The Tears of God

by David Thompson

  “The fools,” Maklin whispered.

  Nate stood and held the Hawken out from his side. “Hail the fire!” he called down. “We are friendly and we’d like a word with you.”

  The four leaped to their feet. The girl and boy ran to the mother while the father picked up a rifle and stepped between his family and the rim, shielding his family with his body. “Who’s that? Who’s out there?”

  “My name is Nate King. I am with some freighters who are camped to the south. May I come down?”

  “So long as you do it nice and slow and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Nate took a few steps and thought to add, “I have another man with me. Is it all right if we both descend?”

  “The same applies to your friend.”

  Nate smiled to show he was friendly. He took in the sorry state of their effects and noted that their packs were tied with twine and not rope. Up close, he could see that the man’s coat and the woman’s dress had been patched many times over. “How do you do, folks?”

  “Gosh,” the boy said, peeking past his mother. “He looks almost Indian, Ma.”

  “Be polite,” the woman cautioned.

  “Well, he does.”

  “Quiet, Phillip,” the father said sternly. He hadn’t lowered his rifle. “What do you want, mister? If it’s food, we’ll share. But we don’t have much.”

  “We already ate, thanks,” Nate said. “I wanted to warn you. There are Pawnees in the area. It’s not safe.”

  “I have this,” the man said, wagging his rifle, “and I am a fair shot if I say so myself. Injuns don’t worry me.”

  Maklin said, “They would if you had any sense.”

  “Here, now,” the man bristled. “I won’t be insulted. Who are you, anyhow? What do you know?”

  “I know you are loco to be out here alone like this.”

  “We’re on our way to Oregon. There’s land to be had. Good land, fertile land. The crops practically grow themselves, folks say.”

  “You’re a farmer,” Nate guessed.

  “Yes, sir. Wendell is my name. We hail from Missouri. Our county got so dry last year we lost our farm. In Oregon we aim to start over. I hear they never lack for rain.”

  “You’ll never live to reach it,” Maklin said.

  Wendell took exception. “What a cruel thing to say, with my wife and young’ns standing right there.”

  Maklin turned to Nate. “Tell them. Make them see.”

  “Make us see what?” the farmer demanded.

  Nate smiled at the mother and the children to try and put them at ease. “He’s concerned for your family. You should be with a wagon train, not by yourselves.”

  “It costs money to sign on with a train,” Wendell said. “It costs money for a wagon and money for a team and money for supplies, and money is one thing we are short of.”

  Nate could see that for himself. “You’re taking a risk.” Which was putting it mildly.

  “You think I don’t know that?” Wendell countered. “I’m not dumb. I talked it over with Maddy and she agreed we would cross the prairie as quick as we could and stick to cover once we’re in the mountains. By sticking close to the Oregon Trail we should be in Oregon in five to six weeks.”

  Nate felt sorry for them. They thought they had it all worked out, but they were infants. “The Sioux, the Blackfeet, they know the routes the whites like to use.”

  “We’re being careful,” Wendell insisted, and motioned at the basin. “We made our fire where nobody can see, didn’t we?”

  “We saw it,” Nate said.

  “It’s too late for us to turn back.”

  Nate knew that the dangers ahead were far worse than anything they had experienced so far. “Listen to me. Here’s an idea. Join the freight train I’m with. Their captain won’t mind. After I’ve guided them to where they want to go, I’ll take you to a valley where my family and I live. You can stay with us, rest up a spell, and then we’ll take you to the Oregon Trail and lend you the money to join a wagon train.”

  “We don’t have a wagon,” Maddy said.

  “We’ll ask the wagon master if you can ride with them anyway. Odds are he won’t mind.”

  “You would do that?” Wendell asked.

  Nate had more than enough in his poke at home. “I would do that.”

  “But you don’t know me from Adam.”

  Maklin stepped past Nate. “What the hell is the matter with you? He’s giving you a chance to go on breathing and you quibble?”

  “Watch your tone,” Wendell said.

  The Texan pointed at the woman and children. “Think of them, damn you. Think of her after she’s been raped and had her throat slit. Think of your boy and girl there after they’ve been cut to bits.”

  Wendell shook with fury. “How dare you talk to me like that? With my family right there. Who in hell do you think you are?” He started to jerk his rifle to his shoulder.

  Maklin’s hand flicked and a pistol was in it and pointed at Wendell, who froze in consternation. “Your temper is liable to get you killed someday, farmer. Set your long gun on the ground.”

  Reluctantly, Wendell tucked at the knees and carefully placed his rifle on the grass. As he unfurled he said, “I don’t like you. I don’t like you a whole lot.”

  “Forget about me. It’s King, here, you should heed. Take him up on his offer or you’ll live to regret it.”

  “I will do as I please,” Wendell said.

  Nate was as bewildered as the farmer. “Both of you need to calm down,” he advised.

  “I am perfectly calm,” Maklin said. “I just can’t stand to see this woman lose her life because her husband is too stupid to know when he’s being dumb. They’ll never make it to Oregon on their own. You know it and I know it and I wish to God they did.” Suddenly stepping back, Maklin slid the pistol under his belt, wheeled, and melted into the darkness.

  “Goodness gracious,” Maddy breathed. “What on earth got into him?”

  Nate was wondering the same thing. “I’ll go have a talk with him. In the meantime, you two hash it over and decide.” He turned partway. “He’s right, though. On your own you’re easy prey for every hostile who comes along. You would be a lot safer with the freighters.” He walked up the slope and nearly tripped over Maklin, who had squatted on the rim. “What got into you down there?”

  The Texan didn’t answer.

  “Why did you talk to him like that? It was bound to make him mad.”

  “He’s a fool.”

  “He’s doing what he can. We can’t fault him for wanting a better life for his family.”

  “We can fault him for getting them killed, which he sure as hell will do unless he has more brains than I give him credit for.”

  Nate leaned on the Hawken. “There’s more to it than that. I saw how you looked at that woman.”

  “I don’t want her dead.”

  “What is she to you that you care so much? You just met her.”

  “She’s noting to me. She’s female, though, and females shouldn’t have to go through that.”

  “Go through what?” Nate wished he could see Maklin’s face, but it was hidden by the black hat’s wide brim.

  “What hostiles will do to her if they get their hands on her.” Maklin bowed his head and said quietly, “I told you my wife is dead. I didn’t tell you how she died.”

  Nate had an inkling and quickly said, “If you don’t care to talk about it, that’s fine.”

  “No. I want you to know. I want you to understand why that farmer made me so damn mad.” Maklin’s voice dropped lower. “The Comanches got hold of her, Nate. The Lipans and the Comanches have been enemies for as long as anyone can remember. They exterminate each other on sight.”

  “The Shoshones have their enemies, too.” To Nate’s knowledge all tribes did.

  When it came to hate, the white and the red were more alike than either was willing to admit.

  “Na-lin was off with four other women
picking berries and they were taken by surprise. They ran, and one of the women hid in the bushes. She saw what happened.” Maklin paused. “The Comanches caught Na-lin and the others. Na-lin fought them. She drew her knife and cut a warrior, so they threw her down and did things…” Maklin stopped.

  “No need to tell me more.”

  “I couldn’t if I wanted to.”

  “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” Nate retraced his step to the bottom of the basin. They were waiting, the four of them, the father and mother with their arms around their children. “Have you decided?”

  “Yes, we have,” Wendell said. “We thank you for your offer, but we will continue on our own. It’s not that we don’t trust you—”

  “But we don’t know you,” Maddy quickly explained.

  “So we figure to keep going on our own,” Wendell finished. He grinned and shrugged. “Heck, we’ve made it this far, we’ll make it the rest of the way.”

  “God help you,” Nate King said.

  Chapter Seven

  “Are those buzzards?” Jeremiah Blunt wondered.

  Nate King had been deep in thought. He was thinking of Evelyn and the Nansusequa and hoping Shakespeare got them home safely. Now he glanced at the captain and then in the direction Blunt was staring and a chill rippled down his spine. To the northeast vultures were circling, an awful lot of them.

  The freight wagons had been under way an hour and were strung out in single file.

  Maklin rode on Nate’s left. He had been with Nate since Nate woke up, at Blunt’s orders, Nate suspected. Now the Texan swore and said, “That’s about where we ran into that dirt farmer and his family.”

  “I’ll catch up,” Nate told Blunt, and brought the bay to a gallop. His shadow stayed with him. In due course they were close enough that Nate could see the bald heads and hooked beaks of the winged carrion eaters. He hoped against hope, but when he drew rein at the basin’s rim, his hopes were dashed. “God, no.”

  “I hate idiots,” Maklin said.

  Nate gigged the bay down. A score of vultures rose into the air, flapping heavily, disturbed from their feast

  The scent of so much fresh blood caused the bay to shy and snort. Nate had to calm it to get it to go all the way to the bottom. The gore, the viscera, the abominable things that had been done, churned his stomach. He came close to being violently sick.

  “This wasn’t no ordinary butchery,” the Texan remarked.

  Nate nodded, his mouth too dry to speak. The family had been tortured, tortured horribly, and then hacked and cut and chopped, even the little girl and boy.

  Maklin asked the pertinent question. “Was it the Pawnees or someone else?”

  Nate slid down. He tried to avoid stepping in the blood, but there was so much it was impossible. The killers had stepped in the blood, too, leaving footprints. He examined them.

  No two tribes made their footwear the same way. A person would think that feet were feet, but each tribe had a distinct shape and stitch. Cheyenne moccasins were wider across the ball of the foot and tapered at the toes and the heel. Crow moccasins were a crescent. On Sioux moccasins the toes all curved inward. Pawnee moccasins were usually shorter than most others and narrowed from about the middle of the foot to the heel.

  The footprints in the blood were short and narrowed from about the middle of the foot to the heel.

  “Now we know,” Maklin said.

  Nate bowed his head. This was Kuruk’s doing. He was as sure of it as he was of anything.

  “He’s rubbing your nose in his hate. Letting you know what he has in store for you.”

  Choked with emotion, Nate vowed, “Not if I kill him first.”

  The Texan nudged a severed finger with his toes. “This reminds me of what the Comanches did to Na-lin.” He swore under his breath. “What kind of world is it that things like this can happen?”

  Nate didn’t have an answer. He had long since stopped trying to figure it out. The best he could do, the best any man could do, was protect his loved ones as best he could from the cruelties life threw at him.

  “Are you fixing to go after them?”

  Nate considered. The freighters were on open prairie and had days of easy travel before they would reach South Pass. They didn’t need him right now. “Your boss won’t mind you tagging along?”

  “He was the one who told me to stick to you like prickly pear.” Maklin confirmed Nate’s earlier hunch. “He doesn’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “I told him I don’t need a nursemaid.”

  “All I’m to do is watch your back.”

  “It might take a lot of watching.”

  Maklin motioned at the slaughter. “Do you want to bury them or leave them for the scavengers?”

  “We’ll do it on the way back.” To Nate the important thing was to catch the culprits.

  Their trail was plain enough. Eleven horses left a lot of tracks. They led to the north for over a mile and then off to the northeast.

  Nate and Maklin went another mile and the Texan remarked, “Looks to me as if they’re heading for Pawnee territory.”

  Nate thought so, too. Unless it was a ruse and Kuruk intended to circle back later.

  “They’re moving awful fast. It could take us days to catch them, if we ever do.”

  Nate came to a stop. Leaning on his saddle, he frowned.

  “You’re doing the right thing,” Maklin said.

  “By giving up?”

  “By being smart. This smells of a trick. Could be this Kuruk aims to lure you into Pawnee territory.”

  Nate felt his jaw muscles twitch.

  “It’s not as if that dirt farmer and his family were kin of yours. As you reminded me last night, you only just met them.”

  “For a man who doesn’t talk much, you have a leaky mouth.”

  Maklin grinned. “My boss says I’m to keep you alive. We keep on going and that might prove hard. Do we use our heads or do we lose them?”

  “We turn back and bury what’s left.”

  It was pushing sundown when they caught up with the freight wagons. Jeremiah Blunt took the news in grim spirit. “You did what you could. Their souls are in the Lord’s hands now.”

  Nate blamed himself in part for the tragedy. Maybe if he had been more insistent, Wendell and his family would still be alive. But what else could he have done short of forcing them to join the freight train at the point of a gun?

  By the next morning Nate had come to terms with his guilt. Blunt and Maklin were right; he had done all he could. Wendell and Maddy had brought it on themselves by not heeding his advice. The wilderness was a harsh mistress. She was cruel and merciless. Simpletons were fodder for her claws and fangs. The timid fell to her tomahawks and knives. Some people were too naive to see the thorns. Like Wendell, they relied on the hand of Providence or on luck to keep them alive. It never occurred to them that to a hungry grizzly or a hostile out to count coup, Providence didn’t matter a lick. Luck was more fickle than the weather. To rely on chance when one’s life was at stake was to have a secret death wish.

  Day followed day without further incident. Nate got to know the freighters well.

  On a sunny morning they started the climb to South Pass, which wasn’t much of a climb at all. When most easterners thought of a pass, they thought of a gap high on a mountain range. South Pass was the exception. The prairie rolled upward as gently as could be to the Continental Divide and then down the other side. To the north were the jagged peaks of the Wind River Range; to the south the land peaked to form the mileshigh backbone of the Rockies.

  South Pass was the one point where wagons could cross from one side of the Divide to the other with ease. Thousands of emigrants bound for Oregon and California had left the ruts of their passage. They had left other things, too. A stove, a grandfather clock, an anvil, tokens that even an easy climb had taxed teams pulling overburdened wagons.

  Beyond lay a sage-sprinkled valley. The main trail bore to the southwest for a
number of miles before it jagged to the northwest again and eventually brought travelers to Fort Hall.

  Nate and the freighters left the trail shortly after South Pass, making for the rugged mountains to the north. From that point on, the freighters relied on Nate to guide them. Few whites had ever ventured into the geyser country. The tales of steaming springs and spouts of hot water hundreds of feet high had brought the region the label of “hell on earth.” No one ever went there, which had Nate wondering about the Shakers.

  Nate had been to the area twice. Both times he had taken the same route, north up Bridger Basin and then along the Green River to where it flowed down out of the Green River Range. From there on it was solid mountain travel.

  Nate chose a different route this time. He had them cross a low unnamed range and follow a long, winding valley to the banks of the Gros Ventre River. By paralleling it they didn’t want for water or graze, and while now and then the men had to wield axes to clear the way, the going was easier than on the slopes above.

  The oxen were unflagging, but their progress, through no fault of theirs, was slow.

  The mountains were magnificent. Peaks that towered almost three miles into the sky. Slopes forested thick with spruce and fir and stands of shimmering aspens. Meadows that ran riot with the colors of wildflowers.

  Wildlife was everywhere. Black-tailed deer raised their tails in alarm and bounded off. Elk hid in the deep thickets. Bear sign told of black bears and grizzlies. Eagles ruled the air. Hawks dived for prey. Ravens squawked and flapped. Squirrels in the trees and squirrels on the ground scampered and chattered. Songbirds warbled an avian orchestra.

  They were now deep in the heart of the Gros Ventre Range. To the northwest were the Tetons. Beyond, the spectacular geyser country. The Valley of Lost Skulls was at its southernmost edge.