Wilderness Giant Edition 3

by David Robbins

  Eventually the clouds dispersed and the sun broke through, revitalizing Winona with its warmth. She happened to gaze upward and was surprised to see the buzzards still circling her. On an impulse she raised the rifle to scare them off, then realized she must conserve her ammunition and powder.

  Their stupidity made Winona laugh. She knew that sooner or later they would get it through their bony skulls she hadn’t died and they would go elsewhere. And indeed, when next she looked, they were gone. She smiled and adjusted the parfleches, then felt a cold breeze fan her spine as behind her a horse whinnied.

  Winona spun, leveling her rifle. Her heart leaped to her throat when she saw six warriors astride fine war horses. They were a stone’s throw away, lined up in a row watching her. She marveled that they had been able to get so close without being detected even as she trained the flintlock on the man in the center.

  The warriors appeared more puzzled than hostile. They talked quietly among themselves, gesturing often at her.

  Of utmost importance to Winona was identifying the tribe to which they belonged. Blackfeet, Piegans, or Bloods might well slay her on the spot. Mandans would be friendly and help her rejoin her loved ones. But a close scrutiny revealed these men were neither her dreaded enemies or potential friends.

  They all wore their hair parted in the middle and four of the six had theirs braided. Two wore silver disks on their braids, attached by leather bands. Two others wore bands of quills topped by a pair of feathers from which hung locks of horse hair. They were dressed and painted for war and held either lances or bows.

  Only once before had Winona seen a warrior similarly dressed. That had been shortly before Zach’s birth, when her husband had befriended an outcast Lakota named Red Hawk. The trappers had called Red Hawk’s tribe the Sioux, which, Winona knew, was a shortened version of the name the French had once used, the Nadowessioux.

  So these six warriors were Lakotas. The knowledge meant little since Winona’s people, the Shoshones, had few dealings with them. She had no idea how they would treat her. Common sense told her to hope for the best but prepare for the worst, so she kept her rifle tucked to her shoulder as a tall warrior with a strapping physique came toward her.

  The Lakota had a bow but he made no move to use it. His head cocked as he examined her, and he rode in a wide circle, grinning when she pivoted to keep him covered. He halted ten feet in front of her and addressed her in his tongue.

  Winona did not understand a single word. She gazed beyond him at the others, who had not moved. Maybe they would go away and leave her in peace, she hoped, although deep down she knew that would never happen.

  In a deft motion the Lakota slung his bow over an arm and raised both hands in front of him. “Question. Your tribe?” he asked in sign language.

  Not about to lower her flintlock to answer, Winona did not move a muscle.

  “Question. You know sign language?” the Lakota probed.

  Winona did, but she held a bead on the warrior’s chest.

  “I am Thunder Horn,” the man signed. “What is your name?”

  Once again Winona offered no reply.

  “You do not look as if your brain is in a whirl. Why do you not answer me?” Thunder Horn demanded.

  Winona was unsure of what to do. So far none of the warriors had shown any inclination to harm her, and she wanted to keep things that way. But Thunder Horn was becoming angry. She reasoned that it would be in her best interests to respond in order to avoid a clash. Accordingly, taking a gamble, she stepped several paces backward and moved her rifle to the crook of an elbow to free her hands. “I do not want trouble,” she signed emphatically.

  Thunder Horn grunted. “That will be up to you.” He raked her from head to toe with a frank, admiring look. “You are not Blackfoot. That much is obvious.”

  “I am Shoshone.”

  “Minneconjou,” Thunder Horn said, tapping his barrel chest. “How are you called?”

  “Winona.” She remembered hearing that there were seven great branches of the Lakotas: the Oglala, the Minneconjou, the Brule, the Sans Arc, the Two Kettles, the Hunkpapas, and one other she could not recall.

  “Where are your people?”

  “I am alone.”

  The Minneconjou showed his skepticism. He surveyed the rolling prairie, then nodded westward. “I raided a Shoshone village once so I know that your people live far off in the mountains. They only come onto the plain to hunt buffalo, and when they do they come in large groups. So I ask you again. Where are your people?”

  “I am alone,” Winona insisted. To tell about her family and Shakespeare invited disaster. These Lakotas were on the war path, and they might not care whether they counted coup on Indians or whites.

  Thunder Horn frowned. “We both know you are not telling the truth.”

  “All I know is that I would like to be left alone,” Winona hedged.

  The Minneconjou changed the subject. “We found a dead horse earlier. It was yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “There was a storm. It panicked,” Winona said.

  “And where are you going now, if not back to your people?”

  Winona said nothing.

  “You do not tell me because you do not want them coming to harm,” Thunder Horn signed. “You are wise as well as beautiful. I like those qualities in a woman.” He leaned forward. “You will hand over your gun and come with us.’’

  “I will not.”

  “You do not have a choice.” Thunder Horn twisted and shouted to his companions who promptly fanned out to surround Winona. As yet not one of them brought a weapon to bear but the threat was still there. “We can kill you any time we choose,” Thunder Horn stressed after his friends were in place. “Would you rather die or live?”

  Raising the flintlock, Winona aimed at Thunder Horn’s face. “I will not die alone.”

  The Minneconjou did not flinch. “My brother has a rifle. I have watched him shoot it, so I know that yours can only fire once and then must be reloaded. Perhaps you will kill me, but you will be taken captive before you can shoot again and you will pay for being so foolish. That would be a waste.”

  There was no denying the inevitable. Winona knew all too well her fate if she harmed one of the Sioux. They would do the same to her that her own people would do if the situation were reversed.

  Women weren’t accorded special treatment in warfare. When one tribe raided another, women caught unprotected were either slain outright or taken back to become the unwilling wives of the raiders. On many occasions Shoshone women had been set upon while out picking roots or berries or while tending to some other chore, and the bodies of the older ones had been left to rot while the younger ones disappeared, never to be seen again.

  “I will not wait forever for you to set down that gun,” Thunder Horn signed.

  Winona squared her shoulders and held her chin defiantly. “I cannot,” she signed.

  Thunder Horn seemed to idly gaze to his right, then coughed. “You would throw away your life?”

  “I will not go with you,” Winona signed. “I already have a husband, and I will be true to him.”

  The tall Minneconjou chuckled. “I will make you forget all about him. No Shoshone can match a Lakota man in his prime.”

  His boast caused Winona to laugh merrily despite her predicament. “Are all the Minneconjou so unduly proud of themselves?” she taunted. “And you are wrong in another respect, too, because my husband is not Shoshone.” She paused to emphasize her next statement. “My husband is white.”

  The Minneconjous broke into excited talk, the subject of which had to be Winona’s revelation. It mystified her immensely. Unions between trappers and Indian maidens were not all that common, but neither were they so rare as to spark astonishment. She knew of quite a few Flathead, Crow, and Nez Perce women who had given their hearts to whites. So far she was the only Shoshone who had done so.

  Thunder Horn interrupted her r
eflection. “What is the name of this white man?”

  “Grizzly Killer,” Winona signed, her face shining with the intensity of her love.

  “His white name.”

  As there were no sign symbols for it, Winona replied aloud in the perfect English she had mastered after much time and effort, “Nathaniel King.”

  An attempt by Thunder Horn to mimic the sounds was unsuccessful. He tried several times, then gave up with an irritated toss of his head. “Am I to take it that you speak the white tongue?”

  “I do.”

  This prompted another excited exchange. In due course Thunder Horn signed, “His name is not important. That you took him as your husband is.”

  “In what way?”

  “Do your people trade with the whites?”

  “Yes,” Winona answered honestly, unable to conceive of any importance the question might hold. “Many tribes do.”

  “And what do you trade them?”

  “Beaver skins, buffalo hides, sometimes horses and food.”

  “What does your tribe get in return?”

  “Rifles, pistols, powder, blankets, steel knives and tomahawks, traps, many things,” Winona signed. Her bewilderment grew when for the third time in as many minutes the warriors commenced chatting like agitated squirrels. As Nate might say, she did not understand what all the fuss was about. She listened to their words and watched Thunder Horn carefully but was unable to glean a clue.

  “It is a good day for the Minneconjou,” the tall warrior signed after the discussion had ended. “This is even better than counting coup on Blackfeet, which is why we are in this territory.”

  “I do not understand,” Winona confessed.

  “In time you will.” Thunder Horn rested a hand on the neck of his war horse and regarded her with renewed interest. “Tell me. Do you have children?”

  “A fine son,” Winona answered.

  “This husband of yours. He beats you at times, and treats you like a dog?”

  “Never!” Winona signed with such vigor her arms trembled. “Grizzly Killer is the kindest man I know. He treats me with respect, as an equal.”

  “How many grizzlies has this mighty hunter slain?” Thunder Horn signed with sarcasm lining his features.

  “Too many to count.”

  Every last warrior burst out laughing.

  “And you accused me of having too much pride!” Thunder Horn baited her. “No man has ever killed more than one or two of the fierce bears and lived to tell of it.”

  Winona had been trying to recall exactly how many Nate had rubbed out over the years. “My husband has killed more than six. He slays them as lesser men slay flies.”

  “Ho!” Thunder Horn said aloud before reverting to more sign language. “I would like to meet this giant among men!”

  “Try to steal me and you will,” Winona was swift to assure him. “Not only is he the best hunter alive, he is also the best tracker. He will find you no matter where you take me and he will punish you for your deed.”

  “I was wrong,” Thunder Horn signed with a smirk. “You did not marry a giant. You married a spirit in human form who has the ability of a hundred men!”

  Once again the men enjoyed a good laugh. And as Winona sat staring at those in front of her, she realized there was an odd quality to their mirth, as if they were forcing themselves

  to laugh harder than was called for. She wondered why they would behave so strangely. It was almost as if they were doing so for her benefit, but such an idea was ridiculous.

  Too late Winona heard the scrape of a hoof close by her side. Too late she awoke to the fact the laughter had not been for her benefit, but for theirs, to cover the sounds made by a pair of warriors who had crept up on her from the rear while her attention was distracted.

  Winona gripped the flintlock and tried to turn but she was seized under both arms and the rifle was torn from her grasp. She bit one of the hands holding her and was able to tear loose. As she twisted to bite the other hand, two other warriors appeared in front of her, both on foot. They grabbed her and held her fast while another brought a grass rope and tied her wrists. Before the shock had quite settled in, she was lifted bodily and forced to straddle the back of Thunder Horn’s mount.

  “Now you are mine!” the tall Minneconjou declared, and uttering a whoop, he wheeled his horse and led the rest of the war party southward at a trot.

  Chapter Five

  Shakespeare McNair was worried. His friends had been gone far too long and the storm was worsening by the minute. One hand firmly holding the reins to his skittish horse, he shielded his eyes from the cold, pelting rain with a flat palm and gazed at the turbulent heavens.

  In all Shakespeare’s years in the wilderness he had seen few storms to equal this one. Nature was throwing a fierce tantrum, and unless he found shelter soon he risked bodily harm. But he was loath to leave with the Kings unaccounted for. Young Zach might return at any time and someone had to be on hand.

  Lightning speared the earth with uncanny frequency. Thunder drummed incessantly. Shakespeare was soaked to the skin but he paid the discomfort no heed. To one accustomed to the weather whims of the fickle Rockies, being wet was no more than a trifling inconvenience.

  As the minutes labored past, Shakespeare’s worry mounted. He knew it would be impossible for Nate to track the boy, that the rain must have washed out all tracks by now. Gnawing on his lower lip, he glanced at the Yellowstone, which was rapidly assuming the proportions of a raging torrent. Already the quicksilver current had overflowed the bank and begun devouring the vegetation.

  A bristling bolt suddenly struck a tree thirty feet away. The blinding flash caused Shakespeare to avert his eyes. For a moment every hair on his body stood on end and an invisible hand slapped at him. He closed his eyes as brilliant white dots whirled everywhere.

  Shakespeare’s horse panicked, heaving mightily on the reins, and it was all he could do to hold on. “Calm down, you ornery cuss!” he declared, seizing the mane. “This isn’t no time to be acting contrary.”

  The horse had no chance to comply. Another close blast of lightning to the south sent it racing pell-mell in the opposite direction, to the north—toward the river.

  Looping the reins around a wrist, Shakespeare dug in both heels and threw all his weight into trying to stop the animal. He might as well have tried to stop a charging buffalo. In blind terror the horse bolted into the roaring water. It awoke to its mistake almost immediately but by then the river was halfway up to its shoulders. It tried to turn, stepped into a hole, and floundered.

  Shakespeare realized he couldn’t hope to pull the horse to safety by himself. And unless he moved quickly, the animal’s stupidity would cost him his life. He lunged toward the bank and was brought up short by a tug at his wrist; in his haste he had forgotten to unwind the reins.

  In order to accomplish that, Shakespeare had to transfer his Hawken from his left hand to his right. He was doing so when his legs were swept out from under him and the next instant he was sailing downriver beside the thrashing horse. Before he could lift a finger they were carried out toward the middle of the river where it was so deep he could not touch bottom.

  Shakespeare was in dire straits. On either side the inky shoreline streaked past, but it would be the height of folly to try to reach land. His only recourse was to let the Yellowstone take him where it would and hope he survived.

  Since the horse might sink and Shakespeare did not care to go under with it, he quickly unwound the reins and lightly placed one hand on top of the saddle. The animal had quieted somewhat but its eyes were wide with fright, its nostrils flared.

  Over the tumult of the river rose a faint new sound. Shakespeare spat water and twisted. Against the backdrop of the night something gigantic moved, and it took several moments for his brain to register its dimensions and recognize the shape for what it was.

  “Tarnation!” Shakespeare exclaimed. “Not that!”

  A tornado of Cyclopean size wa
s moving parallel to the river, chewing up the south shore, sucking trees and weeds and rocks into its writhing maw as if dining on the earth itself. Shakespeare could not see well enough to observe every detail, but he could tell that everything in the behemoth’s path was being destroyed.

  Shakespeare’s first thoughts were for the Kings. No one caught by that twister would live to relate the experience, and it was plain the tornado had ravaged the very strip of land where they would have been. The thought jarred him to the depths of his soul. They were, after all, the closest thing to true family he had left in the world other than his wife, and he loved each and every one of them fervently.

  He fought back a mad impulse to push off and swim for shore. There was nothing he could do except stay alive and go back to look for them once he managed to reach dry land, which promised to be a formidable chore in itself.

  So far the current had done no more than sweep Shakespeare along, but that could change at any time. There were few waves, few eddies, and he was moving so fast that he hardly had to tread water at all.

  Shakespeare shot around a bend, his body banging against the horse, his gaze still on the tornado. It was much closer to the river and soon might swing out over the water. The old saying about being caught between a rock and a hard place had never been more true. If the dancing funnel didn’t get him, the murky depths of the Yellowstone would.

  With a screeching wail the twister abruptly leaped into the air, spun off into the clouds to the southeast, and was gone. It happened in the time it would take Shakespeare to snap his fingers and left him blinking in surprise. He had never seen one do that before. He wondered where it had gone and whether it would set down again elsewhere.

  The following minute the tornado was completely forgotten as Shakespeare rounded another bend and spied white froth ahead. He tucked his legs to his chest and kept both arms over the back of the horse, a precaution that proved prudent when they slewed into a stretch of rapids at dizzying speed.