Wilderness Double Edition #8

by David Robbins

  A pregnant silence attended the speech. Broken Paw bowed his head in deep thought for several minutes, then grunted and declared, “You always speak with a straight tongue, Grizzly Killer. We will talk over what you have said and give you our decision in the morning.”

  “I thank you,” Nate said, rising. “I am staying with Winona’s uncle, Spotted Bull. Send someone to get me at any time.” He made his way from the lodge, being careful not to violate proper etiquette by stepping between the warriors and the fire, and inhaled the crisp air once he was outside. The meeting had gone well, he reflected. Now if only they would agree with him!

  Nate headed toward the north side of the village, and saw a pair of familiar faces coming toward him from that direction. One was Spotted Bull himself, the other Spotted Bull’s son, Touch the Clouds, who qualified as the single biggest man in the entire tribe. A strapping six feet, ten inches tall, Touch the Clouds had been blessed with an awesome physique and a noble mien. Some felt that one day he would be the chief of chiefs since, although he was still a young man, his feats in battle were legendary. Which in itself wasn’t surprising. Touch the Clouds was twice as strong as most men. His war club was three times the size of those carried by his fellows, and his stout bow could outshoot any other. In addition, his lance was akin to a sapling. Rare was the enemy who could stand up to so fearsome an adversary.

  “Greetings, friends,” Nate hailed them.

  “How did your talk go?” Spotted Bull inquired. An older, dignified warrior, whose hair bore rare streaks of gray, he ranked in importance only behind Broken Paw himself.

  “Fine. I think they will see the benefit to be had from a truce.”

  Touch the Clouds folded his brawny arms across his massive chest and remarked, “Winona has told us about the theft of your horse. Do you think those two Utes followed you this far?”

  “I doubt it. They would not risk running into a Shoshone hunting party.”

  “She also told us about the missing parfleche,” Spotted Bull said. “Taking that was a strange thing to do.”

  “The whole incident was unusual,” Nate admitted. “I have no idea what to make of it. But since my family is safe now, those two no longer concern me.” He patted his stomach and continued. “What does matter is the statement you made last night about being short of food. I would like to go out hunting and perhaps bring you back a deer or an elk.”

  “A fine idea,” Touch the Clouds said. “Sitting around doing nothing bores me so much I want to scream. I will go with you.”

  “And I as well,” said Spotted Bull. “We will make a competition of it and see who can drop the first animal.” Within an hour the three of them were heading westward, Zach an addition to their plans, riding proudly beside his father. This was the first hunt he had ever gone on with other warriors and he wanted to prove himself to them.

  Because elk and deer invariably came out to graze during the early morning and evening hours and stayed secreted in thickets the rest of the day, the four made for the forested slopes of an adjacent mountain. By moving along the tree line and examining all the game trails leading up from the low meadows, they were soon able to find a trail bearing fresh elk prints.

  “What do you say?” Touch the Clouds spoke. “Our wives will make a new shirt of the hide of the first animal killed for whoever brings it down?”

  “Let it be so,” Nate said, hoping Winona wouldn’t give him a piece of her mind over the extra work if he was the one who lost.

  They ascended the slope, which was not very steep, and shortly separated when the game trail did the same, one branch bearing to the south, one to the north. Nate and Zach took the south fork, Nate in the lead with the stock of the Hawken braced against his thigh.

  The game trail wound among the thickly clustered pines and down into a gully where a creek gurgled. From his vantage point on the crest, Nate spotted three black bears lumbering up the creek toward him. He was inclined to let them pass unmolested. Although not as formidable as grizzlies, black bears could be fierce when they wanted to be. Quite often they traveled in bunches of from two to five in number, and the instant they set sight on a man they might charge. But Touch the Clouds had not specified what kind of animal must be slain to win the shirt, and Nate wanted to spare his wife the long hours of labor required to make such a garment.

  “Stay quiet,” Nate whispered to Zach. Dismounting, he ground-hitched the stallion and crept partway down the gully to a large boulder, where he crouched and cocked the Hawken. Waiting expectantly, he presently heard the splash of heavy paws in the shallow water.

  Peeking out, Nate observed the first bear go by below. The second shuffled in its wake. By far the biggest, the third bear stopped to quench its thirst, giving Nate the chance to take precise aim before firing. At the blast the bear staggered to one side, its head and shoulder slumping low to the ground, its hind end elevated. The other two bears whirled. Then the first one dashed back to sniff at its shot companion. Growling hideously, it turned to scan the gully.

  Nate was hurriedly reloading, keeping one eye on the three beasts as he did. He was confident the untouched pair would soon wander off. But he’d reckoned without his horses, one of which suddenly whinnied.

  Needing only that sound to focus its fury, the first bear sprang up the slope, moving incredibly fast for so bulky a creature.

  The Hawken was not quite ready. Nate had poured black powder down the barrel, but had not had time to insert the lead ball. Yet he dared not let the bear reach his horses—or his son. Throwing caution aside, he gripped a pistol, yanked it out, and stepped into the open, directly in the path of the onrushing brute. He pointed the pistol at its head and fired when the bruin was less than fifteen feet away.

  Tumbling end over end, the bear crashed to earth, its momentum carrying it forward, upward. Nate thought for a second that he would be bowled over, but the beast came to rest almost at his very feet. He looked down at the blood oozing from the neat hole in its skull, and exhaled in relief that turned out to be premature.

  The bear’s eyes, which had been closed, blinked wide, and it came off the ground in a scrambling surge of bestial wrath, its enormous jaws gaping wide to seize the thing that had brought it such agony.

  Nate saw the bear’s tapered teeth. He saw saliva dripping from its mouth and the gleam of savagery in its dark eyes. And he threw himself to the right, next to the boulder. To his rear was a loud snap as the bear’s teeth crunched onto empty air. Then he was darting around the base of the boulder, temporarily out of the bear’s reach, seeking somewhere to conceal himself while he finished reloading the Hawken. It packed a heftier wallop than his pistols and would put the bear down for certain.

  On the crest a rifle boomed.

  Halting, Nate glanced on high. A cloud of smoke wreathed Zach’s head. The boy was already in the act of reloading, as well he should be since the bear had still not fallen and was racing up the gully toward him. Thinking only of his son’s safety, Nate ran after the bear, catching it as it tried to negotiate a sheer section. Without a thought to the consequences he hauled off and smacked it on the buttocks with his flintlock to divert its attention from Zach. He succeeded all too well.

  Zach witnessed his father’s action. He watched, agape, as the bear whirled and delivered a sweeping blow that sent his pa flying. Believing Nate to be gravely hurt, Zach jabbed his heels into his horse and galloped over the rim, forcing the horse to ride straight at the black bear. His mount neighed in fright and attempted to change course, but gravity worked in Zach’s favor, causing the horse to slip and slide, right into the bear.

  Struck broadside, the beast squalled at the impact and toppled, rolling like a downed tree down the incline.

  At the bottom, Nate had come to rest in the creek. Cold water splashed onto his face and drenched the front of his buckskins. Disregarding the sensations, he pushed to his feet and found himself in as bad a fix as mortal man ever conceived of.

  To Nate’s right lay the big
bear he had shot. In front of him stood the burly second bear. And tumbling down the gully toward him was the first bear. Bears, bears everywhere, and he only had one loaded pistol at his disposal. Flashing the gun out, he aimed at the second bear’s right eye and fired.

  The very next second an avalanche seemed to smash into Nate, sweeping him off his feet and into the brush on the opposite side of the creek. Dazed, he wound up on his back with a heavy weight athwart his legs. Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, he looked down and discovered with a start the weight was the first bear, lying motionless.

  “Pa!” Zach bellowed, bringing his mount to the bottom at a reckless pace.

  Nate barely heard. He had drawn his butcher knife and whipped it above his head to stab before the bear ripped him apart. The animal, though, hadn’t budged. Cautiously, Nate gave it a hard nudge with the tip of the blade, and the huge head swayed a fraction. Otherwise, there was no sign of life left.

  “Pa!” Zach repeated, galloping up in a spray of water and dust. He could see his father’s moccasins protruding from under the first bear’s neck but not his father’s body, and he leaped from the saddle with his knife in hand to do whatever was necessary to save his pa. A calm voice stopped him cold.

  “Quit your squawking, son. My head hurts enough as it is.”

  Zach sped around the bear and beamed. “You’re alive! For a while there I thought this she-bear had busted every bone you have.”

  “It feels that way,” Nate admitted. Grunting, he sat up and replaced his knife in its sheath. “What about the second bear? Did it run off?”

  “That one dropped flat when you shot it. We got them all. Every last one.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “Huh? What’s wrong, Pa?”

  “You’ll see in a minute,” Nate said, his head cocked as he listened to the drumming beat of swiftly approaching horses. Leaning forward, he gripped the dead bear by its ears and raised the head high enough to pull his legs free. His ribs aching abominably, he stood.

  Spotted Bull and Touch the Clouds raced to the scene with arrows nocked to their bowstrings. The giant gaped at the bear in the creek, the bear by the creek, and the bear a few yards from the creek near Nate and Zach, and declared angrily, “I hate it when you do this.”

  “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill all three.”

  “You always say that,” Touch the Clouds complained. “Remember the time you killed two grizzlies? And one of them, old Silver Hair, was the largest bear ever seen by any man living? You said that was an accident also.”

  “When an animal is trying to tear you to pieces, does it matter how your life is saved?”

  “That is not my point.” Touch the Clouds slid his arrow into the quiver on his back, then explained. “When I was a boy, I looked forward to the day when I would be known as the greatest hunter and warrior in the whole tribe. The people of our village now see me as the most fearless warrior, but they see you as the best of hunters. So only half my dream has come true.”

  “Are you angry at me over this?”

  “No. I will always be happy to number you among my best of friends,” the giant answered, and again he surveyed the dead bears. “But I still hate it when you do this.”

  Nate and Zach set to work butchering the three carcasses while Spotted Bull and Touch the Clouds went back for pack animals. When the two Shoshones returned with four horses in tow, Spotted Bull dismounted and came over chuckling.

  “You should have seen what my son did.”

  “What?” Nate asked, pausing to wipe blood, gore, and fat off his forearms by rubbing them on the grass.

  “He rode among the lodges shouting, ‘Grizzly Killer has done it again! Grizzly Killer has done it again,’ and then he would not tell them what you had done. So now everyone is waiting for us to show up so you can tell your tale.”

  The giant’s deed, which would be regarded as silly or childish by most whites, was actually fraught with significance, and Nate glanced up at him to say sincerely, “Thank you. A third of this bear meat is yours.” He knew that Touch the Clouds had done him a fine favor by announcing the news.

  Performing a brave exploit was only part of the way a warrior earned recognition for his valor. If he told no one and had no witnesses, he would never achieve the notoriety he sought. Therefore every warrior was expected, even encouraged, to become an orator of sorts, to regale the tribe with tales of his daring. A particularly notable feat would have to be told and retold endlessly until everyone had heard the news. In this way fame was spread.

  The warriors considered this so crucial that when a war party came back successfully, they would not permit any single brave to ride on ahead and perhaps spoil everything by letting it be known what they had done before they got there. The warriors enjoyed the public recognition their courage garnered them, and they would fly into a rage should anyone presume to deny them their due.

  Touch the Clouds, by advertising Nate’s accomplishment, had aroused interest to a fever pitch. He had, in effect, enhanced Nate’s prestige by making Nate the topic of every tongue. The Shoshones would swamp Nate with requests to hear of the killing of the three bears, keeping him busy going from lodge to lodge until each and every person knew the facts. It was rare for one warrior to do such a thing for another, simply because competition for high honors was so intense. The giant had shown not only the depth of his friendship, but the magnitude of his humility.

  “I am grateful for your offer,” Touch the Clouds responded sincerely.

  Nate pointed at the bear in the creek. “There is the meat you can have. You will notice it is still wrapped inside a hide, so you might as well have both.”

  “You are giving me the whole bear?”

  “I cannot give you all three because Winona will want one and the other is Spotted Bull’s.”

  “Mine?” the venerable warrior blurted out. He blinked and covered his mouth with his hand, which was the Indian way of expressing amazement.

  Hunters quite frequently shared their spoils. Giving away entire bears, however, had never been done before, and before long stories of Nate’s generosity would be circulating along with those of his hunting prowess.

  “There was a time,” Touch the Clouds said, his voice oddly strained, “when I thought all whites were worthless, more like animals than men, only interested in drinking and fighting and filling their pockets with the strange metal they seem to worship.” He advanced and placed his huge hand on Nate’s shoulder. “You have shown me different, Grizzly Killer. There are whites who have the heart and spirit of an Indian. There are whites who are in every way our equals.”

  The next several hours were busy ones. The meat was wrapped inside the hides and tied onto the packhorses. All the claws and the tails were stuffed into a parfleche. Using tomahawks, Nate and Touch the Clouds cracked the skulls of all three beasts and removed the brains so their wives could use them to make the paste so essential to treating skins.

  They were a gleeful foursome as they headed down from the mountain, and Spotted Bull started them singing. Nate, riding in the lead, gazed out over the pristine valley and saw the two blue-green forks of the stream sparkling in the bright sunlight and gray ribbons of smoke rising from many of the lodges. At times such as this he was profoundly thankful he had mustered the courage to leave New York City years ago and venture to the frontier. He shuddered to think how his life would have turned out had he stayed: years spent chained to a desk at an accounting firm, poring over heavy books hour after hour, day after day. Sometimes, he reflected, a person had to take risks in order to gain greater rewards.

  Nate picked up the pace once they reached the flatland. He was surprised to see a lone rider galloping toward them when they were still over a mile from the village, and his surprise changed to consternation when he presently recognized the rider as his wife.

  “That’s Ma, Pa!” Zach exclaimed simultaneously.

  “I know.”

  “What the dick
ens could she want?”

  “We’ll soon find out,” Nate said, feeling his stomach muscles involuntarily tighten. Winona would not be coming to meet them unless she had a very important reason, and something told him he wouldn’t like hearing what it was.

  Her long hair flowing, her supple body molded to her mare as if she had been born in the saddle, Winona applied her quirt furiously. She met them in a field of grass, reining up so sharply her horse slid a few feet, and announced urgently in Shoshone, “I thought you should know right away, my husband. Something unusual has happened.”

  “What?” Nate responded.

  “Dog with Horns has just arrived in our village. And I was told he has been asking about you.”

  Chapter Seven

  Every man, woman, and child had turned out to see Moh woom hah, or Dog with Horns, one of the most noted Shoshone warriors and brother to Mighty Thunder in Sky himself. Even Chief Broken Paw, Lame Elk, and the other elders were on hand, as the unwritten protocol of their people demanded, to honor the illustrious brave.

  Nate saw the throng packed together at the center of the village when he rode in from the north. Making for Spotted Bull’s lodge, he tethered his horse and helped strip the hides, meat, and parfleches off the pack animals. Next he checked to be sure all of his guns had been reloaded, and only then did he head for the scene of all the fuss, his son and wife by his side. Winona’s uncle and Touch the Clouds followed.

  Fifteen warriors were included in Dog with Horns’s party. They were all laughing and joking with Broken Paw’s people, some embracing relatives or friends they had not seen since the last gathering of the entire tribe. At the very middle of the crowd stood Dog with Horns himself, conversing with Broken Paw and Lame Elk.

  Nate studied the man as he made his way through the Shoshones. The hothead was exactly as described: a short, stocky individual whose bronzed physique rippled with layers of muscle. Dog with Horns stood with his shoulders squared and his chin jutting out defiantly at the world, the very picture of human arrogance. He had a bullet pouch and powder horn slung across his broad chest, and clutched in his right hand was a rifle. But it wasn’t one of the typical cheap trade rifles the Indians received in exchange for beaver pelts. It wasn’t a fusee. No, this was a genuine Hawken, almost a virtual copy of Nate’s own gun. And it gave Nate food for thought.