“Yes,” Nate answered.
“And the Negroes are brought over whether they want to come or not?”
“That’s what everyone says.”
Shakespeare nodded. “I thought so. To you the practice might appear the same, but there’s a world of difference between buying an Indian woman and buying a Negro slave.”
“In what respect?”
“For one thing, most of the time the Indian women want to be bought.”
“They do?” Nate queried skeptically.
“The height of any Indian woman’s ambition is to get herself married off, and to the Indians buying a woman is the same as marrying her off. You get all upset at the notion of white men purchasing an Indian girl. I’ll bet you don’t even know that Indian men do the same thing.”
“I didn’t know.”
“There. See? Ignorance is its own worst enemy. Yes, Indian men buy their wives. The usual way is for the warrior to offer a certain number of good horses, and maybe other items besides. Let’s say, for instance, that a Sioux warrior has his sights set on a pretty girl. He sends the horses to her lodge and has a friend or a relative announce his intention to marry her. If she accepts the horses, then they hold a big feast in a day or so and the marriage is sealed,” Shakespeare detailed.
“And all the Indian men pay for the brides?” Nate inquired.
“Pretty near. So is it any wonder the white men do the same? If a white man tried to marry an Indian woman without purchasing her, there’d be hell to pay. The woman’s father would be insulted, and the entire tribe might decide to teach him some manners. If you ever fall for an Indian woman, make sure you court her properly.”
Nate laughed at the idea. “That will never happen.”
Now it was Shakespeare’s turn to say nothing.
“Tell me more,” Nate urged after a minute.
“Well, I can give you some pointers on Indian women in general. I’ve seen some real beauties in my time. Some trappers believe the Flathead women are the prettiest in general. Others think the Nez Perce women are the most beautiful. And I know quite a few who will swear by the Mandan women.”
“What about Cheyenne women?”
“Oh, they’re right pretty in their own way. But everyone regards them most for their chastity. Unmarried Cheyenne women wear a leather chastity belt.”
Nate’s mouth dropped, and he took several seconds to recover from the surprise. “They do?”
“Yep. The Cheyenne are firm believers in no sex before marriage. If a girl makes a mistake and lets herself be fondled beforehand, she earns a reputation for being immoral. And no Cheyenne girl wants that,” Shakespeare related.
“But a chastity belt? They went out with the Middle Ages.”
“I’d wager there are quite a number of white women back in the States who would have liked to be wearing a chastity belt at one time or another.”
Nate shook his head in amazement. Would the wonders never cease? Who would have thought that Indian women would wear chastity belts? Yet, at the same time, they allowed themselves to be bought like an item of merchandise in a trading post. What a land of incredible contradictions!
“I was married to a Flathead woman about twenty years ago,” Shakespeare mentioned. “And I always thought she was the loveliest creature ever put on this planet.”
“What happened to her? Did you divorce her?”
“The damn Blackfeet killed her.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” Nate said.
Shakespeare shrugged. “It was a long time ago. Of course, I’ve never forgiven the Blackfeet, and exterminate the savages every chance I get.” He paused. “And about divorce. The Indians have a different attitude about it than the whites do.”
“Do they allow divorce?”
“Sure do. In fact, it’s a lot easier for an Indian to divorce than it is for those upright folks back in the States. If an Indian man wants a divorce, he goes through a ceremony and publicly announces he doesn’t want her any more. All the woman has to do to be divorced is move back into her parents’ lodge.”
“An Indian woman can leave her husband?”
“If she wants. Few do.” Shakespeare scratched his beard. “Even fewer fool around with other men.”
“They must have high morals,” Nate remarked.
“That, and the fact that any wife caught in the arms of another warrior has her nose cut off.”
“Isn’t that a bit extreme?”
“Not to the Indian way of thinking. You see, Indians put a lot of stock in public opinion. Most of them are scared to death at the notion of acquiring a bad reputation. Every warrior and maiden knows that if they get too far out of line, if they break the rules of the tribe, they could well have to walk about in shame for the rest of their lives.”
“Every tribe is the same way?”
“The rules vary from tribe to tribe, and some are more severe than others. The Utes, for instance, don’t cut off the nose of a woman found guilty of adultery.”
“Now they sound civilized.”
“Sometimes they whip her.”
Nate began to suspect that Shakespeare was deliberately disclosing customs certain to shock him. “You make Indians out to be rather cruel,” he commented to test his theory.
“Do I? That’s certainly not my intention. Some of their practices are harsh by our standards, but Indians are not cruel by nature. In fact, I admire them highly. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have spent the better part of my life living among them.” He gazed at the ridge to their right. “For instance, Indians rarely spank their children.”
Memories of all the beatings he had received as a youngster flashed through Nate’s mind. “How do they discipline their children then?”
“By always instructing them in the right way to do things. Where a white parent might slap a child’s face for not doing chores or whatever, an Indian parent will sit the child down and explain about the importance of always doing one’s work and being honest and diligent. They’re always loooking at the positive side of things.”
“There must be some instances where they punish their children,” Nate said.
“When the kids cry they’re punished.”
“Why? Aren’t they allowed to cry?” Nate queried, half in jest.
“No.”
“What harm can crying do?”
“Crying can get the whole tribe killed. Out here sounds can travel a long ways. An enemy war party could hear a child crying from far off and know where to find the camp. So Indian mothers are real strict about crying. They teach their babies not to cry at an early age.”
Nate envisioned such a task as being impossible. “How can they stop a baby from crying? Crying is as natural as eating and sleeping.”
“It’s easy. Whenever a baby starts bawling, and if there’s no apparent reason for it, the mother takes the baby away from the camp and hangs the cradleboard in a bush or on a tree. She leaves the baby there until the crying stops.”
Nate thought of the grizzly he’d encountered. “That’s heartless. What happens if a wild animal stumbles on the baby?”
“Rarely happens. Besides, most babies stop crying after two or three times out in the brush.”
“I’d never do that to my child,” Nate asserted. Shakespeare abruptly reined up. “We sure are having a pitiful run of luck this trip.”
“What do you mean?”
The frontiersman pointed at the ridge to the east. “Blackfeet.”
Chapter Five
Nate twisted in his saddle and scanned the ridge, immediately spotting a large group of Indians who were riding over the crest, heading eastward. “They’re going in the opposite direction,” he declared in relief. “I don’t think they saw us.”
“Neither do I,” Shakespeare agreed. “Keep your fingers crossed that none of those savages look back.”
Nate watched the Blackfeet with bated breath, hoping there wouldn’t be a repeat of their experience with the Utes. He was elated when the last warrior disa
ppeared on the far side. “They’re gone, and good riddance!”
“My sentiments exactly,” Shakespeare said. “Although I could use a few more Blackfeet scalps to add to my collection.” He chuckled and rode onward.
Pleased at their narrow escape from a potentially deadly encounter, Nate grinned as he followed his companion. He found himself speculating on why so many white men enjoyed the mountaineering life when there were so many varied and lethal dangers associated with such a hazardous existence. Was unbridled freedom that valuable? He’d enjoyed just a fleeting taste of wilderness life, and he had to admit he found the life appealing, infinitely more so than the drab routine of a bookkeeper in New York City. He stared at a golden eagle off to the west and marveled that he had once sought to have a career as a successful accountant.
They traveled for five hundred yards, and were angling into dense timber when a succession of gunshots arose to the east, from the other side of the ridge.
Shakespeare reined up and cocked his head. “Damn. Those Blackfeet must be after someone.”
“Buffalo or elk maybe,” Nate suggested. A second later he detected the faint sound of war whoops and realized he was wrong.
“Those Blackfeet aren’t after game,” Shakespeare said, turning his horse.
“What are you planning to do?”
“Go have a look-see.”
Nate began to protest, but Shakespeare’s next words caused him to hold his tongue.
“Those vermin could be attacking trappers en route to the rendezvous. Let’s go.”
“I’ll be right behind you,” Nate vowed, and let the older man lead the way. If white men were being attacked, then he had a duty to try and help them. He kept the mare close to the white horse as they galloped toward the ridge, the pack animal trailing behind them, amazed at his friend’s horsemanship.
Shakespeare could ride as proficiently as an Indian, and his nimble mount took every obstacle in stride. He sped up the west slope of the ridge, using a narrow game trail, the same trail the Blackfeet had taken. Ten yards from the top he slowed his horse to a walk and cautiously approached the crest.
Nate nervously surveyed the rim, the Hawken in his right hand. What if the Blackfeet had posted a lookout?
The pressure of his pistols against his midriff was mildly reassuring. If worse came to worst, the Blackfeet would know they’d been in a fight. He saw Shakespeare stop and slip to the ground, and he did likewise.
The mountain man, keeping low, stepped to the rim.
Nate came up on Shakespeare’s right and gazed at the scene below.
A beautiful valley about six miles long and three miles wide ran from the southeast to the northwest. Although trees were thick on the slopes of the surrounding mountains, in the valley there were few. The ground was covered with lush grass and herbage. Approximately a quarter of a mile from the west ridge was an Indian encampment consisting of 15 lodges, and the inhabitants of the village were now industriously engaged in defending themselves from the onslaught of 19 screeching Blackfeet.
Even as Nate watched, one of the defenders loosed an arrow and struck a Blackfoot warrior in the chest, toppling the attacker to the turf. But in the next few seconds he realized the defenders were hopelessly outnumbered. There only appeared to be three or four men in the whole village; the rest were women and children who were bravely assisting the few defending warriors as best they could.
“Damn!” Shakespeare exclaimed angrily. “I know them. You can stay here if you want.” He wheeled and sprinted to his horse.
“I’m not staying put,” Nate said, running to the mare. “Where you go, I go.”
Shakespeare chuckled as he swung into the saddle. “If you make that your life’s ambition, you might not live to see your hair turn gray.”
“Are those Indians in the village friends of yours?” Nate asked as he climbed on his animal.
“Yep. They’re Shoshones.” Shakespeare urged his mount upward. “Stay close and make every shot count.”
Nate took a firm hold on his rifle and rode forward, feeling an equal mixture of excitement and trepidation. He resolved to give a good account of himself and not let Shakespeare down.
“Yell your lungs out once we hit the bottom,” the frontiesman directed as he went over the crest.
“Why?”
“The more noise we create, the more we’ll confuse those Blackfeet. They may get the notion that there’s more of us than there are.”
“But they’ll see there’s just the two of us.”
“What they see doesn’t matter. It’s what we can make them think that counts. And they’re bound to figure two white men wouldn’t be crazy enough to attack them alone. They may jump to the conclusion there’s more of us.”
“Sounds awful risky,” Nate noted, shifting his weight to compensate for the sharp slant of the slope.
“Not really. We’ll be taking them by surprise. Out here, when a person is taken unawares, the best policy is to make tracks and count the enemy later. You live longer that way.”
Nate glanced at the village. Several Blackfeet were already down, and one of the Shoshone warriors was on the ground, impaled by a lance. Two of the Shoshone. women were also dead. The Blackfeet galloped around and through the encampment, firing their rifles and bows, but their elusive adversaries were difficult to hit. The Shoshones darted from lodge to lodge, dodging and weaving, always on the move.
Shakespeare broke his white horse into a gallop 15 yards from the base of the ridge and hit the valley floor in full stride. He uttered a piercing shriek that would have done justice to any Indian on the continent, and waved his rifle in the air.
Feeling as if his heart was in his throat, Nate followed suit, his left hand holding the lead to the pack animal. He glued his eyes to the battle, expecting the Blackfeet to spot them at any moment.
Embroiled in their intense conflict, none of the Indians were paying the slightest attention to the plain around the village.
Nate smiled grimly. This was perfect. The Blackfeet were too occupied to notice. If only the fight would continue for another minute.
A cluster of Shoshone women and children suddenly broke from the encampment, racing to the south, making toward the gully 40 yards distant. In the lead, urging on the others, was a young woman with flowing black hair down to her hips.
Five of the Blackfeet turned from the village, pursuing the women and children.
Nate released the pack horse and swerved to the right, forgetting all about staying close to Shakespeare in his concern for the Shoshones. He angled to intercept the Blackfeet, knowing full well he wouldn’t arrive in time.
The young woman abruptly halted, motioned for the others to continue without her, and stooped to grab a rock. She faced the onrushing Blackfeet, her posture radiating defiance, and raised the rock overhead.
Admiration welled within Nate. What could she hope to accomplish wielding such a puny weapon other than to temporarily delay the warriors long enough for the rest of the women and the children to reach the gully? Bravery and pride were reflected in her carriage. His heart went out to her and he whipped the Hawken to his right shoulder.
The foremost Blackfoot, a husky warrior armed with a bow, approached the woman at an almost leisurely pace, smirking as he trained an arrow on her.
Would the warrior really fire? Nate wondered. Did Indian men slay the maidens in other tribes or merely take them captive? He couldn’t afford to risk the woman’s life on the chance the warrior might be bluffing, so he attempted to get a bead on the Blackfoot. The rocking motion of the mare made the task extremely difficult and he held off firing, covering another 30 yards in the process.
Laughing, the warrior lowered the bow.
The young woman shouted a word and hurled the rock.
Nate saw the Blackfoot rein sharply to the right, and the projectile missed. Clearly furious, the Shoshone woman scanned the grass near her feet for another stone.
Moving methodically, the warrior ma
de a show of sighting another arrow on her breast.
It’s now or never! Nate told himself. He fixed the front of the barrel on the Blackfoot, held his breath, and squeezed the trigger. Smoke and lead belched from the end of the Hawken.
One hundred and twenty yards distant, the warrior’s mount unexpectedly buckled and pitched the Blackfoot onto the grass.
What a blockhead! Nate lowered the rifle and frowned. He’d missed the Indian and hit the horse! Now he’d wasted the shot, and he wasn’t fast enough nor skilled enough to reload while riding at a full gallop before he reached the Blackfeet.
The warrior on the ground had risen to his knees and was recovering his bow. The other four had turned their animals at the retort of the Hawken and were gawking in frank astonishment.
Nate voiced a war whoop of his own, clutched the rifle and the reins in his left hand, and drew one of his pistols. He observed the Blackfeet glance to the north, where Shakespeare was bearing down on the village, and then look at him. The next few moments were crucial. Would the Blackfeet cut out or stay and fight?
One of the warriors hefted a war club and charged.
So much for Shakespeare’s bright idea! Nate swung the mare to meet the Blackfoot head-on and made straight for him. Pistols were designed for short-range use, and unless he wanted to hazard wasting another ball, he had to get as close as practical to his opponent.
Whooping and swinging the club, the Blackfoot rapidly advanced.
The pounding of the mare’s hooves drummed in Nate’s ears as he closed. He kept the pistol next to his waist, screened by the animal’s neck, his thumb on the hammer, his finger on the trigger. There was no sense in advertising how he intended to dispatch his adversary.
Two other warriors started toward him.
Nate focused on the first warrior to the exclusion of all else, acutely conscious of the shrinking yardage between them, anxious to fire but restraining the impulse until the proper moment. In the back of his mind he wondered if Shakespeare was faring all right. He couldn’t venture a glance at the village to find out.
The Blackfoot vented his war cry once more and rose slightly on his mount, holding the club steady, ready to launch a downward stroke. Like most Indian weapons, the club had been embellished to suit the personal tastes of its owner. A sharp metal spoke projected from the blunt, rounded head, and the wooden handle was covered with elaborately decorated buckskin stitched together with sinew.
Lure of the Wild (Wilderness, No 2) Page 4
