~*~
Unknown to McNair, three miles to the south Nate King led Chavez and Two Humps into a narrow, arid valley in search of game. They had found deer sign earlier. The tracks had brought them to where they now sat staring in astonishment at other prints that bisected those of the buck and four does.
“Estrano,” Chavez said. “Very strange, señor. What do you make of them?”
“They weren’t kids,” Nate answered, dismounting. “The feet are too big.”
What made the new tracks so intriguing was that whoever made them had been barefoot. The prints overlapped because those responsible had been walking in single file, but Nate was able to distinguish seven different sets. He looked at the Nez Percé and signed, “Who are they?”
“Earth eaters,” Two Humps signed, his face screwed in contempt.
Nate had heard of them. Diggers, the trappers called them. A tribe as different from the Nez Percé and the Shoshone as night from day. Those who had encountered the Diggers claimed they were little better than animals, a wild, savage people given to running around naked and living off the land as best as their wits allowed. They were as poor as dirt but as crafty as wolves. And while they shunned well-armed parties of whites, they were not averse to springing an ambush if they thought they could get away with it.
“We must tell Shakespeare,” Nate proposed, moving to his stallion. To his understanding, the Diggers never settled in one spot for long. They were wanderers by nature, roaming an extensive area throughout the year, and always traveling in large packs. Where one was found, usually many more were nearby.
“Señor!” Chavez exclaimed, pointing.
Nate turned. The tracks crossed to a steep hill and climbed to the crest. Silhouetted against the pale blue sky were seven smallish, dark figures, all armed with bows and arrows.
Two Humps hefted his lance. The Nez Percé had no fondness for the Earth Eaters, with whom they had been fighting since time out of mind. He was more than willing to give the scrawny ones a fight if they wanted one.
The figures descended partway. The stoutest of them handed his bow to a fellow and walked slowly into the valley. Judging from his posture, he was ready to bolt at the first inkling of a threat to his life. He came within twenty feet and regarded them through eyes the color of coal.
Nate clasped his hands in front of his body, with the back of his left hand pointing down, to demonstrate they came in peace. He studied the Digger, a short, hairy specimen who wore a loincloth of rabbit skin. When the warrior didn’t react, he repeated the sign language.
The Digger raised his hand. “Question. You three alone?” he asked.
“No,” Nate answered. “We are with a big party of white men. A big party,” he emphasized.
Brow knitting, the Digger gazed past them toward the plain. “I see no one else,” he signed.
“They are out there,” Nate insisted, and immediately wanted to kick himself for stupidly telling the Digger where to find the expedition. To persuade the Digger to leave well enough alone, he added, ‘You would do well to stay away from them. They have many rifles that shoot far.”
“Our bows shoot far,” the Digger signed. “And we have many of them.”
There was a challenge in the hairy warrior’s tone that Nate disliked. “How many of you are there?” he asked, wanting an idea of their numbers.
“Many,” was all the Digger signed. He glanced at the Nez Percé, grunted like a wild boar, then turned and jogged off.
Chavez had a hand on one of his dueling pistols. “What was that all about, Señor King?”
“He was taking our measure,” Nate said, swinging into the saddle. He rode down the valley, glancing over a shoulder once to see the Diggers disappear over the crest. They were fetching more warriors. Nate felt it in his bones. He also felt trouble loomed.
The three miles to the Snake were made at a gallop. Their horses lathered with sweat, they drew rein at the head of the column where McNair rode with Porter and Clark.
“Tarnation,” Shakespeare said. “Was the Devil himself after you, or were you trying to ruin three good horses?” He was cheerful, but he suspected the truth and made no comment until Nate was done. “It was dumb luck and can’t be helped. They call themselves the Shoshokos. I’ve had dealings with them before. In their own way they’re as bad as Apaches. We have to find a place we can defend.”
Which wasn’t easy to do in the middle of a high plateau plain. There were gullies and gorges galore, but none were suitable. Most had no outlet, or were too steep, or too narrow. The sun sank lower and lower to the west, their shadows rippling over the ground in their wake.
“I was afraid of this,” Shakespeare said. “We’ll have to camp in the open and pray for the best.”
Just as the mountain man spoke, to the northwest reared a knoll with a flat top. Twenty feet high, sheer on three sides, it was as likely a spot as they were going to find. The horses were herded into the center and contained within a rope corral. Spare guns were passed out, extra ammunition to those who wanted it.
No fires were lit at Shakespeare’s orders, a wasted precaution, as it turned out. Supplies and saddles were stacked at the top of the slope. Behind these the men waited, except for rivermen posted at intervals along the rim.
Nate found it hard to sleep. Frequently he checked on his family, who slept fitfully nearby. The distant wail of wolves, the wavering yip of coyotes, the snarls of painters, they all took on new, ominous meaning. Toward the middle of the night, as he fought off a wave of drowsiness, yet another coyote added its cry to the bestial chorus, and he heard Shakespeare stir beside him.
“They’re coming.”
“That was one?”
“Be my guess.”
“Sounded like an ordinary coyote to me,” Nate said.
“Whose ears are you going to trust? Yours, which are still lined with peach fuzz? Or mine, as sharp as an owl’s and the envy of Indians everywhere?”
Nate would have laughed had the darkness not come alive with furtive sounds; rustling, stealthy padding, and faint scuffling. He jabbed Chavez with an elbow and the tracker woke up. “We have company.”
The word passed along the makeshift wall. Flintlocks were readied, pistols laid out within easy reach.
Porter and Clark were on McNair’s right. They made the most noise, the younger man coughing loudly, the older announcing when no announcement was needed, “Hold your fire, men, until we give the signal.”
Shakespeare pivoted. “Yell a little louder, why don’t you? There must be someone down to Mexico who didn’t hear you.”
Presently the horses set to nickering and stomping their hooves, as they did when they smelled something they didn’t like. Shakespeare snapped his fingers, said “Damn me for an idiot!” and dashed off toward the rope corral. “Follow me, Nate.”
Nate did automatically. He didn’t know what they were doing, but long ago he’d learned to trust his mentor implicitly. It never occurred to him to waste time asking questions that would shortly be answered anyway. They ran to a point northwest of the corral.
The horses were acting frightened, milling about with nostrils flaring, ears pricked.
“Those crafty coons,” Shakespeare said.
“Who?”
“The Shoshokos. They’re trying to stampede the herd. Probably have themselves a painter skin or grizzly hide, and one of them is upwind waving it around so the wind carries it to our stock.”
Nate thought of the consequences should the Indians succeed. The horses would burst through the rope and down the slope, trampling anything and everything in their path, which would include the barrier and all those lined up along it who didn’t get out of the way in time. “What can we do?”
“Fight fire with fire.”
“How?”
“Live and learn, Horatio,” Shakespeare said. Bending, he picked up handfuls of loose dirt and tossed them into the air. Again and again he did the same. The dirt fell just outside the rope, but p
uffs of dust were blown among the horses by the stiff breeze.
Nate comprehended, and snickered. The scent of the dust would deaden the smell of the painter or grizzly. He joined in, throwing handful after handful, covering twenty yards northward and then reversing and going southward again. It took a while, but the horses quieted.
“You’re a genius,” Nate said.
“Being savvy is a matter of how old you are,” Shakespeare responded. “The longer a man lives, the more experience he has under his belt. A hoss my age, why, I’ve enough experience to fill a book as big as the works of old William S.”
“I’ll remember this trick,” Nate said.
Before returning to the others they made a circuit of the horses, checking on the four rivermen posted around the perimeter. None reported any movement or sounds.
Back at the barricade, everyone was awake. Winona and Blue Water Woman were passing out jerky to the men. Nate accepted a piece from his wife and sat down. Zach came and squatted between him and Chavez.
“When will they attack, Pa?”
“They might not,” Nate said. “Once they realize how many of us there are and how many guns we have, maybe they’ll turn tail and make themselves scarce.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?” Zach asked. A while back he had learned that sometimes his folks told him things that weren’t necessarily so, just to calm his fears.
“No,” Nate admitted without hesitation. He figured that if his son was old enough to ask such questions, then the boy was old enough to be told the truth. “I’ve heard tell the Diggers aren’t very fond of white men.”
Shakespeare, overhearing, added, “They’re not. Haven’t been since Joe Walker trekked to California a few years ago. He had about sixty men with him, as I recollect, and they stumbled on some Shoshokos. Before long there were eight or nine hundred dogging his heels. He tried to bluff his way out, and when that didn’t work, he had his men charge.”
“Gosh!” Zach said. “They must have been awful brave to go up against so many warriors.”
“When your back is to the wall, son, you’d be surprised how brave you can be,” Shakespeare said. “But yes, they were a courageous bunch, and they licked those Shoshokos fair and square. Killed over thirty, if memory serves.” He bit off some jerky and talked with his mouth crammed. “Course, you have to remember that few of the Shoshokos knew what a gun was. All that noise and smoke scared them something terrible.”
“Which means these won’t be so easy to frighten off,” Zach inferred.
“That’s about the size of it, I’m afraid.”
An hour went by. Two. Nate peered into the darkness so intently his eyes hurt, but he saw no sign of the Diggers. As the night waned and no attack came, he tried telling himself the Indians were gone and the expedition could continue on at first light.
Then pale pink streaks brightened the eastern horizon, streaks that became bands, the bands spreading until the east half of the sky glowed bright enough to reveal the knoll and the adjoining plain.
“Mon Dieu!” LeBeau blurted out.
Nate heard similar oaths up and down the line. He would have swore himself had his son not been at his elbow.
“What are we going to do, Pa?” Zach asked.
The knoll was surrounded by Shoshokos. Under cover of darkness they had snuck within bow range and formed a gigantic ring. There were over two hundred, all kneeling, all armed with bows and arrows. Most were hairy and had small frames. About half wore loincloths; the rest were naked. They stared at the top of the knoll, showing no hostility but no friendliness either.
“We’re dead men,” Adam Clark said.
“Shut your mouth,” Shakespeare chided, glancing at Zach. “So long as we’re breathing we have a chance.”
“Against that many?” Clark stubbornly said. “Old man, living in the wild so long has scrambled your thinking. All those savages have to do is fire a few flights of arrows, and they’ll make pincushions out of all of us.”
Shakespeare almost lost his temper. When he was younger he had done so regularly. But he rarely did so anymore, which was fortunate for Clark or he would have bashed the greenhorn in the head with his rifle stock. “Figured that out all by yourself, did you?” he responded. “Maybe it’s also occurred to you that if they wanted us dead, we’d already be pincushions. They must want something from us.”
“Look,” Nate said as one of the Diggers stood and advanced. “It’s the same one I talked to yesterday.”
The grimy Shoshoko held his arms out from his sides to show he was unarmed. Ten feet from the stacked supplies, he halted and employed sign language. “I am Coyote’s Brother of the Shoshokos. I would talk to your chief.”
Shakespeare nodded at Nate. “You handle it. Porter doesn’t speak sign and wouldn’t know what to say if he did.”
“The hell I don’t,” Porter said. “I’d order the heathens to disperse or else.”
“Or else they wipe us out?” Shakespeare shook his head. “No-sir-reee. Let us take care of the parlay. We can talk to them on their own terms.”
Nate handed his Hawken to his son and rose. “I am Grizzly Killer. Why have your people crept up on us during the night? Why do you block our way?
Coyote’s Brother ignored the questions and posed one of his own. “Are you the chief? Why did you not say so before? Was the white man afraid to say who he is?”
“Does a chief have to tell everyone he meets?” Nate said. “Now you know. So answer me. What do your people want?”
The Shoshoko resented being addressed like a misbehaving child. “We must speak as equals. As friends.”
“First you must prove you are friendly. Tell your warriors to go the distance two arrows can fly and stand in the open where we can see them.”
“We will later. Now you and I will talk.” Coyote’s Brother stood on tiptoe to see beyond the barrier. “Your people are very rich. My people are very poor. We would like to trade with you.”
“What do you want?”
“One hundred guns. Fifty knives. And half of your horses.” The demand was uttered calmly, without malice.
“My fellow chief jokes with me,” Nate replied. “He knows we cannot trade so much. Say again, and this time say what is in your heart.”
“That is in my heart.”
“Then your own heart jokes with you. Would you give up one hundred bows, fifty knives, and half of your horses to anyone who asked for them?”
“We are willing to give you something of equal value.”
Nate caught himself before he laughed aloud. “You have just said your people are poor. What could you have to trade that we would want?”
A sly smile curled the Shoshoko’s face. His next statement was perplexing in the extreme. “There are women with you.”
Neither Winona nor Blue Water Woman had shown themselves. Nate couldn’t see how the Digger knew, unless they had spied on the expedition the afternoon before. He didn’t answer, waiting to see where the palaver would lead.
“Do not think to deny it,” Coyote’s Brother signed. “We know. We can smell them.” His smile widened and he sniffed loudly. “They are not white.”
“Your scouts saw them,” Nate said gruffly, irritated by the game the hairy man played. “One is my wife, one the wife of another beaver man.” An appalling idea hit him. “And they are not for trade. Not now, not ever.”
Now it was the Shoshoko’s turn to look as if he was about to split a gut. “We have more than enough women of our own. We do not want yours.” He idly rubbed his hard belly. “But perhaps you would like another?”
“I am content with the one wife I have.”
“The woman we want to trade is special.”
“In what way?”
The warrior’s hands stabbed the air. “She is special because she is white.”
Thirteen
For Indians to take white women captive was not uncommon. As more and more greenhorns headed for the Promised Land, more a
nd more encountered hostile tribes and either paid with their lives or were adopted. Women and children, at any rate. Men were usually killed outright, suffering the most devious torture imaginable.
As yet, however, the number of women going west was relatively low. Whenever one was captured, it soon became common knowledge, the word spreading from fort to fort, from camp fire to camp fire, so that all mountaineers would be on the lookout for her.
There had been no reports of missing white women in months. No one at Fort Hall had mentioned a recent abduction, and despite the ill will between the British and the Americans, the HBC men would have made a point of letting the Porter/Clark expedition know.
So it was that Nate King greeted the Shoshoko chief’s claim with skepticism. “You have taken one of our women?” he signed. “Why have we not heard of it?”
“You are the first white man we have told.”
“Bring her, that we may see for ourselves.”
“We will,” Coyote’s Brother signed, “but first we want to know what you will give for her. We want one hundred rifles, fifty knives, and half your horses.”
The demand had come full circle. Nate suspected a trick, but rather than brand the warrior a blatant liar, he signed, “Would you trade for something, sight unseen? No. You would ask to see what you were trading for to be sure it is worth what you would pay. You must let us see this woman, or we cannot make you an offer.”
“You will want to trade much for her. She is very beautiful.”
Nate signed, “If that is so, why do you want to part with her? Beautiful women are cherished by all tribes. Are the Shoshokos so different that they do not like beauty?”
“She is very beautiful by white standards,” Coyote’s Brother amended. “She is not so beautiful by ours.”
“Explain.”
The warrior showed uncertainty for the first time. He bit his lower lip, looked back at the ring of watching Diggers, and seemed to derive courage from their presence. “Our people have dark hair and dark skin. Our women have dark hair and dark skin. This is as it should be, as it has always been. We are happy, and it brings us good medicine.”
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