Lure of the Wild (Wilderness, No 2)

by David Thompson

  Shakespeare kept going. “We’ll take a break at the top of this hill,” he announced.

  “Fair enough,” Nate replied.

  Winona drew nearer, firmly holding the horse’s bridle, watching the animal’s progress carefully to ensure her father wasn’t unduly jostled.

  Morning Dew walked with her head bowed sadly, her moist eyes fixed on her supine husband.

  Would she cut off part of a finger if Black Kettle died? Nate speculated. An unbidden, similar question rocked his sensibilities. Would Winona hack off part of hers? The prospect disturbed him greatly. Traditional ritual or not, he didn’t like the idea of Winona slicing a fingertip off, and he resolved to prevent her somehow if the problem arose.

  Concentrating on the horse she led, the maiden had yet to notice he’d stopped.

  “Winona,” Nate said softly.

  She glanced up in surprise, then beamed a weary smile.

  “Hello, Nate King.”

  Nate enjoyed hearing her speak his name. From her clipped, perfect English, no one could have guessed those were the only three words she knew. He leaned down to pat the horse she led, then straightened and used sign to inform her they would be stopping on the summit. They rode upward side by side. Nate asked her how her father was faring.

  Frowning, Winona made signs to indicate Black Kettle was on the verge of dying. Her mother had cleaned the wound and applied herbal treatments, but the lance had passed quite close to the heart and the probability of a complete recovery was extremely slim.

  Nate commiserated as best he could, and apologized profusely for his inability to adequately communicate his ideas.

  Winona told him that he was doing fine. She said she looked forward to learning his language and teaching him hers.

  Engrossed in their sign exchange, they came to the crown of the hill.

  Nate glanced up to find Shakespeare dismounted and inspecting the terrain. Right away he perceived the reason for the frontiersman’s interest. The circle of large boulders, which were actually aligned more in the shape of a horseshoe, formed a marvelous natural fortification ideally suited to their needs. The boulders, on average about four feet in height, were spaced close together, the typical gap being not more than 18 inches. The open end of the horseshoe faced to the northwest, and the slope there was steeper than elsewhere. The eastern opening, through which they entered, was four feet wide.

  Shakespeare motioned for Nate to join him.

  “Take care of your father. I will be back,” Nate signed to Winona, and dismounted. He stepped over to the grizzled mountaineer, whose eyes were twinkling.

  “What do you think?” Shakespeare inquired.

  “About what?”

  “The lay of the land here. What else?”

  “We can defend it easily,” Nate said.

  “That we could,” Shakespeare stated, nodding as he surveyed the perimeter of stony sentinels. “We could hold out here indefinitely, if need be.”

  “We’d need water,” Nate observed.

  “Didn’t you see it?”

  “What?”

  Shakespeare smiled. “Follow me.” He walked to the row of boulders on the north and pointed.

  Only then did Nate behold the pool of water lying between a pair of squat boulders. Partly camouflaged by the shadow cast by the left-hand slab, the pool measured two feet across and enclosed a third of the bottom of the right-hand rock. Only someone endowed with exceptional eyesight could have spotted it. “A spring, you think?”

  “Looks that way,” Shakespeare said, and knelt to dip his right hand into the water. “It’s cold enough to be a spring.” He reached in as far as he could. “And it’s too deep to be rain runoff.”

  Nate scrutinized the clear space enclosed by the boulders. “We’d still need food.”

  “Horse meat is right tasty in an emergency.”

  “I don’t get it. Why all this talk of staying here? I thought you want to put as much distance behind us as we can.”

  “I did,” Shakespeare said. Before he could elaborate, shouts broke out from those climbing the east slope.

  Nate spun, the Hawken clutched in his left hand. “What is it?”

  “Mad Dog.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Nate ran past the boulders and halted on the slope. He gazed to the southeast and saw them, dozens of riders coming on hard perhaps a mile and a half distant.

  “They’ll be here in less than ten minutes,” Shakespeare commented.

  “So much for taking a break.”

  Drags the Rope and the eight other uninjured warriors rode up. “We go fight,” the former announced. “Hold Blackfeet back. You get away. Take wives, take children.”

  “Don’t be hasty, my friend,” Shakespeare said.

  “We not fight?”

  “There’s no reason to get yourselves needlessly killed. We have time to execute a plan I have in mind,” Shakespeare stated, and launched into an extended speech in Shoshone.

  Nate wished he could understand the tongue. He watched the women and children move hastily onto the summit. Off to the southeast the cloud of dust raised by the horses of the Blackfeet drew slowly closer and closer.

  At last Shakespeare concluded, then changed to English again. “You know what to do. Get busy.”

  “You foxy, Carcajou,” Drags the Rope said, smiling slyly, and spoke to two of the warriors. The pair immediately turned their mounts and raced down the hill.

  “Where are they going?” Nate inquired.

  “They’re ”our bait,” Shakespeare answered, and chuckled.

  Drags the Rope and the remaining warriors rode into the trees on the south side of the hill.

  “Are they bait too?” Nate asked.

  “They’re gathering branches for our breastwork.”

  “You have this all worked out, don’t you?”

  “In matters of life and death it doesn’t pay to dawdle,” Shakespeare remarked, and returned to their natural fort. He began issuing instructions to the Shoshone women and children, who galvanized into action, with as much alacrity as if he had been one of their own.

  What if he was? Nate wondered. He’d heard tell that certain tribes adopted white men into their midst, and he had never thought to ask if the Shoshones had adopted Shakespeare. Glancing once more at the dust cloud and the two warriors galloping toward it, he hefted his rifle and went into the area enclosed by the boulders.

  The women and older children were busily at work in erecting a crude but creditable breastwork across the opening to the northwest, using brush, manageable stone, and logs. They left a three-foot gap in the center.

  Shortly the warriors with Drags the Rope returned, dragging stout limbs. These were passed to the women and placed at appropriate points in the breastwork.

  Other children herded the animals to the middle of the cleared space, which encompassed 60 feet from one side to the other, and went around tying the mouths of the dogs shut so the canines couldn’t bark.

  Nate walked over to Winona and Morning Dew, who were standing next to Black Kettle’s travois located near the spring. Both women looked at him expectantly.

  “Are we making a stand?” Winona signed.

  Nate responded in sign language, advising her they were indeed preparing to fight Mad Dog.

  Mother and daughter exchanged startled glances, and it was Morning Dew who addressed him next, her hands and fingers flying almost too rapidly for him to follow.

  Instantly Nate realized his mistake. He’d gone and done exactly what Shakespeare had been afraid he’d do. Morning Dew wanted to know how he knew Mad Dog led the Blackfeet. She demanded to be told why no one had informed her. Was the news a secret the men were keeping to themselves? He saw anger in her eyes, and he wanted to go over and beat his head against one of the boulders just so he could knock some sense into his skull.

  “Don’t tell me,” a gruff voice stated sternly to his rear.

  His face a study in embarrassment, Nate pivoted. “I’m
afraid I’m the blabbing type after all.”

  Shakespeare shrugged. “Oh, well. Can’t be helped. I reckon it’s time they knew anyway.” He spoke to the women in their own language for a minute.

  “There’s something I’d like to know,” Nate stated when the frontiersman fell silent.

  “What is it?”

  “Why are the Shoshones following your instructions? Why aren’t they listening to one of their own warriors?”

  Shakespeare nodded at Black Kettle. “Because the best warrior in this band is out of commission, and Drags the Rope and the others know that I have experience along these lines.” He paused to regard the progress of the breastwork. “Let me fill you in on a secret, Nate. When it comes to one-on-one combat, Indians are able to hold thier own against anyone. But in general warfare they’re not much for taking directions. They don’t organize their attacks very well. A war chief might lead a raid, might lead the first assault, but after that it’s every man for himself. They usually rely more on speed and force of numbers than strategy.”

  “Which still doesn’t explain the reason they’re listening to you.”

  “They trust me. I’ve lived among them off and on for years. They know I won’t let them down,” Shakespeare answered. “And too, they know there isn’t time for them to squabble over the best tactics to use.”

  “Maybe they should make you their chief,” Nate joked.

  “I wouldn’t accept the job.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t stand being tied down to any one place for very long. A chief has to stay with his people, to be there when they need him, to settle all the petty problems that crop up, to always be at their beck and call.” Shakespeare shook his head. “That kind of life isn’t for me, thank you very much.”

  Drags the Rope and the other warriors came over. They promptly dismounted and began checking their weapons: testing bow strings, verifying rifles were loaded, and loosening knives in their sheaths.

  Shakespeare nudged Nate and pointed at the boulders rimming the east side of the hill. “Would you keep your eyes peeled for the two men we sent as decoys? I’m going to lend a hand with the breastwork.”

  “Sure,” Nate said, and strolled over to the perimeter. He placed the Hawken on the flat top of a three-foot-high slab and leaned on the edge.

  Approximately a mile off were the Blackfeet, still riding at a fast pace, sticking to the trail the Shoshones had made.

  Nate began to speculate on whether he would ever reach the rendezvous. He would never desert Winona, and because of her his fate was inextricably bound to the whole band. A keen admiration for his hoary companion filled his heart. Shakespeare could leave any time he wanted, and yet the man had decided to stick with the Shoshones through thick and thin. The man had grit.

  A golden eagle materialized to the south, flying from east to west.

  Nate idely watched the big bird of prey and thought of the eagle feather in his hair, which belonged to a bald eagle, not the golden variety. How did the Indians obtain the feathers? He’d lost track of the number of warriors he’d seen who adorned their hair or shields or whatever with such feathers. They certainly couldn’t collect so many feathers from birds that had died natural deaths. Did the Indians kill eagles? Or perhaps trap them? He decided he would ask Shakespeare when the right opportunity presented itself.

  Mad Dog and his war party were continuing their steady advance.

  It was funny, Nate mused. Here he was, intimately involved with a band of nomadic Plains Indians, prepared to give his all, if necessary, in their defense. Yet a year ago, even six months ago, he’d seldom given Indians more than a passing thought. When he had lived in New York City, in the throbbing hub of a mighty nation, surrounded by all the comforts and culture the metropolis had to offer, able to meet all of his needs by the flip of a coin or the exchange of a few bills, he’d never seriously pondered that fact that a thousand miles away dwelt hundreds of thousands of people who lived hand to mouth, who were dependent on the cycle of Nature for their existence, who went hungry when the game was scarce and thirsty during a drought, who knew no such constraints as those often meaningless rules and laws imposed on their so-called civilized counterparts, who roamed as free as the first man, Adam, must have been in the Garden of Eden.

  There was that word again.

  Freedom.

  Many times he had asked himself why white men would be willing to tolerate the hardships of the wilderness when life was so much easier back in the States. The answer became increasingly more apparent the longer he dwelled in the West.

  Freedom.

  For a man or woman to be able to live as they saw fit without harming others, to be able to put food on the table through their own efforts with a gun or a hoe, to be able to fabricate their own clothing and construct their own homes without having to rely on anyone else, to be totally self-sufficient, seemed to him to be the ideal way of living. The realization made him chuckle. He was thinking more and more like Shakespeare every day.

  The Blackfeet were now three-quarters of a mile distant.

  Nate gazed over his shoulder at the defensive preparations. Exercising remarkable zeal, the Shoshones had hastily erected the breastwork to a height of four feet. The women were ushering all of the children to the middle, where the men were already occupied in compelling each and every horse to lay down.

  Now why were they doing that?

  Shakespeare came toward him. “What’s the status on those murdering savages?”

  “They’ll be here soon enough,” Nate said.

  “Good,” Shakespeare declared, and grinned wickedly. “We’ll have a little surprise for them.”

  “Aren’t you taking a big risk?”

  “Would you rather have Mad Dog overtake us somewhere else? Somewhere he’d have the advantage?”

  “No,” Nate admitted.

  “Then this is where we’ll make our stand,” Shakespeare stated, halting next to a boulder on the left. “With any luck we’ll give them such a licking they’ll head for the hills and leave us alone.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Most Indians aren’t fanatics about dying,” Shakespeare mentioned. “When a battle goes against them, when there’s no point to be made by needlessly wasting lives, they head for home.”

  “What about this Mad Dog? Is he a fanatic?”

  “As loco as they come.”

  “How’d he ever get such a name, anyway?”

  The frontiersman stared at the Blackfeet. “I heard tell he took it after a run-in with a rabid mutt.”

  “He took his own name?”

  “It happens all the time. Indian babies are given their names right after birth. Sometimes they’re named after animals, sometimes for something connected with nature that occurs the day they’re born, like a thunderstorm, or else they get their name from a physical deformity they might have. Usually the women keep theirs throughout their lifetime, but the men often change the name they were given when they count their first coup, commit a brave act, have a vidid dream, or tangle with a wild beast.”

  “Like a mad dog?”

  “Or a grizzly bear,” Shakespeare said with a grin.

  “And they even bestow such names on us,” Nate commented thoughtfully, reflecting on the honor White Eagle had extended to him by giving him the name Grizzly Killer. The more he learned concerning Indian beliefs, the more he grew to value the singular distinction. He stared at the Shoshone warriors. “Why would a man take a name like Drags the Rope?”

  Shakespeare chuckled. “Don’t let the name fool you. He got it from one of the bravest acts I’ve ever seen.”

  “You were there?”

  “Yep. About three winters ago,” Shakespeare said, then corrected himself. “Sorry. Three years ago. It was during a buffalo surround.”

  “A what?”

  “Indians have several ways of taking large number of buffalos. One of the tricks they use is for a lot of warriors to ride out
on the plains, fan out around a herd, and drive all the animals into a circle. Then they take to killing the critters as fast as they can. It’s damned dangerous work, though, because the buffalo, particularly the big bulls, will lash out with their horns and try to gore the horses and riders.”

  Nate had hunted buffalo with his uncle, and he could envision the scene Shakespeare depicted. “You’ll never catch me hunting buffalo that way.”

  “It’s not for the faint of heart. The Indians have to get in close with their lances or bows to make the kill. Three years ago Drags the Rope was on a surround. One of his friends got knocked to the ground when a bull gutted the man’s horse. That ornery bull would have gored the friend too, if not for Drags the Rope. He had a rope with him because he was planning to haul one of the cows he’d killed back to the camp for a feast. When he saw his friend go down, naturally he rode in to help. He’d thrown his lance into another buffalo and had no way to turn the bull except with the rope. So he started waving the rope in front of the bull, dragging it on the ground behind his horse and swinging it from side to side to get the bull’s attention,” Shakespeare detailed. “And you know what? It worked. That fool bull took off after the rope. Trailed after Drags the Rope for hundreds of yards. Almost got his horse too. Finally another brave shot the thing. But if not for Drags the Rope’s bravery, his friend surely would have died.”

  “And that’s how he acquired his name,” Nate said.