All of Nate’s self-control barely sufficed to prevent him from shooting prematurely. At a distance of 20 yards the urge caused his fingers to twitch. At 15 yards, when he could clearly see the warrior’s blazing eyes and flaring nostrils, he almost lifted the pistol from concealment. At ten yards he tensed, and at eight he swept his right arm up, extended the pistol, and fired.
The ball caught the Blackfoot at the base of his throat and propelled him over the rear of his animal to fall onto the hard earth with a thud. The war club went flying.
Nate looked down at his foe and saw the warrior thrashing violently, and then he had to stare straight ahead at the pair of Blackfeet converging on him. The one on the left reined up, but the warrior on the right came on strong.
This second warrior was armed with a fusee. Such rifles were smooth-bored flintlocks the Indians received in trade with the Hudson’s Bay Company. The fusee the Blackfoot held had been shortened, as were many of the trade guns, to make the weapon easier to use while on horseback.
Nate remembered Shakespeare telling him that fusees were cheap, inferior weapons and no match for the rifles of the trappers and mountaineers. In fact, many Indians held the fusees in disdain and preferred to employ the traditional bow. At close range, though, a fuseee could be every bit as deadly as a Hawken even if it did lack the Hawken’s accuracy and superb craftsmanship.
Gunshots were still sounding from the village.
Somewhere a woman screamed.
Alarmed, Nate looked at the young maiden with the flowing hair, relieved to see she wasn’t being attacked. The Shoshone woman was simply standing there, watching him, perhaps astounded he had interjected himself into the battle or hoping he would emerge victorious. Her left hand was pressed to her neck. He spotted the warrior he had unhorsed standing a few dozen yards to the north, observing the progress of the fight.
The fight!
Startled by his lapse, Nate glanced at the charging Blackfoot who was now only 30 yards away. He quickly slid the empty pistol under his belt and drew the second one.
Both were smoothbore single-shot .55 caliber flintlocks, a matched set selected for him by his Uncle Zeke in St. Louis. They were powerful, but he had to get close to use them.
Apparently the Blackfoot had no intention of letting him come within range, because the warrior suddenly raised the fusee to his shoulder.
Chapter Six
Nate knew the Blackfoot would fire in the next few seconds. His pistol was no match for even the unreliable fusee at such a distance. He had to do something, and do it fast, or be shot.
But what?
What could he possibly do?
He saw the warrior smile and expected to hear the fusee crack, and at that instant a flash of inspiration galvanized him into prompt action. He recalled the time he and Zeke had fought a party of marauding Kiowas, remembering the technique the Kiowa warriors had used to minimize the targets they’d presented. At the time he’d been taking a bead on one of them, and he’d been amazed to see the warrior slide onto the side of the galloping horse, using just a heel and a hooked arm to stay on board.
Could he do the same thing?
There was no time to debate the issue. He swung to the right, flattening against the mare, his left arm looped over the saddle, grasping the Hawken in his left hand. For added support he braced his left leg on the animal’s broad back. The swaying motion threatened to dislodge him, but he held on for dear life.
He’d done it!
The Blackfoot couldn’t see him, couldn’t get a clear shot.
Nate gripped the pistol tightly, elated. Then a thought occurred to him and his exhilaration evaporated.
Yes, the Blackfoot couldn’t see him.
But he couldn’t see the warrior either.
Just great!
How was he supposed to defend himself? What if the Blackfoot changed direction? What if—and the idea brought goose bumps to his flesh—what if the warrior shot the mare instead? He eased forward as far as he could and peered under the mare’s neck.
The Blackfoot was only 15 yards off. He’d slowed and straightened, striving to see over the side of the mare, the fusee flush with his shoulder.
Nate observed the warrior sight down the gun, and he realized the Blackfoot was going to shoot him in the arm or the leg to bring him down. He swiftly extended his arm, angled the pistol under the mare’s neck, and fired.
A strident howl attended the blast as the ball hit the warrior in the left cheek and slammed the man from his mount.
Pulling himself up, Nate sat erect and glanced over his left shoulder. The Indian lay motionless on the ground. Two down and three to go, and that didn’t include the Blackfeet attacking the village. To complicate matters, all three of his firearms were now empty.
Another warrior whooped and came on at a full charge.
Nate tucked the second pistol under his belt and slipped his butcher knife from its sheath. The knife was all he had left.
The third Blackfoot held a lance.
Nate recollected the tales Shakespeare and Zeke had told him about the uncanny accuracy Indians could achieve with their slim spearlike weapons. They were trained in its use from boyhood, and a full-grown warrior could cast a lance 20 to 25 yards and consistently hit a target the size of a man’s head, even when riding at full speed. He didn’t stand a prayer armed with just a knife.
The warrior waved his lance and voiced a defiant challenge.
Nate urged the mare to go faster. He couldn’t hope to outrun the Blackfoot. And the slower he went, the better target he would make. So his best bet seemed to be to gallop at the warrior and try to dodge the lance. Perhaps he could deflect the tip with his rifle. With that in mind he replaced the knife in its sheath and elevated the Hawken.
Wait a minute.
He knew the Hawken wasn’t loaded, but the Blackfoot didn’t. What would happen if he sighted on the warrior, if he pretended he was going to fire? There was only one way to find out. He pressed the stock to his shoulder and aimed at his enemy.
Executing an abupt turn, the Blackfoot lowered his lance and raced away to the south.
The ploy had worked!
Nate beamed and let the Hawken drop, overjoyed, congratulating himself on his cleverness. He saw the other Blackfeet hasten southward, including the warrior whose horse he’d accidentally killed, and his forehead creased in perplexity.
Why were they all running away?
He slowed, puzzled, and gazed at the maiden. She was beaming happily and staring past him, to the northwest. Was Shakespeare coming to his rescue? He looked over his left shoulder and tensed.
More Indians were rushing toward the village, 12 warriors bearing from the northwest, and in the lead rode a strapping warrior who wore only a breechcloth and carried a bow with a shaft at the ready. He led the band directly at the few Blackfeet still lingering in the vicinity of the lodges.
Nate reined up and swung the mare to view the conflict. He realized the dozen newcomers must be Shoshone warriors, returned to defend their families.
The majority of the Blackfeet had spied the Shoshones and fled, but three of the former were riding among the lodges, firing and hollering, oblivious to the fact the tide of battle had turned. They discovered their error seconds later.
Like a storm-tossed wave pounding the rocky shore of the Atlantic Ocean, the Shoshones fanned out and swept into their village. The tall leader drew his bowstring all the way back, sighting on a Blackfoot who was about to bash his war club against a boy’s head, and let the arrow fly.
The shaft caught the Blackfoot between his shoulder blades, and the triangular tip and six inches of shaft burst out the center of his chest. He arched his back when he was struck, his mouth forming an oval, his eyes wide, then silently toppled to the ground.
In moments the other Shoshones dispatched the remaining Blackfeet. In one instance the Blackfoot was surrounded by seven Shoshones and brutally clubbed to death.
Absorbed in watching th
e battle, Nate nearly jumped out of the saddle when a hand fell on his right leg. He glanced down to find the young woman with the long hair.
She smiled up at him, her brown eyes studying him intently. Her dark tresses framed a face of uncommon beauty and accented her prominent cheekbones. A beaded buckskin dress covered her trim figure and moccasins adorned her feet.
“Hello,” Nate said.
The woman spoke a sentence in the Shoshone tongue and regarded him inquisitively, apparently anticipating a reply.
Frustrated by his failure to understand, and wanting very much to communicate with her, Nate recalled the many lessons Zeke and Shakespeare had given him in Indian sign language, the universal means of exchanging information used by practically every tribe in the West. He extended the thumb and index finger on his right hand, curled the other fingers, then held the hand near his left breast. Next he moved his hand out and slightly up, turning his wrist as he did so, his palm becoming vertical. He was careful to have his thumb pointing to the front and the index finger pointing to the left. Keenly aware of her eyes on his hand, and hoping he was doing the sign language properly, he finished the response by opening his hand and sweeping it to the right and back again. There. If his memory had served him in good stead, he’d just told her that he didn’t understand her language.
But what if he’d made a mistake?
What if he’d just stated that she looked like a fat buffalo cow?
The woman nodded, then pointed at the nearest Blackfoot he had shot. She extended both of her slender hands and held them flat, palms down. Sweeping them upward, she angled them down toward Nate.
She was saying thank you! Incredibly relieved, Nate grinned and made the proper signs to ask her name.
“Winona,” she revealed.
“Nate,” he said, tapping his chest. “Nate King.”
“Nate King,” Winona repeated slowly, speaking each word crisply, duplicating his pronunciation with remarkable facility. “Nate King. Nate King.”
Her melodic voice thrilled Nate to his core. He tried to think of something else he could say, feeling oddly self-conscious about his inexperience and ignorance.
Winona’s hands began making signs at a rapid clip.
Struggling to keep up, Nate leaned down to catch every movement. Some of the signs she used were foreign to him. He gathered that she was telling him his medicine must be very great to have slain so many Blackfeet, but he couldn’t be certain. She stopped and looked at him as if awaiting a reply, and at that awkward moment he heard the drumming of hooves and straightened to face the village.
Shakespeare, the tall Shoshone, and five other warriors were riding toward them.
Nate became aware of the tall Shoshone’s gaze focused on himself, and he wondered why he should be the object of such an intense scrutiny. He realized he’d neglected to reload and chided himself for being a dunderhead.
“Well, well, well,” Shakespeare said as he drew to a stop. He gazed at the dead Blackfeet. “You’ve been a mite busy, I see.”
“And what about you?”
“I took care of three of the rascals, and good riddance,” Shakespeare said. “Strike! Down with them! Cut the villains’ throats! Ah! Whoreson caterpillars! Bacon-fed knaves! They hate us, youth. Down with them! Fleece them!” He gestered wildly as he spoke.
“What?” Nate asked, wondering if the frontiersman was putting on an act.
“William S.”
“Oh.”
The strapping Shoshone abruptly addressed Winona, and she answered with a torrent of words, gesturing repeatedly at the slain Blackfeet and at Nate. After a minute the tall warrior looked solemnly at Shakepeare and spoke a few words.
“What did they say?” Nate queried.
Shakespeare chuckled. “You never cease to amaze me.”
“I do?”
“Yep.” The frontiersman indicated the tall Shoshone. “This here is Black Kettle, a prominent man in the Shoshone nation. Winona there is his daughter. She just gave him a blow-by-blow description of your fight. Says you saved her life and the lives of the women and children with her.” He snickered. “She also says you are the bravest fighter who ever lived and the second greatest man in existence, her father being the greatest, of course.”
Nate didn’t know what to say.
“Yes, sir,” Shakespeare commented. “You’ve made quite a mark.”
“I was just trying to stay alive.”
Black Kettle glanced at the mountain man and voiced an extended discourse.
“He says he is in your debt,” Shakespeare translated after the Shoshone finished. “He says he owes you for the life of his precious daughter and his beloved people.”
“I did what I had to,” Nate said. “He doesn’t owe me a thing.”
“Don’t expect me to tell him that.”
“Why not?”
“Remember what I told you about being mighty careful not to insult an Indian? If he wants to be in your debt, let him. Having an Indian be in your debt is a lot better than having an Indian try to scalp you,” Shakespeare observed.
“What do I do? What do I tell him?”
“I’ll handle the conversation,” Shakespeare declared. “He wants to know your name. Now let me see. ” His forehead furrowed and he scratched his head. “What was that name the Cheyennes gave you?”
“You can quote Shakespeare but you can’t remember a simple thing like that?”
“Oh. Now I remember. Grizzly Killer.” Shakespeare turned to Black Kettle and went on at length in the Shoshone tongue.
Again Nate was the object of the tall warrior’s undivided attention. To cover his embarrassment, Nate gazed at the village and sw a party of six Shoshones ride off in pursuit of the fleeing Blackfeet. The women and children were returning to their lodges. He glanced down at Winona and gave her his friendliest smile.
Black Kettle replied to Shakespeare, who then interpreted.
“If it will make you feel any better, he says he’s in debt to both of us. His family is on their way to the rendezvous and he’s invited us to tag along. How does the notion strike you?” “Just fine.”
“I figured it might.”
“I’ll have the opportunity to learn some of their language.”
“And I admire a man who’s never too old to learn,” Shakespeare said with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Would you accept his invitation and thank him for his kindness?”
“Now why didn’t I think of that?” Shakespeare spoke to Black Kettle for half a minute, listened to the Shoshone’s response, and stared at his companion. “He’s delighted. He plans to have us for supper.”
“Tell him not to bother going to so much trouble.”
“There you go again.”
“What do you mean?” Nate queried, and insight dawned. “Oh, Sorry. It’s just force of habit.”
“I know, but it’s a habit you’d better break and fast. When you live with the Indians, you live by Indian rules.”
“There’s so much to know.”
“Let me give you some sound advice,” Shakespeare offered. “When in doubt, keep your mouth shut and your ears open. You’ll live longer that way.”
“I’ll do my best,” Nate vowed.
“Oh. And one more thing.”
“What?”
“How do you feel about getting married?”
Chapter Seven
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nate demanded.
Shakespeare grinned. “The young filly you saved has her sights set on you.”
Nate looked down at Winona, who smiled sweetly at him, then at the frontiersman. “You’re crazy.”
“You are already Love’s firm votary, and cannot soon revolt and change your mind.”
“What?”
Shakespeare chuckled and quoted more of his favorite author. “But love, first learned in a lady’s eyes, lives not alone immured in the brain. But, with the motion of all elements, courses as swift as thought in every power,
and gives to every power a double power, above their functions andd offices.”
“Sometimes I don’t understand a word you say,” Nate said testily. “Why can’t you use English like everyone else?”
“Use English?” Shakespeare repeated, and erupted into a fit of laughter, rocking back and forth in the saddle, his eyes closed. “Use English!” he roared, and laughed harder.
The Shoshones stared at the mountain man as if he were a madman.
Annoyed, Nate occupied his time by reloading the Hawken. He wedged the rifle under his left leg, poured the amount of black powder he would need from the powder horn into the palm of his left hand, then fed the powder down the muzzle. Next he took a ball from his bullet pouch, wrapped the ball in a patch and used his thumb to start both down the barrel, and concluded by shoving the ball the rest of the way down with the ramrod. When he finished and glanced up he was surprised to find all of the Shoshones watching him. He smiled at them and gazed at Shakespeare, who was still smiling. “Why are they all looking at me?”
“They don’t own many guns. They’re just curious.”
Black Kettle pointed at the Blackfeet Nate had slain and addressed the frontiersman.
“This should be interesting,” Shakespeare said when the warrior was done.
“Does he want us to bury them?” Nate guessed.
“No, nothing like that,” Shakespeare replied. “He’ll have the bodies taken into the village, but first he figured you’d want to scalp the ones you killed.”
Nate inadvertently tensed. “Scalp them?”
“Yep. What’s wrong? You scalped that Kiowa warrior who killed your Uncle Zeke.”
“I told you I didn’t know if I could ever take another,” Nate reminded him.
“Don’t be squeamish now. If you don’t take the hair off those Blackfeet, the Shoshones will think you’re less than a man.”
Lure of the Wild (Wilderness, No 2) Page 5
