“At his daughter’s expense,” Nate stated in disapproval. He knew that many white women deliberately courted wealthy men so they would marry into money, and that white parents often pressured their daughters into rejecting the man the daughters loved and tying the knot with someone who had a fatter bank account. It was upsetting to learn that some Indians indulged in the same distasteful social practice.
“Well, what’s done is done,” Shakespeare said with an air of resignation. “Blue Water Woman married Spotted Owl and I saw nothing of her for two years or more. Then one day I met Buffalo Horn, who introduced me to his brother. Surprisingly, I found I liked Spotted Owl a lot. We became close friends.”
“How did Blue Water Woman react?”
“She was friendly, nothing more. I figured any feelings she had for me were long gone. Then Spotted Owl let me know that his older sister, Rainbow Woman, whose husband had died on a buffalo hunt, was quite fond of me.” Shakespeare chuckled. “I’d seen her around and admired her appearance, but I never gave any thought to courting her until I learned she was interested in me.”
“And you fell in love with her,” Nate said, smiling.
“Love, love, nothing but love, still more!” Shakespeare quoted. “For, O, love’s bow shoots buck and doe. The shaft confounds, not that it wounds, but tickles still the sore.” He laughed. “Yes, I grew to love her more than I had ever loved anyone, including Blue Water Woman.”
Trying to be philosophical, Nate commented, “All’s well that ends well.”
“Not quite, I’m afraid. Because a year and a half after I took Rainbow Woman as my wife, Blue Water Woman came up to me one day and confided that she still loved me with all her heart, that she liked Spotted Owl but he could never claim her devotion as I had.”
“What did you say?” Nate inquired, intrigued by the tale. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be loved by two women at the same time.
“I told her I was sorry to hear it because our relationship was over. I loved Rainbow Woman,” Shakespeare related. “Blue Water Woman accepted the fact, but told me she would always care for me no matter what happened. Then she walked off.”
“And now she’s back in your life,” Nate said.
“Which brings me to the reason I came to see you. Do you think I should marry her?”
Nate blinked in surprise. “That’s a decision you must make on your own.”
“At least give me your opinion,” Shakespeare urged. “It’s important to me.” He reached up and scratched his beard. “I’m getting on in years, as you well know. I’m also sort of set in my ways. Taking Blue Water Woman as my wife could be the biggest mistake I’ve ever made, and I’ve made some whoppers in my time.”
Nate detected uncertainty in his friend’s eyes, a sight he never thought he would see. “If you’re asking my approval, I say go ahead. Unless, of course, you’d rather spend your last years alone, talking to yourself and spending your idle days dreaming about the grand old times.”
Shakespeare thoughtfully nodded. “You don’t hold back, do you?”
“You wanted to know.”
“Thanks,” Shakespeare said, and shoved upright. “You’ve hit the nail on the head. I’d much rather wake up in the morning lying beside a woman who cares for me, all warm and cozy, rather than wake up alone and cold and hugging my Hawken.”
Nate laughed lightly.
“I’d better get a little sleep,” Shakespeare said, yawning. “I want to be alert when Standing Bear makes his move.”
“What do you think he’ll do?”
“There’s no telling. When a man has a powerful hankering for a woman, his body and mind stop working right. All he can think of is her. Standing Bear will do whatever he must to eliminate me as a rival.” Shakespeare nodded and started to walk off. “I’ll look you up after I’m rested.”
“I’ll be here,” Nate said. He watched his friend depart, noticing the sun had partially risen. Standing, he moved off to find a spot where he could relieve himself. Two dozen yards downstream on Stinking Creek he found a stand of trees that adequately served his purpose. Once done, he strolled back to the lodge, enjoying the dawn; the happy chirping of the many birds, the growing warmth in the air, the sight of fish leaping in the creek. At times the wilderness resembled his ideal of Paradise on Earth, and he marveled that he had wasted so many years living among the brick and stone canyons of New York City, where the only wildlife he’d observed, other than birds, had been squirrels; the nearest thing to virgin forest had been overused parks.
He saw smoke curling upward from the lodge as he neared it. At the flap he paused and coughed loudly to let them know he was returning. He didn’t want to barge in and accidentally catch Flower Woman changing clothes or doing something equally private. After several seconds he carefully parted the flap and peered within.
Flower Woman was breast feeding her baby. She smiled and continued, not the least bit concerned about exposing her breasts.
Wind In The Grass was seated by the fire, feeding small limbs to the flames. He glanced at the entrance, beamed, and signed, “You were up early. Did you sleep well?”
“Never slept better,” Nate replied, entering. “I took a short walk.” He went to his bedding and rolled up the blankets, then placed them to one side.
“Flower Woman will make breakfast as soon as Roaring Mountain is full,” Wind In The Grass signed.
“There is no hurry,” Nate responded.
“What would you like to do today?”
“Other than keeping an eye on Carcajou, I have nothing planned,” Nate signed.
“We could go hunting,” Wind In The Grass proposed.
Nate liked the idea. The family could use fresh game, and bagging a deer or an elk would be a fine way of repaying them for their hospitality. “I would like that,” he noted.
They made small talk until Flower Woman finished feeding the baby. She was just sorting through the parfleches for their food when everyone distinctly heard the sound of rushing feet and a second later a voice called out in the Flathead tongue. Nate tensed, recalling yesterday when the warrior brought news of Shakespeare’s fight. He heard Wind In The Grass answer, and in popped a familiar face.
“Good morning, Grizzly Killer,” Running Elk said. “I am sorry to bother you but something important has come up and we thought you would be interested.”
Nate couldn’t help but notice that Running Elk had completely ignored Wind In The Grass, a terrible breach of etiquette. “What is it?” he asked.
“Several of our men went out yesterday after buffalo. They found a war party of Blackfeet camped ten miles north of our village and came back to warn us. Buffalo Horn is leading some of our men against them. Would you like to come?”
“Is Shakespeare going along?”
“I asked, but he said he was too tired from being awake all night,” Running Elk said.
Nate hesitated, reluctant to leave his mentor at the mercy of Standing Bear and the others.
“Twenty warriors are going,” Running Elk went on. “Standing Bear, Bad Face, Wolf Ribs, and Smoke are among them.”
“Oh?” Nate said, his interest piqued. Perhaps going would be a good idea. It would enable him to keep an eye on those four, and accomplish something else just as important. Without glancing at his host, he said, “What about Wind In The Grass? Has he been invited?”
Running Elk frowned and looked at the young warrior. “Buffalo Horn did not ask him.”
“I’ll go only if he does,” Nate bluntly declared.
The statement made Running Elk’s brow knit in deep thought. After a bit he sighed and nodded. “Very well. I am sure Buffalo Horn will agree. We will come get the two of you soon.”
“We’ll be ready,” Nate promised.
Withdrawing from view, Running Elk ran off, his footsteps diminishing with the distance.
Wind In The Grass looked at Nate. “What was that all about?” he signed.
Nate explained, studying
his host’s face as he did. He saw hope flare in the warrior’s eyes and knew he had made the right decision.
“Thank you,” Wind In The Grass responded. “This is a chance for me to prove myself to the rest of the tribe.”
“You will do fine,” Nate assured him, while in the back of his mind he prayed that both of them would make it back in one piece. The Blackfeet were the scourge of the Rockies, the most warlike tribe in existence and justifiably noted for their fighting prowess. On top of all that, they positively loathed whites. If nothing else, he reflected wryly, the day was getting off to a rousing start.
Just so he lived to see the night.
Chapter Eleven
Nate had the stallion saddled and was standing outside the lodge talking to Wind In The Grass when the party of twenty warriors approached from the south, Buffalo Horn and Running Elk at the front. He glanced at the riders, tensing when he spied Standing Bear and the three other troublemakers riding near the middle of the group.
“Good morning, Grizzly Killer,” Buffalo Horn greeted him with a friendly grin. “Are you ready to take Blackfeet scalps?”
“I’m ready to help you defend your territory,” Nate amended, and swung into the saddle. It bothered him that Buffalo Horn didn’t say a word to Wind In The Grass, who was now mounted beside him.
“We do not know how many Blackfeet there are, so we must be very careful,” Buffalo Horn said.
“Why not be on the safe side and take more warriors along?” Nate proposed.
“And what if a large Blackfoot force attacks our village while we are gone?” Buffalo Horn rejoined. “No, the rest of our warriors must stay here to defend our loved ones.”
Nate nodded in understanding and hefted the Hawken. “Well, I’m ready. Let’s hit the trail.”
“I would be honored if you would ride at my side,” Buffalo Horn said, and motioned to his left.
“My friend and I will be glad to,” Nate said, indicating Wind In The Grass with a jerk of his thumb.
Buffalo Horn glanced at the young warrior, disapproval plainly etched in his face. “As you wish,” he said coldly, with the same enthusiasm as a man who had been asked to keep company with a carrier of the plague. He jabbed his horse with his heels, moving out.
Nate turned the stallion, falling in with the group, glancing over his shoulder at Standing Bear and Bad Face, both of whom glared. He didn’t like having his back to them, but he doubted they would do anything when there were so many others around. They certainly wouldn’t shoot him in the back; such a cowardly act would get them expelled from the tribe.
Buffalo Horn led them to Stinking Creek, crossed it at a shallow point, and continued northward into a narrow valley that wound among foothills.
As always, Nate reveled in the abundant wildlife. He spotted a herd of deer, four elk, and a large hawk circling high overhead, all within the first mile. Looking to his left, he found Wind In The Grass riding proudly, head held high, and he hoped he hadn’t made a mistake by having the young warrior brought along. If Wind In The Grass should be killed, he’d never forgive himself for sticking his big nose in and trying to set things straight.
At the end of the valley they passed through a gap between two hills, crossed a meadow, and skirted a snow crowned mountain by traveling along its base to the west.
“We are about half the distance to the Blackfoot camp,” Buffalo Horn said to Nate. “Our hunters saw their fort near Still Lake.”
Nate had seen such “forts” before. Of all the tribes with which he was familiar, only the Blackfeet used them, perhaps because they preferred to conduct their raids on foot instead of on horseback, and were therefore more vulnerable to attack. When a Blackfoot war party was in enemy country and made camp at night, or when they were set upon by those they intended to raid, the Blackfeet constructed large conical forts of stout limbs, or brush forts if there wasn’t the time, and defended themselves with habitual vigor.
“I doubt they are still there,” Buffalo Horn remarked. “They were probably staying near the lake for the night. We might run into them somewhere along the way.”
“Do you think they know where your village is?” Nate asked.
“If not, you can be sure they are looking for it very hard. At least once every three or four moons they raid us, stealing some of our horses and killing a few of our warriors. This time we will give them a surprise.”
“Have you ever raided them?”
“Two summers ago we did.”
“That’s the only time in recent years?”
Buffalo Horn’s features seemed to cloud over. “Their territory is far to the northeast. They have many, many villages, and their warriors are everywhere. Few tribes ever send raiding parties into the country of the Blackfeet because most never come back.”
Nate thoughtfully pursed his lips. Quite obviously the Flatheads, like the majority of other tribes, lived in fear of the Blackfeet. Buffalo Horn would never admit as much, but Nate suspected that was the real reason the Flatheads had rarely given the Blackfeet a taste of their own medicine.
They went around another mountain and slanted up the gradually tapering slope of the next one, following a well-worn game trail. The narrow track of dirt and flattened grass forced them to ride in single file.
Nate stayed alert, scanning the forest below and the landscape in all directions. There was nothing to indicate the Blackfeet were anywhere around. They climbed several hundred feet, then halted when Buffalo Horn reigned up. “Is something wrong?” Nate inquired.
The Flathead pointed northward. “We are close now. I hoped we would see the smoke from their fire.”
Only clear, azure sky dominated the horizon beyond.
Winding down the trail, they entered dense forest consisting of various kinds of pine trees. Squirrels scampered from limb to limb and startled rabbits bounded off into the brush. After traveling over a mile, Buffalo Horn halted once more. “From here we should walk,” he declared, and went to swing down.
“Why not let Wind In The Grass watch our horses?” Nate suggested.
Buffalo Horn paused. “Why him?”
“Why not?”
“I would like another warrior to watch them.”
“Wind In The Grass will do just fine.”
“Do not ask me to do this,” Buffalo Horn said, scowling.
“I must. Please. For me,” Nate asked.
The Flathead glanced at the young warrior, then at Running Elk. “What do you say?”
“Grizzly Killer is Carcajou’s close friend,” Running Elk replied.
Perturbed but trying hard not to show it, Buffalo Horn gave a curt nod and dismounted. “Very well. Wind In The Grass will tend our animals.”
“Thank you,” Nate said, sliding to the ground. He heard Running Elk translate for the benefit of Wind In The Grass, who then beamed and gazed gratefully at him. He smiled, winked, and joined the flow of warriors who were following Buffalo Horn deeper into the forest. As luck would have it, he was only a yard in front of Standing Bear, who was carrying a bow. An odd itch developed between his shoulder blades as he walked ahead of the embittered warrior, and he was glad when they came to a clearing and stopped so he could pass other Flatheads and catch up with Buffalo Horn and Running Elk.
The Flatheads set about preparing themselves; nocking bows, drawing knives, hefting war clubs and lances, and, in the case of the few with firearms, verifying their weapons were loaded.
Buffalo Horn double-checked his rifle, then motioned for them to proceed. The warriors spread out, taking advantage of all available cover, moving from tree to tree and bush to bush. For over a hundred yards they continued in this fashion, and then the forest began to thin out.
Nate spied a body of water ahead and surmised it to be Still Lake. He scanned the shoreline but saw no sign of the Blackfoot forts, no sign of anything moving. Perhaps, he reflected, the Blackfeet had long since departed in another direction. As he neared the water, he moved slower, his thumb curled around
the Hawken’s hammer.
The deep blue surface of the lake resembled polished glass. Unruffled by even the tiniest wave, it gave the illusion of being solid rather than liquid. There was no evidence of fish, and a complete lack of waterfowl.
The observation struck Nate as strange. Every mountain lake he knew of teemed with life. Why not this one? He wondered if there might be a substance in the water that the animals didn’t like.
Glancing to his left, he finally spotted the conical forts. There were three of them aligned in a row on the west shore, at the edge of the trees so they would blend in from a distance. Not a soul was around. He angled toward them, Buffalo Horn and Running Elk a few yards ahead.
Several warriors who were off on the left increased their pace and warily approached the makeshift structures. They were studies in nervous energy, gazing every which way, treading lightly and ready to bolt at the first hint of hostility.
Buffalo Horn and Running Elk stopped. So did the rest.
Nate followed their example. He figured they had more experience in Indian warfare than he did, and relied on their discretion. Apprehensively, he watched four braves move from concealment and dash to the forts. The warriors quickly searched each one, then emerged, relieved and all smiles, and beckoned for their fellows to join them. Almost as one, the Flatheads rose and walked forward.
Reluctantly, Nate stood. He scoured the woods behind the forts and saw nothing move, but he felt uneasy about waltzing into the open without having conducted a thorough check of the woodland around Still Lake. Consequently, he trailed behind the rest of the Flatheads, deliberately dawdling.
The warriors conversed loudly, discussing the situation, Buffalo Horn doing most of the talking.
Nate halted after walking only fifteen feet. His mind was shrieking a warning that things were not as they seemed, that they should all get out of there before something terrible happened. But he was loath to say anything for fear of coming across as a fool if there was no danger.
Wilderness: Vengeance Trail/ Death Hunt (A Wilderness Western Book 4) Page 8
