such a minor matter.
“There is something I would like to discuss with you as we smoke. How would you like to go on a surround with us?”
Chapter Seven
“After buffalo?” Nate asked, stunned by the proposal.
Lame Elk snickered. “We rarely surround rabbits,” he said, his eyes twinkling.
“The hunt is still being planned,” Spotted Bull said. “It might be four or five sleeps before the hunters leave. Would you like to go?”
Nate became aware of Winona staring at him. All the women had ceased chatting. He lowered the pipe stem a fraction and tried to keep his voice steady as he answered. “Will the hunters be traveling all the way to the plains?”
“Yes,” Spotted Bull confirmed. “The trip there for us will take about three sleeps. There is no telling how long the surround will take because there is no way of predicting how many buffalo will be slain and how long it will take to butcher them.”
“Which means I would be away from my wife for quite a while,” Nate observed.
“Is that a problem?” Spotted Bull asked and then glanced at Winona. A knowing smile brightened his face. “Oh. I am sorry. I almost forgot about the birth. This will be your first child, and a husband should be with his wife at such a time.”
Relief washed over Nate. He had a legitimate excuse to bow out of the surround, and after all the terrible tales he’d heard about the practice he wasn’t inclined to jeopardize his life with Winona due to deliver any day now. “I will give it some thought,” he said, “but I will be honest and tell you that under the circumstances I believe my place is with Winona.”
Lame Elk snorted. “Our young warriors do the same thing. They refuse to go hunting or raiding while their wives are heavy with child. Back in my time things were different. When a woman was ready to have a baby, she just walked into the woods, squatted, and out it dropped. She never made any fuss about it, and she never asked her husband to stay around and hold her hand.”
“Behave yourself,” Spotted Bull said and grinned at Nate. “You must overlook his words sometimes. In his advanced years he has become as testy as a rattlesnake.”
“I have not,” Lame Elk said. “All I’m doing is dispensing the wisdom of my years, and you should have the courtesy to listen without criticizing me.”
Nate chuckled. He could tell the two friends enjoyed needling one another. “How many warriors will go on the surround?” he asked out of curiosity.
“Twenty-five or thirty,” Spotted Bull said. “I will be leading them.”
Morning Dove interjected a remark. “You need not go, husband. The younger warriors can manage quite well without you.”
“We have already talked this over several times,” Spotted Bull reminded her. “I have not been on a surround in many winters and I want to do it one more time.”
“You can go off and kill a buffalo any time you want,” Morning Dove said. “Leave the surrounds to the young men.”
Spotted Bull frowned. “Why must you keep making an issue of my age? I can still ride with the best of them and shoot an arrow as straight as anyone in the village. My war-horse is experienced and quick on its feet. You need not concern yourself over my safety.”
Although Nate felt inclined to agree with Morning Dove, he knew it would be considered bad manners if he were to involve himself in their personal dispute. The worry in her eyes was as plain as the nose on her face, and he didn’t blame her one bit. Surrounds were too dangerous for a man of Spotted Bull’s advanced years, and he wondered what the warrior was trying to prove by going on one.
“Excuse me, Grizzly Killer,” Lame Elk said. “Are you planning to keep that pipe or will you smoke sometime today and let us share also?”
“Sorry,” Nate said and self-consciously took a puff, drawing the smoke down into his lungs and then exhaling loudly. He suppressed a strong impulse to cough and handed the pipe back to his host.
Spotted Bull took the pipe without comment and gave it to Lame Elk, who smiled and puffed vigorously.
The women began conversing in low tones.
“So tell me,” Spotted Bull said, looking at Nate, “did you happen to see any sign of Blackfeet on your way here?”
“No. Have there been any reported in this area?”
“Five sleeps ago a party of hunters came across signs that a small band of Blackfeet were roaming the country north of our village. Since then no one has seen a thing.”
Bitter memories of Nate’s previous conflicts with the bloodthirsty Blackfeet filled his mind. Of all the tribes in the northern and central Rockies, the Blackfeet were the most feared and with good reason. They killed whites on sight and made relentless war on practically every other tribe. The Blackfeet exhibited the same unbridled ferocity as the Comanches, who dwelt far to the south, and the Apaches, who lived a great distance to the southwest. But of the three, the Blackfeet were widely regarded as the worst.
“I doubt a small band would dare bother a village this size,” Spotted Bull was saying. “Even Blackfeet are not that crazy.”
“There is no telling where they are concerned,” Nate said.
“True, Grizzly Killer,” Lame Elk interjected, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “The Blackfeet have always regarded themselves as the best fighters in existence. In order to prove this, all they do is fight, fight, fight. They don’t care if they are outnumbered. And they are not afraid to die. Why, once when I was a boy I witnessed a battle between sixty of our warriors and twelve Blackfeet who came too near our camp and were spotted. Although the Blackfeet were surrounded, they formed into a wedge and attacked our warriors like rabid wolves. I was amazed by what I saw.”
“Were all the Blackfeet slain?”
“Not at first. Five were only wounded,” Lame Elk related. “Our men let the women beat on them for a while, and then our warriors gouged out their eyes, cut off their tongues and noses, and hacked their bodies into tiny bits. Other boys and I picked up some of the body parts and threw them at each other. Later the pieces were fed to the camp dogs.” He smiled wistfully. “It was a grand time for everyone.”
Nate glanced at Winona. Her parents had been killed by Blackfeet, and he didn’t want to upset her by discussing the Blackfeet further and possibly sparking sad recollections of the event. “Are there any other white men here?” he asked to change the topic.
“Three trappers visited us six sleeps ago,” Spotted Bull answered. “They only stayed for one night and then went off to lay their traps for beaver.”
Nate nodded. If not for the pregnancy, he would be out doing the same thing himself. The more pelts he could collect before the annual rendezvous, the more money and trade goods he would reap as his reward.
“One of the trappers told us there is a large Flathead village fifteen sleeps to the northwest of here,” Spotted Bull said.
Right away Nate thought of his mentor, Shakespeare. The last time he’d seen McNair had been at a Flathead village where his friend had married a Flathead woman, Indian fashion. He wondered if Shakespeare was still there, or if the newlyweds had gone to Shakespeare’s cabin, which was located not all that far from Nate’s own. He decided to stop and see them on the way home.
“We are not very concerned about the Flatheads,” Spotted Bull said. “They leave us alone and we leave them alone. Why should we waste energy fighting them when there are always plenty of Blackfeet and Utes to fight?”
“The Flatheads are fine people,” Nate said. “I lived with them for a short while recently. They treated me courteously.”
Lame Elk leaned forward to gaze at him. “I have heard that Flathead women are as
beautiful as our own. Is this true?”
Suddenly Winona, Morning Dove, and Willow Woman stopped talking and fixed their attention on Nate, waiting expectantly to hear the answer he would give.
Resisting an urge to snicker, Nate said, “It’s true the Flathead women are quite lovely, but they cannot begin to compare to Shoshone women. In all my travels I’ve never seen women anywhere who are as beautiful as yours.”
“I thought as much,” Lame Elk said.
All three women smiled and went back to talking.
“Grizzly Killer is wise beyond his years,” Spotted Bull said softly, a grin touching his lips.
Nate moved his head a bit closer to his host and whispered, “Marriage does that to a man. I would rather face a horde of enraged Blackfeet than one angry wife.”
Spotted Bull chuckled. “The Blackfeet would treat you better,” he said.
Laughing, Nate nodded and bestowed a loving look on Winona when she gazed in his direction.
Lame Elk took another puff and said in all earnestness, “Women have always been a mystery to me. When I was a young man I thought I knew all there was to know about them. Then I took a beautiful woman as my wife and discovered everything I thought was wrong. So I changed my thinking and took a second woman into my lodge. It was most confusing. Everything I had learned from the first woman did little to help me understand the second woman.” He paused, his forehead creased in deep contemplation. “Finally I decided men are not meant to understand women. I do not know why this should be unless the Everywhere Spirit has a strange sense of humor.”
“Women are like the spirit realm,” Spotted Bull said. “They are one of the two great mysteries in life.”
Nate noticed that the women were staring at them again so he promptly changed the subject. “Does every Shoshone believe in the Everywhere Spirit?”
Spotted Bull and Lame Elk glanced at him. “Of course,” the former said. “Why do you ask?”
“Because a while ago I was thinking about the fact that Indian people as a whole are more spiritual than my own people,” Nate said.
Wilderness: Vengeance Trail/ Death Hunt (A Wilderness Western Book 4) Page 19