Griffen gave a snort of impatience. “I never met anyone who can beat around the bush like you do. Get to the point before he passes out again.”
“Let me tell it my way,” Bob said, tossing the stem to the ground. Turning to Shakespeare, he continued. “Anyway, there were eleven of us left St. Louis together, seven hivernans and four greeners. We figured we were better off sticking together for protection, until we got to the Mandan villages, that is. There we learned the Blackfeet have been on a rampage all along the southern boundary of their territory. Old Mato-tope, the grand chief of all the Mandans, had just heard the news himself.”
Griffen had been fidgeting the whole time his partner talked. Now he took up the narrative, saying, “Mato-tope advised us to break up into little groups. He thought we’d have a better chance of sneaking past those damnable Blackfeet if we weren’t in one big outfit.’’
Knorr spoke the instant Griffen took a breath. “So we divided up into three groups and left the Mandans about two days apart. Lane and me were the last ones to leave.”
“The others will get to the spot we agreed to meet at before we do,” Griffen said, “and they’re supposed to wait for us. It’s about forty to fifty miles from here.”
Shakespeare was having difficulty staying awake; the drone of their words was gradually putting him to sleep. He shook his head to clear it and said, “Neither one of you has gotten to the point yet.”
“It’s this way,” Bob responded. “One of our number is an old hand at patching up folks and critters. Why, once he sewed up a horse that had its guts torn out by a panther and the horse lived! Saw the operation with my own two eyes. They were the biggest stitches you’d ever want to see.”
“And we figure he can do the same for you,” Griffen concluded. “We’ll have to push to get you there lickety-split, and we’ll have to keep our eyes skinned the whole time for Blackfeet, but we’re willing to try if you say the word.”
They didn’t fool McNair. Both were acting casual about their proposal but Shakespeare realized it was fraught with danger for the two of them. Pushing meant going without sleep, traveling day and night to reach their friends swiftly. And going without proper rest in Blackfeet country was an invitation for trouble.
Their senses would be dulled by fatigue, making them more vulnerable.
“What do you say?” Lane goaded.
Shakespeare looked at each of them. Here they were, one a complete stranger and the other a passing acquaintance, and they were willing to put their lives in peril for him. He admired their sacrifice, but he had to say, “It would be best for all concerned if you went on and left me.”
“Why best?” Griffen asked.
“I doubt I’ll last a day in my shape,” Shakespeare replied. “You’d be wasting your time.”
“You’ve lasted this long, haven’t you?” Knorr retorted.
“And we’ll decide what is a waste of our time and what’s not,” Griffen declared.
Bob nodded and beamed. “So it’s settled! We leave at dawn. We’ll use our blankets to tote you to the canoes. The rest should be easy.”
Shakespeare argued, or tried to, but they would have none of it. He might have debated until dawn had sleep not claimed him. Vaguely, he was aware of having his wounds dressed, of having strips of cloth bound around his chest and abdomen.
The gay chirp of sparrows brought Shakespeare back to the land of the living when a trace of pink lined the eastern horizon. He heard a commotion and twisted his head to see the Yellowstone only ten feet away and the two trappers loading their belongings into a pair of canoes. In the second canoe space had been left for him. Spare blankets had been spread out to make him comfortable.
Shakespeare delved deep within himself and discovered his despair of the night before gone. Living things are inherently tenacious, and he now wanted to live so badly that the notion of dying brought a lump of regret to his throat. There were those who might say he’d lived a ripe, full life. But to his way of thinking he still had another ten or twenty years to go and he wanted to enjoy every minute of them. Footsteps intruded on his reflection, drawing his attention to his benefactors, who were approaching. “Morning,” he greeted them.
“We’re all loaded,” Bob Knorr said. “First a cup of coffee all around and then we’ll shove off.”
Lane Griffen bent down. “Are you up to eating anything, you think?”
Shakespeare was going to say he was hungry enough to eat a horse whole when a twig snapped loudly to his rear and the two trappers stiffened, their eyes widening in alarm. Gritting his teeth, Shakespeare was able to turn far enough to see the creature responsible for breaking the twig, and on doing so he felt his blood run cold.
It was the grizzly. And it abruptly reared on two legs and vented a fierce roar.
Chapter Nine
The instant young Zachary King realized he was trapped by five young Blackfeet, he whirled toward the right side of the gully and tried to claw his way to the top. He got a handhold, managed to dig a toe into the hard earth, and then was grabbed from behind and yanked.
Tumbling hard onto his shoulders, Zach tried to regain his footing. He saw the Blackfeet converging and lashed out with a foot, upending one. The rest were on him before he could do anything else, pinning him under their combined weight.
Had the Blackfeet been whites, they would have rained down a hailstorm of punches, perhaps breaking Zach’s nose or pulping his lips. Instead they had tossed their weapons aside and were striving their utmost to take him alive. Hands seized his wrists, his ankles.
Zach fought with all the fury of a terror-stricken youngster, breaking free and bucking and punching and flailing his legs. He connected twice, much to his satisfaction. But the outcome was preordained, especially when one of the older Blackfeet boys produced a length of rope and quickly slipped a loop over Zach’s left arm. He heaved and tugged, his face flushed from his effort to tear loose. This time he was thwarted. And with one arm useless, the other was soon snared.
Zach tried to ram a heel into the stomach of a boy in front of him. Another batted his leg aside. Then both legs were held fast, he was flipped onto his side, and both wrists were bound behind his back. He fought back tears of frustration at being captured when another hour would have seen him safely away and on the trail to rejoining his folks.
The five Blackfeet stepped away from him. All breathed heavily. Several were bruised and one had a dirt smudge on his right cheek. They stared at Zach in amazement, apparently unable to believe they had caught him, it had all happened so fast.
Zach still had his legs free. He tucked them under him and rose to his knees, intending to turn and flee. The tallest of the boys, divining his plan, suddenly lunged, grasping his arm. Another Blackfoot took the other side.
“You danged whippersnappers!” Zach roared, as might his Uncle Shakespeare at a passel of pesky kids. “Let me go, you hear! I’ll rip your lungs out if you don’t!”
A skinny boy blinked, then laughed and said something that set all five to laughing. He reached out, pinched Zach’s shoulder.
“I’m real enough!” Zach declared in Shoshone. “I’m the son of Grizzly Killer, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll cut these ropes off right this minute!”
The mirth subsided. The Blackfeet regarded Zach with keen interest. Zach wondered if they had understood him and said, “Yes, I speak Shoshone. I should. They are my tribe.”
None of the Blackfeet responded although the skinny one’s eyes narrowed.
“Do you know the tongue?” Zach asked. “Talk to me if you do!”
A heavyset boy addressed the skinny one, who pondered a moment and said a single word. Then he and the other two not holding Zach retrieved the discarded weapons.
“What are you fixing to do?” Zach demanded. “Rub me out on the spot? Or take me to your village to butcher me with everyone looking on?” He clearly remembered the signed words of Cream Bear, “We do not kill children.” But after all he had h
eard about the atrocities Blackfeet committed, he was unwilling to believe anything one of them claimed.
The Blackfeet headed up the gully, hauling Zach with them. He resisted at first, digging in his heels until one of the boys commenced kicking him in the shins every time he gave them any trouble. After several kicks he decided to go along and die with dignity.
It developed that the gully wound for hundreds of yards, to within a stone’s throw of the village. Zach gulped as he was pushed up over a gravel strewn slope and into the open. He barely registered the stately painted lodges or the peaceful scene of dogs lounging, children playing, and women engaged in scraping hides. All he saw were the warriors, many seated and talking, others mending shields or making arrows or sharpening knives.
The skinny boy hoisted a lance and yipped like a proud coyote returning to its den with a fresh kill. He shouted excitedly, gesturing at Zach as the small group advanced.
From all directions Blackfeet came to see what the commotion was about. Zach lost count of the knives, war clubs, and tomahawks in evidence, and while inwardly he quaked at his impending doom, outwardly he composed his features so that he showed a calm face to those who would shortly gloat over his lifeless corpse.
A young girl, a twin of the skinny boy, was the first to reach them. She listened, incredulous, to whatever the boy told her, then stepped brazenly up to Zach and raked him from head to toe with the sort of look Zach was certain she would give an animal soon to be slaughtered.
“Go ahead, gloat!” Zach said, and grinned when she recoiled backward as if stung. “But you won’t see Stalking Coyote on his knees begging for his life. No sir. Do your worst. I’m ready for you!”
Adults arrived, men and women, some so old their hair was entirely gray. They ringed the boys, scrutinizing Zach while the skinny one went on at some length.
A burly warrior stepped forward and snapped at Zach in the Blackfoot tongue. Zach merely glared. The warrior tried a different tongue which Zach thought might be Flathead but wasn’t sure. Exasperated, the Blackfoot grabbed the front of Zach’s shirt and gave him such a shaking his teeth rattled.
Just when Zach was certain the warrior was on the verge of whipping out a knife and lifting his scalp, a low, resonant voice rang out and the warrior released him and stepped back. Through the throng stepped an older man who had to walk with the aid of a staff because his left leg had once suffered a terrible accident, leaving his foot bent at a right angle to his body. He walked to the front line of onlookers, the Blackfeet parting before him as if he were a personage of some importance.
Zach suspected this might be a chief or a medicine man. He held his chin higher, recalling the talk he’d had with his pa about the likelihood of being captured by hostiles. “Never show fear, no matter what,” Nate had advised. “Indians respect a brave man, not a coward. Show them that you have courage and they will not be as hard on you as they would be if you cringe and cry.”
The important newcomer studied Zach a few moments, then merely nodded at the two boys holding Zach’s arms and they immediately let go. The man smiled, a genuinely warm smile.
Even though Zach felt it necessary to put on a stern face, he melted under the kindly eyes of the oldster and grinned sheepishly. “I wish you spoke my lingo,” he said wistfully in English.
“I do.”
The heavily accented words were uttered haltingly, as if the old warrior had not used English in so long he was afraid he might not pronounce them correctly. But Zach understood, and his heart soared at finally being able to communicate. Until a glint of sunlight off the tip of a lance reminded him who he was communicating with.
“Speak little English,” the kindly man said, saying the last word so that it sounded like, “Ennnn-gleese.”
“How?” Zach blurted. “Who—”
“I White Grass,” the Blackfoot said, touching his chest. “Learn English far winters ago. From white man.” He pointed. “You who?”
“Zachary King, sir, at your service,” Zach said, being polite as his folks had taught he should always be.
White Grass cocked his head, peering at Zach’s arms. Stepping forward, the old man saw the rope and scowled. He barked orders at the boys and the skinny one hastily unfastened the bindings.
As the rope fell free, Zach smiled at the stately warrior, saying, “Thank you, sir.”
A puzzled look came over the Blackfoot. Tapping his chest again, he repeated, “White Grass. White Grass.”
“I know, sir,” Zach assured him.
The puzzled look deepened. Then White Grass made a gesture with his hands that oddly enough reminded Zach of a shrug more than it did any sign language he had ever seen.
“Sir,” the old man said, once more touching his chest. “Sir be it. Sir me.”
Abruptly, Zach understood. He had used the word so many times that White Grass mistook it for a name. “No,” he began, and changed his mind. Trying to explain might only further confuse the matter and annoy his savior and he dearly wanted to stay on the old man’s good side.
“No?” White Grass said.
“Sir is fine,” Zach said.
“Sir.” The Blackfoot beamed, displaying fine white teeth that would have been the envy of any white man half his age. “Yes. Know. Come now.” Wagging his staff, White Grass shooed the Blackfeet in his path away and headed deeper into the village.
Zach briefly hesitated. Every nerve screamed for him to bolt before the tribe butchered him as they had dozens of other whites. Only the realization he wouldn’t get ten feet prompted him into scooting in the old man’s wake. He was keenly aware of the many intense stares directed at him by the Blackfeet he passed. He couldn’t tell if they were merely curious or eyeing him as the first Pilgrim must have eyed that first Thanksgiving turkey.
White Grass did not go more than twenty yards when he halted and raised a hand to his brow to screen his eyes from the harsh sunlight.
Zach looked and felt his breath catch in his throat. Five warriors were riding toward the village, two riding double. Even at that distance he recognized Bird Rattler and Cream
Bear. His feet spun of their own accord but there was nowhere to go. The entire population of the village had followed, forming a wall of enemies between him and the prairie. He gulped, pivoted, and jumped when a gentle hand fell on his shoulder.
The old man shook a gnarled finger at him. ‘‘Still be, Hackeryking.”
“Zachery King,” Zach corrected him. “Son of Grizzly Killer.”
“Hackeryking,” White Grass said. “Big chief come. Listen him say about you.”
Big Chief? Zach wondered. Dread ripped at his innards as he remembered the encounter by the river. He knew without a shadow of doubt who the big chief would be and he bit his lower lip to keep from screeching at the bizarre twist of fate that had brought him to this lowest of low points in his life. Once the Blackfeet knew, he’d be hacked into so many bits and fed to their dogs.
The riders galloped up in a flurry of dust. Cream Bear drew rein and Bird Rattler slid off and approached, never once taking his gaze off of Zach. “So, horse thief,” he signed when he stopped. “We meet again.”
Zach heard whispering among the assembled Blackfeet and wished he could remember a suitable prayer to offer his Maker. This was it, he was certain. They would fly into a rage and swarm on him like wolves on a fawn.
White Grass leaned his staff against his side to sign, “You know this white boy, Bird Rattler?”
The chief launched into a long account in his own tongue. Zach knew, just without a doubt knew, that every Blackfoot was hearing the story of how he took the brown stallion. Soon, very soon, they would close on him and it would all be over. He tried to shrink into himself and steeled his will against the inevitable. Belatedly, he heard a peculiar sound coming from behind him. He glanced around and was stunned to see a goodly portion of the Blackfeet laughing wholeheartedly, the men especially. And that skinny boy and girl were gaping at him in outright awe. Now what?
“Hackeryking,” White Grass said.
Zach swiveled. “Yes, sir?”
“Very bad you,” the old man said, and it appeared as if the corners of his mouth couldn’t stop twitching. “Take big chief’s horse.”
“I didn’t meant to,” Zach said lamely. “It was sort of an accident.”
“Axe-see-dent?”
“I didn’t think I hit him that hard. And then the darn horse wouldn’t stop no matter what I did and the next thing I knew it was bringing me right to your village and then I sort of stumbled onto those boys and—” Zach stopped the rush of words and took a breath to calm himself. Show courage! his pa had said. Not blather like an idiot.
White Grass was saying something. To Zach’s amazement the Blackfeet roared with mirth, even Bird Rattler and Cream Bear. The thought struck him that maybe the reason the Blackfeet were so bloodthirsty had something to do with every blamed one of them being stark raving mad.
Unexpectedly the skinny boy and girl walked over to Bird Rattler. He listened to what the boy had to say, glancing now and again at Zach. Then Bird Rattler and White Grass consulted at length.
Zach wished the Blackfeet would do something other than stand there staring at him. He still expected the other shoe to drop soon, as his pa might say. Raising his chin high, he happened to gaze at the skinny girl, who smiled sweetly at him and then averted her face. He was so startled by this development that he didn’t hear when White Grass spoke his name. Not the first time, anyway.
“Hackeryking? Your ears open?”
“Yes, sir,” Zach replied dutifully. “I hear right fine. It’s just that so much has happened I don’t rightly know whether I’m coming or going.”
“You coming,” White Grass said. “Come with Sir in bit.”
“Where to, sir?”
“You see.”
Bird Rattler swung to the crowd and addressed them for the longest while in solemn tones. At the conclusion they began to disperse, except for an attractive woman in an elaborately beaded dress who stepped to the side of the tall warrior and received the sort of look Zach knew all too well from having seen his father give his mother the same sort of look countless times over the years. The woman put her arms on the shoulders of the skinny boy and skinny girl and together they walked off beside Bird Rattler.
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