Wilderness: Vengeance Trail/ Death Hunt (A Wilderness Western Book 4)

by Robbins, David

  “A vow?”

  “Yes. Spotted Owl promised that if something ever happened to me, he would look after his sister. And I gave my word that if Spotted Owl should die, I would take his wife, Blue Water Woman, into my lodge.”

  Shakespeare fell silent, and suddenly Nate understood. “Spotted Owl has died?” he probed.

  The mountain man nodded. “About six months ago. Buffalo Horn offered to take Blue Water Woman into his lodge, but she insisted that he find me and make me honor my vow.”

  “What?” Nate said in surprise. “After so many years have gone by since you made the promise? Why?”

  “If I knew the answer to that I’d be a happy man,” Shakespeare said, his tone conveying sheer misery. “Apparently, Buffalo Horn has been searching for me since then. Then he ran into a trapper from Canada, Frenchy D’Arnot, he’s called, and that rascal Frenchy told him exactly where my cabin was. Even drew a map with all the major landmarks.” Shakespeare’s eyes acquired a flinty cast. “And here I thought Frenchy was a friend. Wait until I get my hands on him.”

  “If he’s a friend, why did he do such a thing?”

  “Because Frenchy is the biggest practical joker who ever wore pants. He’s always pulling a trick on someone. Giving Buffalo Horn directions to my cabin was his way of having a laugh at my expense.”

  “Speaking of your cabin, why was it in such a mess?”

  Shakespeare brightened somewhat. “Because I was determined not to go with Buffalo Horn and he was determined to take me. It took all ten of them to get me onto my horse.”

  “So you were never in any real danger?”

  The mountain man bestowed a critical glance on his protégé. “I keep forgetting that you’ve only been married a short while.”

  “So?”

  “You still have romance in your blood. All Winona has to do is flutter her eyes and give you a kiss and you think you’re on top of the world,” Shakespeare said. “You won’t begin to appreciate the true nature of marriage until after your first child is born. Then it will sink in.”

  “You’re exaggerating again.”

  “Think so, do you?” Shakespeare responded, and laughed. “Nate, marriage is the most dangerous fate that can befall a man. Dangerous, because it’s also the most glorious, and glorious because our passion overrides our wisdom and transforms us into doting idolaters at the altar of sweet Venus.”

  “You’ve lost me. Is that more Shakespeare?”

  “No, I’m not quoting old William S. this time. I’m speaking from experience.”

  “Are you saying that the state of marriage is bad, that all marriages are wrong?”

  “Never in a million years. Every man should get married. It’s one of the reasons the good Lord put us here. If He had meant for men to be with men, He never would have created women.”

  “Then what’s your point?”

  “I’m simply saying that marriage is a heady nectar better sipped than gulped.”

  Nate shook his head in exasperation. “Do you know what would make me a happy man?”

  “No. What?”

  “Just once I’d like to know what the blazes you’re talking about.”

  The mountain man threw back his head and cackled. Then he stood and slowly walked to the rim. “I reckon I’ll have to face her, after all. I’ll never be able to live with myself if I don’t.”

  “Do you mean Blue Water Woman?” Nate asked.

  Shakespeare nodded. “Running from a problem never does any good. The problem only comes back later, worse than before.”

  Why, Nate wondered, did he intuitively sense there was more to the situation—something Shakespeare wasn’t revealing? He had the feeling his friend was holding back, but he decided to respect his mentor’s privacy and not pry.

  “You haven’t told me,” Shakespeare said. “What were you doing at my cabin?”

  Nate shrugged. Now wasn’t the proper time or place to bring up his own problems. “I was out hunting and wound up in the area.”

  “Are you pulling my leg?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Shakespeare snickered. “Oh, just the fact that there’s more game in the Rockies than there are fleas on a mangy mongrel. Still, you couldn’t find anything to shoot at in the twenty-five mile stretch of virgin wilderness between your cabin and mine.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you reckon I was born yesterday?”

  “Of course not,” Nate said defensively. He wanted to tell the truth, but he suddenly felt quite silly about bothering his friend over Winona’s delivery. Shakespeare had just made fun of his knowledge of the marital state; bringing up the birth would only compound the mountain man’s low assessment of his knowledge.

  “Suit yourself,” Shakespeare said. “Just remember old William S. had a few words to say on the subject.”

  “He did?”

  “This above all; to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man,” Shakespeare quoted.

  “I seem to recall you told me that once before,” Nate noted.

  “Some words of wisdom bear repeating as often as necessary,” Shakespeare responded.

  “At least I understood you this time,” Nate said, slightly miffed. “And I should think it works both ways.”

  “How’s that?”

  Nate locked his eyes on his mentor’s. “I thought only those without sin are supposed to cast stones.”

  A look of sheer incredulity rippled over Shakespeare’s face, then he laughed. “It’s good to see that you know the Bible.”

  Suddenly, from the gully, arose a tremendous chorus of exultant whoops and screeches.

  Gazing down, Nate saw that four of the Utes had been decapitated, their heads impaled on lances, and now the Flatheads were venting their delight while the gory trophies were hoisted high into the air. He noticed blood dripping from one of the heads onto Buffalo Horn’s shoulders and felt sick again.

  “So noble one minute, so savage the next,” Shakespeare commented thoughtfully. “Nature’s children are a paradox in themselves.”

  “Do you want me to go with you to their village?” Nate inquired.

  “The choice is yours,” Shakespeare replied. “I don’t need looking after at my age.” He scratched his chin. “And I should think you’d want to return to Winona as soon as possible. She’s well along in the family way, as I recollect.”

  “In two moons the baby is due.”

  “Then you’d better skedaddle for your cabin or she’ll greet you with a pan in her hand.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Shakespeare said. “I haven’t gotten all these white hairs by being careless.”

  Nate smiled, but his emotions were in turmoil. By all rights he should return to Winona immediately, yet he didn’t want to simply ride off and leave Shakespeare, to abandon his friend at a time when Shakespeare might need him to be around. He owed the old-timer more than he could ever hope to repay, and here was an opportunity, however slight, to make good on part of the debt.

  The barbaric celebration in the gully took over five minutes to wind down. Only a few Flatheads were still cutting Utes to pieces when Buffalo Horn and Running Elk mounted their horses and rode up the trail to the top.

  “Shakespeare, my friend!” Buffalo Horn declared as he jumped to the ground. “You are as clever as a fox and as dangerous as the wolverine you are named after.” He walked up to the mountain man and slapped McNair on the back. “Our people will hold a great celebration a few days after we return to honor this victory.”

  “Glad I could help,” Shakespeare said.

  Running Elk, still on his horse, vented a triumphant shriek, then said, “I am glad I lived to see this day. Utes killed my brother years ago, and now I have avenged his death.” He looked at McNair. “Did you deliberately lead the band into the gully?”

  “Yes,” Shakespeare said. “I remembered being in this neck of the woods some time back, beaver hunting.
I knew about the opening in the wall and figured we could stop them cold.”

  “As usual, your judgment has won the day,” Buffalo Horn said. His eyes drifted to the mountain man’s weapons and he frowned. “But now we have another matter to talk about. Will you agree to come with us or not? If so, we won’t try to take your guns from you or tie you onto your horse. If not, then everything is as before.”

  Shakespeare expelled a long breath, then nodded. “I’ve thought it over and decided to go to the village and settle this personally.”

  Buffalo Horn beamed. “You have made my heart happy.” He turned to Nate. “And what of you, Grizzly Killer? Will you come with us also?”

  Nate became aware of Shakespeare’s eyes boring into him. He deliberately ignored him and asked, “How far is it to your village?”

  “We will be there by late tomorrow afternoon,” Buffalo Horn disclosed.

  Just one more day. Nate felt a twinge of guilt in the depths of his conscience as he forced his lips to form his next words. “Yes, I’ll tag along if you don’t mind.”

  “You are more than welcome,” Buffalo Horn said. “My people will greet you with open arms.”

  Nate gazed down at his moccasins, thinking I just hope Winona does the same when I get back to our cabin. He gripped the Hawken in his left hand, studiously avoided looking at Shakespeare, and walked to his stallion.

  Chapter Seven

  The Flathead village was nestled in a picturesque valley at the juncture of Beaverhead Creek and Stinking Creek, as they were known. Composed of a hundred and eighty lodges stretched out on the south side of the junction, the village teemed with life; warriors working on their weapons, engaged in games of chance or conducting horse races; women curing buffalo hides, doing bead work or cooking; and children everywhere, playing and laughing in delighted abandon.

  Nate first surveyed the sprawling village from the crest of a hill to the southwest. Buffalo Horn and Running Elk led the warriors, eager to see their loved ones again, down the slope at a canter. He was with Shakespeare, bringing up the rear.

  “How times do change,” the mountain man remarked philosophically.

  “Why do you say that?” Nate asked.

  Shakespeare nodded at the village. “When I lived among the Flatheads, things were a lot different. In the summer they lived in lodges consisting of cottonwood frames covered with thick bulrush mats. In the winter they lived in earth houses that were partly underground.” He sighed. “Then they started trading with the fur companies and with other tribes. They took to imitating the tribes east of the Rockies, living like the Blackfeet and the Cheyenne. Now you can hardly tell the difference.”

  “Is that so bad?” Nate inquired in mild surprise. He’d grown to admire certain aspects of the Indian way of life quite highly, including their rugged independence, their appreciation of Nature, their close-knit families, and, in the case of tribes like the Flatheads and Shoshones, their innate friendliness.

  “No, I reckon not,” Shakespeare said. “At least the Flatheads never got around to flattening heads like some of the tribes off to the northwest do.”

  Nate wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly. “Flattening heads? Are you telling another tall tale?”

  “This is plain fact,” Shakespeare said. “Tribes that live out near the Pacific Ocean have this custom of flattening the heads of their babies by tying a board over the skull until it becomes the right shape.”

  “Why in the world would they want to do that?”

  “I guess they figure it makes them more attractive. Some even pierce their noses and stick small bones and rings in the holes.”

  “Now I know you’re pulling my leg.”

  Shakespeare snorted in indignation. “Ignorance and blindfolds have a lot in common.” He looked at Nate. “Have you ever been to the Pacific Ocean?”

  “You know I haven’t.”

  “Then until you do, don’t go around implying that someone who has is a liar.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” Nate said, not knowing what to make of his friend’s unusual testy behavior.

  The corners of Shakespeare’s mouth curled down and he turned his head to gaze to the west. “No, I suppose you didn’t. Sorry.”

  Nate rode in silence to the bottom of the hill. Already Buffalo Horn and the rest were dozens of yards ahead. He studied the people in the village for a moment, then said, “There’s something I don’t understand. These Indians have heads shaped just like ours, normal in every respect. So why are they called Flatheads if they don’t flatten their heads?”

  Shakespeare chuckled. “Observant cuss, aren’t you?” He reached up and tapped his brow. “Yes, the Flatheads have normal heads. They have flat foreheads just like ours, not peaked ones like the tribes I was telling you about.”

  “Why would anyone call a tribe with normal heads the Flatheads? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

  “You’d think so,” Shakespeare said. “Blame the French for the confusion. It was some of their early trappers who got the names all backwards.”

  Nate laughed lightly. His mentor’s store of knowledge never ceased to amaze him, and he wondered if he would ever be as wise in the ways of the people and wildlife of the Rockies as was Shakespeare.

  The return of Buffalo Horn’s party had caused a widespread stir in the village. People were coming from all directions, the warriors dressed in buckskin shirts, pants, and moccasins, the women in beaded dresses. Buffalo Horn and the other returning braves were relating their adventures to groups of intent listeners.

  Nate noticed Shakespeare craning his neck to scan the crowd. “Do you see her yet?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “Lady Godiva.”

  “I’m not looking for anyone special.”

  “If you say so,” Nate said dryly. He saw many Flatheads turning to regard Shakespeare and him with intense interest, and he straightened in the saddle and held his Hawken firmly across his thighs. When Shakespeare reined up a moment later, he did the same.

  A number of tribe members detached themselves from different groups and came over to the mountain man. Cheerful greetings were exchanged, and Shakespeare dismounted to give several warm bear hugs.

  Nate listened to their conversation, conducted in the Flathead tongue, and wished he spoke the language. He felt a bit like a bump on a log. A few smiles were displayed his way, but no one stepped forward to talk to him until a young warrior boldly moved up to his side and addressed him in the Flathead language. He shook his head and used his hands to reply in sign language, “I am sorry. I do not know your tongue.”

  The warrior grinned, his own fingers flying as he said, “And I do not know yours. I am Wind In The Grass.”

  “I am called Grizzly Killer,” Nate signed.

  Wind In The Grass cocked his head to one side. “The same one who helped the Shoshones defeat Mad Dog?”

  “Yes,” Nate responded, slightly embarrassed by his notoriety. Bitter memories of the conflict between his adopted tribe and Mad Dog, a brutal Blackfoot who had led a war party in a raid into Shoshone territory, filtered through his mind. Winona’s father and mother had lost their lives during the deciding battle that resulted in Mad Dog’s death and a bloody, costly victory over the Blackfeet.

  “I heard about you from some white trappers who stopped at our village,” Wind In The Grass revealed.

  “Some men talk too much,” Nate signed, grinning.

  Wind In The Grass smiled. “I would be honored if you would stay with my family while you are here.”

  Nate glanced at Shakespeare, who was busily greeting old friends, unsure of what to do. He knew to refuse such unselfish hospitality would be construed as an insult, and he certainly didn’t want to offend anyone, in addition to which, sleeping in a lodge was vastly preferable to sleeping on the hard ground. “I will be happy to stay with you,” he responded.

  “Good,” Wind In The Grass signed, and motioned northward. “Come, and I will show you wh
ere my lodge is.”

  Dismounting, Nate held the stallion’s reins in one hand, his rifle in the other, and walked alongside his new acquaintance, threading among the Flatheads and the teepees until they came to a small lodge not far from Stinking Creek. Only twelve feet high and patched in two spots with newer pieces of hide, the plain dwelling indicated an important fact to Nate: His friendly host was a poor man. Just as in white society, there were wealthy and poverty-stricken Indians. The lodge of a well-to-do warrior might be fifteen to twenty feet high, the hides would be in perfect condition, and the exterior would be gaily adorned with symbols important to the owner.

  For confirmation of his hunch, Nate had only to gaze at the four horses grazing nearby. Three were mares well past their prime. The fourth was a stallion that also showed its age and undoubtedly served as Wind In The Grass’s war and buffalo mount. Since a warrior’s prowess could be measured by the number of animals he had stolen from other tribes, it meant that Wind In The Grass had yet to fully prove himself.

  The flap to the lodge was down. Wind In The Grass turned to Nate and signed, “Wait here while I tell my wife the news.” He went inside.

  Nate became aware of other Flatheads staring at him and did his best to stand in a dignified but appropriately humble manner. Suddenly, from within, arose loud voices, that of a woman and Wind In The Grass arguing heatedly. He suspected the wife was objecting to his surprise stay and debated whether to simply walk off. But to do so would greatly humiliate Wind In The Grass. He decided to wait and see if the warrior would change his mind about the offer.

  A second later the flap opened and a sheepish Wind In The Grass signed, “Come in, Grizzly Killer. My wife is very pleased that our lodge will be honored with your presence.”

  Feeling uncomfortable, Nate ground-hitched the stallion and entered, racking his brain to recall the lodge etiquette rules Shakespeare had previously imparted to him. He remembered that when a male visitor entered a lodge, he should always step to the right and wait for the owner to seat him. So he promptly did so, his eyes adjusting to the reduced illumination.