When Evening Star did step out, her dress was several inches shorter. She’d cut a continuous strip off the bottom hem of her dress, producing a tough buckskin strand ten feet in length. She beamed as he gave it to him.
Nate tied one end of the makeshift rope to the base of the branch, wrapped the other end around his left hand, and climbed into the saddle. “You will have to take the pack animal,” he advised Evening Star.
She mounted the mare, took the lead, and rode forward.
Following on the pack animal’s heels, Nate sat sideways so he could guide the path of the branch and ensure their prints were completely obliterated. He found that by moving his hand from side to side, the branch moved in a corresponding manner and effectively wiped the earth clean. Their deeper tracks were still imbedded in the soil, but even those were covered with a layer of needles, bits of vegetation, and dirt.
For half an hour they continued in such a manner, until the leaves on the branch were worn off by the friction and Nate had to halt to prepare a second limb. In no time they were on the move.
The blistering afternoon sun arced across the sky, and the shadows in the forest lengthened. Many small animals darted from their path and larger ones regarded them in curiosity. All went well until they came to a severely steep bald mountain.
Nate saw it first and realized the drawbacks it posed. Not only was the slope at an angle that would drastically slow the horses down, but the absence of trees and brush meant they would be visible for miles, exposed to the Utes. They might as well paint a sign announcing where they were. Rather than be foolish, they had to go around.
Evening Star bore to the left.
For no logical reason Nate felt inclined to bear to the right, but since she had already turned he acquiesced to her decision. The going became difficult, with numerous large boulders blocking the route, although the trees thinned out, which compensated somewhat. When the leaves on the second branch rubbed off, Nate reeled in the buckskin and placed it in his ammo pouch to use later. They’d traveled about two miles while covering their trail, and he figured that was enough to slow up the war party.
As they swung around the mountain a new vista unraveled before their eyes, a series of a dozen or so hills, each higher than the one before, most densely forested.
Nate was elated. There would be plenty of game and undoubtedly water, and with night approaching they needed both. If he constructed a lean-to, he could justify the risk of building a fire. A troubling notion occurred to him, giving him second thoughts. What if the Utes tracked them into the night? If so, the band would overtake them in the early hours of the morning before the sun rose. He had to weigh the benefits of stopping with the possible consequences.
Shortly they completed skirting the bald mountain and rode onto the nearest hill, where again a cushion of pine needles and leaves deadened the footfalls of their animals.
Nate decided to take the lead, and had started to swing around the other horses when the wilderness demonstrated once again why a person couldn’t let down his guard for an instant. He heard loud barks off to the left and glanced in that direction.
Speeding toward them was a pack of wolves.
Chapter Sixteen
There were ten big gray wolves in all, their powerful forms flowing over the ground in rhythmic bounds, their reddish-pink tongues hanging out of their mouths, their sturdy teeth exposed. Standing close to three feet high at the shoulders and over six feet in length, they packed upwards of a hundred and thirty pounds of sinew and muscle on their sleek frames. Individually, each wolf was formidable; together, they were terrors.
“Go!” Nate shouted at Evening Star, who had seen the pack and was already galloping away. He rode on her left side, intending to take the brunt of the assault if the wolves closed. All that he had ever learned about wolves came back to him in a twinkling; they were fast runners, tenacious hunters, and social animals who mated for life and were devoted to their offspring. Wolves normally avoided humans, although there were reports of attacks against trappers on record. Ordinarily hunting at night, they could be found abroad at any hour of the day if hunger drove them from their lairs.
The pack loped in pursuit, the leader thirty yards distant.
Should he fire to discourage them? Nate mused, and opted to hold off shooting until there was no alternative. A gunshot would give away their location to the Utes, and might serve to spark the band to intensify their efforts.
They crossed the crown and started down the opposite slope, the horses maintaining a steady gait. Evening Star rode easily, her daughter clinging tightly to her waist, proving that some Indian women were the equal of the men in horsemanship.
Nate noticed the wolves were not making a concerted attempt to overtake the horses, but were racing at a steady pace, and he reckoned the pack might be trying to tire the horses out before closing in. He scanned the countryside ahead and spied a creek that bisected the next hill halfway up.
Evening Star glanced back once as she neared the creek, her resolve transparent, all of her maternal instincts aroused by the potential threat to her child. She never bothered to slow down when she drew close to the bank. Undaunted, she plunged right in, the mare dutifully obedient to her prompting.
When Nate reached the bank, he halted. The wolves hadn’t gained more than a yard or two, and now they cut back to a walk. The male leader suddenly stopped and sat on its haunches.
Unaware of this, Evening Star prodded the mare to the far bank fifteen feet away, the water rising to the animal’s chest, laboriously hauling the pack animal across.
All of the wolves had halted.
Nate realized the pack wasn’t going to attack. The wolves must have given chase out of curiosity, not impelled by hunger. He’d heard about wolves that had trailed men for hours without displaying any hostility, which invariably mystified those nervous unfortunates who were the object of the wolves’ attention. He rode across the creek and joined the woman and child. “I do not believe they will attack us,” he signed.
“Apparently not,” Evening Star replied, “but one never knows with wolves.”
Nate gave a cheery wave at the pack, took the pack animal’s lead from her, and began to head out. After the scare of the chase, his relief was all the more intense, and in the flush of relief he almost made a blunder. Jerking on the reins, he drew up short and glanced at the gently flowing water. The creek was ten feet across, and did not appear to be in any respect treacherous. He looked at his companions. “I have an idea. We should follow the creek for a few miles and slow the Utes down even more.”
Evening Star seemed puzzled. “Along the bank? What good would that do?”
“Not along the bank. In the water.”
Comprehension dawned and Evening Star smiled. “I should have thought of that.”
Nate led off, moving to the middle of the flow, taking a northerly bearing. They would swing around to the northwest again later. He smiled at his cleverness, certain even the most proficient tracker in the world couldn’t trail prints through water. The creek was crystal clear, and he could see every stone and pebble on the bottom as well as the many fish that flitted out of the stallion’s path. He wished he could afford to take the time to catch a few for supper. Perhaps later, if all went well.
They pushed on until the sun touched the western horizon. The creek adhered to a generally northerly course the entire time, curving from time to time as it wound among the hills and mountains. Over a dozen times they startled big game drinking at the water’s edge: buffalo, elk, deer, and a few black bear. Once they saw a panther that snarled at them before leaping off.
A cool breeze stroked Nate’s brow and alleviated the heat. He spied a clearing up ahead on the left side and twisted in the saddle. “I propose to spend the night there,” he told her, and indicated the spot.
“Good. Laughing Eyes needs rest badly.”
“How are you holding up?”
“Well,” Evening Star said, but the fatigue etch
ed in her face belied her statement.
Nate gazed back along the winding watercourse. “Do you think the Utes have given up by now?”
“No.”
“Why not? Between dragging the branch and following this creek, we are bound to have lost them.”
“They will not give up because they are Utes.”
“I still think we are safe.”
“You thought that once before.”
Having no retort for her astute observation, and troubled by the implications, Nate rode to the clearing and gladly climbed down. He tied the stallion and the packhorse to a tree, did the same with the mare, and walked into the trees to gather an armful of straight limbs for use in a lean-to.
“What are you doing?” Evening Star inquired when he emerged.
Nate dropped the load at his feet. “I will build a lean-to and a fire for tonight.”
“Starting a fire is not wise. The Utes will see the smoke.”
“Not if we build the fire inside the lean-to and keep the flames low. We will be able to cook and have enough warmth so we can sleep comfortably.”
“But it is a great risk. If any of the smoke rises, the Utes will know where to find us.” Nate pointed at the little girl. “Do you want your child to go through another night without a hot meal and a comfortable place to sleep?”
Evening Star stared fondly at her offspring, and frowned. “No.”
“Neither do I. I say we take the chance and build a fire, but I will forget all about the idea if you object.”
“Go ahead.”
With her helping him, Nate had a serviceable lean-to constructed before the sun dipped from sight. He rubbed his hands together, removing bits of bark and dirt, and gazed at the gradually darkening sky. “We will wait to build the fire until the sun is completely gone. That way, even if some smoke does escape, I doubt that the Utes will spot it. In the meantime, I must catch something for our meal.”
“What will you catch? If you use your gun to kill game the Utes might hear.”
Nate nodded at the creek. “I could catch fish for our meal.”
“My people do not eat fish.”
“I know, and under normal circumstances, I would not think of asking you to go against your beliefs. But the fish are handy and I can catch them without firing a shot.” Nate glanced at the child. “Laughing Eyes must be very hungry.”
Evening Star looked at her daughter, her brow knit, the corners of her mouth curled downward as she wrestled with the dilemma of whether to violate the tribal taboo. At length she sighed and signed, “I would rather have my child eat than go hungry. If we must eat fish, we must.”
“Are you sure?”
She locked her eyes on his. “My daughter is more important than our beliefs. I will live with the shame.”
“All right. Stay on the bank and watch.” Nate walked into the creek and moved slowly outward, bent at the waist, searching the bottom, trying to recall every aspect of the lessons Shakespeare had imparted in the finer art of fish catching. He saw a large whitefish swimming slowly toward him and crouched, oblivious of the water soaking his clothes and swirling about his legs. He slid his arms under the surface all the way to the shoulders, keeping his hands flat, the palms up, and waited expectantly. Fish were incredibly quick, and trying to hold onto their struggling, scaly bodies was like trying to hold onto a pig coated with grease—next to impossible. The secret to catching fish with bare hands was not to grip them, but to flip them.
The fish glided nearer.
Nate tensed, hoping the fish thought he was a rock, and when it started to swim over his hands he surged upward, clamping his fingers on the creature’s slippery side as he swept his arms up and out. He couldn’t quite believe his eyes when the fish sailed through the air and plopped onto the grass within a foot of the water. He’d done it! Elated, he dashed to the bank and scrambled out to prevent the fish from flopping back into the creek. He attempted to grab it but the fish popped from his grasp. Again and again he tried, each time with the same result. At last he succeeded in holding fast and glanced up in astonishment at hearing airy laughter.
Laughing Eyes was in hysterics. She spoke a few words to her mother between cackles.
“She says you are the funniest man alive,” Evening Star translated, gazing at Nate affectionately.
‘The fish are responsible for that.”
Holding her sides, the girl laughed and laughed.
Evening Star chuckled. “Thank you,” she signed, and gently touched his left cheek. “I was beginning to think she would never laugh again.”
The comment caused Nate to recall the deaths of the boys, and brought to mind a revolting custom practiced by many of the Rocky Mountain tribes. Whenever a person lost a family member, the mourner engaged in an act of self-mutilation by hacking off part of a finger. His own wife had done so, and he now wondered if Evening Star would do the same.
“Is something wrong?” she inquired.
“No.”
“What were you thinking about?”
Nate hesitated, then decided there was no reason to conceal the thought, although he rephrased it. “I am glad you did not cut off the tips of your fingers. You show good sense. The practice is barbaric and should be abolished by all Indians.”
Evening Star’s face clouded and she stared at her hands. “I am sorry you feel that way, because as soon as we return to the lodge I will slice off the tips of two fingers to mourn the passing of Strong Wolf and Red Hawk.”
“Do you realize what you are doing?”
“Certainly. My people have always done this, since the days of the very first human beings. When a loved one dies, it is appropriate to express our grief in a fitting manner. By cutting off parts of our fingers, we prove the depth of our love and express our loss.”
“Why not just cry your grief out?”
“Because crying does not show how deeply we loved those who died. People cry when a favorite horse is killed in a buffalo hunt, or when they have been injured and are in great pain. There is nothing special about crying. To demonstrate how special a loved one was, we must sacrifice a small part of ourselves.”
“But why cut off a finger? Why not just jab yourself a few times with a knife or hold a burning coal in your palm?”
Evening Star shrugged. “It is our way. It has always been our way, and it always will be.”
“I will never slice off part of my fingers,” Nate vowed.
“Even if your wife were to die?”
“I would mourn her, yes, and I would miss her terribly, but I would not take a knife to my hand.”
“If you become as we are, then you will.”
Nate snorted at the idea. “I like the Indian way of life, but do not expect me to embrace every Indian custom. If Winona ever passes on, I will settle for crying many, many times.”
“You never know,” the woman said enigmatically.
“I know,” Nate assured her. He went back into the creek, and in due course caught five more fine mountain whitefish.
Evening Star volunteered to clean the fish, but she grimaced as she hacked off the heads and removed the entrails.
The sun was gone by the time Nate got around to starting a fire in the lean-to. He carefully arranged the tinder and a circle of twigs and small branches in the middle of a ring of rocks, and once the flames took, he nursed it until he had a fair-sized fire going.
Stars filled the heavens and night enshrouded the land.
Evening Star handled the cooking. She rolled three large, flat stones into the heart of the flames, then removed them when they glowed red, using a stick to align them in a row. Placing a cleaned fish on each one, she hovered over the meal as the fish hissed and crackled.
Nate savored the tasty aroma. He walked to a pine tree and pried off sections of bark to use as plates, then returned. The girl was practically drooling on the fish, her eyes fixed hungrily on the sizzling morsels.
All in all, Nate decided, the day had gone well. They�
��d eluded the war party and had likely thrown the Utes off the scent. Although they’d swung wide of their original course, they would still be at the lodge by dark tomorrow. Once they arrived, he’d prevail on Sitting Bear to pack up the lodge and get the hell out of there.
Evening Star deftly flipped the fish over using twigs. A few stray wisps of smoke curled around the edges of the lean-to, but for the most part the smoke was blocked by the shelter and dissipated at ground level by the breeze.
Nate leaned back, feeling relaxed and content, and consequently he was unprepared for the loud whinnying of the stallion and the splashing sounds made by something or someone that was coming up the creek directly toward them.
Chapter Seventeen
Nate surged to his feet, the Hawken in his hands, and swung to the south in time to see a pair of Utes round the last curve at a gallop. At the sight of the lean-to they screeched and charged, one of the warriors waving a lance while the other nocked an arrow to a stout bow. Bewildered by their unexpected arrival, Nate took a second to recover from his shock.
Laughing Eyes threw her arms around her mother and whined pitiably.
The Ute with the bow took aim.
It was the thought of an arrow tearing into his chest that made Nate whip the rifle to his shoulder, take a hasty bead on the bowman, and fire. Simultaneously the Indian released the shaft, and both the ball and the arrow sped toward their respective targets at speeds too great for the eye to follow.
The ball took the warrior in the head and catapulted him from his mount. He fell into the creek with a splash.
A fraction of an instant later the arrow speared out of the night and streaked past Nate, narrowly missing his left side, to thud into the lean-to behind him. In order to protect the Crows better, he discarded the Hawken, drew both pistols, and ran to meet the second Ute head-on.
Throwing off a spray of water that seemed to sparkle in the moonlight, the warrior’s horse made straight at Nate. The Ute arched his spine and drew back his lance, his features contorted in feral hatred.
Wilderness: Savage Rendezvous/Blood Fury (A Wilderness Western Book 2) Page 26
