For the longest time Nate simply stood there, staring at his vanquished foe. Such hatred! He’d never known anyone to express such sheer malice. The Blackfoot had cursed him with his dying breath. And why? Just because of the color of his skin.
What had the man meant about his brothers? Was the remark meant literally, or in the sense that all men in a tribe were considered to be spiritual brothers? He realized the man had not bothered to give his name, but at least he now knew the name of the tall Indian with the sword. White Bear.
A low whinny brought Nate out of his reflection to stare at the Blackfoot’s horse. It wore a leather bridle, not the rope war bridle usually used by Indians on a raid. He remembered Baxter telling how his pack animal was stolen, and deduced this must be the same animal. But why was a lone Blackfoot riding it so far from the rest of the band? Had this man been sent to scout for the Ute village and found the camp instead, then decided to wait and ambush whoever showed up?
Feeling extremely fatigued, Nate stepped to the fading fire and sat down to rest. He could afford five minutes, no more. And more than anything else he needed food. He wiped the knife clean on the grass, slid the blade back into the sheath, and walked to the rack of drying grizzly meat. Most of the strips would have to be left behind. What a waste. He grabbed a handful and returned to the fire to eat.
What was he going to do about the horses? Not counting his mare, there were five animals to lead. Would he jeopardize his chances to rescuing Shakespeare and Baxter if he took all of them along? They were bound to make noise. But if he stayed far enough from the war party the odds of being heard or seen were quite slim. Since horses were one of a man’s most valuable commodities in the wild, along with a good rifle, he elected to take them.
The bear meat tasted tangy and made him thirsty. After eating he ventured to the spring and drank his fill, gulping the cold water and letting it spill over his lips and chin. With his meal out of the way, he prepared for the pursuit.
First he buried the Blackfoot. Not that he felt any obligation to treat the warrior in a civilized manner, but he didn’t want any buzzards to circle overhead and draw attention to the campsite.
Next he loaded the supplies onto the horses, distributing the packs evenly on his pack animal, Shakespeare’s pack animal, Baxter’s pack animal, and Baxter’s horse. This way the horses carried lighter loads and could move faster. He didn’t put any packs on the mountain man’s white horse. Like the mare, it was one of the family, so to speak, and deserved better treatment.
He crammed as much bear meat into several packs as he could, knowing the opportunities to hunt on the trail would be few and far between. Then he extinguished the fire and scattered the ashes with his foot. The horses were permitted to slake their thirst, and in short order he was mounted and leading the string in the direction of the Blackfoot forts.
Was there anything he’d forgotten? Both pistols were loaded and wedged under his belt and the Hawken was across his thighs. He’d tossed the warrior’s lance into the trees, but kept the tomahawk; it now nestled in a pack beside a different tomahawk he’d taken from another Blackfoot months ago.
All the way back he worried the Blackfeet would be gone. He grinned when he drew close enough to see the forts and saw several warriors moving about. They were three hundred yards off, which was as close as he dared get.
Nate dismounted, hid the horses in a dense stand of pines, and moved a dozen yards nearer to spy on the war party. He hoped to catch a glimpse of his friends. The guards were still posted outside the middle fort, but Shakespeare and Baxter never appeared.
The remaining hours of the day dragged past. Nate refused to leave again, no matter what, and occupied himself noting the activities of the Blackfeet. The quartet dispatched earlier returned bearing a dead deer. Two others spent their time fishing. Others gathered roots. Despite being in Ute territory, they posted no sentries.
Evening arrived. The Blackfeet entered their forts and shortly thereafter smoke poured from the tops of each. The many tales he’d heard about the fierce warriors of the northern plains and mountains were all true, as he well knew from prior experience. They were a proud people, the toughest tribe on the frontier, the most feared of all, and they were aware of the fact. They adopted a condescending attitude toward other tribes and would never show fear, even in the face of overwhelming odds.
Night settled in. Nate went to his pack animal and took a blanket from a pack. Covering his shoulders, he stepped to his vantage point and continued watching.
Except for emerging to relieve themselves or to enjoy some fresh air, the Blackfeet stayed in their forts. Loud laughter intermittently wafted on the breeze. Once, incredibly, the occupants of the northernmost fort burst into song, a rhythmic chant that went on for half an hour.
Nate ate more cold bear meat before retiring. He curled up at the base of a tree, pulled the blanket tight, and closed his eyes, wishing he had a cozy fire to lie beside. In his mind’s eye he reviewed the day’s events and counted himself fortunate to be alive. If he wanted to stay that way, tomorrow he would have to be more alert, more cautious, than ever before. One mistake could cost him his life, not to mention the consequences for the mountain man and the Ohioan. He hoped he wouldn’t have any difficulty in falling asleep, and didn’t.
~*~
The chattering of a squirrel in the tree above awoke Nate with a start and he sat up, blinking and trying to organize his thoughts. He glanced at the sun and thought he must be dreaming. It hung well above the eastern horizon. The morning was half over.
Shakespeare and Baxter!
He leaped upright and stared at the forts. There wasn’t a Blackfoot anywhere. No! No! No! He couldn’t have slept so long. Stumbling in his haste, he ran to the horses, untied them, put the blanket in a pack, and mounted the mare. Of all the times to oversleep! Why now? Why when Shakespeare needed him the most?
Nate galloped to the forts and didn’t bother to inspect them. There was no doubt the war party had departed hours ago, probably at first light. But which way? He looked in all directions and finally chose to go north. Their home territory was to the north. Hopefully, they would also stick with the stream for as far as they could.
Kneeing the mare, he gave belated chase. Since the warriors were on foot, they would leave few tracks, certainly not enough for an inexperienced tracker to follow. He kept his gaze on the land ahead, praying he would spot them before they saw him.
He traveled a mile. Two. Three. Still there was no sign of the band. Stubbornly he pressed on, refusing to give up. If, as he surmised, the war party had headed out at daylight, and if they covered four miles an hour, which was about the average over such rugged terrain, and if the current time was between nine and ten, then the Blackfeet had already gone twelve miles. Nine or ten more and he would be close on their heels.
Nate ignored everything around him. All he cared about was catching up. When the packhorses lagged he tugged brutally on the rope. He tried not to think about what would happen if he failed to find the band. If they had turned from the stream at any point, his companions were doomed.
Four more miles went by. Once he spooked a small herd of mountain buffalo, and another time a panther bounded into the underbrush at his approach.
The higher the sun climbed, the hotter it became. Sweat caked his skin, and he repeatedly moped his sleeve across his forehead. By all rights he should stop and let the animals drink, but he refused. They would drink when he did.
When he’d gone over ten miles he slowed slightly, afraid he would blunder upon the war party and ruin everything. Two more miles fell behind him and still they didn’t appear. He saw a bend in the stream two hundred yards to the north, a gradual loop to the west. Trees prevented him from seeing beyond it. Slowing even more, he warily neared the bend, riding along a narrow strip of clear ground at the water’s edge. With his attention exclusively focused on the curve, he neglected to scan the trees at his left elbow, and paid for his oversight when a muscul
ar form hurtled from a limb and slammed him from the saddle.
Chapter Nine
Nate came down hard on his back, the Indian straddling him, and felt a hand clamped over his mouth. He looked up, expecting to see a knife or tomahawk spearing at his chest, and instead saw the smiling face of Two Owls. Astounded, he simply lay there as the Ute slid off and signed a greeting.
“We meet again, Grizzly Killer.”
In order to communicate Nate had to push himself into a sitting posture. “What are you doing here?” he bluntly asked.
“Repaying the debt I owe you.”
“What debt?” Nate inquired in confusion.
“You spared me, gave me my freedom. My life was in your hands, yet you chose not to take it. More importantly, you treated me as a human being, with respect and dignity. Now I am here to repay the debt.”
Nate was about to inform the Ute it wasn’t necessary when he remembered the overriding sense of obligation and duty Indians possessed. If you did Indians a kindness they naturally expected to be able to return the favor, and were insulted if you refused.
Two Owls pointed at the bend. “If I had not stopped you, you would have ridden straight into the war party. They are resting up ahead.”
“Thank you,” Nate said, wondering why the warrior didn’t just voice a warning.
As if he’d sensed Nate’s thoughts, Two Owls related, “I would have called out to you but you do not speak the Ute tongue. And also, I did not want to be shot if you mistook me for a Blackfoot.”
Nate looked around. “Did any of your people come with you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It was as I told you it would be. I explained all that had happened to me and advised them you are a man to be trusted, a man deserving of our help, and although some of them were of the same opinion, the majority refused to aid a white man.”
“But what about the Blackfeet? Surely they wanted to send warriors to repulse the invaders.”
“Some did. The others were of the opinion our tribe should devote itself to protecting the village, which at this very moment they are in the process of moving far to the south.”
“They are running?”
Two Owls’ lips tightened. “There are scores of women, children, and the elderly in our village. Would you have us leave all of them unprotected while the warriors go after the Blackfeet?”
“But there are only fourteen. Your tribe can easily defeat them.”
“Where there are fourteen there are often fifty. The Blackfeet frequently divide their war parties into smaller bands and spread out to cover more area. My people could not be certain there is just this one small band.”
“So you came back all by yourself,” Nate signed, and only then fully appreciated the implications. Here was a Ute warrior, sworn enemy of all trappers and mountain men, hazarding his life to assist a white man. And why? Not because of an abiding bond of friendship; they’d hardly known each other. No, it was because of the basic bond of shared humanity.
Two Owls grinned. “The Blackfeet should not be allowed to raid our country with impunity.”
“How did your family feel about your leaving?”
“My wife was not happy but she did not object. My sons were excited and asked me to bring home the hair of many Blackfeet.”
Standing, Nate brushed twigs and dirt from his buckskins and reclaimed his rifle. “Did you see my friends?”
“Yes. They are still alive. I returned to the Blackfoot camp shortly before sunrise and watched them leave, then followed. I am very surprised you did not appear. Where were you?”
Nate wasn’t about to embarrass himself by disclosing he’d overslept, so he fibbed. “I was jumped by a lone Blackfoot at my camp and killed him.” Before he could begin a lengthy elaboration the Ute interrupted.
“What did you do with him?”
“Buried the body. What else?”
Two Owls looked at the pack animals. “Where is his hair?”
“I let him keep it.”
The warrior looked bewildered. “You did not scalp him?”
“I forgot.”
Two Owls shook his head several times. “I will never understand the white man if I live a hundred and twenty winters.”
For want of anything better to say, Nate signed, “One hundred and twenty winters? No one lives that long.”
“Many of our people do. And I have heard of men from other tribes who lived equally as long.”
One hundred and twenty years? Nate decided to check into the matter later. Right now he walked to the mare and patted her neck, thankful she hadn’t spooked when the Ute jumped him.
Two Owls came over. “Do you want to see the Blackfoot camp?”
“Yes.”
“Come with me.”
Obediently Nate trailed after the warrior as Two Owls angled into the trees and headed northward. They crept forward until they could see the stream again. Seated or lying at ease on the bank, approximately seventy-five yards from the curve, were the Blackfeet. Positioned on their knees near the water, probably so they couldn’t try to flee into the woods, were Shakespeare and Baxter. The Ohioan sagged, the worse for wear, but the mountain man had his shoulders squared and his eyes fixed balefully on his captors.
“They will leave soon,” Two Owls disclosed. “We must be ready to follow.”
Nate let the warrior lead them back to his horses. On the way Two Owls detoured a few dozen yards and retrieved his own horse.
Once back in the saddle, Nate rode slowly toward the bend. The Ute came alongside.
“Tonight I will begin to pick them off.”
“What do you mean?”
Two Owls reached back and patted the bow slung in its buckskin case over his left shoulder. “I will kill them one by one.”
“Is that wise?”
“We are outnumbered. We must reduce the odds.”
“And the Blackfeet will know we are after them.”
“So? They have a great deal distance to travel. In five suns most of them will be dead.”
“And what am I supposed to do while you are picking them off?”
“Stay far back. They will not find you.”
Nate reined up and the Ute did the same. “What about my friends? What will the Blackfeet do to them?”
Two Owls shrugged. “I do not know.”
“The Blackfeet might kill them.”
“Perhaps. But I doubt it. The Blackfeet want to take them back to their village.”
“Once you start killing those warriors, who knows what will happen? I am sorry. I cannot permit you to kill any Blackfeet until I have freed my friends.”
“You cannot permit me?” Two Owls said.
“No.”
“How will you stop me?”
“I will do whatever is necessary,” Nate stated, leaving the rest to the Ute’s imagination. He detected a flicker of resentment in the warrior’s eyes and tensed. This would be a true test of how much he could rely on the man.
A minute elapsed during which Two Owls stared at the youth without blinking. Finally he nodded curtly. “As you wish. I will not slay the dogs until you have rescued your friends.”
“Thank you again.”
“Provided you can free them within two days,” Two Owl added.
Nate frowned. Why the time constraint? What difference did it make if he took two days or ten? “Two days is not enough time.”
“It is all I can spare. In three days they will be at the limit of Ute territory and I promised my wife I would go no further. Giving you two days leaves me one day to kill as many of them as I can.”
“And if I do not agree?”
“In three days I start killing whether you have rescued your companions or not.”
There was no doubt the Ute meant it. Nate had two choices. Push the issue and possibly have a fight on his hands or cause Two Owls to go off and stalk the war party now, or play along and try to save Shakespeare and Baxter in the allott
ed time. Since forty-eight hours were better than none, he chose to agree. “I will try to save them within two days.”
“Good. Do not fear. Two days is more than enough.”
“I hope so.”
They rode to within ten feet of the bend and dismounted to check on the band. The Blackfeet were already on the march, staying close to the stream, the captives walking at the middle of the ragged line.
Nate waited until the war party was out of sight, then climbed on the mare and headed out. He went slowly, well aware a single mistake could prove fatal. Although he resented the time limitation imposed by the Ute, secretly he was glad for the warrior’s company. No one knew how to fight Indians better than another Indian, and the Ute’s advice could prove invaluable.
Two Owls paced his stallion to the left of the mare. “Do you mind if we talk?” he asked.
“What about?”
“I am very curious to learn about the ways of the white man. We have heard many strange stories, some of which cannot possibly be true.”
“What kind of stories?” Nate responded.
“My people have been told the whites believe they can own land, can buy and sell it just as they would a horse or a dog. Is this true?”
“Yes.”
Two Owls chuckled. “This is foolish. The land belongs to all. No one person has any right to own even a blade of grass. The land is ours to roam over as we please.” He paused. “Is it also true the whites live in great stone villages where in the winter the air is choked with smoke from their fires?”
“This is also true.”
“And most whites in these stone villages do not hunt or fish because they have others who do this work for them?”
“Yes.”
“We were also told that many whites do not make their own clothes.”
“In the stone villages this is often the case, but people living outside them still make much of their own clothing.”
A contemptuous snort reflected the Ute’s opinion of the white way of life. “Your people sound very lazy to me.”
“Pampered is more like it.”
Tomahawk Revenge/ Black Powder Justice (A Wilderness Double Western Book 3) Page 7
