“Does he know how to make a bow?”
“No.”
“Can he cure skins?”
“No.”
“What does he do, then, in the white man’s world?”
“He paints pictures.”
Mato-tope stared at a shield lying a few feet off, at the vivid depiction of a buffalo painted on the hide. “A wife needs more than a husband who only knows how to paint pictures. Painting does not put food in a woman’s belly. Painting does not keep her warm on cold days. My heart is heavy when I say that I cannot give my daughter to Lake Eyes until he has learned how to do the things all men must know to be good husbands, good providers.”
“I understand,” Nate signed sadly. He was profoundly sorry he had played matchmaker and tried to convince Nash that marrying an Indian woman wasn’t so terrible a fate, because now he had to deliver a devastating blow.
“Well? Well? Don’t keep me in suspense all night, old chap,” Eric urged. “What was his answer?”
“No.”
Eric glanced at Morning Dew, whose head was bowed and hidden by her hair, then at her father, whose melancholy state was plain for all to see. “But why? What did I do to offend him? I thought he was willing to give me anything. You said as much. So did McNair.”
A bitter taste formed in Nate’s mouth. “We were wrong.”
“Why, damn it? Why?”
“He doesn’t think you know enough about Indian ways,” Nate said, summing up the chief’s objections. “He’s worried you wouldn’t be a good enough provider for his daughter.”
“Be more specific.”
Although loath to do so, Nate complied.
Eric was dumfounded. Here he had finally conquered his doubts and mustered the courage to ask for Morning Dew’s hand, and he’d been refused because he didn’t measure up to Indian standards of manhood? The idea was so ridiculous it was laughable, and he did laugh, coldly. Then he abruptly rose and stalked off.
In England and on the Continent Eric was accepted in the highest of circles and widely known for his artistic talent. Any upper-class woman would be delighted to receive his undivided attention. In the past, more than one had intimated she was intensely interested in him romantically. Yet always had he tactfully declined to become involved due to his love for Diana Templar. He could have had his pick of the richest, most cultured women in the world. Yet a simple heathen rated him as unworthy of marrying his daughter!
In Eric’s simmering fury he was halfway through the village before he quite realized where he was going. Then, turning, he made for the palisade. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts, and once outside he could stroll under the stars and think without having to deal with any distractions.
Immersed in introspection, Eric gave little heed to his surroundings until suddenly a shadow detached itself from an dark patch between two lodges and came toward him. He glanced up, saw a skinny warrior, and kept on walking.
A moment later the back of his skull seemed to cave in.
Back in the plaza, Nate King was debating whether to go after the Englishman. It was partly his fault that Eric had been publicly humiliated, and he wanted to do something to atone. Consequently, he put his hands down to push to his feet, then hesitated on seeing Morning Dew go up to her father and whisper insistently. Her cheeks were glistening with moisture, her eyes were downcast. The chief answered, and with head held low she hastened away.
Nate relaxed, watching her. He didn’t know if she was going after Eric or back to her lodge. If the former, he didn’t want to intrude. So he opted to wait for a while.
The silence was broken by scores of subdued conversations, giving Nate the illusion he was seated in a hive of bees and listening to their constant buzzing. Mato-tope, Nate noticed, did not talk to anyone; he was slumped low, clearly
depressed. “He looks like I feel,” Nate said softly to himself.
“You are not to blame for what happened, husband,” Winona commented.
“In a way I am. I gave Nash a little push in Morning Dew’s direction when I should have kept hands off.”
“Life is full of disappointments. Nash is a grown man. He must learn to live with them as must we all.” Winona gazed in the direction the Englishman had taken. “And if he is half the man he wants to be, he will do whatever is necessary to win Morning Dew. It is not hard to learn how to hunt or how to skin game and treat the hides. He could learn if he wanted to. If he wants her badly enough.”
“That’s not a bad notion, Nate said. “I could teach him. Why, I bet he’d pick up on all he needs to know in no time.”
“If he can show Mato-tope he has learned Indian ways, the chief will agree to the marriage.”
Nate was excited by so simple a solution to their problem and he wanted to share the idea with Eric Nash right away. “Stay here, dearest. I’ll be back shortly,” he said. Scooping up his Hawken, he hurried to the west, threading a serpentine path through the packed Mandans.
Once Nate was among the lodges he went faster. There wasn’t a living soul in sight since the whole tribe was at the feast. He passed Mato-tope’s lodge, and stopped to see if Nash might be inside with Morning Dew, but neither were there.
Turning, Nate began a search, winding among the dwellings, searching in the shadows, expecting to find the pair at any moment. When a couple of minutes had gone by and he still hadn’t found them, he suspected they were off by themselves in some remote corner of the village consoling one another.
After five minutes Nate was near the palisade. Since he didn’t care to spend all night looking, he cupped a hand to his mouth as he rounded a lodge and tilted his head back to call the artist’s name. Then he froze.
Sprawled six feet away in a dark pool of his own blood was Eric Nash.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Nate reached the Englishman in two bounds and knelt. A hasty probe revealed a vicious gash on the side of Nash’s head, possibly made by a war club. The flow of blood had reduced to a trickle and was not in itself life-threatening, but Nash required immediate attention. So, slipping one arm under Nash’s legs and another under his shoulders, Nate grunted, strained, and lifted.
The trek to the plaza seemed to take forever. Nate was breathing heavily when he rounded the last dwelling to be starkly illuminated by the dozens of blazing fires. Instantly Mandans were on their feet, pressing close and asking questions. Nate could only shake his head and try to get through them to where Winona sat.
A shout parted the throng as Moses had parted the Red Sea, and through the crowd came Four Bears, Winona, and Zach. Shakespeare was approaching from another direction.
“I found him like this,” Nate said before anyone could pose the obvious question, and Winona instantly translated for the chief’s benefit. She leaned over Nash, examining the gash, then announced, “I think he will live. But we must get him to the lodge so I can tend him.”
With every last man, woman, and child trailing behind, Nate led the way to the chief’s lodge and deposited the Englishman on a soft blanket. Nash groaned. His eyes flickered open and shut. “Can you hear me, Eric?” Nate asked. “Who did this to you?”
“Indian,” Nash mumbled.
Nate recalled the conflict between Jarvis and the jealous husband earlier, and wondered if a young brave interested in Morning Dew had taken revenge on the presumptuous artist. “Did you get a good look? Describe him.”
“Indian,” Nash repeated weakly. “Thin ... breechclout ... red paint on face ... bald in front ...”
“Bald?” Nate blurted out.
“ ... red hair in back ... like quills,” Nash continued, then collapsed, exhaling loudly.
Like a thunderbolt out of the blue the information jolted Nate to his feet and he swung toward Mato-tope. “Sioux,” he declared in sign language, adding, “Where is Morning Dew?”
Four Bears understood immediately. Rather than succumb to fear or fume and curse, he calmly spun and barked orders, dispatching warriors every which way. Outside, as th
e news spread, others began shouting, “Sioux! Sioux! Sioux!” There was a great pattering of rushing feet.
Nate stood aside so Winona could minister to Nash. He spied Shakespeare at the entrance and joined him. “You can keep your damn plews,” he groused.
“Why? You won the wager.”
“At what cost? I don’t want any part of them.”
The mountain man tendered an affectionate smile. “Ay, sir. To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.”
“If they’ve got her, I’m going along,” Nate declared. “I want to get my hands on the bastards.”
“We won’t be able to leave until daylight,” Shakespeare pointed out. “Can’t read tracks at night, old coon.”
“You’re going too?”
“What? Miss the chance to add a Sioux scalp to my collection? I’d just as soon pass up the chance to shoot a white buffalo.”
Out of the night materialized Diana Templar, Jarvis towering at her side. “What’s happened?” she inquired. “Our host showed up a minute ago and made it clear we should come here quickly.”
“The Sioux have raided the village,” Nate answered. “Eric must have stumbled on them and they left him for dead.”
Diana gasped and had to reach out to the giant for support. She swayed, steadied, and asked in a raspy tone, “Is he ... ?”
“He’s still breathing, missy,” Shakespeare informed her. “But he won’t be wrestling any panthers for a spell. Winona is inside patching him up. You might want to help her.”
Lady Templar swirled past them.
Suddenly shouting broke out at the north end of the village, and was shortly echoed by shouts from the east and south. The clamor spread, becoming a general din of yells, whoops, and shrieks. Several of the warriors dispatched by Four Bears returned on the run, reported, and ran off again. With each report the chief grew more sullen, so that he was a solemn specter when he walked over to the frontiersmen and the giant.
“You are right, my friend,” Mato-tope signed to Nate. “The band of Sioux struck while we were all at the feast. They killed a man and woman who had left before anyone else, they stole many horses, and they shot four dogs.” He pressed a hand to his forehead. “I should have expected this. I should have insisted we put men on watch, but I forgot. I knew my daughter had grown fond of Lake Eyes, and all I could think of was them and what I would do if they wanted to share the same lodge.”
A stocky, perspiring brave dashed out of the night, breathlessly relayed the grim tidings he brought, and disappeared as he had come.
Mato-tope seemed to have aged five years in five minutes. “It is worse than I thought. The number of horses missing is over thirty. My daughter is nowhere to be found, and three other women and two boys are also missing. The Sioux have taken them,” he disclosed.
“That’s good to hear,” Shakespeare signed, and when the chief and Nate glanced at him strangely, he explained his statement. “With that many horses and captives, the Sioux can’t go as fast as they normally would. If it’s the same small band we saw before, there’s hardly enough of them to handle so many. We should be able to catch them before the sun sets tomorrow.”
“You may be right,” Four Bears conceded, his tone betraying the conflict waging within him between hope and despair. “But this is not your fight. Neither of you are Mandans. You need not join us.”
“We have a stake in the outcome,” Nate said.
Mato-tope was not disposed to argue. “If you wish to come, do so. Two brave men such as you are always welcome.” He turned to his lodge. “Now you must excuse me, my friends. I must tell my wives all I have learned and make plans.” In the opening he paused and looked back. “How can a day that began so fine end with such sorrow? Our good medicine has flown on the wind.” With a nod he was gone.
“I suppose I’d best turn in too,” Shakespeare said. “We’ll both need to be wide-eyed and bushy-tailed when we tangle with the sneaking Sioux.” Turning, he headed into the darkness.
“Shakespeare?” Nate said.
The mountain man stopped and looked around. “What is it, Friar Laurence?”
“Do you figure we have the right to meddle in the affairs of others, even when we think we’re doing it for their own good?”
“That’s a tough question, and I doubt any man can say what’s right or wrong. But this child learned long before you were born never to give advice unless it’s asked for, and never, ever to stick his big nose in where it don’t belong.”
“So you figure I should have left well enough alone?”
“I figure we each have to do what we have to do, and damn the consequences. We can’t predict how the future will turn out. Like everybody else we have to take what comes along and make the best of it.” He paused. “But look at it this way and you might feel a little better.” A low laugh rumbled from his chest. “If we weren’t meant to speak our minds, why were we given mouths?”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
The next day dawned bright and clear. Long before the sun spread its golden smile over the landscape, the Mandans were up and in pursuit of their bitter enemies. Forty warriors were selected by Mato-tope to go; the rest, who displayed much reluctance, were told to stay to safeguard the village.
There was one last-minute addition to the party. As the warriors were gathering in the plaza, Eric Nash appeared leading the mare he had ridden on the buffalo hunt. He was as pale as white linen and his head sported a tight bandage. Without saying a word, he walked over to where Nate and Shakespeare were waiting astride their mounts. Then, gripping the saddle firmly and gritting his teeth, he climbed up.
“What the dickens do you figure you’re doing, son?” Shakespeare asked.
“What does it look like?” the Englishman retorted.
“You’re in no condition for a long, hard ride,” Nate noted. “Why don’t you go back to the lodge and lay down. We’ll bring her back.”
“I’m going,” Eric said gruffly. “And I’ll shoot the first man who tries to stop me.”
Four Bears and Stalking Wolf rode over. The chief raked Nash from head to toe with an inquisitive scrutiny, shifted, and addressed Nate in sign language. “Grizzly Killer, tell Lake Eyes she is my daughter. This is for me to do.”
Nate dutifully translated, and was obliged to relay Nash’s verbatim reply: “Not true. One day I will claim your daughter as my own, so I have as much right to go as you do.”
“I made clear my wishes last night,” Four Bears said.
“So you did,” Nash responded through Nate. “And you were wise in refusing my request. But I will not always be as I am now. Soon, very soon, I will have learned to be a good provider. I will become so good you will have no cause to doubt me, and then you will agree to our marriage.”
A kindly twinkle animated the grand chief’s eyes as he smiled at the Englishman and made the sign for “Good.” He added, “But be warned. If you fall behind, we cannot stop to help you. The captives and our stolen horses are more important.”
“I understand,” Eric assured him. “And have no fear. I will keep up even if I have to tie myself to my horse so I won’t fall off.”
As they rode from the village, Nate couldn’t but wonder if Winona had had a hand in Nash’s new attitude. She was the one, after all, who had suggested Nate teach Nash the skills the Englishman needed to learn in order to pass muster with the Mandans. And she had been the one nursing the Englishman during the night. Had Winona put the notion into Nash’s head to fight for what he wanted? That would be just like her, Nate reflected, and grinned.
Finding the trail was a simple task. Since the Sioux homeland lay to the south of Mandan country, the warriors had only to swing in a loop south of the village until they found the tracks made by the fleeing band. Presently the Mandans were in full chase, racing along at a mile-eating pace.
Nate speculated on what would happen when they caught the band. The Sioux would not giv
e up without a fierce struggle, and they might slay their captives out of sheer spite if they became aware the Mandans were after them and believed they had no hope of escaping.
They were a hardy, courageous people, the Sioux. Originally occupying land far to the east, they had migrated westward and split up. One branch had settled in the region of the Minnesota River and did more farming than they did hunting. The other branch had settled close to the wide Missouri and adopted many of the practices of the plains Indians, essentially becoming a whole new people.
They had also acquired a new name. While they referred to themselves as the Dakotas, most whites and many other tribes were calling them by a name whose origins were difficult to truce. Nate had been told that the early French-Canadians who first encountered the Dakotas had called them Nadowessious, which came from the Ojibwa name for the tribe, Nadowessi. Somehow the French name had been shortened over the years to where everyone now simply called them the Sioux. The name was fitting, since the Ojibwa term meant “enemy” or “small snake,” and there were no sneakier or more clever horse thieves and raiders in all the broad West.
The tracks revealed the Sioux had been pushing themselves and their stolen horses to get as far from the Mandan village as they could before daylight. Further proof was provided by the fact that although their flight had taken them across the Missouri and, later on, a stream, not once had they stopped to let the animals drink.
Nate made a point of staying close to Eric Nash. The artist was holding up well so far, but his face was haggard, and now and then he would clutch at the bandage and grimace. About mid-morning Nate noticed the wound had taken to bleeding again. He moved closer to the Englishman and pointed out the blood trickling from under the bandage, but Nash simply grunted and kept on riding.
By noon they were well out on the prairie. Four Bears called a brief halt to rest their horses. He wasn’t going to commit the mistake of riding their animals to the point of exhaustion. In order to catch the Sioux, they had to pace themselves so that when they did finally spot their enemies, their mounts would have a reserve reservoir of endurance to tap for the last leg of the chase.
Season of the Warrior (A Wilderness Giant Edition Western Book 2) Page 25
