Then Zach saw the deer. He was rounding a cottonwood and there not twenty feet away stood a small white-tail doe, grazing. Her back was to him. Tingling with excitement, he hefted the lance, took a few swift strides, and let fly with all his might.
The doe heard his footsteps and glanced around before the lance left his fingers. She was airborne the same moment as his weapon. And she was long gone, lost in the undergrowth, before the sharp point imbedded itself in the soft soil.
Frustrated, Zach reclaimed his spear. It seemed he would never have fresh meat. Thinking he might have better luck going after fish, the boy strolled to the Yellowstone and haunted the shallows. Other than a solitary frog that leaped far out into the murky water and disappeared, he saw no aquatic life.
By midmorning Zach was too depressed to hunt so he stopped to rest on a boulder. He thought he knew how to live off the land but he was learning there was more to it than he had imagined. Always before his father had been there to help him, except once in the middle of the winter when they had been caught in an avalanche. That time he’d had a rifle, and until this very moment he hadn’t truly appreciated how much of a difference a gun made.
A rifle enabled a trapper to confront Nature on equal terms, to eat when hungry, to defend himself against anyone or anything that would take his life.
And there was more to owning a gun than simple survival. Much more. Many was the time his pa had impressed on him that owning a firearm was so important a right it was guaranteed in the Constitution of the United States of America. The men who gathered for the Constitutional Convention had seen firsthand the evil that resulted when government got too big for its britches. As his pa had put it, “arming average citizens was the only way to prevent that from ever happening here.”
A sudden gust of wind fanned Zach’s hair and brought to his ears the faint whinny of a horse. Sliding to the ground, he crouched and moved toward the prairie. He hoped against hope he would spy a party of trappers or perhaps friendly Shoshones or Crows. But since he was in Blackfoot country, he doubted he’d be so fortunate.
From the last rank of trees the boy spotted five riders far off, heading in his general direction. Scooting into dense cover, Zach dropped flat and placed his lance in front of him, ready for immediate use.
The horsemen approached at a leisurely pace. They had the complexions and high cheek bones of all Indians. Their long black hair was parted in the middle and braided from the ears down, a common style. But their features, their buckskins, and in particular their moccasins, were distinctive.
Zach swallowed hard and wriggled as if trying to worm his way into the ground. They were Blackfeet all right, and if they caught him he was a goner for certain. From their relaxed manner he knew they had no idea he was there, but that could all change if their horses were at all like Shoshone mounts.
As luck would have it, the Blackfeet were on a line of travel that brought them within twenty feet of Zachary’s hiding place. He noted the bows and rifles they carried and tried to make sense of their conversation, but their tongue was utterly alien. One of the men caught his eye, a tall warrior astride a fine white stallion. The man reminded him of a Shoshone chief he knew in that the Blackfoot sat straight and proud as the chief always did.
Four of the five riders had gone past when the fifth man’s horse abruptly bobbed its head and nickered loud and long. The entire band promptly reined up.
Zach held his breath, dread seizing him. The fifth horse was looking right at the thicket, nostrils flaring. Startled, Zach realized the fickle breeze had shifted slightly and was bearing his scent right to them.
The tall warrior said something to the last brave who kneed his animal closer to the thicket and notched an arrow to his bowstring.
A horrifying mental picture of that shaft tearing into his body was all the impetus Zach needed to shove to his feet, whirl, and flee. The Blackfoot would have discovered him in a few seconds anyway and he had to get out of there before they surrounded him. There were surprised shouts to his rear mingled with the thud of hoofs moving rapidly.
A glance back showed the warriors in pursuit. Already they had fanned out, three going to the north to cut him off from the prairie while the tall warrior and one other bore to the south to cut him off from the river.
Zach was desperate. He couldn’t hope to outrun horses. Nor could he fight the Blackfeet off without a gun. In order to escape he had to do the unthinkable: dart toward the river, throw himself into the water, and swim for his life. He was almost there when a firm hand fell on his back and he was plucked high into the air and dangled in front of the tall warrior.
‘‘Let me go!” Zach screeched, taking a wild swing with his lance. The Blackfoot easily jerked aside, grinned, and let go, tumbling Zach into a patch of weeds.
A gust of laughter greeted the boy as he shoved to his feet. Mad as a wet bobcat, he leveled his spear and glared at the warriors who now encircled him. “I’m not afraid of you!” Zach blustered. “Do your worst! You’ll see that the King men know how to die!”
Louder laughter was the response. A pudgy Blackfoot jabbed a finger at Zach and said something while mimicking Zach’s expression. Another warrior acted as if he was so afraid he would fall off his war horse.
“Poke fun at me, will you!” Zach fumed, charging. He drove his lance at the leg of the one imitating him but the brave flicked his reins and moved out of harm’s way. Spinning, Zach pointed his weapon at each of them in turn, waiting for the moment when they would converge and slay him. He gulped, longing to see his folks just one more time, then straightened his slender shoulders and announced, “I’m ready!”
The Blackfeet were in earnest discussion, all except the tall warrior who merely stared thoughtfully at the small fury.
“What are you waiting for?” Zach demanded, unable to bear the suspense. He debated whether to try and dash between their mounts to gain the river and knew he’d never make it.
The pudgy Blackfoot drew a knife, then leaned down to wag it near the boy’s head. He yipped fiercely, a mock scowl contorting his features.
Zach swung, his lance swatting the blade aside. He backed up a step, remembered there were more behind him, and shifted, striving to keep them all in sight at once.
A single word from the tall warrior ended the laughter. He addressed the pudgy brave who reluctantly sheathed his knife. Lowering the fusee he held to his lap, the tall warrior moved his hands in the universal tongue of the plains, sign language. “Question, boy. You know Indian sign language?”
Loath to answer since he must lower his lance to do so, Zach hesitated.
“Answer me,” the Blackfoot motioned as would someone accustomed to being obeyed.
Casting a nervous glance at the others, Zach tucked his spear under an arm and signed, “Yes, I speak sign. The son of Grizzly Killer has been taught many things. Harm him and Grizzly Killer will track you down and kill you.”
The pudgy man snickered until he received a stern look from the tall warrior. “Question. You called?”
There were no sign symbols for Zachary King so the boy gave his Shoshone name. “Stalking Coyote.”
“I am Bird Rattler,” the Blackfoot disclosed. “Why are you here alone? Where is this father we should fear?”
Suspecting he was being mocked again, Zach was all set to give the warrior a piece of his mind when he realized the man wasn’t smirking like the rest. “My father has gone off a little way to hunt and will come back at any time,” he fibbed, inspired to trick the band into leaving. “There are twenty white men with him and they have many long guns.”
Bird Rattler cocked his head. “Does Stalking Coyote speak with one tongue or two?”
Zach began to move his hands, to say he was being truthful, but a pang of conscience gave him pause. His parents had taught him to always be honest. Always, without exception.
And they had made no allowances for special circumstances.
“Did you understand the question, Stalking
Coyote?”
“I spoke with two tongues.”
“There are not twenty whites with many guns?”
“No.”
“Your father is alone?”
“No.”
“How many are with him then?”
Here Zach balked. He could not bring himself to lie but that did not mean he had to reveal everything the Blackfeet wanted to know. It abruptly occurred to him that if the warriors knew about his folks and Shakespeare the band might attempt to hunt them down. So he stood still, refusing to answer.
“I think you are lost, little one,” Bird Rattler signed. “I think you are all alone with no one to look after you.”
The pudgy Indian joined in. “I see you have a powder horn. Where is your rifle?”
“I lost it,” Zach admitted.
“What sort of boy are you that you lose something so valuable?”
“The storm,” Zach signed, and stopped, seeing no need to explain himself to men who were going to lift his hair at any minute. Gripping his lance, he pointed the tip at the pudgy Blackfoot and waited.
“What are you doing, boy?” asked that worthy.
The tall warrior smiled. “He is going to give his life dearly, Cream Bear.”
“His life?” Cream Bear snorted like his namesake. “We do not kill children.”
“He has heard differently.”
A heated exchange broke out in the Blackfoot tongue and all Zach could do was stand still, listening. He got the impression two others were arguing with Bird Rattler but had no idea why. After a while the pair fell silent although they were mightily displeased.
Bird Rattler bent low. “Climb on, Stalking Coyote. You will go with us.” He offered his brawny hand.
Zach lowered his lance to respond, “I will not.”
“You cannot wander the prairie by yourself. A bear might find you. We saw sign of one not far from this very spot.”
“Do not worry about me. I can take care of myself.”
“Very well. If such is your wish.” Bird Rattler straightened and signaled the others, then applied his heels to his horse and began to swing around to the west. In a masterly display of horsemanship he suddenly wheeled inward, hung by one arm, and scooped Zach into the other. So swiftly did he pounce, the shocked boy was held firmly in place before he quite awakened to his capture.
“No!” Zach bellowed, twisting to jab his spear at Bird Rattler’s chest. A hand flashed in and Cream Buffalo tore the lance from his grasp. He grabbed for his tomahawk but a third Blackfoot took it, the fourth his knife. They had stripped him of his weapons but not his resolve. Kicking and punching he sought to break free but his blows were as those of a tiny reed on solid rock; they had no effect. The Blackfeet laughed, enjoying his frustration, and this time Bird Rattler joined in.
Zach’s anger mounted. Without thinking he drove the rigid fingers of his right hand into Bird Rattler’s face, straight into the warrior’s eyes. Bird Rattler yelped and raised his hands to protect himself, and in so doing he released the reins. Zach caught them, rammed his shoulder into the blinded warrior, then heaved with every ounce of strength he could muster. No one was more shocked than he was when Bird Rattler toppled off the horse, the rifle falling with him.
A jab of the knees was enough to goad the brown stallion into motion. Zach bent low to evade Cream Buffalo’s clawed fingers, then he was in the clear and galloping for the prairie. Angry yells were hurled after him. He heard some of them give chase but did not lose precious moments looking back. Legs flapping madly, he lashed the reins as he guided his mount through the cottonwoods and willows.
The stallion was a superb animal, bred for speed and endurance. As with many Indian mounts, it had a wild streak and loved nothing more than to run free with the wind in its mane. Now, on being given its head by the boy on its back, the stallion flowed over the ground in a literal blur, proving in the first minute that Bird Rattler knew how to pick horseflesh. It handily outdistanced its pursuers and would not slow no matter how much they shouted.
Zach was tickled pink. He was getting away! Soon he’d have enough of a lead over the Blackfeet they’d never catch him! There was only one small problem.
The stallion was a big animal, sixteen hands high if it was an inch. Zach could barely straddle its broad back with his legs stretched to their limit. And guiding the horse took his full stock of horsemanship. He had to tug extra hard on the reins to persuade the stallion to heed his wishes.
For the first mile all went well. By the end of the second, Zach glanced around and giggled on seeing the warriors so far behind they were the size of black dots. He pulled on the reins to slow the stallion but the animal raced on at a breakneck gallop. Annoyed, he tried once more with the same result.
Zach straightened and heaved backwards, throwing his entire weight into the movement. He might as well have been striving to stop a plummeting boulder for all the good it did him. The horse ran on, unimpressed.
“Whoa, darn you!” Zach cried, pulling and jerking.
Head bowed, legs drumming, the stallion ignored him.
“I said whoa!” Zach reiterated, wrapping the reins around his wrists for better leverage. Another attempt was equally unavailing. The horse had no desire to stop. Either he jumped off, which might earn him a busted backbone or worse, or he hung on until the stallion tired. It wasn’t much of a choice.
Clinging fast, Zach settled down for a long ride. If the animal’s rippling muscles were any indication, it possessed stamina to match its speed.
He wished he had been able to grab Bird Rattler’s rifle as it fell. His pa had spent many an hour instructing him in a flintlock’s use and he could hit man-sized targets consistently at long range. With a rifle he could keep the Blackfeet at bay if by some miracle they overtook him.
But, as Zach had learned the hard way, only a simpleton cried over spilt milk. He had to make the best of the situation. Adapt and live, as his pa would say. It was interesting how he thought of his folks when things got rough and tried to imagine how they would handle the same situation.
The stallion galloped on and on. Zach guessed they were five or six miles from the Yellowstone, probably more. He wondered if the horse had a special destination in mind and he peered ahead for some indication of where they were headed. Minutes later he had his answer.
Pale spots appeared on the prairie, arranged in a large circular pattern. Having lived among the Shoshones on many occasions Zach identified those spots for what they were: scores of lodges, an entire Blackfoot village! The fool horse was taking him straight home!
Zach had to think fast. In another few moments someone in the village might notice them. Girding himself, he put both palms flat on the stallion’s shoulders, slid his legs up under his buttocks, and, on seeing thick grass to his right, he vaulted off. Air brushed his face, then he hit on his shoulder, the grass cushioning the worst of the impact. He rolled and rolled until his momentum was spent and sat up to take stock. To his amazement nothing was broken.
The stallion kept on going, tail flying.
Zach congratulated himself on his narrow escape and rose into a crouch. He had to get out of there before he was discovered. To that end, he moved stealthily eastward. Going south would take him directly back to the Yellowstone but it also might bring him face to face with Bird Rattler’s band, so he figured on swinging in a wide loop until he regained the river.
By elevating his head high enough for a look-see, Zach spied figures moving about in the village. As yet there was no outcry over the horse but that could soon change. He snaked among the tall stems, parting them with his hands, trying to move the grass as little as possible just in case there were Blackfeet nearer than he suspected.
Zach had gone a quarter of a mile when the grass thinned and in front of him appeared a gully that ran from north to south. Excited at finding the ideal hiding place, he made a dash for the near slope and went over the crest without bothering to see what lay below. It was a grievous mistake
.
Strolling along the bottom of the gully were two Blackfeet. Blackfeet boys, that was, neither older than Zach by the looks of them. Both glanced up on hearing his footsteps. Both gaped in blatant astonishment.
Zach tried to dig in his heels to stop, lost his balance, and catapulted down the eight-foot incline. By sheer accident his fall brought him down on top of the boys, bowling them over. He was first on his feet, bruised but otherwise fine. Whirling, he sprinted southward, rounding a bend just as the Blackfeet found their voices and cried out at the top of their lungs.
Zach thought they were calling for help and grinned at their foolishness since the village was out of earshot. On negotiating another bend he learned he was wrong. For in front of him was a third boy, this one armed with a bow and arrow. As Zach appeared, the Blackfoot lifted the bow and took aim.
There was nowhere to run, nowhere to take cover, nothing to do but keep on running. Zach rammed his arm into the young Indian as the Blackfoot loosed his shaft. The boy stumbled to one side and the arrow streaked into the left-hand slope, imbedding with a thud.
Zach never slowed. More bends promised refuge if he could only stay ahead of the Blackfeet. He took the first one and an arrow nipped at his heels. Pouring on the speed, he crossed a straight stretch and slowed for a fraction of an instant to check on his enemies.
All three boys were furiously trying to overhaul him.
Zach uttered a taunting laugh and went around the next corner. His taunt had been premature, as the two Blackfeet in front of him made clear. These boys were slightly older and held lances. They had heard the uproar and were ready, their weapons leveled.
Stopping so abruptly he almost tripped over his own feet, Zach eyed both of them, seeking an opening so he could get by. Before he could take a single step, though, the other three charged up and stopped a few yards off.
Zach was trapped.
Chapter Seven
As the nine warriors bore down on Nate King and one of them let fly with a glittering shaft, he was raising an arm to make the hand sign for ‘‘friend.” He had no time to react, no chance to leap aside. For a heartbeat he thought he was a goner, then the arrow whizzed under his forearm, missing him by a hair but clipping off several whangs.
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