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

by Robbins, David

  “At my age, I’m not too partial to losing old friends. There aren’t all that many left in this world.”

  “Think you can talk him out of it?”

  Shakespeare stared at the lodge entrance, his mouth curling downward. “Not very likely. To an Indian, a guardian spirit is as much a part of his life as is breathing and eating. No warrior can be without one. Buffalo Horn will do anything to restore the power to his charm now that he believes it’s not effective.”

  “So there’s nothing you can do?” Nate asked.

  “Pray for the best.”

  Nate leaned back on his palms. “Since you have a moment, there’s something else I’d like to bring up.”

  “What?”

  “Standing Bear. Now that Smoke and Wolf Ribs are dead, do you figure he’ll back down and leave you alone?”

  The mountain man chuckled. “Does a grizzly ever run from a scrap of meat? No. And just because two of Standing Bear’s best friends are dead won’t mean a thing to him. He’ll still try to kill me. I just don’t know when or how.”

  “And what about the lady you’re fighting over? Have you given her your decision yet?”

  “Not yet. I see her this evening. She’s living in the same lodge she shared with Spotted Owl, not far from where Wind In The Grass has his teepee.”

  “Which reminds me,” Nate said, rising. “I should go see how he’s doing. He didn’t seem too happy about the outcome of the raid.”

  “At least he redeemed himself with the horses,” Shakespeare noted, also standing. “The next time a war party goes out, hopefully they won’t hesitate to take him along.”

  Stepping to the stallion, Nate swung up. “Take care of yourself.”

  A peculiar expression lined Shakespeare’s face. “The single and peculiar life is bound with all the strength and armor of the mind to keep itself from noyance. But much more that spirit upon whose weal depends and rest the lives of many,” he quoted.

  “What?”

  “Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage, for we will fetters put about this fear, which now goes too free-footed.”

  “Be honest with me, Shakespeare,” Nate said, smiling. “Do you have any idea what you just said?”

  “Certainly,” McNair replied indignantly. “I advised you to take good care of yourself.”

  “You could have fooled me,” Nate said, and headed toward the north end of the village. Everywhere there were sad faces, warriors and women walking around in abject depression because of the outcome of the raid. Even the children were subdued now, either with their parents inside their lodges or sitting around outside and conversing in hushed tones. He felt strangely out of place, as if he was witnessing very private grief not meant for outsiders to observe.

  When he was only forty yards or so from his destination, he reined up in surprise. Directly ahead, standing in front of a lodge, were Blue Water Woman and Bad Face. They appeared to be arguing, although both were keeping their voices down. Bad Face gestured angrily over and over.

  What do I do? Nate asked himself. He didn’t want to meddle, but he didn’t want to sit there and do nothing while Bad Face berated his mentor’s future wife. Compromising, he slanted the Hawken across his thighs and rode boldly up to them, a friendly grin plastered on his lips. “Howdy, Blue Water Woman,” he said.

  They both glanced up. Bad Face instantly glowered while Blue Water Woman seemed relieved.

  “Hello, Grizzly Killer,” she greeted him. “I have heard you fought very bravely today.”

  Nate fixed his eyes on the warrior. “Did Bad Face tell you that? I didn’t know he was so considerate. Thank him for me.”

  Blue Water Woman laughed. “It was someone else who told me. Bad Face does not hold a very high opinion of you.”

  “I would never have known,” Nate said, and bluntly came to the point. “Is he bothering you?”

  “He wants me to accompany him to go see Standing Bear, but I have refused.”

  The burly warrior had taken all the English he was about to. His hands flew in sharp motions as he signed, “Leave us in peace, Grizzly Killer. This does not concern you.”

  Instead of signing a response, Nate simply shifted so the barrel of the Hawken was trained on Bad Face’s chest. He made no move to lift the weapon or overtly threaten the Flathead in any way, but Bad Face understood his meaning. For a moment they locked eyes in a silent battle of wills as each measured up the other.

  Bad Face finally spun and stalked off.

  “Thank you, Grizzly Killer,” Blue Water Woman said. “Standing Bear is becoming more persistent than I thought he would.”

  “Why did he send Bad Face instead of coming in person?”

  “Because Standing Bear is a very proud man and he could never bring himself to beg me to pay his teepee a visit. So he sent Bad Face in his place.”

  “You’d better stay on your guard,” Nate suggested. “I wouldn’t put anything past those two.”

  “They would never harm me. Such an act would get them expelled from the tribe for the rest of their lives.”

  “In any case, if you need me I’m staying with Wind In The Grass,” Nate mentioned, pointing at the appropriate lodge. “Just give a holler and I’ll come running.”

  “You are quite kind. I can see why Carcajou respects you so highly. He thinks of you as the son he never had.”

  “He does?” Nate said, flattered by the compliment. “He’s never told me that.”

  “Men are not as open with secrets of the heart as are women. I believe the Great Mystery made them inferior in that respect.”

  “Sounds like something my wife would say,” Nate remarked.

  Blue Water Woman nodded. “Women are wiser in such matters than men. All men think about is hunting and fighting and making love.”

  Shocked by her frank assertion, Nate could only mumble, “Well, not all men.”

  “Most,” Blue Water Woman said. “There are a few who look deeper into themselves and discover the true meaning of life, men like Carcajou.”

  Nate leaned forward, his curiosity aroused. “What is the true meaning of life?”

  “You will find it one day.”

  “That’s not much of an answer.”

  “It is the only answer.”

  Puzzled, Nate straightened. He was beginning to understand the reason Shakespeare cared for her so much. They were a perfect match; they both spoke in circles. “If you say so,” he said, tightening his grip on the reins.

  “Time, Grizzly Killer, uncovers all.”

  “Oh,” Nate said, and coughed lightly. “Well, it’s about time I went to see Wind In The Grass. Nice talking to you again.”

  “The same here. Come visit me soon,” Blue Water Woman requested, reaching up to run her right hand along her long hair, smoothing it over her shoulder.

  “I will,” Nate promised, and rode toward his host’s lodge, his growling stomach reminding him that he could use some food. He wondered if Flower Woman had more tasty buffalo stew, his mouth watering at the thought.

  As Nate drew up in front of the lodge he noticed the flap was tied up. According to Indian etiquette, that meant any friend of the owner could enter without having to announce himself. Consequently, he dismounted, ground-hitched the stallion, and went in with a smile on his face.

  Seated at the customary spot, his head held high, was Wind In The Grass. Cradled in his lap was his son. Flower Woman was busily preparing a meal over the crackling fire. She shifted as Nate entered and beamed, her hands moving fluidly. “I am the happiest woman alive this day. My husband has proven himself to the tribe. Now no one will speak badly of him.”

  “I know,” Nate signed in return, and waited for his host to indicate where he should sit, which turned out to be the seat of honor. He walked over and sank down with a sigh.

  “Since this is a special day, I am using the last of our meat to make a special meal,” Flower Woman signed. “I hope you will like it.”

  “I will,” Nate as
sured her, and looked at Wind In The Grass. Despite the joyous occasion, the young warrior’s countenance was tinged with melancholy. “Is something wrong?” he inquired.

  “I am sad for the lives of all the brave men who died today,” Wind In The Grass responded. “Had I brought the horses sooner, some more might have lived.”

  “I am sure you did the best you could.”

  Wind In The Grass was still for a moment. “I tried to come at the sound of the first shots, but several of the horses gave me trouble. It took all of my strength to bring them.”

  “I saw you,” Nate reminded him. “We all did. You were doing all any man could do. No one will blame you for anything.” He lowered his hands for a second. “You should know that Buffalo Horn is taking all of the blame for the deaths on his shoulders. He says it is because his charm has lost its power.”

  Flower Woman uttered a loud snort. “I told you,” she admonished her husband. “I said that you were being too hard on yourself. Now the whole tribe will know Buffalo Horn is to blame.”

  “I think they are all to blame,” Nate signed.

  Both Flatheads fixed perplexed expressions on him.

  “Why?” Wind In The Grass asked.

  In detail, Nate signed the story of the blunder the Flatheads had committed by walking right up to the Blackfoot forts, exposing themselves to the hidden ambushers. He explained that they should have checked the surrounding area before venturing into the open, and told how his own feeling had saved his life.

  “It is true what they say,” Wind In The Grass said when the tale was done. “The Great Mystery is strong in you.”

  “Who says?” Nate asked.

  “Everyone.”

  Nate wondered just how much talking the Flatheads had been doing behind his back about the exaggerated accounts of his exploits or of his battle with Mad Dog. Sometimes it seemed as if most people had nothing better to do than sit around and gossip like a quilting circle of elderly matrons.

  Flower Woman took a step toward him. “How many Blackfeet did you kill, Grizzly Killer?”

  “I did not count them,” Nate said.

  “Was it many?” she persisted.

  “No. Six or seven, I believe.”

  The statement caused Flower Woman to step back again, but this time in astonishment. She gazed at her husband and signed, “Now I understand. Truly this is the highest honor we have ever had.”

  “What is she talking about?” Nate inquired, looking at his host.

  “You have done more for me in the eyes of my people by staying with me than I did today by bringing the horses,” Wind In The Grass said, and placed a hand on Nate’s shoulder in friendly gratitude. “Among our tribe, a man is not worth anything if he is not brave. And the braver he is, the more enemies he slays in battle, the more courage he demonstrates, and the more honored he becomes. Other warriors always want to have such brave men as guests at their meals, or to have these brave ones visit often.”

  Nate understood. By associating with a highly regarded warrior, another man could enhance his own social prestige. In certain ways, he reflected, Indian culture was much like white culture, only in the white culture it was those with the most money who were so highly esteemed. Come to think of it, he decided, the Indian way was infinitely better.

  “You wait and see,” Wind In The Grass signed. “Having you here will make my lodge very popular.”

  As if in confirmation, a shadow darkened the entrance a heartbeat before a warrior entered, none other than White Eagle, the chief of the village.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wind In The Grass, clearly startled, leaped to his feet and warmly greeted the aged warrior in their mutual tongue. Stepping forward, he motioned for White Eagle to take a seat.

  Nate had noticed Flower Woman stiffen at the chief’s entrance, leading him to deduce this was a singular event. It might well be the very first time White Eagle had paid them a visit. He nodded at the chief and made the sign for a friendly greeting.

  White Eagle returned the courtesy as he sat down, then went on in extended sign language while looking at Wind In The Grass. “I am honored to be in the lodge of a man who did so well today. Buffalo Horn has told me that you carefully watched the horses and brought them as soon as you could after the Blackfeet ambushed our war party.”

  Pride brightened the young warrior’s eyes as he replied, “I only did what was expected of me.”

  “You did well,” White Eagle said, then paused to glance at Nate before continuing. “If you do not mind, Wind In The Grass, we will use sign language to discuss the matter I have come to talk about, out of respect to your other guest.”

  “Had you not asked, I would have requested that we do so,” Wind In The Grass responded. “I would not want to be impolite to Grizzly Killer.”

  White Eagle nodded. “Very well.” He focused on Nate. “Grizzly Killer, if you would be so kind, I would like to hear your version of the events at Still Lake today.”

  “I would be happy to tell you,” Nate replied, although in the back of his mind he wondered why the chief was specifically asking him when any of the surviving warriors could also provide a factual account. Dutifully, he launched into an extended recital of the fiasco, being careful not to attribute blame to anyone, and emphasizing at the end the outstanding job done by Wind In The Grass. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Flower Woman swell with affection for her spouse.

  White Eagle bowed his head when Nate finished, his forehead furrowed in deep concentration. Finally he looked up and frowned. “Then it is worse than I thought,” he signed.

  “What is?” Wind In The Grass inquired.

  “Those Blackfeet defeated our band soundly. I suspect they were able to catch some of our scattered horses and are now using them as their own. There is a chance they will mount another attack.”

  Nate raised his hands. “Surely the Blackfeet are on their way back to their own country now with the horses and the scalps they collected. Why would they stay in the area?”

  “To get more horses and scalps,” White Eagle said. “Blackfeet do not give up easily. I have known them to raid a village one day, then come back the very next day and raid it again.”

  Clever tactic, Nate reflected, since no one in the village would expect another attack so soon after the first incident.

  “And even if they are not planning a raid on the village, they might be hiding out there waiting to ambush one of our hunting parties or hoping to steal some of our women when they go out foraging for food and herbs.”

  “Post more sentries,” Nate proposed. “And do not let any women leave the village unless they are accompanied by warriors.”

  “Sound suggestions,” White Eagle said, “ones I have already put into effect.”

  “Then all you can do is hope for the best,” Nate signed.

  “That, and one more thing.”

  “What?”

  White Eagle gave each of them a meaningful stare. “I was thinking of sending out two or three men to see if the Blackfeet have departed our territory.”

  It took all of Nate’s self-control to keep from frowning and thus insulting the chief. He knew who White Eagle had in mind, and it bothered him. Why couldn’t they send out several of their own warriors? Why rely on him? The answer, ironically enough, was obvious; he was the great Grizzly Killer.

  “I have already asked Carcajou and he has said he will go,” White Eagle disclosed. “Would the two of you like to go along with him?”

  “Wherever Carcajou goes, I go,” Nate signed.

  “And I would be glad to accompany them,” Wind In The Grass answered.

  “Good,” White Eagle said. “It would be best if you waited until the rising of the sun. You will need plenty of rest after all you have been through today.”

  “We will be ready,” Nate signed, then cocked his head when he heard the drumming of hooves from outside. Moments later the animal halted close to the entrance, footsteps sounded, and in came its rider. H
e smiled at the familiar figure and said in English, “Hello, Shakespeare.”

  The mountain man grinned and nodded. “Has White Eagle told you what he has in mind?”

  “Yes.”

  “Figured as much. That’s why I rode right over,” Shakespeare said, then switched to sign language. “Greetings, Wind In The Grass and Flower Woman. I am honored to be in your lodge.” He glanced at the chief. “And greetings again to you, White Eagle.”

  “Please, sit down,” Wind In The Grass signed.

  “Another time, perhaps,” Shakespeare signed. “I cannot stay long.” He squatted beside the cooking fire. “I knew White Eagle was coming here to ask you to go with me to check on the Blackfeet. Have you both agreed?”

  “Of course,” Wind In The Grass replied.

  Nate let a bob of his chin be his answer.

  “I figured you would,” Shakespeare said, “which is why I wanted to let you know right away that we will be leaving after dark.”

  Wind In The Grass appeared uneasy at the news. “Tonight?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Shakespeare said, and lifted his right arm to point at an angle toward the east, approximately twelve inches above an imaginary horizon. “When the moon is that high.”

  Nate could tell from the expressions on the Flatheads that none of them were very fond of the idea, and he knew the reason. Many Indians, as Shakespeare had taught him, rarely traveled at night; most of those in the Rockies and those dwelling on the plains farther east ventured abroad only between dawn and sunset. There were notable exceptions to the general rule, such as war parties who occasionally took advantage of the night to take enemies by surprise, and the dreaded Apaches who lived far to the southwest and reportedly preferred traveling after the sun went down rather than during the day.

  “I will be ready,” Wind In The Grass signed.

  “Why not wait until morning?” White Eagle asked. “Riding at night is very dangerous. A man cannot see as well, and the grizzlies, the long tailed cats, and the wolves are everywhere.”

  “We have a better chance of spotting the Blackfeet from a distance after dark,” Shakespeare noted, and vented a reassuring chuckle. “I know what I’m doing. Trust me.”