Zach barely noticed them. He was dumfounded himself on seeing a white-haired figure propped on a saddle near a low fire. Racing over, Zach sank to one knee and touched the mountain man’s arm. “Uncle Shakespeare? Are you all right?”
Shakespeare McNair opened his eyes and blinked. “Zach? That you son, or am I dreaming again?”
“It’s me. Oh Lord, I’m glad to see you!” Zach went to give the older man a hug but Shakespeare weakly raised a hand, stopping him.
“Better not yet. I’m a mite sore from the operation still.”
Zach was going to ask what McNair meant when a smothered squeal diverted his gaze to the middle of the clearing where Abigail Griffen was hurling herself into the outstretched arms of a dazed trapper. He heard her sob, saw tears pour down her face. “Who?” he wondered aloud.
“Lane Griffen is the gent’s name,” Shakespeare said. “And If I had to hazard a guess, I’d bet that woman is the wife he feared he’d lost.”
“She is,” Zach confirmed, his elation knowing no bounds. He wanted to leap up and whoop for joy. Everything had turned out just fine, better than he had dared to hope, almost as if the hand of Providence had guided them. “Where are ma and pa?
“I thought maybe you could tell me,” Shakespeare said. “We were separated during the storm and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of them since.”
“They could be dead, then.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions, son. It’s bad for the disposition.” Shakespeare smiled frailly. “Besides, we both know your pa is a survivor. If it’s humanly possible he’ll track us down.”
Zach observed Abby and Lane embracing and kissing, heedless of the other trappers, and an odd sort of heavy sensation filled his chest. “I hope you’re right,” he said softly. “Lord, I truly do.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Indian lives were governed by rituals. There were rituals for greeting the new day, rituals to go through before going on buffalo surrounds, rituals to perform before marriage, rituals to heal. And there were rituals done before going on the warpath.
The Pawnees held theirs the night before the war party departed for Sioux country. A grand feast attended by all was followed by a dance in which the warriors going on the raid participated. Mimicking the deeds of valor they hoped to achieve in battle, they held mock fights, counting imaginary coup. The women and children were caught up in the martial spirit and encouraged their favorites on.
Nate King was left to his own devices. Those who supported Mole On The Nose shunned him. Those who backed White Calf were involved in the festivities. He sat on the side, in the shadow of a lodge bordering the central area of the village where the ceremony was being held, and watched the dance unfold. It was a lot like the dances of the Shoshones and held no great interest for him. He was preoccupied with visions of escape, pondering various ways of doing so once the war party left the village far behind. There was no doubt the medicine man would keep a close eye on him. But it was a long journey to Sioux land, and eventually the Pawnees were bound to relax their vigilance.
At the moment a number of warriors, shamming the part of Sioux, cowered before the onslaught of Pawnee attackers. White Calf was among the latter, dispatching enemies with mock glee that hinted at the sadistic savagery he would resort to in real warfare.
Nate had to admit that the medicine man was different from most he’d met. The majority were healers, plain and simple. Some mended the sick, invoked spirits, and presided over tribal functions. White Calf did all those things and did the others one better; he was also a warrior. Occasionally medicine men took part in combat, usually when their village was set upon by enemies. It was rare for one to actively seek coup as White Calf was doing.
But then, Nate reflected, the others lacked White Calf’s secret motive. By establishing himself as a warrior of note, White Calf doubled the prestige he already enjoyed as medicine man. All to further his fervent ambition to be the most powerful man in the whole Pawnee nation.
Glory mongers, as Shakespeare liked to call them, were a lot alike, whether white or red. They craved influence over all else. They always thought of themselves first. And everyone else was a means to their end.
Nate sighed and stared at the ground. He was sick to death of staying with the Pawnees and hankered to be out seeking his family. Angrily jabbing a finger into the dirt, he saw a shadow fall across his legs and glanced up.
Standing a few feet off was the young woman saved from the black bear. She wore an expression of utter dread. The finest of buckskin dresses covered her full figure, and she had washed and braided her hair.
“Hello,” Nate signed, trying to recollect her name. It came to him so he added, “It is a pleasure to see you again, Black Buffalo Woman.”
The frightened Pawnee smiled, a twisted curling of her cheery lips that more resembled a grimace. “Yes, Sky Walker. I am pleased to see you.”
Nate doubted as much. He thought she was just being polite and would turn and leave, so he was taken aback when she strode forward and knelt submissively in front of him.
“I am ready.”
“For what?”
“For tonight.”
At a loss, Nate leaned against the lodge and signed, “You must forgive me. I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“You did not tell White Calf that you wanted a woman for the night? You did not order him to have me sent to you?”
Controlling his budding temper with difficulty, Nate stared at the medicine man, now disemboweling a dead ‘Sioux’. “He sent you?”
“Yes. He said those like yourself who come from above the clouds are fond of our women. He said that since you favored me by sparing me from the bear, I had a duty to present myself to you so that you might do as you please with me.”
There had been a time when Nate King might have accepted the offer. That was before Winona, before he met the woman he loved more than life itself and vowed to be her man for as long they both lived.
Plenty of trappers had more than one wife. Some had two or three Indian wives, others had a single Indian wife and a white wife back in the settlements. Still others were married but no one would know it from their sexual shenanigans.
Nate King was not party to the goings-on. He had been raised in a puritanical household by a strict father and molded to believe love between a man and woman was special, a unique pairing that must be preserved at all costs and never violated by unfaithfulness.
In the years since Nate had taken Winona as his bride in a simple Shoshone ceremony, he had never dishonored the memory of that special event. He had remained true to her trust. And on those few occasions when other women had offered themselves to him, he had declined.
Nate looked at Black Buffalo Woman, at the swell of her bosom under her dress, and signed, “You do me great honor with your offer but I cannot accept.”
“Do I displease you?”
“No.”
“Am I too ugly? Too plain?”
“You are a very lovely woman.”
“I have washed and put on a new dress just for you. I have put mint in my hair and sucked on sweet berries.”
“You smell very fragrant.”
“Should there be anything else I can do to make myself more appealing to you, let me know and it will be done.”
The woman’s frantic attitude puzzled Nate. He figured she would be glad he had declined. Yet she acted as if her very life depended on his acceptance of her offer. “Black Buffalo Woman, you are as pretty a woman as I have ever seen. Any warrior here would be thrilled to stand under a buffalo robe with you. Go mingle with your people and find the man of your choice.”
“It must be you,” she insisted.
“Why?”
Black Buffalo Woman hesitated.
“Our words are strictly between us,” Nate signed. “No one is paying attention. They are all too involved with the dance.”
“He will know,” she signed, holding her hands close to her waist so no one except him could see.<
br />
“Who?”
“I cannot say. He will bring bad medicine down on my father and mother if I talk about him behind his back. He is very powerful.”
The word explained everything. Nate looked at White Calf, who had scalped the ‘dead’ warrior and was holding a mock trophy aloft in triumph. He moved his hands close to his own waist to prevent anyone else from reading them, and signed, “I know who you mean. Question. You are very scared of him?”
The young woman trembled.
“There is no need to tell me. I can see for myself.” Nate leaned closer to her. “Do you believe I am who he claims? The truth, please.”
“I did not think so at first. Then you saved me, killing the great bear. Now I know you are.”
“And if that is so, am I not more powerful than he who sent you?”
“You are mightier than a hundred like him. He has told us so himself, many times.”
“Then why do you fear? You are under my protection, as I have already proven. If he hurts you or threatens to hurt you, I will punish him severely.”
Black Buffalo Woman gazed at him in wonder. “Why do you do this for me?”
“Because I want you to see that he does not speak on my behalf. He does not know what is in my mind or my heart. Only I can say how I truly think and feel. Let your family and friends know this.”
“He will be unhappy when he hears we did not spend the night together.”
“He will be even more unhappy if he touches you or your family. This I, Sky Walker, vow.”
The gratitude in the young woman’s eyes as she rose gave Nate a warm feeling deep inside. He reached out, touched her fingers. Instead of flinching, she responded to his squeeze. Then, shy as a doe, she scampered into the midst of the crowd.
Near the fire, White Calf danced in fierce abandon, unaware of the thwarting of his plan.
Nate unconsciously put his hand on his flintlock. It reminded him of the attempt on his life and he scanned the faces of the Pawnees to see if any betrayed the intense hatred of one who might be inclined to try and split his skull before the night was through. He hadn’t relaxed since the attack, despite the medicine man’s assurances that no one else would dare try to kill him.
True to White Calf’s prediction, the sole survivor had refused to divulge the identify of whoever put him up to it. Rumor had it the Bear Society had sheathed their claws after the thwarted try and stopped spreading malicious tales about Nate.
One mystery had been cleared up, however, at least to Nate’s satisfaction. Shortly after the attempt, he’d learned of four warriors who owned guns. They all possessed small amounts of black powder and lead balls. They all knew how to properly load a pistol. And three of the four were members of the Bear Society.
The dance wound down. The people began to scatter to their lodges. White Calf, flanked by warriors who would be leaving on the morrow, came over to Nate. ‘‘I am surprised to see you still here, Sky Walker,” he signed. “I arranged for you to have companionship tonight.”
“When I want companionship,” Nate responded, “I will request it.”
“She must not have been attractive enough. I am sorry. I assumed she would be since you came to her aid at the river. But never fear. I will find another when we return from our raid.”
Nate had an urge to grab the medicine man by the front of the shirt and shake the stuffing out of the him. But he dared not, since it would jeopardize his prospects of escaping. “That will be fine,” he signed. “Remember though that Black Buffalo Woman is special to me and I do not want her touched in any way.”
“Ahh. You are saving her for later. I should have guessed. It will be done.”
Nate stood and changed the subject before his anger made him do something he would regret. “Do we leave at dawn?”
“We do. Twenty warriors go with us. Within three sleeps we will be in Sioux country. Within six sleeps we will be where the Sioux like to camp during the Heat Moon.” White Calf rubbed his hands in glee. “We will strike terror into their hearts. And when we return our people will sing our praises.”
Nate allowed himself to be led toward the medicine man’s dwelling. Singly and in pairs the attending warriors veered off to their own lodges. Soon only Nate and White Calf were left.
“Will you sleep outside again?”
“I will,” Nate signed. “That reminds me. Is the bear hide ready? I would like to use it tonight.”
“The final scraping was done today. I have it inside.” White Calf stooped and entered.
Moving to the spot where he customarily slept, Nate gave the roll of bedding a kick that sent it tumbling off. The lice infested blankets made him itch all over every time he looked at them. He would be glad to have the clean hide in which to bundle himself.
Nate heard the medicine man moving about within. Stretching, he rubbed a stiff spot low on his back, then gazed at the river, which reminded him of the storm and the rain swollen Yellowstone. He thought of his family, of Shakespeare, and prayed they were still alive.
The movement in the lodge had stopped. Nate heard rustling, then several odd grunts. He turned toward the entrance just as two warriors locked in mortal combat rolled outside. For a moment he stood riveted with surprise, watching Red Rock throttle the life from White Calf
No one wanted the medicine man dead more than Nate did. But White Calf was the sole reason Nate hadn’t been rubbed out. And White Calf’s raid was Nate’s sole hope of salvation. So, belatedly, Nate took a step and leaped.
Red Rock had the instincts of a panther. Glancing up in the nick of time, he released the medicine man and ducked aside, drawing his knife. Nate drew his own and feinted, thinking to force the warrior into overextending himself but Red Rock was too smart for the ruse.
Nate circled, awaiting an opening. He saw that White Calf wasn’t moving, saw blood on the medicine man’s mouth. His lapse of attention almost cost him dearly. Red Rock lunged, blade spearing at Nate’s heart. Parrying, Nate skipped to the left and swung at the warrior’s hamstring but slippery as an eel Red Rock evaded the blow.
Anxious to find out if his sole hope for freedom lived, Nate went for the flintlock. Red Rock must have been expecting him to because the warrior’s knife got there first, nicking the back of his hand as the pistol cleared the belt. The sting of pain made him drop it as blood trickled over his wrist.
Red Rock laughed lightly, a dry, hateful, mocking laugh that expressed more than words ever could why he had violated tribal taboo and attacked them. He had been humiliated time and again. He had seen his ambush fail. He had endured having the Bear Society insulted, his own status mocked. And it had driven him over the edge.
Nate deflected a lightning thrust, tried to stab the Pawnee’s groin and in turn lost some fringe off the sleeve of his shirt.
Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Nate attempted to keep his antagonist off balance. Like weaving snakes they thrust and retreated and thrust again. Nate drew blood when he creased the warrior’s thigh.
The village lay quiet under the stars. Most had retired or were in the process. The dogs were still, the horses dozing. None would have suspected another dance of death was taking place, one decidedly more lethal than the mock acting done earlier.
A simple shout would have brought assistance. Nate could have yelled and warriors would rush to the scene. But he didn’t. This was between Red Rock and himself, the inevitable result of the blind hatred bred in the warrior’s breast by the differences in their skin color. This was the time to finish it, once and for all.
Nate suddenly took a step and kicked, down low. The Pawnee hopped to avoid it and Nate grabbed Red Rock’s knife arm at the same moment he slammed his shoulder into the warrior’s midriff. Together they crashed to the earth, Nate on top, exerting all his strength as he tried to pin Red Rock’s arm while he lanced his butcher knife at the Pawnee’s stomach.
Red Rock caught Nate’s wrist, stopping the blade inches from his skin. Chest to chest they toiled,
each to gain the upper hand. Nate made no headway. To gain distance, he rammed a knee into the warrior’s leg and when Red Rock recoiled, he shoved free, then swept upright.
The Pawnee did the same, his blade close to his chest, his face glistening with sweat.
Nate moved to the right. Red Rock moved to the left. Nate stabbed high and the warrior’s knife clanged against his. Pivoting in a blur, Nate tried again, low this time.
Like an oversized jackrabbit Red Rock leaped high into the air. The knife cleaved the space under him and as he came down he tried to cut Nate’s hand off at the wrist. Nate barely jerked his arm back in time.
The warrior grinned, either to taunt Nate or to show he was confident he would prevail or both. He unleashed a flurry of strikes that Nate deflected or dodged. And it was then, while both were totally engrossed in their vicious clash, that White Calf groaned loudly.
Either one of them might have looked but it was the Pawnee who automatically glanced at the medicine man, and it was the Pawnee who paid for his folly by having his stomach sheared into by nine inches of cold, hard steel.
Red Rock’s features reflected incredulity as his body melted into wax of its own accord. He clawed at Nate’s face, missed, and seized Nate’s shoulder. By a titanic effort he tried to stay erect, to raise his knife. He weakened so rapidly, he was on the ground before he could.
Nate wrenched his blade out and wiped it off on the Pawnee’s leggings. “You should have left well enough alone,” he said, “Less than twelve hours from now I would have been out of your hair for good.”
Red Rock spoke softly in his own tongue. He began to convulse, his arms and legs twitching. Blood frothed his lips, dribbled over his chin. Without making another sound, he closed his eyes and died.
Suddenly tired, Nate sat down. He felt eyes on him, heard footsteps, and sighing, looked up.
“You saved me,” White Calf signed.
“I saved both of us.”
“He was waiting for you, I think, and I happened to go into the lodge first. Had I not bumped into him while searching for the bear hide he would have cut you down as you entered.” The medicine man laughed with sadistic pleasure. “Now the second most powerful threat to me is gone, and without the support of Red Rock, Mole On The Nose will soon lose his influence. The people will say all of his medicine is gone. I will be the one they look up to.”
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