Standing beside a buffalo paunch cooking pot situated in the center of the teepee, directly under the ventilation opening at the top, was a skinny young woman with long dark hair and a pointed nose. She mustered a wan smile and gave a deferential bow.
“Grizzly Killer, this is Flower Woman,” Wind In The Grass introduced his wife.
“I am happy to meet you,” Nate signed, the Hawken tucked in the crook of his left arm. He heard a peculiar cooing noise and glanced to his right to find a baby in a cradle board that was propped against the lodge wall. Most Indian tribes used such devices in one form or another. Consisting of a skin pouch laced around a wooden frame, the cradleboard constituted an infant’s tiny home until the child was capable of walking. Every tribe had a different style that was typically used, and in this instance the cradleboard flared out at the top to provide a soft leather cushion for the child’s head to rest on. He noticed the outer skin had been artistically decorated with elaborate bead work.
Wind In The Grass walked over to the cradleboard and gestured proudly. “This is my son, Roaring Mountain, who will one day grow up to be a mighty warrior in the Flathead nation.”
“I am certain he will,” Nate signed, and looked at the wife. “The cradleboard you made is one of the nicest I have ever seen,” he complimented her, not bothering to mention that he’d only viewed two or three up close during his brief time in the Rockies. His statement had the desired effect.
Flower Woman beamed happily and moved her thin fingers in a grateful answer. “Thank you. I worked very hard to give our son the best cradleboard I could.”
Nate gave the cradleboard another appreciative appraisal. “Such a fine cradleboard is worth saving for your son’s children to use. They will remember your kindness always.”
“I had not thought of that,” Flower Woman replied, even more pleased. “It is a good idea.”
“Where are my manners?” Wind In The Grass signed, and motioned for Nate to take the seat of honor located to the rear of the cooking fire and to the left of the spot where the warrior would himself sit. “You must want to rest after so much riding.”
“We did come a long way,” Nate noted, and walked to the proper spot. He sank down with a sigh, sitting cross-legged as warriors customarily did. Women, however, were prohibited from ever doing so. Any female who did was branded as possessing lax morals. “And that fight with the Utes did tire me out a bit.”
“I heard Running Elk speak of it,” Wind In The Grass mentioned. “In a few days there will be a celebration and all the warriors who took part will tell of the battle.” He paused. “But we would enjoy hearing your story now, if you wish.”
Nate obliged, giving them a brief account of the chase and the battle in the gully. By the time he was done his arms were tired. He noticed that Wind In The Grass hung on every sign and detected an enthusiastic gleam in the young warrior’s eyes, leading him to suspect that his host had been in very few life or death conflicts. If he was right, Wind In The Grass couldn’t wait to prove himself on a raid and earn the respect of the entire tribe.
At the conclusion of the report, Flower Woman devoted herself to the meal she had been preparing before their arrival. She walked to a rawhide parfleche, one of several artistically decorated carrying bags lying against the south side, and removed a handful of wild onions.
“We are having buffalo stew tonight,” Wind In The Grass signed. “I hope that will be all right.”
“I enjoy stew,” Nate assured him. He observed Flower Woman pause, then reach into the parfleche for more onions. They must have meager food stores, he deduced, and decided to eat sparingly but praise her cooking to high heaven. As he watched her chop the onions into pieces, he reflected that coming to the village had been a bad idea. Shakespeare obviously didn’t need him around. Tomorrow morning, first thing, he would head for home.
A patter of rushing footsteps sounded outside, and suddenly a voice called out urgently in the Flathead language.
Wind In The Grass promptly answered, and in poked the head of another young warrior who immediately launched into an excited narrative. Wind In The Grass then turned in alarm to Nate and signed, “You should go to Carcajou right away.”
“What is wrong?” Nate asked, beginning to rise, trying to guess what sort of trouble Shakespeare could have gotten into in such a short time in a village where he obviously had a great many friends. The answer was totally unexpected.
“He is fighting one of our warriors.”
Chapter Eight
Nate raced out of the lodge with his rifle in hand. Without a word the young warrior who had brought the report turned and raced to the south, and Nate sped along on his flying heels. Behind him came Wind In The Grass. Apparently news of the fight was spreading rapidly because there were other Flatheads hastening in the same direction.
He heard the commotion moments before he saw it, heard men and women shouting and children shrieking in their high-pitched voices, and then he rounded a lodge to discover a wide circle of boisterous Flatheads surroundings two grappling figures in the center. The crowd was already three and four deep. In his concern for Shakespeare’s safety he didn’t bother with polite niceties; instead of requesting those blocking his path to move aside he simply barreled into them and shoved his way through with his broad shoulders.
Nate glimpsed faces registering surprise turning his way. One warrior barked an angry exclamation. In moments he was on the inside, and before him were the struggling combatants.
Shakespeare and a prodigiously muscled warrior were wrestling furiously, rolling over and over, each striving to get the better hold, each red in the face from his strenuous exertions.
Nate looked around. Off to the right stood Buffalo Horn and Running Elk, both apprehensively watching the contest. Off to the left were three warriors Nate didn’t know, one a burly Flathead whose features were twisted in a perpetual scowl. Even as he laid eyes on them, they closed in on the fighters.
Buffalo Horn shouted something in his own tongue.
The burly warrior snapped an answer and gestured, as if telling Buffalo Horn to mind his own business.
Confusion gripped Nate. He had no idea what had started the fight, and he didn’t know if the threesome approaching his mentor were friends or foes. For all he knew, they were allies of the Indian Shakespeare was battling.
In a swirl of motion the elderly mountain man wound up on top of his adversary, pinning the Flathead’s shoulders to the ground with his knees and holding the warrior’s hands flat on the grass.
Suddenly the trio darted forward and two of them seized McNair from behind, hauling him off the pinned warrior.
Nate had witnessed enough. He wasn’t about to let them or anyone else manhandle his friend. In four bounds he was there, swinging the stock of the Hawken up and around and clipping one of the men holding Shakespeare on the temple. The man fell on the spot.
Bellowing angrily, the burly warrior leaped with outstretched arms.
Nate pivoted, rammed the rifle’s heavy barrel into the Flathead’s stomach, doubling him over, then whipped the stock into the wheezing warrior’s forehead, dropping him also.
The third Flathead let go of McNair and sprang, his left hand grasping Nate’s shoulder.
All it took was a slight twist and Nate buried the stock in the man’s abdomen. The warrior staggered backwards, sputtering. Out of the corner of his right eye Nate saw the muscular Flathead on the ground going for a hip knife, and he instantly swung around to train the Hawken on the man’s forehead as his thumb pulled the hammer back with an audible click. He touched the trigger, his every nerve on edge, ready to fire if the Flathead drew the blade.
Several things happened then.
The warrior froze, his hand just touching the hilt, his dark eyes burning with rage.
A hush promptly descended on the assembled Flatheads. Many gasped.
And Shakespeare took a frantic step forward to grasp the rifle barrel and pull it upward. “Don’t
shoot!” he cried.
Nate glanced at his friend, then at the ring of Indians. Most were staring at him in nonplused amazement, a few in outright resentment of his interference. He slowly lowered the gun and eased the hammer down.
Buffalo Horn and Running Elk came running over as the muscular warrior stood. From the throng walked a stately individual with gray hair who carried a war club and wore a buckskin shirt on which had been drawn the likeness of a large bird of prey.
Shakespeare rubbed his left side, his hard gaze on his opponent. “Thanks for the assist, Nate, but you shouldn’t have interfered. This was between Standing Bear and myself.”
“Do you mind telling me what’s going on?” Nate requested.
“In a bit,” Shakespeare responded, and nodded at the approaching gray-haired warrior. “We might be in for it now. That’s White Eagle, their chief. If he’s mad, there’s no telling what will happen. Whatever he says is law. The Flatheads put more stock in their chiefs than most tribes, and obey their every word.”
Stepping back so he could cover Standing Bear and the three he had struck in case they turned hostile, Nate glanced at the stately warrior just as the man reached them.
If ever there was a face that reflected wisdom, this was it. White Eagle held himself with dignity, his severely weathered visage and penetrating eyes reflecting the soul of a man of vast experience. He betrayed neither anger nor condemnation as he looked at each of them in turn, his gaze lingering on Nate, and finally settled on Buffalo Horn. In softly spoken words he addressed the tall Flathead in their mutual language.
A lengthy conversation ensued, with all the Indians in the middle of the circle participating. Standing Bear growled his words and motioned angrily at Shakespeare and Nate. The three Nate had bested chimed in with harsh statements of their own. Finally Shakespeare interjected comments that caused White Eagle to grunt and nod knowingly.
Nate waited impatiently for an explanation. As near as he could tell, Buffalo Horn and Running Elk had sided with Shakespeare in the dispute. Standing Bear seemed to be trying to convince the chief to take some sort of action, but White Eagle evidently refused. After a heated argument, Standing Bear stalked off with the three other warriors in tow.
White Eagle then talked to Shakespeare for several minutes. When they were done the chief smiled, then turned to survey the tribe. He gave a short speech that started the crowd to murmuring, and walked off.
“Now will you tell me what’s going on?” Nate asked. He saw the people beginning to disperse, conversing in hushed tones with repeated glances at McNair.
“I reckon I should,” Shakespeare said.
Buffalo Horn frowned and shook his head. “This is bad, very bad. There will be blood shed before too long and it might well be yours, old friend.”
“I’ll watch out for myself,” Shakespeare promised.
Running Elk made a clucking sound of disapproval. “This is all her fault. She should tell Standing Bear she wants nothing to do with him and there would be no problem.”
Shakespeare started slapping dust and bits of grass from his buckskins. “She has her reasons, no doubt.”
“Perhaps,” Buffalo Horn said, “but I want you to know that I had no idea this would take place. I did not know Standing Bear had an interest in her. Had I, I would never have let her convince me to bring you to our village.”
“I understand,” Shakespeare said.
Nate’s patience had reached its limit. He stepped forward and demanded in an irate tone, “Tell me what the blazes is going on.”
“Oh. Sorry,” Shakespeare said, continuing to dust himself off. He paused to stare after Standing Bear. “It seems I have a rival for Blue Water Woman’s affection.”
“The two of you were fighting over her?” Nate asked in astonishment. He found the notion of someone Shakespeare’s age brawling over a woman almost ridiculous.
Shakespeare nodded. “Sort of. One minute I was talking to several old friends and the next Standing Bear walked up and demanded to know if it was true that I intended to take Blue Water Woman for my wife.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said it was more like the other way around. He informed me that she was going to be his wife, no one else’s, and gave me a shove to emphasize his point.”
“And you shoved back.”
“Naturally. So we wound up rolling around in the grass until you arrived and turned a minor disagreement into a life or death dispute,” Shakespeare said. Neither his eyes or his tone betrayed any hint of reproach.
“I didn’t mean to,” Nate said, aware the two Flatheads were regarding him critically. “I thought you were in trouble.”
“I know,” Shakespeare said, and chuckled. “I must admit you handled them better than I could have done myself.”
“It is not funny,” Buffalo Horn interjected. “Now Standing Bear, Bad Face, Smoke, and Wolf Ribs have been insulted. They will try to restore their honor by humiliating Nate as badly as they were shamed.”
Running Elk nodded. “In front of the entire tribe, no less.” He focused on Nate. “I know those men well. They are not the kind to forgive and forget, particularly Bad Face. You must be on your guard here every minute.”
Nate didn’t need to ask which one of the threesome had been Bad Face. It had to be the burly warrior with the perpetual scowl.
Shakespeare placed a friendly hand on Nate’s shoulder. “I know you meant well, son, but you’ve put yourself in a dangerous situation. The best thing for you to do would be to mount up at dawn and head for your cabin.”
“You want me to run?” Nate inquired in disbelief.
“I wouldn’t put it in those words,” Shakespeare said.
“It sounds like running to me,” Nate declared. “And I’m not about to let Bad Face and the rest think I’m a yellow belly.”
“The wise man knows when to fight and when to make tracks, and knows the difference between causes worth fighting for and those that are just a matter of personal pride.”
“Are you leaving?”
“I can’t.”
“Then neither am I.”
The mountain man was clearly displeased. He walked a few yards to the west and leaned down to retrieve his Hawken, which was lying in the grass, then straightened. “How about if I ask you to leave as a personal favor to me?”
“Ask me anything else and I’d do it,” Nate said. “But I’m not about to turn tail for you or anyone else.” He was peeved his friend would even suggest such a degrading act. During his long trip out from St. Louis with his Uncle Zeke, he’d learned the hard way that in the wilderness a man was invariably measured by the bravery he exhibited. Cowards were generally disdained by whites and Indians alike. Several tribes went so far as to force men who had attained a certain age and still not displayed the courage expected of them by counting coup or stealing horses to perform the jobs of women. The Crows, in fact, made such men the slaves of the women; they were compelled to obey every order a woman gave, to carry wood, fetch water, and do every menial job imaginable. It was widely known that braves who fell into the ranks of the women became supremely eager to prove themselves and thus overcome the terrible stigma.
Shakespeare gave him a strange look. “No, I guess you’re not. Very well. We’ll just have to wait for them to make the next move.” He paused. “I apologize for not paying much attention to you when we arrived. I had other things on my mind.”
“I know.”
McNair smiled. “Now we need to find you a place to stay. I’ve been invited to hang my moccasins in Buffalo Horn’s lodge. Maybe Running Elk would—”
“I already have somewhere to stay,” Nate interrupted.
“You do? Where?”
Before Nate could reply, Wind In The Grass stepped forward and rather nervously said “With me, Carcajou. I invited Grizzly Killer to share my lodge for as long as he is in our village.”
Nate noticed both Buffalo Horn and Running Elk frown as if severely displeas
ed by the disclosure.
“Do I know you?” Shakespeare said in return.
“I am Wind In The Grass,” the young warrior revealed. “I was only two years old when last you were in our village, or so I was once told by my father. You knew him well, I believe.”
“Who is he?” Shakespeare inquired.
“Little Hawk.”
The mountain man grinned. “Yes, indeed. He and I go back a long ways. Where is he? I would like to see him again.”
“The Blackfeet killed him,” Wind In The Grass said slowly.
“Oh. Sorry to hear it. Your father was a good man, a brave warrior.”
Buffalo Horn nodded, then said, “In truth he was. Now if only his son would demonstrate the same courage, it would make everyone in the tribe very happy.”
“What are you talking about?” Nate inquired.
“It is best for Wind In The Grass to tell you himself,” Buffalo Horn answered.
“Yes, if he can stand the shame,” added Running Elk.
Nate glanced at his host and detected the hurt in his eyes. He felt the two older warriors were being unduly harsh and determined to get to the bottom of it later, when Wind In The Grass could relate the details in private. For now there was a much more important matter to discuss. “I’ll be glad to hear the details some other time,” he said, turning to Shakespeare. “I’m more interested in hearing what you plan to do about this contrary female who might wind up getting you killed.”
“Perhaps it would help if we got her side of the story,” Shakespeare suggested.
“When?” Nate asked, eager to get the matter settled so he could return to Winona.
“Right now, if you want,” Shakespeare said, and gazed over Nate’s shoulder. “She’s standing right behind you.”
Chapter Nine
Nate had seldom been as embarrassed as he was at that very moment. He hesitated before turning, trying to compose his face so he wouldn’t betray his feelings. Then he slowly pivoted, not knowing what to expect but certainly not expecting the sight that befell his surprised gaze.
Wilderness: Vengeance Trail/ Death Hunt (A Wilderness Western Book 4) Page 6
