Lure of the Wild (Wilderness, No 2)

by David Thompson

  He patiently instructed her in how to check the vent leading from the pan to the barrel to ensure it wasn’t blocked and would cause a misfire. With Winona brushing lightly against his arm, and distracting him terribly, he demonstrated the proper technique for measuring the charge of black powder. His nostrils detected a sweet scent emanating from her tresses as he showed her the way to hold the butt of the pistol against her hip with the muzzle slanted away from the body while doing the actual loading.

  Winona appeared genuinely fascinated by the procedure. She was particularly interested in the means of inserting the patch and ball. Once, when his nervous thumb slipped as he tried to push the ball into the bore, she glanced at him knowingly and said a few soothing words in the Shoshone tongue.

  Nate felt as if every square inch of his body was tingling by the time he finished his lesson. He tucked both pistols under his belt, hefted the Hawken, and stood as straight and true as his physique could accommodate.

  Winona used sign to thank him, and also inquired if he would be staying the night.

  Nate responded in the affirmative.

  Smiling happily, Winona let him know she would be eager to talk with him later, then excused herself to go help her mother prepare the meal. She darted into her lodge, her long hair swirling, her lithe form moving with surpassing grace.

  A lump had formed in Nate’s throat. He swallowed hard and gazed out over the village, only to see Shakespeare eyeing him humorously. To his utter chagrin, Nate felt certain he inadvertently blushed. To cover his discomfiture, he pretended to be inordinately interested in a flock of startlings winging to the east. He heard footsteps and looked down.

  “It’s all settled,” Shakespeare announced. “We’ll stay the night with Black Kettle, and at first light we’re getting the hell out of here before the main body of Blackfeet show up.”

  Hoping to avoid discussing Winona at all costs, Nate kept the conversation going. “Do the dogs sleep outside at night?”

  Shakespeare was surprised by the question. “Yes. Why?”

  Nate shrugged. “I just wondered if they’d bother us, is all.”

  The frontiersman’s mouth twitched upward. “No, the dogs won’t bother us because we’re sleeping in Black Kettle’s lodge.”

  “What?”

  “When you’re friends with an Indian, Nate, their home is your home. They’ll give you the clothes off their back and the food off their table if you need it. When it comes to outright friendliness, the Indians have us whites beat all hollow.”

  “Oh.”

  Shakespeare nodded at three camp dogs standing ten feet away. “Those mongrels stay out to keep watch. They’ll bark like mad if anyone comes around.” He laughed. “They’d better bark. If a dog doesn’t do its duty, it’s usually eaten.”

  The statement made Nate’s head snap up. “Will they serve dog at this feast we’re attending?”

  “They might,” Shakespeare said, and had to turn away to conceal his merriment at the pained expression on his young associate.

  “I can hardly wait,” Nate said dryly.

  The mountain man faced around. “I wouldn’t get too excited about the prospect. It’s doubtful Black Kettle will serve us a prime dish like dog. That’s for special occasions. Since I’m just like one of the family, we’ll probably end up with deer or elk.” He allowed himself to reflect the proper dregree of sorrow.

  Nate brightened considerably. “I suppose I could make do with deer or elk meat. Besides, we wouldn’t want to put them to any special bother on our account.”

  “Perish the thought.”

  “What should we do about our horses?” Nate inquired.

  “We’ll let them out to graze until dusk, then we’ll tie them near the lodge for the night. You know the old saying. It’s better to count ribs than tracks.”

  Nate knew the saying. It referred to the fact horses were more likely to wander off or be stolen if they weren’t secured for the night, and although the animals might put on a little weight by roaming and grazing, a wise horseman would rather count his mount’s ribs in the morning than the tracks made during its nocturnal wanderings. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “I can’t promise I’ll answer it, but go right ahead.”

  “Do you have any close relatives back in the States?”

  “Interesting question,” Shakespeare commented, and glanced at Black Kettle’s lodge. “Yep, as a matter of fact, I do. Two brothers and a sister. All three are doing quite fine. At least, they were the last I heard from them.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Seven years.”

  “Isn’t that a long time to go without hearing from your own relatives?” Nate queried.

  “Not really. You may not have noticed, but I’m not a spring chicken any more. My kin and I pretty much parted ways about thirty years ago. If I make it back to Pennsylvania every ten years or so, I figure I’m doing okay.”

  “Don’t you miss them?”

  “Every now and then. But I wouldn’t have left if there hadn’t been some serious problems we couldn’t work out, and whenever I get to missing them I just remember how big a pain they could be,” Shakespeare said.

  “I don’t know if I could go that long without seeing my family,” Nate mentioned.

  “That’s something you have to settle to your own satisfaction. We’re not all cut from the same cloth.”

  Nate mulled those words as they engaged in casual conversation for the next 25 minutes. All the while as they conversed about the various Indian tribes and the rendezvous, he was thinking about his family and Adeline. How long could he abide being separated from them? When he’d first ventured west to St. Louis, he’d regarded the trip as a terrific adventure, a wonderful opportunity the likes of which he would never see again. But now he had already stayed in the wilderness for a lengthier period than he had dreamt would ever be the case, and the odds were that he would stay for quite a while longer.

  Could he take the strain?

  He’d told his folks and Adeline he would be gone for a year, but such an extended interval now seemed excessively long. Three months, yes. Maybe six months. But an entire year?

  In due course Black Kettle emerged from the lodge and engaged Shakespeare in an animated discussion using sign language and the Shoshone tongue.

  Nate understood snatches of their talk. They were merely swapping tales about their exploits since last they had seen one another. Black Kettle, apparently, had been in three battles with the Blackfeet, and the warrior expressed the opinion the Blackfeet were out to get him and had placed him near the top of their long list of enemies on whom they wanted to take revenge for past indignities they had suffered.

  The mouth-watering aroma of cooking food wafted from the open lodge flap.

  Nate smiled when he recognized the scent of deer meat. His mouth watered in anticipation, and he spent the next half-hour impatiently waiting for the meal to begin.

  Finally an attractive woman who wore her hair in braids poked her head out of the doorway and said a few words.

  Shakespeare looked at Nate. “Here we go. Now remember what I told you about your manners. If you become confused, just do like I do.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes glued to you.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Black Kettle led them into the lodge and strode directly to his customary seat near the rear.

  A cursory glance sufficed to show Nate that Winona was not anywhere in sight, and he repressed his disappointment while wondering where she could be. He dutifully followed Shakespeare around to the right, and they both paused while Black Kettle graciously indicated their seats on the warrior’s left. Nate took his and studied the interior of the first lodge he had ever been inside.

  At the very center, underneath the ventillation flap, was the cooking fire. A stack of firewood had been placed to the right of the doorway. To the left of the door, where they could be grabbed quickly in an emergency, were Black Kettle’s weap
ons. The thick buffalo robes used for beds had been rolled up and positioned along the east wall. Personal effects were arranged along the west wall.

  All in all, Nate was very favorably impressed. The cleanliness and warmth gave the dwelling a respectable, homey atmosphere he found quite appealing. His heart began to beat faster moments later when Winona entered the lodge and began assisting her mother in dispensing the food.

  The meal turned out to be an education in itself.

  To Nate’s surprise, the first course was a large tin pan heaped high with boiled deer meat. He took a juicy chunk of venison, and the moment he did Winona placed a flat piece of bark in front of him to serve as his plate. He beamed at her, then leaned to his left and whispered to Shakespeare, “A tin pan?”

  “Black Kettle picked it up in trade at the rendezvous last year,” the mountain man explained. “Indians are real partial to our pots and pans.”

  Other courses were distributed. One consisted of a delicious flour pudding that had been prepared using dried fruit and the juice from various berries. After being mixed, the pudding had been boiled to the proper consistency and set to cool. Cakes and strong coffee were also passed out.

  Nate saw Shakespeare draw his butcher knife and did the same. Eating utensils were restricted to knives and fingers, a practice Nate didn’t mind in the least. He dug into his meal with gusto, surreptitiously watching Winona whenever he felt no one was looking.

  Black Kettle and Shakespeare engaged in a running conversation during the entire meal. When they spoke in sign language, which they resorted to frequently, their greasy fingers fairly flew.

  Nate tried to follow the gist of their discussion. He gathered they were talking about the general state of affairs in the region west of the Mississippi, but the particulars eluded him. He glanced at Black Kettle’s wife a few times, noting her happy, contented expression, and heard her humming softly to herself while she worked. What did she have to be so gay about? he wondered. For that matter, Winona also seemed to be in exceptionally fine spirits. Why? Perhaps, he reasoned, they were overjoyed because they had been spared the ordeal of slicing off part of a finger. At the thought he gazed at the mother’s hands and almost lost his appetite.

  Black Kettle’s wife had the tips of three fingers missing.

  Troubled, Nate chewed on a cake and took a swallow of hot coffee from a tin cup. He’d never understand the savage mentality. An elbow nudged him in the left side and he turned.

  “Our host would like to talk to you,” Shakespeare said. “I’ve told him that you’re still trying to get the hang of sign, so he’ll go slow. And I’ll translate where necessary.”

  Nate deposited the rest of the cake on his plate and wiped his hands on his pants. He smiled at the warrior, keenly eager to make a favorable impression, and sensed Winona’s eyes on him.

  Black Kettle nodded and moved his hands and arms slowly, making a series of signs at a snail’s pace.

  Flooded with relief, Nate found he could understand the questions the warrior posed, queries concerning where Nate’s parents lived, what Nate thought of the West, and whether or not Nate was married.

  Shakespeare almost choked on his coffee at the last one.

  Although he had to struggle to recall several of the signs he needed, Nate answered all of the questions adequately and honestly. He grinned, pleased at his performance.

  Black Kettle then asked one more.

  For a second Nate sat perfectly still, shocked, afraid he had interpreted correctly.

  “Answer the man,” Shakespeare prompted, a twinkle in his eyes. “Do you want to court his daughter or not?”

  Chapter Ten

  Nate was too flabbergasted to speak for a full 30 seconds. He glanced at Winona and saw her smiling at him expectantly, then looked at her father and inwardly recoiled at the warrior’s stern visage.

  “Cat got your tongue?” Shakespeare quipped, then became serious. “Remember what I told you about insulting an Indian.”

  Nate’s emotions were swirling in a whirlpool of indecision. He wanted to say yes, but his memories of Adeline prompted him to decline. On the other hand, he certainly didn’t want to offend Black Kettle or hurt Shakespeare’s feelings, and he adopted the latter justification as the motivation for his answer. “Tell Black Kettle I find his daughter extremely attractive.”

  Grinning impishly, Shakespeare complied.

  “Also explain to him that my knowledge of Indian ways is very limited. Let him know I’m unaware of the proper way to court an Indian maiden,” Nate said slowly, selecting his words carefully.

  Again the frontiersman translated.

  Nate wasn’t finished. “Tell him that for the white man courtship can be a long, drawn-out affair. A man and a woman should get to know one another before they become involved.”

  Shakespeare faced his companion. “You expect me to tell him that?”

  “Yes,” Nate declared. “And that I’m asking you to relay my words beause I want to be sure they are spoken perfectly. I respect him highly and would not want to accidentally insult him through my ignorance.”

  An appreciative smile creased Shakespeare’s weathered visage. “You’re a lot like your Uncle Zeke.”

  “I am?”

  “Yep. You pack more wisdom between your ears than most men have in their little finger,” Shakespeare said. He turned to the warrior and spoke at length.

  Nate waited anxiously for Black Kettle’s response. He studiously avoided gazing at Winona. What would his family think if they could see him now, discussing the courtship of an Indian woman with her father? His father and mother would probably throw a fit.

  The warrior held forth next, speaking in a somber tone.

  “He says he’s not offended in the least,” Shakespeare related. “In fact, he’s pleased that you’re so considerate of his feelings. He also believes a man and a woman should get to know each other. The Shoshones have a custom they adhere to in courtship, and he believes the custom will serve you well.”

  “What custom?”

  Shakespeare twisted and pointed at a rolled-up buffalo robe lying against the side of the lodge. “A courting couple throw a robe over themselves for privacy and take a stroll in the moonlight.”

  “He wants me to take a stroll with Winona?” Nate asked, slightly shocked at the father’s brazen attitude toward romance with his daughter.

  “Whether you go or not is up to you,” Shakespeare said. “All he’s saying is you’ve got his permission.”

  Nate made the sign for “thank you” and indicated he would be delighted to walk with Winona.

  Smiling contentedly, Black Kettle grunted and said several words to the frontiersman.

  “What did he say?” Nate’s curiosity impelled him to inquire.

  Shakespeare smiled. “Why not now?”

  “Now?”

  “There’s no time like the present.”

  “Just like that?”

  Lines furrowed the mountain man’s forehead. “What is the problem? You want to go walking with Winona. Go. Shoo!”

  Nate started to rise, then hesitated.

  “Now what’s the matter?”

  “I just had a thought.”

  “Uh-oh. ”

  “We’ll both be under the same buffalo robe, right?”

  “That’s the general idea. It’s a bit difficult to get to know one another if you’re under separate robes,” Shakespeare quipped.

  Nate saw Winona walk to the wall and pick up the rolled - robe. He leaned toward his white-haired mentor. “What happens if I accidentally touch her?”

  For a moment genuine astonishment caused Shakespeare’s mouth to drop open, but he recovered and slapped his thigh in merriment.

  “What’s so funny?” Nate demanded uncomfortably.

  “If you touch her, I doubt it’ll be an accident,” Shakespeare said, and cackled.

  “You know what I mean. I don’t want to be scalped for taking liberties with Black Kettle’s daughter.�
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  The frontiersman looked the younger man in the eyes. “Don’t you know anything about women?”

  “A little,” Nate replied testily.

  “Damn little,” Shakespeare declared. “Now listen. No man can take liberties with a woman if she doesn’t want them to be taken. Nine times out of ten it’s the woman who fans the flames and in the bargain gives the man the mistaken notion that it was all his idea.”

  “But what about rape?”

  Shakespeare blinked a few times. “Good Lord. You aren’t fixing to rape her, are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Rape is for weaklings. It’s for men who don’t have the gumption to face a woman in fair combat and lose honorably,” Shakespeare said. “Now quit stalling.”

  “I’m not stalling.”

  “What would you call it? Babbling like an idiot?”

  Nate slowly straightened.

  “If it’ll make you feel any better, no Indian woman has to stay under a buffalo robe if she doesn’t want to,” Shakespeare mentioned. “If you overstep yourself she’ll just leave.”

  Winona stepped up to Nate and offered the robe.

  Feeling as if he was moving in slow motion, a queasy feeling in his stomach, Nate took the robe and indicated the doorway.

  Black Kettle addressed the mountain man, and received a response that made him burst out laughing.

  “What did you say?” Nate asked.

  “He wanted to know if you were ill. I told him you have water in your knees and mush between your ears,” Shakespeare divulged, laughing.

  “Thanks. ”

  “Don’t fret yourself. Romance has vanquished the mightiest of warriors.”

  “William S. again?”

  “No. Me. Now get going before the sun comes up.”

  Nate motioned once again at the doorway, puzzled that Winona hadn’t already started outside.

  “No, you dummy!” Shakepeare cautioned. ‘Indian men always take the lead.”

  “They do?”

  “At least they think they do. Now go!”

  Bowing graciously at Black Kettle and his wife, Nate backed toward the opening with Winona trailing him, a quizzical expression on her face.