Grunting, the man lifted his head and mustered a grin. He was in his late twenties or early thirties and wore his dark brown hair down to his shoulders. His eyes, also brown, conveyed his gratitude at being saved. “Thank you, brother,” he said softly. “I was a goner if you hadn’t come along.”
Brother? Nate put a hand on the man’s thin shoulder. “Can you stand? Where are you hurt?”
“I fell yesterday on some rocks but I’m not seriously injured,” the man said, pushing off the ground with his left hand so he could stand. As he straightened, swaying from the effort, he revealed a book clutched in his right fist.
Nate saw the title as he rose. The Holy Bible. He figured the man must be extremely religious to have held onto the Scriptures when it would have been smarter to toss the bible aside in order to run faster.
“My name is John Burke. I apologize for any trouble I’ve put you to,” the man said, smiling.
“How did you come to be in this fix?”
“My horse and pack animals were stolen by Indians three days ago and I haven’t eaten or had a drop of water since.” Burke indicated his right leg where the fabric had been torn and his skin split open. “After I fell, I bled for quite a while. The wolves must have picked up the scent.”
Nate nodded in agreement and stuck the flintlock under his belt to free his hands for loading the Hawken. “I’m Nate King. If you’re agreeable, I’ll take you to a Shoshone village not very far from here.”
“Shoshones? Are they friendly?”
“There are none friendlier. I’ve lived among them off and on for nine years. My wife is Shoshone.”
“Oh,” Burke said, and absently began chewing on his lower lip, evidently in deep thought. He did not appear pleased at the prospect.
Nate was about to inquire into the reason Burke had been traveling across the prairie all alone when a low growl from directly behind him chilled his blood and gave him goose flesh. He whirled in alarm. There, not six feet away, was the enormous gray wolf he had shot in the side, upright and crouching to spring.
Chapter Two
Living in the raw wild changed a man. He learned to rely on his natural instincts if he wanted to survive. Where a comfortable city life often dulled a man’s senses and made him physically flabby, the wilderness tempered him like a forge tempered a steel blade, firming his muscles until they were rock hard and honing his reflexes until they were as sharp as the wild beasts he frequently confronted.
So it was that at the very moment Nate laid eyes on the crouching wolf, he released the Hawken and threw himself to the right while clawing at the flintlock he had just wedged under his belt. The wolf was incredibly quick, springing as his hand closed on the gun, and Nate realized in a flash that he would be unable to get off a shot before the beast was on him. In a twinkling he shifted his hand to his knife, and was drawing the weapon when the wolf slammed into him.
Nate was bowled over, landing on his back with the snarling wolf on top of his chest. Snapping jaws narrowly missed his face. He thrust a forearm under the wolf’s jaw to keep it from biting again while simultaneously thrusting the butcher knife into the animal’s ribs. Again he stabbed, trying to pierce the heart, but he only succeeded in arousing the wolf to a frenzied pitch of feral wrath. Razor teeth bit into his wrist, ripping the skin, and he felt the clammy sensation of blood flowing down his arm. Claws tore at the front of his buckskin shirt. In desperation Nate bunched both shoulders and heaved, hoping to fling the beast from him. But the wolf clung to his wrist, its teeth grinding deeper.
Twisting, Nate drove the blade into the wolf’s throat. The animal recoiled, its teeth slipping from his arm. With a lunge Nate rose to his knees, the knife held close to his chest, ready to thrust again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw John Burke a yard away, motionless, making no move to come to his aid.
The wolf growled, blood spraying from the hole in its neck, and jumped.
Nate rose, meeting the beast halfway, his blade arcing into the base of the wolf’s throat once more, impaling it to the hilt. He wrenched the knife free, then slid to the left, giving himself room to maneuver. As he did he grabbed his tomahawk, and when the wolf leaped yet again he employed both weapons at once, ramming the knife into the animal’s neck and slamming the tomahawk down on the top of the wolf’s skull.
Thudding to the ground, its head split open to expose its brains, a crimson geyser erupting from its throat wounds, the wolf thrashed violently and snapped at the empty air. Gradually its limbs quieted and its head slumped limply; then the beast gasped and expired.
Nate half expected it to rise again. If there was a single trait many kinds of animals shared, it was an abiding tenacity that would cling to life at all costs. This wolf had been a prime example. Mortally wounded, it had attacked again and again. As the trappers often said about the mighty grizzly bear, the wolf had been hard to die.
He wiped the back of his sleeve across his sweating brow and struggled to calm his pounding heart. A glance at his forearm showed the bite marks weren’t as deep as he had feared. Another glance, at John Burke, demonstrated his anger. “Thanks for the help,” he said bitterly.
“I’m sorry, brother, but there was nothing I could do.”
“You could have kicked it. You could have beaten it with your bible. Hell, you could have done anything but just stand there like a bump on a log,” Nate told him.
Burke’s features drooped in regret. “No, I could not. It is against my beliefs to do harm to any of God’s creatures.”
“Even when one of those creatures is trying to tear you apart?”
John Burke nodded and gazed into Nate’s eyes. “I should explain.. I’m Reverend John Burke, a missionary.”
“You don’t say,” Nate said to cover his embarrassment. In all his years in the wild he had only run into two other men of the cloth, both missionaries on their way to the Oregon country. They had stopped at the site of the last Rendezvous and mingled with the trappers and Indians on hand for the annual festivities. Their presence had created quite a stir. Ministers and priests were as rare as hen’s teeth beyond the established frontier.
“I’ve come all the way from Rhode Island,” Burke was saying. “The Lord wants me to minister to the heathens, to show them the light, to lead them to an understanding of our Savior, Jesus Christ.”
“That’s a pretty tall order,” Nate commented. “Most of the Indians I know are happy with the religion they have.”
“Indians have religion?” Burke responded skeptically. “I was under the impression they practice barbaric rites of self-torture under the guise of Nature worship.”
“Do you know any Indians personally?”
“No, but I’ve talked to many men who have contacted the heathens and I know...” Burke broke off, touching a palm to his brow as he unexpectedly tottered. “Oh, my! I’m afraid everything is catching up with me.”
“Are you faint?”
“I feel dizzy. So very dizzy,” the reverend said. His eyelids fluttered and he groaned. Then, without warning, he pitched forward.
Nate caught Burke in his arms before the man could strike the earth. His wrist flared with pain, and he grimaced as he gently lowered Burke onto his back. Stepping to the stallion, he removed his bedroll and unfolded the blanket he used at night. Inside was a spare shirt courtesy of Winona, an extra ammo pouch, and an extra set of moccasins. Because his line of work entailed repeatedly wading into frigid streams to lay traps and collect dead beaver, those moccasins frequently came in handy when the pair he normally wore became soaked. Using his knife, he cut off a strip from the hem of his spare shirt, then washed his wrist with water from his water skin before bandaging the bite marks as best he could. He did a crude job, but he wasn’t worried about infection setting in. By nightfall he would be back at the village where Winona would doctor him with herbal medicines that were every bit as effective as anything white physicians relied on. In many instances the herbs were even better.
Replacing
the bedroll, he carried the water skin to Burke and knelt. The man was unconscious, breathing regularly, the bible still clasped in his right hand. He tilted Burke’s head and carefully let the cool water trickle between the reverend’s parted lips. After a bit Burke sputtered, coughed, and opened his eyes.
“I passed out, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” Nate confirmed, capping the bag.
“I’m sorry to be such a bother. Give me a little food and I’ll be as fit as a fiddle.”
“Quit apologizing,” Nate said, standing and securing the water skin to the saddle. “You’re holding up fine considering all you’ve been through.” He tapped the sack that contained his grub. “I can offer you a few strips of fresh jerked venison. They’ll have to tide you over until we reach the village. Trying to eat too much right now would only make you sick to your stomach.”
“I see. Jerky it is then.”
Nate selected an especially thick piece. “My wife smoked the meat herself,” he said as he handed the salted venison over. “I can guarantee you’ve never tasted more delicious jerky anywhere.”
Burke cocked his head and regarded Nate with a puzzled expression. “You sound very proud of her.”
“I am.”
“You like being married to a squaw?”
Anger made Nate scowl. Had another trapper asked such an insulting question, he would have torn into the offender with his fists flying. But the minister’s voice betrayed no hint of sarcasm, his features no trace of effrontery. Nate suppressed his resentment and replied in a calm tone. “Yes, I do, Reverend. Winona is a lovely woman.” He paused. “And I’ll thank you to never, ever refer to her as a squaw again. It’s not the most flattering of terms.”
“Oh,” Burke said. “I didn’t realize. Folks back East call Indian women squaws all the time.”
“And do they ever mean it as a compliment?”
The thin man pondered for several seconds. “No, I suppose they don’t. Most of our kind don’t hold the red race in very high regard, which is to be expected when a superior culture clashes with an inferior one.”
“You sound like President Jackson,” Nate said testily. Andrew Jackson, or Old Hickory as he was commonly called, was in his second term. When Jackson first ran for the office, he’d publicly declared his belief that Indians were an inferior race, and asserted the U.S. government had an obligation to reorganize them as it saw fit.
“I take it you disagree with his policies?” Burke asked.
“If you knew the Indian people as well as I do, you’d disagree with him too,” Nate declared, and extended a hand. “Now why don’t we get you on my horse? The sooner we get started, the sooner I’ll have you resting and well fed in my lodge.”
John Burke allowed himself to be helped to his feet and given a boost onto Pegasus. He sagged, nearly pitched off, and gripped the saddle to brace himself.
“Can you manage?” Nate asked.
“The Lord will sustain me.”
Nate pointed at the bible. “Let me put that in my sack for the time being.”
“No.”
“You can’t ride well using just one hand.”
“I’ll be all right,” Burke insisted, and wagged the holy book. “This is the only bible I have left. The rest were stolen by the same band of heathens who took my horses. I’ll need this when I begin my ministry, and I’m not letting it out of my sight.”
Nate thought the man was being foolish, but dropped the matter. He began reloading his guns. As he worked he scoured the plain for the wolf pack, but saw no sign of them. “Did you get a look at the Indians who stole your animals and provisions?”
“A glimpse was all,” Burke said. He bit off a small piece of jerky and chewed slowly. “I had made camp in a stand of trees and gone off a ways from my fire to heed Nature’s call. The next thing I knew my horses were acting up, so I ran back in time to see five redskins escaping to the northeast with all my worldly possessions.” He sadly shook his head. “I didn’t mind losing my food and blankets half as much as I did the ten bibles I brought along. I intended to present them to savages who would accept Jesus as their Savior.”
Though engrossed in pouring the proper amount of black powder down the barrel of his Hawken, Nate paused and glanced up. “You have your work cut out for you, Reverend Burke. Most Indians I know think the white man’s religion is downright strange.”
Burke straightened. “I’ll show them otherwise, Mr. King. I’ll open their eyes to the truth. I have to. God commanded me to do so in a dream.”
Nate didn’t quite know what to say to that. He busied himself reloading the flintlock, then wiped his knife and tomahawk on one of the dead wolves to remove the blood and gore. Once all his weapons except the rifle were snug under his belt, he shouldered the Hawken, took hold of the reins, and hiked westward.
For the next half an hour they traveled in silence. Burke ate three strips of venison and greedily drank from the water skin between each piece.
Shortly thereafter, tree-covered foothills appeared. Beyond them reared snowcapped peaks glistening bright in the golden sunlight.
“Are those the Rockies?” Burke asked in awe.
Nate nodded, recalling the very first time he beheld a section of the chain of magnificent rocky ramparts that extended from just north of Santa Fe all the way up into Canada. The stirring sight of those rugged summits towering thousands and thousands of feet into the azure sky had thrilled him to his core. Right then and there he had decided to stay, although he hadn’t quite realized the fact at the time. The Rockies held an allure that attracted his soul like a magnet attracted iron. In his estimation they were the pinnacle of creation, so sublimely beautiful as to defy description. “You should see the range down near where I live,” he commented. “The peaks are even higher than these.”
“You don’t live with the Shoshones?”
“We have a cabin about a two-week ride to the south, near Long’s Peak,” Nate disclosed, referring to an exceptionally high mountain named after Major Stephen Long, who had been searching for the source of the Platte River back in 1820 when he spied the peak that would subsequently bear his name. In the seventeen years since then, only a score or so of white men had also seen the mountain, which was well off the beaten path, being far north of the Santa Fe Trail and far south of the prime beaver territory regularly crisscrossed by the trappers. “At least once a year we visit my wife’s people and spend a month or so with them.”
“Could it have been Shoshones who stole my belongings?”
“No.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Two reasons. First, the Shoshones don’t go in for stealing from whites like some of the tribes do. Second, if you were three days from here when it happened, you were in Cheyenne and Sioux country. If I had to make a wager, I’d bet it was a band from one or the other that hit you.”
“Could it have been the Blackfeet?”
Nate looked at the minister. “You know about them?” An enigmatic smile curled Burke’s lips. “I’ve heard a little.”
“Then you must know the Blackfeet are the most bloodthirsty devils alive. They’re constantly raiding other tribes. And they hate whites. If a war party of Blackfeet had found your camp, you’d be minus your hide right about now.”
Burke touched a hand to his lower back and arched his spine to relieve a cramp. “I suppose I’ll never know for sure which tribe was responsible.” He swiveled and gazed out over the prairie. “Then again, perhaps I will.”
“What do you mean?”
The minister pointed to the east. “If I’m not mistaken, here comes the same band that raided my camp.”
Nate spun in alarm, leveling the Hawken as he turned. Not five hundred yards away were five warriors riding straight toward them.
Chapter Three
Nate stepped between Pegasus and the oncoming braves, his thumb on the Hawken’s hammer, and adopted a casual air. Indian men admired courage above all else. If he displayed any fear,
the band might see fit to try and take his stallion. He could tell by the style in which they wore their braided hair, the fashion of their buckskin leggings, and the painted symbols on their mounts that they were indeed Cheyennes. One was leading a saddled horse and a pair of packhorses.
“Those are my animals,” the minister declared.
“I figured as much,” Nate said, forcing a smile. The warriors had not made any threatening gestures; their bows were slung over their shoulders, their knifes in their sheaths. Only one man held a lance, the tip pointed at the ground to show his intentions were friendly. Nate waited until the five were twenty feet away before tucking the Hawken under his right hand and using sign language to greet them. They promptly reined up. A stocky warrior bearing a scar on his right cheek kneed his pony forward a few paces and returned the greeting.
“I am Speckled Snake of the Cheyenne,” the man went on. “We come in peace, white man.”
Nate kept his eyes on the others as he lifted his hands. “I am Grizzly Killer,” he responded, using the Indian name bestowed on him years ago by a noted Cheyenne warrior known as White Eagle. Now the Shoshones, Nez Percé, Crows, and Flatheads all called him by that name.
Murmuring broke out among the warriors. Speckled Snake cocked his head and studied Nate from head to toe. “You are known to me. They say you kill grizzlies as other men kill rabbits. They say you have counted many coup on your enemies.”
“What they say is true,” Nate acknowledged. He wasn’t boasting so much as making it plain to the five warriors that he was a man to be reckoned with, and that if they started trouble they could count on a fight.
“They say you have even killed many Blackfeet.”
“I have,” Nate signed. In truth, he couldn’t remember the exact number. But the Blackfeet had been a persistent thorn in his side ever since he came to the Rockies, There had been the time a war party attacked his wife’s people, and the time another band kidnapped one of his best friends. Not quite a year ago he had tangled with them again when they raided the Nez Percé. It was rumored the Blackfeet wanted his scalp more than that of any other white man, which was why he made a point of going nowhere near their territory.
Wilderness: Mountain Devil/Blackfoot Massacre (A Wilderness Western Book 5) Page 16
