“Be careful on your way down,” Nate said. Riding at night was risky enough; riding down a mountain in complete darkness taxed the best of horsemen.
Swinging up, Shakespeare clucked to the mare. He glanced back as the night enfolded him, and waved. His parting admonition was, “Keep your eyes skinned, hoss!”
Nate did not sit back down until the hoof falls had faded. He chewed on a piece of pemmican without really tasting it. Now that he was by himself, unease gripped him. He tried to shake it off as nerves. He was alone at the top of the world near a portal to another time, to the wilderness as it had been before the first white man stepped foot on the continent. Who wouldn’t be nervous?
The Indians had many accounts of the early times. Legends, the whites would say, and give them little credence. But to the various tribes, the stories of their ancestors were descriptions of real events.
Nate was reminded of the tales of the redheaded cannibals. He was glad the scarred warriors did not have red hair. Where they came from, why they disfigured their faces, were mysteries. He vaguely recollected hearing about a tribe that did something similar, but it had been so long ago, he could not recall the particulars.
Nate went to take another bite and froze. To the north, in the vicinity of the glacier, rose a ululating cry. It was not the staccato yipping of a coyote or the wavering howl of a wolf, but something entirely different, entirely new. It had a forlorn, mournful quality, like the wail of a lost soul in the throes of torment, and yet the throat that voiced it was that of a beast. The wail rose and fell and rose again, then abruptly ended.
Nate placed the pemmican in a parfleche. He was not all that hungry. He folded his forearms across his knees and leaned against his saddle. It would be a long night. He doubted he would sleep much.
Nate disliked being away from Winona. When he was younger and ran a trap line, he did not mind. He was often gone for weeks setting traps and adding to the collection of prime peltries he sold at the annual rendezvous for more money than most men earned in two or three years. But that was how he had made his living, and he accepted the separations as a necessary.
Not anymore.
Nate no longer trapped for a living. The beaver trade had died, the victim of new fads in fashion. The rendezvous ended. Nate stayed home and grew to like it. There was no one he cared more for than his wife, no one in whose company he would rather be. Some men were the opposite. They would rather do anything but be with their wives, which always struck Nate as peculiar. Why say “I do” if what they really meant was “I will but don’t crowd me”?
The bay had been cropping grass but now raised its head and pricked its ears.
Pretending not to have noticed, Nate looked toward where the bay was staring so intently. It could have been anything from an owl to a mountain lion. When a minute went by and nothing appeared, he concluded it was not worth being concerned about. The very next moment he was proven wrong.
A squat shape materialized out of the gloom. Whether man or beast was hard to say but one thing was immediately apparent.
Whatever the creature was, it was stalking him.
“What do you think Pa is doing right about now?” Winona King was washing the supper dishes in a bucket on the counter by the window. She looked out and saw the distant peaks silhouetted like jagged fangs against the canopy of stars. For some reason she shivered. She held a hand to the window, but there was no draft.
“Ma?” Evelyn said. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“I imagine your father and Shakespeare are swapping tall tales,” Winona said. “Without us there, they can exaggerate to their hearts’ content.”
Evelyn was in the rocking chair by the fireplace. They had let the fire burn down after cooking their stew and only a few red coals remained. Slowing her rocking, Evelyn imagined that two of the embers were glowing eyes. “I hope they make it back safe.”
“Your father is a hard man to kill,” Winona said by way of praise, “and your Uncle Shakespeare did not get all those white hairs by being puny.”
“Maybe so, but those Indians who killed Niwot worry me.” Evelyn was sure she would be haunted by the image of the arrow slicing into his throat for as long as she lived. “Why can’t Indians just let us be? It’s not right, them always trying to kill us.”
“I trust, daughter, that you realize I am an Indian.”
“Oh, Ma.”
“My point is that not all Indians try to kill us. The Sosoni have always tried to get along with the whites. They have adopted your father and your brother and you into the tribe.”
“I know that.”
“Then you know that not all Indians are your enemies. The Sosoni are your people as much as mine. They care for you, baide, as they do for any of their own. They would die for you.”
Evelyn had noticed that her mother was using certain Shoshone words instead of English. She mentioned it, adding, “Are you doing that on purpose?”
“Haa.”
Which was Shoshone for “yes” as Evelyn well knew. “Why?”
“To remind you that you are a woman of two worlds. You speak two tongues, the white tongue and Sosoni. Or you can, if you want to, but you almost always speak English.”
Belatedly, Evelyn realized her mother had just referred to her as a woman. It shocked her. Half-jokingly, she said, “So I’m not a little girl anymore, bia.” The Shoshone word for “mother.”
Winona placed the last of the plates on the counter, and turned. Folding her arms, she regarded her daughter a bit before saying, “No, you are not. I have thought of you as a girl, but I see now that was wrong. Niwot was not here to play tag with you. He was here to court you.”
“Niwot,” Evelyn said softly, wishing her mother had not reminded her. Again the image of the shaft imbedding itself in his throat seared her, and she shuddered. “I can never forgive myself. His death was my fault.”
“That is preposterous,” Winona said.
“As you pointed out, he was here courting me. If I had told him months ago that I could never be his wife, he would still be alive.”
“Gia, baide.”
“No, daughter?” Evelyn repeated. “How can you say that? He was here because of me. He died because of me.”
“Was the arrow that killed him yours? Gia. He was killed by enemies. Do you understand that word? No matter which tongue I speak it in?”
“I know what an enemy is,” Evelyn said in mild resentment.
“Do you? An enemy is someone who wants to kill you. It is that simple. You can try to be nice to them and talk to them but they will still want to kill you. It is what they do. It is why they are an enemy. Put the blame for Niwot’s death where it belongs. Their hands are stained red with his blood, not yours.”
“I can’t help how I feel.”
“Yes, you can. You are a woman now, not a little girl,” Winona said. “Little girls live by their emotions. A woman must temper her feelings. She must control them, not let them control her.”
Evelyn was about to comment that she resented being lectured when it struck her that her mother was not lecturing her; her mother was talking to her as one woman to another. “I’m not as grown-up as you would have me be.”
“Only because you do not want to grow up. Grownups have responsibilities. They must do that which is best for those they love and not just what is best for them. They shoulder the burden of their actions without making excuses.”
“One minute you say I’m not to blame for Niwot’s death; the next minute you say I am.”
“That is not what I said at all, daughter. The men who chose to be our enemies are responsible. You must not wallow in misery. You will have an unhappy life if you do.”
One of the embers that Evelyn had imagined was an eye had blinked out. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“That is the little girl talking. Girls do not like that which is unpleasant. They hide from it rather than confront it.”
“I’ve never seen you so seriou
s before,” Evelyn remarked.
“Yes, you have. And it is fitting. Niwot’s death is serious. Your being a woman is serious. You must cast off the perceptions of a little girl and look at the world as the woman you have become.”
Evelyn did not respond. She was too deeply troubled.
“Nothing to say? Avoiding it will not make it go away.”
“What is it, exactly, that I am avoiding again?” Evelyn sullenly asked.
“Please, Blue Flower. I respect you. You should respect me.”
Evelyn felt her eyes moisten. “But I don’t want to start thinking like a woman. Once I do, I will never be the same.”
“None of us are,” Winona said. “Some of us try to put it off longer than others, but eventually we must grow up whether we want to or not.”
“Why are you telling me all this now?”
“A fruit ripens in its time. So does a person. You are on the threshold, as the whites would say. You must embrace that which you fear.”
“I am not ready. It is too much for me.” Evelyn slumped in the rocking chair. She felt sad and tired.
Winona walked over and tenderly placed her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “You need not give up being a girl right this minute. It is enough, for now, that you know what is before you. When the time comes, you will choose the right path.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Winona smiled warmly. “You are a King, and as your father is so fond of telling us—” she did her best to imitate her husband’s deep voice, “—the Kings stand on their own two feet, by God!”
Despite herself, Evelyn grinned. “How will I know when it’s time, Ma? How will I know when to give up the one and be the other?”
“It will happen without you being aware. One day you will wake up and look around you and you will look through the eyes of a woman.” Winona bent and kissed Evelyn on the cheek. “Do not let it worry you. What will be, will be.”
“How did you get so smart?”
Before Winona could answer, they were surprised by a knock on the door. Automatically, Winona started for her rifle, propped against the wall. “Who is it?” she called out.
“The wife of a certain white-haired lunkhead,” came the answer.
Immensely pleased, Winona scooted to the door and threw the bolt. Blue Water Woman was not just her neighbor but her best friend. “Come in. Come in. What brings you over so late?”
“I was hoping you would not mind company for the night,” Blue Water Woman said. “I get lonely when that tub of hot air is gone. But if you ever tell him that, I will deny saying it.”
Winona laughed. “Of course you are welcome. I will make hot chocolate and we will stay up late talking about the silly things our men do.”
Blue Water Woman smiled at Evelyn. “What have the two of you been up to?”
“Nothing much,” Evelyn said.
Nine
Nate King opened a parfleche and rummaged inside as if searching for something. From under his brow he watched the squat shape in the grass. Melting onto its belly, it snaked toward him with infinite care.
Try though Nate might, he could not see the face clearly. But it had to be the scar-faced warrior. Nate had to hand it to him. The man’s stalking skill was considerable. Not once had Nate heard him. A glint of metal told Nate the warrior had a knife.
By rights Nate should shoot him. Just set the parfleche to one side, pick up the Hawken or draw a pistol, and put a lead ball into the middle of the shape. The parfleche in his lap, he slid his hand to a flintlock, but he did not draw it.
Nate would not kill if he could avoid it. In his younger days he had not had any qualms about squeezing the trigger, but now things were different. He was older and wiser. Killing was no longer a means to an end. He only slew as a last resort.
So there Nate sat, seemingly unaware of the stalking death, awaiting the right moment to try something other than killing. He was aware of the risk. Shakespeare would say he was being a simpleton, but Shakespeare was not there.
Time passed with awful slowness.
Twice Nate gazed about him but he made it a point not to look directly at his stalker. Each time the warrior froze and did not move again for several minutes. Nate wanted to give the impression he did not suspect anything. Once, he even stood and stretched and stifled a yawn, then walked in a circle around his saddle and packs while gazing at the forest that hemmed the meadow. When Nate sat back down, he positioned himself so that while he was not facing the warrior, he could still watch him out of the corner of an eye.
The deadly stalk continued.
Nate let his chin dip a few times and each time jerked his head up, to give the illusion he was having a hard time staying awake. Finally he pretended to doze off, his arms crossed in front of him in such a way that his hands happened to rest on his flintlocks.
The warrior did not take the bait. He did not move any faster. He was taking no chances, this one.
Finally, the moment Nate had been waiting for; the scar-faced warrior was within a few bounds, girding his legs under him to spring. Nate was ready when the warrior suddenly exploded into motion and sprang for him. Whipping sideways and rising onto his knees, Nate trained his pistols on his would-be slayer, cocking them as he rose.
The warrior had seen both of his companions fall to firearms. He knew what guns could do. Stopping short as if he had slammed into a wall, the warrior glared at the twin muzzles, then at Nate, his grotesque scars lending him an inhuman aspect.
“Drop the knife,” Nate said. To convey his meaning, he pointed a flintlock at the man’s hand, then at the ground.
The warrior was loath to part with his weapon. He held on to it.
Nate aimed at a spot in front of the warrior’s feet and fired into the ground. The blast and the flash of flame and smoke caused the scar-faced warrior to flinch. Again Nate pointed at the man’s hand and then at the ground.
The knife fell.
Nate sidestepped and motioned for the warrior to sit near his saddle. He prudently kept space between them, picked up the knife, and threw it into the darkness.
“Do you speak English?” Nate asked. As he expected, he received no response. He tried Shoshone. He tried Flathead. He tried Crow. He was not a linguist like Winona, but he possessed a smattering of words from over half a dozen tongues, and the scar-faced warrior responded to none of them.
Stymied, Nate stepped back another couple of steps, and hunkered. His prisoner’s features were inscrutable.
“I wish you would help me out here,” Nate said. The man had to guess he was trying to communicate. Placing the pistol on his leg and keeping his hands next to it in case the warrior tried to jump him, Nate resorted to the well-nigh universal hand language of the plains and mountains tribes. “Question. You talk sign language?”
The warrior blinked.
Nate’s fingers flowed, repeated the question.
After a moment’s hesitation, the scar-faced warrior slowly raised his right hand to chest height, his index finger pointing straight up, his other fingers clenched with his thumb on his second finger, and moved his hand to the left and then down.
It was sign for “yes”. Elated, Nate nearly forgot himself and started to move closer but stopped. “I no enemy,” he signed.
“You talk two tongues,” the warrior signed, which was the same as saying Nate was a liar.
“I talk true,” Nate insisted.
“Your friend kill Ghost Walker. You kill Stands On Moon. You talk two tongues,” the warrior insisted.
“They try kill us,” Nate reminded him.
The warrior’s hands went still. Then he signed, “Question. You called?”
“Grizzly Killer.” Nate signed the name by which the Shoshones and other tribes knew him, a name bestowed on him by a Cheyenne warrior years ago after the warrior witnessed a fight between Nate and a grizzly in which Nate miraculously slew the giant bear.
The scar-faced man began to quake slightly, as if he were
shivering. Peering intently, Nate realized, with mild shock, that the warrior was laughing. Silently, inwardly laughing.
“Question. Why you laugh?” Nate signed.
“Your name,” the man replied.
“I not know,” Nate signed, which was the same as saying, “I not understand.”
“You Bear People. Your friend Bear People. But you kill great bear.”
It took a minute of mulling for Nate to comprehend. The warrior thought that Shakespeare and he, with their beards and large size, resembled bears, and it struck the warrior as humorous that a bear man would slay the creature he resembled. Nate expressed his hunch in sign language.
“My people think your people Bear People,” was the reply.
Nate’s brow knit. The implication was that the warrior’s tribe had dealings with whites in the past. “Question,” he signed. “Your people called?”
The warrior said something in his tongue, rather proudly, then signed, “Heart Eaters.”
Usually, the name of a tribe, whether their own or what they were called by other tribes, was based on a distinguishing trait or tribal practice. The signs for the Cheyenne were Finger Choppers. The signs for the Blackfeet were Black Moccasins, since that was the color the Blackfeet favored. The signs for the Shoshones were Sheep Eaters. It prompted Nate to sign, “Question. Your people eat hearts?”
“Yes.”
“Question. Deer hearts? Buffalo hearts? Bear hearts?” To Nate those seemed the logical choices.
“All hearts,” the warrior signed.
A chill seized Nate, a chill that had nothing to do with the brisk wind. “Question. Your people eat people?”
“Eat people hearts,” the warrior signed.
The distinction was a minor one to Nate. “Question. Why Heart Eaters eat hearts?”
“Make strong. Make fast. Make—” The warrior’s fingers stopped moving. He seemed to be trying to come up with just the right way of saying it. “—make good medicine.”
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