The Tears of God

by David Thompson

  “There must have been sixty or more,” Blunt told him. “I circled the wagons expecting an attack, but they stayed out of rifle range. For ten days they rode around us and whooped and waved their weapons, but they never once came at us.”

  “The Lakotas aren’t stupid,” Shakespeare threw in.

  “No, they are not,” Blunt agreed. “Our rifles would have taken a fearsome toll. They held us there, maybe figuring to starve us or have us run low on water, until finally they lost interest and went elsewhere.”

  “I was awful glad,” Evelyn said. “If they had caught Waku and his family and me alone…” She didn’t finish.

  “That makes twice you saved my girl’s life,” Nate said to Blunt.

  “Thank the Lord, not me. We are all sparrows in His eyes.”

  The time passed so quickly that before Nate knew it, twilight was falling and Blunt’s men were preparing supper. He drained his tin cup of coffee and said, “I take it you are on your way to Bent’s Fort and after that Santa Fe?”

  “You take it partly right,” Blunt replied. “We were taking your daughter and her friends to Bent’s. From there she said they could make it home safe by themselves. But it’s not Santa Fe, after. Normally it would be, but this is a special trip.”

  “How so?” Shakespeare wondered.

  Jeremiah Blunt regarded them thoughtfully. “From what I hear, hardly anyone knows the mountains better than you two. Is that right?”

  Shakespeare shrugged. “I’ve lived out here longer than most, so naturally I know them pretty well. Horatio has been all over, too.”

  “Horatio?” Blunt repeated.

  “His nickname for me,” Nate explained. “From William Shakespeare’s play Hamlet.”

  “Ah.” Blunt grinned at McNair. “I’ve heard about your quirk. You are as devoted to the Bard as I am to my Bible.”

  “A man can be devoted to both,” Shakespeare said.

  “True.” Blunt turned to Nate. “But my point in asking how well you know the mountains is that I am thinking of taking you up on your offer.”

  “I’m listening,” Nate said. He would do whatever he could for this man. He owed him that.

  Blunt swept a stout arm at the ring of wagons. “The freight I’m carrying has been bought and paid for by a group of Shakers. I gave them my word I would get their supplies to them and I always keep it.”

  “What are Shakers?” Evelyn asked.

  “A religious order, you might say,” Jeremiah Blunt answered. “They broke away from the Quakers some time back. For a while they were called the Shaking Quakers, but now it’s just Shakers.”

  “What a funny name. Why would anyone call them that?”

  “Because, girl, that’s what they do. When they worship they dance and tremble and, well, shake. They call it growing close to their Maker. Others call it having fits.”

  “What do you say?”

  “Judge not, girl, lest you be judged. They believe in the Lord and that’s enough for me. But a lot of folks see it differently. They want nothing to do with them, which is why this group came West to start a new colony.”

  Nate had heard of them. Their full name, as he recollected, was the United Society of Believers in Christ’s Second Appearing. They lived in communities or villages all their own and had little to do with the outside world.

  Shakespeare cleared his throat. “A new colony, you say?”

  “Yes. A place all their own, a valley. I’ve never been there. Their leader, the man who hired me, gave me a map, but it blew away one night when I was studying on how to get there.” Blunt looked at Nate. “That’s the favor I’d like to ask. Unknown territory is always full of hazards for my wagons. I’m hoping you can lead me there and save me a lot of trouble.”

  “Where, exactly?” Nate asked.

  Blunt pointed to the northwest. “Up near the geyser country. The valley has a peculiar name, but their leader swears it’s a new Eden.”

  “What name?”

  “It’s called the Valley of Skulls.”

  “Zounds,” McNair said, and he did not sound pleased.

  “What’s the matter, Uncle Shakespeare?” Evelyn asked him. “Do you know of this place? You, too, Pa?”

  Nate nodded.

  “You look fit to choke,” Blunt said to McNair. “What do you know that I don’t? Why is it called the Valley of Skulls?”

  “It sounds spooky,” Evelyn said.

  Nate waited with everyone else for his mentor to speak. He knew some of the valley’s history but not all and he had long been curious.

  “To the Indians the valley is bad medicine,” Shakespeare began. “Not just to a few tribes, to all of them. Not one will go anywhere near it.”

  “That’s partly why the Shakers picked it,” Blunt said. “To be safe from hostiles. The other part is that the ground shakes from time to time, or so their leader told me. He heard about the valley from an acquaintance of John Coulter’s.”

  Nate met Coulter once. Coulter had been with the Lewis and Clark expedition and stayed on exploring after the pair returned to the States. Coulter was the first white man to ever set eyes on the hot springs and geysers that became known as Coulter’s Hell.

  Blunt had gone on. “Their leader—his name is Lexington, Arthur Lexington—took it as an omen. The way he told it to me is that the shaking ground is a sign from heaven that the valley is sacred to the Lord, and what better place for a colony of Shakers to live?”

  Evelyn fidgeted with impatience. “But no one has said why they call it the Valley of Skulls. Why won’t the Indians go there?”

  “Because, sweet angel,” Shakespeare said somberly, “nearly everyone who does dies.”

  Chapter Four

  The Shoshones, the Crows, the Nez Perce, and other tribes all had stories to tell about the Valley of Skulls. The stories varied as to the particulars, but all agreed on certain points.

  Long ago the valley was inhabited by a long-nosed race who wore crude hides and carried clubs and lived in the many caves on the sides of the valley and preyed on the animals that roamed the valley floor. This was in the days before Coyote created the first true people, back when there were many large and unusual and marvelous animals unlike any that lived now.

  Legend had it that when the early people tried to make friends with the Long Noses, the Long Noses rose up in fierce violence and drove the people out. As punishment, Coyote had the ground shake so hard that it killed all the Long Noses in their caves and all the strange animals on the valley floor.

  For many moons the early people stayed away from the valley, but then several made bold to explore and were amazed at what they found. Everywhere there were skeletons, picked clean as if by a swarm of buzzards. Giant skulls gleamed white, skulls of creatures the early people had never seen. The stench was horrible. Not the smell of the bones but the smell of the air itself. It made the early people cough and choke. They quickly left, and after that the valley became known as the Valley of Skulls.

  For ages now the neighboring tribes considered the valley bad medicine and tribal members were warned to stay out. A few hunters had strayed into it and never come out. Once a war party thought to use the valley as a shortcut to where they were going and only a few made it out alive. They reported that it was a vile place where the ground shook and strange fogs appeared.

  All this went through Nate’s mind as he listened to Shakespeare recount the legends.

  “Remarkable,” Jeremiah Blunt said. “But from what I understand, the Shakers have been living there awhile now and not had any problems. So what do you say, King? Are you willing to guide my train?”

  Nate would rather not. He would rather head for his own valley with Evelyn and his friends. He would rather be safe and snug in his cabin with his wife and family. But he owed this man, and he replied, “It will take us weeks, but I can get you there.”

  “Oh, goody!” Evelyn exclaimed in delight. “I want to see this mysterious valley for myself.”

 
“You’re not going anywhere near it,” Nate said.

  “What? Why not?”

  “Because your uncle Shakespeare is taking you and Waku and his family straight home.”

  “Aw, Pa.” Evelyn didn’t hide her annoyance. “It will be an adventure.”

  Shakespeare gave a rumbling laugh. “Haven’t you had enough excitement of late? You were lucky to escape those scalp hunters. You shouldn’t push your luck, little one.”

  Evelyn wouldn’t let it drop, but Nate refused to give in. That night after supper, he got up to stretch his legs and came on his daughter and Waku’s son, Degamawaku, over by the horses. They didn’t notice him and were talking in hushed tones. He didn’t want Evelyn to think he was snooping, so he started to back away.

  “It wrong not tell,” Dega said.

  “Trust me on this,” Evelyn responded.

  “It wrong,” Dega insisted.

  Nate saw his daughter clasp Dega’s hand.

  “You have a lot to learn about white ways. There is a time and a place, and this isn’t it.”

  Then Nate was out of earshot. He wondered what that was about and figured if it was anything important Evelyn would inform him. She rarely kept secrets.

  The next morning Shakespeare pumped Nate’s hand and said, “Don’t fret, Horatio. I’ll watch over her as if she were my own. I’ll get her to your cabin and she’ll be waiting there when you return.”

  “I know I can count on you.” There was no one Nate trusted more.

  Evelyn was still miffed. She hugged him and said, “I wish you would change your mind, Pa. I’ll behave. I’ll do whatever you tell me to. Only I’d really love to see this valley.”

  “No, and that’s final.”

  Still, it tugged at Nate’s heartstrings to stand there and smile and wave as they rode off.

  “I thank you for this,” Jeremiah Blunt said at his elbow. “As a father, I know what you must be going through.”

  “I gave you my word.”

  “A man after my own heart,” Blunt said, and smiled. “Now suppose we get under way? It will help if you keep busy.”

  Nate didn’t have much to do. He saddled the bay and was ready to ride well before the oxen were hitched and Blunt gave the order for the wagons to move out. He admired how the men bustled about and how efficiently they followed orders. There wasn’t a slackard in the bunch. Blunt had a lot to do with that; he gave a command once, in a quiet tone, and the men leaped to obey.

  At midday, when they stopped to rest the teams, Nate mingled with the freighters. There were twenty-two, a tough, taciturn bunch. They took turns either handling a wagon or riding flank and rear guard. To a man, they bristled with weapons and when riding guard were always alert.

  Nate commented at one point on how they worked so well together and a wiry bundle of vigor by the name of Haskell spat a wad of tobacco and said, “We have all been with the captain for more than a few years. He hires only the best and expects the best of us.”

  “You admire him, then.”

  “I’d die for him,” Haskell declared, “as would any man jack in this whole outfit.”

  The rest nodded or said that yes, they would.

  “He sure inspires loyalty,” Nate remarked.

  “Mr. King, you don’t know the half of it. Jeremiah Blunt is the cream of the captains. He treats us fair and pays us well and only asks that we do our jobs.”

  Nate came to learn that Haskell and a man called Trimble were Blunt’s lieutenants. Another bull-whacker worked as the wrangler and saw to the horses. There was a cook and swampers and others. Gradually they warmed to him, so that by the second week they were treating him as one of their own.

  Jeremiah Blunt commented on that one evening. “The men have taken a liking to you, King. They say you aren’t what they expected.”

  “How so?”

  “They haven’t gotten to know many mountain men. Oh, we see your kind from time to time, but we seldom go up into the mountains and mountain men seldom come down from the heights. To be honest, I am a bit surprised, myself.”

  “I don’t savvy.”

  “To be frank, your kind have a reputation for being—how shall I put this—crude.”

  “My mother raised me to have manners,” Nate joked.

  “It’s not just that. The stories we’ve heard, we thought mountain men never take baths and vomit obscenities with every other word out of their mouths.”

  Nate had often wondered how the mountaineers, as his kind liked to call themselves, came to be so widely regarded as smelly, foulmouthed brutes. He suspected it started back in the trapping days. One newspaper, as he recalled, had described trappers as “young and feckless savages who gather once a year to drink, brawl, and womanize.” While it was true the annual rendezvous had been one long celebration, the portrait painted wasn’t precise. For most of the year, the trappers worked their fingers to the frigid bone, laying and raising traps from cold streams and skinning and curing hides. During the winter months when many of the waterways were frozen and the beaver stayed warm in their lodges, the trappers stayed warm in their cabins and spent much of their time reading and discussing what they read. The Rocky Mountain College, as it was known. Nate had many fond memories of long and deep talks about everything under the sun. Sure, there were trappers whose only interest was drinking and brawling and who fit the common notion of being rough-hewn barbarians, but most were hardworking, earnest souls, and Nate had been proud to know them.

  “McNair and you both go against the grain,” Blunt was mentioning. “You are men of intelligence.”

  “I thank you for the compliment,” Nate responded, although he certaintly wasn’t as smart as Shakespeare. For that matter, he wasn’t as smart as his wife, Winona, who picked up new tongues as easy as could be and spoke English more fluently than he did.

  Just then the cook came up and reported to Blunt they were running out of fresh meat. Every few days men were picked to go hunt and they rarely returned empty-handed.

  “That’s where I can help the most,” Nate offered. “I’ll do your hunting for you.” He was good at tracking and knew the habits of the wild creatures better than most.

  “I accept,” Blunt said. “Only you’re never to go anywhere alone. I have a rule to that effect and no one is to break it. There must always be someone to watch your back.”

  “I’ve been living in the wilderness for years. I can take care of myself,” Nate assured him.

  “No doubt you can, but a rule is a rule. There are no exceptions. We do what is safe.” Blunt added with considerable pride, “I’ve never lost a man and I don’t intend to lose one on this run.”

  Haskell was assigned to go with Nate the next morning. They roved ahead of the train across open prairie. Now and again Nate swept the horizon with his spyglass, but game proved scarce.

  “We’ll reach the South Platte in a day or two,” Nate commented at one point. “From there we’ll strike out for the North Platte and then it’s over South Pass and on into the geyser country.”

  “What sort of hostiles are there to worry about?” Haskell asked. “On the Santa Fe Trail it’s Comanches and Apaches.”

  “To the northeast are the Sioux, who will kill you as soon as look at you,” Nate enlightened him. “To the north is the Blackfoot Confederacy. The Blackfeet, the Piegans, the Bloods, have all been out for white hide ever since Meriwether Lewis shot a Blackfoot years back.”

  “They sure hold a grudge,” Haskell said.

  “To the west are the Utes. They don’t like whites much, either. They tried making peace once, but the man the whites picked to parley shot the Ute chief from his horse.”

  “Why in hell did he do that?”

  “He hated the Utes for killing his brother. Ever since, the Utes haven’t trusted us worth a lick.”

  “I can’t say as I blame them.”

  Nate didn’t mention that the Utes trusted him. He had earned their trust the hard way, by proving he was worthy. Once, he bro
kered a truce between the Utes and another tribe. Another time, he hunted down and slew a grizzly that had been raiding Ute villages.

  “You like it out here, don’t you? The wilds, I mean?”

  “That I do,” Nate affirmed with a bob of his chin. “The free life agrees with me.”

  “I’m as free as you, but I’d never live where there are so many savages out to lift my hair and beasts that would like to rip my guts out and eat them.”

  “You’re wrong there,” Nate said.

  “Wrong where?”

  “About being as free as me. In the mountains a man lives as he pleases. There aren’t any laws. There aren’t any politicians to say ‘do this’ or ‘do that.’ There are no taxes or tolls to pay. We do what we want when we want. We let no one impose on us, ever, and are beholden to no one unless we want to be.”

  Haskell shrugged. “So what if there are laws I have to live by? They’re for the good of all.”

  “So they say. But every law is another bar in the invisible prison that pens men in.”

  “You have a peculiar outlook.”

  Nate wondered. Most men were like the freighter lieutenant, content to live as others wanted them to. He couldn’t stand being told what to do. To him, the free life was the only life worth living.

  “Say, what are those?” Haskell abruptly asked, and pointed.

  Far to the north stick figures moved. Nate drew rein and brought out his spyglass. “Riders,” he announced. “Ten or more.” He could make out lances and shields. “Indians.”

  “What tribe are they from?”

  “I can’t tell at this distance.”

  Haskell gazed about at the flat grassland. “There’s nowhere to hide. Do we run for it?”

  Nate adjusted the telescope, seeking to see the warriors better. “They’re heading east, not in our direction.” He lowered the spyglass. “We should be fine right where we are.”

  “Why have they stopped?”

  Nate looked. The entire band had indeed halted. He raised the spyglass and was disconcerted to discover the warriors had turned their mounts and were staring to the south—straight at Haskell and him.