Wilderness #62:
The Tears of God
David Thompson
LEISURE BOOKS NEW YORK CITY
Stab in the Dark
Nate considered himself to be fairly fleet of foot, but two of the Pawnees were as fast if not faster. A glance showed them hard after him and gaining. Neither let a shaft fly; evidently they intended to take him alive. Kuruk’s doing, Nate suspected. Kuruk wanted to stake him out and torture him.
Nate tried to shake them. He cut back and forth at right angles. He weaved among benighted boles. The Pawnees not only kept up, they continued to gain. One of them called out to those behind.
Nate had lost his sense of direction. He wasn’t sure which way he was running. He turned right.
From out of nowhere a warrior appeared. The man had a tomahawk and the instant he saw Nate, he raised it to cleave Nate’s skull…
Dedicated to Judy, Joshua and Shane. And to Beatrice Bean, with the most loving regard.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Stab in the Dark
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Authors Note
Other Books By
Copyright
Chapter One
The two men were grim with purpose. They came down out of the high country riding hard and fast. They didn’t stop for a meal; they ate pemmican out of their parfleches as they rode. They slept only a few hours each night. Rest wasn’t important, although they stopped when they had to for the sake of their mounts. Each time the younger man chafed at the delay.
They were a study in contrasts. The younger man’s hair was raven black, while the older man’s mane was as white as the snow that capped the highest peaks. Both wore buckskins, the younger man’s decorated with blue beads by his Shoshone wife. The younger man wore an eagle feather in his hair; the older man covered his head with a beaver hat. Both had beards.
They were living armories. Each had a Hawken rifle, a brace of flintlock pistols, and knives. The younger man’s knife was a bowie, the older man’s a Green River blade. The younger man also had a tomahawk wedged under his belt. Their weapons had seen a lot of use.
They came down out of the miles-high mountains to the emerald foothills and through the foothills to the prairie. The younger man rode a bay, the older man a white mare. When the younger man once asked the older why he liked mares over any other kind of horse, the older man had replied with one of his impish grins, “I ride mares because it’s nice to be in charge of a female for a change.”
“I can savvy that,” the younger man had replied. “I’m married, too. But in all the years I’ve known you, you only ever ride white mares. Why not some other color?”
The older man had touched his own white mane. “I like the idea of snow on top and snow under me.”
“That makes no kind of sense. What’s the real reason?”
“I am practical, Horatio. A white horse is a lot easier to find when it strays off.”
“Easier for hostiles to spot, too.”
The younger man’s name wasn’t really Horatio. It was Nate King. His nickname was a token of how fond the older man was of the younger. A token, too, of the older man’s intense passion for the works of the Bard of Avon. Shakespeare McNair owned one of the few volumes of his namesake’s works west of the Mississippi River. He read the book religiously. He quoted it religiously, too, as he did now as they drew rein to let their animals rest.
“ ‘Ah, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room.’ ”
“That’s a new one,” Nate said as he took a spyglass from his parfleche.
“I was rereading King John when you came to fetch me,” Shakespeare informed him.
“King John?” A grin spread under Nate’s telescope. “Isn’t that the boring one?”
Shakespeare stiffened in indignation. “ ‘What cracker is this same that deafs our ears with this abundance of superfluous breath?’ ” he quoted. “How dare you? The Bard never wrote a boring play in his life.”
“I seem to recollect your wife saying she always finds you asleep in your rocking chair with the book in your lap.”
“A pox on you. It’s not the Bard who puts me to sleep, it’s my years.” Shakespeare put a hand to the small of his back. “I’m not as spry or as durable as I used to be.”
“I hope to God I’m half as fit as you when I’m your age.” Nate lowered the spyglass and frowned.
“Nothing?”
“Grass, grass, and more grass. I’d like the prairie more if it wasn’t so god-awful flat.”
“I’ve often thought the same thing myself,” Shakespeare said with mock seriousness. “The good Lord should have broken the monotony. Say, with a volcano here or there.”
Nate looked at him. “The things that come out of your mouth. That was plumb ridiculous.”
They rode on. They saw few buffalo since most of the herds were to the south at that time of year. They did see a lot of deer and once they spied antelope and a black bear that ran off with that rolling gait bears have. Prairie dogs were common, and the two men wisely avoided the prairie dog towns for fear their horses might step into a burrow and break a leg.
That night they camped in a hollow. They didn’t bother with a fire. They stripped and picketed their mounts, unrolled their blankets, and were ready for sleep.
Nate lay on his back, his hand under his head, gazing at the multitude of sparkling pinpoints in the fir-mament. “If anything has happened to her…” he said, and didn’t finish.
Shakespeare was on his side, his back to his friend. Rolling over, he adjusted his blanket, then said, “She can take care of herself, Horatio. She’s almost a grown woman.”
“She’s my daughter. And sixteen is still a girl. I love her more than I love all there is except my wife and my son and maybe you.”
“I’m flattered,” Shakespeare said dryly.
“I can’t stand the thought of her being hurt, or worse,” Nate confessed. “It eats at me like a termite eats at wood.”
“You need to put it from your mind. Winona and you taught Evelyn well.” Shakespeare paused. “ ‘The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath.’ ”
“You’re saying God would never let anything happen to her? I know better.”
“Let’s hope the Almighty didn’t hear that,” Shakespeare quipped. “You’re getting cynical in your young age.”
“I’m in my middle years and I’ve learned enough to know that rain falls on all of us.”
“Haven’t you heard, Horatio? Some folks say that raindrops are the tears of God. Anyway, she’s with Waku and his family. They won’t let anything happen to her.”
“Tell that to a war party out to count coup. Or to a hungry griz. Or to any of the other thousand and one things that can do her harm.”
“Keep this up and you’ll have hair as white as mine.”
Nate lowered his gaze from the heavens. “All I want is my daughter safe and sound. That’s all I ask. She was supposed to be back by now.” He closed his eyes and tried to put the worry from his mind. Maybe it was silly of him to get so wrought up, but he had seen too much of the brutal and cruel to take it for granted
his daughter was safe.
At the crack of dawn they were up.
Shakespeare rose stiffly and winced. “I wish that book you have were true. I’d look up that doctor and have him operate on me.”
About to roll up his blanket, Nate asked in puzzlement. “Which book?” He owned dozens. They filled a bookshelf in his cabin and were his most prized possessions.
“The one written by that lady, Shelley.”
“Mary Shelley is her name. The book is called Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus.” Nate remembered the sensation the book caused when it first came out.
“That’s the one. It’s too bad there isn’t a real Dr. Frankenstein. I’d have him take the brain out of my body and plunk it in a younger one.”
Nate laughed. “First volcanoes, now this. And to think you haven’t had a drop of brandy.”
“Wait until you’re my age and then poke fun. It’s not easy, getting old. It’s not easy to have your body betray you. In your mind you can leap tall trees at a single bound, but in real life you can’t hardly lift your feet over a log.”
“Oh, please,” Nate scoffed. “You have more vigor than men half your age. It wouldn’t surprise me if you lived to be a hundred.”
“ ‘You prattle something too wildly,’ ” Shakespeare quoted, and grew serious. “We’ve been friends for so long, I don’t blame you for taking it for granted I’ll be around a good long while yet. But these old bones aren’t what they used to be.”
“Quit that kind of talk. Whether you have five years left or ten, the important thing is that you’re not going to keel over this very moment.”
Shakespeare clutched his chest and staggered, crying out, “ ‘You spoke too soon, Horatio! My end is nigh.’ ”
“You’re hopeless.” Nate saddled the bay and was ready to ride out. He sat astride it, watching McNair tug on his cinch. “Tell me true. What do you rate our chances?”
“Of finding your sweet Evelyn alive and well?” Shakespeare rubbed his white beard. “About fifty-fifty, I’d say. The prairie takes up a lot of territory and there’s just the two of us.”
“I prefer it that way.” Nate’s wife had been all set to accompany him when their daughter-in-law, who was in the family way, came down sick. Nate’s other half, who was well versed in herbs and healing, decided to stay and watch over her, much to the relief of their son, Zach.
“Are you afraid we’ll run into trouble and you didn’t want your lovely lady in harm’s path?” Shakespeare smiled. “I admire the sentiment. That’s why I asked my wife to lend yours a hand.”
On they rode. While Nate had complained of the prairie being flat, it wasn’t. Gullies, washes, and an occasional knoll or hill broke the sameness. About the middle of the morning they came to a shallow stream and drew rein.
“Another hour, maybe two, and we’ll be at Bent’s,” Shakespeare said.
Nate couldn’t wait. A former trading post, Bent’s Fort had no connection with the military. Rather, it was a hub of commerce for a score of tribes both near and far. It was also a stopping point on the Santa Fe Trail and for those bound for Oregon Country.
“If there has been any word of her, they’ll have heard it,” Shakespeare confirmed.
“Let’s hope,” Nate said. Bent’s was an information hub, as well. If a man wanted to know whether the Blackfeet were acting up, or how far afield the Sioux were raiding, or how many pilgrims were with the last wagon train bound for the Willamette Valley, all he had to do was ask at Bent’s.
“Did you hear something, Horatio?”
Nate was so absorbed in worry over Evelyn he hadn’t been paying attention, a potentially fatal lapse in the wilderness. Hefting his Hawken, he raked the cottonwoods and undergrowth. A few sparrows were flitting about. Other than that, the vegetation was undisturbed.
“I could have sworn I did,” Shakespeare said.
“What was it? A footstep? An animal? What?”
“I’m not sure.”
Nate hid his surprise. His mentor was usually so alert and confident. “I’ll have a look-see.” It bothered him, all this talk of old age and dying. It was unlike McNair to brood. He made up his mind to have a long talk with him after they returned to King Valley.
The sudden snap of a twig brought Nate up short. Here he was, making the worst mistake a man could in the wilds: letting himself be distracted when there might be hostiles or a wild beast about. He wedged the Hawken to his shoulder and made ready to shoot.
Off in the brush something moved, something big, its silhouette a dark shadow against the backdrop of green. Nate hoped to God it wasn’t a hostile on horseback or a griz. He’d had his fill of fighting both. Back when he’d first come West to trap beaver, grizzlies were everywhere. He’d happened to tangle with one, and a Cheyenne warrior who witnessed the clash gave him the name by which all the tribes now knew him: Grizzly Killer.
The silhouette moved.
Nate held still. The shadow darkened, a sign it was coming toward him, and the next instant the creature stepped into view.
Chuckling, Nate let the Hawken’s muzzle dip. “I don’t see many of your kind this low anymore.”
The cow elk stared at him without concern. Slowly, lazily, she munched and moved off.
Nate turned back. He was glad it hadn’t been a hostile. He would rather avoid running into one if he could help it. The problem was, a lot of tribes regarded whites as invaders, to be exterminated every chance they got. The Blackfeet, the Piegans, the Bloods, the Sioux, all were determined to drive the white man out. Not the Shoshones, though. His wife’s people had always been friendly to whites, so much so, they adopted him into the tribe when he took Winona to be his wife.
It was strange how life worked out, Nate reflected. When he was growing up in New York he’d never imagined that one day he would live in the Rocky Mountains and call them his home. He’d never imagined a beautiful Indian woman would claim his heart, or that they would have two children, a boy and a girl, who grew to be the apples of his eye.
Ahead was the spot where they had stopped.
Shakespeare was standing near the horses, holding the reins to the white mare.
“It was an elk,” Nate said. He started to go around the mare to his bay but stopped when he saw his friend’s expression. “Something the matter?” he asked, and looked in the direction Shakespeare was looking.
There were four of them. Swarthy warriors with long oval faces, their black hair parted in the middle and hanging past their shoulders on either side. Instead of buckskins they wore long tunics and kneehigh moccasins. They also favored shell earrings. Bone-handled knives hung from sheaths on their hips and quivers were across their backs. All four had short bows fitted with sinew strings. All four had notched arrows to the strings and pulled the strings back to their cheeks.
“Have a care, Horatio,” Shakespeare cautioned. “We don’t want to provoke them if we can help it.”
Nate froze. He could have shot one or two, but at that range the others wouldn’t miss. “Let’s try talking to them and show them we’re friendly.”
The next instant the foremost warrior took a step and trained the barbed tip of his arrow on Nate’s chest.
Chapter Two
The tapestry of life in the wilderness was woven of strands of both serenity and savagery. Times without counting Nate’s life had hung in the balance. It might be hostiles, it might be a marauding griz, it might be Nature’s tantrums or a menace as commonplace as a rattlesnake. It had happened so often in the past that when it happened in the present, he was seldom prone to panic. He felt fear, yes. He felt anxiety. But panic hardly ever.
Nate didn’t panic now. He met the gaze of the warrior with the arrow pointed at him. Ever so slowly, he raised his right hand, empty, as high as his neck. Then he slowly closed it, held his first two fingers straight up, and brought his hand in front of his face. It was sign language for “friend.”
The warrior studied Nate as if trying to decide whether to believe
him. Lowering the bow, the man eased up on the string, raised his right hand, and mimicked Nate. He said something in a tongue Nate was unfamiliar with.
Shakespeare let out a long breath of relief. “Thank goodness. They thought we might be scalp hunters.”
“You speak their language?” Nate marveled. He had lost count of how many his friend knew. As one of the first white men to roam the vast lands west of the Mississippi, McNair had run into more tribes than practically any other white man alive.
“Barely at all,” Shakespeare responded. “But I know the tribe. They’re called the Pend d’Oreilles. They come from up near where my wife’s tribe lives, the Flatheads.”
“That’s a far piece.” Nate saw that the other warriors were lowering their bows and noted that each kept his arrow nocked to the string.
“They only get down this way once a year or so,” Shakespeare said.
“What are they doing here?”
“What else? They’ve come to trade at Bent’s.” Shakespeare resorted to sign language, and the warrior who had pointed his bow at Nate replied in kind.
Nate knew sign as well as his friend did. He translated the answer out loud, “They have come for guns and steel knives if they can get them, and have brought furs and shells to trade.” It was always the way, Nate reflected. Contact with whites stirred a desire for the white man’s weapons. Bows and lances weren’t enough when warriors had seen what guns could do. “Why in the world did they think we were scalp hunters?”
Shakespeare posed the question in sign. The answer provoked a frown. “You just saw. He says they met some Crows who warned them there are scalp men hereabouts.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Nate was aware that lifting hair had been a common practice back East, but that was long ago.
“They say the Crows heard it from the Cheyenne who heard it from a band of Pawnees.”
Nate scratched his chin. “What do you make of it? Do you believe them?”
Shakespeare nodded at the Pend d’Oreilles. “They believe it and that’s what counts.”
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