Fear Weaver w-57

by David Thompson

  “It’s a good thing my wife isn’t here. She would shoot you.”

  Aunt Aggie grinned in delight, then sobered. “Be honest with me. I saw you whispering with Smelly. What is going on?”

  “Smelly?”

  “My nickname for our guide. Haven’t you noticed? If you are near him when the wind is right, you would swear you were downwind of a barrel of rotten apples. And that is being charitable.”

  It was Nate’s turn to grin. “Baths aren’t considered a necessity out here.”

  “You must be a reader,” Aunt Aggie said. “I can always tell by the words people use. And only a reader uses ‘necessity’ Smelly would have said something like, ‘Baths ain’t good for you,’ and then scratched his armpit and smelled his fingers.”

  Despite his concern, Nate indulged in a belly laugh. “I do happen to own a couple dozen books. I have my mother to thank. She loved to read. She turned me into a reader when I was six and I have been reading ever since.”

  “Smart woman. But then readers always are. Our brains need fertilizer just like plants or they go to weed like Smelly’s.”

  A cough came from behind her. The four offspring had drawn rein and were waiting for her to go on.

  “Our folks are getting too far ahead,” Fitch said.

  “We will talk books later,” Aunt Aggie told Nate, and clucked to her horse.

  Fitch and Harper rode past. Anora remarked that she was sore from all the riding. Tyne came to a stop and fixed those trusting blue eyes of hers on Nate.

  “Why are Indians following us, Mr. King?”

  Nate almost swore. “You’ve seen some?”

  “Oh, yes. There are four of them. They are being sneaky, but I spotted them when I was swatting at a fly that wouldn’t leave me alone. I didn’t let on that I knew they were back there.” Tyne chortled. “They are funny, the way they go from tree to tree and try to stay hid.”

  “Why didn’t you let me know?”

  “I’m sorry. Should I have? No one told me. Mother said that if any Indians came up Tome I was to smile and be friendly so they would be nice, but those Indians haven’t come close yet.” Tyne fluffed at her golden curls. “They must be friendly or they would have tried to hurt us by now. And here I’d heard the most awful things about Indians.”

  Nate remembered a Mexican freighter he came across once down near Santa Fe. The Apaches had tied the man upside down to a wagon wheel and lit a fire under his head. Then there were the three Conestogas caught unawares by Comanches. He could think of plenty more, but he preferred not to. “From here on out, little one, you tell me when you spot an Indian. Anytime, day or night, whether I am awake or asleep.”

  “I will.” Tyne smiled and slapped her legs against her pinto. “I better catch up. Father gets annoyed if we fall behind.”

  Nate brought up the rear. He deliberately rode slow until a fifty-foot gap separated him from the rest. When he came to a cluster of cabin-sized boulders, he reined in among them, swinging down and shucking his Hawken from the saddle sheath. Then, keeping low, he worked his way to the lowest boulder, flattened, and crawled to where he had an unobstructed view of the slope he had just climbed.

  Now all Nate had to do was wait. Whoever was back there was bound to show themselves. He hoped it wasn’t hostiles.

  Some whites were fond of saying that the only good Indian was a dead Indian, but Nate wasn’t one of them. He didn’t hate Indians just because they were Indians. He’d married a Shoshone woman, after all, and been adopted into her tribe. He dressed more like an Indian than a white. And he was so bronzed by the sun that, were it not for his beard, he could pass for an Indian.

  Long ago, Nate had learned an important lesson. The red man was really no different than the white. Oh, each had their own customs, and they wore different clothes and lived in different dwellings and spoke different languages. But when all that was stripped away, the red man and the white man were a lot more alike than either was willing to admit.

  Another lesson Nate learned was that, just as with whites, there were good Indians and there were bad Indians. There were Indians who were kind to one and all, and Indians who would slit the throat of an Indian from another tribe as readily as they would slit the throat of a white man.

  Movement below brought an end to Nate’e reflection. He rose on his elbows to better see the four warriors who had emerged from the trees and were climbing toward him.

  “Damn.”

  Nate didn’t need his spyglass to tell they were Blackfeet. And there was nothing the Blackfeet liked more than to count coup on whites.

  Dueling Fingers

  It was rare to see Blackfeet so deep in the mountains. Rare, too, to see such a small number. Usually their war parties were made up of thirty or more warriors. Nate suspected the four were a hunting party; they had spotted Ryker and the Woodrows lower down and were waiting for a chance to kill them or steal their horses, or both.

  Nate racked his brain for a way to avoid bloodshed. A parley was out of the question. The warriors were apt to attack the moment he showed himself.

  Reluctantly, Nate settled the Hawken’s sights on the warrior in the lead and thumbed back the hammer. He curled his finger around the rear trigger and pulled it to set the front trigger. Then, his finger around the front trigger, he took a deep breath to steady his aim.

  The four Blackfeet abruptly halted and stared intently up the slope.

  To Nate, they appeared to be looking right at him, or at the boulders he was in. He couldn’t imagine how they had spotted him, as low to the ground as he was. Then he realized they weren’t staring at him; they were looking at something to his right. He raised his cheek from the Hawken and received a shock.

  Tyne Woodrow had come around the boulders, apparently spotted the Blackfeet, and drawn rein. There she sat, smiling sweetly down at them.

  Alarm coursed through Nate. He doubted the Blackfeet would kill her. But they might decide to take her back with them to raise as one of their own. He placed his cheek to the Hawken, but he didn’t shoot. All four warriors had bows. If they should send a flight of arrows up the slope, a shaft might hit Tyne.

  Nate stood and moved into the open. Stepping close to Tyne, he said without taking his eyes off the Blackfeet, “Don’t move. We are in deep trouble.”

  “Mr. King!” Tyne said cheerfully. “I wondered where you got to. I thought maybe your horse threw a shoe, so I came back to look for you. Who are those Indians?”

  “They are Blackfeet and they don’t like whites.”

  “Why wouldn’t they like me? I’ve never done them any harm. My mother says that so long as we are nice to people, they will be nice to us. And Indians are people, too.”

  Nate’s regard for the girl soared. “Sometimes nice isn’t enough.”

  “Should we go talk to them and ask what they want? My father says that Indians like to trade.”

  “We’ll stay put.”

  “I have some pretty ribbons for my hair. One is green and one is yellow and another is the most wonderful blue. Do you think they would like ribbons for their wives or their sisters?”

  Nate almost laughed at the notion of pacifying the implacable Blackfeet with a few paltry ribbons.

  “Oh, look! The one with the big nose is coming toward us. He’s quite dashing except for his nose.”

  Nate tensed. The warrior in the lead was indeed climbing. Nate raised his Hawken, then realized the warrior had not done the same with his bow. Suspicious of a trick, Nate lowered his rifle again.

  The other Blackfeet weren’t moving.

  Tyne turned out to be a little chatterbox. “My goodness, they have fine buckskins. And look at how their hair shines. What do they use to make it shine like that?”

  “Some Indians slick their hair with bear fat,” Nate offhandedly mentioned.

  “Goodness gracious. Indian girls too? I couldn’t do that. I like my hair loose so the wind can blow it, but mother nearly always makes me wear a bonnet.”


  “Hush. I must concentrate.” Nate could ill afford a distraction.

  “I’m sorry. Am I talking too much? Mother says I do that. She scolds me about it. But how do we get to know people if we don’t talk to them?”

  “Hush,” Nate said again. A thought struck him and sent a shiver of apprehension down his spine. It could be there were more than four Blackfeet, and the others were flanking him.

  The lead warrior came to a halt within easy arrow range. Most Blackfeet were highly skilled with a bow and could hit a target the size of a man’s head from a full gallop.

  Nate tried to read the warrior’s expression. He saw the man’s eyes widen slightly, and he glanced over to see Tyne beam and wave.

  “How do you do?” she called down. “We are pleased to meet you.”

  “You don’t listen very well,” Nate said.

  “You said not to talk to you. You didn’t say anything about not talking to them.”

  “Don’t talk at all. Let me handle this.”

  “All right. But if you want, I will get my ribbons out.”

  “Just sit still and be quiet.” Nate stepped in front of her horse. If arrows did fly he could shield her with his body.

  The lead warrior was still staring. He appeared to be in his thirties or maybe his early forties. He had high cheekbones and an oval chin. A single eagle feather was in his hair. He gave no indication of what he was thinking or what he was going to do.

  Nate took a gamble. Leaning his Hawken against the boulder, he raised both hands so the Blackfoot could see them. Then he clasped them in front of him with the back of his left hand to the ground. It was the hand sign for “peace.”

  Most tribes used sign language. Some tribes used signs that others did not, but overall the hand gestures were remarkably consistent. So much so, that a Blackfoot or a Piegan, who lived up near Canada, could communicate with a Comanche from down Texas way.

  The warrior didn’t react.

  Nate waited. When half a minute went by, he repeated the gesture and added another. He held his right hand in front of his neck with his palm toward the Blackfoot, then raised his index and second finger toward the sky and curled his thumb over the other two. It was the sign for “friend.”

  The warrior swiveled and called down to the other Blackfeet in the Blackfoot tongue. Then he took the arrow from his bow and slid it into his quiver. The bow went over his shoulder. All this to free his hands. Quickly, his fingers flowed with practiced skill.

  While Nate was not a natural born linguist like his wife, he was well versed in sign, and he followed the gestures easily. No one knew exactly how many hand signs there were. Many hundred was the common consensus, but Nate believed it might be over a thousand. Even so, a lot of words that whites took for granted were not among them.

  In sign the Blackfoot said, “I called Black Elk. I Black-foot. I count many coup. I want know you called.”

  “I called Grizzly Killer,” Nate signed. It was the name the Shoshones called him, bestowed on him long ago after he slew his first griz. He waited for Black Elk to sign in reply but the warrior was staring at Tyne. Nate elected to come right out and ask why the warriors were following them. Since there was no hand sign for the word “why,” he had to go about it another way. Raising his right hand shoulder-high with his palm toward Black Elk and his fingers and thumb splayed apart, he twisted his wrist several times. It was sign language for “question.” He continued by signing, “You follow us?”

  Black Elk pointed at Tyne. “Girl have sun hair.”

  Nate thought he understood. Tyne was probably the first blonde Black Elk ever set eyes on. Since Indians nearly always had black hair, to Black Elk her yellow curls must be extraordinary.

  “Question. You trade her?”

  Nate was taken aback.

  Tyne chose that moment to ask, “What are you two doing with your hands? Talking?”

  “It’s called sign language.”

  “Oh. I remember hearing about it. Can you teach me? I would love to talk to Indians that way. I bet I would learn a lot of new things.”

  “Do you remember me asking you to shush?” Nate noted that the other warriors hadn’t moved.That was encouraging, but the whole situation could change for the worse if what he signed next angered Black Elk. “No trade girl.”

  For the longest while Black Elk sat still, staring at Tyne. Then he signed, “Give ten horses.”

  Nate hid his unease. By Blackfoot standards, Black Elk was offering a lot. It showed how much Black Elk wanted her. “No,” he signed.

  “Give twenty horses.”

  “No.”

  “My heart big. Give fifty horses.”

  Nate had never heard of such a thing. Fifty was wealth beyond measure. “Yes, you have big heart.” Which was the same as saying Black Elk was being incredibly generous. “But whites no trade people. No people before time. No trade people time in front. No trade people now.” In effect, Nate was saying that whites never had and never would trade one of their own.

  “Maybe we take her.”

  Nate scowled. There it was. Black Elk was threatening to abduct her if they didn’t come to terms. He signed, “Question. You want war with whites?”

  Black Elk’s hands stayed at his side.

  “You take girl, whites be mad. Whites take war bonnet. Many whites come Blackfoot country. Whites bring many guns. Whites fight. Whites kill. Many Blackfeet die.”

  “Blackfeet maybe kill many whites,” Black Elk signed.

  Nate did not press the issue. He had given the warrior something to think about. But the truth was, he was bluffing. The whites would not go to war over one girl. Whites were taken captive all the time and nothing was ever done about it. Oh, sometimes the bereaved families arranged a trade. But once a white woman was taken she was generally considered lost for good.

  Tyne coughed to get his attention. “You two are doing an awful lot of finger wriggling. What about?”

  “They’re hunting. He asked me if I’d seen any elk.”

  “We saw a cow elk yesterday. They sure are big. A lot bigger than deer. They remind me of horses. Has anyone ever put a saddle on an elk and tried to ride it?”

  “You are doing it again.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Does your mother ever gag you?”

  Tyne giggled. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it. I’m excited. The only other Indian I ever met was a Delaware and he was as tame as a kitten. These are wild Indians, aren’t they?”

  “As wild as Indians come.”

  “And yet they are being nice and not trying to kill us. Why don’t we ride down so I can see them close up.”

  “No.”

  “I promise not to talk much.”

  “The answer is still no.”

  “You’re not being very friendly to them.”

  Nate focused on Black Elk. The warrior was signing again.

  “Question. You trade part yellow hair? I give horse. I give blanket. I give knife.”

  It took Nate a few moments to realize what Black Elk was asking. “I’ll be damned,” he blurted.

  “Mr. King! My mother says we shouldn’t ever use that kind of language. When my brothers do it, she makes them wash their mouths out with soap.”

  Nate drew his bowie knife. “Bend your head down.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I need a lock of your hair. Do you mind?” Nate started to reach up but Tyne recoiled.

  “This is most peculiar.”

  “It’s not for me. The Indian with the big nose has taken a fancy to you. If we give him a lock, he and his friends will go away and leave us be.”

  “And if I would rather keep all my hair right where it is?”

  “Then they will bide their time and jump us when we least expect. Instead of settling for your hair, they might take you. And your mother and father and brothers and sister might lose their lives protecting you.”

  “Oh my.” Tyne gazed at Black Elk. “I suppose I should let you h
ave it, then. I would die before I let harm come to my family. But take it from the back of my head so I don’t have to see.”

  “Good girl. Now bend down.” A single stroke was all Nate needed. Cupping the snippet, he left his Hawken where it was and descended a dozen steps. He held his hand out so Black Elk could see the golden lock, and beckoned with the other.

  Black Elk dismounted. Head high, shoulders squared, he came up the slope. He didn’t sign or say anything. He accepted the lock, held it almost reverently in his own palm, and stroked it with a fingertip.

  “Question. We friends?” Nate signed.

  Black Elk smiled at Tyne, said something in the Blackfoot language, and headed back down. He placed the lock of hair in his pouch. Rejoining his companions, he climbed on his horse. Without a backward glance the four warriors wheeled their mounts and made for the trees.

  Nate felt tension drain from him like water from a sieve. He climbed to the boulders and reclaimed his Hawken.

  “Why did you look so worried?” Tyne asked. “You had me thinking they might be out to hurt us when all they wanted was a piece of my hair.”

  Nate saw no reason to tell her the truth.

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. King, that was awful silly. My mother would say you didn’t use your head. She says that a lot about men.”

  “Does she, now?”

  “Oh, yes. She says men need women to tell them what to do.”

  “How did your mother get so wise?”

  “I don’t know. It comes naturally to her, I guess.”

  Hate and Love

  The pass was a wagon-wide gap high on the divide. Once through it they would be on the west side of the Rockies. Rock walls reared on either side. Normally, the gap was in deep shadow, but they reached it when the afternoon sun was at its zenith.

  Nate still brought up the rear. He didn’t trust the Blackfeet. They were devious enough to let him think they’d left, only to sneak back and pounce when he was off his guard.

  The others filed into the pass ahead of him. All except one. Nate was surprised to find Edwin Ryker waiting for him.

  “Where did you get to earlier? You disappeared for a while.”