“Are we going to look all night?” Tim asked. “I don’t mind admitting, I’m bushed. I need rest, McNair, or I’ll be of no use to anyone.”
Shakespeare would rather have gone on to the village. Unfortunately, their horse was as worn out as the greenhorn. Unless they rested the animal until morning, it wouldn’t last long bearing both of them. He rode into a stand of spruce. “You’re in luck, Troilus. Pile some pine needles into a pillow and get some sleep.”
“Thank you, McNair,” Tim said, sliding off.
“Don’t thank me. Thank the horse.” Shakespeare dismounted and tied the animal where it could graze if it so desired. Out of habit he made a circuit of the stand, verifying all was well. Or as well as things got in the wild, where a man never knew from one minute to the next what new threat would appear. Temporarily, they were safe. They could rest, but they couldn’t let down their guard, not unless they didn’t care if they wound up in the belly of a roving bear or big cat.
Shakespeare rejoined his companion and found the young trapper snoring lightly. He gazed down on the helpless novice and thought of all the others like Curry who had traveled to the mountains in search of adventure and wealth and wound up as worm food. If their bleached bones were to be stretched out end to end, the skeletal line would reach halfway to St. Louis.
Yet no one could talk them out of throwing their lives away. Shakespeare had sometimes wished there was a magical combination of words that would impress on greenhorns the hard truths of wilderness living. Like sheep flocking to the slaughter, they came west thinking they were fit to deal with Nature on their own terms, only to find out, often too late, that Nature was a tyrant with deaf ears and a heart of ice.
Shaking his head, Shakespeare sat with his back to a trunk and rested the pistol in his lap. He felt along his belt for the knife he’d taken from Two Humps, but it was gone, undoubtedly resting on the bottom of the lake. Since it wouldn’t do to be defenseless, he rose again and hunted until he found a broken limb that made a suitable club. Propping it against the tree, he sank down, bowed his chin to his chest, and willed himself to relax so he could fall asleep. The tension filling his body drained, but not the anxiety gnawing at his mind. He was too worried about Nate.
Finally, much later, Shakespeare dozed. He awoke five or six times that night, and would look and listen for a while before drifting off again. His fitful state had one advantage he hadn’t foreseen. He was up well before dawn, raring to go.
Shakespeare had to shake the greenhorn vigorously before Tim Curry roused to partial wakefulness. “Rise and shine, Troilus. We have a long ride ahead of us.”
Tim smacked his lips while trying to keep his eyes open. “How many times do I have to tell you, McNair? I don’t like to be called that.”
“Some folks would regard it as an honor to be named after one of old William S.’s characters, but I won’t quibble. On your feet.”
The horse behaved sluggishly the first mile, but loosened up thereafter. Shakespeare held it to an energetic walk to conserve its strength. He stayed well to the north of the route they had taken the day before and avoided skylines. By the middle of the morning they were winding among a series of low hills laden with briars. Suddenly Shakespeare heard hoof beats ahead, the drumming of dozens of horses, and reined up.
“It sounds like the Crows,” Tim whispered.
Shakespeare eased the horse forward until he could see around the next hill. A large group of Indians were halfway across the narrow plain beyond, bearing to the southwest. The painted symbols on their mounts and their bodies as well as their glittering lances and rifles showed the reason they were abroad. It was a Ute war party. And they were heading for the Crow village.
Chapter Nine
The very instant that Nate King saw the large body of Crow warriors coming toward him, he threw himself backward into the underbrush and ducked low. Ears pricked for an outcry, he tensed to flee should they have discovered him. But there was no reaction; as yet they were too far off.
The chestnut, meanwhile, continued to graze, chomping loudly, unaware of the Indians.
Nate debated whether to crawl to the wayward animal and try to lead it under cover without being detected. He decided it would be unwise to risk being caught in the open, so he cupped his hands to his mouth and called out just loud enough for the horse to hear, “Come this way! Over here, damn your bones! Amble over to the trees!”
The animal looked up, saw him, flicked its ears, and resumed eating.
Just then loud yells broke out. The Crows had spotted the horse. Nate saw some of the warriors peel away from the main group and race forward. He quickly melted into the forest, and ran to the sleeping boy. He gave Gray Badger a shake. The young Crow jumped up as if launched from a catapult and looked around in confusion. “Many warriors from your village are coming,” Nate signed. “Do you want them to find you?”
“No,” Gray Badger replied.
“Then we must hurry. We will ride double,” Nate signed. He turned toward the pack animal, and was flabbergasted to discover the critter was gone. He realized it had strayed off while he searched for the chestnut, and he wanted to kick himself for being so careless, for not tying it again before he left.
Taking the boy by the shoulder, Nate trotted deeper into the woods. He knew the Crows would conduct a search of the immediate vicinity, so he cast about for someplace to hide. There were several thickets, but none dense enough to withstand a close scrutiny. He came to a shallow furrow eroded by rainfall, jumped over it, and kept on going.
Suddenly an idea struck Nate. Turning, he went back to the furrow and examined it closely. Not quite a foot deep and three feet wide, it just might do. Working rapidly, he gathered a number of fallen limbs and broke off several others. “I want you to lie down,” he signed to Gray Badger, “so I can cover you.”
The boy divined the scheme, and grinned. Reclining on his back in the middle of the furrow, he folded his arms across his chest and held still while Nate aligned branches across the top, hiding him.
Next Nate lay down and covered himself from head to toe. From a distance the branches would blend into the background and appear part of the forest floor. He could only hope none of the Crows came close enough to see that something was amiss.
Shouts presaged the arrival of the warriors. Nate imagined them milling around the horse and trying to figure out what it was doing there and where it came from. One of them was bound to remember his escape and put two and two together. Sure enough, moments later the brush crackled to the passage of horses as the Crows fanned out to scour the woods.
Nate tilted his head to glance at the boy. Gray Badger was as still as stone, a credit to his father s teachings. From an early age Indian boys were taught that the keys to being a successful hunter were patience and the ability to stay motionless for long periods at a time. He was confident the youngster would do nothing to give them away.
Nate shifted again, peering at the trees to the left where the riders were bound to first appear. Presently they did, five somber Crows who probed behind every sizeable bush and poked their lances into every thicket. They were going over every square inch.
Nate held his breath as a skinny brave rode within several yards of the furrow. The man circled a tangle of undergrowth, thrusting with a long lance. Then the Crow moved to the south, his gaze sweeping the woodland ahead but not the ground almost under his mount’s hooves.
The warriors hollered back and forth. Nate had no idea what they were saying, nor could he ask the boy. The braves shortly vanished in the vegetation. He prayed that would be the last of them, and was disappointed when three more appeared. Two of the trio came straight toward his hiding place.
Nate closed his eyes until they were slits so the whites wouldn’t betray his presence. The farthest Crow slanted to one side, but the nearer Crow rode to the edge of the furrow and there reined up. The man carried a rifle which he rested across his thigh as he arched his back to relieve a kink.
Nate watche
d the warrior’s eyes. They were the key. He saw them swivel right, saw them swivel left. The Crow idly glanced skyward, then shifted and looked down, straight down at the pine boughs covering the furrow, straight at Nate’s face. The man’s eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed. And then they began to widen in dawning comprehension.
Surging upward, Nate burst through the layer of branches and seized the Crow by the arm. A deft twist, a sharp swing, and the brave sailed through the air into a tree trunk. The warrior’s rifle went flying. Nate turned to go get it, but strident yells told him he had already been spotted. In a long stride he reached the man’s war horse and swung into the Indian saddle. An arrow streaked past his head as he yanked on the reins.
Nate planned to flee and lead the Crows away from the boy. His good intentions were ruined when Gray Badger abruptly rose, shaking branches from him, and extended his arm. Bending outward, Nate grabbed the boy’s hand and swung Gray Badger up behind him as a second arrow fanned his hair. He quickly brought the horse to a gallop, racing for their lives.
Crows seemed to be everywhere. Their whoops and yips resembled a pack of ravenous predators on the blood trail. Nate spotted some on the left and cut to the right. More appeared, so he bore to the right again. And still there were others. The earth seemed to disgorge them in droves.
Nate spotted a warrior raising a rifle. He had nowhere to hide, no way to avoid the shot, so he braced for the searing sensation of the slug ripping through his body. Salvation came from an unexpected quarter as someone bellowed in the Crow tongue, causing the warrior to reluctantly lower his gun. Another brave, about to throw a lance, let his arm drop.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out why. Nate guessed that they wanted to take him alive, and they certainly had the odds in their favor, but he’d be damned if he was going to make his capture easy. A Crow came at him with a clawed hand reaching for his arm. Nate dodged, then backhanded the Crow across the mouth and sent the man tumbling.
A shout from Gray Badger drew Nate’s gaze over his shoulder. Yet another warrior was bearing down on him with an upraised knife. Nate yanked out the tomahawk he had taken from the dead Crow in the canyon and swung as the knife arced at his face, blocking the swing. The jolt rocked his shoulder. He slashed before the Crow could, slicing deep into the man’s chest, and the warrior retreated, bleeding profusely.
Riding with skill surpassed by few, wheeling the horse this way and that, Nate avoided additional enemies. He thought he was doing a fine job of eluding them until his mount suddenly broke from the forest onto the very plain where the chestnut had been grazing and he beheld dozens of warriors clustered directly ahead. They promptly spread out, seeking to enclose him in a howling ring.
Nate reined to the left and galloped northward. The fastest Crows were gaining rapidly, closing in from several different angles. He whipped the tomahawk at one and the man slowed. Another came at him from the opposite side. Nate drove the tomahawk at the Crow’s head, but the man jerked away.
Suddenly Gray Badger yelped and his arms slid from around Nate’s waist. Nate twisted. A warrior had torn the boy loose and was bearing him off. Without hesitation Nate wheeled his horse to go to Gray Badger said, but in doing so he made a grave mistake.
A brash young Crow astride a bay, his face painted red with yellow lightning bolts on both temples, deliberately rode into Nate’s mount, the bay’s shoulder striking Nate’s horse with such gut-wrenching force that Nate’s animal crashed to the ground.
Nate leaped clear at the last instant. He scrambled to his feet and drew back the tomahawk to hit his attacker, but had the tomahawk wrenched from his grasp by a warrior who came up on him from the rear. Drawing his knife, Nate leaped and caught hold of the man. The warrior tried to batter him senseless with the tomahawk’s haft. Nate thrust at the Crow’s stomach, but only succeeded in nicking the skin.
The warrior got a hand on Nate’s wrist, then sprang, bearing both of them to the earth. Nate rolled and tried to pull loose. He rose to one knee, and almost had the leverage to rise all the way when additional Crows pounced, flying from their speeding war horses like birds of prey swooping in for the kill.
Nate was buried under an avalanche of warriors. The knife was ripped from him so he fought with fists and feet, knees and elbows. It was a repeat of the fight in the valley, and as in that instance he was doomed to lose. He cracked a jaw, split a lip, and sank knuckles into an unprotected groin.
Then fists rained on him without letup and the whole word spun and danced drunkenly.
Dimly, Nate was aware of iron fingers on his arms and of being brutally yanked to his feet. He sagged and would have fallen if not for the Crows holding him up. His vision slowly cleared to reveal a circle of hostile faces surrounding him, while in front of him stood a bearded white man whose expression was innately more cruel than that of any Crow.
“I lose two, I find two,” the man mentioned, evidently talking to himself. “I’d call that a fair swap, I reckon.” He jabbed a thick finger at Nate. “You’re the one who got away from Whirlwind Hawk, aren’t you? What’s your name, friend?”
Nate licked his bleeding lips. The crows must be on amiable terms with some whites, he mused, if this stranger was able to move among them with impunity. So perhaps if he could convince the man that he meant the tribe no harm, they would see fit to release him and restore his possessions. “I’m Nate King,” he disclosed. “Who are you?”
“Jacob Pierce.”
“Are you a free trapper like me?”
Pierce’s mouth curved in a lopsided grin. “This hoss is a trapper, sure enough, but I’m not a thing like you or any other Mountainee Man.”
The sarcasm was uncalled for, but rather than take umbrage, Nate said, “Do me a favor and assure these Crows I’m no threat to them. My pards and I weren’t even deep in Crow country when Whirlwind Hawk jumped us without cause and took us captive. All we want is to get our fixings back and go on our way in peace.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Nate scanned the Crows. “I hear tell that a chief by the name of Invincible One has been stirring them up against all whites. Is that true?”
“It sure is.”
“Are you a friend of his? Do you know him well?”
“I know him real well.”
“Is he crazy? Or just plain stupid?”
Pierce frowned.
“Doesn’t he realize that it’s better for the Crows if they’re our friends, not our enemies? Hasn’t he heard about Pierre’s Hole, or the Missouri Legion?” The former referred to a pitched battle in which over two hundred whites, two hundred Flatheads, and three hundred Nez Percés had set upon a large force of Blackfeet who had been making trouble for the trappers. The latter referred to the army raised in Missouri to punish the Arikaras for attacking whites. “Talk to him on our behalf and persuade him to smoke the pipe of peace.”
“I doubt it would do any good.”
“What harm could it do?” Nate persisted. “He has everything to gain and nothing to lose from being on friendly terms with us.” Out of habit, Nate lowered his voice. “Is the bastard here now?”
“Yes-sir-ree.”
“Which one is he?”
Jacob Pierce shifted in his saddle and seemed to be studying the Crows. He raised a finger and began to point at one, then apparently changed his mind and began to point at another.
“I thought you claimed that you know him,” Nate said.
“And I do.”
“Then which one is he?”
“This one,” Pierce responded, and beamed wickedly while touching the fingertip to his own chest. “I’m the bastard who killed your partners, McNair and Curry.”
Nate stiffened in horrified outrage. “Shakespeare? Dead?”
Pierce leaned forward, his features reflecting insolent disdain. “Mercy me. Were you close to the old-timer, King? What a pity.” He snickered. “If you can breathe water, you’re more than welcome to give the son of a bitch a proper burial.”
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Where the strength came from, Nate couldn’t say. But he abruptly exploded, heaving the Crows from him as if they were feathers, and leaped, getting his hands on Pierce’s shirt. Whipping around, he slammed the callous killer to the ground and thought he heard an odd clang. He started to wade into the killer with his fists flying, but the Crows were on him in a flash. Once more he fought them tooth and nail. Fueled by his fury, he knocked down four of them before the others were able to grasp his arms and pin them at his side.
Jacob Pierce had risen, a nasty bruise on his forehead. He took a step forward, eyes blazing, and snaked out his pistol. His thumb curled the hammer back as he pointed the flintlock at Nate’s face.
Nate stared death in the face. He squared his shoulders to show the Crows he was unafraid, and met Pierce’s glare with a defiant stare of his own. For an eternity the muzzle of the pistol loomed inches from his nose.
“No,” Pierce snapped, dropping the hammer. “This would be too simple. You deserve more, King. You deserve to feel pain such as you have never felt before.” Pierce jammed the pistol under his belt. “I won’t deprive myself of the pleasure of listening to you beg for mercy.”
“It will never happen,” Nate vowed.
“We’ll see.”
At an order from Pierce, the Crows slung Nate onto his horse and the whole party trotted westward. Escape was rendered impossible by a living wall of warriors. Nate stayed beside a brave who rode double with Gray Badger, and when they had gone a ways he turned to the boy and signed, “I am sorry. I tried to keep you from falling into their hands and could not.”
“You fought like ten men, Grizzly Killer,” the boy answered, then added the supreme compliment. “You are as good a warrior as my father.”
A Crow riding behind them pulled closer, his hands flowing. “Question? Why does he call you Grizzly Killer? That is an Indian name.”
“The Shoshones adopted me into their tribe many winters ago,” Nate explained, and would have let the matter drop but the man became surprisingly curious.
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