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

by Robbins, David

  “Grizzly Killer! Wait for me!”

  He looked over his shoulder to find Touch the Clouds close on his heels. The giant held an enormous bow made of ash and had a large brown quiver strapped to his broad back. Side by side they ran to the shore, where a lean warrior was being besieged by questions as everyone tried to talk at once.

  “How many were there, Otter Eyes?” asked one man.

  “Where did you see them?” wanted to know another.

  “Were they on horseback or on foot?”

  “Did they try to kill you?”

  Touch the Clouds stepped forward. “One at a time! How can he tell us what happened with all of you jabbering like women?” He moved through the excited warriors, towering over every single one of them, his mere presence serving to calm them down. When he reached Otter Eyes, he motioned for complete silence. “Now then. Tell those of us who arrived late what took place.”

  “There is not much to tell,” Otter Eyes said. “I was bringing my horses to water when I saw two men at the edge of those trees and yelled to them, thinking they were friends.” He pointed at the forest twenty yards away. “Instead of answering me, they ran off. As they did, I saw by their hair that they were Bloods. So I gave the alarm.”

  Nate stared at the woods. The deepening darkness made a shadowy maze of the many trunks and thickets. It would be difficult to identify anyone, let alone tell the difference between Shoshones and Bloods. Not that he suspected Otter Eyes was lying. But it might be that the warrior had simply seen a pair of Shoshones going off for some reason and mistaken them for enemies. He saw Touch the Clouds gaze in the same direction, his forehead creased in thought, and figured the giant had reached the same conclusion.

  “We should go after them!” Beaver Tail cried. “We must not let them spy on us and get away with it! What if they were part of a large war party? This minute they must be on their way back to tell their friends exactly where to find our village.”

  Cries of agreement erupted from a dozen throats. Weapons were waved overhead and war whoops cut the air. Several men headed for the forest, but a sharp command brought them all to a halt.

  “Stop! Have you taken leave of your senses?” Touch the Clouds demanded. “If there is a war party out there and all of you go rushing off into the woods, who will protect our families and our horses if the war party gets past you?”

  The sheepish expressions on some of the Shoshones’ faces were so comical Nate had to suppress a grin.

  “It will soon be too dark to see anything,” Touch the Clouds went on. “I say we have men stand guard until morning, then look for tracks and follow them.”

  Deliberations ensued as the warriors debated the merits of the idea. Nate placed the stock of his Hawken on the ground and leaned on the barrel, idly listening. He agreed with Touch the Clouds and knew the rest would too, given five or ten minutes of squabbling. Unlike whites, whose armies had clearly defined chains of command and were models of military precision, Indians seldom obeyed any single leader and did as they pleased whether at war or not. It was, in his estimation, their single greatest weakness.

  Nate knew how the tribes east of the Mississippi had been treated by his own kind. Those that hadn’t been enslaved had been wiped out, and those that hadn’t been wiped out had been forced to relocate to less desirable land when envious whites decided they wanted the choice parcels for themselves. Indians had been on the continent before the arrival of the first Europeans, yet the Europeans saw fit to deny the natives citizenship when they formed their governments and divided the land. As a result, the Indians became despised and belittled outcasts, treated more like animals than human beings.

  One of Nate’s biggest fears was that someday the same thing would happen to the tribes west of the Mississippi. The idea seemed preposterous, but a clash would be inevitable if the population of the United States kept growing at its current rate. Already there were settlers heading for the rich new lands in Oregon country.

  He hoped he wouldn’t live to see the day when towns and cities sprang up on the prairie and in the mountains. If they did, it would bring to an end the way of life he cherished so dearly and forever put a limit on the freedom he valued as much as life itself.

  So far he knew of only two or three trappers who shared his concerns. One was his mentor and best friend, Shakespeare McNair. Shakespeare had lived in the Rockies longer than any white man and, until recently, had been remarkably active for a man of his advanced years. Lately, though, McNair had taken to spending all his time at his cabin in the company of his Flathead wife. Lord, how Nate missed him! He toyed with the notion of paying a visit on his way home, then abruptly realized Touch the Clouds was speaking.

  “I will be one of the first to stand guard. Who else will volunteer? There should be at least ten if we are to protect our village properly.” He paused. “How about you, Grizzly Killer? Are you with me?”

  Nate hesitated. After being gone all day he wanted to spend time with his family. And he didn’t like the thought of Winona and Zach being left alone with Reverend Burke. He knew very little about the man, and the little he did know did not inspire trust. The minister, though, should sleep the night through. And Nate’s desire to be with his loved ones had to be weighed against the welfare of the entire tribe. There really was no choice. “All right,” he responded. “I will gladly do my part.”

  Immediately other warriors offered to help, and Touch the Clouds picked those he needed. Chief Broken Paw stood close to the giant but made no effort to interfere. Touch the Clouds was the best warrior in the Shoshone village, and in matters of warfare his judgment usually prevailed.

  Nate was thinking that he would like to stand guard several hundred yards to the east, to be nearer his lodge, when Touch the Clouds came over and leaned down so only he could hear.

  “Thank you, my friend. I was afraid some of the others would object to my idea and we would argue for a long time.” He glanced around to be certain no one was trying to eavesdrop. “Crooked Antler had that look in his eyes.”

  Nate understood. Crooked Antler was the second best warrior in the tribe, and he saw fit to constantly oppose Touch the Clouds. Whether sparked by jealousy or petty revenge because Touch the Clouds had counted more coup and received more honors, the one-sided feud had been going on for two years or better and everyone in the village was aware of it. Crooked Antler was spiteful but he wasn’t stupid; he was always careful not to push the giant too far, not to step over that invisible line that would result in a personal challenge. In a fight to the death he wouldn’t stand a chance and he knew it.

  “I called on you first because your word carries great weight with our people,” Touch the Clouds was saying. “Even though you are white, you are considered a fearless warrior whose good medicine is better than anyone else’s.”

  Nate chuckled. “Has some trapper sold you a bottle of whiskey?”

  “I am serious, my friend,” the giant asserted. “Everyone knows of your battles with the Blackfeet and the Utes. And no man since time began has killed as many of the great brown bears as you have. Your good medicine is extremely powerful.” He absently scratched his forehead. “Which is very surprising since you do not even own a medicine bundle.”

  “I have been lucky,” Nate said, and meant it. Most of his narrow escapes and victories over his enemies had been the result of dumb luck. But he could see how the Shoshones regarded him as a man possessing mighty medicine. To them, a man made his own luck by appealing to the invisible spirits for good medicine that would protect him from harm and ill fortune. Many warriors owned what were called medicine bundles, consisting of ordinary objects such as feathers, pipes, tobacco, or something else they might have seen in a dream and believed would give them special powers such as warding off the arrows of their enemies or keeping them in good health forever. There were even tribal medicine bundles. He had heard the Arapahos revered a bundle containing a flat pipe that was kept in a special lodge and watched over by a d
evoted keeper who made sure the bundle was always hung in the exact center of the lodge and never, ever allowed it to touch the ground.

  “I know better,” Touch the Clouds said. “You are talking like a white man, not a Shoshone. Your medicine is very powerful, and if you ever make a medicine bundle you will grow very rich by selling some of your power.” That idea had never occurred to Nate. Sometimes, no matter how hard a warrior tried, he was unable to see any visions or have any significant dreams. In such instances the warrior often went to another man noted for having good medicine and bought some of the contents of the man’s medicine bundle, or perhaps the entire bundle, so he would have his own good medicine.

  Touch the Clouds turned and addressed the others, asking for warriors to volunteer to stand watch during the second half of the night.

  Nate felt his stomach growl. He was very hungry, but he wouldn’t get a chance to fill his belly until about midnight, when he would be relieved. Resigned to his fate, he waited as those warriors who were not standing guard on the first watch departed for their lodges.

  The giant faced him. “If there are Bloods in the area, I doubt they will raid us before dawn. But if they do, our weakest points are here and a ways to the south where the forest is thickest. If you will stand guard here, I will take the other spot.”

  So much for a place closer to Winona and Zach! Nate wryly reflected. He sighed, then said, “As you wish.”

  Touch the Clouds had actually bestowed an honor on him by asking him to protect one of the two approaches a war party would be most likely to use. The request was, in effect, a public testimonial to his courage and reliability, as the eight warriors who were staring at him clearly recognized.

  In pairs and one by one the others drifted toward their positions around the camp. The giant hiked southward, pausing once to smile and wave, his teeth white in the murky night.

  Nate stretched and gazed up at the multitude of stars sparkling in the firmament. A cool breeze from the northwest fanned his cheeks. Water gently lapped at the edge of the lake shore not six feet from his moccasins. The nearest lodge was better than forty feet to the south. About twenty yards in front of him loomed the inky wall of vegetation that might conceal lurking Bloods. If they should spring a surprise attack, he would be on his own until the Shoshones rallied to defend their village. Like Touch the Clouds, he doubted the Bloods would do anything before dawn. But he had to stay alert anyway. The life of every man, woman, and child was riding on his shoulders.

  He moved nearer to the water and along the shore another five yards, then knelt. Now he was close enough to the trees to be able to detect anyone moving across the open space between the lake and the woods and sound the alarm. Or so he hoped. The Bloods were bound to be experts at snaking silently toward an enemy encampment. It was unlikely he would have much forewarning of their presence before he spotted them.

  Both flintlocks were wedged under his belt and he had his knife and tomahawk with him. His buckskins and beaver hat would keep him warm, so except for his protesting stomach he would be comfortable while he waited for midnight and his relief. Boredom might be his biggest problem.

  Suddenly, as if to prove him wrong, a twig cracked in the forest.

  Chapter Eight

  Nate froze, probing the forest for movement. He didn’t have to look very hard. A shadowy form materialized, advancing from the trees and moving directly toward the lodges. As near as he could tell, there was only one man. Quietly placing the Hawken down, he drew his big butcher knife and slinked forward. If he could capture the Blood alive, the Shoshones might be able to wring important information from him, such as how many were in the raiding party and where they were.

  The vague figure made no attempt to conceal himself. Cocky devil, Nate thought, easing onto all fours with the knife clutched tight in his right hand. He angled to one side of the warrior’s line of travel, then flattened and tensed for the spring.

  On came the Blood, armed with a lance that he was holding at waist height instead of ready to use in combat.

  Nate was amazed at the man’s careless attitude, but he had no time to dwell on it. In seconds the Blood was passing him, and he let the warrior take two strides before he surged upright and pounced, his left arm looping around the man’s neck and clamping down hard so the Blood couldn’t cry out even as he pressed the tip of his blade into the man’s right cheek and growled in Shoshone, “Make one move and you are dead.”

  The warrior started to struggle and gurgled as if drowning.

  “Do you understand?” Nate demanded, applying more pressure and digging the knife in deeper. Immediately the man dropped his lance and ceased resisting. Nate slowly turned, forcing the Blood to move with him, self-conscious about having his back to the woods when there undoubtedly were more Bloods somewhere in the vicinity. He scanned the tree line but saw nothing. Should he shout to bring the Shoshones on the run? Or was it wiser to keep quiet so the war party didn’t realize one of their own had been captured?

  He headed south, pushing the Blood before him, his left forearm locked on the man’s throat, his knife providing incentive for the warrior to cooperate. For over a minute he walked, constantly scouring the forest, barely paying attention to his prisoner, more concerned over getting an arrow or lance in the back than over the man giving him any trouble.

  From out of the darkness came a walking mountain. Touch the Clouds appeared like a wraith out of nowhere, making no sound whatsoever. “Grizzly Killer?” he whispered. “Is that you?”

  “Yes,” Nate confirmed. “And I have caught one.” The giant came closer, peered into the prisoner’s face, and made a sound like a bull elk startled by a stalking panther. “Have you taken a good look at your captive?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Perhaps you should.”

  Nate relaxed the pressure on the warrior’s throat just enough so he could lean forward and see the man’s features. Recognition took a second in the dark, but when he saw who it was he lowered his arms and stepped back. “Beaver Tail!”

  The young warrior rubbed his throat and glanced from the giant to Nate. “You are strong, Grizzly Killer. I feared you would snap my neck before you learned it was I.”

  “You’re fortunate I didn’t shoot you on sight or slit you from ear to ear,” Nate said. “What were you doing out in the forest?”

  “The forest?” Touch the Clouds repeated.

  Beaver Tail fidgeted nervously. “Yes. I wanted to see if there were Bloods nearby, so when you were talking and everyone was busy listening I sneaked off into the trees.”

  “You young fool,” Touch the Clouds said sternly. “What if there had been a war party out there? What chance would you have had all alone? You took a needless risk.”

  “Which is easy for you to say,” Beaver Tail replied. “You have counted more coup than ten men. You have no need to prove yourself. But what about those of us who have yet to count our first coup?”

  Nate slid his knife into its sheath. The young man’s motive was perfectly logical given the intense competition among the warriors to see who could garner the most honors in battle. To count coup a warrior would do practically anything: rush headlong into enemy fire, fight against overwhelming odds, even stake himself to the ground so that he couldn’t leave the battlefield before all his enemies had turned tail or were dead.

  “Patience, my friend,” Touch the Clouds advised, draping a hand on Beaver Tail’s shoulder. “You must have patience. Your time to count coup will come soon enough. Losing your hair in the meantime because you are too rash for your own good will make your name a laughingstock instead of one our women will speak with pride.” He patted Beaver Tail’s arm. “When you have been in as many terrible fights as I have, when you have seen so many honorable men die horrible deaths, many of them your best friends, you will not be so thirsty for blood.”

  “I will not rest until I have counted more coup than any Shoshone who ever lived!” Beaver Tail declared. Pivoting, he hastened to
ward the lodges, his back stiff, his chin thrust defiantly outward.

  Touch the Clouds watched him go. “I have often wondered why the Great Medicine saw fit to make men so ignorant and childish. By the time we are old enough to figure out the way of the world, we are ready for the grave.”

  Nate had no answer for that one. “I should get back to my post,” he said, thinking of his rifle, and began to retrace his steps. Hindsight told him it had been a mistake to go off and leave his Hawken behind. Not that any of the Shoshones would steal it. Few of them liked to use guns. Most preferred using their traditional bows and arrows over the white man’s weapon, with good reason since a skilled archer could fire anywhere from ten to twenty shafts in the time it took the average trapper to reload. Then too, he had carved his initials on the stock and would have no problem identifying his own rifle.

  Just being separated from the Hawken made him feel uncomfortable. A man’s rifle was as essential to his continued existence as breathing itself, more so than a brace of pistols. Flintlocks were fine for close-in fighting and for shooting small game at close range. But for dropping bigger animals like buffalo, elk, and deer, at great distances, and for keeping hostiles at bay, there was nothing like a dependable Hawken.

  He made for the approximate spot where he had jumped Beaver Tail, then walked to where he had deposited the rifle. It wasn’t there. Bending over so he could see the ground better, he searched to the right and the left. He wasn’t worried. He had simply misjudged the proper spot by a few feet or so and would find the rifle any moment.

  A minute elapsed and he saw no trace of it. Puzzled, he straightened near the water and put his hands on his hips as he tried to deduce where he was going wrong. How could he be so far off the mark? Had he been farther east or west when he set the weapon down? In the excitement of seeing a presumed enemy, he might not have been as observant as he should have been.