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

by Robbins, David

  “I would never doubt you, Carcajou,” White Eagle said. “I know you have the welfare of our people at heart.”

  “Thank you,” Shakespeare said, standing and gazing at Nate and Wind In The Grass. “I just wanted to let you know ahead of time so the two of you can get some sleep before we leave.”

  “Appreciate it,” Nate said.

  “I will see both of you later,” Shakespeare signed, and departed hastily.

  Nate figured his friend was going to see Blue Water Woman, and he realized he should tell Shakespeare about the argument with Bad Face. But as he put his hands down to push to his feet, he heard Shakespeare’s mount hurry off. Shrugging, he relaxed, certain Blue Water Woman would inform Shakespeare herself.

  “I must also be going,” White Eagle noted, rising. He stepped over to the infant first and spoke a few words in the Flathead language that made Wind In The Grass and Flower Woman smiled broadly, and then departed.

  No sooner was the chief gone than Flower Woman impulsively moved over to Wind In The Grass and tenderly stroked his cheek. “Do you see?” she signed. “Now you are accounted a true warrior. By tomorrow the whole village will know White Eagle paid us a visit. We will no longer be shunned by our own people.”

  “And we owe it all to Grizzly Killer,” Wind In The Grass stated, affectionately placing his hand on Nate’s arm.

  Flower Woman gazed fondly at Nate. “I will feed you until you burst.”

  “Thank you,” Nate signed. “But we should not overeat if we are riding out after the Blackfeet tonight.”

  “Oh. Yes. I did not think,” Flower Woman commented sheepishly, and turned to the fire to begin her preparations.

  Nate felt Wind In The Grass give him a squeeze, and then the warrior went over to Roaring Mountain. The sight of the family happily engaged in mundane activities prompted him to think yet again of Winona. He wondered what she was doing.

  ~*~

  Many miles to the south, outside of a sturdy cabin overlooking a serene lake teeming with waterfowl and fish, stood a beautiful Indian woman in a beaded buckskin dress, her dark hair flowing down to her hips. She placed both hands on the mound that had once been her flat stomach and felt movement as the infant growing within kicked.

  She smiled, at peace with herself. It would be a boy. She just knew it. And she would be the proudest woman alive when the child came forth into the world, proud because she had honored her husband in one of the highest ways any woman could honor the man she loved; by giving him the sacred gift of a new life, a child to carry on in the footsteps of the parents, to keep the family alive for generations to come.

  Her mouth curling downward, she faced northward. Where are you, my husband? she mused. He had said that he would be back after two sleeps at the most. Did he decide to stay with his friend a while longer, perhaps to talk over whatever had been bothering him?

  She knew he had been troubled, although he would not come right out and tell her the reason. She had not pried, not made a nuisance of herself by intruding on his private thoughts. Deep down, though, she worried, worried greatly.

  What if he was losing interest in her?

  The thought sparked intense terror. She often speculated on how much he missed his family back in New York City, wherever that was, and whether he felt any inclination to return to them. He’d tried several times to explain about the place where he had been born and spent most of his life, and once had even drawn a picture on a board with a piece of charcoal to show her how to get there. Even so, New York City seemed unreal to her, an alien place filled with strange people who lived incomprehensible lives, spending their days and nights devoted to the making of the strange paper and metal they worshipped above all else. According to her beloved, very few people in the entire city bothered to make a diligent effort to live in harmony with the Everywhere Spirit.

  How could such a thing be? she had often asked herself. How could any people hope to flourish if they denied the source of all that existed? The stories he had told her seemed too incredible to be true, yet she knew he never lied. Stories about lodges made of stone, towering high in the air. Stories about mighty metal animals called steam engines that were expected to one day do the work of horses. And stories about people who were always on the go, from dawn to dusk, never giving themselves a moment’s rest.

  In a way, the white race reminded her of ants. As a young girl, she had spent many an idle hour observing an ant hill, watching the tiny creatures go about their lives, always in motion, always working, working, working, never taking time to enjoy the fruits of their labor.

  Was it possible her husband missed such a distressing life? Did he secretly pine to go back? It would explain his unusual moody behavior of late. And she had to be honest; she knew of many Indian women who had taken white men as husbands, and in most of the cases the men had left the women after only a year or so to head east and never returned.

  What if the same fate befell her?

  She anxiously bit her lower lip and lightly smacked her right palm against her thigh. This was not the way for the wife of the mighty Grizzly Killer to act. She must not give in to her fear. To do so insulted him, insulted their love. He had been true to her from the first day they met, and in the depth of her soul she felt he would remain true until the day they died.

  Turning, she walked toward the south end of the cabin where the pen holding their horses was situated. If she kept busy, she wouldn’t have time for such foolish thoughts. She hummed, trying to cheer herself up, and rounded the corner.

  The eight animals were idly munching on grass she had fed them earlier. A few gazed at her, then resumed eating.

  Satisfied, she retraced her steps to the front door and just reached it when a tremendous commotion erupted at the lake. She pivoted, her eyes narrowing, seeking the source.

  Every bird on the lake and in its immediate vicinity had taken wing. Ducks, geese, gulls, and others were flapping into the sky, voicing a chorus of distinct quacks and cries.

  She saw nothing to account for the peculiar behavior, which worried her. There might be a predator abroad, perhaps a panther or a grizzly. If so, she couldn’t afford to take any risks. She entered the cabin, then closed and locked the door. To the right, leaning against the wall, was a loaded flintlock. She patted the barrel, reassured by its feel, remembering the lessons her husband had given her in how to shoot the cumbersome gun and how pleased he’d been when one afternoon she’d consistently hit a circle he had carved in a tree from a distance of thirty yards. He had laughed and hugged her and kissed her until her lips had been sore.

  Oh Nate, she wondered, where are you?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Nate opened his eyes to find Wind In The Grass shaking his left shoulder. He promptly sat up, yawned, and gazed at the entrance. The flap had been tied up, and through the opening could be seen part of the star filled heavens.

  “It is time,” Wind In The Grass signed.

  “Did you get any sleep?” Nate asked.

  “I tried,” the young warrior said.

  Placing a hand on the Hawken at his side, Nate rose. His mind felt sluggish, and he almost regretted taking the nap. He’d felt better several hours ago when he’d laid down on his blanket. But he’d needed the rest if he hoped to be fully alert once the hunt for the Blackfeet began. Turning, he saw Flower Woman at the back of the lodge, tenderly cradling Roaring Mountain in her arms, rocking the infant back and forth. “I should saddle my horse,” he signed, and took his leave, giving Wind In The Grass time in private to say goodbye.

  The cool air invigorated him as he stepped outside. His nostrils registered the sweet scent of burning wood, principally pine, and he inhaled deeply. Leaning his rifle against the lodge, he saddled the stallion. Then he double-checked to be certain all of his guns were loaded.

  Wind In The Grass emerged, appearing rather downcast, and set about preparing his own horse.

  “Is anything wrong?” Nate signed when the warrior glanced in his d
irection.

  “Flower Woman is not very happy about my going.”

  “You can stay if you want,” Nate suggested. “No one would hold it against you. Why risk your life when you have a young son and a wife to provide for?”

  “You have a wife too,” Wind In The Grass noted. “Yet I see you are all ready to go.” He paused and sighed. “No, I gave my word, and I will accompany Carcajou and you.”

  Nate sympathized with the warrior’s obvious inner turmoil since he felt the same way about having left Winona to help Shakespeare. Life sometimes required the making of hard decisions and compelled a man to do something he otherwise would never do, such as leaving one’s family to venture into the jaws of danger. At such times the only thing a man could do was pray those jaws never snapped shut.

  They both looked up as a white horse approached from the south.

  “Well, look at you two eager beavers,” Shakespeare declared in English, and chuckled as he halted near their mounts. “Are you ready to go?”

  “I am,” Nate said.

  The mountain man addressed Wind In The Grass in the Flathead language, and the young warrior went into the lodge, stepping out a minute later with a parfleche in his left hand, a bow in his right.

  “We’ll head for Still Lake,” Shakespeare told Nate. “If those vermin are still camped in the vicinity, we should be able to spot their campfire a long ways off. Then we’ll sneak up on the devils and give them a taste of their own medicine.”

  “Suits me,” Nate said, anxious to get underway. He wanted to bring up the subject of Blue Water Woman and ascertain his mentor’s plans concerning Standing Bear. In a lithe motion he swung into the saddle and gripped the reins in his left hand, listening to Shakespeare explain their plan to Wind In The Grass.

  The warrior was securing the parfleche to his stallion’s back. He stopped to address McNair for a minute, then completed his work.

  “What was that all about?” Nate inquired, using English.

  “Wind In The Grass isn’t too partial to the notion of fighting the Blackfeet when there are only three of us,” Shakespeare translated. “And it’s not that he’s afraid. He’s simply being practical and realistically weighing the odds.”

  “None of the Flatheads are too keen on tangling with the Blackfeet,” Nate noted.

  “Who can blame them? The Blackfeet have terrorized every tribe in the northern Rockies, the plains east of the mountains, and southern Canada for more years than most folks can recollect. They have more hunting territory under their control than any three tribes combined. As you well know, they’re natural scrappers. They’ll fight until they drop.”

  “I’m surprised they haven’t conquered the entire Rocky Mountain region by now.”

  “If they ever take to the horse as heartily as most of the others tribes have, they will,” Shakespeare predicted. “But they still insist on conducting their raids on foot, which limits their range and the speed of their attacks.”

  Wind In The Grass climbed onto his war stallion and signed, “I am ready, my friends.”

  Nate gazed up at the full moon as Shakespeare headed north, then fell in behind his mentor. And so it begins, he reflected, hoping the Blackfeet would be long gone when they arrived at the lake. The last thing he wanted was to tangle with those tenacious savages again. But as things now stood, he didn’t have any choice.

  ~*~

  Winona tensed, her hands frozen above the buckskin pants she had been sewing for Nate, her ears straining to catch another sound. She was positive she had heard a faint, guttural snarl, and waited for it to be repeated. Most likely it had been a prowling bobcat or a lynx, perhaps even a panther, which was little cause for alarm. None of the big cats ever came close to the cabin, undoubtedly because of the human scent.

  Still, she worried about the horses. A panther, or even a lynx if it was starving, might decide to make one of the animals its next meal. And with her husband gone, the duty of protecting the animals fell on her shoulders. She listened for the horses to begin whinnying, a sure sign that something was lurking nearby, but there wasn’t a peep out of them.

  She resumed working on the pants, a present she would give Nate when he returned. If she kept herself busy, she had reasoned, she would be less prone to miss him and less likely to let her imagination run wild, conjuring up vivid images of all the sundry horrible fates that could befall her beloved. The heavy thread she was using, made from buffalo tendons, had to be unwound a bit further, so she lifted the stick that served as her spool and began slowly twirling it.

  Just then, from the south, several of the horses neighed loudly.

  She was out of the chair the next instant, scarcely breathing as the animals continued to whinny. They were quite agitated and making a considerable racket. There was no doubt that something lurked outside. Placing the pants, the thread and the bone needle on the chair, she crossed silently to the window. A deer hide flap had been tacked over the opening for use in keeping out insects in the summer and the cold wind in the winter. Now she unfastened the bottom of the flap and rolled it up several inches, then bent at the waist and peered into the murky darkness beyond.

  Something growled.

  An involuntary chill rippled down her spine. She gripped the bottom sill so hard her knuckles turned white, then chided herself for losing control. Be calm, Winona, she told herself. It was just a wild animal, and she had seen countless wild animals during her life.

  As with most women in her tribe, she had killed scores of rabbits, grouse, ducks, and other small game for her family’s cooking pot. But the taking of larger game had been the sole province of the men. Only warriors were permitted to go on buffalo hunts or after deer and elk, and only warriors killed the occasional bear or panther. She hoped the creature out there wasn’t one of the big predators.

  Winona stared at the surrounding forest, trying to detect movement. All she saw were shadowy trees and gloomy undergrowth, nothing to give a hint of whatever it might be. Girding herself, she stepped to the door and picked up the flintlock.

  All the horses were neighing now, creating a din that could be heard for half a mile.

  She had to go out. There was a slim chance Utes might be camped in the area, and if they heard the horses they would be sure to investigate in the morning. She must quiet them immediately.

  Holding the rifle firmly in her left hand, she opened the door halfway and listened. From the commotion, the horses were milling around inside the pen in fearful confusion. She disliked the idea of stepping out there where the creature prowling about could see her better than she could see it.

  An idea occurred to her, and she moved to the stone fireplace Nate’s uncle had constructed when building the cabin. The fire crackled noisily, eating at the broken branches she had gathered earlier in the day. Taking hold of one end of a thick, short limb untouched by the flames, she carefully pulled it out and held the torch aloft. The light wouldn’t last long, but perhaps it would scare off her unwanted visitor.

  Feeling braver, Winona went straight outside, turned right, and stopped. She raised the torch as high as she could, scanning the vegetation, her heart beating wildly, ready to bolt inside should the creature turn out to be a huge grizzly.

  One of the horses vented a particularly high-pitched whinny.

  Figuring the prowler must be near the pen, Winona hastened to the end of the cabin, the flickering flames dancing as if alive and casting their glowing radiance out to a distance of about eight feet. She halted again, extending the torch toward the animals, and saw them moving in a nervous circle, packed together for mutual protection.

  There was no sign of whatever skulked in the woods.

  Suddenly all the horses stopped and swung to the south, their nostrils flaring, their ears pricked, their collective attention riveted on the thick brush.

  Winona heard something moving, heard a twig snap and another feral growl, and her body was instantly transformed into a block of ice. She stood still, her lips par
ted, afraid to take a breath. A large bush off to her left moved as if shaken by an invisible hand. Gulping, she swung the torch toward it and the shaking ceased.

  The thing uttered a fierce snarl.

  She knew it must be watching her and backed up until her back touched the log wall. Now, if the creature attacked, it wouldn’t be able to come at her from the rear. One handed, she pointed the heavy flintlock at the bush, wondering how she was going to fire and hold the torch at the same time.

  The horses had quieted down, comforted by her presence. They were all gazing toward the same bush, completely motionless, standing as if sculpted from clay.

  Winona held the torch out and slowly moved it back and forth. The circle of light barely went half the distance to the forest, not illuminating the bush at all, and she realized she must get closer if she hoped to identify the creature. She hesitated, though, thinking of the new life within her, of the consequences to the baby should she become gravely injured. Nate might come back to find them both dead.

  But she couldn’t just stand there.

  She edged forward, taking little steps, the rifle barrel swaying with each pace. Using her thumb, she cocked the hammer to set the trigger. Moments later she saw something.

  Eyes. A pair of close-set, beady eyes were reflecting the torch light, gleaming reddish against the backdrop of foliage, fixed balefully on her.

  Winona stopped. The eyes were too small and too low to the ground to be those of a bear or a panther. Her mind raced as she attempted to deduce its identity. Could it be a bobcat? she wondered, and dismissed the idea because the eyes weren’t the proper shape.

  The animal moved, gliding a few feet to its right, never once taking its eyes off her, and halted.

  She noticed it had an odd, flowing sort of gait, and a vague memory blossomed at the back of her mind, convincing her she should know what it was. Not wanting to provoke it, she remained rooted to the spot, moving only the torch so she could keep track of the beast’s red orbs.

  “Again the thing moved, a few cautious steps, and its eyes rose several inches as if it had elevated its head.