Gray Badger appeared surprised. “No. Why do you ask me this?”
“Just a thought I had,” Nate signed.
They had to go around a sharp curve in the stream, past a gravel bar bordered by thick mud. Nate was halfway across when he spied several gigantic prints in the mud that hadn’t been there when he went downstream. Halting, he measured the length and breadth with his hand, then whistled in amazement. The grizzly’s front paws were seven inches long, the hind paws fourteen inches in length. The claws were five inches alone. A truly gargantuan beast by any standard.
“I am glad I did not meet this bear,” Gray Badger signed. “He would have swallowed me whole.”
Nate grinned to be polite. Deep down, though, he was immensely troubled. Bears were roamers by nature, foraging far afield to fill their stomachs. Often when they encountered humans and were shot at, they went elsewhere until the humans left the area. This one had stayed, indicating the grizzly regarded the valley as its home. Bears always had one place they liked to come back to, a special den where they holed up in cold weather and bore their young. There must be just such a den somewhere in the valley.
Nate ran a finger along the bottom of one of the prints, guessing how long it had been there by the texture and dryness of the mud. Under an hour, he concluded, and scanned the mountain flanking the gravel strip in case the grizzly was watching them from on high.
Gray Badger was doing the same. “I lost an uncle to a great bear two winters ago. My favorite uncle, and he was slashed in half, his face eaten. My father and others wanted to go after it and kill it, but he would not let us.”
“Who would not?” Nate signed absently while scouring the underbrush.
“He who is High Chief of all the Crows.”
Had Nate been paying more attention, he might have attached more importance to the comment. But since tribes often had several chiefs, he let the remark go by. Later he would regret not prying to obtain more information. For now, he hurried to camp to let Shakespeare and the greenhorn know about the bear. The stream widened into a wide pool, and out in the middle sat a large beaver lodge. He hardly noticed, but the boy did.
“Question? Will you tell me something, Grizzly Killer?”
“If I can,” Nate signed.
“Why are beaver hides so important to you whites? Why do you leave your own country and come to ours to catch them?”
Thinking the questions stemmed from the youth having seen him set traps, Nate answered as simply as he could. “Our women like beaver as much as Crow women like beads and red blankets. Our men use beaver to trade for things they want, much as Crow men do with horses.”
“But why beaver, of all the animals?” Gray Badger asked, still perplexed. “Buffalo robes keep us warmer, bear hides are thicker and last longer, deer hides smell better when wet. Beaver hides are not special.”
“True,” Nate said. He wanted to explain about the white man’s sense of fashion, and how beaver fur was all the rage in the States and over in Europe, but the concept was alien to Indian thought. There was no sign language equivalent for the English word “fashion.” Indians were primarily interested in functional clothes, which was why the vast majority wore buckskin shirts and leggings and dresses.
“Then why?” Gray Badger persisted, his tone implying it was of earthshaking importance.
Nate glanced at him. “Some things are hard to explain. The best I can do is tell you that whites value beaver as highly as Crows value buffalo.”
Through the trees the clearing appeared. The boy missed a stride, recovered, and moved a little closer to Nate. “Are you sure your friends will welcome me in peace?”
“No one will harm you.”
McNair was rummaging in a parfleche. Tim Curry was honing his knife on a whetstone. Both looked up on hearing footsteps and both did a double take.
“We have company,” Nate announced.
“So I see,” Shakespeare said, smiling at the Crow. “Where the dickens did you find the whippersnapper?”
“He found me.”
Tim sat straighter, studying the boy with ill-concealed mistrust. “What’s he doing here? Are we close to a village and don’t even know it?”
“I haven’t been able to get a whole lot out of him,” Nate admitted. “But I think we have a runaway on our hands.”
“Do tell,” Shakespeare said, pulling pemmican from the parfleche. “Maybe I’ll have better luck. I speak Crow fairly well.”
“You never have told me about the time you spent among them,” Nate mentioned. The last he’d counted, McNair was conversant with five Indian tongues and knew another three or four well enough to get by in a pinch.
“My abject apology,” Shakespeare said with mock gravity. “Had I known you were supposed to know every little thing about me, I would have sat down long ago and made you a list of all I’ve done and learned over the years.” Twisting, he saw the boy hungrily eyeing his pemmican. “Care for some?” he asked in the Crow tongue.
Gray Badger took a step backward and put a hand over his mouth, expressing astonishment.
“Yes, I know your language,” Shakespeare went on amiably. “It is one of the easiest tongues for white men to learn. We can use it without twisting our tongues into knots.” He took a bite of the pemmican, a popular Indian food made by pounding dry meat to a fine consistency and mixing it with melted animal fat.
Nate guessed what McNair was up to and commented, “I’ve already fed him jerky.”
“Oh?” Shakespeare held out the pemmican and the boy snatched it. “I haven’t met a coon his age yet who doesn’t have a bottomless pit for a stomach.”
Tim Curry was troubled and voiced his feelings. “Should we be doing this? What if he was sent by a war party to spy on us? For all we know there are hordes of braves lurking in the woods right this instant, waiting for this boy’s signal before they pounce.”
“You missed your calling, Troilus,” Shakespeare responded. “With the imagination you have, you should be a fiction writer like James Fenimore Cooper instead of a trapper.”
“I’m serious. I’ve heard tell Indians try tricks like this.”
Shakespeare slowly stood. “Your life will be a whole lot happier, son, if you believe only half of what you see and a third of what you hear.”
Annoyed at being taken so lightly, Tim turned away and folded his arms across his chest. “Fine,” he said. “Treat me like an idiot. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when we’re set upon and wind up being burned at the stake.”
Neither Nate nor McNair felt compelled to inform the greenhorn that they had never heard of a single instance in which a white man had met his end in that particular manner. Nate poured himself a cup of coffee while Shakespeare watched the famished boy eat.
“What are we going to do?” Nate inquired. “We can’t just keep him around. Sooner or later a search party is bound to show up.” He took a sip. “If only we knew what brought him to the valley.”
“Let’s find out,” Shakespeare said, and switched to the Crow language. “We are very curious, my young friend. We would like to know what you are doing here. And where we can find your village.”
The boy had been chewing heartily. He stopped, suddenly downcast, and fixed his gaze on the ground. “If I tell you, you will make me go back. He will be mad and punish me. I will be beaten.”
“Who will? Your father?” Shakespeare asked, convinced the boy was lying. Many years ago he’d spent two winters living with Crows and learned that it was against tribal custom for parents to use corporal punishment on their children.
“No. Invincible One will order it done.”
“Is that the name of your chief?”
“It is the name …” Gray Badger began, lifting his head, and abruptly stopped, fear lining his smooth features as he looked over McNair’s right shoulder.
Shakespeare spun, dreading the grizzly had returned. Instead, he found the clearing partially ringed by a score of somber Crow warriors.
> Chapter Four
Nate King was in the act of removing six traps from a pack so he could set them later in the day when he heard the boy’s sharp intake of breath. He glanced up, then swiftly rose, his Hawken in hand. As yet none of the Crows had brought a weapon to bear, but their expressions did not bode well. Sidling closer to the sulking greenhorn, he nudged Curry with a toe.
“What do you want?” Tim asked brusquely while staring off in space.
“We have more visitors.”
Tim shifted, cursed, and went for one of his pistols. His hand was closing on the butt when Nate’s hand clamped on his shoulder.
“Don’t be a fool. There are too many. They’d fill us full of arrows before you got off a shot.”
“What do we do, then?” Tim whispered.
“We let them make the first move,” Nate said, “and pray to high heaven they’re friendly.”
“Maybe we should make a run for it,” Tim proposed. “If we can get to the horses before they do, they’ll never catch us. They’re all on foot.”
“You’re not up to running with your ankle in the shape it is,” Nate reminded him. “And for all we know, their mounts are back in the trees.”
“We can’t just do nothing!”
“That’s exactly what we will do,” Nate said. “We don’t want to provoke them if we can avoid it. We have too much to lose.”
“Don’t worry on my account.”
“I was thinking of the horses and all our gear.” Nate took a step to the left so he would have a clear shot as the Crows warily advanced. He pegged a stocky man with an arrogant strut as the leader of the band, and he didn’t care for the way the man openly sneered at them.
Shakespeare’s rifle lay propped on his saddle. He edged toward it while proclaiming, “Greetings to our Crow brothers! Come, join us for coffee and pemmican. There is plenty to go around.”
On hearing their own tongue, the Crows halted to a man. The stocky brave, who held a fusee, cocked his head and demanded, “Who are you, white man, and how do you know our tongue?”
“My Indian name is Wolverine,” Shakespeare disclosed, “and I learned the ways of the Crows when I lived among the people of the great chief Long Hair many winters ago.”
“Man is right,” the spokesman declared. “Long Hair was killed by Blackfeet when I was half the age I am now.” He touched his chest. “I am called Whirlwind Hawk.”
“You are welcome at our fire.”
Whirlwind Hawk motioned, and all the Crows came several feet nearer. None made any threatening gestures. Neither did they smile or give any other indication of being overly friendly.
Nate grew uneasy. Not only did he have no idea what was being said, he was now hemmed in on three sides and there were too many warriors for him to hold at bay with just three guns. Moving so that his back was to the fire, he tried to keep them all in sight at once.
“You have done us a favor, Wolverine,” Whirlwind Hawk told Shakespeare, and pointed at the boy. “We have been searching for Gray Badger for six sleeps. His father will be pleased to have him back.”
“Is his father named Invincible One?”
Whirlwind Hawk scowled. “No. Two Humps.” He paused. “What did the boy tell you about Invincible One?”
“Only his name. Is he a chief?”
“Invincible One rules our people.”
“Interesting,” Shakespeare said. “I thought I knew all the high chiefs of the Crow nation by name if not on sight, and yet I have never heard of this man.”
“Invincible One is not chief of all the Crows. He is chief of our village alone.”
“Your chief has a very unusual name.”
“Invincible One is a very unusual man,” Whirlwind Hawk said. Again he took a few steps, and at his cue so did the rest. A mere six feet separated the crescent of Crows from the three free trappers.
Nate fingered the hammer of his rifle. “Shakespeare,” he interrupted, “I don’t like this one bit. What do they want? Are they after the boy?”
McNair turned to answer, and Whirlwind Hawk chose that moment to yip like a coyote. At the signal all the warriors sprang forward. So swift was their attack that they were on the vastly outnumbered trappers before a shot could be fired.
Nate King tried. He brought the Hawken up and was leveling it at one of the braves when he was rammed into by two more, one tackling him low, the other catching him in the chest with a bony shoulder. Nate tumbled backwards, losing his grip on the Hawken. With a start he realized he was falling into the fire, and he threw himself to the right to escape the flames. The Indian holding his legs let out a squawk and let go, allowing Nate to scramble to his knees as more warriors swarmed in.
Nate had a glimpse of Shakespeare fighting madly and Tim Curry being overwhelmed by four adversaries. Then he had to devote all his energy to preserving his own life. A warrior grabbed his left arm and he buried his right fist in the man’s stomach. Another Crow pounced on him from behind, looping an arm about his neck. Nate bent, flipping the man clear over him into another onrushing brave.
Momentarily free, Nate rose and tried to unlimber his tomahawk. He was set upon by two assailants who grabbed his shoulders in order to fling him to the ground. Nate planted knuckles on the mouth of one, then kicked the other in the knee. Both crumpled.
Ducking under an awkward punch thrown by a skinny Crow, Nate retaliated with a sweeping right cross that rocked the man on his heels. He landed another blow to the midsection of a warrior, who staggered aside. Skipping to the left, Nate suddenly realized that not one of his attackers had relied on a weapon. There could only be one explanation: The Crows wanted to take them alive! Already Tim Curry was down and being bound at the wrists. Nate couldn’t see Shakespeare, but from the commotion McNair was putting up one hell of a fight.
Suddenly Whirlwind Hawk himself appeared. He barked words that Nate didn’t understand, then launched himself at Nate with both arms extended. Nate slipped out of the way, seized Whirlwind Hawk’s wrist, and swung with all his might, flinging the stocky warrior into two others.
Pivoting, Nate spied his Hawken and started for it. A Crow was faster. Since further resistance would result in certain capture, Nate decided to make a break for it and come back to help his friends later. He sprinted toward the horses, going less than ten feet when he was overhauled by several fleet warriors. Hands gripped his shirt, his arm, his right leg.
The ground leaped up at Nate’s face. He managed to twist so that his shoulder bore the brunt of the impact. Then he was on one knee and slugging fiercely, raining punches on Crow after Crow, dropping one after another only to have more take their place. He shoved to his feet, was hit low in the back. Pain lancing his spine, he spun and clipped the man responsible on the chin.
From all directions at once sped more Crows. Six, seven, eight warriors buried Nate under their combined weight. He punched, kicked, pumped his elbows into faces and necks. Crows grunted, cried out, roared in frustration. Iron fingers found his wrists and ankles and held on. Gradually his strength ebbed and his limbs were pinned. He looked tip at a circle of bloody, battered faces.
Shakespeare McNair still fought on. Not for nothing had the Flatheads named him Wolverine decades ago when he first came to the vast Rockies. He had been one of the first white men to set foot in the pristine realm the Indians called home, and all the tribes had been impressed by the strange newcomer whose honesty was beyond reproach and whose savagery in battle was memorable.
Few of the current crop of hardy free trappers knew much about Shakespeare’s past. The same even applied to Nate, who had been taken into the mountain man’s confidence. Most had heard stories circulated by Indians belonging to the four tribes who claimed McNair had lived among them at one time or another. Of his early exploits, the most persistent were about his prowess in battle.
Many of the younger trappers rated the tales as so much nonsense. They would hear of the time Shakespeare supposedly slew eight Bloods in personal combat using
nothing but a tomahawk, and they would look at the white-haired legend with his slightly drooped shoulders and seamed features and would shake their heads in wry amusement.
But the stories were true, as the Blackfoot Confederacy, the Comanches, and the Apaches could all attest. McNair was the most peaceable of men most of the time. Until riled. Then he transformed himself into a raging wolverine.
This day the Crows were finding it out the hard way. Strive as they might, they couldn’t subdue McNair. Despite his years, he was panther-quick and coiled steel. Hitting and kicking and gouging and biting, he held them off. Slippery as an eel and as sinuous as a snake, he slipped out of their grasp again and again.
Only four Crows had converged on him at the outset of the fight. He was the oldest, Whirlwind Hawk had reasoned when spying on the whites from the brush, so he would be the easiest to capture. But it was the youngest trapper who had succumbed first after hardly offering any resistance. The next oldest had put up a terrific struggle, but now was bound. Leaving only the old man, who put the Crows to shame with his tenacity.
At a command from Whirlwind Hawk, all the warriors except for two formed a circle around Shakespeare. Whirlwind Hawk wiped a trickle of blood from his throbbing bottom lip, then held his hand aloft. “Will you come quietly now, Wolverine? You have my word that you will not be harmed.”
Shakespeare McNair was covered with sweat and panting heavily. The exertion had drained him of energy, sapped his vitality. He girded his reservoir of stamina and straightened, adopting a grim front for the benefit of the Crows. “You expect me to trust a man who took advantage of our hospitality and attacked us without reason? You have no honor, and the Blanket Chief will know as much when he finds we have been made prisoners.”
“The Blanket Chief is in this area?”
“He is, with sixty others,” Shakespeare lied with a straight face. He referred to the one trapper nearly all Indians knew, Jim Bridger, whose firm dealings with them on behalf of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company had earned him a widespread reputation as a man of integrity and courage. Actually, Shakespeare had no idea where Bridger had elected to trap that season. For all he knew, Bridger s brigade was hundreds of miles away. But the Crows would be less likely to do anything to Nate, Curry, and him if they thought a whole company of vengeful trappers would swoop down on their village in retaliation.
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