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

by Robbins, David

  Before dawn painted the heavens they were all up and on their way, the giant and the artist again bearing the litter. The previous evening Winona had dug up a root and concocted a tea that was forced into William although he balked at its bitter taste. His fever abated but did not break entirely. Diana hovered near the litter, attentive to her sibling’s every sound.

  Their steps were not as brisk this day, yet they made good time. The last of their biscuits were consumed as they hiked. Periodically game appeared on the prairie to their right, either deer or antelope or wolves, but always at a respectful distance, and there were never any buffalo.

  Halfway through the morning, as Nate looked up after having his attention diverted by a squirrel that had scurried across his path, he spied a pair of big coyotes seventy yards off. They were just sitting there, watching him. Instantly he halted and held up his arm so the others would do the same. Twisting, he used sign language to inform

  Shakespeare what he saw, and in seconds the white-haired mountain man was at his side.

  “They’re not wolves, but they’ll do.”

  “Which one do you want?”

  “The one on the left. But we should get closer.

  Nate and Shakespeare advanced slowly so as not to scare the coyotes off before they were so close they couldn’t miss, both holding their rifles tucked to their shoulders and cocked. Nate hoped he hadn’t accidentally underestimated the amount of black powder the last time he’d loaded his rifle, as insufficient powder resulted in a rainbow sort of trajectory at distances over fifty yards and made accurate aiming virtually impossible.

  The coyotes were not about to let two humans get much nearer. When the men were still forty yards off, they rose and padded southward, walking slowing, the male in front of the female, their gaze riveted to the humans.

  “We ain’t got no choice,” Shakespeare declared, taking deliberate aim.

  Nate imitated his friend, sighting on the larger animal, at an invisible spot just behind its front shoulder. Tensing his left arm, he held the barrel steady, said, “Now!” and stroked the trigger.

  Twin retorts cracked across the plain. The male coyote leaped straight up in the air, lips curled back over his pointed teeth, and yowled, falling silent by the time he fell to the ground. In contrast, the female keeled over right where she was, twitched a few times, and was still.

  Nate sprinted toward them, drawing a flintlock. Another shot, however, was not needed; both coyotes were as dead as dead could be. He hefted one to his shoulder, McNair took the other, and they returned to their party.

  “Are those what we are supposed to eat this evening?” Diana asked, her nose puckered. “I’d much rather have venison.”

  “These aren’t for eating,” Nate said, throwing his burden down and drawing his butcher knife. He looked at his wife and son. “Lend us a hand, would you?”

  Between the four of them they soon had both coyotes completely skinned. Since they could not afford the time necessary to properly cure the hides, they simply cracked both skulls, removed the brains, and then rubbed the brains over the inner surface of each hide so the pelts would retain some of their natural suppleness once they dried.

  Diana Templar had to turn away halfway through the skinning and gasp for air to keep from being ill.

  The first one done, Nate held his trophy aloft and chuckled. “Now all we need are some buffalo.”

  Little did he know he would get his wish much sooner than he anticipated.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was almost two o’clock by the position of the sun when Nate, who was a dozen yards in the lead, looked northward across the sluggishly flowing Missouri as the faintest of rumbling sounds carried to his keen ears. Puzzled, he scrutinized the other shore, which at that point was much closer than it had been previously because the river had temporarily narrowed. He saw birds start up in fright from the trees and take wing.

  Mystified, Nate took several steps toward the water. The rumbling was growing louder, almost but not quite like the noise of far distant thunder. He felt he should know what caused it, but the answer eluded him until from the back of the line came a fiery yell.

  “Get moving or we’re all done for! Run like your lives depend on it!”

  At the same moment Nate noticed the state of the earth underfoot and saw the countless hoofprints, some old, some made recently. “Buffalo!” he exclaimed, stunned. “This is a buffalo crossing!”

  Quickly Nate ran to the litter and took over from Eric Nash. Jarvis broke into a shuffling run. Nate kept pace, Winona and Zach staying by his side.

  Shakespeare assumed the lead. Diana and Eric shadowed him. Everyone had their eyes on the north side of the Missouri, and it wasn’t long before a great roiling line of enormous dark shapes materialized, giving the impression the horizon itself was in motion, rolling toward them like a living wave.

  Actually, there was a living wave, but it was composed of muscle and bone and thick, hairy hides. Thousands upon thousands of buffalo were on the move, a massive herd of the largest animals in North America, the bulls standing six feet at the shoulders and weighing close to two thousand pounds, the cows only slightly smaller with a shoulder height of five feet and a total weight of one thousand pounds. Their powerful legs flying, they surged toward the river, toward the crossing they had used for generations.

  On the other side of the Missouri, Nate’s heart raced faster than his feet. He tried to judge how far the line of buffalo extended and whether he and the others could get beyond that spot before the herd reached them, but the distance prevented him from making a fair assessment.

  William Templar, jostled by the swaying and bouncing of the litter, was muttering, tossing, and turning. Once he unaccountably laughed.

  The rumbling became a mighty thundering as thousands of hoofs drummed the earth. Never slowing, neither looking to right nor left, the leading row of behemoths drew ever nearer the opposite shore.

  By the herd’s speed, Nate suspected they had been stampeded, although by what he had no idea. Truth was, he didn’t much care. All that mattered was getting to safety before the buffalo swept down upon them. There would be no stopping the single-minded brutes. Shouting would not do it, guns could not do it. Their sole hope was to get past the crossing.

  Every minute was an eternity. Nate ran and ran and didn’t seemed to be making any headway. The end of the line of buffalo still hadn’t appeared. He realized they might not make it, and gulped.

  Much too soon, the leading rows of buffalo came to the brink of the north shore and plunged into the water. A writhing, grunting, bellowing mass, they swam for the south side, buoyant monsters, their heads, humps, and tails remaining above the surface.

  “We’ll never make it!” Shakespeare yelled, confirming Nate’s conviction.

  Then, as Nate’s lungs labored and he breathed in ragged spurts, he spied their possible salvation ahead, a small area where high winds or some other upheaval had felled dozens of closely packed trees, resulting in a terrific logjam right at the water’s edge. The thickly intermingled fallen trees formed an imposing barrier thirty feet wide and ten feet high. “There!” he cried. “Take cover there!”

  Shakespeare had been marking the advance of the approaching herd. He faced front, took in the situation at a glance, and hustled Diana and Eric behind the logjam.

  Nate and the others joined them moments later, moving to the very middle of the logs where the shelter was best. There, the marquis was deposited next to the lowest log.

  “You can’t intend to stay here!” Diana protested. “Well be smashed to pieces!”

  “‘Get down!” Shakespeare said, shoving her low and crouching beside her.

  They huddled together, Winona sheltering Zach with her own body and Nate sheltering her. Jarvis had adopted a protective stance over the marquis. Eric glanced at Lady Templar but made no move toward her.

  Through cracks between the logs they could see the front ranks of buffalo bearing down on the
m. Dark eyes wide, heads upthrust, the powerful beasts churned the water into white foam. The din they created was tremendous.

  “Brace yourselves!” Shakespeare warned. “And whatever you do, stay close to these logs!”

  No one needed the advice; they were not about to move an inch. Hugging the logjam, they waited in tense expectation, listening to the splashing and snorting of the adults and the bawling of the young calves. It sounded as if the river itself was rising up against them, and just when they thought the clamor could get no louder, it did.

  The herd reached the south shore. Without slowing the buffalo rose from the water and hurtled toward the prairie, shoulder to hairy shoulder, their iron hoofs pummeling the ground in a continuous booming roar. The air itself vibrated as if pulsing with life, while the ground shook as if in the grip of an earthquake.

  Nate pressed tight to Winona’s back, his arms around both her and Zach. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Diana Templar’s mouth wide in a scream of sheer terror, but he couldn’t hear her for the riotous, near-deafening crescendo of incredible sound created by the tumultuous buffaloes as they swept past on either side of the logjam. He felt himself shaking. He felt Winona and Zach shaking. He glimpsed the logs trembling in a fit of ague. A pungent odor tingled his nostrils.

  Thick clouds of dust swirled into the air, forming a choking cloak that obscured everything. Nate coughed violently, then held his face close to Winona’s hair so he wouldn’t inhale as many of the fine particles. The logs in front of them swayed and jerked forward, threatening to crush them. He imagined what would happen if the buffalo smashed into the barrier instead of going around, and steeled himself to do what he could to spare his loved ones from harm.

  To the right there was an immense crash attended by a barely audible wavering shriek.

  Nate dared not investigate. He clasped his family close and prayed as he had never prayed before for deliverance from their ordeal. Something struck the back of his left leg, and for a few harrowing seconds he thought that the buffalo were on them. But he wasn’t struck again. Rigid as a rail, he waited and waited for the herd to pass.

  There were repeated loud smashing noises. There were crunching noises. Snapping noises.

  It sounded like the whole world was being pulverized to bits and pieces, being demolished by an irresistible force as elemental as a tornado or an earthquake. For minutes that seemed like hours the bedlam went on and on and on.

  Then, of a sudden, the uproar diminished, the smashing and crunching and snapping stopped, and the sound of the hammering hoofs began to fade to the south.

  “The bull boats!” Shakespeare shouted through the hovering cloud of dust. “Now, Hamlet, now!”

  Nate knew this might be their only opportunity. If they let it pass, the Blackfeet might be on them before they came on more buffalo. He gripped his Hawken firmly, said into Winona’s ear “Stay here!” whirled and raced after the herd. It was impossible to see for more than a half dozen yards, but the further he ran, the more the dust thinned, so by the time he reached the edge of the flattened grass he could see for fifty yards or so.

  Forty yards away was the trailing edge of the herd consisting mainly of cows and calves and old bulls whose age was taking its inexorable toll on their speed and stamina.

  To the left a rifle boomed, and out on the plain a shaggy bull pitched headfirst to the ground and rolled over twice before coming to rest.

  Nate whipped the Hawken to his shoulder, cocked the hammer, and took careful aim on another fleeing bull. He would much rather have shot it from the side so he could better judge where its vital organs were located, but he had no choice. Mentally compensating for the angle, he took a deep breath, held it, and squeezed off the shot.

  In a whirl of limbs and tail the bull tumbled, sliding a dozen feet until it came to a lurching stop. It tried to rise, got its head off the ground, then sank down and went limp.

  Lowering the Hawken, Nate promptly began reloading. As he uncapped his powder horn he glanced around and saw Shakespeare already taking a bead. Momentarily his mentor’s rifle spat lead and smoke, and a third buffalo went down. “I thought we only needed two hides,” he called.

  “I got to thinking,” Shakespeare responded. “The marquis will need to lay down, and that Jarvis will about take up a whole boat all by his lonesome.”

  “Too bad about those coyotes,” Nate mentioned.

  At that instant, from the logjam, came Winona’s upraised, tense voice. “Nate! Quickly! We need you!”

  In a flash Nate spun and was off, not even bothering to finish reloading in his haste to reach his wife. He imagined the worst—a straggling bull had spied them crouched behind the felled trees and was about to attack. Seconds later, he saw the reason for her cry.

  One of the big logs near the top of the tangle had been dislodged. It would have fallen directly onto William Templar had not Jarvis apparently seen it dropping and shielded the unconscious marquis with his own body. The log had caught Jarvis in the chest, knocking him over, and now the giant was flat on his back with the log on his chest and his legs on top of the marquis.

  Winona, Zach, Eric, and Diana were vainly striving to move the heavy weight off Jarvis, who lay stunned, unable to assist.

  Shakespeare was only steps behind Nate. Setting their rifles aside, they each took an end of the log, letting the others apply themselves to the middle.

  “When I give the word,” Nate said, bending over and hooking his hands under the rough bark. He bunched his shoulder muscles, steeled his legs, and swept the others with a glance to see if they were ready. “All right. Lift.”

  The strain was such that Nate’s face turned a beet red and his veins bulged in his neck. Slowly, though, the log rose. Once they had it off the giant they had to beware lest the log slip and crash down onto the giant’s unprotected face. Shifting slowly, some of them grunting from the exertion, they levered the log clear of Jarvis, and at a nod from Nate released their collective hold.

  A loud thud heralded their success.

  Winona was immediately at the giant’s side, examining him to gauge the severity of the blow he had received. Her deft fingers probed his chest and his arms, and at length she looked up at Nate. “None of his bones are broken but he will be very sore for many sleeps.”

  “If it had been anyone else,” Eric commented, “they’d be dead. Their ribs would have been caved in.”

  “I’ll get some water and revive him,” Diana offered.

  “Go with her, Zach,” Nate directed.

  “The river is only twenty feet from where we stand,” Diana said in the act of turning. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Go with her anyway, Zach,” Nate repeated. “And keep alert for Blackfeet.”

  “Like a hawk, Pa,” the boy pledged. Dutifully, he trailed after Lady Templar, his long rifle clasped at his waist, his eyes darting every which way.

  Winona had risen and stepped over to Nate. “How many buffalo did you shoot?”

  “Three. Well be real busy the next few hours.”

  She glanced down at the rolled hides lying near the litter and echoed his own sentiments by remarking, “It is unfortunate we did not run into the buffalo before we shot them.”

  “They won’t go to waste,” Nate said. “Zach’s never hunted buffalo that way. I’ll take him out the first chance I get.”

  Eric Nash had overheard. The Englishman stared at the coyote pelts, then at the frontiersman and his wife. “I don’t understand. What did you plan to do with those skins?”

  “Buffalo can be right temperamental,” Nate said. “Sometimes they’ll let you get close to them; other times they’ll run off as soon as they see you or get a whiff of your scent. But they never pay any mind to coyotes, so Shakespeare and I were going to throw on a hide and crawl right up to the first buffaloes we saw.”

  “How ingenious.”

  “It’s an old Indian trick,” Shakespeare threw in. “Sometimes they use coyotes pelts, sometimes wolf pelts. Years
back I knew a young warrior who thought he’d try something different and wrapped himself in a panther skin.” He laughed lightly and shook his head.

  “What happened?” Eric prompted.

  “The buffalo turned on him and tried to gore him to death. He was damned lucky he got away with his own hide intact.”

  The next moment their conversation was interrupted by Zach, who raced around the end of the barrier and announced, “Smoke, Pa. To the northwest.”

  Nate lost no time in hurrying to the river. Sure enough, a thin grayish-white spiral indicated there was a campfire about two miles from the Missouri. But who had made it? As he watched, two more columns of smoke appeared. Soon a third was added, all within the same general area. Now he knew what had spooked the buffalo herd.

  “Could they be white men?” Diana asked hopefully.

  “No,” Nate said. “They’re Blackfeet. A whole village of them. The warriors went after the buffalo a while ago, which is why the critters stampeded. Now the women and children are setting up to butcher the carcasses. They’ll be camped there for days.”

  “They’re too bloody close to us for my liking,” Eric said “What if some of them come to the river for water?”

  “They probably will.” Nate faced his son. “Zach, while we’re making the bull boats it’ll be up to you to keep watch. Stay under cover. If you see any Blackfeet, make tracks to tell us.”

  “I won’t let you down,” the boy declared, squaring his slender shoulders.

  In quick order they brought Jarvis around, insured he was unharmed, and carried the litter out onto the prairie where Nate, Shakespeare, and Winona drew their butcher knives to tackle the first dead buffalo. Working as a team, they expertly skinned the great beast from head to tail, leaving the latter on the hide.

  Eric Nash was a fascinated observer of everything they did. He noted every cut, how they slit down the back of the hind legs and then made a straight slash from the tail to the chin down the middle of the belly. He saw how they cut the front legs, and then how the hide was peeled from the body like an orange skin from an orange. Drawing his own knife, he moved forward and said, “Can I help out with the next one?”