Wilderness Giant Edition 3

by David Robbins

  Pushing upright, Nate licked his dry lips and took stock. He was in a wide, barren ravine. A trickle of water that barely qualified as a stream flowed past on his left. He wagged his arms, shook his legs, and found no broken bones.

  Nate saw a game trail leading to the top. Before ascending, he hunted for his Hawken and failed to find it. One of his pistols was also missing. He still had the other pistol, though, and the knife and tomahawk.

  As Nate climbed he tried to make sense of what had happened. The whirlwind had picked him up and cast him down again. That much was certain. Miraculously, he had survived. But where was he? He remembered tall tales he’d heard of men being sucked into tornadoes and carried to far-off lands, and while he had always doubted such stories were true, a finger of fear gnawed at his innards, fear that it just might have happened to him.

  Eagerly Nate scaled the final few feet and stepped onto the upper rim. In all directions stretched the vast rolling prairie with which he was so familiar. So much for the tall tales! But when he pivoted on a heel, scanning the far horizon, he was flabbergasted to find no trace of the Yellowstone River, nor a vestige of vegetation other than the ever present buffalo grass.

  ‘‘Where the blazes is it?” Nate asked aloud, bewildered. The river should be in sight, had to be in sight! On the open plain the strip of trees bordering it was visible from miles off.

  Nate took a few steps, pondering. Since he couldn’t see the Yellowstone, that meant he had to be at least five miles away. Had the whirlwind carried him that far? Surely not. He moved along the rim, totally confused.

  Suddenly the quiet was shattered by a low, wavering groan.

  Nate stiffened, his hand dropping to his pistol. He spun toward the source and was stunned to discover a figure sprawled on the opposite rim, forty feet away. High weeds prevented him from seeing more than a buckskin-clad outline.

  “Winona!” Nate cried. She must have been caught in the whirlwind too and deposited at the same time! Spinning, he dashed to the game trail and went down it at a reckless pace, nearly falling twice. Once on the bottom he searched for a trail up the other earthen wall but there was none. Exasperated, he stood directly under the figure and studied a cleft to his left. Could he do it?

  The crack was wide enough for Nate to brace his back against one side, his feet against the other. Pressing his hands flat behind him, he slowly worked his way upward. The groaning had ceased, and he worried that his beloved had breathed her last.

  The ravine was only twenty-five feet high but to Nate the climb seemed to take forever. He ached to be on top, to be holding his wife in his arms. Near the rim he felt the dirt behind him give way and heard clods rattle down the cleft. Freezing, he waited for the slide to stop, then cautiously resumed, placing each hand and foot carefully. A fall from that height might seriously injure him.

  The thought brought a grin. Nate glanced at the deep blue sky, thinking of his fall from the tornado. Compared to that, a tumble down the cleft would be like nothing.

  At last Nate was able to reach up, grip the rim, and pull. Inch by inch he lifted himself higher and finally rolled out onto the grass. Rising, he ran to the unconscious figure, a warm smile curling his mouth, his heart singing for joy. Then he saw the face of the one he had assumed was Winona, and he stopped dead in his tracks.

  It was a man, a warrior with hawkish features and hair cropped in a style Nate had never seen before; the head had been shaved bare except for a strip running from the forehead to the nape of the neck. Red paint had been smeared on the warrior’s brow and both cheeks. And on the front of his buckskin shirt had been painted the likeness of a gigantic bear, again in red.

  Nate racked his brain, trying to identify the tribe the man belonged to. No two tribes dressed the same or wore their hair the same way so it was possible for an experienced mountaineer to tell the members of each apart at a glance. But this style was new to him.

  Placing a hand on the flintlock, Nate knelt and searched for evidence of a wound or blood. There was neither. He rolled the warrior onto his back and felt the man’s wrist to gauge the strength of the pulse. As he did, the warrior’s dark eyes unexpectedly snapped wide.

  Nate smiled to show his friendly intentions and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word the Indian’s features contorted in stark terror and the warrior yanked his wrist loose and jumped to his feet. Astonished, Nate gaped as the man spun and fled down the slope of a hill flanking the ravine, fleeing as if his very life depended on it.

  “Wait!” Nate yelled, to no effect.

  The warrior glanced back once, his face still reflecting abject fright. At the bottom of the hill stood a stand of trees, and into this he plunged at full speed and was soon lost from view.

  Scratching his head, Nate stood. He’d never seen any Indian react in such a bizarre fashion and he didn’t know what to make of the man’s behavior. The only explanation he could think of was that the warrior had never set eyes on a white man before. Even so, it hardly accounted for the extreme terror the man had shown.

  From this side of the ravine Nate enjoyed a sweeping vista of seemingly limitless prairie to the southwest. There were a few scattered stands of trees, fewer hills, and grass everywhere else. He detected movement to the southeast and spotted several buffalo.

  Nate debated his next move. By his reckoning the Yellowstone River should be to the north, so if he walked long enough in that direction eventually he would find it. But what if he was wrong? What if the whirlwind had carried him much farther than he suspected?

  There was one person who knew exactly where Nate was, and with that in mind Nate ventured down the slope to the edge of the trees. He listened intently but heard no sounds other than the sighing wind and the rustle of leaves.

  Harsh experience had taught Nate the value of caution. Instead of entering the vegetation and risking attack, he skirted the perimeter, probing the shadows in search of the warrior. He glimpsed a flash of buckskin racing away from him and called out, “Hold on! I’m not going to hurt you!” Realizing the man probably did not understand English, he switched to Shoshone and shouted, “Stop! I come in peace!”

  No response was forthcoming.

  Nate walked on, often squatting to peer into the undergrowth. He saw sparrows and a squirrel but no trace of the warrior. Nor were there any tracks, but that was to be expected. The condition of the grass, which had been flattened in spots and was damp close to the roots, testified to the severity of the storm the night before.

  The stand covered over five acres. Nate had gone half the way around it when he finally caught sight of the warrior, and when he did he sank low so as not to be seen.

  Twenty yards in was a small clearing. In the middle of it knelt the Indian. He had opened a leather bag and removed a number of peculiar items: sticks, bones, feathers, and such. As Nate looked on, the warrior picked up several small bones and cast them at the ground, then bent over them, studying their arrangement.

  Nate had no idea what the man was doing. The Shoshones did not indulge in the practice, and neither, to his knowledge, did the Flatheads or the Nez Perce. He saw the warrior recoil in shock, then hold his arms aloft, close his eyes, and silently mouth words, apparently chanting to himself.

  Figuring that it might have religious significance, Nate stayed where he was, reluctant to interrupt. After a while the man stopped chanting and collected the items into the bag. The warrior rose, turned to scan the trees, and slowly backed in Nate’s direction.

  Standing, Nate stayed still so as not to spook the man, and when the warrior was closer, spoke softly in Shoshone. “Please do not run away again, friend. I would talk to you.”

  At the first word the man jumped and whirled, his features betraying the same fear as before. Venting an inarticulate cry, he threw his hands in front of his face as if to ward off an assault, then he dashed into the brush, just like before.

  “Wait!” Nate urged, and again met with disappointment. The warrior was soon ou
t of sight. Had Nate not been so annoyed, he would have laughed at the man’s comical antics.

  Nate speculated. Could it be the Indian was touched in the head? He knew that various tribes sometimes banished crazy members, who lived in isolation far from any village. Maybe he had stumbled on one of them.

  One thing was apparent. Nate would learn nothing from the red-faced Indian. He would be better off heading north and hope he was as close to the Yellowstone as he believed.

  Having made up his mind, Nate faced around and began hiking. From the position of the sun he knew the day was only four hours old so there was plenty of time for him to find the river before nightfall. His stomach rumbled, reminding him it had been almost a full day since last he ate, but he was not about to stop to eat until he had learned the fate of his family and Shakespeare.

  Thinking of them brought a frown. Nate sometimes fretted that he was doing the wrong thing by living in the wilderness where those he cared most about were subjected to constant danger. Whether from wild beasts, hostile Indians, or the weather, threats arose on almost a daily basis. They would be so much safer back in one of the settlements. There they could live to ripe old ages without fear of being scalped, mauled, or snatched up by errant whirlwinds.

  But would they be happy there? That was the main question, and Nate knew the answer, a resounding no. In the settlements they would be confined to a small plot of land and have to live as others expected them to live. They would always have to conform to rules and laws set down by a bunch of elected officials who had nothing better to do with their time than to think up new ways of telling folks how they should spend every waking moment from the cradle to the grave.

  Nate cherished his freedom too much to permit that, and Winona and Zach were the same way. They’d rather be free to do as they pleased when they pleased, and have to abide all the dangers being truly free entailed, than let themselves be lorded over by a bunch of power-seeking politicians.

  Suddenly the drum of hoof beats shattered Nate’s reverie and he turned to find nine warriors galloping toward him with shafts notched to bows and lances upraised. By their hair he knew they belonged to the same tribe as the man in the trees. He was lifting a hand to make the sign for friend when the foremost brave took aim and let an arrow fly.

  Chapter Four

  Winona King knew she should not have left her husband a minute after she did so. Her back was aching again, so badly the pain made her temples throb. And the wind lashed her long hair so severely she could not keep it out of her eyes no matter how hard she tried.

  But Winona refused to quit. Their son was missing, and she would do her part to help find him. Ducking under a low limb that clawed at her face, she skirted other trees until she came to the plain. Here the wind was worse, howling with a fury she had never before heard.

  Cupping a hand to her mouth, Winona shouted for her son in Shoshone, using the name she had bestowed on him at birth. “Stalking Coyote! Answer me!”

  In the hope the wind would carry her voice farther if she was away from the trees, Winona touched her heels to her mount and trotted into the thick of the storm. She hadn’t gone ten feet when the wind increased dramatically. A gust nearly blew her from the saddle.

  Winona bent low over her horse and held on with all her strength. This was hopeless, she told herself. She could not see more than a few feet and could hear nothing over the crashing thunder. Worse, the lightning was striking much too close for comfort. It would be wiser, she reasoned, to return to Nate, and once the storm passed they could renew their search.

  About to tug on the reins, Winona paused when a new sound reached her ears, a strident howling that made her think all the coyotes in creation were yipping at once. It was new to her, and not a little frightening. She began to turn her mare when the horse stiffened and cocked its head high.

  “Go!” Winona goaded, slapping her knees against its sides. The animal paid no heed and whinnied in fright. She worked the reins but the mare shied to the right, as if from an unseen attacker. Again she urged it on and let herself relax a bit when the mare at last obeyed.

  But only for a moment. Winona was taken unawares by the violent motion of the mare whirling and racing off across the prairie. She had to grab its mane to keep from being thrown to the ground.

  Fighting back rising panic, Winona grit her teeth and hauled on the reins with all her might. She might as well have been trying to stop an avalanche because the mare ignored her and flew into the driving rain like an animal gone berserk. Again and again she attempted to halt it, without success.

  Winona flinched as a jarring spasm lanced her lower back. She checked a cry threatening to burst from her lips, then leaned forward again to reduce the torment. In that position, though, she was unable to pull back hard on the reins. She was forced to do as the mare wanted, forced to go along for the ride whether she liked it or not.

  And what a ride it was. The mare galloped at breakneck speed, head bobbing, tail flying, sides slick with rain. Lightning and thunder had no effect, except perhaps to spur it to go faster.

  Winona was trying to keep track of their direction of travel, a hopeless task. She thought they were bearing south but she couldn’t be certain. Maybe it was southwest. Behind her the howling had risen to a crescendo and there was an odd scraping sound.

  Soon the mare would tire, Winona reflected, and she would be able to go back to her husband. Or so she believed during the first few minutes. But when it became apparent the mare was in the grip of a fear so great the horse was not going to stop shy of total exhaustion, Winona sat up and tried once more to bring her mount to a halt. She had the same result as before.

  A vivid bolt of light rent the heavens, and the earth to Winona’s right exploded in a stinging shower of dirt and grass. She shielded her face with a hand as clods and small stones battered her from head to toe. One stone rapped her knuckles, leaving her hand numb for a bit.

  Winona risked a glance back. The view was the same as in front: rain, rain, and more rain. With a subtle difference. It seemed to her as if something moved far to her rear, a thing so massive it bent the sheets of rain. Her eyes must be deceiving her, she figured. Nothing could be that enormous, that powerful.

  Except the storm itself. The heavy drops peppered Winona without cease, stinging mercilessly. The wind tore at her hair, her dress, her very body, chilling her terribly. The cannonade of thunder pounded her eardrums. And whenever she straightened, her back flared, filling her with such anguish she feared she might pass out.

  Finally Winona stopped trying to turn or stop the mare, stopped doing anything other than to hold on and hope her ordeal would soon end. She steeled her will against the torture, reminding herself that she was a Shoshone and Shoshones did not give in to hardships.

  All sense of time was lost. Winona could not say how long she had been riding when the inevitable occurred and disaster struck.

  A shift in the mare’s center of balance alerted Winona to the fact the horse was going down a slope. She compensated by sliding her bottom several inches backward while pushing on the animal’s neck. Suddenly the mare stumbled, almost pitching her off, but she clamped her legs tight and averted tragedy.

  The mare came to a level stretch and resumed galloping in headlong terror. Winona, relieved, eased the tension in her legs and rose up to peer ahead. At that selfsame instant the mare must have stepped into a hole or a cleft because the horse stumbled and catapulted forward, tumbling in a disjointed whirl of limbs, mane, and tail.

  Winona was hurled clear on the first spin. Her rifle sailed loose and she tried to grab it. Then her head hit something or something hit her head and the whole world changed from murky black to an empty black, so empty there was no movement or sound or life, not even her own.

  Minutes passed, or so it seemed when Winona opened her eyes and gazed up at a pair of buzzards circling far above her in the daytime sky. She automatically sat up and nearly screamed as her lower back protested. Glancing around, sh
e saw the remnants of the storm fading to the east where the sun was faintly visible through the clouds. She also saw something else.

  The mare lay a dozen feet off, one front leg shattered at the knee, the bone protruding through the ruptured flesh. Its neck was bent at an unnatural angle, its tongue lolling in the wet grass.

  Putting her hands flat, Winona pushed up, stopping suddenly when the baby kicked, aggravating her condition. She rubbed her stomach and said, ‘‘Not now, little one. If you ever hope to enter this world you must rest quietly until I rejoin your father.”

  Winona walked to the dead mare and squatted beside the saddle. The pair of parfleches were still there but one was pinned underneath and she had to wedge her feet against the mare’s back to yank it out. Inside one of the beaded bags was jerked venison and pemmican, so at least she would not go hungry. The other contained assorted items which might prove useful later. Neither held a weapon. All she had was the hunting knife at her hip, which would prove a poor defense should she run into a roving grizzly.

  Standing, Winona slung the parfleche over a shoulder and looked around for her rifle. She felt it couldn’t be far, and she turned out to be right. A thorough search of a fifty-foot area around the mare rewarded her with the flintlock, beaded with moisture and spotted with dirt but none the worse for wear.

  Winona heeded her husband’s warning about letting a gun get wet and made it her first order of business to reload. Nate had insisted that she learn how to use both rifles and pistols, saying the knowledge might one day save her life. Time and again circumstances had demonstrated his wisdom, and now, after countless hours of practice and experience, Winona was as skilled a shooter as any free trapper in the mountains. Nate believed she was better than most.

  Removing a piece of jerky, Winona turned her footsteps northward and bit off a salty morsel. She chewed slowly but her thoughts raced. How far had she ridden? Would she reach the Yellowstone before noon? What had happened to her loved ones in her absence? Anxiety gnawed at her heart and she hardened herself against it.