Tomahawk Revenge/ Black Powder Justice (A Wilderness Double Western Book 3)

by Robbins, David

  “We are leaving soon. Would you like dried buffalo meat for breakfast?”

  “I would be grateful.”

  Red Elk nodded and departed to fetch the food.

  Another day in the hands of the Blackfeet! Nate frowned at the prospect. Perhaps, though, an opportunity might arise for him to flee. If so, the Blackfeet wouldn’t find him as easy to recapture as Baxter. He was fleet of foot and knew it; few of his childhood companions had ever matched his speed and he’d won practically every race he ever entered. He’d always liked to run, and had often done it for exercise. If the chance came up he’d be off like a shot.

  A minute later Red Elk entered and gave him a half-dozen pieces of meat.

  “Thank you,” Nate signed. He bit off a mouthful and chewed heartily.

  “Today we will join up with another war party,” Red Elk mentioned. “The man who leads it is Chief Medicine Bottle. He is a wise and decent warrior, and I will ask him in private to spare your life.”

  Nate stopped chewing. “Do you really think he will?”

  “I do not know. Even if Medicine Bottle should want to let you go, White Bear will oppose the idea and he has much influence in our councils.”

  Against his better judgment Nate let his hopes climb. “Who will make the final decision?”

  “They might let the warriors take a vote.”

  “Then I am doomed.”

  Red Elk’s lips compressed. “Do not give up hope as long as there is breath in your body. The Great Mystery works in mysterious ways, a man never knows from one minute to the next what his destiny will be.”

  “You have great wisdom for one so young,” Nate said as a compliment.

  “My father, Curly Hair, was known far and wide as a man of outstanding intelligence and his voice always carried exceptional weight in our councils. He taught me well before he was ambushed and killed by lowly Crows.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  “Do not be. My father has passed on to a better world where there is always plenty of game and no white men,” Red Elk signed, and grinned.

  Suddenly a gruff voice bellowed outside.

  “White Bears wants you,” Red Elk translated.

  Clutching the dried meat in his left hand, Nate went out the doorway on his hands and knees and rose. The cool air refreshed him. To the east a rosy glow emanated from below the eastern horizon.

  White Bear and the other warriors were conversing. They all fell silent and the tall Blackfoot turned to Nate.

  “We must make haste today if we are to reach the rendezvous point with our brothers. You will keep up or I will slice off your ears. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Nate responded, gesturing defiantly.

  A wicked sneer curled the hateful warrior’s countenance. “I hope you cannot keep up, white dung. Your ears would look nice on the wall of my lodge.”

  Nate clenched his fists, his blood boiling, but maintained his self-control.

  “We go,” White Bear stated, and then spoke loudly in his own tongue. Off he strode, taking the lead, and the rest dutifully followed.

  The morning hours went by quickly. Nate felt better the farther he walked. Apparently he had not lost enough blood to pose a threat to his life and his organs were all intact. The buffalo meat barely filled his stomach, but they stopped once to drink at a stream and simply quenching his thirst did wonders for his constitution. Several times he tried to draw Red Elk into sign conversation. The warrior was polite but unresponsive and Nate gave up the attempt.

  White Bear led them along valleys, over hills, and around jagged peaks. By noon they were descending a slope into a wide valley distinguished by a lake in the center.

  “We will meet Medicine Bottle there,” Red Elk signed, and nodded at the shimmering body of water.

  Anxiety surged anew in Nate. Soon his fate would be decided. All morning he had waited for the perfect opportunity to run, but although he was at the rear of the line, there were always Blackfeet gazing over their shoulders and watching him. Then too, he didn’t know how much trust he could safely bestow on Red Elk. If he ran, would the warrior be compelled to plant an arrow between his shoulder blades? Obligations were one thing and tribal loyalties quite another, and he was unsure which would win out in the warrior’s heart if he put them to the test.

  They were still half a mile from the lake when figures were spotted moving about and smoke from several fires began rising skyward. White Bear called a halt. Although he believed it was Medicine Bottle’s party, he decided to be on the safe side and sent a warrior ahead to check. Soon the man returned with news that Medicine Bottle was indeed there, having just arrived, and a freshly killed buck was being butchered for a feast.

  All these facts Red Elk relayed for Nate’s benefit. Nate chided himself for being an idiot and not trying to escape anyway, because now it was too late. He counted twenty warriors near the lake. The odds against him had increased drastically.

  White Bear hailed those setting up the camp, and soon the two war parties were mingling and talking excitedly, recounting their exploits since they’d separated to raid the Utes.

  Nate saw a short, stocky, elderly Indian in earnest discussion with White Bear.

  “That is Chief Medicine Bottle,” Red Elk revealed.

  Many were the narrowed eyes cast in Nate’s direction. He read loathing and enmity in many faces. But in one visage there was only curiosity tinged with a trace of sadness. Chief Medicine Bottle stared at him for a full minute. Nate smiled in return and moved his hands to say, “I have heard you are a fair man. I am happy to meet you.”

  The chief displayed no reaction and did not answer, but his discussion with White Bear became more animated.

  “The other war party did not locate a Ute village either,” Red Elk disclosed. “They found a spot where many lodges had been camped, but the Utes had gone. If not for your capture, this raid would shame us all.”

  “What else are they saying?”

  “Some of them are very mad we lost six warriors. One man over there wants to cut off your head. Another says your privates should be hacked off and forced down your throat—”

  “That is enough,” Nate signed, interrupting. “As I said before, I am doomed.”

  Red Elk motioned at a nearby fire. “Why not rest until the matter is decided.”

  Gladly Nate complied. Sitting close to the flames, his chin on his knees, he focused on the tips of his moccasins and closed his mind to contemplation of his fate. Or tried to. There was no doubt the Blackfeet would elect to torture him. Once he knew for certain, once they came to grab him, he would fight to the death. If he could grab a weapon they would be forced to kill him on the spot instead of carrying out their fiendish designs, and a speedy end was vastly preferable to slow, lingering torment.

  Footsteps crunched on the ground behind him.

  Twisting, Nate discovered Chief Medicine Bottle. The older man’s eyes seemed to probe into the depths of his being.

  “I am told you are known as Grizzly Killer.”

  “Yes. The name was given to me by a Cheyenne.”

  “And have you killed many grizzlies?” Medicine Bottle signed.

  “Only three.”

  “That is more than most men, Indian or white. You must be brave, and you will shortly need all of your bravery. In a while a meeting will be called and we will decide what to do with you. A few want to take you to our village. Many others are incensed at the deaths of their brothers and want to kill you now.”

  “Where do you stand?”

  “I will do as the Great Mystery guides me to do.” So signing, the stately warrior turned and started to walk off. Red Elk addressed him and they exchanged words. Medicine Bottle glanced down at Nate and grunted, then left.

  “What did the two of you talk about?” Nate inquired.

  Red Elk walked to the other side of the campfire and sat down. “I asked him to spare your life as I said I would. He told me he will do his best to help. I must g
uard you while the council is in progress. Would you like to talk or be alone with your thoughts?”

  “Talk,” Nate responded gratefully. He watched the rest of the warriors gather twenty feet away, to the west. The feast seemed to be momentarily forgotten.

  “You do not show any fear. That is good,” Red Elk said.

  “Perhaps I do not show it outside, but inside I am very afraid,” Nate admitted.

  “How is your wound?”

  “It is the least of my concerns.”

  Red Elk laughed. “I like you, Grizzly Killer. It is most unfortunate we have met under these circumstances and that I am a Blackfoot and you are just a white. You have the spirit of an Indian, I think.”

  “I wish I was an Indian right about now. A Blackfoot.”

  The rejoinder brought more laughter from the warrior. “Are all whites like you?”

  “No,” Nate confessed. “Not at all. There are many different kinds of whites, good and bad, wise and foolish, kind and savage, just like there are different kinds of Blackfeet.”

  “Yet you and the only other white I ever met are honorable men. If I had the power I would order the hostilities between our people to cease.”

  How I wish you did, Nate though morosely. He looked at the council again, and saw the Blackfeet seated in a wide circle with Chief Medicine Bottle and White Bear on the north side next to one another. He also spied the warrior who had his Hawken, pouch, and powder horn, and was strongly tempted to race over and try to rip the gun from the man’s grasp.

  “Would you like food?” Red Elk asked.

  “Thank you, no. I could not eat anything.”

  “Later then.”

  Nate absently nodded. If there was a later. To occupy himself with something other than morbid feelings of death, he examined the arrow’s exit hole, and was relieved to see no trace of blood or infection. Indian herbal remedies were amazing. They possessed curative properties unknown to white doctors and were remarkably effective. He mentally filed the notion to learn as many as he could if he survived.

  White Bear stood and discoursed at length with repeated jabs of his finger at Nate. Many cries of acclamation were interjected by the aroused warriors. Lances were rattled against shields, war clubs and tomahawks waved in the air.

  “Do you want to know his words?” Red Elk asked.

  Why not? “Yes,” Nate responded.

  “White Bear is telling them you deserve the most horrible death imaginable. Skinning alive is too good for you. He thinks you should be held down while a young rattlesnake is forced down your throat.”

  “I bet he pulled legs off spiders when he was a child,” Nate said.

  Chief Medicine Bottle now rose and spoke in slow, measured words, his tone as soothing as a gentle summer’s breeze. He also pointed frequently at Nate. Not once did anyone shout. None of the warriors became agitated. They listened attentively and respectfully.

  “He is saying you should not be blamed for attacking White Bear’s party,” Red Elk revealed. “Your friends had been taken and you were only doing as any man would do. He deeply regrets the loss of our brothers, but says killing you will not bring them back or honor their deaths. He believes we should let you go so that you may tell all whites the Blackfeet are an honorable race who do not take base revenge unjustly.”

  Nate could have hugged the chief. He didn’t know the man, and yet here Medicine Bottle was opposing another popular leader to save him. From this day forth he would never again think of the Blackfeet as brutal savages bent only on slaughter. There was dignity to be found in all races of men if one only looked.

  After a bit Chief Medicine Bottle took his seat, and then commenced a general debate with most of the warriors voicing their opinions in turn.

  “Some agree with Medicine Bottle,” Red Elk explained. “Others side with White Bear.”

  It was most unfortunate, Nate reflected, that Indian chiefs didn’t have the same degree of authority vested in white leaders. While chiefs could try to influence tribal decisions and were considered final arbiters in many matters, they could not dictate policy. Even on raids, individual warriors were permitted to do as they pleased. Indian society enjoyed a level of democracy yet to be attained by the so-called civilized nation existing east of the Mississippi.

  The debate went on and on.

  Nate saw Red Elk frown at one point and asked, “What is wrong?”

  Shaking his head sadly, the warrior responded with, “You will know soon enough.”

  “Have they decided?”

  “No. They are about to vote.”

  “Then why are you upset?”

  “Even honorable people do dishonorable acts when they lose sight of their humanity.”

  “What?”

  “I was quoting my father,” Red Elk stated, and would sign no more. He sat with his head bowed, contemplating.

  Troubled, Nate glanced at the circle. Chief Medicine Bottle was on his feet again, evidently appealing to each of the warriors one by one to voice their opinion. He went completely around the circle, then closed his eyes.

  White Bear did not appear particularly pleased. He frowned and muttered something under his breath when the last of the warriors spoke.

  What was happening? Nate wondered, his hopes rising yet again. If White Bear was unhappy, then surely their decision must be good news. Perhaps he would be spared. He saw Medicine Bottle open his eyes and speak, and all the Blackfeet rose and came toward him. Standing, he saw Red Elk coming around the fire and looking very sad. Why?

  Chief Medicine Bottle led the Blackfeet, White Bear a stride behind. They halted a yard away and the elderly warrior’s kindly eyes regarded Nate with a tinge of regret.

  “Grizzly Killer, we have reached a decision,” he signed.

  “What is it?”

  “We have decided you shall not be put to death immediately. Nor will you be tortured.”

  Nate smiled in partial relief. What did he mean by not put to death immediately?

  “Instead,” Medicine Bottle went on, “you shall run the gauntlet.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The gauntlet. Two rows of ten warriors, the lines six feet apart, each man armed with a war club, tomahawk, or eyedagg. In this instance the rows extended from north to south, from the shore of the lake into a field. Near the water stood Chief Medicine Bottle, White Bear, and the remaining Blackfeet.

  Nate faced the lines and gulped. Every warrior except one grinned at him, eager to smash his skull or rip open his body. He glanced to his right at the chief.

  “We are a fair people, Grizzly Killer, despite what you may now believe. You have slain some of our brothers and the warriors of our village demand that you pay a price, but instead of shooting and scalping you on the spot we have voted on a reasonable alternative.”

  “You call this reasonable?” Nate responded, nodding at the two rows.

  “It is more reasonable than tying you to stakes and skinning you alive.”

  Nate had no argument there.

  “You are about to engage in a test of your mettle. Should you prevail, you will be permitted to live. If not, we will take it as an indication you were a cold-hearted murderer and took our brothers’ lives out of sheer hatred.”

  “What must I do?” Nate said, although he knew very well what he must do.

  “You will run from this end of the gauntlet to the far end,” Medicine Bottle directed. “If you try to break out of the lines you will be shot.”

  “May I fight back?”

  “You may defend yourself as you see fit.”

  “And once I make it to the far end I am free to go in peace?”

  White Bear laughed.

  “If you are still alive at the end of the rows you will have completed the first half of your trial,” Medicine Bottle patiently answered.

  Almost afraid to ask, Nate forced his hands to move and frame the question. “What is the second half?”

  “You may run in any direction as fast as you
can. Three of our warriors will chase you. If you are caught, they will slay you on the spot. If you elude them you are free.”

  A snort of contempt came from White Bear. “You will not elude us, white dog. I am one of the three who will give chase, along with Buffalo Horn and Crooked Nose.” He indicated two warriors on his right.

  Nate looked at their hostile faces and discovered one of his pursuers was to be the warrior who had appropriated the Hawken. “How much of a head start will I be given?”

  “None,” White Bear signed. “Once you are clear of the lines we will come after you.”

  Medicine Bottle looked at the tall warrior. “What harm can a slight lead do? Think of the sport he will give you.”

  Raising his right arm over his eyes to shield them from the bright sun, White Bear scanned the stretch of land past the rows and grinned. “Very well. Do you see the short pine tree, white dog?”

  Nate spied a stunted pine approximately one hundred yards distant. “Yes.”

  “It will be the marker. The moment you pass it, we will give chase.”

  Of what benefit was a measly one-hundred-yard lead? Nate fumed, and decided to be grateful for the slight advantage Medicine Bottle had manipulated the pugnacious White Bear into giving him. The way things stood, he doubted he would ever reach that tree anyway.

  “Now you must take off your clothes,” White Bear signed.

  “What?” Nate responded in disbelief.

  Chief Medicine Bottle nodded. “It is our custom. Any man who runs the gauntlet must do so naked.”

  “I refuse!” Nate replied angrily.

  “Why?” Medicine Bottle queried.

  “It is against the customs of my people to go anywhere without clothes on. We consider such behavior a great shame.”

  White Bear laughed harshly. “Your customs are of no concern to us. You will take off your clothes or we will kill you now.” He paused, his lips curled in a mask of wickedness. “Please keep them on.”

  What should I do? Nate frantically asked himself. Traipsing around naked went against every principle he believed in, every moral precept he’d ever been taught. But if he didn’t do as they wanted, he would surely die. If he stripped he would live a while longer. Viewed in such light, he didn’t have any choice. “Do I get to keep my moccasins on?” he asked, stalling.