Wilderness: Mountain Devil/Blackfoot Massacre (A Wilderness Western Book 5)

by Robbins, David

  In part, Adeline was responsible for his current happiness. It had been to please her that he’d joined his Uncle Zeke and headed West. Zeke had promised to share a treasure with him, and falsely assuming Zeke had struck it rich in the fur trade or even by finding some of the vast riches in gold rumored to exist in the Rockies, he’d left New York in the expectation of returning a wealthy man and being able to marry Adeline as her social equal instead of her inferior.

  Strange, sometimes, how fate worked out. The treasure his uncle had promised to share turned out to be the most precious and basic of all: simple freedom. And instead of going back to the States penniless, he’d stayed in the mountains and met a woman who surpassed Adeline in every respect, an Indian maiden who was more real woman than Adeline could ever hope to be.

  He thought of Adeline from time to time. He imagined she despised him because he had gone off at such short notice with no more than a brief note of explanation. Often he wished he’d taken the time to write, to explain. But somehow he’d never been able to put his thoughts on paper.

  Not even to his own family. Nate thought about them a lot too. His father, a hardworking, stern man who had not spoken about Zeke after Zeke went West, would probably never forgive Nate for doing the same. As far as his father was concerned, living in the wilderness was for fools and men who were no better than the savages they associated with.

  It saddened Nate to recall his father’s attitude toward the Indians. Many Easterners shared it. They regarded all Indians as savages who deserved to be driven off their lands and exterminated. Even the President of the United States, Andrew Jackson, had publicly declared the Indians were an inferior race and should be organized as the white race saw fit.

  The memory made Nate’s features harden. He’d learned the truth about Indians, and he would confront any man who dared insult them in his presence. By and large, the Indians were a fine, noble people, living in harmony with the wild, and they deserved to live as they saw fit, not to have their lives dictated by those who justified bigotry in the name of patriotism.

  Oh, there were bad Indians, just like there were bad whites, but the vast majority of Indians wanted much the same things longed for by the majority of whites: a family, a home, and a long life. Unfortunately, the way things were shaping up, it appeared the government wasn’t going to let the Indians exist free and unmolested. Already a number of tribes living east of the Mississippi River had been forcibly uprooted and relocated. If the day ever came when the tide of white migration flowed westward past the Mississippi, the same fate might well await the Indians living on the plains and in the mountains.

  Nate believed such a day was far off, if it ever occurred. Most folks in the States regarded the vast wilderness beyond the Mississippi as the Great American Desert, a name bestowed on the territory by Major Stephen Long after Long had completed a survey expedition for the government back in 1820. Except for the beaver that drew adventurous trappers to the mountains by the scores, the vast plains and the imposing Rockies held no allure for the many millions who believed the land was inhospitable and conditions unspeakably dangerous.

  How wrong they were.

  Nate was glad that few knew the truth. If more did, if word of the marvelous wonders and beauty to be found in the well-nigh limitless region was widely publicized, settlers would flock westward in hordes. He shuddered to think of it ever occurring. The Indian way of life, and his as well, would come to a speedy end.

  Engrossed in his thoughts, he skirted a low hill and started to cross a meadow beyond. The stallion suddenly lifted its head, its ear pricked forward, and he glanced up. Hair at the nape of his neck tingled at the sight of a huge animal coming straight toward him.

  It was a grizzly.

  Chapter Five

  Of all the wild creatures in the untamed Rockies, none were more generally feared by both whites and Indians alike than grizzlies. The mighty bears were the lords of the mountains and the plains to the east, fierce beasts that could crush the skull of a man or horse with a casual blow. Justifiably, grizzlies had earned the reputation of being extremely “hard to die,” as the mountaineers liked to say. A grizzly might be shot repeatedly at close range and seemingly be unfazed by the balls or arrows.

  Captains Meriwether Lewis and William Clark, on their famous expedition to the Pacific Ocean, encountered the great brutes on a number of occasions. In one particular instance, six of their best hunters decided to slay an old grizzly lying on open ground about three hundred paces from a river. They snuck up on it and four men fired balls into the beast. The enraged grizzly then attacked and was shot by the other two hunters.

  Unstoppable, the bear kept coming and pursued them all the way to the river, at which point it was shot again and again. When finally slain, it was on the verge of ripping one of their men to pieces. Later, when they dressed it, they found eight balls had pierced the bear, including two that had passed through the lungs and one that had broken its shoulder. Yet not until a lucky shot scored in its brain did the grizzly expire. As Lewis wrote in his journal, “These bears, being so hard to die, rather intimidate us all.”

  And they weren’t the only ones. Nate’s breath caught in his throat as he drew rein and the grizzly before them now halted, regarding them balefully. The bear was less than fifty yards away. Typical of the breed, it stood four and a half feet high at the shoulders, which were further accented by a prominent hump. This hump distinguished grizzly bears from the black variety. A large male, it easily weighed over a thousand pounds, and was capable of overtaking a horse at full gallop over a short stretch. Its brownish hairs had white tips, which gave the bear its distinctive grizzled appearance.

  “Oh, Lord,” Milo said softly.

  Nate placed his thumb on the hammer of his rifle and waited for the bear to make the first move. If sheer savagery was their foremost trait, then being unpredictable was a close second. No one ever knew when a grizzly might charge. Sometimes a bear would spot a lone man and flee as if its hind end was on fire. At other times, a bear might encounter a party of ten or more and tear into them in unbridled fury.

  This bear now reared on its hind legs to study them, its massive head swinging ponderously from side to side as it sniffed loudly. Its four-and-half-inch claws gleamed dully in the bright sunlight.

  “What do we do?” Tom whispered.

  “Sit tight and hope for the best,” Nate advised in a low tone. “If it comes at us, scatter.”

  “But what about the packhorses? They can’t outrun a bear loaded as they are,” Tom said.

  “If we scatter, it might not be able to make up its mind which one of us it wants and it will go off without chasing any of us,” Nate explained, having heard of the strategy working before for the Shoshones. “If not, if it comes after any one of us, the rest can turn and help out.”

  The grizzly took a few lumbering strides forward, its muscles rippling under its hide.

  Nate raised the Hawken. The bear had the look of one about to attack, and he wanted to get off a shot before he raced away. It would buy time for the others to put some distance between the bear and them, and might draw all of the bear’s attention on himself.

  Suddenly, Red Moon rode a few yards toward the bear, then stopped. His rifle resting across his thighs, he lifted both arms skyward, tilted his head back, and began chanting in the Crow tongue at the top of his voice.

  What was he doing? Nate wondered, watching the grizzly. Was it Red Moon’s death song? He knew that warriors sometimes experienced strong premonitions of their own deaths and would sing to the spirit world before engaging in battle with enemies they believed would slay them. But he’d never heard of a brave doing so before a fight with an animal.

  The grizzly cocked its enormous head back and forth, listening to the song. Then, after a minute, it sank to all fours, turned, and made for the forest at the west edge of the meadow, walking slowly, clearly unafraid yet also uninterested in conflict. In moments the murky shadows under the trees s
wallowed the great bear up.

  Red Moon stopped chanting and took up his reins.

  “Thank goodness,” Tom breathed. “I thought we were in for it, there.”

  “Why did the bear just go away?” Milo asked.

  “Who knows?” Nate responded. “Just be thankful it didn’t want us for a meal.” He glanced at the old Crow. “What was the song you sang, Red Moon?”

  “I asked the Great Medicine Spirit for help in making the bear leave us alone,” the Crow replied. “Every time I have met a grizzly, I have done the same thing and it has always worked.” He paused. “My father taught me how to do it. A grizzly has not attacked anyone in our family for more winters than my people can remember.”

  Interesting, Nate thought. Maybe the singing had a calming effect on the bears, or maybe the grizzlies were bewildered by the songs and wanted no part of the strange singers. He goaded the stallion into a walk, pulling the pack animals behind him. “Let’s go. And keep alert. Sometimes grizzlies travel in pairs.”

  “Hey, Red Moon,” Tom said as they got underway. “If we run into the critter in this valley of yours, why don’t you try singing to it to drive it off?” He winked at Milo, who chuckled.

  “It would not work on the thing that lurks in the dark,” the Crow answered somberly. “Nothing will.”

  Nate stared at the warrior. “If you’re so convinced of that, why are you taking us there?”

  Red Moon hesitated. “No one has ever tried to shoot the creature with a gun,” he said at last. “I am hoping a ball will stop it where an arrow cannot.” He gazed westward and sighed. “If not, I am an old man and have lived more winters than I should have.”

  “What the dickens is that supposed to mean?” Milo Benteen inquired.

  “I am ready to die. There is one more task I would like to do, but if it is not meant to be, I am ready.”

  Milo shook his head, his eyes glittering in amusement. “No one ever wants to die. That’s a crazy notion.”

  “When a man has outlived his usefulness, then it is time to go on to the spirit world,” Red Moon said firmly.

  “Not me,” Milo said. “Death will have to take me screaming and kicking every inch of the way. I’m not about to stop breathing without a struggle.”

  Tom grinned, his gaze on the Crow. “I swear, if I live to be a hundred I’ll never understand you Indians.

  “Many of us feel the same way about you whites,” Red Moon responded.

  Nate laughed, although deep down he was bothered by the old warrior’s attitude. There was more to Red Moon’s visit to the valley of mystery than he was letting on, and Nate didn’t like having the question hovering over his head, as it were, like a shadowy harbinger of trouble to come. He wanted to come right out and ask, but he’d been ingrained with the unwritten frontier edict that no man should ever pry into the personal affairs of another. He must wait until the Crow broached the subject, then take it from there.

  He was extra cautious for the next mile, aware that grizzlies occasionally circled around to come at their intended victims from another direction. Only after two miles had fallen behind them did he relax completely and resume enjoying the magnificent scenery and the abundant wildlife.

  They entered a long, winding valley running north and south and bore ever northward. A stream meandered on their left, gurgling softly. Now and then a fish would leap out of the water and splash down.

  “Lord, these mountains are beautiful, aren’t they?” Milo commented, breathing deeply.

  “That they are,” Nate concurred.

  Tom Sublette abruptly drew rein. “What the devil is that?” he asked, and pointed at the slope of a mountain beyond the stream.

  Nate halted and looked, and right away he spotted the black shape high up on a barren part of the mountain. It was an animal, obviously, and on all fours, but the distance was too great to note specific details.

  “Looks like a black wolf,” Milo said. “I didn’t think there was such a thing.”

  “No wolf,” Red Moon declared. “It is a dog.”

  “A dog?” Tom repeated skeptically. “Where did it come from? What is it doing up there all by itself?”

  “It might have strayed off from an Indian village,” Nate speculated, searching the slope in the dog’s vicinity. “Happens sometimes. Or there might be someone up there with it, perhaps an Indian out hunting.”

  “A friendly Indian?” Milo asked, shifting in his saddle and placing both hands on his rifle.

  “There’s no way of telling,” Nate said. He clucked the stallion into motion, his eyes on the black canine. It suddenly ran into a patch of trees and was lost to view. For over a minute he watched to see if it would reappear lower down, but there was no sign of it.

  “Maybe it’s a stray and it will follow us,” Milo said hopefully. “I wouldn’t mind having a dog around. I’ve always liked them. Had a big hound dog when I was a kid and that critter was as loyal as could be. Saved me from a black bear once.”

  “If that mutt does join us,” Tom stated, “you’ll be the one responsible for feeding it. I’ll be damned if I’m going to go out and bag game to feed a mangy, flea-ridden mongrel.”

  Milo gazed at him in surprise. “Don’t you like dogs?”

  “I’m not much on pets, period. My ma cottoned to cats and we have seven of the rascals. They were always getting their hair all over everything and none of them ever was completely housebroken.”

  “Cats,” Milo said, and snorted. “No wonder you feel the way you do. If the Good Lord had wanted us to have cats as pets, he wouldn’t have given them claws. Cats are for folks who don’t know any better.”

  On they rode, the hours passing uneventfully. They would not reach McNair’s until the next day. When there was only an hour or so until dark, Red Moon stopped once again.

  “We are not alone.”

  Nate turned, and there was the black dog about a quarter of a mile to the rear, just standing there and staring at them. “It must be a stray,” he remarked. “Milo, you might get your wish after all.”

  “Hold on a minute while I try to make friends,” Benteen said. He started to ride toward the dog, but no sooner did he do so than the black dog whirled and darted into dense undergrowth. “Well, I’ll be!” he exclaimed, reining up short. “Why did it go and do that?”

  Tom chuckled. “Cats have claws and dogs don’t have any brains. We’d be better off having fish as pets.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Milo said. “Who ever heard of such a thing?” Reluctantly, he brought his mount around. “Well, I tried. If that dog wants to join us, the next move is up to it.”

  Nate glanced at the Crow, whose face was thoughtful and vaguely troubled. “Is anything wrong?” he asked.

  “That dog is bad medicine. We must shoot it if we can.”

  Milo Benteen reacted as if he’d been slapped in the face. “What the dickens are you talking about, man?” he demanded angrily. “It’s a dog, not a grizzly, and it’s probably lost and hungry. I won’t stand for having it shot.”

  Red Moon shrugged. “As you wish. But I have warned you.” He continued northward, his shoulders squared, his back stiff.

  “Now you’ve done it,” Tom groused at Milo. “You’ve gone and got his dander up.”

  “What do I care?” Milo responded. “I’m not going to let him kill an innocent dog because of some Injun drivel about bad medicine. Hell, Tom. You know as well as I do that Indians are the most superstitious bunch of people there are.”

  “I’ll grant you that,” Tom agreed. “But you shouldn’t get him mad. He’s the only one who knows how to find the valley. If you antagonize him, he might up and ride off one night before we get there. Then where will we be?”

  Milo pondered a moment, then sighed. “All right. I’ll apologize. But it galls me because I know I’m in the right.” He rode faster to catch up with the old Crow.

  “Yes, sir,” Tom said softly more to himself than anyone else. “We can’t let any harm co
me to that Injun until after we strike the valley.”

  “Or any other time,” Nate said harshly. “He’s in this with us all the way. And it doesn’t matter if a man’s companions are white or Indian, he should stick by them no matter what happens.”

  “Of course,” Tom declared. “I didn’t mean otherwise.”

  “I hope not,” Nate said, wondering. A tiny doubt trickled into the back of his mind. Perhaps there was more to these men than met the eye. Perhaps they weren’t to be trusted after all. But he promptly shook his head, discarding the suspicion as a product of his wary nature. Tom simply wanted to reach the beaver rich valley at all costs, and considering the money they stood to make from their enterprise, his attitude was understandable. Nate faced front, noting landmarks he recognized and seeking a game trail that would take them to a clearing where they could camp for the night.

  “Damn. There it is again,” Tom muttered.

  Nate looked over his shoulder. The black dog had reappeared, still a quarter of a mile away, still following but keeping its distance, a spectral canine shadow determined to haunt their tracks for the time being. Why? What did it want? He concentrated on finding the trail, the skin between his shoulder blades itching terribly. First a grizzly, now the black dog. It was a good thing he wasn’t superstitious himself, or he might be inclined to regard the two beasts as bad omens and give up on the idea of going to the valley. But the thought of all those beaver spurred him on. Nothing was going to make him change his mind: not a passing bear, not a stray dog, and certainly not an ancient legend about a creature that lurked in the dark, a creature undoubtedly long since dead.