The Cheyennes were in a wide clearing, their horses grazing a stone’s throw away. Immediately it was apparent that there were more than nine warriors. Nate counted twenty-one and a corresponding number of horses.
“Where the dickens did those others come from?” Kendall whispered.
Shrugging, Nate slanted to the left, toward some willows. He slowly parted the blades in front of him with the barrel of his rifle, then slid between them without rustling the grass. At length a patch of shade shrouded him and he rose onto his knees.
Nate’s plan was to wait until dark, then sneak in as close as they dared. He twisted to say as much to Kendall. Low voices coming closer changed his mind. Instantly he flattened, as did his friend.
Nate could not understand a word being said. He assumed the warriors were speaking in the Cheyenne tongue until two strapping men appeared, both armed with bows. Unlike Cheyennes, who usually wore their hair parted in the middle and braided, the pair wore theirs swept back at the front, with only two tiny braids hanging on either side. They were Arapahoes.
Nate watched as the two warriors moved off along the stream, apparently to hunt. It was no surprise to find Cheyennes and Arapahoes mingling. The two tribes had long been staunch allies. They met regularly in grand councils. They traded horses and guns.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out that two hunting parties had bumped into one another and were going to spend the night feasting and swapping tales. In that respect, as in so many others, the red men were no different than the whites they so often despised.
Nate did not move until confident the hunters were long gone. Nudging Kendall with an elbow, he crawled forward, relying on every bit of available cover, until he could see the camp clearly. The Indians were clustered in several small groups. Those who did not know the others tongue relied on the universal language of the Plains tribes, sign language, in which Nate was fluent.
A burly Cheyenne was telling several Arapahoes about the time he ran up against a wounded grizzly. Another warrior was relating his prowess in battle against the Dakotas. Still a third was praising the merits of a certain Cheyenne chief.
A light touch on Nate’s shoulder drew his attention to Scott Kendall, who pointed across the clearing at the base of an oak tree. Piled there were Nate’s packs and the folded buffalo hide. The tree was close to the stream and could not possibly be reached without arousing every warrior in the camp. For Nate to reclaim his property, strategy was called for.
Nate mulled over his options as the afternoon waned. The Indians got two small fires going. From parfleches an assortment of pemmican and jerked meat was passed out. Shortly before sunset, the pair of Arapahoes showed up bearing a buck slung on a pole. In no time, the deer had been skinned and the meat carved into portions. The hunting parties settled in for the night.
When the sky was deep blue and dominated by stars, Nate backed away from the camp. Kendall imitated him. They covered sixty yards before Nate stood and pumped his left leg to relieve a cramp.
“Do you still aim to go through with this?” Scott Kendall said.
“I do,” Nate said, feeling slightly sheepish for being so stubborn but unwilling to give up after having come so far. “Once they fall asleep, I’m going in.”
“They’re bound to post a guard.”
“Can’t be helped.” Nate sat on a log, drew his Bowie, and proceeded to cut enough whangs from the sleeves of his buckskin shirt and leggings to craft a rawhide rope several feet long.
Nate tied one end around the barrel of his Hawken just below the front bead sight and the other end on the narrow neck of the stock. It made a dandy makeshift sling he used to drape the rifle over his back.
Kendall leaned against a trunk. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just go out and find yourself another buffalo? What’s so blamed special about the hide they took anyhow?”
The gruff question hid obvious worry for Nate’s safety. He slid the Bowie into his sheath, saying softly, “Think about it. The Cheyennes know that my valley isn’t all that far from where they found the cache. They might put two and two together and figure out that the hide and the packs are mine. Once word spreads how easily they skunked me, some of the younger warriors are bound to take it into their noggins to pay my place a visit. I don’t want that to happen.”
“Never thought of it like that,” Kendall said. “I guess you have to teach them who’s boss or they’ll be swiping your stock and whatever else strikes their fancy any time they see fit. All right, then. What do you want me to do, pard?”
“Wait by our horses.”
“And let you take all the risk? No, sir.”
“They’re my packs. Since one of us has to be ready to light a shuck, you’re elected.”
Kendall protested, but Nate held firm. The husky mountain man grew somber as the hours went by. Toward midnight, Nate nodded and said, “Off you go. Keep your eyes skinned. I’ll likely be in a hurry.”
“Shoot sharp’s the word,” Kendall said. Then he was gone, melting into the vegetation as if part of it.
Nate crept to the stream. It was no more than eight feet wide, the banks steep, the current sluggish. Sliding down to the water, he paused before entering to take both his pistols from under his belt. A flintlock in either hand, he entered the stream in a crouch. The level quickly rose as high as his knees. In the middle, where the current had worn a shallow trench, the water was still only as high as his waist.
Bending so low over the surface that his cheek nearly brushed it, Nate waded downstream. He held the pistols against his chest to keep them from getting wet. A misfire, a flash in the pan at just the wrong moment, might mean the difference between life and death.
The hubbub of voices had died down. Only one of the fires still crackled. Around it were seated three older warriors, two Cheyennes and an Arapahoe. The rest had all curled up and gone to sleep right where they had been sitting when fatigue overcame them.
Nate noticed that the horses had been rounded up and were enclosed in a rope corral, an unusual precaution for Indians to take. He didn’t give it a second thought though, and that shortly proved to be a mistake.
Moving his legs at a snail’s pace, Nate drew abreast of the clearing. The flames were so low that none illuminated the stream. Thanks to a moonless sky, he was virtually invisible. He paralleled a third of the open space with none of the Indians being any the wiser. When a sleeping Arapahoe snorted and started to sit up, he froze until the man settled back down. When one of the older warriors by the fire glanced his way, he again stopped, counting on his silhouette to blend into the background. The man betrayed no alarm and went on talking.
Nate waded a few more feet, then went rigid for a third time, but not because of anything the Cheyennes or Arapahoes did. It was a sound behind him that glued him in place; the stealthy pad of human feet. For a few nerve-racking moments Nate believed that he had erred, that one of the Indians must have crossed the stream earlier and was returning. But a rapid count of those in the camp accounted for all twenty-one. Yet if none of them were behind him, who was?
Swiveling only his neck, Nate saw furtive forms approaching the stream. Seven, eight, nine at least, and possibly more lurking in the vegetation. Had a third hunting party spotted the fires and come to join their friends? If so, why were they moving so quietly, as enemies would?
It hit him then with the force of a physical blow. His stupidity made him want to slam his head against a tree. The shadows nearing the stream were acting just as enemies would because they were enemies of either the Cheyennes or the Arapahoes or both. And there he was, caught between the factions with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Damn his luck!
The nearest newcomers slowed. Nate distinguished that they wore their hair in an odd style, shaving it except for a strip from the middle of the forehead to the back of the neck. They had on thigh-high moccasins and what could only be described as short buckskin skirts that ended just above their moccasins. Most carried thick war clubs decorated
with brass tacks, clubs that sported wicked sunken blades able to slice a man open as easily as a sharp knife would a ripe melon.
Nate’s mouth went dry. Only one tribe wore their hair in that distinctive style. Only one tribe was partial to clubs just like those the warriors carried. The newcomers were Pawnees. Their hatred of the Cheyennes and Arapahoes was well known. Some might say they had a valid excuse since the latter two tribes had settled in land once claimed by the former and held it even though the Pawnees had tried time and again to drive them off.
Nate had to get out of there before the Pawnees spotted him. Staying low to the water, he sidled toward the tree where his packs were piled.
The Pawnees had huddled, perhaps for a last palaver before attacking. More had materialized out of the night and others were arriving every few seconds.
The Cheyennes and their allies were severely outnumbered. They wouldn’t stand a prayer if caught unawares.
Nate tried telling himself that he didn’t owe the Cheyennes a blessed thing. They had stolen his effects, and no doubt would have taken him captive if they had the chance. But they had never tried to make wolf meat of him and his family, as the Utes and Blackfeet and others had done. They had never given him a lick of trouble in all the years he had lived in the cabin. So how could he stand idly by while they were massacred? The answer, of course, was that he couldn’t.
Nate went faster. A few of the Pawnees had glided to the water’s edge and were about to cross. They were twenty feet away, but they had eyes only for the Arapahoes and Cheyennes. As yet they had no inkling that he was there.
A few more yards and Nate could climb out. He would duck behind the oak tree, then let out with a holler that would bring the Cheyennes and the Arapahoes to their feet before the Pawnees swooped down on them. It would give the two hunting parties a fighting chance. And while all the Indians were embroiled in battle, he would retrieve what was rightfully his and get out of there while the getting was good.
Nate had it all figured out. He grinned as he reached the bank and slid out onto a gradual grassy incline that in turn brought him to level ground only a couple of feet from the oak. He could see his packs and the hide lying there just waiting for him to reclaim them.
The mountain man moved soundlessly toward the trunk. He threw back his head to give the yell that would bring on the bloodbath. Inadvertently, the movement saved his life. For as he tossed his head, a nasty metal spike imbedded in the end of a Pawnee war club hissed past his face, missing him by the width of a whisker.
Instinctively, Nate let go of the twin flintlocks to grab the club before it could spear at him again. He nearly had his arms wrenched from their sockets as whoever held the other end yanked with all his might. Tottering, he stumbled to one knee behind the oak and glanced up into the hate-filled visage of a towering Pawnee.
How the warrior got there was irrelevant. Maybe he had been sent on ahead to keep an eye on the camp until the war party was ready to close in. Maybe he had been impatient and had crossed ahead of the others so he could count first coup. Whatever the case, it was unimportant.
Of sole consequence to Nate King was the fact that the Pawnee was there. The warrior was trying to kill him. A knee as hard as granite slammed into Nate’s chest, knocking him onto his back. The breath whooshed from his lungs as the man pounced, straddling him, pinning him to the ground.
A viperish hiss fluttered from the Pawnee. Bending, he forced the club against the base of Nate’s neck. It was all Nate could do to keep his throat from being crushed. Straining with every sinew in his body, sputtering for breath, he tried to push the club away.
The Pawnee was built like a bull. Eyes wide with a craving to kill, the warrior threw his full weight into bearing down on his weapon. Leverage and over 190 pounds of solid muscle and bones were in his favor.
To Nate’s dismay, he could feel the warrior prevailing, the club gouging into his yielding flesh a fraction at a time. As if that were not enough, at that very moment the night was pierced by a series of fierce war whoops. It could only mean one thing.
The Pawnees were attacking.
Four
All hell broke loose. Loud splashing was punctuated by shrieks and yells. A gun cracked, then another. Bow strings twanged. There was the thunk of arrows hitting home, the sickening squish of clubs rending flesh, the heavy thud of bodies striking the ground. All of which registered in the back of Nate King’s mind as he struggled for his life against the Pawnee, who was slowly but surely choking him. The pain was excruciating. Nate tried to take a breath, but couldn’t.
The Pawnee’s features were aglow with brutal glee. Grunting, he shifted to throw more of his weight against the long club. Unless Nate did something quickly, he was going to die. The stark thought spurred him into throwing his body from side to side in a frenzied attempt to dislodge the warrior. It was like trying to throw off a clinging vine.
A feral smirk creased the Pawnee’s face. He knew that he had Nate dead to rights. Another few moments and it would all be over.
Nate’s lungs screamed for air. His body was racked by pain, and it was all he could do to think straight. In a last desperate bid, he bucked upward. He failed to throw the Pawnee off, but he tilted the warrior backward, within reach of his own legs. With all the strength Nate had left, he rammed his knees into the Pawnee’s spine, not once but three times in swift succession.
The warrior arched his back and involuntarily cried out. His grip on the club loosened, enabling Nate to shove it to one side and twist out from under it. Simultaneously, he drove one fist into the Pawnee’s gut. His other punched the man’s cheek, splitting it and sending the Pawnee sprawling.
Scrambling to his feet, Nate dropped a hand to his Bowie. As the knife cleared the sheath, the warrior’s club lanced at Nate’s left eye. Ducking, Nate slashed at the warrior’s midsection, but the Pawnee backpedaled.
For a few moments, the two of them regarded one another, each taking the other’s measure, while not ten feet away men were locked in bloody combat or dying in pools of blood.
The Pawnee renewed the clash by swinging the club at Nate’s temple. Again Nate dodged. Again he tried to sink his blade into his adversary. The warrior had the greater reach, though, and blocked the blade easily with his own weapon.
Circling, both sought an opening. Nate stayed in a crouch, balanced on the balls of his feet. He parried a thrust, ignored a feint, and skipped to the left when the Pawnee sprang and swung a blow that would have caved his skull in.
Suddenly, as if in a fit of frustration, the Pawnee arced the club at Nate again and again. Nate skipped backward, staying just out of reach. So intent was he on avoiding the club that he didn’t pay attention to where he was until, without warning, his left foot slipped out from under him and he began to topple to the rear.
In a flash of jarring insight, Nate realized the wily Pawnee had driven him clear back to the brink of the bank. Frantically, he tried to gain purchase, but gravity would not be denied. He fell, landing on his shoulders, the Hawken’s hammer poking deep into his shoulder blade. Momentum carried him to the bottom. Propping his hands on the slick grass, Nate pushed to his feet.
The mountain man was not quite erect when a bloodcurdling screech alerted him to the human hawk diving on him. Nate glanced up; then he was bowled over by the Pawnee, and they were both propelled into the stream.
Nate was on the bottom again. The water closed over him, seeping into his nose and parted mouth. Pushing upright, he sucked in air while staggering to the right.
The Pawnee was rising, the water lending his rippling muscles a damp sheen. He said something in the Pawnee tongue, then snapped the club overhead and bore down like a runaway steam engine.
Nate retreated, wishing he had a gun he could use. But his pistols were somewhere near the oak tree and his rifle had been drenched and would probably not fire. He had to rely on his knife, which gave the Pawnee a decided edge.
A jolting blow to the shoulder rocked N
ate onto his heels. He threw himself out of the way of another swing, then bent low over the water. Flipping the Bowie from his right hand to his left, he jabbed at the Pawnee, who grinned at the futility of the act.
The warrior raised the club one more time and slowly advanced. Nate backed away, wagging the knife to keep the Pawnee focused on it and not on his right hand, which had slipped to his side.
Above them, the battle still raged. War whoops, strident yells, grunts, and bellows mingled with the pounding of feet and the constant flurry of personal combat.
Nate turned his left side to the Pawnee as if to present a smaller target. It hid his ulterior motive. His right hand found what it sought. The Pawnee feinted several times, playing with him, drawing out the inevitable. Nate connected with the club, but the blade did nothing more than nick the wood.
The Pawnee paused to set himself. He was going for the kill, leaving nothing to chance. Holding his weapon so that the imbedded spike pointed at Nate’s chest, he stepped to the left, pretended to shift back to the right to throw Nate off guard, and continued left even as he streaked the spike at Nate’s heart.
It was the moment Nate had been waiting for. Pivoting so the club missed him, he brought his right hand up and around. In it was clenched his Shoshone tomahawk. The keen edge caught the Pawnee in the center of the forehead and sheared through flesh and bone into the brain. A dark spray shot from the gash, spattering the water.
Nate jerked the tomahawk out and drew it back for another blow. None was needed. The Pawnee was dead on his feet, his eyelids fluttering. Nate placed a finger against the warrior and pushed. Arms outflung; the Pawnee toppled.
Losing no time, Nate dashed to the bank. Clambering out, he replaced the knife and tomahawk, then scrambled to the top and peeked over the edge.
It was a scene straight from a madman’s worst nightmare. Bodies were everywhere. Arrows jutted from some. Others bore gaping wounds. Still others had skulls that resembled pulp. Blood drenched the soil, forming puddles. One man lay in a pool inches deep.
Wilderness Giant Edition 5 Page 4
