Lure of the Wild (Wilderness, No 2)

by David Thompson

  The frontiersman glanced at his companion. “Haven’t you been paying attention? Indian warfare isn’t like warfare among the whites. Rivals often fight until one side or the other is exterminated, even if it takes decades. At the very least they’ll keep raiding each other until one side is driven hundreds of miles away. ” He paused. “The Blackfeet have been trying to kill Black Kettle for years. They want to wipe out his band, and they’re not about to let this chance slip by.”

  Nate stared at the injured warrior, who lay unconscious with blood seeping from the cavity in his chest. “What do we do?”

  “First we have to get everyone together, take stock, and see exactly how bad off we are. Then we’ve got to find a defensible position where we can hole up,” Shakespeare said. He swung onto his white horse, looked at Winona’s mother, and spoke several sentences in the Shoshone tongue.

  The woman, whose normally stolid countenance radiated profound emotional misery, simply nodded in response.

  Shakespeare glanced at Nate. “Stay here with Black Kettle. Morning Dew and Winona are going to rig up a travois we can use as a stretcher. There’s not much else we can do for him for the time being.” He frowned. “We’ve really got to get the hell out of here, pronto.” So saying, he wheeled his mount and rode toward a group of five or six warriors 60 yards to the north.

  Winona and her mother rose and hurried off.

  So the mother’s name was Morning Dew, Nate thought, realizing he had failed to inquire the night before. But then he had been rather preoccupied with musing about Winona. He studied Black Kettle for a minute, wondering if the warrior would live, noticing how shallowly the man breathed. The blood flow had reduced to a trickle. He could see the ring of pinkish flesh rimming the hole. Oddly, after all he had just been through, the sight made him squeamish and he quickly focused his attention elsewhere, watching the proceedings all about him.

  Some of the Shoshones were going from body to body, ascertaining who was dead and who might only be injured. Others were industriously engaged in rounding up the scattered horses still in the vicinity, and a few were collecting undamaged personal items. The village dogs, temporarily left to their own devices, were lapping at puddles of blood, sniffing corpses, and to the south three of them were snapping at each other over which one would have the honor of tearing into a dead horse.

  Nate used the opportunity to load both pistols and clean the tomahawk. The lethal effectiveness of the oversized hatchet had impressed him immensely and he decided to keep the weapon permanently. He tucked the handle under his belt at the small of his back where it was out of the way but handy in an emergency. What with the Hawken, the two flintlock pistols, the butcher knife, and the tomahawk, he was beginning to resemble a walking arsenal. He idly gazed northward.

  Shakespeare had reached the group of warriors, five in number, and was addressing them. After a bit they spread out, going to their people and relaying instructions. One of the warriors turned out to be Drags the Rope.

  A groan issued from Black Kettle’s lips.

  Nate glanced down, then over at the busy Shoshones, marveling at the rapport between the Indians and the mountain man. They appeared to trust Shakespeare implicity and regarded his advice highly. This, despite the vast differences in their cultures and backgrounds. But was there really that great a difference? he speculated. If white men like Shakespeare could be so at home living as an Indian, if the frontiersmen who inhabited the wilderness could adopt Indian values so readily and be as much at ease experiencing life in the raw, were the differences between the whites and the Indians inherent or superficial? Or did the truth lie even deeper? Were some white men simply primitive at heart? Was that why they yielded to the call of the wild, as Shakespeare described it?

  And what about his own feelings?

  Nate had to admit that he found much to admire in Indian life, in the simplicity of existence they enjoyed and their affinity to Nature. He thought about life in New York City, about the hectic, frenetic, pace thousands upon thousands were caught up in each and every day, and he felt glad that he was out of that. All those years of contending with impolite people and carriage congestion, with overpriced goods and sooty air, seemed like the vague impressions of a bad dream. At least west of the Mississippi a man could set his own pace.

  Provided he lived long enough.

  Something touched his left leg.

  Nate almost jumped out of his moccasins. He looked at Black Kettle, shocked to find the warrior awake and gazing at him.

  The Shoshone leader spoke a few words in his own language.

  Shaking his head to signify he didn’t comprehend, Nate squatted and scrutinized the area for Winona and Morning Dew, neither of whom were anywhere in sight.

  Black Kettle coughed lightly and spoke again.

  “Don’t exert yourself,” Nate said, and propped the rifle against his right shoulder so he could make the proper hand signs to tell the warrior not to talk.

  Black Kettle motioned feebly, executing signs of his own, his hands barely moving.

  “Must talk,” Nate translated, and frowned. What could be so important that the warrior wouldn’t lie still? Frustrated, he looked up and was relieved to spy his newly acquired friend from last night riding past 30 feet to the west. “Drags the Rope! Come here. I need you,” he called out.

  The young Shoshone warrior immediately turned his horse and hurried over. “Yes, friend Grizzly Killer?” he said as he slid to the ground. His eyes flicked to Black Kettle and he stiffened, then knelt and talked rapidly and softly in Shoshone.

  Nate listened to Black Kettle reply, the words scarcely audible. He happened to glance to the southwest, and spotted Winona and Morning Dew over 150 yards distant. They appeared to be working at securing a travois to a brown horse they’d caught. He waved his arms overhead in an attempt to attract their attention, but neither one gazed in his direction.

  “Black Kettle much words for you,” Drags the Rope said.

  Nate looked down. “For me?”

  “Yes. Big words of heart.”

  “Are you sure he wouldn’t rather talk to his wife or daughter? I can go fetch them.”

  Drags the Rope relayed the message to Black Kettle, who responded in a whisper. “No. Not wife. Not daughter. Words for your ears,” the young warrior translated.

  Perplexed, Nate squatted. “What could he possibly have to say to me?”

  Again Drags the Rope passed on the question, and the answer he received clearly surprised him. He blinked, then stared at Nate. “Wants you take Winona.”

  “Take her where?”

  “Wife her.”

  “What?” Nate asked in astonishment.

  “So sorry. Wants you marry Winona.”

  “He said that!” Nate exclaimed, scrutinizing Black Kettle’s inscrutable visage.

  “Yes,” Drags the Rope responded.

  Black Kettle began speaking and went on at length. “So much words,” Drags the Rope stated uncertainly.

  “Hope speak rightly. My White Talk not best.”

  “What did he say?” Nate inquired apprehensively.

  “Say he dying. Not long this world. Want know family fine before leave. Want you protect family.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Want you marry Winna and have food and robes for Morning Dew.”

  “Food and robes?” Nate repeated in confusion.

  “Yes. So sorry. Mean take care of her. Understand? Protect her. Take mother your lodge,” Drags the Rope said.

  Nate was at a loss for words. He cared for Winona unequivocally, but he wasn’t ready to commit himself to her. Not in marriage anyway. Not until he knew her a lot better. But how could he tell that to a dying man?

  Black Kettle talked to Drags the Rope, who then glanced at Nate. “Say you much like Winona, yes?”

  “Yes,” Nate admitted.

  Drags the Rope relayed the word to the Shoshone leader and received more information to impart. “He say Winona like you much. Sa
y you brave man. Say you be a good husband.”

  “But—” Nate began.

  “Say Winona strong body. Much health. Have sons like bears. Many sons yours. She make good wife for warrior,” Drags the Rope declared.

  “I’m sure she would—” Nate began again, and was cut off a second time.

  “Listen, please. Many words must say. I forget if not. Black Kettle know Shoshone warriors want marry Winona. Know many horses be his. But no need horses now. He want Winona happy, and she much want you. Much want. Understand?”

  “I understand,” Nate said, conscious of the leader’s eyes on his face. He deliberately averted his gaze, troubled in his soul. Why didn’t he just up and tell Black Kettle that he couldn’t marry Winona at this time? He felt as if he was deceiving the man. Where was his courage? Why was he so tongue-tied? Could it be possible that deep, deep down he really liked the idea?

  “Grizzly Killer?”

  “What?” Nate snapped, forgetting himself.

  “Something wrong?” Drags the Rope inquired.

  “What could be wrong?”

  “No idea. Black Kettle need answer. Need quick.”

  “An answer?” Nate said evasively, knowing the truth.

  “Yes. Need know you will marry Winona. Please. Him not much time left. What say you?”

  Nate shifted and locked his gaze on Black Kettle. He detected the fading expectancy in the warrior’s eyes, and he intuitively perceived the critical importance of his response. The answer meant everything to the father and husband who would momentarily cast off his mortal shell and enter the vast unknown. Black Kettle wanted to die knowing his loved ones would be cared for, would be happy, and he was expending the last of his strength and energy while thinking only of Morning Dew and Winona. In light of so noble a sacrifice, Nate felt guilty about his own conflicting feelings.

  How could he tell the man no?

  How could he send Black Kettle into eternity in emotional distress?

  Nate took a breath and voiced the single word that would link him indissolubly to the Shoshones and drastically alter all of his preconceived notions about his future, the momentous word that had changed more lives than any other in human history. “Yes.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I can’t leave you alone for two minutes.”

  “You would have done the same thing in my place.”

  “How do you know? It’s risky trying to predict what another man will do in affairs of the heart because no two men are alike. I might have found a way out of it. I know I wouldn’t have let myself be roped into a marriage I didn’t want,” Shakespeare stated testily.

  Nate, in the act of arching his back to relieve a slight stiffness after three hours in the saddle, glanced at the frontiersman. “I don’t see why you’re so upset with me. You were the one who told me I was committed to Winona.”

  “Yeah, but I never claimed you had to up and agree to marry her out of pity.”

  “There’s more to it than that.”

  “Oh?”

  “I told you I think I’m falling in love with her,” Nate reminded him.

  “Getting married because you think you’re in love is like wrestling a grizzly because you think you’re bored and need a little excitement. In both cases a man winds up biting off more than he can chew.”

  “It’s too late for me to change my mind,” Nate stated.

  “Black Kettle is still alive,” Shakespeare pointed out.

  “But for how long?” Nate countered, and twisted to survey the column behind them, a pale imitation of its former self. Where before there had been about a hundred horses laden with possessions, now there were 11 and all but two of them hauled injured Shoshones on makeshift hide platforms. Where before there had been almost 60 smiling, happy people, now there were 38 Indians, including those on the travois, and none were smiling or singing. Of that total, only nine were robust warriors capable of resisting another attack. Three of them trailed at the rear to cover the woman and children, while three rode on each side leaving Shakespeare and Nate to lead them to the northwest as swiftly as possible, which amounted to little better than a snail’s pace. “I wish we could go faster,” Nate remarked.

  “We can’t, not unless we don’t care if some of the injured die on us,” the frontiersman mentioned.

  “I know.” Nate stared ahead at a sloping hill they were slowly approaching. “What’s your plan anyway? Other than putting as much distance as you can between us and the valley where we were attacked.”

  “That’s it.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “I wish I was. I know the Blackfeet will hit us again before nightfall, and I want to be ready for them. ”

  “Maybe you’re wrong,” Nate said hopefully. “Maybe they were satisfied with killing twenty-two Shoshones and stealing all those horses.” He tugged on the lead to their pack animal.

  “They won’t be satisfied.”

  “So you keep saying, but you don’t know that for certain,” Nate stated peevishly, annoyed that the mountain man kept harping on the worst likelihood.

  Shakespeare sighed and looked at the strapping youth. “I know Mad Dog. He won’t give up, believe me.”

  “Mad Dog?” Nate repeated, all attention.

  “I recognized the Blackfoot bastard leading the war party,” Shakespeare disclosed. “In his lifetime he’s counted over eighty coup. Whites, Shoshones, Cheyennes, Arapahos, you name them, he hates them all. He had a run-in with Black Kettle about twelve years ago and came out on the losing end.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  Shakespeare shrugged. “I guess I didn’t want you blabbing to Winona or Drags the Rope, although he might know. I think Black Kettle spotted Mad Dog, but he hasn’t told anyone either. The Shoshones are brave, but the mere mention of Mad Dog’s name would get them jumping at their own shadows.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “A little,” Shakespeare conceded. “But the situation is bad enough without making it worse.”

  “So what can we do to stop this Mad Dog?”

  “Pray.”

  Nate rode in silence for several minutes, pondering the information. One statement, in particular, galled him. “I’m not the blabbing type.”

  “I reckon I know that by now. My apologies then. I should have told you. But, if it’s any excuse, you’ve got to admit I’ve been a mite busy and had a lot on my mind.”

  “You’re forgiven,” Nate said.

  “Thanks,” Shakespeare responded, and grinned. “Now I can sleep easier at night.”

  Nate looked over his left shoulder at Winona and Morning Dew, who were 15 feet behind him. The lovely woman he had agreed to marry mustered a wan smile. She was leading the horse pulling the travois on which her father rested. Beside the platform walked his prospective mother-in-law.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Shakespeare mentioned.

  “Ask.”

  The mountain man gestured at Nate’s head. “What made you decide to wear it?”

  Nate reached up and touched the eagle feather he had tied to the top of his head, at the back, using a short, thin strip of buckskin. He’d arranged the feather so that the flared end angled down and to the right, in the same fashion as several Indians he had seen. “I don’t rightly know why I finally decided to put it on. Maybe because I was bored standing around with nothing to do while you were busy organizing our departure.” He paused. “Or maybe it’s because I think I have some idea now of the honor White Eagle bestowed on me.”

  Shakespeare nodded. “You’re learning.”

  “Not fast enough to suit me.”

  “We have to take life at its own pace, Nate. Like the Good Book says, to everything there’s a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “What?”

  “You quoted something besides Shakespeare.”

  The frontiersman made a show of sla
pping his forehead in feigned amazement. “Did I? I must have received a knock on the noggin and not realized it.”

  Nate chuckled and gazed up at the sun, which hung in the blue sky two hours above the midday position. “Will we stop before dark?”

  “Not if I can help it. I don’t care how tired the women and children become, they’ve got to push themselves to the limit. Once Mad Dog gets those horses he stole to a safe spot, he’ll be back. Following our trail will be easy. I expect he’ll overtake us in no time.”

  “What about those graves the Shoshones buried their dead in?”

  “What about them?”

  “They weren’t very deep. Will Mad Dog dig up the bodies to take the scalps?”

  Shakespeare looked at his friend. “Indians might be a tad bloodthirsty, but they’re not morbid. They don’t go around digging up corpses just to take the hair.”

  “Oh.”

  “Where do you come up with some of these wild notions of yours?”

  Nate ignored the question and scanned the hill they were starting to ascend. Trees dotted the northern and southern slopes, but the crown and the central portion were relatively barren except for a circle of boulders at the very top.

  “It must be all those books you read back in New York,” Shakespeare went on in the same lighthearted vein. “Books can give a person powerful strange ideas.”

  “Like the works of William Shakespeare?”

  “Old William S. wrote about life, not strange stuff like some of those Eastern writers.”

  “Life, huh? Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t Shakespeare the one who wrote about witches, ghosts, fairies, and such?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “I rest my case.”

  The mountain man’s eyes narrowed. “You’re getting a bit too upity for your own good.”

  “I suppose I’ve been hanging around you too long.”

  They wound up the hill toward the summit, picking their way carefully around sections of the hillside where large, flat rocks covered the ground.

  “This is interesting,” Shakespeare remarked.

  Why would a bunch of loose rocks hold any attraction? Nate wondered. He moved to one side and reined up, waiting for Winona to draw abreast of his position and thinking of the incredulous expression on her face earlier when Drags the Rope had informed her about her father’s request. Black Kettle had passed out again by the time mother and daughter returned with the travois, and Drags the Rope had evidently gone into considerable detail in reporting the conversation he’d translated. Nate held up his left hand, recalling the warm pressure of her palm against his during that special moment when she had clasped his hands and turned to him the most wondrous countenance imaginable, a fascinating combination of affection and gratitude conveyed in an attitude of frank bewilderment, as if she couldn’t quite believe that he cared for her and viewed his fondness as precious beyond words.