Unbidden to Winona’s mind came snatches of conversations overhead at the annual rendezvous. While Nate seldom used such language himself and she never did, she had no reservations about doing so on this occasion as she was certain no one would be able to translate. “As you wish, you arrogant old fart. Your mother was a whore, your father a jackass,” she said in a level voice while smiling sweetly. “You are a stupid son of a bitch who thinks he can outfox me but I will outfox you and the rest of these dung eaters and when I am done your own women will point at you and laugh and say there goes the old fool who was tricked by a mere Shoshone.” She had their complete attention so she went on, still smiling. “I have never been one to hate others simply because they are from a different tribe, but I tell you here and now that if I could, I would fill the breechcloths of all of you with red ants after staking you to the ground. And then I would tie a stallion over you and give it water to drink until it could not hold the water in any more. This way you would earn a new name. Instead of Runs Against, everyone would call you Pissed On.”
None of the chiefs moved or signed when she finished. A few shared glances. Then Runs Against raised his arms. “What do you think, my brothers?”
“She could be trying to trick us,” signed a man whose headdress was attached to the horns of a buffalo joined by a thick leather band. “She said gibberish thinking we will believe it is the white tongue.”
“There is one way to be sure,” Runs Against signed, turning to a warrior with a large comma of hair hanging against the side of his face. “You claim to know a little of the white’s bird talk, Long Forelock. Is Buffalo Hump right? Does she know it or not?”
This was unforeseen. Winona fought to hide her anxiety at being found out. She glanced at the warrior with the forelock, wondering where in the world he had learned her husband’s language. Once he told them the truth, they would take her out and let the Minneconjou women stone her to death, or perhaps leave her stranded on the prairie with no food, no weapons, and maybe no clothes.
Long Forelock pursed his lips, deep in thought. He looked straight at Winona and she swore she detected a hint of fear in his eyes. Why that should be, she had no idea. She convinced herself it must be her imagination.
“What do you say?” Runs Against prompted shortly. “If you know some of the white tongue, you must have some idea of what she told us.”
“I do,” Long Forelock signed.
Winona bit her lower lip. Had she not been pregnant, she would had made a dash for the entrance.
“She plays us for fools,” Long Forelock signed, and there was muttering among the chiefs. “She teases us. She would have us think she does not think highly of the Minneconjous when she does. She said that she has heard many tales of Minneconjou bravery in battle, and now that she has met us she knows they must be true. She thinks we are pleasing to the eye. And she admitted to liking Thunder Horn more than she has let on.”
No one was more shocked by the warrior’s statements than Winona. Her expression of utter amazement seemed to lend credence to his words, and many of the men gazed on her in a new light. Foremost among them was Thunder Horn, who beamed as would the owner of a fine new mare.
“So the truth is known,” Runs Against signed, chortling. “Did you really think you could keep it secret, woman?”
Winona had no choice but to play along. If she disputed Long Forelock they would chalk it up to womanly pride. “He did indeed understand most of my words.”
“Most of them?”
“All except those concerning Thunder Horn. I did not admit to liking him more than has been apparent. I admitted to disliking him more than I dared show.”
The relaxed atmosphere evaporated like morning dew under a hot sun. Frowns and scowls replaced the smiles and grins. Everyone studiously avoided looking at Thunder Horn, who had gone as rigid as granite.
Winona had overstepped the bounds again, and this time she had openly insulted a noted warrior. But the way she saw it, she’d had no choice. Had Thunder Horn left the council thinking she was attracted to him, he would have become insufferable, hounding her daily to become his woman, refusing to take no for an answer.
Now, ringed by hostile glares, Winona had second thoughts. Somehow she must salvage the moment and get back in Thunder Horn’s good graces. Just not too far back in. “I wish Long Forelock had understood all my words,” she signed. “I do not dislike Thunder Horn personally. Anyone can see he is a Minneconjou of importance, and any Minneconjou woman would be delighted to be his mate. No, I dislike him just as any woman dislikes a man who has gotten the better of her, as he did when he captured me. As you would dislike anyone who bested you in a fight.”
Winona held her breath, gauging the impact. She had appealed to their warrior vanity because vanity was the prime weakness of most men. Although women were branded as more vain due to the greater amount of time they spent making themselves attractive, every woman knew the contrary was true and how to use that knowledge to their advantage. Whites or Indians, it made no difference. Men were men, and there wasn’t one alive who liked coming out second best at anything.
Some of the resentment faded from the faces of the Minneconjous. Thunder Horn actually grinned, which Winona took as a bad omen.
“I am sorry,” Long Forelock signed to Thunder Horn. “My knowledge of the white tongue is limited. Sometimes I mix words.”
Runs Against tapped the ground so everyone would look at him. “I am the one who should apologize,” he signed. “I thought Long Forelock was telling another of his tales when he claimed to know the bird talk. I will never doubt him again.” He stared hard at Winona. “Now back to the matter at hand. You have proven you were not lying. You must know the ways of the whites very well indeed.”
Before Winona could stop herself, she answered, and she realized she had made a grave mistake the second she lowered her hands. “My husband says I am as at home among his people as I am among mine. I even know the written tongue of the whites and can read the small signs they put on paper.”
A murmur of excitement broke out. Half the chiefs began conversing with a neighbor. Runs Against and Penis huddled together, with Penis doing most of the talking. They were obviously thrilled by the revelation.
Why? Winona asked herself. The Lakotas weren’t on the friendliest of terms with the white trappers and traders, so of what possible significance was her ability to them?
Runs Against signed for silence. “Tell me, Shoshone,” he then said, “is it not true that the whites place great value on the squiggly signs they so love to write?”
“Yes,” Winona confirmed, thinking of the trade contracts between the trappers and the fur companies. “They use them to bind each other to promises they make.”
“Their word is not enough?”
“In their personal dealings, yes,” Winona explained. “But when they engage in trade and hold council with one another they always want their agreements put down in great detail so there will be no misunderstandings in the future.”
“And they never break these agreements?”
“It is rare for them to do so once they have put the squiggly signs down.”
“It is as we hoped.” Runs Against looked very pleased. “Tell me more, woman. Let us say you were out on the prairie and you saw a party of whites in the distance. Let us say you want to go to them but you do not want to get shot before they realize you are friendly. Is there a way you could do this?”
“A white flag,” Winona signed, “such as the flags our own societies sometimes make for themselves.”
“Only the one color?”
“Yes. To the whites it means, ‘I come in peace.’ They will never shoot someone holding one.”
“A white flag for whites,” Penis signed. “How very appropriate.”
For a while Runs Against sat in contemplation and Winona began to think they were done with her when he cocked his head and signed, “Do your people have many guns, Shoshone?”
“S
ome,” Winona answered.
“How many?” Runs Against pressed.
Winona had no intention of disclosing that thanks to her husband the Shoshones owned more rifles than any surrounding tribe, enough to insure they could hold their own in any tribal clash. “Ten,” she lied, the true total being many times that number.
“That is all?” Runs Against rubbed his chin. “What about steel knives and tomahawks and fire makers?”
“Too many to count,” Winona signed honestly. “For fourteen or fifteen winters now we have been trading beaver hides to the whites for items we wanted. Looking glasses, blankets, pots and pans, material for dresses, and much more.”
“So the Shoshones are a rich tribe,” Runs Against remarked.
“In small things,” Winona responded. “But we are not rich in horses, like the Comanches and the Nez Perce, or rich in numbers, like the Minneconjous.”
“Still,” Runs Against signed, “it is good to be rich in the small things. Everyone is happier when their hands have much to keep them busy.” He paused. “No one likes to be poor.”
“I know I would be happy if my wife had one of those looking glasses,” Penis interjected. “Maybe then she would spend all her time admiring herself instead of nagging me.”
The laughter was contagious. Winona grinned, forgetting for a moment she was among enemies, letting down her emotional guard only to have it immediately pierced by the next words Runs Against signed.
“As for you, woman, you will forget about this white man you took as your husband and change your mind about Thunder Horn. Like it or not, in a moon or so you will become his wife. I have given my word on this.”
“Never,” Winona countered.
Runs Against sighed and signed more slowly, as might a patient father to an erring daughter. ‘‘Why can you not get it through your head that you have no choice in the matter? From the day you were captured you belonged to the Minneconjou to do with as we please. And it pleases us to have so lovely and healthy a woman bear many strong boys so the Minneconjous may continue to thrive and prosper.”
“I would rather die than be the wife of Thunder Horn.”
“Why? As you pointed out earlier, every eligible woman in the village would be delighted to move into his lodge.”
“Then let him pick one of them. There is only one lodge for me, the wood lodge high in the mountains, the one I call my home.”
“You will never see it again.”
“Whether I do or whether I do not, there is only one man for me and his name is Grizzly Killer.”
“Wagh!” Runs Against declared aloud, which was as strong an oath as an Indian used. His hands moved in angry, jerking gestures. “You are enough to give a man fits! Why are you being so unreasonable? Did this Grizzly Killer put a spell on your heart?”
“Yes,” Winona signed.
“You admit it?” Runs Against asked in surprise. “How did he bind you to him? Did a spirit help him? Did a medicine man sell him a magic flute? Did he use a special potion?”
“He used something very special,” Winona signed, and when she had their complete attention, she added, “He used love.”
None of the chiefs so much as moved for a full minute. Penis broke the uncomfortable hush by signing at Thunder Horn, “You would do well to put this Shoshone from your mind, friend. Her heart is bound in iron.” A sly twinkle lit his features. “But if you are still interested in a wife, I will gladly trade you mine for a good horse.”
Everyone except Thunder Horn was smiling. “No,” he signed absently, his gaze fixed on Winona.
“Very well,” Penis said. “It does not need to be a good horse. Any one will do.” He sighed heavily. “It does not even have to have four legs.”
The lodge rocked with mirth but this time Winona didn’t let her guard down. She waited with stony reserve for the interrogation to resume but received a flick of dismissal instead.
“We are done with you, woman. You may go,” Runs Against directed. “You will remain in your lodge except for short walks each day. Butterfly will tend to your every need. You have but to ask her and it will be done. Take care of yourself so that you will be ready when the time comes.”
Winona obediently rose and turned. Butterfly awaited her, and together, flanked by the two warriors, they departed. Winona drank in the sweet air, grateful the session was over, the chief’s parting words ringing in her brain: “Take care of yourself so that you will be ready when the times comes.”
Ready for what?
Chapter Twelve
Shakespeare McNair, Lane Griffen, and Bob Knorr were riveted in place by the paralyzing sight of the massive grizzly rearing on its hind legs and opening its gaping maw to roar. A relatively recent wound on the side of its head, a deep furrow dug by a lead ball, was all the evidence Shakespeare needed that here was the same bear responsible for cutting him open and nearly rubbing him out. Automatically his hands sought the pistols he would ordinarily have at his waist, but there were none. Nor did he have his rifle. He was unarmed, weak, defenseless, totally at the mercy of a creature that had no mercy.
Shakespeare’s only hope lay in the two free trappers. He glanced at them just as they did the last thing he expected; they broke and ran.
The grizzly came down on all fours and advanced, its great head swinging ponderously from side to side. It stared straight at Shakespeare, and McNair felt the icy hand of death stroke the nape of his neck as the bear’s warm breath fanned his face. He went rigid, not so much as a muscle twitching, his eyes locked wide. Sometimes but not always bears wouldn’t touch someone if the person played possum.
Growling suspiciously, its raspy breaths like the puffing of a steam engine, the grizzly stopped and sniffed loudly, its warm nose brushing Shakespeare’s chest. Shakespeare resisted an urge to cringe away. Steeling his nerves, he neither moved nor made an outcry, not even when the bear nipped lightly at his shoulder, its teeth shearing the buckskin but hardly breaking the skin.
Abruptly, the bear twisted its head and opened its mouth. Saliva dripped onto Shakespeare’s cheek. This was the end, he told himself. It was going to finish the job, eat him right there on the spot. He saw its glistening teeth, saw its tongue as the head bent toward him. Its bulk blotted out the sun and most of the sky. I’m dead he reflected, and offered a heartfelt prayer to his Maker that his end would be swift and painless.
Then the bear froze. Loud shouts had erupted. Snarling in annoyance it turned to ascertain the source.
Shakespeare McNair looked and nearly shouted for joy. Lane and Bob had run off, all right, but only as far as the canoes to retrieve their rifles. Both men were twenty yards away, jumping up and down and hooting to draw the grizzly off.
“Come on, you bastard!” Knorr cried. “Let’s put some lead in your diet!”
“Here, bear! Try me!” Griffen chimed in. “Why don’t you try eating someone who can fight back, you cowardly monstrosity!”
The grizzly did not like the taunts. Roaring its challenge, it moved toward the pair of trappers with astounding speed for such a gigantic animal.
Shakespeare’s heart leaped into his mouth. Should anything happen to the two trappers, he was doomed. He wanted to shout “Look out!” to them but it was too late and unnecessary. Besides, they were ready.
In unison the strapping frontiersmen tucked their rifles to their shoulders and cocked the hammers. Lane Griffen held a Hawken, Bob Knorr a Kentucky rifle. They sighted on the grizzly’s head and when the bear had only fifteen feet to cover, they squeezed triggers.
At the twin blasts the bear stumbled and slid several yards, almost to the feet of the trappers. Lane and Bob whirled and ran, each in a different direction. Reloading on the fly, they cast glances over their shoulders to see which one of them the bear would pick.
It was Griffen. Snarling viciously, the grizzly pushed up off the grass and took out after him, paws pounding the ground like hammers. The instant Knorr saw this, he halted and quickly finished reloading, hi
s fingers flying. Lane Griffen had begun to curve back toward him, which in turn induced the bear to angle sharply to intercept Lane. And that gave Bob Knorr a clear broadside shot.
At the report the bear staggered, slowing and shaking its head as if it were being assailed by bees. Looking around, the beast spotted Knorr, then charged.
Immediately Lane Griffen stopped, aimed carefully, and fired. The ball caught the bear low on the side and brought it to a lurching halt. Roaring louder than ever, it whirled toward Lane and again headed for him.
Meanwhile, Knorr was reloading. He poured black powder directly into the muzzle instead of taking precious time measuring the grains in his palm. Next he frantically wrapped a ball in a patch, crammed both into the end of the barrel with his thumb and used his ramrod to shove them all the way down.
The grizzly had gained on Lane Griffen. Realizing he couldn’t outrun the hairy behemoth, the bearded man whirled, letting go of his Hawken in order to grab the pistols at his waist. He cleared his belt, leveled both simultaneously, and fired at the exact second Knorr fired the rifle.
Three balls tore into the bear. This time, though, it did not stumble, did not slacken its speed. Growling hideously, the grizzly barreled toward Lane Griffen, who at the very last moment threw himself from its path. The bear kept on running, but not very far. It slowed, blood flecking its mouth, then stopped and pawed at its side. Legs buckling, it collapsed and lay there, feebly attempting to stand.
Lane reloaded his rifle ahead of Knorr. He walked up behind the bear, placed the barrel so close to the top of its head that hairs brushed the metal, and squeezed off the final shot.
Thrashing wildly, the grizzly shuddered and snarled, both movement and sound growing weaker and weaker until it sagged lifeless on the bloody grass.
“Tough son of a bitch,” Bob Knorr commented.
“These devils are too damned hard to kill for my tastes,” Lane said.
Shakespeare nodded his agreement. Grizzlies always had been notoriously tenacious of life. It was not uncommon for one to absorb eight, nine, even ten balls in the lungs and other vital organs and still not keel over. One of the first white men to encounter them, none other than Meriwether Lewis of Lewis and Clark fame, had often said that he’d rather tangle with two Indians out after scalps than a single grizzly. And Indians themselves regarded the bears as so fearsome that some tribes accorded the same coup status to slaying one as they did to slaying an enemy warrior. Which explained why the Shoshones were in such awe of Nate King. He’d killed more than any man, white or red, ever.
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