“I just heard, Pa! Can I go along? Please?”
“Not this time,” Nate said.
“Why not? You’ve let me hunt deer and elk. I can drop a buffalo. I know I can. So please let me go?”
“Hunting buffalo is different, son. You know that. It’s very dangerous. You never know when one might turn on you and try to gore your horse, or when the whole herd might change direction and come straight at you. Shoshone boys don’t go on their first buffalo hunt until they’re twelve or fourteen. That’s when I’ll take you.”
Zach had an answer ready. “But I’m only half Shoshone,” he reminded his father.
“And that’s the half that will have to stay here. Since the rest of you can’t go without it, you’ll remain in the village as I’ve told you to do.”
“Awwwwww,” the boy grumbled. “It’s plain no fair.”
Chuckling at how well he had handled the request, Nate waved to them both and rode to intercept Shakespeare, who was trotting in his direction. Suddenly he saw Eric Nash walking his way and reined up. The Englishman was misery incarnate, walking with his head held low and his shoulders slumped. Shakespeare had told Nate about the incident during the early morning hours, so Nate had an idea why Nash was so upset. “Eric!” he called out. “Care to go buffalo hunting with us?”
Nash glanced up in surprise and gazed at the bustling Indians as if noticing them for the first time. “What’s that? What did you say?”
“You want to paint every aspect of Mandan life, don’t you? Here’s your chance to see a buffalo hunt. Not many whites get the privilege.”
“I don’t know the first thing about it. Is there any risk?”
“A lot. You might be killed if you’re not careful.”
“Really?” Eric responded, and a peculiar light came into his eyes. He hefted his rifle, glanced at Mato-tope’s lodge, and nodded. “Bloody right! I’ll ask Four Bears for a horse and be right with you. Wait for me, Nate.”
“I’ll be here,” Nate said, hoping he hadn’t made an error in judgment. But if there was any way to bring Nash out of the doldrums, this would do the job.
Shakespeare rode up and nodded at the retreating figure of the artist. “Don’t tell me you just invited that greenhorn to come along? What are you trying to do? Get him killed?”
“He’s gotten the wrong notion about Indians into his head. This might set him straight.”
“Your mind is the clearer, Ajax, and your virtues the fairer. He that is proud eats up himself. Pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle. And whatever praises itself but in the deed, devours the deed in the praise.”
“One of these days you’re going to quote Shakespeare and I’ll be shocked to death.”
“Why so?”
“Because I’ll understand what the hell you’re saying.”
Shakespeare exploded with mirth, which ended when he saw the sour expression on Zach. “Let me take a stab at guessing what ails your pride and joy. He wanted to go?”
Nate nodded.
“He’s at a rough age,” Shakespeare mentioned, then quoted again. “Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy. As a squash is before ’tis a peascod, or a codling when ’tis almost an apple, ’tis with him in standing water, between boy and man.”
“Do you have any quotes I can share with Nash?”
“Just my favorite.”
“Which is?”
“To be, or not to be, that is the question,” Shakespeare said. “I think Eric is wrestling with that particular dilemma himself, but in a different vein.” He paused, grinning. “To love, or not to love, that is the question.”
A score of warriors were bearing down on them, so they promptly moved out of the way. More soon followed, in groups or singly, all anxious to get after the buffalo before the herd moved. They were collecting just beyond the palisade, there to await the leader of their people, who presently rode past Nate and McNair, a full quiver across his back, a bow in his left hand.
“If that greenhorn doesn’t hurry, we’ll miss out,” Shakespeare complained.
At last Nash appeared, walking from the lodge leading a brown mare. He tried to climb up but the mare pranced backwards and jerked on the rope reins, trying to pull free. Again he made the attempt with the same results.
“Do you reckon one of us should tell that green-horn he’s going about it all wrong?” Shakespeare asked.
“I will,” Nate said, and rode over, doing his best to suppress a grin at the antics the Englishman was going through. Nash, apparently, didn’t realize that Indians mounted on the right side of a horse, not the left as whites did. The mare had been trained in the Indian manner, and was not about to let anyone climb on her improperly. Stopping, Nate pointed this out to Nash.
“Smashing. So I’ve made an idiot of myself yet again,” Nash replied. “Figures.” Moving around the mare, he was finally able to fork her, although she did cock her head to give him a dubious look as he mounted.
Finally the three of them were off, but once outside the village they found they had been left behind. The Mandans were a quarter of a mile off, heading to the northeast.
“The blighters didn’t wait,” Eric commented.
“I wonder why,” Shakespeare said dryly.
“Their people are depending on them for fresh meat, which is why they’re in such an all-fired hurry,” Nate informed the Englishman. “If you want to see how they do it, we’d best not sit here jawing.” His heels touched the gelding’s flanks and they were off, galloping side by side across the plain, the long grass parting under the flying hoofs of their animals, the wind whipping their hair.
Ordinarily Indians spied on a herd prior to getting down to the grisly business of killing as many as they could before the herd could flee, so Nate was confident they’d catch up before the hunt started. His gelding was the fleetest, so he had to hold it back to keep from outdistancing his friends, especially Nash on the old mare.
Nate glanced at the animal, then at the Englishman. “By the way, who gave you this horse?”
“The chief’s wife. He was busy talking with some warriors so I didn’t want to bother him. I ran inside and kept pointing at the horses until she got my meaning.” Eric cocked his head. “Why?”
“No reason,” Nate said. Truth was, if Four Bears had given the animal to Nash it would have meant the chief either didn’t like the Englishman or didn’t trust him. Mandan warriors owned stallions and geldings; only the women owned mares because the warriors rated them as inferior in battle and when hunting. No self-respecting Mandan brave would be caught dead on one.
The hunting party was making for a rise. They spread out as they neared the prominence, each man unlimbering his weapon. Rifles and bows were unslung, arrows notched to shafts, lances held low so the sunlight wouldn’t reflect off the points and perhaps alert the herd. At the base of the rise they halted and jumped down. A number of boys who had been brought along for the purpose now held the horses while the men started up the incline.
Nate and his companions reached the bottom just as the Mandans reached the top and flattened. He dropped down, raced up the slope, and eased down beside Four Bears.
Thousands upon thousands of buffaloes covered the prairie below. To the north, the south, and the east all that could be seen was a sluggishly moving ocean of bulky brownish-black shapes. Most were grazing, others chewing their cuds, still others rolling in wallows. The air resounded to their grunts, bellows, snorts, and bawls.
Four Bears glanced at Nate and signed, “My people will eat well for many sleeps.”
“My heart is glad for the Mandans,” Nate responded, adding, “Your family will eat better than most. Every buffalo I shoot today is yours.”
The unexpected offer touched the venerable chief, who placed his hand to Nate’s chest, then signed, “If you were not an adopted Shoshone, I would adopt you into our tribe.”
One of the warriors whispered urgently.
Nate looked down
the rise and saw a lone bull meandering toward them as it nipped at the grass with its big teeth. Should it spy them or catch their scent, it would sound the alarm and flee, which in turn might precipitate a mass stampede. Since the Mandans would have to run to their horses before giving chase, they would not be able to slay as many of the brutes.
None of the warriors moved. They hardly appeared to breathe as the solitary bull came closer and closer. The animal shifted and began to turn, and there was an outpouring of collective relief on every face there. Then they all froze in consternation.
Eric Nash had sneezed.
Nate stiffened, his eyes on the bull. It had lifted its ponderous head and was gazing at the rim, trying to isolate the source of the strange sound it had heard. Would it keep on feeding or flee? Nate wondered. If Nash had inadvertently caused a stampede, the Mandans would be rightfully furious. He glanced at the Englishman, who was two yards below him and to his right. To his horror, he saw that Nash was unaware of what he had done. Worse, Nash’s face was scrunched up and he was drawing his head back to sneeze again.
Instantly Nate launched himself into the air, letting go of the Hawken so he could wrap one arm around the Englishman’s middle and clamp his other hand over Nash’s nose and mouth. They both went down, rolling over and over in the soft grass, making little noise. Nate pressed his mouth to Eric’s ear as they stopped and hissed, “Not another sound! Don’t move!”
Eric froze, his eyes wide.
Twisting, Nate looked up the slope. He could tell the bull was still where it had been because the Mandans were as rigid as logs. Releasing Nash, he crawled back to his rifle, then inched high enough to peer over the top.
The bull was turning and heading back into the herd.
Soundlessly the Mandans slid backwards until they were low enough not to be spotted, at which point they leaped to their feet and dashed to their waiting mounts. Some gave the stupefied Englishman sour looks that implied they would rather shoot him than buffalo.
Nate ran to Nash and helped him stand. “Sorry, friend,” he said, “but you about scared off the herd and I couldn’t let that happen.”
“It’s this grass,” Eric said lamely. “It makes my nose tingle sometimes.”
“Make haste,” Nate directed, tugging Nash along as he hustled to catch up with the Mandans. Already the warriors had split and separated, about half going north behind Stalking Wolf, the rest moving south, Four Bears leading them.
Shakespeare McNair was on his horse, a look of amusement on his face.
“You found all that funny?” Nate snapped.
“Blame Stalking Wolf. He asked me if white men can breathe with their noses chopped off and their mouths sewn shut.”
In the act of taking hold of the mare’s reins, Eric paused. “Was he referring to me?”
“Naw,” Shakespeare answered. “He just likes to chaw about mutilating folks. Must be a mean streak in his family.”
“Ignore him,” Nate advised Nash as he mounted and turned the gelding to follow Four Bears. “And don’t dally or we’ll leave you here with the boys.”
The Mandans were nearly to their respective ends of the rise. They slowed, each man hunched low over the neck of his horse. When Mato-tope halted they all did, and the chief rose so he could look over the shoulders of the men with him and see the warriors who were with Stalking Wolf. Stalking Wolf gestured. Four Bears gestured back. Then, at a screech from their leader, the entire band vented shrill whoops and swept into the open.
Nate was close on their heels and saw all that transpired. It had always amazed him how swiftly buffalo could reach top speed from a dead standstill, and these were no exception. Barely had Four Bear’s voiced his cry than the whole mass was off and running to the southeast, bulls, cows, and calves churning the turf with their pounding hoofs.
The Mandans converged on their quarry, the warriors fanning right and left to give their mounts room to maneuver. Like birds of prey streaking down on game from above, the Mandans streaked toward the animals that made their existence possible. Since every shot counted, whether a shaft or a lead ball, they held their fire until they were right on the buffalo, riding abreast of the thundering beasts, in some cases inches from the shaggy, heaving sides.
Nate admired their bravery, but did not needlessly expose himself. He’d learned from hard experience not to get too close to stampeding buffalo, and armed as he was with the reliable Hawken, he didn’t have to. From a range of twenty yards he sighted on a cow, struggled to hold the wavering barrel steady, and fired. At the blast the cow crashed to the ground. Those buffaloes behind her immediately skirted her on either side.
The purpose was to drop as many as humanly possible, so Nate didn’t stop to claim his prize. But he did stop to reload, working feverishly while watching everything that was going on around him. Many an unwary trapper and warrior had been attacked by enraged bulls or cows while preoccupied with something else when they should have been on their guard.
Like a horde of bloodthirsty banshees, the Mandans were wreaking havoc among the herd. Flights of glittering arrows whizzed through the air, rifles cracked, spitting clouds of smoke, and lances were hurled with unerring skill. Buffaloes dropped at a staggering rate.
One stocky brave guided his galloping steed by knee pressure alone right up to a big bull. His sinew bowstring had been pulled back almost to his ear, and now, taking aim, he let the shaft fly. The arrow penetrated the hull’s flesh on the right side, ripped clear through its huge body, and sailed out the other side to stick in another buffalo.
Another brave drew next to a cow, his lance held aloft. He paced her, waiting for the right moment. Then, muscles rippling, he hurled his weapon downward, burying the lance deep in the cow’s body, and she smashed to the earth.
But the Mandans were not having it all their own way. Here and there more belligerent buffaloes were going after their human tormentors, lowering their huge heads to slash and tear with their wicked curved horns. A young brave on a gray stallion was one of the unfortunates; a bull rammed into his mount, upending it, and as the frightened horse whinnied and struggled to regain its footing, the bull charged again, rending its stomach open with a single swipe. In acute agony, the horse thrashed and kicked while the warrior, who had been momentarily pinned, managed to get to his feet. The bull saw him, and had started to come around the horse after him when one of his fellows, observing his plight, put two arrows into the enraged bull one after the other.
By then Nate had his Hawken reloaded and rejoined the chase. The buffalo were strung out for miles and the end of the herd had not yet passed him by. Matching the speed of a bull, he tucked the stock to his shoulder and prepared to fire. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he spied Eric Nash, who had gotten ahead of him while he reloaded. The Englishman was in desperate straits.
Since warriors relied extensively on the reflexes and judgment of their mounts during a buffalo hunt, only horses specifically suited to the intensity of the chase were used. Temperamental horses, such as those prone to frightening easily, or those that were not lightning quick, were never ridden at such a critical time. The mare Nash had been given, unaccustomed as it was to hunting buffalo, had become panic-stricken and was racing about in unbridled terror.
Eric Nash was doing his utmost to bring the mare under control, but no matter how he lashed the reins or slapped his legs, the animal refused to respond. One moment she was galloping away from the roiling herd, the next she was making straight for them.
As Nate swung around he saw the mare had moved dangerously close to the edge of the surging buffalo. Nash appeared to have frozen, gaping in dread at the hairy monsters not two feet from his leg. All the Mandans were too busy to have noticed the Englishman’s plight, and it was doubtful they would have gone to his aid even had they noticed. Shakespeare was nowhere to be seen. So it was entirely up to Nate to save him.
Bringing the gelding to its top speed, Nate raced to reach Nash before disaster struck. In h
is ears roared the drumming of a million hoofs. To his nose came the pungent odor of sweat. Dust hovered everywhere, growing thicker by the minute. He blinked to get some out of his eyes as he angled closer and closer to the Englishman.
Nate was nearly there when a bull next to the mare abruptly swerved straight at her, its right horn spearing at her side. In terror, she slanted away, and the bull pursued her, its black nose nearly touching her back hoofs. In seconds it would overtake her and bring her down.
With a smooth motion, Nate brought the Hawken up. He wasn’t close enough to suit him, but he didn’t dare wait. He saw the bull’s horn nick the mare’s leg and she broke her stride. A fraction of a second later, Nate fired.
The bull stumbled, recovered, and halted, glaring all around as blood oozed from a hole in its thick hide. It spotted Nate, whirled, and thundered toward him.
This was unforeseen. Nate had both pistols at his belt, but they lacked the stopping power of the Hawken and he had no desire to see how effective they would be in a pinch. Yet he had no other option. Drawing his right flintlock, he cut to the right, forcing the bull to move further from the herd if it wanted him, which it definitely did as evidenced by the alacrity with which it bore down on the gelding.
Nate twisted, cocked the piece, and waited for the bull to reduce the gap. He wanted to be sure because he might not get a second shot. Aiming the pistol was easier than the heavier Hawken, and he centered on a spot just above the buffalo’s right eye. Twenty-five feet separated them. About twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten. And now only five.
It was then that Nate stroked the trigger and witnessed the bull’s eyeball dissolve in a spray of gore. Quickly he bent to the task of gaining distance, while behind him came a loud thud. A glance showed the bull on its side, feebly striving to stand. He turned the gelding, rode in close, and dispatched the bull with his other flintlock.
Season of the Warrior (A Wilderness Giant Edition Western Book 2) Page 22
