Season of the Warrior (A Wilderness Giant Edition Western Book 2)

by Robbins, David

  Following the grizzled frontiersman’s lead, Nate wheeled the black stallion and motioned to the others to head out. Unlike McNair, he watched the Crows out of the corner of his eye and saw a bitter argument erupt between Four Horns and Plenty Hole. Soon all the Crows were taking sides, and they were still arguing when Nate glanced back after covering over five hundred yards.

  “I’ll remember that Plenty Hole,” Shakespeare remarked.

  They were halfway to the butte when faint whoops came to Nate’s ears. Fearing the worst, he stopped, but the Crows were riding to the south, not attacking. He watched until the dust they raised was lost in the distance; then, breaking into a relieved smile, he clapped McNair on the back. “My hat is off to you, sir,” he said, doffing his. “Well done! You called their bluff.”

  Shakespeare shrugged. “They were after meat, not out to lift hair. I figured they wouldn’t risk theirs for a few horses.” He gave his mustache a pull. “Still, we’d best stay extra alert tonight. I wouldn’t put it past Plenty Hole and some of his young friends to sneak back and try to take some horses.”

  Lady Templar came over to them. Burning with curiosity, she wanted to know everything that had been said, so as they rode along Nate recounted the exchange as best his memory permitted. When he got to the part where Shakespeare had told Plenty Hole the horses belonged to her brother, she faced McNair.

  “Those horses are half mine. You know that. Why didn’t you say as much?”

  “There would have been hell to pay. They would have wanted to know exactly which ones were yours, and then they might have ridden right up and grabbed them for themselves.”

  “But they wouldn’t have touched William’s?”

  “Not once they knew about yours.”

  “I must be terribly dense, Mr. McNair. Why would they be so brazen as to take mine but not his?”

  “Because you’re a woman.”

  “It matters that much to them?”

  “Makes a world of difference,” Shakespeare replied. “In Indian society the women get the hind end of the deal. It’s the men who are lords and masters of their lodges, and their word is law. If a woman doesn’t do as she’s told, she might be beaten. If the man doesn’t want her anymore, he can throw her away. In some tribes, like the Apaches, women are not even allowed to have their own names. In almost all of them, the women have no voice in public matters. They do as the men want or else.”

  “How ...” Lady Templar began indignantly. Then she paused, seeking the right word, but all she could think of was, “How primitive!”

  “By your standards, yes, ma’am,” Shakespeare said. “But the Indians have been living this way for as long as any of them can remember, and the women don’t complain.”

  “They wouldn’t dare after being bullied into submission.”

  “It’s not like that at all. The men usually treat their wives with love and kindness. They’re good husbands and providers, and most Indian women are proud to be the wives of the warriors they marry. And while the women don’t have much say at the councils, in their own lodges it’s a different story. Many a wife is the boss of her family and her husband doesn’t realize the fact.”

  “I still say it’s reprehensible.”

  Shakespeare sighed. “You’d have to live as an Indian for a spell before you could understand their views on things. Believe me. The women are rarely abused. And they take a lot of pride in the work they do in keeping up the lodge and making clothes and cooking. In some tribes they have special societies for the women in which they advance depending on how well they do their crafts and such.”

  “Slavery, Mr. McNair. The Indian way is nothing more or less than utter slavery. To think of all those poor women overworked and overburdened by common drudgery. I am incensed.”

  “I’m sure you are. But for the last time, conditions aren’t as bad as you think. Yes, the women work hard, but so do the men. And at least the women have help from the other wives in their lodge.”

  Lady Templar’s nose scrunched up. “Other wives? Then it’s true what I heard? Indians practice polygamy?”

  “They practice what?”

  “The men have more than one wife.”

  “In some tribes, they do. Many of the men die young, so there’s never enough of them to go around. If a woman wants a husband she has to share him with another woman. Or maybe two. Or three.”

  Diana made a sniffing sound and frowned, as if she had smelled a foul odor. “But what does all of this have to do with them taking my horses?”

  “In some tribes women can’t own horses. In others they can own a few, but it’s the warriors who have the most. The men need good horses for raids and hunting buffalo, which is why they steal all they can get their hands on.”

  “You’re deliberately evading the issue. Why? So I won’t think even less of Indian society?”

  The mountain man looked at her. “They would have tried to take your horses because to their way of thinking it wouldn’t be fitting for a weak woman to own so many fine animals.”

  Nate had listened to the dispute with suppressed amusement. At one time he’d shared many of Lady Templar’s sentiments, but subsequent experience had taught him how decently Indian women in general were treated, and he’d learned to accept their way of life. Few of the warriors he personally knew routinely beat their wives, and those that did were often rebuked by the older men.

  He studied the butte as they passed it. Whoever had sent the smoke signal was undoubtedly long gone, back with the band. He saw a ribbon of a trail that wound from the base to the escarpment, which explained how the warrior had ascended. Then the Englishwoman posed a question that perked up his ears.

  “Have you ever had more than one wife at one time, Mr. McNair?’

  There was a prolonged silence before Shakespeare answered. “Yes, Diana, I have. Back when I lived with the Crows.”

  “How many, may I ask?”

  “Five.”

  “You lived with five women at once?”

  “I was young then.”

  “Meaning you didn’t know right from wrong?”

  “No, meaning I could keep up with all five and not be worn to a frazzle. Now it would be different. I have a heap of trouble just keeping up with one.”

  “Well, I never!” Lady Templar declared, and moved off to ride with her brother. Her cheeks were scarlet, her chin jutting high. Decorum dictated that she be outraged by McNair’s conduct, but inwardly she was delighted more than she was shocked. Here was a juicy tidbit she couldn’t wait to tell her friends!

  Nate let several minutes go by before he said, “You never mentioned having five wives to me. For that matter, you never mentioned living with the Crows. And here I thought that I’m the closest friend you have.”

  “You are, but being someone’s friend doesn’t entitle you to know every little fact about their whole life. Being a friend means you accept them for what they are, not what they’ve been.”

  There was an edge of hurt to McNair’s tone, leaving Nate to conclude he had offended him. “I’d never think less of you for keeping your past private.” He laughed. “And I sure wouldn’t think less of you for having five wives. Some day you’ll have to tell me how you made do.”

  Shakespeare cracked a smile, glanced at Nate, and guffawed rowdily. “It wasn’t easy!” he declared. “You don’t know what marriage is really like until you’re being nagged by five women at the same time.”

  Evening found them on the south bank of a sluggish stream, camped in a tract of cottonwoods. While Harrison made the fire, Shakespeare went off into the brush after meat for the cooking pot and the rest of the men watered the horses. Nate tied rope between a half-dozen trees so that once the animals had slaked their thirst they could be tethered for the night.

  Not long after, the crack of a rifle carried from downstream, and in due order Shakespeare strolled back bearing a young black-tailed doe over his shoulders. He volunteered to do the butchering, Winona did the cooking,
and under a starry celestial spectacle they all sat down to a meal of roast venison.

  Nate devoured his chunks in great bites, chewing greedily as he savored the delicious taste. He saw William and Diana unpack their fine china and silverware before they sat down to eat, and he wondered why it was that some people became so habit-bound they lugged their habits around with them like so much old baggage they were unwilling to give up for anything newer. By doing the same thing day in and day out, they dug themselves into a rut, and sometimes got down so deep they couldn’t dig themselves out if they tried.

  He thanked God that he’d had the horse sense to change as his environment changed. To go from the streets of New York City to the wide-open spaces of the frontier had been a drastic step to take, yet he had learned to adjust, had learned to mold himself to the new conditions that arose and to wrest a living from the land. He took pride in that fact. Many came west and never survived. They succumbed to the elements, to the beasts, to the Indians, or to some weakness in themselves. Defying the odds, he had prevailed.

  Most of their party were done eating when Zach spoke up. “Uncle Shakespeare, will you quote for us some tonight? I’d sure like to hear more of old William S.”

  “I don’t know,” McNair hedged. “I expect everyone else has had their fill by now.”

  “Indulge the boy, McNair,” William said. “I love hearing the Bard mangled by your recitations.”

  “Do you now?” Shakespeare replied. To Zach he said, “This above all: to thine own self be true. And it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.”

  “That’s one of your favorites,” the boy said. “I’ve heard it many times before. Why didn’t you do something new?”

  “I figured maybe the marquis hadn’t ever heard it,” Shakespeare said, and rose oblivious to the glare he received from William Templar. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to spread out my blanket and turn in. My old bones ain’t as spry as they used to be.”

  Everyone turned in early, except for the two men chosen to stand the first watch. It had been decided that two were needed in case the Crows should put in an appearance, and the early stint fell to Jarvis and Harrison.

  Nate had agreed to handle the second watch, with Fletcher, so he was soon snug under his robe and serenely contemplating the heavens. The drone of Winona and Diana talking lulled him to sleep. How long he slept, he couldn’t say. But there was no mistaking the sounds that woke him up—an ear-splitting war whoop followed by the blast of a rifle.

  Chapter Ten

  Eight years of living in the wilderness had honed Nate’s reflexes until they were razor sharp. As a result, no sooner did the war whoop rent the night than he was up and in a crouch, the Hawken in his hands. Swiveling, he spied a commotion among the horses and trotted toward them. On the heels of the shot, more bloodcurdling whoops confirmed that more than one warrior was out there.

  The majority of the horses were neighing in fright and trying to pull free of the tether ropes. Several had either succeeded or been aided by human hands, because they were moving deeper into the trees.

  The fire had long since gone out. In the gloom Nate had difficulty discerning movement, and so it was that at first he didn’t see the stealthy figure gliding toward his black stallion. When the stallion whinnied, he recognized its cry and spun, the Hawken fully cocked.

  A dull glint of starlight on a drawn blade betokened the purpose of the figure. In a heartbeat Nate had the Hawken to his shoulder and a bead on the center of the black shape. Then he fired.

  At the booming retort two things happened simultaneously. The figure dropped in its tracks, and out of the darkness hurtled a fiery whirlwind with an upraised tomahawk. Nate sensed rather than saw his attacker, and by sheer luck got the rifle up in time to counter the initial brutal blow. Turning, he countered a second, and a third, the tomahawk handle thudding against the rifle barrel with such force the barrel smacked into his forehead.

  Growling, his assailant backed up a stride, shifted, and came at him from a different angle.

  Nate aimed a vicious swipe at the warrior’s head and missed. His left shoulder flared with explosive agony as the brave connected, and suddenly the Hawken was ripped from his grasp. Once more the tomahawk cleaved the air, streaking for his face, and Nate threw himself to the side, his hand closing on his own tomahawk in midair. Hitting on his elbows and knees, he instantly rolled and heard the warrior’s weapon bite into the earth.

  And then Nate was flat on his back with his attacker looming above him and the man’s tomahawk sweeping up for another strike. But Nate had other ideas. Bending forward, he sank his own tomahawk into the warrior’s leg, and was gratified by the squawk it elicited. The brave, without thinking, doubled over, his face inches from Nate’s, and in that moment Nate identified Plenty Hole. Shoulders rippling, Nate swept his tomahawk straight up and buried it in the Crow’s throat.

  Warm drops spattered on Nate’s face. He skipped to the left, knowing full well a wounded man was still capable of landing a fatal blow, and threw back his arm to strike once more. It proved unnecessary.

  Plenty Hole had gone to his knees, his hands pressed over the gushing spout where his throat had been. Sputtering, spraying crimson like a geyser, he swayed, wailed, and pitched forward, the wail dying as he did so that the cry and his life ended the second he struck the ground.

  Breathing heavily, Nate backed away a few feet, then thought to glance around and see how his companions were faring. To the south rose shouts and the popping of guns. Most of the horses were where they should be, but five or six were missing.

  Nate wiped his tomahawk on Plenty Hole’s leggings, shoved it under his belt, and reclaimed the Hawken. He began to sprint in the direction of the shots, and had covered ten yards when a high-pitched moan drew him up short. It came from tall weeds to his right. Sinking low, he crept forward until he spotted the form of a man lying sprawled on his stomach. Even in the dark he could tell the man was white, and by the clothes he could tell it was one of the Englishmen.

  Swiftly Nate reached the man’s side and knelt. Slowly, he rolled the stricken Britisher over. It was Harrison, the valet. A large hole in Harrison’s chest had been left by a lance that had penetrated deep into his body.

  “Who?” Harrison croaked weakly, his eyelids quivering.

  “Nate King,” Nate said, taking the man’s hand in his. “Lie stiff. Don’t strain yourself.”

  “How bad?” Harrison asked.

  Nate made no reply.

  “That bed, eh? I feared as such.” Harrison abruptly coughed violently, shaking from head to toe, and an odd sucking noise came from the hole in his chest. At length he subsided and lay quietly. “I never saw the blooming heathen, sir. So help me.”

  “I believe you,” Nate answered softly.

  “Where’s Lady Templar? Or Jarvis? I’d like to say good-bye to them.”

  “I don’t know. Sorry.”

  “Typical. That’s been my life since the day I was born.” Harrison closed his eyes and groaned again, louder. He tried to lift his other hand, got it an inch off the grass, and gave up the effort with a gasp.

  “I wish there was something I could do for you,” Nate said guiltily, and meant it. This man, he reflected, had no business being in the wilderness. Harrison was accustomed to all the cultured refinements civilization had to offer, and was like a fish out of water when not in a city; he should never have left foggy London.

  “There is,” Harrison whispered, his lips flecked with spittle. “Please tell Lady Diana ...” He stopped, inhaled noisily. “Please tell her ...”

  Nate waited for the Englishman to finish the request, but no more words were uttered. After several seconds he felt for a pulse and found none. “And now there are five,” he said to himself as he closed the dead man’s eyes.

  Standing, Nate walked southward. He soon heard voices and saw several people coming toward him. The moving mountain in the lead had to be Jarvis, and beside
the giant was Shakespeare. Behind them came the women and a small form that could only be Zach.

  “Who’s there?” Jarvis suddenly bellowed, leveling his rifle in Nate’s direction. But Shakespeare was faster and swatted the barrel aside.

  “Whoa there, old coon! You wouldn’t want to be putting a ball into a mountain man, would you?”

  “King?” Jarvis blurted out. “Sorry, mate. I mistook you for an Indian in the dark. You look just like one except for that beard of yours.”

  Nate advanced as William Templar and Eric Nash caught up with the others. “What’s the count?” he asked.

  “The mangy bastards got seven of the horses,” Shakespeare answered. “We chased them as far as we could, but they were mounted and we weren’t. I think I winged one.”

  “Serves the savages bloody well right,” William said. “They’re errant thieves, no more, no less. I’m sorry we didn’t kill some of them to teach them a lesson.”

  “We did,” Nate said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. I killed two. One was Plenty Hole.”

  “Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving bastard,” Shakespeare said with a grin. “If you haven’t scalped him yet, do go. We’ll use his hair to wipe the dirt and mud off our moccasins at night.”

  “There’s more, and it’s bad. They killed one of ours.

  In the confusion of being rudely awakened in the middle of the night and the heated excitement of the chase, none of them had realized one of their party was missing. Now, everyone looked at everyone else as they sought to determine which one of their group Nate meant.

  William Templar was the first to blurt out, “Harrison! Where the deuce is Harrison?”

  Wordlessly, Nate beckoned and turned, taking them to where the hapless valet lay still and pale. “His last words were of Lady Templar,” he reported.

  “The poor dear,” Diana said.

  William Templar surprised all present by sinking to his knees and taking the dead man’s limp hand in his. His voice was choked when he declared, “Harrison was a damn good man. Been with the family for almost twenty years.” He broke off and gazed blankly into the distance. I hardly ever had to reprimand him for a shoddy performance of his duties.”