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

by Robbins, David

  Nate learned a great deal about their customs and beliefs. He learned there were approximately seven thousand members of the Crow nation, and that about four thousand were women. Due to the high mortality rate of the men, who daily risked their lives while hunting, on raids, or in defense of their villages, there was a chronic shortage of suitable husbands. The same state of affairs existed in other tribes as well.

  Some of their customs were quite intriguing. He discovered it was a serious breach of conduct, punishable by the harshest of penalties, for a parent to strike a male child. Children were taught the correct way of doing things, and then received constant encouragement to always do good and obey all tribal laws. Rarely did the Crows have problems with their offspring.

  The subject of chiefs came up, and Nate posed a question when he heard Sitting Bear mention one by the name of Long Hair. “Why does he have such a name when all Crows have long hair?”

  “Because none have hair as long as his. When last I knew, it was twice as long as you are tall.”

  Nate knew better than to doubt the statement, even though he was skeptical. “Does he tie it around his waist so he can walk?” he asked.

  “No. He wears it folded at the back of his head. They say his hair has never been cut, never trimmed, since he was a baby. I have talked with him a few times, and I can tell you I have never seen such hair as his. It is the color of fresh snow and as soft as the best robes.”

  The topic drifted to the subject of buffalo and beaver. Sitting Bear mentioned that he’d noticed declining numbers of both in recent years and attributed the drop to the presence of white men;.

  Nate grinned and shook his head. “How can you blame us? First of all, there are not more than a few hundred whites in the whole territory. Second, the Indians kill far more of both than the trappers and the hunters.”

  “All I know is that before the whites came, there were many beaver in all the streams. Now there are fewer, although there are still a lot. As for the buffalo, once every valley in the mountains was home to small herds. Now a person can ride for hours without seeing a single one.”

  “I would not worry about it,” Nate commented. “There are enough beaver to last for a hundred years, and the buffalo will never die out.”

  The warrior adopted a solemn air. “I pray not. If the buffalo ever die, then all the Indians will fade away too. The Crows, the Arapahos, the Cheyenne, the Sioux, and the Kiowa will all become as dead grass and blow away on the wind.”

  “You forgot about the Blackfeet and the Utes.”

  “They will never die off.”

  “Why not?”

  “They are too mean to die.”

  Nate laughed, and they went on to discuss the benefits the white man had bestowed on the Indians, such as guns, better knives, and tin pots and pans. Toward midnight the conversation finally wound down. The children and Evening Star were already asleep under buffalo blankets when Nate turned in. He positioned his blankets close to the door in case he had to relieve himself.

  Slowly the fire died down until only the embers were sparkling and gave off occasional sparks.

  Lying on his back with his head resting on his hands, Nate gazed at the conical ceiling and mused on the bizarre twists and turns of outrageous Fate. If anyone back in New York City had ever told him he’d one day share a meal with a family of Crows and enjoy every minute of their company, he’d have thought the person to be insane. He looked forward to prevailing on Sitting Bear to visit his cabin. The idea of staying over another day to observe how the warrior obtained the eagle feathers appealed to him, but the obligation of getting meat to his wife and friend took precedence.

  Eventually Nate dozed off. He dreamed of lovely Winona, of her dark tresses and unfathomable brown eyes, and imagined he felt the warmth of her pliant body next to his. Then he also imagined he heard soft footsteps and assumed she had gone outside to attend to the call of Nature. Sluggishly, filled with drowsiness from his head to his toes, he imagined that he opened his eyes and gazed at the entrance.

  The cruel visage gazing in at him was not his wife’s.

  Instantly the face vanished, and Nate grinned at the foolishness of his dream. Then he heard Sitting Bear snoring, and he suddenly realized he wasn’t asleep. The face had been really there! Shocked, he sat up and seized the Hawken, swiveling to cover the flap.

  The hide hung motionless.

  Nate shook his head vigorously, striving to wake up. He blinked and glanced at the sleeping Crows, then at the vestige of the fire that scarcely illuminated the interior. None of them had so much as stirred. If there had been someone at the door, one of them was bound to have heard. He decided he must have imagined the incident, after all, and was about to lay back down when his ears registered the muffled tread of a solitary footfall.

  Shoving to his feet, Nate inched to the flap and waited for the noise to be repeated. He wondered if he was all excited for no reason. Maybe the bear had returned, and in his dreamy state he’d envisioned the bear’s head as that of a human. It was the middle of the night, after all, and few men, even Indians, were abroad after the sun set.

  There were no other sounds for over a minute.

  Nate pursed his lips, debating whether to retire or investigate. He was tempted to inform Sitting Bear, but refrained because he’d feel like an idiot if there was no one out there. If he had any brains, he reasoned, he’d simply secure the flap and go back to bed. But he couldn’t.

  A cool breeze caressed his left cheek as Nate emerged into the enveloping darkness. He moved to the right and squatted to prevent anyone who might be lurking out there from taking a bead on his silhouette against the background of the lighter lodge.

  From off to the southeast an owl hooted.

  Nate was reminded of the hoots he’d heard earlier. He’d forgotten to ask Sitting Bear if the Crow had made the calls. Inching forward, he eased onto his elbows, then flattened, searching in all directions for the nocturnal prowler.

  The leaves in the woods rustled from the breeze, and in the west a coyote howled.

  Oblivious to the passage of time, Nate stayed immobile. He couldn’t go back to sleep until he knew for sure. The prospect of having his throat slit while he slumbered was a tremendous incentive to stay alert. He heard insects, and the faint, hideous scream of a panther, but no more footsteps and there was no hint of movement in the forest.

  He twisted and focused on the field. A quarter moon on high cast a feeble radiance on the landscape. He could see the mare and the packhorse, hobbled thirty feet away, moving slowly along while they ate.

  Think! Nate chided himself. If there was an Indian spying on the camp, the man must be nearby. He recalled the warrior he’d observed on the rise, and speculated that the same Indian must be the culprit. After five more minutes elapsed and the night refused to yield its secrets, he opted to crawl to the south. If he hid in the high grass, he might be able to catch the warrior in the act.

  A bug flew out of nowhere and hit him in the left cheek.

  Nate recoiled, then grinned grimly. If he wasn’t careful, he’d give himself away. In ten yards he reached a patch of waist-high vegetation and slid into concealment. He turned, his movements methodical, trying to shake the grass as little as possible, and faced the lodge.

  Now all he had to do was wait.

  Fatigue gnawed at his consciousness, dulling his awareness despite his best effort to remain fully awake. He placed his forearms on the hard earth and propped his chin on top. Something crawled over his left hand, but he ignored it.

  The moon arched higher on its westward passage.

  Nate’s eyelids drooped. He wondered if he was being foolish, if the whole incident might not be the product of his overactive imagination. Those comfortable blankets awaiting him in the lodge were more and more tempting as each minute went by. Sighing, he put his palms on the grass and tensed to rise.

  There was brief motion to the west.

  All drowsiness evaporated. Nate gripped t
he rifle and squinted, his eyes riveted to the front of the lodge. The only way someone could get to the Crows was through the entrance. All he had to do was keep watching the flap, and sooner or later the person would appear.

  Seconds later someone did.

  Nate distinguished a hunched-over figure gliding toward the doorway. He warily pressed the rifle to his right shoulder, then hesitated. Should he fire, when there was a remote possibility the nighttime stalker could be friendly, or issue a challenge?

  The figure drew tentatively nearer to the flap.

  There wasn’t much time to decide. Nate reflected on what Shakespeare McNair would do in the same situation, and cocked the Hawken once more.

  Unexpectedly, a second figure materialized, treading on the heels of the first. Then a third and a fourth came into view, all strung out in a line as they crept around the lodge.

  There was no doubt the Crows were about to be attacked. Four against one weren’t the best odds, but Nate couldn’t let those men get inside.

  He rose to his knees at the same moment the leading form moved next to the flap, and with the profound hope his wife wasn’t about to become a widow he aimed as best he could and squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter Six

  The sharp retort of the Hawken was punctuated by a shrill screech, and the figure near the flap toppled backwards. Nate crouched and drew his right pistol, and the motion saved his life.

  One of the attackers returned fire.

  Nate heard the ball whiz past overhead even as he extended the pistol and shot at the second form. The target staggered against the lodge, then straightened and bolted for the sanctuary of the forest.

  The other pair also fled.

  “Damn you!” Nate bellowed, and burst from cover. He slipped the discharged flintlock under his belt and pulled out its mate, but there was no sense in trying another shot.

  All three figures reached the trees and dashed into the dense undergrowth.

  Nate was tempted to loose a parting shot anyway. The folly of wasting his last ball dissuaded him, and he turned to the one he’d shot.

  Shouts arose in the lodge. Sitting Bear snapped commands, and Laughing Eyes cried.

  Exercising extreme caution, Nate stepped over to the man on the ground. As he’d suspected, it was an Indian. He nudged the warrior with his right toe and received no response.

  Suddenly the flap swung open and out barged Sitting Bear, an arrow notched to his bow. He almost tripped over the body, halting in amazement.

  “They’re gone,” Nate said, knowing his friend wouldn’t comprehend the words but hoping the message would get across. For added emphasis he gestured forcefully at the woods.

  The Crow nodded, then knelt and examined the casualty. He muttered a sentence in his own tongue that ended with a familiar term. “Ute.”

  Nate stiffened and swung around to cover the trees. Where there were four Utes, there might be more. He deliberated whether to pursue them, but the matter was taken from his hands before he could make a decision.

  Strong Wolf and Red Hawk emerged. Their father spoke to the eldest and pointed to the west. Without a word they sprinted off.

  Nate wanted to ask a question, yet had to refrain because the darkness would obscure his hand movements. He saw his host seize the Ute and start dragging the man inside. As the flap parted, light played over the two Indians. He guessed that Evening Star had rekindled the fire.

  Not a sound came from the forest.

  Should he stay out and guard the lodge or join Sitting Bear? Nate wondered, and chose the latter. Squatting, he darted inside, and stopped short at finding the Ute blocking his path.

  The enemy warrior would never stalk another foe. The ball had hit him squarely in the forehead between the eyes and burst out the rear of his cranium. His dark eyes were wide and lifeless. He wore leggings and moccasins, but no shirt, and a knife was tucked into the top of his pants. Amazingly, his left hand still clutched a tomahawk.

  ‘This is a Ute,” Sitting Bear disclosed in sign language.

  “I know,” Nate said. ‘There were three more. I think I hit one of them.” He paused. “Perhaps you should call your sons back before they run into those three.”

  “No. My sons must learn the art of war and there is no better teacher than experience.”

  “They could be killed.”

  “Life is but the pathway to death.”

  The profoundly philosophical response wasn’t the answer Nate anticipated. He tried another tack. “But they’re just boys.”

  “True. Boys who are eager to become men, and among my people manhood is attained only after coup has been counted for the first time.”

  Nate glanced at the mother, thinking she might give him moral support, but she hadn’t been paying attention. Her gaze rested on the Ute. Her arms were around Laughing Eyes, who had stopped crying.

  “We were fortunate there were only four of the skunk-eaters,” Sitting Bear stated, and looked at Nate. “And once again you have done my family a great service. How did you know they were out there?”

  “They woke me up.”

  “Truly you have the senses of a wildcat,” Sitting Bear remarked. “When we return to my village, I will tell all of my people about the greatest white man I have ever met.”

  Nate didn’t know what to say. He appreciated the compliment, although the blatant exaggeration bothered him. If things kept going the way they were, soon he’d have a reputation to match Jim Bridger’s.

  Evening Star spoke for a minute, pointing repeatedly at the body.

  “She says she does not want the Ute left in here all night to soil the air,” Sitting Bear translated. “I must haul him out after you are done.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes,” the Crow said. “You killed him, so by all rights his hair is yours.”

  Nate looked at the body. Revulsion filled him at the thought of slicing the warrior’s scalp off. He’d done the horrid deed before, but it became more difficult to do each time.

  “Is something wrong?” Sitting Bear asked.

  “I grow weary of taking scalps,” Nate confessed.

  “You have that many?”

  “More than I will ever need.”

  Sitting Bear shook his head in amazement. “I have known one other man who had more scalps than he needed, and he was an old chief who had counted at least one coup for every one of his seventy-two years.”

  “That is a lot,” Nate agreed, placing his hand on the hilt of his knife. He wished there was a way he could avoid scalping the Ute, and he grinned at an idea that popped into his mind. “May I ask you a question?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Please bear with me, because I do not yet know all the ways of the Crows. In return for the kindness you have shown me, I would like to give you a gift.”

  “You have already given us the buffalo.”

  “I know. But the bull was for your whole family. This would be a personal gift from me to you.”

  “What is this gift?”

  “The Ute’s scalp.”

  The warrior’s mouth fell open. “I have never heard of such a thing.”

  “Would you accept such a gift?”

  Sitting Bear assumed an intently thoughtful expression. He reached out and touched the Ute’s hair, then glanced to his right at the string of fourteen scalps already adorning the teepee. “You are very kind in making such an offer, but I cannot accept. The Ute’s hair is yours. You must be the one to scalp him.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that,” Nate said in English, and knelt beside the dead man’s head. He leaned the Hawken against the side and slowly pulled his knife out.

  Evening Star spoke to Laughing Eyes in a stern manner, emphasizing her point with firm gestures.

  Stalling, his stomach slightly queasy, Nate looked at the warrior. “What does your wife say?”

  “She is explaining that Laughing Eyes must never again cry in times of danger. Did you hear her?”

  “Yes.�
��

  The Crow frowned. “Such behavior is not tolerated. Women, as well as men, must learn to be brave. Are white women brave?”

  Caught off guard by the question, Nate had to think of all the white women he knew. “In their own way they are as brave as the men, although very few of them have ever taken part in war or been in fights.”

  “Our women do not fight either, unless the village is being attacked. Then they all become as fierce as rabid wolves.”

  Nate girded himself for the task at hand.

  ‘The Utes do, though,” Sitting Bear said.

  “Do what?”

  “Let their women fight. That is because they are less than animals and have no knowledge of the proper ways of men and women. Some women even go on raids.”

  The revelation startled Nate. What if the other one he’d shot had been a woman?

  “I have a friend who killed a Ute woman in battle,” Sitting Bear went on. “He said she fought as well as any man and he was sorry to have to take her life. Now her hair is one of his prized scalps and he would not part with it for a dozen horses.”

  “How nice,” Nate commented, and gripped the top of the dead Indian’s hair. He inserted the tip of his knife into the skin at the hairline and proceeded to neatly remove the grisly trophy.

  “Well done,” Sitting Bear stated when the job was done. “I have not met many whites who know how to take hair, but you do.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Would you like my wife to wash it for you?”

  “If she would be so kind,” Nate sighed, and gladly handed over the hair when Evening Star came over in response to her husband’s instructions.

  The patter of rushing feet arose outside, and a moment later Strong Wolf and Red Hawk dashed excitedly into the lodge. Both talked at once. Sitting Bear held his right arm aloft, quieting them, then posed a series of questions that they dutifully answered.

  “What happened?” Nate asked when the warrior paused.

  ‘The Utes are up to their old tricks. There were four horses hidden west of here and they made good their escape.”