Hurrying to the stallion, Nate swung up and trotted back to warn Shakespeare and the others. They would be all right so long as they slowed up a bit. In his haste, though, he completely forgot about Eric Nash.
Half a mile to the east, the Englishman was thrilling to the glorious experience of being on his own. He surveyed all around him as if he was the master of his domain, although in truth he knew he was being a bit cocky and had to watch himself lest he blunder onto a grizzly or some other peril.
Eric held his long rifle tilted upward in one hand, the stock braced on his thigh. Under his black belt rested a loaded pistol, at his side a large knife. He wished he had a tomahawk, but neither Nate nor Shakespeare had one they could spare.
Also high on Eric’s new list of wants was a complete set of buckskins, including the high moccasins Nate was partial to. He’d made mention of his desire to Nate. And how pleased he had been when his trapper friend had offered to start keeping the hides of the deer they killed so that Winona and he could work on curing the skins and making the buckskins! Regrettably, they could only work as time permitted, during the evening after they halted for the day, so it would be a week or more before the buckskins were ready. Eric could hardly wait.
As Eric rode, he now and again absently caressed the smooth, cool rifle barrel as a lover might caress the silken limb of a loved one. He’d mildly shocked himself by becoming quite attached to the rifle, which was quite normal according to Nate. Many trappers went so far as to give their long guns names, and they would no more part with their favorite rifle than they would with their life.
On several occasions Nate had let Eric shoot a deer or a rabbit for the supper pot. But as yet, Eric had not tested his mettle alone, and he was keen on shooting something to take back for their meal, to show everyone, especially Diana Templar, that he could contribute his fair share.
It was still early in the day, but Eric didn’t consider that when he spotted a pair of black-tailed does grazing in the open a quarter of a mile ahead of him. Putting his horse to a gallop, he raced toward them. Predictably, they whirled and fled, and while not as fleet as antelope, they were remarkably fast, so much so that they distanced themselves from the horse with every minute the chase lasted. At length they slanted toward the river, and were soon lost in the brush along its border.
Eric did not give up easily. He angled to the strip of vegetation and rode along it, peering into the tangled growth for the does. Nate, he felt certain, would be proud of him if he bagged one, and he was determined to do so if it took him all day.
As time went by Eric knew they had eluded him, but he stubbornly rode on anyway. He just might flush something else, and shortly he did, although not at all what he expected.
There came a slight curve in the river where a stand of trees hid whatever lay beyond. Eric plunged into the trees rather than go around them, in the hope of spooking more deer, although by then he would have gladly settled for a rabbit. He saw the flowing water, and beside it a narrow, clear strip of bare earth, and thinking that he should water his mount he rode out of the trees and hopped down.
As Eric guided his horse to the water’s edge, he happened to glance down at his feet. His brow rippled in trepidation when he beheld moccasin tracks there in the soft earth, tracks so fresh even he could tell they had been made a short while ago.
Nate had to be warned. With that in mind, Eric gripped the saddle, and had started to lift his leg to a stirrup when a guttural laugh froze the blood in his veins, and glancing to his left he discovered four Indians watching him with amused detachment. Behind them stood four war horses. “Good God!” he exclaimed, and began to level his rifle.
Quickly the four were on the Englishman, one of them tearing the gun from his grasp while the other three threw him to the ground and stripped him of his pistol and his knife. Then, ignoring him, they yipped and waved his weapons in the air.
Eric was in a daze, his fledgling confidence shattered. The mountain men had warned him this was Blackfoot country, and although he couldn’t identify the four warriors by the style of their buckskins or their hair, he assumed they were indeed the feared Blackfeet and that he was in dire straits. He tried to rise, but one of the braves pressed a foot on his chest, pinning him down.
Gradually Eric took possession of his senses. For some reason his captors did not seem to rate him as much of a threat. Not one of them bothered to cover him as they jabbered excitedly and pointed repeatedly toward him, evidently deciding his fate.
Would they kill him then and there, or take him with them to their village to torture him at their pleasure? That was the question uppermost in Eric’s mind. He’d learned enough of Indian ways to know the gory end in store for him, one way or the other, and he was quite amazed to find he was totally unwilling to meekly accept whatever they had in store. He wanted to live, and by God he would!
Eric lashed out with his arm, batting the brave’s leg aside, and shoved to his feet, or tried to. He had only gotten halfway up when a warrior slammed into him and they both toppled backwards, the warrior’s arms pinning his arms to his sides. The cold embrace of the water was a shock. He’d forgotten all about the river being to his rear.
Water gushed into Eric’s open mouth as he went under. He sputtered and thrashed, striving to break free before he drowned, but the Blackfoot was determined on holding him under. His chest began to ache abominably. In his thrashing his knee accidentally swept up into the brave’s groin, and suddenly he was released.
Eric shot to the surface and gasped for fresh air. Spluttering, he backed away, and saw two other warriors entering the river after him. One held a tomahawk, the other a knife. He turned and
dove, swimming underwater for as many yards as he could before his protesting lungs demanded air again. Then, rising, he twisted and saw the Blackfeet looking all around them in confusion. One spied him and gave a shout.
Again Eric dived, swimming awkwardly, his movements retarded by his clothing and his shoes. He entertained the hope of outdistancing the Blackfeet and seeking shelter in the trees. Pumping his arms and legs, he rose once more.
Two of the Blackfeet were on horseback and racing up the river bank to catch him.
Eric hadn’t counted on this. He surged to the shore, reached firm ground, and had started to run when his left foot slipped on a flat rock. Down he sprawled. Before he could push upright, the pounding of hoofs was on him. Something snatched at his back; then he was plucked up as if he only weighed a gram and slung over the back of one of the horses.
Everything had happened so fast, Eric was thoroughly addled. He attempted to sit up, but was knocked back down. Dimly, he realized another warrior was riding right beside the horse over which he had been draped. He listened to the pair talking, and shortly all four were together again next to his own horse.
The next thing Eric knew, he was roughly yanked to the ground, hurting his elbows and shins when he hit. One of the Blackfeet gestured at him, and at his horse. The command was self-explanatory.
Eric grunted as he stood and shuffled to his horse. He had to concentrate to get his arms and legs working properly before he could climb up.
As he straightened, all hell broke loose.
From the trees burst a tall figure on a black stallion who gave voice to a strident whoop. It was Nate King, Hawken in hand. He rode straight into the clustered Blackfeet, the stallion bowling over the two who were standing and then ramming into one of the war horses, sending that animal crashing backwards into the river. The last warrior was raising a lance when the stock of the Hawken clipped him on the jaw, tumbling him from his horse.
“Ride, Eric, ride!” Nate shouted, and gave Eric’s mount a smack on the hind end.
Like a bolt, Eric shot through the trees.
On the Englishman’s heels came Nate. Holding the Hawken and the reins in his right hand, he drew a pistol with his left and looked back, prepared to cut down the first Blackfoot who gave chase. The one he had clipped and one of thos
e the stallion had knocked over were still down, unconscious, while the warrior in the river was struggling to get his horse under control and the last brave was staring sullenly after them.
For a mile Nate let the animals race along the river. Then he pulled abreast of Eric and gestured for him to stop. The artist was pale, but grinning. “You had a close shave there,” Nate said. “If I hadn’t come on you when I did, you’d be on your way to the nearest Blackfoot village.”
“How did you find me?” Eric asked breathlessly.
“I rode back to warn Shakespeare there were Blackfeet around. Then I went to warn you. Found your tracks and saw where you chased the deer. So I figured I’d better check on you.”‘ Nate replaced
the pistol. “Had to ride like the wind to get to you in time.”
“I’m in your debt. Again.”
“Just don’t go making a habit out of getting caught. I won’t always be able to pull your fat out of the fire.” Nate studied their back trail. Convinced the Blackfeet weren’t in pursuit, and puzzled by their absence, he continued to the southeast. “How did they capture you anyhow?”
Eric detailed the incident in detail, ending with, “I don’t understand why they were laughing at me, and why they didn’t appear to think of me as much of a danger to them.”
“The Blackfeet hold all whites in contempt,” Nate said. “As for their laughter ...” He raked Eric from head to toe and rolled his eyes.
“My clothes?”
“Those fancy outfits of yours are enough to give a man a fit.”
“In Europe they’re the height of fashion,” Eric said lamely, “but I’m glad I’ll soon be wearing buckskins. Then no Indian will laugh at me.”
Nate glanced at him. “Be thankful you weren’t wearing buckskins when those Blackfeet set eyes on you, or they might have mistook you for a trapper and killed you on the spot. The way you’re dressed, they probably couldn’t figure out just what you were, so they came right up to you to see.”
Eric touched his silk shirt, then his jacket. “I owe my life to my tailor,” he said, and laughed.
Within five minutes they were reunited with their friends. While Eric related his misadventure to Jarvis, Winona, and Zach, Nate huddled with his mentor.
“I’ll go back up the river and find what became of those varmints. It’s strange they didn’t chase us.”
“Damned strange,” Shakespeare agreed. “Keep your eyes peeled. Where there’s four there might be more.”
“I should have wiped them out right there, but I was afraid one of them would bring Nash down before I finished.”
“Good thinking. We want to get to Independence with at least one of these English left alive.”
After giving a wave to his wife and son, Nate rode hard for the next quarter of an hour in an easterly direction, swinging well wide of the curve in the Yellowstone where the Blackfeet had jumped the Englishman. Then, turning to the river again, he came on the trees from the opposite direction, his every sense alert.
The Blackfeet had gone.
Nate rode to the strip of earth, got down, and read the tale the prints revealed. After he had ridden off with Nash, the warriors had mounted up and headed straight across to the far bank. One of them had been helped up by another brave, so at least one was seriously hurt.
Putting a hand over his eyes, Nate scoured the opposite shore for as far as he could see and the prairie beyond. Other than a few antelope, nothing moved. He stepped into the stirrups and backtracked the Blackfeet, soon learning that they had been several hundred yards northeast of the curve when they saw Nash chasing the deer and turned around to sneak up on him.
Nate knew he should be glad they were gone, yet he was still bothered by the way they had up and ridden off like that. Blackfeet were as persistent as they were warlike, and no one ever had or ever would accuse them of being cowards. So why the devil had they left? He pondered hard, and the only logical conclusion he could reach was that they were satisfied with the guns they had taken. To a Blackfoot the stealing of a gun counted almost as much as the slaying of any enemy. In fact, so important did the Blackfeet regard the taking of a rifle or pistol, their word for an honor earned in war, namachkani, meant, literally, a gun had been taken.
Just to be safe, Nate rode along the river for a considerable spell, checking to see if the four braves might have recrossed farther up. He was relieved to find no evidence of such trickery.
The afternoon was waning when Nate turned the stallion around. Vivid red, orange, and yellow streaks had transformed the western horizon into a rainbow blaze of colors. Engrossed in admiring the unique display, he had no idea anyone was approaching until the faint drumming of hooves made him face forward to discover Eric Nash, a new rifle in hand, riding to intercept him.
“Is something wrong?” Nate asked when the Englishman was close enough.
“I needed an excuse to get away so I came along to see what was keeping you,” Eric said. A shadow clouded his glowing visage. “Quite frankly, old friend, I can’t tolerate being around Diana for very long. She hovers over me now like my mum, and keeps’ insisting I stay with her and the others.” He encompassed the landscape in a sweeping look. “I’ve tried to explain why I like going off by myself now, but I might as well be speaking to a cat.”
“She’s just concerned for your welfare,” Nate said in her defense.
“For the welfare of a friend,” Eric said, adeptly turning his horse so he was now beside Nate.
“Everyone needs friends.”
“Point taken. But there is more to it that I’m not at liberty to divulge. Suffice it to say I’ve learned my lesson, and I’ll never fall in love again.”
“Never say never, especially about love. Shakespeare likes to say a man never knows when Cupid will poke him with one of those puny arrows. Usually when he least expects it.”
“The man is a fount of frontier witticisms,” Eric replied. “But I meant what I said. I’ve the whole of my life in front of me, and I’m in no hurry to have my heart wounded again.”
Not one to pry into the personal affairs of others, Nate made no further pertinent remarks. A mile further he idly mentioned, “Tomorrow we’ll reach the junction.”
“How far to Mandan country from there?”
“I’m not rightly sure. I’ve never been in this territory before, but Shakespeare has. Ask him.”
“You care for that old fellow a lot, don’t you?”
“Like he was my own father,” Nate answered, and rode several yards before he realized the significance of what he had said. How many days ago was it he had been criticizing McNair for his fatherly attitude? In the future he would know better.
“I don’t blame you,” Eric said. “He’s got no flies on him.”
“Is that an insult? I’ll have you know he takes a bath every six months whether he thinks he needs one or not.”
“Goodness, no. I wouldn’t insult either of you. You’ve given me a new lease on my life.” Eric chuckled. “I alluded to the fact that he’s nobody’s fool.”
“They don’t come much smarter,” Nate agreed.
“And that woman of yours! Where did you ever find such a gem? She’s a smashing woman for” Eric said, about to praise Winona, when an iron clamp closed on his arm. The look in the trapper’s eyes was enough to cause his breath to catch in his throat.
“Over here, Eric,” Nate said softly, “men don’t go around talking about the wives of other men if they care to stay healthy.”
“I say. But I—”
“This isn’t England. If you were in camp with a bunch of trappers and you took it into your head to compliment another man’s wife, he’d be well within his rights to separate your head from your shoulders.” Nate released his hold. “But I’m your friend so I won’t get my dander up.”
“Over such a trifle?”
“You should know by now that Americans are a mite touchy about matters that are none of anyone else’s business. We cherish our privacy abo
ve all else, and well beat the tar out of anyone who gets too nosy for their own good.”
“That’s part of your independent natures.”
“That too. We’ve got an independent streak in us a mile wide and a yard thick, as your King George found out the hard way when he tried to grind us under his heel.”
“I will say this,” Eric remarked. “You Americans are a most peculiar breed. You make your way as you see fit and don’t give a tinker’s damn what anyone else thinks of you.” Pausing, he suddenly stared at Nate, then asked softly, “Did you mean what you just said?”
“About Americans?”
“About my being your friend?”
“I sure did. You’ve earned the right to hang your hat in my cabin any time you’re passing by.”
“Why, thank you, Nate,” Eric said, sincerely touched, his throat involuntarily tightening. He turned away so the trapper wouldn’t see the effect on him. How could he explain why the commendation of this forthright backwoodsman meant more to him at that moment in time than all the flattery he had ever received about his art from all the nobility in England and in Europe? King, McNair, and their ilk were men stripped of all pretense, of all those artificial qualities bred into those trapped in the gilded cage of culture. If he had earned King’s friendship, then he was indeed a dramatically changed man from the fop who had set sail from England months ago.
A camp was being set up when they arrived. Jarvis and Fletcher were watering the horses. Winona and Zach were gathering wood. The Templars were standing by the river, admiring the setting sun. And Shakespeare was prowling around like a nervous panther until he caught sight of them.
“Anything?” he inquired of Nate as they were climbing down.
“They’re long gone.”
“I still don’t like the smell of this. Well keep two men on guard again all night long. You and Eric can take the first watch, Jarvis and me the second, and Fletcher and the marquis the third.”
“Zach has been wanting to help out more.”
“Tell him it’s his job to protect the women if we’re attacked again. With Winona in the family way, we have to take extra good care of her.”
Season of the Warrior (A Wilderness Giant Edition Western Book 2) Page 14
