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

by Robbins, David

  Speckled Snake nodded at the minister. “Is this man a friend of yours?”

  “He is,” Nate replied, deliberately keeping his answers short in case the Cheyennes were trying to deceive him and made a play for their weapons.

  “We did not know that,” Speckled Snake signed. He twisted to indicate the three spare horses. “These are his. He is welcome to have them back.”

  “I thank you.”

  The stocky warrior motioned, and the Cheyenne holding the lead brought the horses forward, then wheeled and moved back beside his companions.

  John Burke cleared his throat. “I don’t understand, King. Why are they giving my animals back? What did you do? Threaten to shoot them?”

  “No. They’re returning the horses of their own free will.”

  “I can’t believe that. Everyone knows Indians are inveterate thieves.”

  Speckled Snake had been listening to the exchange with interest. He pointed at the reverend and asked in sign, “What did he say?”

  “He also thanks you for giving his animals back,” Nate lied in the interest of keeping the peace. If he translated the minister’s exact words, the Cheyennes would be insulted. And unlike whites, Indian men never allowed an insult to go unchallenged.

  “Does he want to know why we followed him?”

  “He is curious,” Nate signed, only because he was intensely curious himself. By all rights the five warriors should be back at their village, reveling in their spoils. It was unheard of for a raiding party to return the goods they took. The only reason he could think of for why the Cheyennes trailed Burke was to finish him off and take whatever the reverend had on him.

  The stocky warrior squared his shoulders. “We wanted to find out why he does not carry any weapons.”

  Nate held his right hand at shoulder height, his palm outward, his fingers and thumb pointed upwards and slightly separated, and turned the hand by wrist action three times in succession. The gesture was an all-purpose sign that stood not only for “what,” but also “why,” “when,” and “where,” depending on the context in which it was used. In this instance he was asking Speckled Snake to repeat himself since he felt he might have misunderstood.

  “The skinny white does not carry weapons,” the Cheyenne signed, and elaborated. “There were no guns or knives on his animals. All we found was a small ax for chopping wood.” He stared at Burke. “We had watched him for a whole day before we took his horses, so we knew he did not carry a weapon on his person. We believed we would find them in his packs, but we were wrong.”

  Nate pursed his lips. The warriors must have been terribly disappointed, since most would give their right arm to own a white man’s rifle. Ordinarily, Indians received only inferior trade guns known as fusees. A warrior who owned a genuine Hawken or other fine rifle was highly esteemed. Among the Blackfeet, any warrior who took an enemy’s rifle received the highest honors. In fact, the Blackfoot word for war honor was namachkani, which literally meant “a gun taken.”

  “Who is this man who is so brave he travels without any means of protecting himself?” Speckled Snake signed earnestly.

  Nate almost grinned at the confused look on the Cheyenne’s bronzed face. Some of the others appeared equally perplexed. He could readily appreciate why they were baffled since it was unheard of for a warrior to go about unarmed. Even in their villages they seldom strayed far from their bows and lances since an enemy war party might strike at any time. And they undoubtedly knew that white men were always armed to the teeth with flintlocks, rifles, knives, and tomahawks.

  “What’s happening?” John Burke inquired. “Why are they looking at me like that?”

  “They’re puzzled because you don’t own any weapons.”

  “How extraordinary. Well, inform them I’m a man of the cloth, that it is against my religious convictions to harm another human being, even simple savages such as themselves.”

  Speckled Snake motioned. “What are his words?”

  Again Nate hedged. “The reason he does not carry weapons is because he has devoted his life to the Great Medicine,” he signed, using the term that stood for God in most Indian tongues. The literal translation of “medicine” was “mysterious” or “unknown.” So when someone mentioned the Great Medicine, they were referring to the Great Mystery. Some of the mountain men claimed the expression should be translated as the Great Spirit, but “medicine” was the word most used by the Indians themselves.

  The Cheyenne’s surprise was transparent. “The skinny one is a medicine man?”

  “Yes,” Nate replied, and in a sense he was right. Medicine men were tribal clergymen and doctors combined, leading spirit ceremonies when the occasion demanded and healing illnesses that arose. In some tribes they were more like clergymen than doctors, while in other tribes the reverse was true. Many whites made light of the Indian holy men, but from his own experiences Nate knew they were often wise, caring, and dedicated to the welfare of their people. In all tribes the medicine men were as highly esteemed as the chiefs, perhaps more so. By telling these Cheyennes that Burke was a medicine man, he was insuring they would hold the reverend in the highest regard and never bother him again.

  Turning, Speckled Snake began an animated conversation with his fellow warriors. At length he faced Nate and signed, “What is his name?”

  Nate had to think before responding. There were no sign gestures for proper names in the English language, which was why trappers who chose to live among the Indians always took an Indian name and used it in all their dealings with the various tribes. He must make one up for Burke, and it should be something appropriate. “Medicine Teacher,” he answered, which sparked a new round of discussion.

  “Tell him we did not know he was a medicine man when we took his horses,” Speckled Snake said in due course. “Had we known, we would never have bothered him.” He lowered his hands briefly. “Ask Medicine Teacher if he is angry with us. We do not want him to put bad medicine on our heads for our mistake.”

  John Burke leaned toward Nate. “What the dickens is this heathen babbling about now?”

  “They’re afraid you’ll put a curse on them.”

  “By George, I should!” Burke bellowed, jabbing a finger at Speckled Snake. “I should call down the wrath of the Lord on you and your pathetic, ignorant people for what you’ve done to me! But I won’t. And do you know why?” He glowered at the five Cheyennes, then quoted from Scripture. “The Lord is my defense, and my God is the rock of my refuge. And he shall bring upon them their own iniquity, and shall cut them off in their own wickedness. Yea, the Lord our God shall cut them off.” Smiling fiercely, Burke straightened. “Your own wickedness will be your undoing, savages. I need not lift a finger against you.”

  The fiery outburst had agitated the Cheyennes, who began whispering among themselves.

  “What did Medicine Teacher say?” Speckled Snake inquired. “He sounds displeased.”

  Nate hesitated, simmering with indignation. Here he was, trying his best to convince these warriors that Burke and he were as friendly as could be, and the good reverend was doing his damnedest to stir them up. Already one of the warriors was fingering the hilt of his knife. If Burke wasn’t careful, he’d get the Cheyennes downright mad. And medicine man or not, they wouldn’t stand still for being insulted. He smiled to reassure them, then signed, “Medicine Teacher is angry, but not at you. He is angry at himself because his medicine failed him. He ate something he should not have eaten, and that is why the Great Medicine did not keep his horses and possessions safe.”

  “I understand,” Speckled Snake said gravely.

  It paid to be familiar with Indian customs, Nate reflected. Among many tribes it was customary for young warriors to go on vision quests to obtain spiritual power. By going off by themselves and fasting until an extraordinary dream, or vision, presented itself, they hoped to gain supernatural powers that would protect them in battle. A warrior might see a red hawk in a dream, for instance, and paint it on
his shield to ward off enemy arrows. But with their new power usually came taboos. In order for the hawk shield to be effective, the warrior might have to refrain from eating the brains of a buffalo or from letting a menstruating woman come near it. The taboos were endless and varied, depending on how the warriors interpreted their dreams.

  In the same vein, medicine men often went on vision quests to obtain healing powers or other abilities. And like the warriors, they had to stick to certain rules or their powers would be useless.

  “We will leave you in peace,” Speckled Snake now signed. “And we will tell our people of this meeting so they may learn that white men do know of the Great Medicine. There are some who believe all whites are dead inside, like rotten trees that can never bear ripe fruit, and know nothing of spirit matters.”

  Nate made the signs for “Go in peace.” He sighed in relief as the five Cheyennes galloped off to the northeast without looking back, and felt the tension drain from his body. “That was close,” he remarked.

  “Why? Did those devils threaten to harm us?”

  “No, but if you had opened your mouth one more time they just might have.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Nate pivoted. “It means, Reverend, you have a lot to learn if you want to survive out here. Indians will not abide insults. You can’t treat them like you would your congregation back in the States.”

  “I’ll speak to them as the spirit of the Lord moves me,” Burke said gruffly. “If they’re offended, so be it.”

  “If they’re offended, they might just turn you into a pincushion.”

  Burke smiled. “I’m prepared to be a martyr if that’s what it takes to get these primitives to see the light.”

  “Suit yourself,” Nate said with a shrug. Suddenly he was sorry he had ever run into the man. There was no reasoning with someone like him, and the way Burke was going it wouldn’t be long before he got his wish and wound up scalped. Nate didn’t want to be around when it happened. He would probably lose his life trying to save Burke’s, and he had a wife and son to think of. “Reckon you’re fit enough to ride your own horse?” he asked.

  “I believe I can, yes.”

  “Then let’s go. I want to reach the Shoshone village before nightfall,” Nate said. He stood to one side as the minister dismounted, then climbed on Pegasus. “If you have no objections, I’ll handle your pack animals.”

  “Very well,” Burke said, stepping to his bay and climbing slowly up. He patted the animal’s neck. “I knew the Lord would provide for me. See how He watches over his children?”

  Nate grabbed the lead rope and clucked the stallion into a trot. For over an hour they rode steadily westward until they reached the base of the foothills, where he drew rein to give the stallion a short breather before forging onward. To the north, well out of rifle range, was a small herd of black-tailed deer. To the south a bald eagle circled far above the gently waving prairie grass. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the fragrance of the nearby pines.

  Burke had said nothing the whole time, but he now saw fit to speak. “I appreciate what you did for me back there, Brother King. You’re quite a hand at dealing with Indians, aren’t you?”

  “I should be after living among them for so long,” Nate replied, glancing at the reverend just as Burke’s eyes became the size of saucers and his mouth drooped open in astonishment. Swiveling, Nate gazed in the same direction and saw an enormous grizzly bear emerging from the forest.

  Chapter Four

  Of all the animals in the wilderness, grizzlies were the most feared by whites and Indians alike. Tremendous in size, with extremely wide heads, massive shoulders, and prominent humps that set them apart from their black cousins, grizzlies were the masters of their domain. Even panthers and wolverines gave them a wide birth. Sometimes rising to over eight feet in height when they stood on their hind legs, grizzlies were endowed with terrible claws over four inches long. A single swipe could disembowel a grown moose or decapitate a man.

  Nate felt his mouth go dry as the grizzly started out across the plain, its huge head swinging ponderously from side to side, lumbering clumsily along, giving no hint of the startling speed of which a grown bear was capable. It was fifty yards away and as yet had not noticed them. If they didn’t move it might keep on going. Grizzlies had notoriously poor sight. Their sense of smell, however, was exceptional. Hopefully the wind wouldn’t carry their scent to it.

  The monster abruptly halted and sniffed.

  “What do we do?” Burke whispered.

  “Don’t move and don’t talk,” Nate advised. He saw the bear look toward them and gulped. Burke’s bay was swishing its tail. The grizzly was bound to notice. Sure enough, a second later the beast took a heavy stride in their direction while continuing to test the wind.

  “The Lord preserve us!” Burke breathed.

  “When I tell you to, ride like you’ve never ridden before,” Nate directed. “Head westward and don’t look back.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll try and get the bear to chase me. After I lose it, I’ll fire shots so you can find me again.”

  “What if it catches you?”

  “My wife’s name is Winona. Follow the setting sun until you come to a lake. The Shoshone village is on the south side. Let her know what happened.”

  “Your sacrifice won’t be necessary,” Burke declared. “I have a better idea.”

  “Such as?” Nate asked, and was flabbergasted when the minister unexpectedly turned his horse toward the bear, held his bible aloft, and shouted at the top of his lungs.

  “Begone, foul beast! In the name of Our Lord Jesus I command you to leave us be!”

  The grizzly uttered a fearful roar and charged. “Damn!” Nate snapped, and swiftly gave the bay’s rump a solid smack that sent the horse racing into the trees with Reverend Burke clinging to the saddle for dear life. Clutching the rope lead, Nate angled to the northwest and waved the Hawken to attract the bear. “This way!” he yelled. “Come after me, you mangy varmint!”

  Loping faster than a man could run, the grizzly bore down on the horses.

  In a twinkling Nate was wending among fir and spruce trees, a wall of branches momentarily screening him from the attacking monster. Ordinarily Pegasus could handily outdistance one of the giant bruins, but now the pack animals were slowing the stallion down. Burdened as they were with more supplies than was practical for a horse to carry, the pair was doing their best but still going nowhere near fast enough to escape the pursuing behemoth.

  A branch plucked at Nate’s beaver hat as he skirted a pine and crossed a narrow clearing. To his rear arose the loud crackle of underbrush, telling him the grizzly had entered the trees. His only hope was to stay ahead of the beast for the next two or three hundred yards. Provided he succeeded, the grizzly would tire and give up the chase. If not...

  The forest was a blur. Nate had to constantly change direction to avoid trunks, logs, and boulders. Once the tip of a limb snagged his chin but his beard spared him from being cut. The ground sloped uphill, so he bore to the right until he came to a dry wash between two hills. The level stretch enabled him to urge the horses to go even faster.

  At the west end of the wash, where it broadened out into a lush valley, he galloped madly toward a stand of aspen, the nearest available cover. A quick glance showed the grizzly just bursting from the woods.

  Did he dare risk a shot?

  No, he decided, because the odds of killing a grizzly with a single ball were slim. No less a personage than the famous Meriwether Lewis, of Lewis and Clark fame, had first chronicled the difficulty of slaying grizzlies in the journal he kept on his trek to the Pacific Ocean in 1805. When the men of the expedition initially encountered the gigantic brutes, they treated the grizzlies much as they would black bears from the States. But the first bear they shot for its meat and oil took ten balls before it dropped—five through the lungs. Another grizzly was shot eight times as it tried to chase down an
d slay some of the members of the expedition. From then on Lewis and Clark treated the monsters with cautious respect.

  Nate reached the aspens and darted into them. The grizzly was still in heated pursuit, rumbling continuously deep in its immense chest. Nate battered branches aside with the Hawken as he made for a field beyond the stand. The foremost pack animal bumped into a tree and stopped, catching him unawares, and he was nearly pulled from the saddle. With a frantic jerk on the rope he got the horse moving again.

  Puffing noisily as its great feet struck the ground in steady cadence, the bear barreled onward.

  Past the aspens Nate gave the stallion its head. He was strongly tempted to let go of the lead so he could escape, but he held on, his arm straining almost beyond endurance. The grizzly crashed into the stand and Nate swore the ground shook. The bear roared in frustration, the tightly spaced trunks slowing it down as he had planned.

  More forest lay sixty yards ahead. To the right of the woods was a boulder-strewn hill. He made for the woodland, and was halfway there when over the top of the hill rode two warriors who promptly stopped on spying him. There was no time to determine if they were friendly or not. Already the grizzly had exited the stand and resumed the chase with renewed vigor.

  Nate was beginning to think he would have no choice but to halt and fire. He could see the pair of warriors moving down the slope to intercept him. Perhaps they were hostiles intent on picking him off while he was preoccupied. One of them held a bow, and in the hands of a skilled warrior an arrow could slay a foe from a hundred yards off. He heard the warriors commence whooping and hollering and slowed just enough for a good look.

  They were Shoshones.

  Elated, he saw them angling toward the bear, not toward him. An instant later he recognized the duo as Drags the Rope and Beaver Tail. The former he had met on the very day he’d met Winona, and he was a close friend. Beaver Tail was a younger man barely out of his teens who had yet to count coup on a foe.