King of the Mountain (Wilderness # 1)

by David Thompson

  Nathaniel digested the information thoughtfully. So he had committed two blunders that morning. The first was leaving the camp without his rifle, which he would never do again. And the second had been in retreating from the bear and entering the river.

  “Actually, the same advice holds true for Indians,” Ezekiel went on. “Never let on that you’re afraid of them or you’ll be sorry. The Indians respect bravery above all else. That’s why they attach so much importance to counting coup.”

  “To what?”

  “Coup, Nate. Counting coup is how an Indian warrior proves his manhood. For a warrior to win glory, he has to touch his enemy. Each time he does, he counts coup. Some of the tribes even have special sticks for just that purpose.”

  “I don’t get it,” Nathaniel ssid. “What’s so important about touching an enemy?”

  “The way the Indian looks at war, it takes no great courage to kill an enemy from afar, to shoot him with a bow or a rifle from a hundred yards away. But it does take considerable courage to face an enemy up close and strike him with a hand or a stick or a lance,” Zeke explained. “That’s why the bravest warriors are always those who have counted the most coup. ”

  “I had no idea. I thought they just killed for the sheer sake of killing.”

  Ezekiel looked at his nephew. “Indians might be savage, but they’re not savages, no matter what you’ve read in the press.”

  “You sound as if you admire them.”

  “There’s a lot to admire about the Indian way of life. You’ll discover the truth for yourself.”

  “I will?”

  Zeke nodded and rode a little faster.

  Two hours later they came to a brook and halted to refresh their horses. A few cedar trees grew near the water’s edge, and Nathaniel sat down and leaned his back against one of them, relieved to be sitting still.

  Zeke stared to the east, his hand over his eyes, peering intently at the horizon.

  “Have any of your friends ever been killed by Indians?” Nathaniel inquired.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Yes, I’ve lost a few to Indians. The Blackfeet ambushed three of my closest friends near the Jefferson Fork of the upper Missouri River about a year and a half ago. Shot two of them so full of arrows they looked like porcupines. The third they tortured, then scalped.”

  “How did you find out about it?”

  “The third man, Grignon, was released because they couldn’t make him cry out even under the worse torments they could devise. So they sent him packing, stark naked, without so much as a knife. They told him to warn all whites to stay away from their land or else.”

  “What happened to your friend?”

  “He stumbled into the camp of another group of trappers about three days later, his feet torn to ribbons, on his last legs. They tried to save him but there was little they could do. He died after two days.”

  Nathaniel blinked a few times. “Wait a minute. He was still alive after being scalped?”

  “Losing your hair doesn’t kill you, Nate. It’s what happens to you before or after that’ll determine whether you live or die.”

  “How horrible.”

  “There are worse fates than being scalped.”

  “I can’t imagine what they could be,” Nathaniel commented, and closed his eyes. He imagined what it would be like to lose his own hair, and the prospect revolved him.

  “Actually, being killed by Indians is just one of the hazards of living in the wilderness. Two years ago one hundred and sixteen men left Santa Fe to trap the southern Rockies and other parts. Only sixteen came back.”

  Nathaniel straightened. “Sixteen? What happened to the rest?”

  “Some were probably killed by Indians. Some likely died from disease. Others were snake-bit or mauled by a grizzly. There are all sorts of things that can happen to a man living in the mountains.”

  “Why would anyone want to put up with such hardships just to live in the wilderness?”

  Zeke sighed. “That’s a question many a man has asked himself. The answer might surprise you.”

  “I don’t intend to stay out here long enough to learn the answer.”

  “You never know, nephew.”

  Nathaniel closed his eyes and thought of Adeline. Spending a year away from her, spending 12 whole months in the mountains with his uncle, appealed to him less and less with each passing day. The farther they went, the more convinced he became that it would be a miracle if he lived to see his sweetheart again. True, he wanted to be rich, but was wealth worth his life? Was Adeline’s love worth such a cost? Was he—

  “Nate!”

  The harsh word brought Nathaniel out of his reverie. He opened his eyes and saw his uncle gazing at a distant point to the east. “What is it?”

  “Get mounted. There are Indians on our trail.”

  Even with his injured shoulder, Nathaniel climbed on his horse faster than he ever had before. The pain was momentarily forgotten in the urgency of the moment.

  Zeke stared eastward for a few more seconds, then mounted and headed due west, crossing the shallow brook.

  “Are they Cheyenne?” Nathaniel asked, riding on his uncle’s left.

  “They’re too far away to tell,” Zeke said. “And we don’t want them to get any closer if we can help it.”

  They rode hard for 20 minutes, passing several dozen antelope and a solitary wolf that bounded away at their approach. A low hill appeared ahead, not much more than a mound of dirt and wispy grass, yet still the highest elevation for miles around. Ezekiel made straight for the rise and reined up at the top, swinging his roan around.

  Nathaniel did the same, and far to the east he saw the band of horsemen coming after them. He counted eight riders, and even to his untrained eye they were clearly not white men.

  “Damn!” Zeke declared angrily. “We’re in for it now.”

  “Do we make a stand?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Zeke replied. “I’d prefer to outrun them, but with all these extra horses we don’t stand a prayer.”

  “What if we leave the horses we took from Gant and the others here? Maybe the Indians will be satisfied with them,” Nathaniel proposed.

  “I wouldn’t count on it. I know one man who tried that trick once, and the Indians took his spare animals and still chased him for over a day. He barely got away with his life.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  Ezekiel pursed his lips and surveyed the countryside in every direction. For miles around lay rolling prairie, a seemingly endless expanse of thin grass, with not so much as a tree to afford a hiding place. “I reckon we make that stand after all.” He slid down and inspected his Hawken.

  Nathaniel dismounted and stood regarding the figures on the plain, calculating that the Indians would reach the hill within five minutes at the most.

  “If worse comes to worst, we’ll shoot the horses we took from those vermin and use them as a breastwork,” Zeke proposed.

  “Shoot the horses?”

  “Would you rather have the Indians shoot us? Out here horses aren’t pets, Nate. Never become too attached to your animal because you may have to eat it.”

  “Never,” Nathaniel stated, glancing at his mare.

  “If you’re hungry enough, you’ll eat anything,” Zeke stated. “And horse meat beats starvation any day.”

  “I hope I’m never that hungry.”

  Ezekiel took several paces and cradled his rifle in his arms. “We’ll have an advantage over those devils if they try to take us. They’ll see just the two of us and expect us to have only two rifles. But we have five, plus our pistols and the extra pistols we took from Gant and his partners.” He chuckled. “Yes, sir. We could give those Indians a powerful surprise.”

  “But what if they all have rifles?”

  “Not very likely. Most warriors prefer a bow, lance, or tomahawk to a rifle when it comes to killing. And those who do own rifles are not always the best sh
ots in the world.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Don’t be such a worrywart, Nate. You’ll live longer.”

  Nathaniel absently nodded, but inwardly he felt a gnawing knot of fear at the likelihood of fighting Indians. Indians! He had read about the atrocities attributed to the red man, about the scalpings and other revolting horrors allegedly practiced by the barbaric tribes in the vast unexplored lands west of the Mississippi. Never in his wildest dreams had he expected to be contending with them in a fight for his life. What am I doing here? he asked himself again and again, watching the warriors draw closer and closer.

  “Remember, put on a brave front,” Zeke advised.

  Troubled, Nathaniel looked at his uncle. “Are you afraid to die?”

  “Afraid? No, I wouldn’t say that. You grow to accept death as your constant companion out here, Nate. Once you know it can happen at any time, you sort of resign yourself to that fact. Oh, I don’t want to die, and I’ll do my best to stay alive. But no, I can’t honestly say I’m afraid right at this moment.”

  “I am,” Nate said softly.

  “Fear is nothing to be ashamed of, not so long as you don’t let it get the better of you. You can conquer fear with your mind if you give it a try,” Zeke said. “Besides, didn’t you learn your lesson from what happened with Gant?”

  “Which lesson?”

  “That when the chips are down, when your life is in danger, when you have no choice but to kill or be killed, your fear evaporates like dew under a hot sun.” Ezekiel glanced at the horses. “Fetch the other rifles and pistols and lay them here so they’ll be handy when the shooting commences.”

  Nathaniel hastily complied, and as he deposited the last of the rifles on the ground at his feet he looked up to discover the band of Indians within 500 yards of the hill.

  “Damn!” Zeke exclaimed.

  “What is it?”

  “Those aren’t Cheyenne, Nate.”

  “What are they?”

  “Kiowa,” Zeke said, almost spitting the word out, his features hardening. “Their usual range is far to the south of here. They must be looking for a Cheyenne camp to raid and they came across us instead.”

  “Are they friendly?”

  “Let me put it this way. Never turn your back on a Kiowa unless you aim to commit suicide.”

  Nathaniel licked his suddenly dry lips and nervously fingered the trigger on his Hawken.

  “There has been bad blood between the Cheyennes and the Kiowas for years,” Zeke went on. “They raid each other all the time. The Cheyenne will kill a few Kiowas, so naturally the Kiowas have to strike back.” He paused. “Mark my words. Sooner or later the two tribes will declare war, and they might not stop until one or the other has been destroyed.”

  Listening with only half an ear to the news, Nathaniel anxiously watched the eight Indians ride nearer.

  “That’s what will do the Indians in, you know,” Zeke mentioned thoughtfully.

  “What?”

  “The fact that they’re always so busy killing each other off. They’ll never be able to stand together against the whites.”

  Nathaniel opened his mouth to ask why the Indians should have to band together when there were so few whites west of the Mississippi, but the question died in his throat as the eight warriors abruptly halted. A second later one of the Kiowas rode straight for the hill.

  “Remember, Nate,” Zeke admonished. “This is your survival that’s at stake. Any mistakes now, and you’ll wish that bear had got you first.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two hundred yards off the Kiowa slowed his horse to a walk and came on cautiously, a lance held in his right hand.

  Nathaniel impulsively raised his rifle to his shoulder, but a firm hand pushed the barrel down again.

  “Not yet, Nate,” Zeke directed. “This one wants to talk. I’ll ride down and see what he wants.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “He won’t try anything,” Zeke said, walking to his roan. “It won’t hurt to find out what he has on his mind.” He swung into the saddle and headed down the sloping incline.

  For the first time since leaving St. Louis, Nathaniel appreciated how dependent he was on his uncle. If anything happened to Zeke, he wouldn’t last a week. His apprehension climbing, he glued his eyes to the two men and held his rifle at chest height, ready to fire if need be. He saw them ride to within ten yards of one another and begin communicating in sign language. Their exchange went on for minutes. Finally, the Kiowa warrior made an angry gesture and turned his horse around, then rode briskly toward his fellows.

  Ezekiel returned to the top of the hill.

  “What happened?” Nathaniel inquired anxiously.

  “I just had the honor of meeting Thunder Rider, a Kiowa warrior of some distinction,” Zeke said, climbing down. “He told me, as I suspected, that his raiding party is searching for a Cheyenne camp. He was surprised to find any white men in this vicinity and kept asking me if there are any more about. I don’t think he believes there are just the two of us.”

  “Was that all?”

  Zeke frowned. “No. He wanted us to trade our guns for horses.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “What else? To go eat bear.”

  “Eat bear?” Nathaniel repeated, perplexed.

  “The Kiowas never eat bear meat. It’s taboo for them, just like eating a dog is taboo for the Cheyenne. So telling Thunder Rider to go eat bear was the same as telling a white man to go to hell.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “Get set for a fight.”

  Nathaniel gazed at the Kiowa war party. Thunder Rider was talking to the other warriors and making sharp motions toward the hill. He looked down at the extra rifles on the ground, then at the two pistols tucked under his belt, and pondered the fact that he was about to kill again. At that moment, he fervently wished he had never left New York.

  “Here they come,” Zeke said calmly.

  Thunder Rider and the seven other warriors were riding swiftly toward the hill. They started yelling at the top of their lungs, voicing piercing, wild shouts as they waved their weapons in the air.

  “Take your time when you aim,” Zeke instructed. “We can’t afford to waste a shot.”

  Nathaniel pressed the Hawken to his shoulder, marveling at how composed his uncle could be under the circumstances. He sighted on one of the warriors and waited for them to get within range. The Kiowas were still over 200 yards out, and he wanted them a lot closer to ensure he wouldn’t miss.

  Ezekiel’s rifle cracked.

  One of the charging Kiowas flung his arms out and toppled from his horse. The others immediately checked their charge and rode to the fallen warrior.

  “Maybe that will discourage them,” Zeke said, although his tone did not convey much confidence. He began reloading.

  “Why do they yell like that?” Nathaniel asked absently.

  “Those war whoops? Warriors from different tribes all yell like banshees sometimes. It’s supposed to unnerve their enemies.”

  “It works.”

  Zeke smiled. “You’re doing fine.”

  “I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “Here’s your chance.” Zeke stated, and nodded at the Kiowas.

  Nathaniel turned, scarcely breathing at the sight of the warriors renewing their attack. Again he took aim, selecting a Kiowa with several feathers in his hair. He held the barrel as steady as he could, trying to compensate for the elevation and the trajectory as his uncle had taught him, afraid his lack of experience would cause him to miss. He was about to squeeze the trigger when the Kiowas adopted a wily strategem.

  The warriors suddenly slid onto the sides of their horses, each man lying in a horizontal position along the length of his racing animal, with one heel hanging on the horse’s back for support, presenting the smallest possible target.

  Ezekiel fired.

  Trying to get a bead on the Kiowas, Nathaniel was surprise
d when none of the Indians fell. His uncle had missed!

  “Damn!” Zeke fumed, lowering his Hawken to the ground and grabbing one of the extra rifles. “Go for their horses, Nate! Their horses!”

  Kill a horse? Nathaniel hesitated for all of three seconds. He thought of the fate in store for him if those warriors reached the top of the hill, and he aimed the barrel at an onrushing animal and squeezed the trigger.

  The horse stumbled and almost went down, and the Kiowa on its back was forced to swing up in order to avoid being tossed onto the ground. The animal recovered, though, and surged onward.

  “Keep shooting!” Ezekiel urged, raising a rifle to his shoulder and sighting on the foremost steed. His gun belched lead and smoke, and the horse abruptly catapulted forward, hit the earth hard, and rolled, throwing its rider in the process.

  The six other Kiowas came on at full speed, undeterred. As if on an unseen cue, they fanned out and began weaving their mounts from side to side. Slightly more than 100 yards separated the warriors from their quarry.

  “Fire, Nate! Fire!” Zeke prompted.

  Nathaniel seized one of the other rifles and aimed at the Kiowa on the right, but the constant changing of direction disconcerted him. Just when he had the horse in his sights the animal would change course.

  Ezekiel got off his third shot, and the horse he’d targeted went down in a disjointed whirl of legs, mane, and tail. “Cut one down, Nate!” he bellowed. “They’ll be on us soon!”

  Taking a breath and holding it, Nathaniel risked a shot, and he grinned in delight when the horse on the right seemed to trip over its own hooves and crashed to the ground. His elation was short-lived however.

  Four of the Kiowas were almost upon them.