“We have a problem,” Shakespeare announced, standing, his features set in grave lines.
“What is it?” Nate asked, although deep down he had a feeling he already knew.
“Reverend Burke is in bad shape, so bad he won’t survive a journey to the Shoshone village even on a travois. I don’t know whether the hardships he went through on the plains finally caught up with him or whether he’s come down with a sickness. But his fever is burning him up and he’s as weak as a newborn kitten.” Shakespeare gazed down at the minister and shook his head. “In his weakened state he should never have taken off from the village. He needed another week, at least, to recuperate.”
“What do you think we should do then?” Nate inquired.
“Stay here overnight. Give him a chance to get some of his strength back. If we keep him warm and get a lot of liquids into him, he might come around enough to be able to make the trip on a travois.”
George squatted and rested a hand on his brother’s chest. “I don’t care what the rest of you decide, but I’m doing as Mr. McNair says. You can all go back if you want. I’ll take care of John.”
“We’re not about to abandon the two of you,” Nate declared. “We’ll stay here until morning and see how John is faring.”
Allen rested his rifle across his saddle. “The closest hill is west of here,” he mentioned, and jabbed a finger at the tree-covered crown visible over the tops of the trees on the other side of the creek. “How about if I ride up there and take a gander at the countryside. If those Blackfeet are skulking about, I might spot them.”
“Good idea,” Nate said, “Have at it.” He watched the trapper ford the creek, then devoted himself to watering and tying their horses while Shakespeare and George did their utmost to make John as comfortable as they could, wrapping the minister in blankets and placing a wet cloth on his brow to cool his perspiring forehead.
George looked around as Nate joined them. “I appreciate you staying,” he said, his eyes going past Nate to their mounts. “Say, you didn’t unsaddle our horses. Why not?”
“If we have to leave in a hurry there won’t be time to spare to saddle up.”
“Oh. I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“So do I.”
Shakespeare was poking a stick among the wet remains of the minister’s fire. “I hate to say it, but we’ll need a new fire if we’re to boil some broth. I’ll chop up some jerky and see what else I can find to throw in.” He headed into the trees.
“Leave the fire to me,” Nate said. “I was the one who put it out in the first place.” He walked into the trees and gathered broken limbs he could break down to suitable lengths. The older the limb, the better. As he came into the clearing he saw George holding John’s hand and fighting back tears. The two of them must have been very close before the loss of John’s wife and son changed John’s outlook on life and caused the rift between them.
“Do you have a family in the States?” George asked as Nate walked up.
“Yes.”
“Ever miss them?”
“Of course,” Nate said, controlling his annoyance at being reminded of them.
“I don’t see how you do it,” George said earnestly. “I could never sever all my ties with my relatives just to head off for somewhere unknown.” He stared at the gurgling creek. “I could never live in these mountains, no matter how splendid they are, knowing I might never see my parents again.”
“Seldom does a day go by that I don’t think of my folks and the rest of my kin,” Nate said, bending over to deposit the branches on the grass. “We were a close-knit family, and naturally it pained me to leave them.” He straightened. “At the time I figured on going back, but things never worked out that way. Now my father and mother are both dead and I’ll never be able to look into their faces and tell them how much I truly cared.”
George was studying Nate’s own face. “I’m sorry. It was thoughtless of me to bring the subject up. I should have realized you’d have regrets.”
“Regrets?” Nate said, and sighed. “If you only knew. But there comes a time in a person’s life when they have to weigh their personal happiness against the blood ties of their childhood. Sometimes, as in my case, a person finds the mate of their dreams and the land of their heart’s desire far from the home they knew and loved, and they have to make the hardest decision of their lives. Do they go off on their own to start anew or return to the old life? Do they stand on their own two feet and do what is best for them or do they do what might be best for their parents?”
“You sound as if—” George began, and stopped abruptly when a tremendous crackling and crashing in the undergrowth on the west bank heralded the sudden arrival of Henry Allen, who galloped into the open and reined up sharply.
“Blackfeet!” Allen cried, pointing to the south. “Heading this way!”
Chapter Seventeen
Hawken in hand, Nate sprinted southward along the edge of the creek where there was scant vegetation and he could make better time. “Stay with your brother,” he directed George over his left shoulder. Allen, he saw, had reached their side of the creek and was vaulting to the ground.
Where was Shakespeare?
He couldn’t see his mentor anywhere, and he fervently hoped McNair wasn’t out in the open where the Blackfeet could see him. Ten feet from the end of the stand of trees he slowed and moved into the pines, doubled at the waist as he glided from trunk to trunk until he could view the approach to the south.
Over a quarter of a mile off was a band of five Blackfeet, hiking northward.
Nate’s thumb touched the hammer of his rifle. Between the Hawken and his flintlocks he should be able to drop three of them once they were close enough, but he would rather avoid a conflict if he could. The Blackfeet were concentrating on the ground, reading the sign, and the shod hoof tracks would tell them there were white scalps to be had if they could find where the riders had stopped.
Why were there only five? Nate wondered. The Arapahos had claimed there was a large party. Where were the rest? And speaking of the Arapahos—what had happened to them? Had Running Antelope and his fellows blundered into the Blackfoot war party? Had these five backtracked to determine where the Arapahos came from and stumbled on the tracks left by his party? It hardly seemed possible there had been time for the Blackfeet to kill the four Arapahos. But then he realized fifteen to twenty minutes had gone by since the Arapahos had departed, which was plenty of time. In the wilderness death often claimed men and animals alike with astonishing swiftness.
He doubted whether he would ever know the truth. The Blackfeet weren’t about to tell him. If he showed himself, they would descend on the stand at a run, thirsting for his blood. At that moment, muffled footsteps to his right let him know he was no longer alone.
“I was only partway up the hill when I saw them through my telescope,” Allen disclosed as he crouched behind a fir. “So I came back right away.”
“Were these the only ones you saw?” Nate asked.
Allen nodded.
“Did you happen to see Shakespeare?”
“No.”
Nate focused on the Blackfeet and came to a decision. “If they come this far we should try to kill them quietly so as not to alert the rest of their war party.”
“Two against five? I’m a fair hand with a knife but you’re asking the impossible. These are Blackfeet, not Diggers.”
The reference was appropriate. Digger Indians were a branch of the Snake tribe to which the Shoshones belonged, but they were as different from the Shoshones as night was from day. While the Shoshones lived much like the other tribes on the plains, the Diggers lived in primitive fashion, going about near naked and subsisting on roots, pine nuts, rice grass, and small game. Most plains tribes held the Diggers in contempt; their fighting prowess was laughed at.
“Even so,” Nate said, “if we fire our guns the rest of the war party might hear.” He leaned forward, trying to see if the five warriors were carr
ying firearms. They were still too far off to tell.
“King, look!” Allen suddenly declared, his hand extending to the southeast.
Nate swiveled and felt his pulse quicken. Shakespeare had emerged from another group of trees two hundred yards away and was strolling toward them, his rifle in the crook of his left elbow, his back to the oncoming Blackfeet, oblivious to the danger.
“They see him!” Allen said.
Nate saw that for himself. One of the warriors had excitedly jabbed an arm the second Shakespeare appeared, and now all five were bounding like black-tailed bucks toward the unsuspecting mountain man. They were as far from McNair as he was from the stand, and they were bound to catch him before he reached safety even if he started to run. Nate leaped up and dashed into the open, waving his arms as he did. “Shakespeare! Behind you!” he yelled. “Look behind you!”
The grizzled mountaineer turned. Instead of dashing for the stand, he stuffed something he was holding in his right hand into his ammo pouch, then raised his Hawken and took a bead on the charging Blackfeet.
“He can’t hit one at that range,” Allen said. “He’ll waste the lead.”
Nate watched with bated breath. McNair seemed to take forever to aim. At last the Hawken cracked and belched smoke. Down the valley the foremost Blackfoot grabbed at his chest, staggered, then toppled. The rest halted. One of them lifted a rifle. Shakespeare was already sprinting toward the stand, running a zigzag pattern to throw off the warrior’s aim.
“He should go to ground,” Allen said. “That red devil might get lucky.”
The same worry afflicted Nate. He heard a pop when the Blackfoot fired and glanced at Shakespeare, afraid his friend would be hit. Evidently the shot had missed because McNair never slowed. “Keep coming!” Nate called, beckoning his mentor onward.
None of the Blackfeet were in pursuit. All four were gathered around their fallen companion and two of them were assisting the man to his feet. Moments later the pair hastened to the south with their burden as rapidly as they could while the remaining two pivoted and made for the stand.
“They’ll try to pin us down here until the rest show up,” Allen predicted.
“We can’t stay no matter how bad off the minister is,” Nate said grimly. As much as he wanted to help John Burke, it was pointless to sacrifice all of their lives in the process. “You go back and set to work on making a travois while I stay and cover Shakespeare.”
“George won’t like it.”
“Tell him that unless we head out in the next ten minutes, we risk being overrun by the Blackfeet.”
“All right, but it won’t make a difference to him,” Allen said, and dashed off.
Nate remained where he was. The two warriors, unwilling to suffer the same fate as their comrade, kept up a halfhearted chase until Shakespeare, panting heavily, reached the trees. Then one bore to the right, the other the left, and they vanished in the high grass and weeds. “Enjoy your stroll?” Nate quipped.
“You have too courtly a wit for me,” McNair said, and grew serious. “Thanks for the warning. I was so busy thinking about how best to help the reverend that I failed to pay attention to what was going on around me.” He tapped his temple. “’Tis gone, you see.”
“What is?”
“My brain.”
“Quit prattling,” Nate said, scanning the valley. “The Blackfeet will be on us soon. Allen is putting together a travois, Why don’t you lend him a hand while I keep watch?”
“If we leave now, John Burke will die.”
“If we don’t, we’ll die.”
“Son, I have an herb that will help him,” Shakespeare said, tapping his ammo pouch. “Give me fifteen minutes to get the medicine ready, then we can go.”
“And what if the Blackfeet get here before you’re done?” Nate responded while backing slowly into the firs. He alertly scoured the grass for sign of the two warriors who were in hiding. One had been armed with a lance, the second a bow, and it was the bowman who most concerned him. The Blackfoot might sneak close enough to put a shaft into him or one of the others.
McNair also backed into the shelter of the pines. “Bear with me,” he said when they were temporarily safe. “I found some crawly over yonder, and there’s nothing better for fighting high fevers. I can’t feed it to Burke as it is because he’s too weak to chew. And tea alone won’t do the job because he needs something more substantial in his belly. So I’ll heat some water, chop up some jerky into tiny pieces for flavoring, add a smidgen of flour, and throw in bits of the root. Just one dose of my broth should have him back on his feet within ten to twelve hours.” Nate knew how effective herbal remedies could be. And Shakespeare knew more about herbs and wild plants in general than any white man alive. “Do what you have to,” he said. “I’ll stay and keep watch for the war party.”
“Thanks,” Shakespeare said, giving Nate’s arm a squeeze. “I’ll fetch you when we’re ready.” He started to leave.
“Frankly, I never thought you cared that much for ministers,” Nate commented. “Some of the remarks you’ve made led me to believe you hold them in low regard.”
The mountain man seemed shocked. “I gave you that impression?” He frowned. “Yes, I suppose I do criticize their profession from time to time, but I have my reasons.” Turning, he again began to stride off, then paused and glanced back. “My father was a minister.”
“Your father?” Nate blurted out, but Shakespeare was gone, trotting toward the camp. It abruptly dawned on Nate that Shakespeare had never talked about his parents in all the years they had been close friends, had never so much as mentioned their names. Nate did recall a few comments that hinted at a hard childhood and a strict upbringing, but he wouldn’t have guessed in a million years that Shakespeare’s father had been a man of the cloth.
He leaned against a trunk and scoured the valley. There would be ample opportunity later to probe further into his mentor’s background. For now there were the Blackfeet to worry about. Would the entire war party approach from the south, or would they split up and come at the stand from different directions? Should he stay in one spot or rove around the edge of the stand to better safeguard against a surprise attack?
Nate decided to compromise. He moved to a position at the southeast corner where he could see both the southern and eastern approaches. Still not completely satisfied, wishing he had thought to ask Allen for the telescope, he selected a pine and climbed ten feet. His elevated perch gave him a better view of the high grass should the Blackfeet attempt to crawl through it.
Almost immediately he spied the warrior armed with the lance, lying on his stomach forty yards out. The bowman, though, was too well concealed.
The minutes elapsed at a snail-like, nerve-racking pace. He heard someone chopping wood at the camp, and figured it was Allen acquiring the poles used to form the framework of the travois. Glancing back, he glimpsed the flickering flames of a fire and Shakespeare kneeling beside it.
More time went by. Nate fidgeted and searched the grass once more. The Blackfoot with the lance had not moved. Nor had the bowman given his location away. They were content to lie there and wait. Nate knew why.
When a half-hour passed and nothing happened, Nate eased toward the ground. He would check to see how the others were doing. The travois should have been put together and the minister fed the broth by now. They should be all set to ride out.
Movement at the south end of the valley made him stop and look. He counted six warriors spread out in a line, coming on at a dogtrot. Only six? He had expected more. Gripping a branch below him, he had started to drop to the earth when he saw additional figures to the east, five of them again spaced at regular intervals as they advanced.
The Blackfeet had split up!
Nate let go and landed hard on his heels. Spinning, he dashed through the trees to the north until the north end of the valley unfolded before his probing gaze. To his consternation, six more Blackfeet were moving toward the stand from that direct
ion. And it was a safe bet there were more warriors coming from the west. Their strategy was obvious; they had the stand hemmed in on all sides, blocking any escape, and they could wage the battle on their own terms.
He raced toward the fire. Shakespeare and Allen were near the horses, talking. One of the pack animals had been fitted with a crude travois consisting of two long poles tied crosswise above the animal’s neck and a blanket lashed to the poles dragging on the ground behind it. Lying on that blanket was John Burke, unconscious. George was at the creek, drinking.
All three glanced up as Nate appeared. “We’re in for it now,” he declared. “The Blackfeet have us surrounded.”
Henry Allen cursed. “I knew we were taking too long!” He stared at McNair. “Why didn’t you hurry like I wanted?”
“When a man has a job to do, he should do it right,” Shakespeare said. “If we rushed building the travois it would fall apart before we went a mile.”
George rose, water dripping from his chin. “What do we do?” he asked nervously. “You’re the experts. I don’t know a thing about Indian fighting.”
“We can try to break through their lines, but it won’t be easy hauling a travois,” Nate said. He addressed his mentor, doing his best to keep any hint of reproach out of his voice. “I trust you fed the broth to the reverend?” McNair nodded and touched the travois. “He’ll pull through, given time.”
“Provided we get out of this with our lives,” Allen amended, holding his Kentucky in both hands as he peered through the trees. “How many Blackfeet are there anyhow?”
Nate performed a few mental calculations, “Seventeen that I saw, but there are probably more to the west.”
“Sweet Jesus!” George Burke exclaimed.
“When this ole boy offered to help you, he didn’t count on being killed by a pack of mangy Blackfeet,” Allen said.
“We have to stay calm,” Shakespeare said. “If we keep our wits about us, we can save our hides.” He motioned at the pines on the west side of the creek. “This stand is too big for us to be able to defend the whole thing, so we’ll have to pull back into these trees on the east side and hunker down for a battle.”
Wilderness: Mountain Devil/Blackfoot Massacre (A Wilderness Western Book 5) Page 27
