Wilderness: Savage Rendezvous/Blood Fury (A Wilderness Western Book 2)

by Robbins, David

  Of all Nate’s accomplishments since heading west, he was most proud of his grasp of sign. He’d spent countless hours learning the proper movements of the hands and fingers, first under the tutelage of his late Uncle Zeke, then under Shakespeare and Winona. Just a few days ago the frontiersman had complimented him on his ability. He now told the warrior that he came in peace, that he was hunting for meat for the table and nothing more.

  The Indian slid the arrow into a quiver on his back, then responded by revealing his name to be Sitting Bear.

  “From which tribe do you come?” Nate asked with his hands.

  “I am Crow.”

  Nate breathed a sigh of relief. The Crows and the Shoshones were two of the friendliest tribes in the entire territory. They befriended whites regularly and were implacable enemies of the Blackfeet and the Utes.

  Sitting Bear’s fingers flew. “What is your name?”

  There were no Indian signs that would adequately translate his English name, so Nate disclosed the Indian name bestowed on him by the same Cheyenne who had given him the eagle feather. “I am Grizzly Killer.”

  The Crow blinked. “Are you the same Grizzly Killer who was at the big gathering of whites during the last Blood Moon?”

  Blood Moon was the Indian way of referring to July. “I am,” Nate responded.

  Sitting Bear seemed impressed. “And are you the same Grizzly Killer who killed the Bad One?”

  “Yes,” Nate admitted, wondering how the warrior knew about the incident at the rendezvous involving a rogue trapper and his band of cutthroats.

  “I am happy to meet you,” Sitting Bear said with his hand. “I camped with a band of Bannocks nine days ago. They were at the big gathering and told me all that happened.”

  So that was it, Nate thought. “I am happy to meet you,” he dutifully stated. “But why did you point an arrow at me?”

  “For that I am most sorry. I did not know if you would be a friend or an enemy. Some whites believe all Indians are enemies and shoot us without warning.”

  “I only shoot Indians if they try to shoot me,” Nate assured him.

  Sitting Bear came closer and pointed at the black-tail. “I heard a shot and came to see who it was.” He admired the deer for a moment. “You will have much meat.”

  Remembering the many lessons Shakespeare had imparted on Indian etiquette, Nate knew what he had to do. “I would be pleased to share some of the meat with you.”

  “I could not accept,” Sitting Bear signed, although his expression betrayed his interest. “Even though my family has not tasted deer meat in three moons.”

  Nate smiled and walked over to the warrior. “I insist you take some of the meat. There is more than I can possibly use.”

  The Crow considered the offer for a few seconds, then looked up. “I will accept your kindness if you will agree to share my lodge tonight.”

  “How far is your lodge?”

  Sitting Bear pointed to the south. “A mile from here on the west bank of the stream.”

  Nate hesitated. He wouldn’t be able to make it back to the cabin tonight anyway, so why not accept? If he rode out at first light, he’d be home shortly after dark tomorrow. “I would be happy to,” he signed. “I’ll stay at your lodge tonight, but I must leave in the morning.”

  “You honor me,” Sitting Bear said solemnly. “My friends will not believe that so great a warrior has stayed with my family.”

  The compliment made Nate feel uncomfortable. He had yet to accustom himself to the frank manner in which Indians discussed everything. They were invariably direct and to the point, and they never practiced idle flattery. Evidently the news of his encounter with the Bad One was spreading rapidly by word of mouth around the campfires of the whites and the Indians. At the rate things were going, soon he’d be as widely respected and feared as Shakespeare. “How many members of your tribes are here?” he asked to change the subject.

  “My wife, my two sons, and my daughter.”

  “Your family is here alone?” Nate inquired in surprise. The Central Rockies were the hunting grounds of the Utes, and for any Crow to travel into the region was extremely dangerous.

  “Yes.”

  “What about the Utes?”

  Sitting Bear shrugged. “We had to come. There was no choice.”

  Nate looked around. “Do you have a horse?”

  “No.”

  “I must go get mine. Would you watch my buck while I am gone?”

  “Yes. I will guard it as if it was my own.”

  Gripping the Hawken by the barrel, Nate hurried toward his animals. It was his understanding that only the poorest of Indians didn’t own horses, and he wondered why Sitting Bear hadn’t simply stolen a mount from another tribe. Horse stealing was a common pastime. Special raids were frequently conducted expressly for that purpose, and those warriors who succeeded were esteemed as brave men. Not to mention rich. Horses, to Indians, were conspicuous evidence of affluence.

  He found the mare and pack animal munching contentedly on grass, and in no time at all he was back at the clearing and standing over the buck. “Will you give me a hand hanging this up?” he asked. “I have rope in one of my packs.”

  “We can take the buck to my lodge,” Sitting Bear suggested. “My wife has made berry juice, and my sons will take care of your horses.”

  Nate liked the idea. This was his first contact with the Crows, and he was curious to learn more about them, to see how they differed from the Shoshones. “Let us go,” he said with his hands.

  Together they lifted the buck onto the pack animal and strapped it down tightly. Nate swung into the saddle, took the lead in his left hand, and nodded for his newfound friend to show him the way.

  “Is it true you are close to Carcajou?” Sitting Bear queried, glancing over his shoulder to catch the reply.

  “Yes,” Nate sighed. Carcajou was the name by which Shakespeare was known far and wide among the various tribes. The word itself was French, Nate believed, and referred to the fierce animal otherwise called the wolverine.

  Sitting Bear used his hands as he walked, the bow slung over his left shoulder. “I met him once years ago. He is a white man whose word can be trusted.”

  Nate started to respond, but he realized the warrior wasn’t looking at him. He focused on the surrounding trees, searching for the panther or any other threats. The likelihood of the big cat returning was slim, but in the forest it never paid to take chances.

  For ten minutes they wound southward. Sitting Bear demonstrated an uncanny knack for finding passages through the thickest brush, usually by following the narrowest of animal trails. The trees thinned out, and ahead appeared a clear strip adjacent to the stream.

  Nate rode to the edge of the water. Across the stream, nestled at the edge of the woods on the far side of the field, sat Sitting Bear’s lodge. Smoke curled lazily upward from the ventilation opening at the top. A woman and a young girl were seated outside the lodge, working on a buffalo robe. Two boys, both in their teens, were honing their skill with bows and arrows near the trees.

  Sitting Bear raised his right arm and hailed them in his native tongue, then glanced at Nate. “Come,” his hands stated. “Meet my loved ones.”

  Nate waited for the warrior to enter the water, then urged the mare forward. The stream had a depth of two feet at its deepest points and was only five feet in width. He crossed easily and reined up on the far bank.

  The family ran out to meet him. All four halted a few yards off and regarded Nate with amazement and, in the case of the mother, a trace of fear.

  Sitting Bear indicated their guest and launched into an extended speech in Crow. The quartet listened attentively, with repeated stares directed at Nate.

  For his part, Nate was amused by their reaction but tactfully maintained a solemn face. He noticed the boys were keenly interested in his rifle. The little girl, who wasn’t any older than ten, smiled at him the whole time.

  At length Sitting Bear concluded
and turned. His hands and arms did the talking as he explained his comments to Nate. “I told them about our meeting and let them know you are the great Grizzly Killer. I told them you have kindly offered to share your meat with us, and that they must all be on their best behavior.”

  Nate faced them and addressed them in sign language. “I am most happy to meet all of you.”

  The woman nodded nervously, the girl giggled, and the boys couldn’t seem to take their eyes off the Hawken.

  “Let me introduce them,” Sitting Bear said, coming around in front of the mare. He touched each member of his family as he went from one to the other. “My wife is Evening Star. Our daughter is Laughing Eyes.”

  “Hello,” Nate said aloud.

  The Crow paused, his features reflecting his pride. “And these are my sons, Strong Wolf and Red Hawk.”

  Both boys grinned self-consciously. The taller of the pair, Strong Wolf, said something to his father in their own language.

  “He wants to know if you will allow him to shoot your rifle,” Sitting Bear disclosed. “But he is too shy to ask you himself.”

  “I would be happy to have him fire it,” Nate replied, and was about to compliment his host on having such a fine family when the mother suddenly pointed to the east and cried out in alarm. Twisting in the saddle, he discovered the reason.

  A herd of twenty-five or thirty buffalo had crested a rise seven hundred yards distant and were pounding directly toward the camp.

  Chapter Three

  Nate turned the mare, then used sign language to explain his purpose to Sitting Bear. “Hold my pack horse and I will turn the herd,” he proposed.

  “Be careful,” the Crow replied, taking the proffered lead.

  The small herd raised tendrils of dust behind it as the huge beasts drew closer.

  About to ride off, Nate paused when an idea occurred to him. He glanced at his host. “Would your family like a buffalo or two?”

  The suggestion brought a wide smile to the warrior’s face. “We would be much in your debt,” he responded.

  “Have Evening Star sharpen her knives,” Nate advised, and goaded the mare into the stream again. He crossed quickly and rode to intercept the bison.

  Although the majority of the great brutes migrated from the high country to the Plains early in the spring, there were always those hardy animals who seemingly preferred the higher elevations and stayed in the mountains the year round. They grew as large as their counterparts below, with the males standing over six feet high at the shoulders and weighing upwards of two thousand pounds, and were similar in every other respect except for the fact their coats were shaggier.

  Few animals were as numerous as the buffalo. On the Plains their numbers were estimated to be in the millions. A single herd could take days to pass a specific point. And of all the wildlife existing west of the Mississippi River, the bison were most essential to the Indian way of life.

  Every tribe utilized the buffalo to some extent. Hides were used for clothing. Robes, moccasins, leggings, shirts, dresses, belts, and even underclothes all came from treated skins. Lodge furnishings, riding gear such as saddle blankets, hackamores, and hobbles, and various tools and utensils were constructed from various parts of the beasts. Knife sheaths and shields were manufactured from rawhide. Bowstrings were made from bull sinew. Even the buffalo’s dung came in handy; chips were burnt as fuel.

  Nate had encountered bison before, and he held them in great respect. With their broad, massive heads sporting horn spreads of up to three feet, and the fiery temperament of the bulls when aroused, they were formidable game. They were also hard to kill unless the person doing the hunting knew exactly where to hit them. He’d heard about trappers who’d put fifteen balls into a single bull, yet the animal had refused to drop.

  And here he was trying to turn a herd of thirty.

  Shaking his head in astonishment at his own audacity, Nate pondered how he could best achieve his goal. Riding straight at them in the hope of diverting them to either side would be an exercise in futility as well as certain suicide. A shot might do the job, but he must time it perfectly and hope the lead bull wasn’t in a belligerent mood.

  The thundering hooves of the onrushing bison became louder and louder.

  Nate spied a mammoth male at the head of the herd and made toward it. The mare responded superbly; she’d participated in a buffalo hunt with him once before and wasn’t fearful. He held the rifle and the reins in his right hand, then drew a pistol with his left.

  Already the brutes had covered two hundred yards.

  Almost as an afterthought, Nate speculated on what could have spooked them. Buffalo were notorious for standing their ground against their natural enemies such as wolves and panthers. Normally, they even refused to flee at the sight of men, Indian or whites. If Nature had given them the intelligence and ferocity of the grizzly, the buffalo would have long since driven all two-legged creatures from their domain.

  The flat land worked in Nate’s favor. He had plenty of room to maneuver and could outrun them if the need arose. To the north lay the forest; to the south a level field. He didn’t particularly care which way they went, just so they turned aside from Sitting Bear’s camp.

  On they came, the largest animals in North America, their bulky bodies rising and falling rhythmically as they ran.

  Nate extended the pistol, counting off the yards separating him from those tapered horns. He waited until there were only fifty, and fired.

  For a few seconds the buffaloes acted as if they hadn’t heard, and then they started to swing to the south.

  Elated at his success, Nate went to rein up when the mare suddenly stumbled and went down, throwing him from the saddle. He thrust his hands out to brace the impact, and winced when a searing pain lanced up his right arm. Tumbling end over end, he wound up flat on his back, dazed, staring at a cloud overhead.

  What in the world had happened?

  He rose onto his elbows and saw his horse rising. Behind her were a series of holes with openings a foot wide. Badger burrows. Concerned the mare might have broken a leg, he shoved to his feet and grabbed the reins.

  From his rear arose the drumming of the buffaloes.

  Nate glanced over his right shoulder and was stunned to discover the herd had resumed its original course and was a mere twenty yards distant. His guns had flown from his hands when he fell, and he frantically searched the high grass around him.

  The Hawken lay not four feet away.

  Hauling the mare after him, Nate lunged and scooped up the rifle. He swung toward the herd, cocked the hammer, and prayed the weapon wouldn’t misfire. In an instant he sighted on the lead bull and pulled trigger.

  For a heart-thumping second the herd came on rapidly, a living wall of tough sinew and iron determination, their nostrils flaring, their humped shoulders bouncing.

  Nate recoiled, expecting to be trampled and gored, and seized the mare’s mane in a desperate bid to escape. He saw the foremost bull go down in a disjointed jumble of flashing legs and whipping tail, sliding to a stop within inches of his moccasins, and the rest of the herd split into two groups, half bearing to the left, half bearing to the right. The pungent scent of them filled his nose, and dust obscured everything. He held onto the mare with all his might and listened to the rumbling din as the beasts passed him by. The very ground shook.

  In moments the herd had left him behind.

  Coughing and waving his left hand to dispel the choking dust, Nate took several strides to the west. Had he done it? Or were the bison still bearing down on the lodge? He scarcely breathed until he glimpsed the herd, reunited and racing to the southwest, well clear of the camp.

  Relief washed over him and he voiced a cry of triumph. His temples still pounded, and when he held his arm out his fingers trembled. But he was alive! Fully, wonderfully, alive, tingling in every fiber of his being. He spun in a circle, laughing heartily, then walked to the dead bull and stared down at its huge head and dark eyes. �
��You almost got me, big fellow,” he said by way of a compliment.

  Shouts rent the air from the direction of the lodge.

  Turning, Nate saw the Crows running toward him, the mother carrying the girl in her arms. He grinned and indicated his trophy.

  Sitting Bear reached him first. He uttered a whoop and began prancing around the buffalo, waving his bow overhead.

  Nate chuckled, tempted to join the warrior.

  Strong Wolf and Red Hawk were next, and they promptly joined their father in the victory dance, yelping like coyotes as they leaped and whirled.

  Girlish laughter announced the arrival of Evening Star and Laughing Eyes. They stood to one side, observing happily, and the mother gave Nate a friendly look.

  Proud of his accomplishment, Nate hefted the Hawken. If not for the rifle, he’d be dead. The reliable weapon had saved his skin once again, and the thought prompted a decision. There were some frontiersmen who took to calling their rifles by pet names. He’d always considered the practice rather foolish until that very moment. Old Reliable was a fitting name for a rifle, and from that day on he would refer to his Hawken as exactly that: Old Reliable. He couldn’t wait to tell Shakespeare the news.

  The Crows were still celebrating wildly.

  Nate lowered the rifle, his right wrist brushing against the pistol wedged under his belt. He abruptly recalled his other flintlock and turned, scanning the field. It had to be there somewhere. But what if the flailing hooves of the buffaloes had pounded it to bits?

  Sitting Bear stopped dancing and walked over. He said a sentence in Crow, then resorted to sign language. “Every word they say about you is true. You are the bravest man I have ever met.”

  “Thank you,” Nate replied, still scouring the grass.

  “My family will always treasure this day, and the story of your deed will be passed on to my grandchildren and my great-grandchildren. I will also record the events on a hide for all future generations to see.”