Eric Nash had halted not far off and had his arms folded across his chest, his head bowed.
Nate went to him, and as he drew rein he could see the Englishman was shaking like an aspen leaf in the wind. “That was a close scare,” Nate commented as he set to reloading all his guns.
“I did it again!” Nash cried, looking up. Inner pain contorted his features and drew his lips back from his teeth. “Damn my bones! I did it again!”
“Did what?” Nate asked while checking on all sides. The buffalo were still in full flight and none were showing any interest in them.
“I proved I’m a coward! I might as well lay a rod to my own back, I’m such a glutton for punishment.”
“You’re putting the cart before the horse.”
“What?”
“A man has to learn to walk before he can run. Did you really expect to come out here after buffalo and do everything perfectly the first time? I figured you had more sense than that.”
“You’re missing the point,” Nash said sorrowfully. “I was scared.”
“So? The first time I hunted buffalo was with my Uncle Zeke, and I can tell you that I was so scared I nearly wet my britches.”
“You were?”
Nate nodded. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Eric. You’ve got a damn sight more gumption than a lot of men I’ve known. Most wouldn’t think to try to hunt buffalo the way the Indians do.”
“Oh?” Eric said, and gazed at the fleeing herd. He pondered whether the trapper might have a valid point, whether he was being a bit hard on himself. There was no denying he had made great strides in his self-confidence and ability, but he would be a bloody fool to think he could match the deeds of men like King and the Mandans. Given time, though, he just might. “Thank you, Nate, for setting me straight. You’re as decent a chap as I’ve ever met.”
Nate was shoving the ramrod into his Hawken. He paused, glanced at Nash, and seized the opportunity to say, “The feeling works both ways. Once you settle down with Morning Dew, I suppose I’ll have to pay you a visit every so often to see how big your brood has become.”
A cloud enveloped Eric’s face. “You won’t have to make the effort. There won’t be any brood, as you call it.”
“Here I figured you were sweet on her,” Nate said, and shrugged. “If you changed your mind, I don’t blame you. I nearly changed mine about marrying Winona once.”
“You did?”
“Yep. Her mother and father had died, and it’s Shoshone custom for those who lose loved ones to cut off the tips of their fingers as a sign of their grief.”
“What a revolting practice!”
“That’s the way I felt too. When Winona cut off the ends of two of her fingers, I about went crazy. I figured I’d been a dunderhead to take her as my wife, and I wondered if maybe I shouldn’t find myself another woman.”
“Yet you stuck with her. Why?”
“The answer to that is simple. I love her.” Nate was hurriedly reloading the pistols. “When a man cares for a woman, it doesn’t much matter what her family is like, or the practices of her people, or the way she wears her hair, or anything else. He cares for her because she is who she is. And if she stays true to him, he’ll stick with her through thick and thin.”
“Your homespun philosophy never ceases to astound me,” Eric confided, and would have said more had not Nate suddenly glanced to the southeast, uttered an oath, and broke into a gallop. Eric immediately did likewise, although he had no idea what they were doing until he looked in the same direction and spied a Mandan down on the ground beside a dead horse. His eyes narrowed and he voiced a curse himself.
The warrior on the ground was Four Bears.
Chapter Twenty
The trailing ranks of the vast herd were half a mile to the south. Mato-tope lay on his stomach among dozens of fresh kills made by the warriors of his tribe. His superb stallion had been torn open from front to back and its intestines had spilled onto the grass. Beside them was a mammoth dead bull, five arrows jutting out of his body.
Nate King vaulted from the gelding before the horse came to a complete stop, and reached the grand chief in three bounds. Kneeling, he carefully rolled Four Bears over. The only wound he could find was a large welt on the chief’s forehead.
“Is he alive?” Eric Nash asked as he rode up.
“Yes, and lucky for us that he is.”
“In what way?”
“The Mandans would take his death as bad
medicine, and some might blame it on us.”
“How daft,” Eric said. “I fail to see how we could be blamed.”
“They’d claim our coming brought bad medicine to the tribe. A few would want our scalps.” Nate saw Mato-tope’s bow lying to his right and picked it up. The ash had been splintered, the string broken, proof the chief had gone down fighting. He put the bow aside, then stood. “You stay here and keep watch. I’m going to go to the village and get another horse for him.”
“What am I supposed to do while you’re gone?” Eric asked.
“Shoo off any wolves that might appear,” Nate said, striding to the gelding. “Sooner or later one of the other warriors will see that he’s missing and they’ll start a search.” He swung up. “There was probably so much dust in the air that they didn’t see him go down.”
“Why don’t I go and you stay with him?” Eric suggested, daunted by the prospect of confronting a pack of ravenous wolves. In Europe there had been many recorded instances of wolves attacking humans, and he wasn’t too keen on learning if their American counterparts shared the same savage traits.
“Because the gelding is faster than the mare and you don’t speak enough sign to explain what has happened,” Nate responded. With that, he was off at a gallop.
“Damn,” Eric muttered. Dismounting, he let the reins trail and stepped over to Mato-tope. Eric debated whether to try and rouse the chief and decided not to; someone had once told him that it was better for those unconscious from head wounds to revive in their own good time rather than be jarred to wakefulness.
Eric nervously licked his lips and made a 360-degree sweep of the vast plain. Other than the billowing dust to the south, nothing moved. He saw no sign of wolves and breathed a little easier.
Minutes passed. Flies appeared from nowhere to descend onto the bloody carcasses. From the north came a lone vulture, which in no time was joined by others. Soon ten of the ugly big birds were circling over the kills.
Eric wondered if he should shoo the vultures away too. Or the buzzards, as King and McNair called them. He raised his rifle to fire, but changed his mind. What if he should shoot and wolves appeared before he could reload? He began pacing back and forth beside Four Bears. Twice the chief groaned but didn’t move.
“Hurry up, Nate,” Eric said to himself. The way his luck had been going of late, he was sure wolves would arrive on the scene before the frontiersman returned. He changed his pattern and walked in a circle instead, around and around Four Bears.
More minutes went by. Eric was becoming increasingly impatient. He kept an eye on the buzzards, which seemed reluctant to land with him in the vicinity, and constantly scanned the prairie for slinking gray shapes. So it was that when something moved to the northeast, he spotted it right away.
A bull buffalo was slowly standing up forty yards off. Blood caked its neck and side. The fletching of a single arrow protruded from under its hump. Shaking its head, the beast lumbered a few feet, stopped, and surveyed its surroundings.
Eric swallowed hard and stood still. King had told him to be on guard for wolves. Nothing had been said about wounded buffalo. What should he do? Try to shoot it or stay close to the chief and pray it departed without causing trouble? He saw the buffalo look directly at him, and hoped that Nate was right about the animals having poor eyesight. If he didn’t move, it might not realize he was there.
Unfortunately, the mare picked that very moment to walk by him as it idly grazed on the lush grass.
; To complicate matters, Four Bears uttered the loudest groan yet.
The bull advanced. Noisily sniffing the air, it walked to within twenty yards of the Englishman and the Mandan, then stopped.
“Please go away, you bloody brute,” Eric breathed, anxiously fingering his rifle. He thought about jumping onto the mare and riding off, but he didn’t care to leave Four Bears unprotected. The idea occurred to him to conceal himself behind the buffalo Four Bears had slain. Once the wounded bull could no longer see him, it might wander away.
With that purpose in mind, Eric took a step. Suddenly the bull snorted, dug its front hoofs into the ground, lowered its head, and charged. Eric’s insides were transformed into mush. For several seconds he simply stood rooted to the spot, his brain and body numb.
Only when Eric’s eyes focused on the bull’s powerful black horns and he realized what they would do to him did the spark of life animate him to jerk up the rifle, cock the hammer, and take aim. The basic human instinct of self-preservation was taking over for the virtually paralyzed rational human mind. He held his breath as Nate had taught him and slowly pulled the trigger.
The bull was eight yards off when hit. Its front leg buckled and down it went, but not on its side. Head sagging, it slid forward across the trampled grass as if on a sheet of ice.
Eric saw the enormous dark figure growing bigger and bigger as its momentum carried it nearer and nearer, and he was tensing his muscles to leap out of the way when the bull came to a sudden stop several yards from his legs. He moved toward it, his hand falling to his pistol, then stopped when his body took to trembling. Gritting his teeth, he got a grip on himself. Warily, he approached the bull and listened for the sound of its heavy breathing. There was none.
The emotional reaction brought Eric to his knees in profound gratitude. He closed his eyes and whispered over and over again, “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
Suddenly a firm hand fell on his left shoulder.
Eric involuntarily jumped, clawing at his flintlock in his agitation, and spun. He didn’t know who had touched him; for all he knew it might be a Sioux. When he saw Four Bears behind him, smiling broadly, he slumped and released the pistol.
Mato-tope walked to the bull, said something, and gave the hump a whack. Then, laughing heartily, he walked up and clapped Eric on the shoulder.
Eric nodded dumbly. He believed the Mandan was praising him for slaying the beast, and he gathered that Four Bears thought he had committed a courageous deed. “If you only knew,” he said softly.
The sound of hoofs rose to the south. Speeding across the prairie were a score of dust-covered warriors, who shortly ringed around Eric and Four Bears, all speaking at once. Four Bears held up a hand, which silenced the braves, and proceeded to go on at some length while gesturing at the buffalo he had slain, his dead horse, the bull Eric had shot, and Eric.
Rising, the Englishman was aware of being the object of intent scrutiny. A few of the Mandans even smiled at him, showing that their annoyance over the sneezing episode had evaporated. He returned their friendly looks, then waited to see what would happen next.
A lone rider materialized to the southeast. Soon Eric recognized Shakespeare McNair. Since he expected the mountain man to inquire about what had just transpired, he sorted his thoughts to present his actions in the best possible light. The first words out of McNair’s mouth, however, had nothing to do with his accomplishment.
“Where the dickens is Nate? Have you seen him? Is he hurt?”
Eric was in the process of explaining about Mato-tope’s horse when the chief walked over and addressed Shakespeare in sign language. The two discoursed at some length, and when they were done McNair grinned at Eric.
“Well, now. I’ll be dogged. This coon is plumb pleased to learn you have the makings of a regular mountain man.”
“I’m in their good graces, I take it?” Eric suavely responded.
“The chief here says you risked your hide to save his,” Shakespeare related. “When they have their big celebration a day or two from now, you’ll be his guest of honor.”
“What sort of celebration?”
“To give thanks for their successful hunt,” Shakespeare said. “Pretty soon the women and children will show up, and they’ll get busy butchering all these buffalo. Should take ’em until late tomorrow or early the day after to cut up this many. Once all the hides have been rolled up and the meat all packed for the trip, they’ll head for the village, and that night they’ll have a feast fit for some of your European royalty.”
“What do I do as the guest of honor?”
Shakespeare chuckled. “Nothing much except stand around and try to look noble.” He stared at the bull Eric had shot. “If there’s anything you’d like to ask the chief, that would be the time. I’ll even translate for you if you want.”
“I should think of questions to pose?”
“No. I meant anything you’d like to ask for, anything you want, any favor he can do you. If you want one of his horses, say so then and there and he’ll be happy to oblige.” The mountain man paused, then remarked, as if off-handedly, “Or could be there’s something else you want. Whatever, he won’t refuse.”
“Anything at all?”
“Yep. Other than one of his wives. He might not like that too much.”
Eric turned away, reflecting. What did he want more than anything else in the world? But was
he balmy? How could he ask for her when he hardly knew her? And what sort of man took advantage of a fluke of fate to further his own ends? He scratched his chin while wrestling with his conscience.
Soon Nate King arrived leading another of Mato-tope’s war horses. Upon learning of Eric’s act, he walked over and congratulated the Englishman.
“To tell you the truth,” Eric replied confidentially, “I don’t know quite how I did it. And if I had it to do again, I’d probably botch the job.”
“Don’t tell Mato-tope.” Nate said with a grin. “He thinks you’re the bravest white man who ever lived. Nothing is too good for you.”
“So McNair was saying.”
While some of the warriors rode off to escort the women and children, others roamed about the prairie insuring all of the buffaloes were indeed dead.
Nate went to Shakespeare and they spent the time in idle conversation, which eventually turned to Eric Nash when the older man declared, “I’ll wager ten plews our young gallant doesn’t ask Mato-tope for the hand of Morning Dew.”
“I’ll take you up on that bet. He might surprise you. Look at what he did today.”
“Tangling with a mad buffler is easy compared to finding the courage to ask a woman to be your wife.”
“Hush up. Here he comes,” Nate said, watching the Englishman hasten toward them wearing a disturbed expression. “Is anything wrong?” he asked.
“Do you see them?” Eric asked, aghast.
“See who?”
“Those two Mandans,” Eric said, motioning at a pair of warriors who were bent over a dead cow sixty feet to the north.
“What about them?” Nate asked in feigned innocence.
“Look at what they’re doing!”
The two in question had their butchers knives out and had sliced into the cow. One had his arms inside the animal, clean up to the elbows, and was feeling around. He now gave a glad cry and stepped back holding his bloody knife in one hand and one of the cow’s dripping livers in the other. Then he raised the liver to his mouth and took a greedy bite.
“I think I’m going to be ill,” Nash said, clutching his stomach. “Don’t they know enough to cook their food first?”
“Cooking meat isn’t important for Indians,” Shakespeare revealed. “Lots of times they eat the livers and kidney raw. Sometimes they go for the intestines. And they like to crack bones so they can dig out the marrow, of course.”
“But to eat it raw?”
“Don’t make no never-mind to them. Me neither. Tastes just as good raw as it does cooked. Some mi
ght say it tastes better.” Shakespeare grinned when Eric quivered, and went on gleefully. “Now the tongue and the hump are never eaten raw. They’re special, the parts of the buffalo the Indians like the most. All Indians. They roast them real slow over a fire and savor every chunk.”
“I’m surprised they don’t eat the brains also,” Eric said sarcastically.
“Some tribes do. Others use the brains for curing hides, just like we did with those coyote skins. When the women show up, you’ll see them crack the skulls of every buffalo that was killed.”
Eric was watching the two Indians polish off the liver. “I just don’t know,” he commented softly. “I just don’t know at all.”
“About what?” Shakespeare asked.
“Nothing.”
Nate had to pretend to be interested in the northern horizon so the Englishman wouldn’t see the mirth that threatened to erupt into an outburst of laughter. There were times, he mused, when his mentor could be as devilish as sin. Most of the old-timers took particular delight in poking good-natured fun at greenhorns, and Shakespeare took more delight than most.
“I say! Now what are those two doing?” Nash inquired.
One of the liver-eaters had dug around inside the buffalo and removed its heart. His hands and arms covered thick with blood and gore, the warrior knelt and reverently placed the heart on the ground.
“You might say they’re planting a spirit seed,” Shakespeare answered.
“They’re going to bury the bleeding heart?”
McNair shook his head. “They’ll leave it right where it is. After all the butchering is done and the Mandans are on their way home, this whole prairie will be dotted with buffalo hearts.”
“In God’s name, why?”
“So there will be more buffalo next year. They believe that for every heart they leave, a new buffalo will be born in the spring. It’s their way of replacing the buffalo that were killed today,”
Shakespeare elaborated. “We’d call it superstition. Or magic. The Indians call it good medicine.”
Season of the Warrior (A Wilderness Giant Edition Western Book 2) Page 23
