Relieved, Nate stood and walked along the wall to the northwest corner. The wind struck him full in the face, fanning his shoulder-length hair and beard. He pulled his beaver hat down and kept on going.
On this side of the cabin stood an ancient spruce. During the hot months it provided welcome shade, and under its spreading branches the family often sat and chatted when there was no work to be done and the weather was fine.
Nate felt something brush his cheek as he passed the wide trunk. Reaching out, he found the rope he had tied to a low branch the previous year for Zach to swing on. He gave it a shove, then took another step.
A bright square of light suddenly appeared in the trees fronting the cabin, a lean shadow framed at its center. “Pa?”
“Around here,” Nate answered. The rope grazed his head again as the square of light blinked out simultaneously with the slamming of the door. He saw Zach stride into view. “Something wrong, son?”
“Ma was getting worried, is all. She sent me to find you. Is everything all right?”
“As peaceful as a church service,” Nate said.
“What had the horses spooked?”
“Your guess would be as good as mine. Those fool horses act up if a mouse farts.”
The boy burst into hearty laughter. “You’re lucky Ma didn’t hear you say that. She’s a stickler for polite talk.”
“Which has never failed to tickle my funny bone,” Nate admitted. “Somehow I figured she’d be different, what with her being Shoshone and all.” He idly scratched his chin. “Let that be a lesson to you. Women are women, no matter what color their skin happens to be.”
“Is that important?”
“You’ll think so when you’re older,” Nate said. Once more the rope swung against him, and he wondered why it was still moving when he had only given it a light push. Glancing upward, he was shocked to behold a squat black form balanced on the limb to which the rope was tied. At that very instant, the form sprang.
Chapter Two
Nate reacted as swiftly as anyone could. He started to step backward and to aim the Hawken at the phantom figure, but his adversary was on him before he could squeeze the trigger. A heavy body slammed into his chest, knocking the wind out of him even as he was brutally smashed to the earth. In a daze, he heard his son cry out, then the blast of Zach’s rifle. Dimly he became aware of other figures pouring from every direction.
If there is any one moment in a man’s life when he will disregard personal danger and refuse to bow to basic animal fear, that moment is when his family is threatened. The instant Nate perceived that his loved ones were at grave risk, he shook off the effect of the blow and made a valiant effort to stand and resist the attackers. But his effort was too little, too late. Rough hands tore the Hawken from his hands. Other men seized his arms and held them fast while his pistols, knife, and tomahawk were stripped from him.
At the corner of the cabin a similar struggle was taking place. Zach was in the grip of three buckskin-clad Indians who had taken his rifle and were trying to wrest his knife from him.
“No!” Nate roared, redoubling his attempt to break free as four warriors hauled him upright. The grip on his right arm slackened a bit, and with a savage wrench he tore it loose and drove his fist into the brave in front of him, causing the man to stagger rearward. Twisting, Nate connected with a second chin, which freed his left arm.
Like a vengeful whirlwind Nate tore into the remaining pair, his large knuckles splitting their cheeks and battering their brows. One of his punches struck a mouth and there was a distinct crunch. Momentarily in the open, Nate whirled and raced to his son’s aid. Zach was on the ground, a brawny warrior astride his chest. The other two had vanished.
In a single long stride Nate drew abreast of the brave on Zach just as the man turned to see how his companions were faring. Sweeping back his leg, Nate planted his foot squarely in the warrior’s face, catapulting the man into the grass. He lunged down, grabbed the front of Zach’s shirt, and swept the boy to his feet.
Nate barreled toward the front door, but he’d only taken a few steps when he saw the gathering of dark shapes outside it and heard them battering at the wood to gain entry. Pure rage pumped through his veins as he thought of the fate awaiting his wife and daughter if the hostiles were successful. Letting go of Zach, he took a flying leap and plowed into the group, scattering them like leaves before a gale.
But the tide of battle quickly turned. Nate landed hard on his elbows and knees. He began to push upright when five or six warriors swarmed on him at once. Their combined weight was too much to resist. They flattened him, pinning him helplessly as his arms were clamped in grips of iron.
Frustration combined with anxiety for his family to drive him into a frenzy, yet no matter how hard he tugged and thrashed he was unable to throw the warriors off.
From inside the cabin, Winona shouted in Shoshone, “Nate? Zach? What is happening? Are you all right?”
“Stay in there and keep the door barred!” Nate said. Looking up as he was lifted to his feet, he got a good look at a brave in front of him and a chill rippled down his spine. “The Utes have us!” he added, trying to keep his voice level and calm. The moment he had long dreaded had finally arrived, he thought bitterly. His enemies had him in their clutches. He was completely at their mercy, the outcome inevitable. They would torture him, slowly, so he died a horrible, lingering death. Worse, they would do the same to Zach, then either kill Winona and Evelyn or else adopt them into the tribe, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. Despair replaced his rage, but he stood with his shoulders squared, his head held high, determined not to show any weakness.
More warriors were joining those near the door. A pair held Zach between them. The boy was doing his best to imitate Nate’s example. His voice, though, wavered when he asked, “What now, Pa? Will they kill us right off?”
“I don’t rightly know,” Nate hedged. He saw some of the braves gazing at the forest as if they were expecting someone, and sure enough a lone warrior shortly appeared. A husky, muscular man with flowing black hair, he strode across the open space and halted right in front of Nate.
“We meet again, Grizzly Killer,” the Ute remarked in sign language, moving his hands slowly so his gestures would be easy to read in the dark. “It has been many moons.”
Nate’s astonishment must have been obvious because the tall warrior laughed. “Two Owls,” Nate murmured aloud in English, forgetting himself. He did indeed know this warrior; Two Owls was a Ute chief whom he had briefly befriended over eight years ago. The two of them had paired up to drive off a Blackfoot war party, then gone their separate ways, and he hadn’t seen the man since.
“We have come in peace,” the Ute now signed. At a spoken command in his own tongue, those restraining Nate and Zach released their holds and stepped back.
“You have a strange way of showing it,” Nate signed in response.
“Here is proof,” Two Owls said, and again he reverted to the Ute language.
Nate was flabbergasted when all of his weapons were promptly handed over, as were his son’s. He accepted them silently and regarded his former acquaintance with interest.
“I am here to talk about a matter of great importance to both of us,” Two Owls went on. “I apologize for the way we have treated you, but I could not be sure what kind of reception we would receive. It is said you shoot Utes on sight.”
“You cannot blame me,” Nate responded. “Every Ute I have ever met except for you has tried to take my hair.”
Two Owls frowned. “The other chiefs do not think as highly of you as I do. Long ago I told my people of the service you did us and asked them to let you live here in peace. They accepted my words, and none of my warriors have ever bothered you.” He gave a shrug. “But those from other villages do not see you as a friend. I have heard of the many attempts they have made to put you under. For this I am very sorry.”
The chief’s sincerity was self-evident. Nate cr
acked a lopsided grin, then signed, “Perhaps you should call a council of all the chiefs so I can present my request to be left alone in person.”
“There are a few who would kill you the moment they laid eyes on you,” Two Owls replied. “But I do have an idea how you can change their thinking.” He nodded at the cabin. “If you invite me into your strange wood lodge, I will explain.”
Nate glanced at the ring of warriors, debating the wisdom of having Winona open the door with all of them there. Suddenly he realized that none of the braves were armed, not even with so much as a knife, a fact he had overlooked before in the rush of events. He commented as much to Two Owls.
“Yes. I had every member of my band put all his weapons down before we moved in because I did not want you to be accidentally harmed.” The chief addressed his men, and like ghostly specters every last one melted into the shadows. “I want you to feel safe, so I have told them to wait in the pines until I call.”
“You think of everything,” Nate complimented him. Any lingering doubts he had entertained were gone. He had turned toward the door to knock and inform Winona that all was well when the door swept inward to reveal her holding a cocked pistol in one hand and a tomahawk in the other. In a flash he discerned her intention from the fiery expression she wore, and he leaped forward to swat the pistol upward just as she extended her arm to shoot. “Don’t!” he declared. “Everything is fine.”
Winona glanced at him in confusion. “It is?”
“The Utes are friendly,” Nate disclosed, giving her a reassuring smile.
“But the shot? And the fighting I heard? And you said—”
“I know what I said, but I was wrong.” Nate indicated the chief. “This is Two Owls.”
“The one you told me about long ago?”
“The very same.”
Although Winona was clearly bewildered, she had the presence of mind to compose herself, lower the pistol, and step aside so they could enter. She stared suspiciously at the chief, and once the door had been barred and Nate and Two Owls were seated at the table, it was noteworthy that she kept the pistol close at hand at all times.
Nate had taken a seat facing the door and window. He offered the Ute coffee, and while Winona brought over two tin cups he got to the point by signing, “So what brings you so far from your people?”
“Have you ever heard of Bow Valley?” Two Owls rejoined.
“No.”
“Has your woman?”
Shifting in his seat to inquire, Nate found her watching them intently.
“Every Shoshone knows of it,” she answered. “Bow Valley is where my people have gone for more winters than anyone can remember to obtain the best wood there is for making bows. Our warriors say such wood never breaks or warps. Bows from there are considered good medicine and every man wants one.”
“What kind of wood do they use?” Nate probed in English.
“I believe whites call it ash.”
“Bow Valley is a special place for my people too,” Two Owls signed after they were done speaking and Nate had signed Winona’s reply. “It is where we go not only to make bows but to commune with the Great Mystery and hold dances. Like the Shoshones, we have been doing this for longer than any man can remember.”
“It must be some valley,” Nate observed to be polite.
“There was a time when the Utes and the Shoshones shared it,” Two Owls disclosed. “The Shoshones liked to come during the Crow and Grass Moons, while my people preferred to go there during the Heat and Thunder Moons. There was never any problem because the valley was considered neutral territory and neither tribe was ever there at the same time as the other.”
“But something changed?” Nate asked.
Two Owls placed his hands on the table and folded his hands. “Many winters ago two parties came to the valley on the same day. The Utes were led by Bear-Loves, the Shoshones by a warrior named Dry Eyes. They argued, each demanding the other leave. Soon they came to blows and the warriors from both sides fell on one another. There was a great tight. Many coups were counted. Many braves died. One of them was Bear-Loves himself,” He gazed at Winona. “Do I speak with a straight tongue?” he signed. “Is this not the way it was?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Ever since,” Two Owls continued, “our two tribes have fought over the valley. If the Shoshones find Utes camped there, they attack. If my people discover Shoshones camped there, we attack. Many, many lives have been lost.”
There was a note of sadness in the chief’s tone that sparked Nate to inquire, “Have you lost someone close to you because of this conflict?”
“Yes. One moon ago two of my cousins, Chased-by-Hawks and Short Lance, took part in a raid on a Shoshone camp. Both were slain. Their bodies were never recovered.”
“I am sorry to hear this news,” Nate stated. He was still puzzled about the reason for his friend’s visit since the dispute had absolutely nothing to do with him.
“I cherished them both in my heart,” Two Owls said solemnly. “When I heard of their deaths, I went off by myself to think. I saw what a waste all this killing has been, and I decided things should be like they were in the old days. The valley should be shared by the two tribes once again.” He paused and fixed his inscrutable dark eyes on Nate. “The Utes and the Shoshones must enter into a truce.”
“How do you propose going about arranging one?” Nate absently questioned.
The ends of the chief’s mouth curled up. “I was hoping you would do that, Grizzly Killer.”
“Me?” Nate exclaimed, sitting up. The proposal amazed him, not only because the majority of the Ute nation wouldn’t mind roasting him over hot coals, but because his influence in the councils of the Shoshones was extremely limited.
“Hear me out, please, my friend,” Two Owls said, raising a hand. He took a sip of his coffee, nodded approval at Winona, and coughed. “I have heard that you are an adopted Shoshone. If so, you have a stake in the welfare of the whole tribe, do you not?”
“It is true I was adopted, but …” Nate began.
“But you are not a chief, and your words do not sway many of those who are?” Two Owls had hit the nail on the head.
“Yes.”
“You are still a mighty warrior,” Two Owls noted. “Even your enemies admit as much. It is widely known that you have defeated the Blackfeet many times. The Bloods and the Piegans fear your medicine. And all have heard about the many brown bears you have killed.”
“Even so—” Nate tried again to object, but the chief ignored him.
“If you were to make an appeal to the leaders of the Shoshones, I believe they would listen. Ask them if they would agree to meet with the leaders of my people to discuss a truce. Ask them if they are as tired of the needless bloodshed as I am.”
Nate was inclined to refuse. He could see himself going to a lot of trouble for nothing. In the end all he might accomplish would be to drive a wider wedge between those Shoshones who were his friends and those who had vigorously objected to admitting him into the tribe. A small but vocal faction had done their utmost to persuade everyone else that doing so set a bad precedent, that it would bring dire calamity down on the whole nation. Winona had advised him not to take their ranting seriously, that just as there were some whites who hated Indians simply because of the difference in skin color and culture, there were Indians who despised whites for the very same reason. Prejudice knew no racial barriers.
“I have already taken the liberty of contacting the other Ute chiefs,” Two Owls was saying. “Messengers were sent asking them to meet me at Bow Valley during the Rose Moon. They have all agreed.”
“Did you tell them why you called the council?” Nate asked.
“No. Some would not come if they knew. I would rather surprise them.”
“You are taking a great risk. Once they learn the truth, they might turn on you.”
“It is a risk I must take,” Two Owls signed. “Peace does not come without sacrific
e.” He swirled his coffee, then took a swallow. “Perhaps this madness can end if we are all willing to put the common good above our own petty feelings.”
“Do you realize what you are asking of me?” Nate asked. “I cannot even promise the Shoshones will agree.”
“I know you will do your best.”
Shaking his head in annoyance, Nate rose and commenced pacing back and forth behind his chair, his hands behind his back. “I’ll have to tell them the truth from the start,” he said aloud in English. “They’ll probably laugh me to scorn, then boot me out of the tribe for making such a harebrained proposal.”
“Maybe not,” Winona said. “My uncle, Spotted Bull, trusts you. He will go along with whatever you want, and he has the ear of Broken Paw.”
“But Broken Paw is only one head chief out of how many? A dozen or so?” Nate pursed his lips, making some fast calculations. The Shoshone nation numbered upwards of six thousand, the majority of which lived in large villages. Pah da-hewak um da was the Shoshone name of their principal chief, although his brother, Moh-woom-hah, was almost as highly regarded. Under them came the head chiefs of each village, and under these were numerous lesser chiefs. There were also many warriors who enjoyed nearly as much influence as the chiefs and elders, all of whom would have to be convinced that a council with the Utes was in the best interests of the nation before they would consent to it. The more he considered the matter, the more daunting his task seemed.
The core problem, Nate knew, was in the very democratic structure of Indian society, which put the white man’s so-called democracy to shame. In the States, whenever politicians took it into their addled heads to put into effect a new law, the people had to go along with the edict whether they liked the law or not. Shoshones were under no such constraints. The head chiefs could suggest policies, but the lesser chiefs and warriors could refuse to go along if they judged the policies to be flawed.
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