Wilderness Double Edition #8

by David Robbins

  Even in times of war such independent streaks were condoned. A renowned warrior might lead a raid into enemy territory, but those under him were not required to heed his every command, and indeed could do as they saw fit whenever they wanted. Which they often did in order to earn the coup they needed to advance in standing so they could become renowned warriors or even chiefs.

  “I reckon my best bet,” Nate voiced his thoughts aloud, “is to have a talk with Pah da-hewak um da. If I can persuade him, he can call a general council and maybe persuade the others.”

  “A fine plan, husband,” Winona said. “But it might be prudent to invite Moh woom hah to your meeting also. If you do not, he will feel slighted and refuse to go along with the idea out of hurt pride.”

  “True,” Nate admitted. Sometimes, he reflected, Indian politics was even more complicated than the white variety. He stopped pacing and turned. “Do you have any idea where their villages would be at this time of year?” The question was crucial, since as a general rule villages were seldom kept in one place more than two weeks at a time to prevent sanitary problems.

  “Pah da-hewak um da will be at the head of the Snake River. His brother might be on the east branch.”

  “That’s a far piece,” Nate remarked. Sitting down again, he addressed their guest. “I will do as you want, Two Owls. Only do not hold it against me if the Shoshones do not come.”

  The chief reached across the table to affectionately clasp both of Nate’s brawny hands. Then he signed, “You have my deepest gratitude, my friend. Between us we might be able to save many lives.” Rising, he started for the door. “And now I must go.”

  “So soon?” Nate asked in surprise. “You are welcome to stay the night. We have plenty of coffee and deer meat, enough for all those who came with you. Why rush off when you have only just arrived?”

  “I spread the word among my people that I was going on the warpath against the Arapahos. I must return before some suspect my real reason for leaving.”

  “I do not understand,” Nate said.

  “There are some among my tribe who will do all in their power to prevent my people and the Shoshones from meeting,” Two Owls revealed.

  “You told me they do not know about your wish to hold a council.”

  The Ute stared at the floor for a moment. “I did tell my wives, and one of them, I fear, may have passed on the information to her relatives. A brother of hers, The Rattler, came to see me a few sleeps before I left. He confided that he knew of my intentions, and he made it plain that he would oppose me if I tried to carry them out.”

  “Why?”

  “The Rattler lost his father to the Shoshones a few winters ago. Now he hates them so much he cannot think about them with a clear head. His heart rules his brain.”

  “How difficult can he be? What can he do other than tell the other chiefs and try to sway them against you?”

  “There is no telling with The Rattler. He is as unpredictable as he is dangerous.” A cloud seemed to descend on Two Owls’s features. “Let me tell you a story to make my point. Not long ago The Rattler was attracted to a young woman in our village. So was another warrior, Stalking Moon. They courted her as is our custom, and the time came when she made it known that she preferred Stalking Moon. The Rattler was furious. But he was also clever. He began to do little things to anger Stalking Moon, things like inviting Stalking Moon to a feast and having him sit in the least position of honor. There were many such instances, and after each one Stalking Moon was a little angrier. Then came the day that The Rattler let it be known one of his favorite horses was missing. Everyone knew this horse, a white stallion with a black star on its forehead. And soon word spread that it was tied with Stalking Moon’s animals.”

  Nate could see where the tale was leading, and he felt a strong dislike for The Rattler even though he had never met the man.

  “The elders gathered,” Two Owls had gone on. “Stalking Moon was called before them and asked to explain himself. He said he did not know how the white horse got there. He swore he had not stolen it, and pointed out that doing so would be foolish since the whole village knew who owned it. They accepted his explanation, and he soon returned the horse. The Rattler was smiling when he received the reins. He assured Stalking Moon that he had known all along Stalking Moon would never stoop to thievery. Stalking Moon said nothing, but we all knew how he felt. He wanted revenge for the insults, and he made the mistake one day of questioning The Rattler’s courage in the presence of other warriors. The Rattler struck him with his quirt. Enraged, Stalking Moon drew his knife, but was stabbed before he could strike. Everyone agreed that he had been in the wrong by going for his blade, so The Rattler was never punished.”

  “He sounds dangerous, all right,” Nate remarked. “As dangerous as a real rattlesnake.”

  “So you can see why I must get back to my village quickly,” Two Owls said.

  Reluctantly, Nate crossed to the door and removed the heavy bar. He propped it against the wall, worked the latch, and motioned for the chief to precede him outside.

  “I am sorry I could not stay longer,” Two Owls signed as he advanced. “It would be nice to talk over old times.” He was going to say more, but a streaking shaft suddenly flashed out of the night and thudded into the front of the door within inches of his chest.

  Chapter Three

  Two Owls stood stunned, gaping at the quivering arrow, heedless of being framed in the light of the doorway, a perfect target should the unseen assassin seek to try again.

  Intuition impelled Nate to leap, his arms extended. He caught hold of the chief around the waist and bore them both to the hard ground outside as a second deadly shaft cleaved the same space Two Owls had just occupied and thudded into the wood. Nate wound up on top. Rolling to the right, he whipped out a pistol as he rose to his knee. Something moved in the trees to the east, an elusive glimmer of motion hard to pinpoint, and Nate cocked the hammer and snapped off a shot.

  At the retort there was a chorus of shouts and cries. From out of the forest south of the cabin poured the warriors in the chief’s band, all with their varied weapons at the ready. Mistakenly thinking their leader was being assaulted, some of them charged the one they thought responsible.

  Nate saw a tall brave raise a lance to hurl at him. He coiled his legs to jump when a sharp word from Two Owls brought the onrushing warriors up short. Instructions were barked. The Utes immediately fanned out and sped into the woods to the east, going after the real culprit.

  “I am in your debt once more, Grizzly Killer,” Two Owls signed.

  “Who would have done such a thing?” Nate asked, moving to the door in the hope of getting a clue. Since all tribes constructed their arrows a bit differently, identifying the origin of a particular shaft was done by studying how it had been made. Further, warriors invariably painted personal symbols on their arrows so they could identify their shafts should they have to gather some up on a battlefield or elsewhere. There was a practical basis for the practice; arrows took a lot of time and energy to make and were too precious to waste.

  But these two, Nate discovered, bore no paint or markings at all. The shafts were plain wood, the fletching added in such a fashion that anyone could have done it. Connecting the arrows to any particular tribe was impossible.

  “The one who made these was shrewd like a fox,” Two Owls signed angrily.

  “It must be one of those who came with you,” Nate speculated. “He slipped away from the others, waited for his chance, then rejoined them as they came running up.”

  “That would be the logical guess.”

  There was a lot of shouting in the woods as the warriors crisscrossed the terrain seeking some sign of the bowman. Nate was not optimistic. Finding sign at night was always difficult, usually next to impossible, especially if the one being sought did not want to be found. He availed himself of the opportunity to reload, and as he finished the warriors were converging. The same tall one who had nearly speared him sp
oke at length with Two Owls, who was scowling when he translated for Nate’s benefit.

  “They found nothing. Whoever it is, I am afraid, will probably try again.”

  “Will you be safe going back to your people?” Nate asked. “You are welcome to stay here until everything has been set up.”

  “I am a warrior, not an old woman. My place is in my village.” Two Owls rested his hand on Nate’s arm briefly, then signed, “Do not let this change your mind. Let nothing stand in your way. Too much is at stake.”

  “I will do as I promised,” Nate vowed. They locked eyes, silently conveying the depth of their commitment.

  “May the Great Mystery watch over you,” Two Owls signed.

  “And you.”

  The Utes vanished as swiftly as they had initially appeared. Nate caught glimpses of them as they flitted through the pines. He saw one stop and look back. Assuming it was the chief, he smiled and waved, and the figure did the same before fading into the gloom.

  “Your friend is a very brave man,” Winona said. Nate nodded and went inside. Both his wife and son had rifles in their hands, which reminded him of the previous incident. “And you’re a brave woman,” he said tactfully, “but you took an awful risk earlier. If the Utes had been hostile, you’d be dead—or worse.”

  “I am Shoshone,” Winona said simply.

  Arguing would have been futile. As any married man could attest, when a woman believed she was in the right, convincing her to change her mind was about as easy as changing the course of a river. So Nate meekly held his tongue and sat down to his long-delayed supper.

  Afterward, the family sat in front of the fire and Nate read to them, a daily practice he had started when Zach was still small. Tonight he picked Chapter Twenty-Two of ‘The Last of the Mohicans’ by James Fenimore Cooper, one of only five books he owned.

  Presently Zach turned in. Nate and Winona cuddled, savoring the tranquility of their home. Then she turned back the blankets on their bed while he tiptoed to the crib he had built a few months after Evelyn was born and lovingly admired her cherubic face.

  Before retiring, Nate made certain the flap covering the window was secure. He sat on the edge of the bed to strip off his moccasins and buckskin shirt. Leaving his britches on, he crawled in beside Winona and heard her giggle when his hands found her back.

  From the corral rose a strident whinny.

  “What now?” Nate groused, sitting up. He was in the mood for loving, not traipsing around in the cold night air.

  “Maybe the stallion and the mare are enjoying themselves,” Winona suggested impishly.

  “That must be it,” Nate agreed, eager to lie back down and resume the massage he had begun. No sooner did his shoulder touch the bed than more whinnies caused Evelyn to shift in her sleep and murmur unintelligibly.

  “If the baby awakens, I might have to stay up with her until she falls asleep again,” Winona mentioned.

  “I get your drift,” Nate said wearily. Lowering his feet to the floor, he padded to the door and picked up his rifle. “Danged critters,” he snapped. “Remind me to shoot one the next time we’re low on meat.”

  “You are not going out like that, are you?” Winona asked.

  “I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” Nate responded, setting the bar down. He wasn’t about to waste time dressing and undressing. Stepping into the night, he shivered as gooseflesh broke out all over him. The woods were quiet, as well they should be at so late an hour, but the horses were still acting up, moving about the pen and snorting. They were even more agitated than they had been when they scented the Utes. Suddenly serious, Nate moved slowly forward.

  Down in the lake something made a tremendous splash.

  A fish? Nate wondered. At the corner he squatted and peered between the pine rails, observing the horses attentively, then focused on the nearby forest. Another bout of shivering made him regret being so impetuous.

  The animals came to an abrupt stop, most of them staring eastward.

  In the same direction the arrows had come from, Nate mused, rotating on his heels. There was a whizzing sound and a fleeting stinging sensation in his left ear a heartbeat before an arrow smacked into the wall. He threw himself prone, jamming the rifle stock to his shoulder as the hidden bowman loosed a second shaft that nearly parted his hair. Knowing the next one wouldn’t miss, Nate rolled to the left. Just in time. An arrow thudded into the earth he had vacated. Frantically he kept on going, rolling over and over and over as rapidly as he could, heading for the open cabin door, keenly aware that if he stopped, he was dead.

  Indians were exceptional archers. As well they should be since most boys were taught to use the bow at an early age. By the time they reached manhood they could consistently hit a target the size of a human head from thirty yards away or more. Not only that, a typical bowman could unleash shafts at an incredible rate. Most were able to fire ten to fifteen in the time it took a white man to fire a flintlock, reload, and fire again.

  So Nate wasn’t about to slow down and be transfixed by a half-dozen barbed shafts before he could regain momentum. He rolled furiously, his hair flying, his shoulders aching, listening to the impact of several arrows, one of which clipped his arm, drawing blood. Then he saw the welcome light cast by the fire’s feeble glow, and at the apex of the next roll he coiled his legs under him and shot at the entrance.

  Yet another arrow struck the doorjamb.

  Nate dived through the opening, hit on his left side, and rolled one final time, away from the exposed portion of floor.

  “Husband!” Winona cried.

  Pushing erect, Nate darted to the right side of the doorway, cocked the Hawken, and peeked out. He thought he heard the crunch of brush receding in the distance, but he couldn’t be positive. Anger almost goaded him into giving chase, but fortunately common sense prevented him from being so rash. He slammed the door, then leaned against the wall and took deep breaths to calm the wild pumping of his heart and the pounding in his temples.

  Winona was at his side quickly. “How badly are you hurt?” she asked, gingerly touching the gash on his arm.

  “I’ve got a few scratches, is all,” Nate said, raising his hand to feel his ear. When he brought the hand down, his fingers were smeared with blood.

  “Pa, what is it? What happened?” Zach inquired, hurrying from the corner where his blankets and quilts were strewn. Over in the crib, Evelyn had awakened and was waving her tiny arms in the air.

  “We have company,” Nate said grimly, straightening. “The same cussed devil that tried to kill Two Owls had a go at me.” Striding to the bed, he swiftly donned his fringed shirt, moccasins, and beaver hat. His wide belt went outside his shirt.

  “I’ll come with you, Pa,” Zach offered eagerly.

  “You’ll stay with your ma and sister,” Nate directed. “If something happens to me, they’ll need a man to help protect them.” He girded his waist with his arsenal and slipped the straps to his powder horn and bullet pouch over his head. Scooping up his rifle from the bed, he made for the door.

  Concern mirrored in her dark eyes, Winona blocked his path. “I would be grateful if you would wait until morning.”

  “He might be long gone by then.”

  “What if there is more than one? Have you thought of that?”

  “Since when do odds bother a mountanee man?” Zach rejoined, adopting a lopsided grin to show her he was funning. She refused, though, to be lighthearted about the prospect of his being killed.

  “Let me go with you if you will not take Stalking Coyote,” Winona proposed, using the Shoshone name for their son. “I can handle a rifle and pistol well. You have said so yourself.”

  “That you can,” Nate allowed. “But what if Evelyn gets hungry? Zach can’t do much for her, can he?” Shaking his head, he gently moved her aside and gripped the latch. “Don’t fret on my account. Shakespeare says I’m too ornery to be killed before I’m at least sixty.”

  “Keep your eyes pee
led,” Winona said softly.

  “Shoot sharp’s the word!” Zach added.

  Nate let his face reflect his love for them, his gaze lingering on Winona. “Keep the bar in place while I’m gone. And no matter what you hear, don’t open up unless I’m right outside telling you to. Savvy?”

  Both of them nodded.

  “See you shortly,” Nate pledged. Quietly lifting the latch, he cracked the door, checked the clear space between the cabin and the trees, then bolted outside and raced madly for the shelter of the pines. Behind him the door slammed and there was the thump of the bar being applied.

  A deathly stillness pervaded the forest. In that silence Nate imagined his breaths were like the puffing of a steam engine. He dropped to a knee behind a trunk and scanned the woods. Not so much as a blade of grass rustled. The wind had died, leaving the forest as motionless as a graveyard. Was the bowman still lurking somewhere out there? Nate mused. Or had the brave left?

  Hefting the Hawken, Nate bore northward, relying on all available cover to screen his movements. His soft moccasins made no sound on the thick carpet of pine needles underfoot. Often he stopped to look and listen, the cardinal rule of surviving in the wild. About fifty yards from the cabin he bore to the east, taking a game trail down to the lakeshore. There he hunkered down at the edge of the undergrowth.

  The surface of the water resembled polished glass, so serene was the night. Here and there floated groups of ducks, geese, and brants, none of which were near Nate. He focused his attention on the barren strip of earth, averaging ten feet in width, that encircled the entire lake. Uppermost in his mind were the sounds he had heard earlier of someone running eastward. If that person intended to cover a lot of ground fast, the easiest route was along the strip bordering the water.

  Nate scoured the shoreline once, saw no one, and was rising to make a search of the woods surrounding his homestead when faint movement on the southeast shore sent a tingle of excitement down his spine. Squinting, he distinguished a lone man trotting toward a point where a stream flowed out of the lake and down across the valley.